hw dz it mattr nywayz?

Middle-aged, potbellied and hairy Rajiv Ji enters the cyber cafe with his lanky teenage son Ishaan in tow. Rajiv ji is wearing an oversized t-shirt over longish ‘shorts’ and pair of worn hawai chappals. Ishaan is wearing a black tee, blue jeans, black sandals and a sombre look.

Rajiv ji to cyber café guy: “We want to check IIT-JEE results. My son heard that they’re releasing it online today.”
“Do you have an account Sir?”
“No.”
“Ok, you could browse for an hour for 20 Rupees or you could take a membership and one month validity coupon for 50 Rupees.”
“I don’t have much work, so I think first option is ok.”
“Take the coupon. You can use it again if you don’t finish it today. Its valid for a month.”

Rajiv ji looks at Ishaan and asks, “What do you say? Will you use it?” Pause. Ishaan is staring at the floor. “Bolo! If you will use it then I’ll take it. Its valid for a month.” Ishaan slowly nods his bowed head from left to right, indicating ‘OK’.

Slowly, Ishaan sits on a comp. His dad sits next to him. Ishaan opens a notebook. Reads something from it. Carefully types on the keyboard and a page starts downloading. Rajiv ji peers into the screen trying to decipher the digital mumbo-jumbo. Ishaan is reading the text without speaking and is clicking from time to time. Rajiv ji can read it too, but after a while he asks Ishaan.

“So? What does it say? Are the results out or not?”
“No Papa.”
“Then when is it going to come out?”
“I’m checking papa.”

After 5 minutes more of checking, Rajiv ji is impatient.

“What is it?”
“Doesn’t say anything Papa.”
“Then how will you know? Ask your friend Vidur.”
“I asked Papa. I will email them Papa.”
“Ok you do that. I’m going home now. Come back soon.”
“Ok Papa.”

Rajiv ji’s second foot was not out of the café before Ishaan’s fingers started flying across the keyboard.

“dublyoodublyoodublyoodotorkutdotcomenter.”

Ishaan’s profile photo has him in low waist anti-fits and spikey-gelled hair and his best mate Janice by his side.

23 new scraps.

Scrap from @$$k!kr: “hey hus da chix in da pix?”
Reply to @$$k!kr: “ma buddy kul 4m skul. nw fukoff k?”
Scrap from ne~^~ha: “hey hansm watz ur futr plans?”
Reply to ne~^~ha: “no idea dn care nywayz. Dads goin bzerk!”
Scrap from \/iduR: “hey bro sup? reslt ka kya hua? tensd!”
Reply to \/iduR: “No nus yt. gand fati padi hai! u cumn 2 chil @ priya evng?”
Scrap from $/\m|r: “dude u online?”
Reply to $/\m|r: “q? kya hai be? u alwyz on orkut! no odr wrk jakazz?”
Scrap from \m/ju$t|n\m/: “yo lissn lifs bitchn dun fink I’ll mak it.”
Reply to \m/ju$t|n\m/: “okzzz jus hang on. u hafta luk 4 smthn difrnt.”
Scrap to shirley: “hey babe meet me @ priya @ 7 k?”
Scrap to ananya: “hi sweets wana meet @ priya 2mrw 7?”

Ishaan hollers at the café guy, “Bhaiya! Why don’t you have limewire on this machine?”

Disco Deewane

Its just a memory now. I cant even say for sure whether its true. But I remember that in the 80s, in Bombay, my parents used to host awesome parties. Red and yellow chandeliers, breezy atmosphere, latest Phillips cassette player with two separate stereophonic box speakers. Lilting music of ABBA, BoneyM and Nazia and Zoheb Hassan. Why is it important to me now? I was born in 1977 and the entire 80s was the time when I registered impressions that were going to stay with me forever. 80s was the age of Disco. I became a willing slave to that music for the rest of my life.

My eyes started heavily lacrimating, as I listened to 'Tere Qadmon Ko' by Nazia and Zoheb, today morning. I was teleported to that drawing room with dim lights. I can see my parents and their friends dance to 'Dancing Girl'(I don't know if thats how it really was. But thats how I'll always remember it.) . I can see myself jiving to 'Sunny'! I was living that joy, that hope, that carefreeness, that love, that warmth, that energy, that rhythm... that D.I.S.C.O. I was a Disco Deewana. And I still am. It would be cliched to say that they don't make music like that anymore. But let me still say for the sake of my childhood- they don't make music like that anymore.

I remember my mom loved to sing 'Tere Qadmon Ko' with a look of intense pleasure. I think she had a crush on Zoheb. But me, I was madly in love with Nazia Hassan. Ah! Nazia! I deeply loved her voice. If you could make love to a voice, listening to Nazia made me feel like hugging that voice, kissing every modulation of it, caressing every intonation of it; my soul rolling with the amplitude with its rise and fall and an orgasm at every high pitch. That smooth, finely balanced, delicate, beautiful, wise, innocent, stable, pure and slightly nasal voice in the modern, liberated, sexy setting of disco. That voice that gave you an intense emotional erection, yet instead of making love to her you would love to just keep looking at that heavenly mirage bursting with sexuality that was waiting for the slightest touch of yours. I think that voice shaped my own sexuality to a large extent. I still imagine my ideal mate exactly like that voice.

And what was about that music? That immortal, ethereal, infinite, that here to forever, that inside and everywhere music. That music that hit your head and splashed it across all known universes. That music that had just the right amount of echo. I always felt that Biddu was possessed when he composed 'Baat Ban Jaye'. And if you get the hottest item babe of that time, Zeenat, to perform that on big screen, then man!Main Insaan Hoon, Farishta Nahin...

I really don't know who that Brown Girl in the Ring was, but I sure felt like playing with her every time I heard her song. Those were good days. You could write a song on just about anything. Ma Baker or Sunny, Belfast or Rasputin. Today if Avril or Christina sang about Darfur or Putin, the music company will perhaps go out of business. Remember 'Oceans of Fantasy'? I remember. I remember while listening to that song I could always imagine myself surfing away on a wave of psychedelic lights in a river that led into dark and vast eternity dotted with a billion little twinkling stars. Man! What was with that music?? The composer surely composed it when he/she was high on LSD or Marijuana. You could tell. You could feel.

"Can you hear the drums Fernando..." I lost touch with that music in the late 80s and entire 90s. There was a long long pause. Then, suddenly, one day in the late 90s, while watching an Australian film, Muriel's Wedding, on Star Movies, I heard 'Dancing Queen' and I sat up. As usual, whenever there is such an instant regression, my eyes welled up, goose bumps all over and throat choking, involuntary and without warning. I said what the heck! I know that music! I've heard it before. I've danced to it. And I went to the music store, bought ABBA and danced to it. "You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life..." I dug in the Dancing Queen so much that she never fails to inspire me. Although now I know that she wasn't trying to inspire a boy of 5 or 6. ;) Why did I let her go??

"Yes, I've been brokenhearted
Blue since the day we parted
Why, why did I ever let you go?
Mamma mia, now I really know,
My my, I could never let you go."

Chronicles of Bunty: It Could Be You!

Bunty cut sharp left and screeched to a halt next to the footpath under a shady tree. He took out his Nokia N70 and called Pummy.

"Where are you?" he barked.

"Arre I'm just reaching na!" came the reply.

Bunty's face contorted. He made a quick calculation. 'Just reaching' would mean another 30 minutes. He replied 'ok' and disconnected. 30 minutes to kill! No point in getting bored inside the SUV even though it was slightly hot outside in the May morning.

Bunty got off his limited edition black Safari and adjusted his tight shirt's unbuttoned top button. He shook his hairy wrists and got his gold bracelets into position. He pulled up his Diesel jeans and knocked his pointy leather shoes on the tarmac. He looked left and right through his oversized shades and walked to the cold-water vendor on the footpath.

"How much for a glass?" he asked.

"Fifty paise, saab."

"Ok. And how much with Lime?"

"Two rupees."

There was a pause while Bunty inspected the cart leaking saline water from its bottom. Bored, he shifted his attention to Bidi-Cigarette vendor.

"Saab, should I give you a glass?" asked the water vendor.

Bunty turned sharply and said half laughing and half mocking, "Abe you have understood me a chutiya? I dont want to die by drinking your water!"

The water vendor was dejected. The Bidi vendor heard this and tried not to catch Bunty's gaze. Luckily, Delhi in May of 2007 wasn't as hot as most years. So you could stand outside in the mornings at least. Shades were especially cool. That, and his boredom, prompted Bunty to hum the latest Himesh Reshammiya number, a bit too loudly.

A traffic cop drove up and parked his yellow, aged and thumping bullet behind Bunty's Safari. He removed his helmet and took out what used to be a white handkerchief and wiped his face.

He looked at the SUV and then at Bunty and asked, "Is everything alright?"

Bunty stopped humming and straightened up and replied in a friendly manner, "Ya ya, just waiting for someone Sir."

The cop began watching the streaming traffic keenly. Within no time he took a step forward and extended his two and half feet hand and blocked the twenty feet road. A hapless scooterist was caught in the net. The pillion rider didn't have a helmet on.

"License and registration please" ordered the cop.

Bunty was watching this with much amusement. One thought crossed his mind. "Chutiye saale!" A grin plastered across his face. After some negotiations, the transaction was done and the scooter was allowed to proceed. Bunty stepped up to the cop to strike a conversation. He still had some time to kill. And no one like a cop for some masculine BC-MC chitchat. He might as well make up for the mush-talk time he's going to spend with his nagging girlfriend during the next two days in Kasauli.

"Haraamzaade, never seem to learn!" started Bunty, "And then they blame the traffic police of harassing them..."

The cop took the friendly cue, "Yeah! You tell me, what more can we do if these village idiots act like animals? How can we educate them? They don’t understand the laws or the traffic signs..."

Bunty asked with a crooked smile, "So how much did you fine them?"

"He he he...forty bucks" said the cop with a grin, "Poor buggers needed money for lunch. I'm a fair person you know..."

"How's the business doing these days?" Bunty dared further, knowing that Delhi cops are very friendly if you talk to them in a friendly and knowing manner.

"Things have actually improved after the orders of the High Court. People never learn you know. They still drive rashly, still don’t get pollution check done and still talk on phone while driving. With the higher fines, they're keener to deal with us than going to court. So yeah, things are looking up!" said the cop with a smile of contentment.

Suddenly the cop jumped and darted to the middle of the road and stopped a cargo company's Maruti Van. Traffic cops had 'Spider Sense' for violaters. The driver was taking instructions on his mobile.

"Licence and registration please." Another round of negotiations followed. Bunty was by the side of the cop this time but didn't open his mouth. Transaction closed at Rs. 100 and both of them retreated to the shade.

"Today is the first birthday of the Sub Inspector's son. We're all contributing. I have to finish this before midday. No point standing here in the heat." the cop said.

"Oh ok. I too want to move before it gets too hot. Driving to the hills for the weekend. With my girlfriend." Bunty said with a wink.

Bunty got a call from a business associate of his father's and assured the 'uncle' that he will definitely visit the vendor 'tomorrow' and get the work done. The traffic flow had reduced to a trickle. The cop was getting impatient.

"How fast does that go?" he asked looking at Bunty's Safari.

"Fast enough to tear apart other car's asses!" guffawed Bunty.

The Cop went up to the Safari and walked around it appreciating. It was one mammoth machine with huge Hankook tyres, beautiful golden trim, VIP dark film and sexy fancy number plates. Bunty walked along with him gloating over his possession. When they got back to the rear, he asked, "How did you like her?"

The cop looked disinterestedly at his wrist watch and then at the sun's angle, and said,

"License and registration please."

Just Another Girl

Mary Magdalene in the City of Djinns,
took upon herself the curses of mankind.
With a fragile dignity you carry on
the fate you have been consigned.

The Father dealt you an ugly hand
and you are reluctant to contend.
But the game tumbles inexorably
towards its logical end.

Late breezy evening you look up and wonder,
"A star maybe soon, but is this what I want?"
A daydream or night one, its all the same to you.
Nearsighted, censored, nightmares that haunt.

"What will I do with dreams
that come with no wings to fly?
With not even limbs to walk, to keep breathing,
a sick joke on which to rely."

Inevitability has made you bigger
than we ever could be.
Near and dear and loved ones here,
you revel in their victory.

A momentary scorn, the peak of protest,
but thats not your memory.
Hop skip and jump with family and friends,
are your three steps to glory.

Mary you lie on a bed of needles,
in a slumber of anyone's ability.
And every drop that springs from you
is a path to immortality.

Let me hold an earthen pot
and feed the children where it begins.
Let them know the inferno you walk
to take away their sins.

Let me sit by your side
and caress your scar turned blue.
Let me drink from that spring of pain
and become one with you.

You straddle the three worlds of worth
and know what happens eventually.
We behold your holy walk,
with dismay pretense and homily.

You turn around and smile at us,
the scared and ignorant world.
Your eyes whimper, dark deep and moist,
"I'm just another girl."

The Ordeal

I felt a great surge of agitation envelope me. I did not know if I was dead or alive. I realised I was in one of those deep slumbers that makes you feel almost dead. Was I having a nightmare? The ringing of the distant mountain bells was coming closer and closer. Finally it pierced my skull and started drilling into the grey matter within. It was intolerably painful! I regained some consciousness - it was the wake-up alarm of my cell phone.

I willed it to switch off automatically. But that didn't happen. I fumbled along my bedside like a drunk and managed to get hold of the phone. It felt like eons before I could manage to switch it off. And then the peace that followed was enormous! But the realisation that it was the first day of 2003 AD and I had to go to work soon made that feeling very temporary.

Delhi was having a very chilly winter. The warm blanket felt like a mother's womb. It was 6 am. I knew that it would take me another twenty minutes to muster up enough courage to expose myself to my cold room. I lay there thinking and gathering will power.

I thought about the people I loved and the people who loved me. I planned the day's work. I wondered about my next assignment. I felt bad for the condition of the world. I decided not to have breakfast. I tried to cook up an excuse against getting married anytime soon, that I could give to my parents. Somehow all my problems seemed to get solved if I could just do one thing right now - go back to sleep!

I was warm but stiff. I tried moving my arms, but no success. Wiggled my toes - some success. Let me try and move a bit. I'll open my eyes the last; no point in feeling any worse than I already am. It took so much planning just to get out of bed on a winter morning. But it wasn't working. Finally, with a quick jerk, I threw the blanket onto one side and sat upright. I was numb. I opened my eyes but didn't move them. I was born! First day of the rest of my life! Quietly I cursed to myself, "Happy New Year asshole!"

Somehow, surviving in adverse conditions gives you a kind of satisfaction that you do not get in normal and more comfortable situations. There is an immense sense of achievement even out of small things like getting up in the morning or driving to work through thick fog. You feel good about yourself. That was a challenge - a compulsory one - and I made it! Its my accomplishment for the day!

Two hours later I was done with the newspaper, tea, motions, shave, bath and dressed to kill. I locked the house and strode off to the car with a purpose in life. I don't know what it was, but I felt it there - somewhere within.

I did have breakfast - an apple.

Nothing But Fragile

A blade cuts a finger.
I bleed and hurt.
I trip on a pebble.
My face is in the dirt.
I am nothing but
fragile.

Love cut my heart.
Heart bled to death.
A tear drops with every breath.
I am nothing but
fragile.

I am betrayed.
Disillusionment and hate descend.
Is this my end?
I am nothing but
fragile.

I betray.
Guilt and self-loathing ascend.
This surely is a dead-end.
I am nothing but
fragile.

I take a chance.
I lose my worth.
All hopes are abandoned.
Despair takes birth.
I am nothing but
fragile.

I say something.
They hear something.
I mean this.
She understands that.
Bridges are burnt.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Where is the sea? Where is the shore?
I am nothing but
fragile.

This thing called ego
I lug around as I go.
Bursts like a balloon with every blunt touch.
What to talk of friends?
Even my family I forgo.
I am nothing but
fragile.

After an epic climb
I finally arrive at the peak.
I know I have proven.
But now what? NOW WHAT DO I SEEK??
I wish the full stop had been a comma.
I wish the peak had been a crossroad.
I am nothing but
fragile.

To be or not to be
is the question I ask of destiny.
I wish I knew the answer she would give.
All I know is this,
my life is destiny's prerogative.
I am nothing but
fragile.

Five elements in God's five fingers.
Five zillion ways of rubbing out a life.
Five billion years the Earth has lived.
Just five seconds could wipe out her constant strife.
Hey Man! You are nothing but
fragile.

Rags to Witness

Morning. Rituals. A Mug full of strong ginger tea and Hindustan Times. Like many others, there's a "Please Don't Disturb" sign hanging on my face. I don't know how many people of my generation and the subsequent generations enjoy this age old ritual these days.

The famous BMW case. The case that was the precursor for many such branded cases to come. The case that defined witness manipulation. The papers said today that the last witness is going to depose. The rest of them turned hostile. They reached a compromise or were bought off. Threats are futile. Money is a great motivator.

Raju, a peon at a small courier agency in Jangpura. Tries his best to make ends meet while chewing gutkha. His twin daughters are ready to go to school. But what about books, clothes, slates, chalks and so on? His employer sometimes borrows 502s and Rajdarbars from him. So it would be ridiculous to ask him for a raise. Punjab Kesri was always somewhere nearby. Raju was not illiterate. And definitely not stupid. He knew stuff, you know! So off he went to the temple to ask for a fair chance.

"God, you are my maibaap, you are kind, you are generous. You heart is like a river. Please cast your kind gaze upon me sometimes. I'm not asking for too much. I'm not even asking for something that is not mine. I cycle 9 kilometers every morning to office. I cycle back late sometimes. So many drunk people are driving on the roads of Delhi. Then why not give me a chance? All I ask is just one BMW or Porsche (I dont mind the brand as long as its luxury segment), one rich kid, drunk silly should provide nirvana to a fortunate soul in front of MY eyes. God all I ask is this- make me a witness! Leave the rest to me. I will earn every penny that they stuff into my mouth. God please grant this one wish and I'll put 1100 rupees worth on your feet."

So the news channels are raking up the back of Tendulkar coz he thinks his cricket strokes are nothing short of pure art. Many of us would agree. The CAG does not. They have absolutely no cricketing or artistic sense. Anyway, there's this artist category which gets substantial tax exemption. The Income Tax department will soon come up with a new category called the 'Hostile Witness' category. The Finance Secretary has noted that the government loses a lot of revenue in this category. They need to be appropriately taxed. If needed, give them a small exemption in view of the trauma they had to go through, but get them under the tax net.

I heard Witness Protection! Who said that? Who said witness protection?? Are you stupid? You think the government is stupid? Remember, the government is never stupid, just not informed enough. In this case the government knows how much it costs to protect witnesses who are better off making big bucks as hostile witnesses. The government cares for the greatest good, for the greatest numbers. There's always one victim but so many witnesses. Why victimise them? Let witness protection be the sole responsibility of the defence side. We, the government, are already burdened by the ridiculously high salary of the public prosecutor. Hey, we don't want to screw around with the Budget Deficit any more. Okay?

Rocky: A Belated Obituary

The first time I met Rocky was when I moved into his neighbourhood, Andrewsganj in mid 2001. Rocky's initial belligerence was understandable. He didn't know me, I didn't know him either. But it was not long before we bonded fabulously. I guess he liked me for the way I treated him and his family. It also helped that his family loved me a lot. On the other hand, I liked him simply because..well simply because he was he.

By all calculations Rocky was middle aged. He was certainly older than either Joyattam or Jayeeta. I being the eldest of the set, perhaps he liked my mature outlook. He would get excited every time I visited their place. We would go for long walks together. He loved nature, so did I. But while I did all the talking, he would just take in the fragrances of the environment. He loved my company, I loved his. But I could never be as energetic as him.

Rocky had that senior feel about him. You would never see him prance around or get over-excited about something. He loved to rest, sleep, eat and throw an attitude. The only person he was afraid of was Kaberi aunty. Rocky was quite guarded. He loved his family and made sure that they're safe from any intrusion. If you wanted to be friends with the Dutta Roys, first you had to be friends with Rocky. Once you had Rocky's trust, you could truly enjoy the great hospitality of the Dutta Roys.

Rocky could eat like an elephant and Kaberi aunty is a great cook. I and Rocky both loved the fish and chicken made by aunty. Aunty was a bit strict on Rocky, but that was all for his own good. Once, I was at Dutta Roys with just Rocky for company and we had a fight over who will sit on the sofa that was near the cooler. It was hot and the cooler was blowing away cool, humid air. We both wanted to sit on that sofa but Rocky, the sly thing that he was, took the seat before I could stake a claim. We had a series of pushing and pulling but he didn't budge. I even poured some water over him, but I think he enjoyed that even more! Finally, I lifted the couch and turned it upside down thereby dropping Rocky off it. Rocky accepted defeat and went to lie on the bed. We didn't talk a word that evening.

Rocky was not allowed to eat too much sweet. But he loved cookies and an odd roshogolla. whenever I'm there, aunty makes it a point to serve me with some strong, sweet tea and biscuits from a bakery in Kotla Mubarakpur. I used to sneak a few pieces to Rocky, who would eat with relish and demand some more without worrying about aunty's scolding. I've been caught a couple of times and have been reprimanded for that too. But I and Rocky were buddies, so it was ok.

Rocky was getting old and losing health. From the beginning of 2006, his health began to deteriorate very quickly. First to go was his eyesight. He had cataracts and could hardly see where he was walking. During our walks in the the neighbourhood, he would frequently stumble over stairs, footpaths and stones. He simply couldn't see that they were there. It was becoming too sad for me. His diet went down. He tried eating but he vomited most of it. When I visited them, I made it a point to take him for walks, but by April he had become so weak that I had to lift him while walking. I could feel each and every bone of his frail body. There was no muscle left on his skeleton. He would just look into my eyes as if saying "thank you." He couldn't even cry and tears would well up in my eyes. Towards the first week of May, he stopped going out. He would lie prone on his belly and very lightly acknowledge my presence by just lifting an eye. I would caress him and talk to him for a while before my throat choked up. It is painful to see any living thing in that state.

I don't remember when was the last time I saw Rocky and I'll regret that forever. 17th May 2006 was my birthday and I was treating a couple of old friends at Ansal Plaza. I parked my car at Andrewsganj and informed uncle and aunty. While leaving I glanced towards Rocky. It was dark in his room and I couldn't see him. Normally I would go and talk to him, but that day I had neither the time nor the courage.

I asked uncle, "How is he?"

"Not good. Might go anytime now" he replied.

I just hoped it wasn't anytime soon because I wanted to see him once more and say goodbye to him.

The next day I came back all the way from Vasundhara Enclave to meet Rocky. But he was gone.

"He went away last night" uncle said.

I hated myself for not talking to him the previous night. I hated the fact that my birthday fell on that day. I tried to take it in with as much fortitude as is expected from a twenty nine year old. I just wanted to say goodbye to him. Why couldn't he wait for another day?! I sat there numb and silent.

"Its ok, he was suffering. Good that he went" uncle reassured me.

I drove back home with moist eyes and a heavy heart. I kept repeating inside my head, "Goodbye Rocky.."

Doodh Ka Doodh...

Mrs. Sharma was a long time resident of Doctors Apartments. Her buttocks were so heavy that you would think that they were a part of the apartments' foundation. Mrs. Sharma was a stickler for hygiene and cleanliness. Thats why she would often look outside her balcony with disgust. The thing was that the footpath across the south west corner boundary of Doctors Apartments had a massive Delhi style garbage dump and the garbage always spilled out onto the road, which attracted all kinds of gourmands. Cows, crows, dogs and rag pickers were regular patrons of the joint. What Mrs. Sharma couldn't digest was the stench that wafted into her house whenever the southern winds blew a bit too excitedly.

"Chhi!" she would remark, "Good I didn't vote for anybody during Municipal election. MCD anyway doesn't clean this mess. One day I'll die of this stench. Why dont you do something?" she would lob at Mr. Sharma who would try harder to evade her gaze by burying his head deeper into the morning papers.

"Are you listening? Do you want me to die?"

Mr. Sharma always wondered if he will be arrested or ostracised if he actually answered that question. He wasn't the kinds who like to shake things up. Moreover, his nose had become insensitive to the smell that disturbed the residents only once in a while.

You could give the credit for Mrs Sharma's excellent rump to Ombir's milk. Mrs Sharma wanted only the best for her family. So she only trusted fresh cow's milk.

"Oh God Mrs. Gogia, have you seen how they carry that Mother Dairy milk in trucks. It looks like it was produced in a petroleum refinery. And God only knows how old that milk is. Our Ombir brings only the milk drawn in the morning. Have you seen how much 'malai' I get out of it?"

So thats the secret of Mrs. Sharma's health - the cream from Ombir's milk. Mrs. Gogia would only nod her head in mock agreement and hate the fact that Mrs. Sharma's hind was more majestic than her own.

Mrs. Sharma kept three litres of Ombir's milk everyday. She forced four glasses down the throats of her teenagers Roshan and Roshni - two in the morning and two in the evening. She made tea, kheer, gajar ka halwa, shakes and many other healthy items out of that milk. She loved it so much.

Ombir was a strapping Jatt from Dallupura village. If only he'd shave, he'd look like Arjun Rampal. He had a small dairy that belonged to his family. He made a good income supplying milk to residents of Vasundhara Enclave and Mayur Vihar. His prized posession was his powerful Enfield Bullet that never had a legible number plate. He was also proud of his young milch cow 'Doodhia'. No she wasn't called Doodhia because she gave good milk, but because she was white like milk. Nevertheless, Doodhia would loyally squeeze out of her udders 3-4 litres of milk every morning. Ombir made sure that it was appropriately 'monetized'. So he would shout out to his nephew,

"Oye Jitender! Make sure you mix equal amount of water. These meydum jis and their kids in the high-rises have weak stomachs. I don't want any complaints of impure milk."

Jitender would diligently get 'clean looking' water from the local rusty municipal tap or handpump or from wherever he could, and make 8 out of 4.

Now Doodhia being young, was also foot-loose. Her light feet took her farther than other cows. She would roam around Trilokpuri, Dallupura, Vasundhara Enclave and nearby areas. She was free to go wherever she wanted to, but she would instinctively return to her master at sundown. She was free to choose her own grub. Ombir, being the liberal he was, never stopped her from experimenting. So off she went checking out various diners in her area of influence. Grass was good, juicy leaves were better but those were hard to come by. But last night's shahi paneer, rajma masala and sundry vegetable peels? Well, now we're talking gourmet food. Now and then, she would join other regulars, Kali, Tommy, Kaw-Kaw, Raju and such, for a hearty meal; often at the dump opposite Mrs. Sharma's. More than once Doodhia has noticed Mrs. Sharma casting a disgusted look towards her.

"She's just jealous of my rear end." Doodhia would conclude.

"Chhi chhi chhi! These animals eat anything!" Mrs. Sharma would say while loudly slurping her morning tea made out of Doodhia's milk.

Let Me Summarise - Our Love of the Gist

I took this pop-quiz that rates your life. Even while you're answering the really straightforward questions, you can make out how you're doing. But then there's the joy of watching all that in the form of bar graphs and decimals.

We human beings have a strong attraction for summaries. We love the fact that our birth chart can predict when we're going to 'drop out'. We love the thing that the lines on our palm can tell others how screwed we really are. Isn't it great that your percentile score in CAT or GMAT can almost accurately predict your pay package in 3 years time and yet reveal nothing about your ethical character?

Corporate honchos have a special love for charts, graphs and figures. They can see their popularity, commission and wife's love rise and fall with the revenue and profits graph. I would say that one look at the faces of your employees early Wednesday morning can tell you more about your company's performance than all the stats churned out by your overpaid accountants.

'Screaming Headlines' Do headlines really scream? Yes, they do. They scream out the entire story in a few words. Its supposed to attract your attention to the story but what it really does for me is that it tells me whether the story is worth reading. The louder the scream, the more suspect the content. But I too fall into the trap of sensationalism sometimes. News these days is more entertainment than news; more advertisement than information, even if it is about rape, murder and elections. I guess we still read and watch news just because we want a pre-packaged, easily digestible, least involving, distance maintaining, hygienic way of interacting with society at large. Its a hard-to-resist summary of the world around you.

Every religious leader worth his donations account and every prophet worth his sombre look has tried to summarise life for us. Some such aphorisms come to my mind - Love thy neighbour (but don't get caught); God is Great (but Devil comes close); Take the Middle Path (but don't get crushed). [The words in brackets are not mine but additional notes by charlatans and realists down the ages] Don't we just love these lines? Sometimes they inspire, sometimes they simplify and some other times, they rectify. Religion is nothing but spiritual fast food. Pre-packaged, quickly delivered, easily eatable and quite filling. On top of that, inexpensive. Just imagine how much more difficult life would be if each one of us were to develop his or her own personal religion. (But some of us like to rough it out.)

I guess we love summaries because life is too complex to be understood in bits and pieces.

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	6.5
Mind:	7.5
Body:	7.3
Spirit:	7.5
Friends/Family:	4.9
Love:	1.4
Finance:	4.7
Take the Rate My Life Quiz