A Letter To My Son

Hi Kayaan.

Let me begin by sharing an embarrassing memory of my childhood with you. I was a little boy relative to what I am today and a considerably grown-up lad relative to what you are today. I remember laying in bed, weeping softly. I was consumed by the thought of the responsibilities my unborn child was going to bring to my life. Chiefly, I was worried about how I would get a baby to learn words and languages. Six months ago, years after the passing of this awkward night, I received news of your arrival. I was on the road between cities, trying to get to the airport so I could fly home and welcome you. In the hours leading up to your birth, I was the least anxious member in the household. I remember licking the last layers off a chocolate sundae in the car when I received a phone call: “You are a father now.”

I looked at the molten remains of the sundae. The vision instantly took me back to my first ever visit to an ice-cream parlour – and a multitude of other firsts of childhood. That was arguably the first time in my life I understood how rapidly time fleets us by. The years between the night I worried about fatherhood as a boy of seven and the afternoon I finally became a father are a blur; I could paraphrase the description of that entire era in between to a single line: “That was fast.”I now also realized that many lessons beyond just the education of words and languages were in order. Now is as good a time as any other to talk about them. As someone who is still scaling the learning curve of wisdom, it is crucial I dispense advice as soon as I absorb it myself.

Understand that time is a raging beast. We can try running as fast as we want and we will still always remain two steps behind it. A better way to combat its speed is to slow down. We are going nowhere with all the haste and the stress. Time flies, but it also leaves for us various packets of lasting memories. If we can gracefully accept and make use of these packets in the present instead of brooding over them once they have been left behind, we will worry a lot lesser about regretting an underutilized past. Slow down. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up. Laze under a tree. Day-dream. Labour over your first craft project. Make friends. Make as many mistakes. Years later your fondest days will be found only in old photographs and in your nostalgic brooding. But there will also be the comfort that you did the best you could have done with them and that you will now be ready to face the next onslaught of time with a smile.

Speaking of smiles, I love the smile, no, the giggle you offer me when I give you a bath. I pour a stream of water on your belly from above your head. Do you giggle because it tickles you? Or are you just awed by the flow of the stream? I love how you try to hold that stream with one open palm while balling the other fist with determination. And every time, that stream escapes your open palm and lands right on your belly. You acknowledge the slippage every time and break into peals of laughter. I would like you to keep up this laughter for the many slippages and failures the universe has in store for us. Your pursuit of a goal must never cease. Go for the stream of water until your conviction in the ability to hold it lasts. If you cannot hold it, do break into those peals of laughter. We have only so much capacity to be excellent in a handful of things we do. For everything else, we must be gracious in acknowledgement of defeat or inability. Covering up our weaknesses is not just like chasing our tails, but it also takes away from us the joy of revelling in our strengths.

It would be a no-brainer to mention that I would like to see you a happy person. But happiness is difficult to acquire especially when we consider the costs of such acquisition. Happiness and guilt are both states of the mind, but they cannot co-exist. Hence we must note that while seeking happiness is our right, ensuring it is not sourced at the cost of another’s happiness is that other person’s right. We are all part of an ecosystem the balance of which cannot be disturbed. Hurting someone else to derive personal happiness will only return to haunt us later. Be gentle to others in order that others can be gentle to you. This does not mean we ought to be meek and submissive and resilient to injustice. It only means that we ought not to be the ones initiating any sort of injustice. It only means that we set ourselves as examples of fine human beings who understand the meaning of respecting others’ space, privacy, honour and sentiments. Everyone has one’s own demons to deal with, just as we do. If you ever have the urge to make a joke, try targeting yourself before taking a dig at someone whose backstory you know nothing about. It will be very satisfying.

Some sections of our society have disturbing notions regarding what makes a fine man. For various reasons it is believed that being a man is about exercising power and aggression over women. These reasons are rooted so deeply into our so-called values that it is difficult to convince our generations otherwise. But it is up to fine boys like you to turn these beliefs around and to reform our value system. Being a man is not about displaying brute force and false bravado. It is about showing the courage to tell right and wrong apart, it is about harnessing your strength to fight injustice rather than to perpetrate it, it is about showing compassion and respect over dominance. The love and attention of a woman is meant to be earned by her trust in a man’s strength of character and not by his overt display of manhood. I have faith that you will be the man a respectable society deserves. And I am sure you will always live up to its expectations.

We strive to give you the same love and care we have received from our parents. We have experienced it and we know it is what has made us who we are. Now while you go through your highs and your lows and your adolescence and its pressures, always remember that we will be around, rooting for your success. We might crave your love but we are not likely to demand it. I can say that at least for myself. I will continue to be your jester, your entertainer I am today – trying every trick in his bag to make his son laugh. I will lend you an ear when you want me to. I will be your raft that will help you tide through your challenges. And that will make me happy. But I would very much like you to reciprocate the love your mother gives you. There is no form of unconditional giving that will ever amaze you more. She is a strong-willed woman and she will guard you with all her care. Treasure her love like you mean it, for this is the one truth in your life that will never fail you.

Roamer

I somehow mustered the courage to wake up early this morning and go for my run. During the run I deliberated a little over the decision, but before I could come to a conclusion I had completed the run anyway. This was followed by a glass of protein shake that tasted awful as I had expected - because it was made in lukewarm water thanks to what Domino's had done to my throat yesterday. I have my suspicions regarding the wonders this product is supposed to work. I try feeling my abs every time I drink it, but my finger still simply sinks into my skin.
I then set a new record of sorts by packing my bags in six minutes before heading out to meet a friend at the only cafe I used to frequent in Mysore. One final Americano from the friendly staff and some nice things spoken about my book, and I had almost forgotten about my sore throat. But only until I made that infamous journey from Mysore to wherever-you-go-because-it-will-take-forever anyway. For a change, the drive was scenic, not riddled with traffic jams, and there was good music. I wanted to sing. But today I cannot so much as caw. By the time the raindrops had started making fine music on the windshield, I was only praying for this journey to end.
In three hours, I will be back in Pune, a city I have always loved. If I hold up a little better tomorrow, I will try and be excited about it.

Foghorn

I have been done in today by the worst recipe of baked chicken that has ever existed. Aargh. I hate you, Domino's, for selling me two chicken legs swimming in some sort of oil that looked more like a car coolant. My tonsils are now on fire and I sound like a foghorn. Nothing less than a complimentary cheese burst pizza (with free Coke) will make up for what you have put me through.
On the brighter side, I watched Transformers-4 today. The popcorn was nice. I mean, the movie could have been great too if it were not arduously long and if the mall had not turned off the air-conditioning because "We don't know please speak to the management on Monday" and if the guy sitting on my side had been able to digest the pork chops he had had for lunch earlier today.
On an even brighter side, I have been getting some emails from readers that contain good things written about Chaos Down Under. If I could garner some sympathy with every instance I recount of the struggles I go through everyday to get you guys to read my book, I will probably not have to struggle so much to get you guys to read my book. Well, a good start is the one that starts some day, I guess.

Unsettled

It has been the kind of day that keeps you on your toes even as the world thinks you have a lot of time to kill. News came in that I am expected to be on the move once again. Another city, another house, the same, familiar restlessness.
Well, to be honest, I am being crabby. Because I had been waiting for this move for eons. But that's the problem of being made to wait too long. You get used to not getting what you had been longing for, and just when you make peace with what you have got, you are taken by surprise.
I love surprises, as long as they make me comfortable. All the time. Know what is really uncomfortable? Packing. The average time I take to pack my bags, as many as there might be, is ten minutes. The average time I spend worrying that I have left an important valuable or two behind ranges from anything between a week and a year. Most often, my worries are not unfounded.
There is immense pain in realizing you have let go of a valuable - which, sometimes, can be a little trinket. For example, the two wristbands I won at the mock awards night of my college farewell. I had treasured them for years, and later lost them just as effortlessly while shifting houses.
I hope I can be a little more careful tonight. Because as I grow older, I am getting increasingly more sensitive about latching on to every association of a more youthful past.

Melancholic

I have been in this state of mind a lot lately. My mind meanders carelessly into the past, seeking something I do not understand or possibly even need. I try not to dwell in the past, but people close to me insist I can hardly help it. Such is my wont.
There may lie unrequited dreams, some things not said, or some things that should not have been said. One reason or the other pulls me back and I try to turn back time. All that the exercise gives me in return is melancholy. I hate it. I want to be free and funny, maybe like the characters in my books. I hate maudlin tones even if they are my own. Then sometimes I feel the characters I have built are only a cover up, because I am somewhat embarrassed to let my real self out.
My memories are divided into various segments: of a protected childhood, of inquisitive adolescence, of the first notion of love and its immediate dismissal, or even of the dark fear ahead of every university exam. What may have been dreadful then feels endearing now. What was ridiculous then feels precious now. What was poignant then feels amusing now.
Every now and then, one of these memories returns to haunt me. I feel torn between the need for a reparation of the past and an obligation towards the future. Maybe it is best to stand still and allow it to pass. For all I know, it might be a matter of time before I am able to wear the garb of indifference. In the meantime, I have the right to resent these memories, if not the power to resist them.

Have You Felt Velvet Lately?*

 *An excerpt from Chaos Down Under. To read the entire story, click here.

This is about the week my life was rocked by a series of major scandals.
No, I am not talking about the time the Russian brunette sent me the message: ‘Can you meet me for a sex?’ on my chat window. That message was understandable; at some abstract level, probably exciting too.
I will come back to the brunette and her message later. There were a handful of events that had unsettled me before this pleasant digression came forth in the form of her message.
It had been nearly a month at the client’s office, and the experience had not been pretty. The uncomfortable equation we shared with Lex had come to the fore with an increased frequency of arguments over the alleged triviality of defects we had been raising in their system only to get the client’s undue admiration and also some extra bills. I had taken major exception to this attack on my integrity and had asked Pat and Mike to stop behaving like cry babies just because we were giving them a tough time for handing the client a phony product. After a flurry of unpleasant emails, Pat had signed off with a cryptic warning that talked about a ‘Bytesphere sunset’. Too much Godfather influence, maybe. Later that evening, Pat ambled over to my desk and winked, ‘Your move, genius!’ The duffer expected me to play into his scheming hands and send an irrational response to his diatribe. I knew better and decided to sleep over this disturbing thought and come up with a well-calculated response.
The next morning I woke up early, upbeat, vengeful and in reasonably good health. I breakfasted sumptuously on a three-egg omelet at Hungry Jack’s and then began strolling comfortably towards office, taking in the serene beauty of the Yarra river. The clock had not yet struck eight and the roads were largely devoid of the morning traffic. It was a perfect start to the morning. All of a sudden, I thought I felt a treble in the distance. It died down in seconds, then rose again with more intensity. The treble grew stronger—a prominent sound of something very heavy drumming against the tar roads with a sense of purpose. And then I felt a dark shadow loom over me. In seconds, a shrill sound that pierced my senses.
NEIGHHHHH!
I turned around, petrified, to find a black horse rise on its rear limbs, raising its intimidating hoofs at me. I cowered. Someone’s voice asked me to calm down. I looked through my trembling palms that had covered my eyes—Jerry was mounted on the beast, taming it with the kind of compassion he never showed us humans at work. I sat cowered, submissive, before my master. Jerry took in the moment with pleasure until the horse held his, well, horses.
‘Meet Velvet,’ he said, proudly fondling the animal’s furry back that smelled of leather. ‘Come, let me give you a ride to work.’
I will admit my resilience against unexpected surprises had risen considerably in recent months. But this was pushing it too far. I had never seen a suited, senior executive ride a horse to work. Hell, I had never seen ANYONE ride a horse to work. What’s more, I was never faced with the uncomfortable situation of being OFFERED a ride on a horse to work. I obviously declined the offer very politely, but Jerry began trotting Velvet alongside me as he persisted, saying it would be an experience I would never forget; what was my problem, was Velvet not good enough for me? When onlookers began sniggering at the proceedings, I finally gave up and agreed. It took me a grand total of ten minutes to be able to mount the stallion. When I had settled down, Jerry asked me to make sure I held on.
‘To what?’ I asked.
‘DUH!’ He shook his head, patting the sides of his waist.
WAS THIS MAN FUCKING KIDDING ME?
Of course he was not. So after a brief debate, I held Jerry by the waist and asked for Velvet to ride us to work in as little time as possible so the ordeal could end for all three of us. For the first few minutes, Velvet walked peacefully. This was the moment I was actually beginning to enjoy the ride. I took in the same view of the Yarra from a good elevation. I felt princely. I could even have considered doing this more often. Only, just then, Jerry shouted, ‘Trot, Velvet! Trot!’
And Velvet began prancing around like a fool, trotting violently along the cobblestone walkway. To another person, this could have looked like fun—like sailing on a magic carpet, or sitting on a nice massage chair, maybe. But I bet anyone on that road a hundred bucks to have tried sitting on that bugger with his two legs apart, subjecting oneself to such violent trotting turbulence. At first I wanted to howl in pain. But gradually, the pain moved upward along my body, travelled through my gut, right into my voice box. Before I knew it, I had lost my voice to protest or to beg to be let off. Then came a reprieve. Jerry’s instruction changed to, ‘Gallop, Velvet! Gallop!’
The positive change brought about by the command was that Velvet had stopped trotting. The negative development was that Velvet had now gone completely cuckoo. He neighed a little at the instruction, shook his nape at a hapless cyclist right next to him, and took off like the wind, nearly toppling the cyclist over. You know how your entire life flashes before your eyes when you have a disturbing premonition? I swear, at that moment, I could even see flashes of my previous birth. I remembered I was a doe. I had had a good life then. I ate herbs and slept all my life and had died peacefully by a pond that had lent me its sweet water for yea…
Velvet was almost flying now. I was systematically crying now. Velvet rode us past the Yarra, right into the city centre where cars were now converging in healthy numbers at various traffic signals. Showing utter disregard for every colour of the traffic light, Velvet went about its purpose. Jerry’s waist was not good enough for me to hold on to now. Desperate to latch on to something, I found Velvet’s fat tail swinging wildly behind me.
‘Faster, Velvet! Faster!’ The idiot continued, tugging at Velvet’s reins. I put the third Newtonian law of motion to use and pulled hard at Velvet’s tail, hoping to offset the insane speed this creature had acquired. Frightened, Velvet galloped faster. Even more frightened, I tugged at his tail even harder. We must have been two hundred metres from the office car park when Velvet gave up and screeched to a grinding halt, sending its buttocks and me a few feet up in the air. I lost my balance, my body executed a perfect parabolic jump and went a few centimetres ahead of Jerry, who showed some presence of mind and held me mid-air, bringing me back down on Velvet. I settled down like a petrified hen, somewhere between Velvet’s nape and Jerry’s torso.
‘It is alright,’ Jerry tried comforting me. ‘We are almost there. Ok, Velvet, WALK!’
The phase from that moment until I was woken up by Dharmesh in the office dormitory two hours later is somewhat of a blur, so I do not remember much. When I stood up from the bed, I felt no bodily sensation waist below. I regained my composure, crawled back to my working bay, and felt a little better after I resumed tutoring the Russian brunette and after sharing a little laugh over the message she had sent me.
Coming back to the brunette and her message: ‘Can you meet me for a sex?’

A Dream To Sell

I have a dream I need to sell, a quick pitch I must make.

Can I have your attention? A few minutes are all it will take.

Yes this ain’t one of the ninety-nine worries you are plagued by,

But I owe this dream my duty, I am afraid I must comply.

This dream tells you a story, it sings you a nice song,

It transports you to a world beyond right and wrong.

Not quite a superhero, it is more of a jester

That thrills and entertains you with a grandiose gesture.

You might find it peeping through a blog or a spam mail,

Or at times its vanity pushes it behind a veil.

But it stays in encrypted links and subtle reminders

Its creator has stepped aside, to your verdict he surrenders.

Don’t look at your watch, I know I have overstayed,

Thank you for lending an ear, my day is made.

Spare a thought for the dream before you turn the other way,

For a hundred unknown stories have shown it the light of the day.

Big Babies Don't Cry

I commonly hear people complain about babies aboard airplanes. Apparently, these babies cry a lot, and often very loudly and incessantly. Passengers around them often do not take to this too kindly. I completely hear this grouse. Babies need to understand as part of this democracy their obligation towards respecting the needs of their fellow citizens. The fundamental duties, the other side of the coin to fundamental rights, are firmly embossed in the Indian Constitution, on paper. Infants are free to take a look, comprehend and absorb what these doctrines mean. Because if they do not spruce up themselves, some ingenious adults have already begun offering radical solutions to the menace, such as banning young mothers and their bubs from air travel, or more interestingly, drugging babies to sleep during the length of a flight. As I am not entirely in agreement with these solutions, I hereby offer some of my own.
They can try the "mind over matter" mantra, for instance. Flipping through the pages of any self-help book such as "How To Stop Worrying and Start Living", "You Can Win", and "Stop Crying You Sissy", babies will soon learn that physical discomfort is a mere state of mind. Instead of crying over it, they should consider engaging in activities that can take their minds off the pain: look out of the window, sing a Beatles song, or share with your parents your opinion of who should form the next government. If they are into television, which By Jove they would be, they can also try Baba Ramdev's breathing exercises as a combative tool against pain.
If babies refuse to take matters into their own hands, why do mothers not administer some medicine to them right before they board the flight? Mothers often argue it is often difficult to gauge what exactly is bothering the child. This is seriously not acceptable. These infants need to be exposed to some organizational behaviour handbooks at an early age to amply acquaint them with the concept and benefits of transparent and open communication. Nip the problem in the bud. Speak up about issues that afflict you. Proactive problem solving skills, hello! Mothers, on their part, need to encourage an open door policy with their babies, whereby they can freely bring pertinent matters of trouble on the table, that can be negotiated to closure by way of peaceful dialogue.
But please, babies, stop crying. These are early years of your lives. What do you know of worldly problems anyway? I am not sure you are aware of what your co-passenger's day has been like. But let us take merely his escapades at the airport, right before boarding this flight, just to give you a fair idea. He has been taken by surprise by the large queues at the airport which he has never known about before, which is why they were not accounted for in his schedule. Resultantly, he has per force had to stick parasitically to the person ahead of him in the queue in the hope that he can make his way a little faster. When that failed to work, he has also had to vent out his frustration on the airline staff by calling them incompetent mutts who can't get him on to his plane soon enough. With the plane in sight, finally, the poor chap has had to push and jostle his way through the aisle of the plane, because if he does not hurry up, the plane might take off with one of his feet still placed on the tarmac.
After all these hassles, little babies, your co-passenger is looking for some peace of mind. And all he expects from you is that you follow the model code of behaviour which requires you to maintain silence in the aircraft. As responsible citizens, it is imperative that you understand his needs and comply. At any rate, like I said, they are at their wits' end and the solutions they propose to counter your noise might only make you more upset.

Watch Out, We Are Engineers

[Picture Courtesy: Hindustan Times]

An engineering student jumped into a tigers' enclosure in a Gwalior zoo this Monday. Taking off his shirt, he then entertained a pair of tigers with a private dance. This youth has been identified as a representative of a million other engineers like him who are in a constant need to remind everyone they inhabit a world outside of Is-this-Mohr's Circle-nonsense-in-the-syllabus. To many others, this might be seen as either a desperate attempt at seeking attention, or a random act of buffoonery. But we engineers know this is but just another manifestation of our keen sense of adventure that we carefully nourish over a period of four years - unless you are given seemingly polite monikers like ATKT ka Raja, in which case years cease to be anything more than a mere integer.
Contrary to popular belief, daredevilry comes easy to the common engineer. This is more commonly known in engineering parlance as "Enter the canteen." Let's get real. It was no miracle that our friend escaped unscathed after spending close to forty minutes before those tigers, apparently called Luv and Kush. This is what had really transpired after the engineer accosted them:

Tiger Luv - "Hey look, chunky food is here. *slurp*"
[The beasts advance towards an unsuspecting engineer]
Tiger Kush - "Wait. Why do I smell watery spinach?"
Tiger Luv - "He must be an engineer. I have heard tales of their canteens. Umm, not hungry any more."
Tiger Kush - "Ditto. Much ado about nothing, hmmpf. Let's just watch him dance...oh, no!"

Of course, facing two tigers is a formidable prospect. But then our engineering friend has been through more. VIVAS, for example. You can pronounce it the way you like, but this word never sounds pleasant. What happens inside a VIVA hall doesn't feel any better either. Imagine lining up in groups of three, anxiously awaiting your turn to get exposed as the chap who landed this course only because, well, "Papa told me." To make matters worse, every group will ask the preceding group "Hey, what were you asked?" only to find out that the professor would never repeat his questions. And God forbid, if you are one of those Smart Alecs who hummed their way through all lab sessions, because, "Hehe, group work," you have so had it when a surprise announcement in the finals states that every student will perform his experiment individually. As our professor once said, "Lab work is team work. It is not some pooja that one person will hold the pooja thali and the others will just touch his elbow."

The engineer doesn't have it easy outside the college premises either. For a new challenge is lurking somewhere round the corner. We call it SOCIALIZING. Consider this: the poor fellow is sitting at home during a study break. The parents have to attend a social do. The engineer contemplates an evening all to himself - some quality "me" time before his laptop. News suddenly pours in that the hosts have learnt the engineer exists and that the parents must totally bring him along. Dragged to the dinner with an assurance that "We just have to eat and come back, beta", he is now strolling around the party lawns, probably examining the lights and wondering what diodes lie behind them. Other guests accost him, prodding him to make conversation.

"So, nice party, eh?"
"Meh."
"So what are your hobbies?"
"I am an engineer. My hobbies are writing tutorials, online chatting and..."
"Come, let's get some dinner."

If the conversation is with a girl, the conversation begins and ends somewhere around "Hi I am an engineer baby are you receiving the signals being sent from the transducer of my heart."

Everyone went about asking what happened to the engineer finally inside that enclosure? It is absurd that nobody bothered finding out what happened to those tigers after spending forty minutes with him. Rumour has it the engineer had not slept in four days. With the overwhelming burden of an entire society on his shoulders, it was gracious of the engineer to afford them a little dance. My message is to the tigers: when you are met with an opportunity as rare as this, sit back and behave yourselves. You are lucky to have got an audience. You are not going to see him again until the next semester.