Time and again...

I seem to be intoxicated, not so much by the Dom Perignon 1953 bubbling in the flute in my hand, but by the three hawt beauties that adorn me. A blonde, a brunette and an Asian- mind you, I have the world's best diversity wrapped around my arms. They are engrossed in conversation, enrapt by my charming description of my latest novella, so much so that they ignore Daniel Craig's lascivious eyes that corner them as he passes by, waving me an envious Hi.

"What's the blonde's name, again?", I ask my memory, slurring, as I survey the pool in which nubile wannabe stars are already flirting with water and the Hollywood whos-who. But I don't really care, because I've found all the answers, I'm in heaven, honobbing with the A-list at this ultra-glamourous Oscars bash at the Sunset Tower Hotel, Hollywood.

I excuse myself from the beauties and stroll to the bar, and as I impatiently wait for my Grand Mojito Martini, I feel a pleasant tap on my shoulder and sense overwhelming beauty in my vicinity. I turn around, and lo and behold!

I'm still beholding, awed, speechless, overwhelmed at God's sexiest creation which currently is within touching distance, frantically trying to capture every bit of her with my two small eyes, which seem to roll over and over, fidgeting between her flowing hair, her expressive eyes and other things. How much can they ogle after all!! But, finally, Scarlet Johansson decides to break the ice, and, we go into slow motion here, I follow her inviting pout transform into luscious lips that create beautiful speech, and soon its my ears who are in for a treat as she voices a sweet......

"Tring Tring"

Jolt, shudder, even more frantic roll of the eyes. The intoxication is gone, but this is a bad hangover. Did I hear that right? and as if to answer,

"Tring Tring" again.

The body's natural reaction to such mishaps is to reach out to press a Green button somewhere. I promptly do that.

"Suuuuuuuuumiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit beta (kid)!!", says a gruff, ruthless voice which has an unmistakeable sense of mischief. Its my Dad. The ears revolt. The eyes frown. The decrepitation of the reverie is now complete.

I push the pillow up and prop my spine against it, mumble a "Hello" and look at my watch. 3:30 am. @%*^&@!

My dad never had a sense of timing. When he dabbled in the stock markets, he bought high and sold low and contributed in his own little way to the Indian stock market's bull run. He disowned me just before I got into IIM, and then promptly had to reown me. He watched cricket games right till the end when India lost and shut the TV prematurely when India pulled off last-gasp wins.

But an international sense of timing is a totally different level. Since I moved to London, I gave the folks a crash course in timing. -4:30 usually, and -5:30 in winter, due to daylight saving. I chose the wrong words. The daylight saving had them very curious, and caused immense confusion. "But, whyyyyy?", crooned my Mom, and the Dad's creativity abolished its boundaries and devoted itself to the creation of hypothetical scenarios, "What if you are catching a flight at 2 am on the 2nd weekend of Nov, if you were 1 hr late would you be on time?" Arrgggh. Give up.

My lifestyle hours have only compounded matters. Even when I was in India, we were time zones apart, they operating 5 am to 9 pm and me doing 9 am to 5 am. The tradeoff of accompanying them for a family function was thus complicated by the jet lag involved. And here, it has only worsened, now that I'm no longer under their strict eye, and so I've often got up at 4 pm on Sundays and called home, only to have had a tough time explaining why I haven't had breakfast when they have just finished dinner!

Anyways, so back to the call, because Mehta Sr. is waiting. We exchange pleasantries. And then comes the time bomb, "Mummy's asking, did you have lunch???!!!" I don't understand my Mom's obsession with my appetite, but of course I find it very sweet. However, a part of me thinks its only her way of finding out the time. Like, "did you have lunch?", "Arre, I had lunch 5 hrs back, its dinner time now", "Aah! thought as much."Clever.

But thankfully, she has better sense than my Dad, because I hear her voice in the background, shouting "He must be sleeping now! How many times have I told you not to get confused between London and Singapore!" If only confusion was a matter of will, but I hope my Dad has a better response. But you see, thats an additional confusion, because my sister lives in S'pore, and having 1 kid at +2:30 hrs and another at -4:30 hrs has had the Mehta Sr. swimming in a pool of confusion 8 hours wide. I don't blame him, honestly.

So he realizes his error, mumbles a few things like, "Oh what time is it?", Me: "3:32 am", Him: "Oh you must be sleeping then?", Me: "YEAH!", Him: "Ah, its not a Saturday, no wonder I got confused, last week you were wide awake this time, even though slurring your words!" @£$&&. One can never win, I shrug, say Goodbye, promise to call back at a more convenient time, hang up and re-engage myself in invoking the divine spirit of Ms. Johansson.

Homeward Bound

The day is etched firmly in my mind. London had victoriously wooed me away from Bombay, and as I tearlessly packed my bags, and bade my parents an abrupt good bye, I was aware of the lack of emotion in me. In one moment, it impressed me, in another it scared me. How had I become so stone-hearted for ambition?

But, as I realized a return trip later, there was no emotion simply because there was no loss. Or, more accurately, no acceptance of a loss. Because somewhere in my heart I knew myself well- I am a romanticiser of places. Unlike others who miss people, my memories are linked to places. Which suits me fine, as people can sometimes go away or, worse, they can change, but places stay where they are, weathered by the forces of nature and progress, forever losing their exteriors but keeping their interiors.

And so I knew that wherever I went, I'd never lose the Bombay that was mine. Deep ensconced in a cobwebby corner of my vital organ, it would live on, adding juxtaposial layers to itself with my every frequent visit back. And so, on that gloomy Sunday of the twenty fifth of September 2005, I ventured out of my house, my city and my country, with a sprightly and adventurous step into life as a Londoner.

If anyone doubted my resolve to revisit and renourish my India roots as frequently as possible, they were proved wrong after barely 90 days. Just as family had begin to convert my room into a much-needed storage area, and friends had started to resign my phone numbers to the Etcetera list, there was I, punctually standing at Bbay airport, excitedly calling everyone to announce that "Yeah, you heard it right, I'm BACK!". My mom, disgusted at being deprived of a proper nostalgia, gruntled, "Khota sikka" (false coin, literally, basically meaning someone who doesn't live true to his word". I grinned.

And it has thus continued over the years- friends' weddings, house-hunting and renunion Goa trips all providing the necessary excuse- and the surprise turned gradually into annoyance. Quippy friends asked whether I'd procured a lifetime all-seasons ticket, and gradually even the familial luxury was stopped. On my 1st visit, I'd found the family driver proudly waiting to pick me up in the dusty Maruti and excitedly enquiring about London on the way back, but the next few times that seemed to be replaced by a frustating nonchalance...and last year I'd been politely informed, "Sorry beta (child), the driver's got some urgent work, so could you please take a cab instead?".

So by now, the India routine has been well-polished and tried-and-tested. As I finish dealing with betel-nut-chewing customs officers whose purpose in life is harassment, and venture out into the polluted Bbay air, unheralded and unnoticed except by opportunistic cabbies, I feel I have arrived. Of course I have, silly, but I mean, my instant ability to relate to my suddenly-different surroundings sends congratulatory blood to my head. The unconfused dual life, the balancing act- it all gives me a kick. I'm as home here as I was in London 8 hours and 7200 km ago. With these thoughts I hail an autorickshaw, for-the-heck-of-it'ly haggle the cost of a trip to Mankhurd and settle down comfortably into a very uncomfortable, shifting seat, looking forward to watching grime, odours, noises and the Bombay evening engulf me through the rickshaw's open windows. For a Bombay lover, its undiscriminating discomfort is itself its most comforting aspect.

(Not-so) soon, I reach home. Everything looks familiar and I even know the people on the streets- the baais (maids) still huddle around, kids still play cricket on the streets and cars still run into each other. But as the heart leaps in comforting joy, exclaiming, "I still haven't lost you, Bombay!", the futility of it all suddenly reveals itself to me on the subsequent landing.

Isn't all the frequent visiting an unending race to play catch up? With India growing and transforming itself in leaps and bounds, isn't what I really fear is losing touch with the beloved city, of having a generation gap with one's own childhood friend? And then I realize it, at the base of it all is my endeavour to keep unshaken my delicate faith in the constancy of places.

But I needn't worry, I relaxedly tell myself, as "Sumeeeeeettt, dinner is ready!", my mom's voice sails through the cool December air, like it always used to, rising above the latest item number blared by the neighbour's proud imported amplifiers, as they always did, and the shrill shrieks of the newest contingent of building (Indian slang for an apartment complex) kids. But I'm busy reading the girl's emails from London, and at the same time making clubbing plans for the night, waiting to explore the side of Bbay that I previously couldn't afford to- Oh boy, isn't it great to be home!

Toxic Waist

It alarmed me when it first appeared on the scene, seemingly out of nowhere. I'd always felt that my thin frame was a natural immunization to it- a combination of the two would be such an ugly sight that God would take offence at such a product of his own device. But there it had surreptitiously arrived, always right in front of my eyes, taunting me amoebically every moment I looked down or at the mirror. I was doomed.

But that's a lie, actually. That was my second reaction to it. My initial reaction to it was actually a feeling of snug accomplishment. After all, as a kid, I'd always envied those who proudly flaunted it- the gilt-covered Punjabi businessman (and his wife!) who lived across the street, the perenially-juice drinking Gujarati stockbroker/estate agent/jeweller and closer to home, my father- they all seemed so comfortable with it, displaying that elusive, fine balance of ease and care as they proudly carried it everywhere they went. I ventured to ask my mother as to how I could get one, and she laughed it off- apparently it was correlated with happiness and wealth, and hence I should work hard at school so that I could be rich later and get one. Mothers should be held accountable for the responses that they sometimes provide to their kids.

So, all these years later, I'd finally got one. It meant I was happy and contented, so I happily stomached all the abuse. "You aren't even married!" announced one friend, "When is the delivery?" wisecracked another. "Call up your courier firm!" I desperately riposted, but even I wasn't finding it funny after a while, what with the evidence showing up in every frontal (sorry) photograph of mine, every holiday at the beach and every sight of me in a tight tee. It became an issue of national importance for Mehtasia. Her borders had to be reined in.

Worry soon had grown into paranoia. I shunned beer altogether, and dived headlong into whisky. I banned the basmati and gave exclusive curry accompaniment rights to the naan. I was caught attempting to fry onions with no oil on the frying pan. But no avail. Whatever I did, it was always ahead of me (yeah!).

Then the girl mentioned exercise. I balked and gulped, but soon caved in, especially after she threatened to get one herself (physical promixity was already being annoyingly impeded by one, imagine two!). And thus, the drunken evenings discussing the rumour mills were converted into gym sessions on the treadmill. And Saturday a.m hangovers were replaced by basketball court stopovers. And voila! I was soon tending back to shape.

But every cure has its own side-effect, and in this case it was my overall weight which turned out to be the unfortunate victim. And then I realized the sinister workings of my body's capitalist economy. When I gain weight, it all runs straight to the flab sink called the stomach- when I lose weight however, it is my cheeks that suffer a liquidity crisis!

But what the hell, I haven't given up running- the punchy paunch will be conquered. :)

P.s: Hello all you esteemed readers, could I please request you to comment on my blog, if you manage to wade through the proceedings? A comment is for the blogger what applause means to the stage performer- you might not necessarily like the performance, and you don't HAVE to clap, but it is that moment of deafening that she lives for, so you do it out of respect. And it's nice to know who's been here, because sitemeters don't give any useful information. You don't need to say anything, mabe just a frank rating on 10 would do? Gracias!

Local anaesthesia- part 1

Luxury is for the human mind a bastard adopted from the street- we all lend it our own unique name and implication. For the gourmets, it is pampering the stomach, for the art collectors, it's pleasing the eye, and for some like me, it is relieving the legs of their arduous task of transporting my restless energy on its jaunts across town. And hence, propelled by the power of the pound, I have allowed myself the gratitude of taking cabs wherever I go in Bombay, blissful in the thought of avoiding Bombay's crowded local trains. It's a luxury that has taken a long time coming though- having endured 6-odd years of a daily 3-hr full-body massage provided by the Mumbai Suburban Railways have left me with more than a backache. Its been a thoroughly enjoyable journey though, replete with its moments, and my experiences can only seem entertaining in hindsight. So heres the first part of a threatise.

For the uninitiated, the aforementioned massage services are run on 3 lines, Western, Central and Harbour- me being the proud client of the latter-est. There is a clear status divide between the three: we Harbour boys were a bit late in catching the train bandwagon, and hence our trains are the least frequent. Counter-intuitively, our infrastructure is also the worst- saddled with no fast trains and with tracks running through slum-dwellers' bedrooms, we often have been mocked at by the others: "Harbour line pe paan thunko toh gaadi ruk jaata hai" (translated as "Its enough to spit on the tracks when in a Harbour line train to halt, who needs heavy rains or signal failures?") But we are always better off than the horrid Central line, what with its majority clientele of abusive fishwives. The Western line (some parts of it, atleast) is generally accepted as the most cultivated- after you alight, people are polite enough to allow you to climb the stairs on your own- the Central line has no such luxuries. The general quality of women is another driver for the Western line's popularity- repressed Central adolescents regularly take Western-line guilt trips to remind themselves that abusive fishwives are not a good representation of the average Bbay lady.

So lets focus back onto the product- the massage. Its a winner, this one. For starters, it is delivered dynamically, on the go, unconsciously, perfectly positioned to make efficient use of your travel time, and thus fits in handsomely in Bombay's breakneck pace. In fact, "Journey is the destination" was adopted as a slogan by the Railways once. (It was however removed a few days later after customers started stoning rail offices, mistaking the tagline as a lame attempt to pacify them on the matter of train delays). Secondly, and most enchantingly, it is delivered by the clients to the clients, much like a network marketing concept, wow! Such an arrangement upholds India's status as the world's largest democracy, giving customers the power in their hands (and legs and head and shoulders) to customize their own experience.

The dynamics of it all are also very fascinating. It usually starts with waiting for the train to arrive, and the waiting usually starts when its expected time of arrival and you can't see the train anywhere in the distance. Certain self-driven members of the crowd usually act as the harbingers of fate- straining their neck and their binocular-ly organized eyes, they provide free regular updates to the rest. A few minutes later, there is the unmistakeable murmur as you brace for the most important part of the journey: getting into the train- many a self-proclaimed-street-smart Delhi novice has underestimated this step and paid a heavy price.

So you roll up the sleeves, hide the cellphone in the innards of your clothing, lift whatever luggage you are carrying onto the top of your head and take a deep breath. (The deep breath serves two purposes- it destresses you and it saves your life, since there is very little chance you are going to get any air once you are inside.) It is also important to choose the right entry position, the right gambit. Mumbai locals have no doors to their exits, so its a free-for-all, with the exception of a rather inconvenient steel rod right in the bloody middle of the exit. After above mentioned Delhi novices learn after a few attempts to give themselves a chance of getting in, the rod presents their next nemesis, and they often end up smacked right against the rod, with no room for movement and no sensation in certain body parts. You thus endevaour to choose 1 of the 2 sides of the entry to make your way in.

And before you know it, the train has chugged onto the platform, and there are people spewing out of the moving train in dozens and thirteens, headed right towards you. Which is very unnerving, as many of them will drop right onto your right toe, thereby spilling the pickle from their tiffin box conveniently onto your shirt pocket. But you shrug it off, not letting it divert your attention from catching the train. And as the train finally grinds to a stop, there emerges an even greater exodus of humans in every size, shape and mood, falling off like grains from a leaking sack.

Everything after that can be simply described as going with the flow- a concerted wave of pressure from people behind you propels you with lightning quick speed into the compartment. The crowd also rationally takes care of your seating preferences- if there are free seats inside, you will be taken right to them. The massage then continues unabated throughout the journey- you only have to steer clear of the all-encompassing-in-its-midst Kurla-exiting flow and you have gained full value for your money.

And then its time to hop off. Alighting from the Mumbai local is as simple as staying in- again, you simply go with the flow. If you are in a Central line train and alight at Kurla, and the flow is headed to the bus depot at Kurla's stations east-side exit, thereby interfering with your plans of catching the Harbour line train to Vashi, you dont fret. You simply follow the flow to the bus depot, and latch onto the next flow originating from there to your preferred destination. Its simple ergonomics, you see.

So before you realize it, you have been released from the pressure cooker- clothes rumpled, confidence eroded, de-de-odorized but positive about life- after all, you have successfully completed another day of reaching office! And you say to yourself, "Wow, there weren't any bomb explosions either! Life is indeed beautiful." :-)

p.s: This initially was meant as a comprehensive essay on the local train services of Bombay. Midway through the piece however, it struck the author that there was more to it than he had envisaged- as the memories came tumbling back much like men from a Dadar local, he realized that this journey was worth more than 1 Harbour-line trip down memory lane. Watch this space for the trilogy!

The Barberic ordeals

Its that dreadful time of the month again. An hour to be wasted in worsening my appearance. A good day and two's abuse to be had for how funny I look. An extra bath to be taken, albeit without a closure, without that feeling of complete cleanliness. An hour's emptiness to bear, looking at other people dreadfully look at themselves in mirrors, and sifting through women's magazines. Oh, its time for a haircut again.

Well hair has never really been my best physical asset. I seemed to have been born with a good wave of it, but somehow over the years it transformed itself into this mad rush of, well, rushes. I was very deservedly called the porcupine- my hair resembling an army of hapless warriors in retreat, some of them attempting to run away, some brave enough to fight, and some others wondering what the fuss was all about. All they needed was an able leader, an insightful hairdresser. And thus became the quest of my life.

Now hairdressers in India are a funny lot. If you judged their haircutting ability by their own coiffeurs, you would never step into any of those salons and volunteer yourself for a hairdo. Unfortunately as a middle-class kid I didn't really have much choice, so I just used to pray, take a deep breath and keep my fingers crossed, hoping that the next free hairdresser would cut me a good deal. It came to the point that on the rare occasions that I found my haircut satisfactory, I politely asked the hairdresser's name, hoping that Id make him my regular- but no luck there too, I always forgot their names, and there never seemed to be around the next time I mustered my courage for a trip. Moving to London only worsened matters- I dabbled with the 4-pound Mr.Topper's for a while, and thats exactly how they treated my hair too- start to finish in 15 minutes! Grudgingly I've moved to Supercuts.

But my dreams have always remained unfulfilled. Month after month, it is the same story- sometimes they cut it so short that my medical-school-attending sister used my skull as a prop for a bone-identifying quiz with her friends, some other times they cut it so uneven that I have had to blame it on the paper-shredder at work. Of course, partly, I am to blame- I have lesser of a clue of what to do with my hair than they did. I still awe at those hairdressees who sit confidently on the high hairdresser's chair as if it were a director's and rattle off orders (I can imagine them shouting "Cut!")- I always preferred to utilize the time to catch up on my afternoon nap. Perhaps was a result of the realization that the result of that ordeal was going to give me some sleepless nights in the days to come.

Which in itself is ironic, since sleep is when our body hair grows the most. So, in the wake of the mishap, I get up from bed every morning, casting a glance at the mirror, hoping to catch the extra hair grown on my scalp. And so it goes, the life cycle of a haircut, the relief at it finally having grown to a respectable level, the week of basking in that joy, and the swift transition that occurs between then to the moment at work when your boss mentions, "Mate, I think you need a haircut". Hair we go again :)

The memoirs of a hopeless romantic

Soon it will be time for the last page of the 2007 calendar to present itself. And soon it will be time for the year-end India trip, the highlights of which, among other things, will be the annual writedowns of my Love life Ltd accounts. They happen as part of a very friendly, social setting called the wedding. Weddings of close female friends, who would have been my love interest at some point of my spectacular love life. Its really becoming a disturbing pattern of late.

There is absolutely nothing more disheartening for a nice guy than a unrequited love's wedding invitation. Why do they have to rub it in? It goes something like this:

Unrequited love: "Suuuummeeeeeeet!!!!! I'm so happy"

Sensible brain: "You sound like you are very much in love and are about to get married to that jerk who was worse than me in every sense. So you are off my development list. No more resources granted. I've gotta rush! Can I talk to you later?"

Nice-guy mouth: "Heyy!! tell me about it!"

Unrequited love: "Im getting married to Un-nice-guy!!!!! I'm so happy!!! I met his parents last week and it was all finalized!"

Sensible brain: "why not me?" "Why not me?"

Nice-guy mouth: "Awesome! I'm so happy for you! When is the D-day?!!?"

Boring monologue follows, and then she proudly proceeds to reveal the most disturbing statistic:

Unrequited love: "You know Sumit, you are the first friend to know!"

Nice-guy mouth: "I'm so honoured! Thanks!"

Sensible brain: "Boo hoo. %&#&*^. That's the most useless thing in the world. Its like telling a cancer patient that he's going to die, and then telling him "You are the first one to know!". No, babe. I'd rather not know. Ever heard of ignorance being bliss?"

Unrequited love: "I soooooo want you to be there! Please please don't ditch me! Listen, I'm not going to marry unless you are attending!"

Sensible brain: "I'd love to attend, darling, but only as the groom. Since you have already chosen someone for that position, I really dont see the point of wasting my time, money and emotional energy by attending your wedding. And seriously, you promise me you won't marry if I don't attend??? Sounds like a plan!"

Nice-guy mouth: "How can I not attend? Ill be there for sure, to witness you in your special moment!"

The phone line's long gone dead, but I'm still absent-mindedly holding the receiver, as if it were transmitting my thoughts back to school when the heart was more hopeful but the record equally abysmal. The annual losses then were revealed mid-year, at another festive occasion called Raksha Bandhan. I hated it every bit- as if the remembrance of having real sisters wasn't painful enough, the fashion among girls of making "muh-bole" brothers made it even more depressing. For some reason I was prime muh-bole material- every girl I liked would reveal her feelings to me in the form of a dirty string to be worn around my wrist, and parried around for the day for everyone to mock me! My mental angst soon had a physical form- I strangely started falling ill every Raksha Bandhan day. Doctors could never find the problem, but I had found the ultimate solution!

So its UL-wedding day. And as I stand there in the wedding hall, devouring yet another generous helping of the mutter paneer (food does work as a good anti-depressant), another machiavellian pattern presents itself to me. Every girl that I pine for, have a crush on, or am romantically involved with, somehow ends up getting married within a year. Of course to someone else. It was most disturbingly proved last year- she wasn't even thinking of marriage when I first met her. "Oh no, I'm really not looking to settle down soon.", I swear she told me. And 12 months later she had married someone she had known for 6 months!

So I'm really thinking of starting a matrimonial witch-craft agency, targetted at desperate parents of nubile women. Your daughter doesn't want to marry? Commitment phobia? Too career-oriented? Cant find the right man? Arrange a meeting with the renowned marriage sorcerer, Sumit Mehta aka Nice Guy! Aka the "hopeless" romantic :)

Test (on) Tube, baby...

Right, so I decided to venture my blog into the maze of cryptic crosswords. Ill confess, I've been a fan of this geeky business since I was a kid. All courtesy my Dad, who spent his mornings multi-tasking between ignoring my mother's fervent pleas to start exercising his body and joyously exercising his mind. Sometimes, the crosswords were beyond his reach, so he started employing my help in finding words or just in finishing off the left-overs. Google hadn't woken up, so we used big fat Oxford dictionaries. It ashames me to admit that I've spent hours combing through them, looking up all words that were 5 letters long, with the 2nd and 4th letters being R and Y! (One such word is CRAZY)

So it wasn't long before I had caught the craze, and soon me and my Dad were fighting over first right to solve the crossword. That gave my mother some more headache: soon she was multi-tasking too, between yelling at my Dad to exercise, and exhorting me to go out and play. Every extra moment of sleep was critical: if you weren't awake to jump on the scared paperboy when he came into deliver the paper, you had lost the match there itself- 50% of the crossword would be solved by the time you could put a hand to it. Soon it became very competitive, and after a few cases of domestic violence over the newspaper, it was amicably agreed to buy 2 newspapers. The scared, bewildered paperboy just couldn't fathom what was the matter with this nutty news-hungry family who loved the paper so much that they weren't satisfied with one- he soon changed his delivery area, citing personal problems.

So, back to this one. I've tried to make this one fairly easy, so as to not scare away people who havent got much practice in cryptics. Cryptics are very enjoyable because on first look, they look so tough and yet when one finds the answer, it always seems that it was right there staring at you. Solving these requires a fair bit of lateral thinking: you have to force your mind to abandon its usual flow of logic, nay, interrupt it at certain points and then reconstruct it all together at the end. That's what makes them so much fun. I don't understand what all the fuss about Sudoku is- working numbers into a grid is just so boring! Cryptic crosswords combine language skills with logic and lateral thinking all into one neat little 15X15 grid that can massage your brain better than anything else.

And if you are one of those who want to get started on cryptics, but dont know what to google, there's something for you too! I like some webpages that give a fairly easygoing and comprehensive introduction: try this and that. You might want to read these before you try the one above.

Finally, some notes before you start solving: This is a themed cryptic, and the theme is London Underground (mostly zone 1) stations. Which explains the total lack of symmetry- I've not added any words outside the theme to make it look better. If you are not acquainted with London, heres your cheat sheet. Clues are a mix of cryptic and simple ones, mostly the former. In some cases where the words are multiple (like Willesden Green), clues may refer to the entire word formation (e.g Will+esd+eng+re+en). Some clues refer to the theme, or hint towards it (e.g "area in london...", "london's financial center...") whereas some don't.

So get cracking! I already subjected my manager to the ordeal yesterday, he being the perennial test market for all my eccentric ideas and thoughts. The trouble one has to take for one's mentee :)

Into the public eye

When an injury to Wayne Rooney’s metatarsal before the World Cup crushed the nation's hopes of winning the ultimate prize in soccer, one commentator aptly described it as “the most talked-about metatarsal in the world”. Which makes me think about how different body parts have been catapulted into the public glare by famous influential people. And that it would be a good waste of time, space and effort to list down the prominent ones. So here goes. As expected, sportspersons dominate the list, but the interesting ones are really the rest. Interestingly, most of them have been famous not for their functionality, but for their absence! For the sake of my orthodox audience, with some notable exceptions, I wont touch upon (uh huh) the controversial parts.

I'm all ears!: Has to be Mike Tyson, and his appetite for Evander Holyfield’s auditory organs, which he politely indicated on the 28th of June, 1997 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Tyson for a narrative). And, ooh, how can we forget the greatest William Shakespeare and his immortalization of the ear in Julius Caeser’s most famous quote: “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears”

Headstrong: Indian mythology digs me out of a helpless situation in this case- surely has to be Ravana with his ten heads! The mention of the villainous name takes us back to those wonderful days when we were made to believe that Sundays were holidays because Ramayan was aired on TV- aah, those super cool arrow-fights in space…(And credit also to the amazingly imaginative Douglas Adams for his multi-headed character Zaphod Beeblebrox, the President of the Universe…)

Letting your hair down: The late Persis Khambatta, arguably India’s most international actress created quite a buzz when she decided to shave her head for the role that she would always be remembered for- Ilia in Star Trek: The Motion Picture. And on the other side of the coin, David Beckham taught us how to make a fashion statement out of a coiffeur- his most famous being the Mohawk one (want one yourself? http://www.thehairstyler.com/celebrity_hairstyle.asp?name=David+Beckham). Not a surprise, actually, because it runs in his family- his mom is a hairdresser.

Looking down our noses: A pity I can’t include animals, because who can forget our favourite reindeer Rudolph (not that we know many…). And Kate Moss’s nose couldn’t escape the eyes of nosey Brit papparazzi as it was splashed all over UK tabloids, full of cocaine.

The eye of the beholder: Considered by many as Aishwarya Rai's best asset, the eyes have been intricably linked to beauty through history. Be it Mona Lisa's eyes that could be interpreted to show a thousand different emotions, to that haunting green eyes of that Afghani girl on the National Geographic award-winning cover, they have always had us captivated.

A Shoulder to cry on (or, about): Undoubtedly Sachin Tendulkar's, in more ways than one. Earlier a silent hero for balancing a billion-odd people’s hopes for fifteen years, it has recently gained considerable notoriety for not performing at its best (What else do you expect!). Well hes back- Sachin, make us proud all over again!

The hand that rocks the cradle: The "hand of God"- Diego Maradona's term for his daring sleight of hand in that quarter final of the '86 WC. Five minutes later he scored the goal which was to be voted as the best ever WC goal, wiggling through 5 English defenders to score with a stylish finish. Two contrasting sides of the same legend.

A finger on the pulse of the nation: In the finance world, has to be the fat finger syndrome and its latest victim- an unnamed trader at Mizuho who sold 600,000 shares of a firm for 1 yen when he actually wanted to sell 1 share for 600,000!! Cricket had its own share too- that umpire (cant recollect who) who raised it involuntarily in response to an appeal and then hoped it would vanish somewhere- ultimately deciding to call the batsman back.

Chest (male): A few examples in tennis come to my mind here. Agassi's made quite a few headlines when he proudly displayed a shaved one in Wimbledon. And Leander Paes and Mahesh Bhupathi used theirs as a motivational tool by thumped against each others' after every point during their wonderful run at the top of doubles' tennis.

Can't stomach the fact: Probably the English cricket team, for a simultaneous strike by their stomachs before the Test series in India. But nothing compared to the commotion that Ronaldo's stomach caused when it had fits in that fateful WC final- the mystery still remains, though Ronaldo got ample opportunities to bury his ghosts.

Pelvis Risley: Madhuri Dixit’s the name, as far as India is concerned atleast! Each time the organ moved, thousands of hearts in India skipped a beat. Talk about magic.

Hip-hop: Shakira Shakira! they don’t lie, as she crooned in her latest oooh-so-sexy song.

Foot the bill: No one but George Bush. Time and afain he has able demonstrated how to put it into his mouth. Some skills there!

Watch your back(side): Ogled at since time immemorial, the derriere has been the object of man’s base-est instinct. But Jennifer Lopez (singer-cum-model-cum-actress-cum-dancer-cum-fashion designer, and consistently atrocious in everything she does), catapulted it into fame by putting her money where her backside is- she reportedly insured it for a billion dollars in 1999. Debate still exists over the issue- JLo herself refuses to shred some light (http://urbanlegends.about.com/cs/celebrities/a/jennifer_lopez.htm ). And if its true, I wonder who was the insurer- the deal could be quite significant for their bottom-line.

"I'm telling you, the guy is Rambo"*

Our first few weeks in IIMB represented the harvest season for the campus grapevine. As we unsuspecting lads groped around the vast campus finding our footing, know-it-all seniors passed down all the legendary stories that had been passed down the years. Facchas sat awe-struck in the L-square, hearing tales of exemplary students and terrifying staff members who had left their mark on the institute’s history. But no one was as discussed as one particular professor- little did we know he was soon going to ensure that a third of the batch would discuss him even more fervently, day and night, over the next three months. “Rambo” was the name we heard from every senior’s mouth in hushed tones. Real name S. Ramesh Kumar, professor in marketing.

Seniors spoke about his strictness and how he insulted, nay ripped apart students in his class. His chief weapon was the term project which he called the Apex (short for Application Exercise), a component that actually accounted for 30% to the course score, and yet required 40% of the total effort for all courses put together. We heard with amazement that his current behaviour was a lenient version of his earlier self. The hype Rambo had created about himsef was a classic case study in branding- a professor applying the concepts that he taught, to his own world.

For us Section A students, the enigma and curiosity was uncontrollable, because we never saw him around. Rambo seemed like the loch-ness monster- everyone talked about him but no one in our section had seen him. And having a bumbling story teller as our marketing professor only made us more interested in Rambo. Rambo’s class tests results were more eagerly awaited than ours- I waited with bated breath every week hoping my Section C friends would get off the mark. For his part, Rambo left no stone unturned in keeping up the hype. Having had to call off a class 15 min earlier than normal because of urgent work, he held a 15-min lecture that afternoon, attended by 100% of the class. (our prof’s lectures were also 15 minutes long, as far as content was concerned) But nothing was more initriguing than the sight of a group preparing for their Apex- they stayed days and night in the Computer Center, working frantically on it,skipping lunch and dinner and every social activity that transpired in the last week before their Apex. Tempers ran extremely high- heated discussions abounded in the group and friendships were broken over it. It was an intellectual reality show. The name was apt- it was the ultimate Apex of one’s survival in IIMB.

My blind curiosity ensured I wasnt going to lose another chance to meet the man- I took his elective Consumer Behavior (ConB) in the 2nd year. For a man with such personal influence, Rambo was a stocky man, and walked with a bent shoulder and a slow pair of legs. Rambo?!, I wondered. He spoke softly too, and resembled more a scientist past his prime. But it was not long before he lived up to his name- in the 1st class he mercilessly flayed an over-enthusiastic CP’er (class participation) for dubious content. This was going to be fun.

Rambo’s lectures were highly theory-oriented- and it was in the form of frameworks. He explained them using antique projector slides and a weird formation of his hands- both hands horizontal and at right angles to their normal state, pointing towards each other- that became the famous mimicry act on campus. Experts soon came to the conclusion that the distance between the two hands increased with the complexity of the funda he explained, a theory that could not be verified (Rambo could not be approached for comment). But his major power came from his words- they pierced through the ego of the hapless victim and proceeded to puncture the temporary sense of security that onlookers somehow mustered. In the 1st year’s last Apex, Ali's desperate answer was complimented by “You should have better concepts at this stage of the course.” In ConB, he once showed an advert to illustrate a concept. The moment he put it up on the projector, our man Dushyanth Jayanty immediately recognized the model as Deepti Naval and even blurted it out in a surge of excitement. As Rambo stood smiling at him with that look of amazement on his face, the silence turned to muffled peals of laughters. Then he said, with his hands in position, “I would really appreciate if you would rather concentrate on the concept that Im trying to explain.” Deepti Naval would have wished she wasn’t there.

Our Apex days are still vivid in my mind. We had one less member than the others and ours was the first one- so there were no mistakes to repeat. Seven days of sleepless nights and yet on the day of the Apex it was still a sinking feeling. Wierdly, the last hour before the Apex is when when we were most relaxed, because by then we had left it to Fate. I still remember the rare moment of glory as Rambo smiled. Our joy knew no bounds. His words of praise still linger as fond memories.

Clueless about the future and content to stagnate, Id settled into a vegetative existence in IIMB. The Apex revived me into action, and revive it did. Seven non-stop days of slogging away and surviving on countless coffees somehow proved to myself that I still had that dedication and commitment that I once prided myself on. For me, the Apex was the base of the mountain I was to climb.

Rambo was overacademic and his course lacked application, say some. But, isn’t that the role of academics? History has long rewarded those who created a science out of an art, and those who created an art out of a science. With his obsession with linkages, Rambo deserves his little bit of credit for providing us with a scientific perspective to the field of marketing- long considered an art. Thank you, Professor.

*The title of the blog is taken from the film Wall Street, in which two men in a bar when speaking about a 26-yr old executive who has made $650,000, refer to him in those words.

Washing dirty linen in public....

When the Indian Institute of Management in Bangalore (IIMB) advertises itself as the place to be, the city of Bangalore is the Ace card up its sleeve. Compared to Ahmedabad and Calcutta, the other two top-IIM cities, Bangalore is a well-developed city with a nice young crowd and happening hang-out places. Foremost among its qualities is however is its amazing weather, Mediterranean-like the year round. In a way it typifies the Kannadigas: amiable and reliable.

For the sizeable population of IIMB that hailed from hot places like Bombay and Delhi, the weather was pure bliss. For a few slothful male students, the author being very much one of them, the absence of sweat presented 2 years of escape from the most arduous task that man has ever conceived- the daily bath.

Frankly, I had never really enjoyed bathing. Having being born with elaborate planning skills, I almost always stared down the clock showing 15 minutes for school to start, with me yet to get dressed. With my schedule heavily packed in every other way, I strived to fit my bathing somewhere in between. In the process, I created and subsequently bettered several world records for the fastest legitimate bath (Legitimate implying the involvement of some quantity of water, and not necessarily of any kind of soap). I did make an effort to start liking bathroom singing, but at that speed, rapping was the only genre I managed to master.

What perhaps annoyed me most about a bath was its purpose, especially on holidays. (The argument just grew stronger after I discovered the existence of deodorants.) Some wise friend then drew my attention to a recent research by some MIT PhDs: women seemed to be attracted very strongly towards male body odour! It was a breakthrough study, its significance heightened considering their last major finding was that male rats blinked 320 times between the times of 12 am to 2 am. I immediately applied the concept to my dealings with the opposite sex. The results were as lacklustre as before, but my belief in the strategy remained intact- my casanova looks had probably never allowed it to be put to use.

Which gives you an indication of the elation that I experienced on reaching Bangalore. And I was, by no means, alone. It was especially a pretty sight during tests, dishevelled students turning up in dirty clothes and scratchy hair. The guys' hostel had an official capacity of 300 but in reality was populated with millions- ants, bacteria, rats and even fungi lived together in peaceful symbiotic harmony. Some like my dear friend Aman took it upon themselves to create mini-worlds of their own- the moss discovered in his room in the 1st year fetched more press coverage than the seniors' final placements. Changing rooms after the 1st year was an emotional process, not for the students but for the cleaners.

Understandably I revelled in the atmosphere. Days, weeks and months passed by with the soapcase lying ceremoniously on my window sill. The only parameter used to decide whether to take a bath or not was the ability to stand one's own stench. However, just like a criminal hardens enough to beat the lie-detector, Aman had gone beyond that too. But somehow the experience taught me how to respect the bath. It DID feel nice after having one.

Human behavior has an amazing ability to adapt itself to the changing environment. Flustered with the deplorable levels of hygiene on campus, the clean guys came up with the solution: they decided to beat us at our game, to subject us to such a level of dirtiness that we would throw in the towel, literally. And thus was born the Birthday Hoosh.

Traditionally limited to a spanking of one's posterior, the Birthday Hoosh was ingeniously adapted to include a variety of food items being imparted to every part of the victim's body except his mouth. Despite the fact that the offerings were washed down with an ample quantity of water (which, by the way, constitutes a legitimate bath), the presence of egg and cream left the victim high and dry, and having to take a bath. The move worked, and IIMB soon started witnessing an increased usage of toilet soap.

However, soon, weak people like me found themselves being the wrong end of every complimentary hoosh, and the unkempt rebel within me was fast finding his voice. The proverbial last straw came in December 2004 when two of the women I was linked to celebrated their birthdays one after the other. If having a bath the first night seemed cruel, the thought of having another in the space of 24 hours pervaded me with an utter sense of guilt. Was I going to let all those months of hardwork go down the bathroom drain? No way. It was a determined me as I hurriedly washed the creamy cake off my face and took my books for the 1 am consulting prep meeting with Sudha.

Mention must be awarded here to Sudha, who despite herself looking straight out of the pages of Dracula, was a stickler for cleanliness. I had a near-brush with her fury when she first unilaterally decided to, and later refused because I hadnt taken a bath, to tie me a rakhi. (Looking back, that was a nice escape.) Sudha had drawn a laxman-rekha just inside the door, beyond which no shoes or dirty feet (except her own) could transgress. If you dared to break that rule, an irritating alarm was ready to go off- usually Sudha herself did the honours. It was in such trying circumstances that I arrived at her door that fateful December night.

My initial skeptism about my unbathed state slowly gave way to confidence- the washed face and the deodorant were doing the trick. Soon we were in the midst of a heavy discussion, and as was our wont, it turned into a heavily-debated one. Not ready to cave in, I defended my idea vociferously in my usual hands-all-over-the-place style. And then it happened. As I agitatedly lunged forward to protest against Sudha's comment, a thick blob of cake disloged itself from the recesses of my ear, wobbling in its trajectory as it landed straight into Sudha's lap.

There was a momentary silence as I made an emergency prayer to God to somehow ensure she wouldnt notice it. God refused to help, probably he himself was pretty disgusted with the sight. And then Sudha erupted, her scream carrying the mixed emotions of recognizition, disgust and utter hatred. Terrified, I ran back to my room to sleep behind bolted doors. We never had a case meeting again.