Fried by a Haryanvi, Roasted by Two Gujaratis

Statutory warning: This post is not for the politically correct. It is a direct attack on all the Haryanvi policemen who are fascinated by “Media” (especially TV journalists, who can get anyone in a uniform on Television) and also on all the hard working Gujarati Businessmen who work their asses off and can still talk about their work (read money), work (read money) and a little more work (read more money).

So, please who feel for their cause, this is where it ends for them. For the rest of the clan who think that I am a readable writer, read on to change that thought.

Enough of rambling to make this post sound more interesting than it actually is...

Let’s start it now…

I was thanking my stars that the ticket taken at the last moment had managed to get a RAC status (oblivious of what awaited me)

After a few hiccups (courtesy another Gujarati businessman, not our hero(s) who just wouldn’t believe that a thing like RAC does exist in the Indian Railways), I finally got my ‘half - seat’.

Waiting for my fellow passenger, imagining what if the co – passenger was god’s only mistake (attack on the feminists of the world, also hadn’t met the second and the third till now) and wondering how good/bad it can be to share the bed, when I heard that voice...

‘Ikram, Ikram…!’ I was out of my reverie to the harsh reality called life. A man in grey shirt looked at me proving that dreams don’t often come true.

I didn’t know that warm smiles could be so lethal till I met this Jat. That’s how the conversation started, ‘Partner, tujhko to mujhse sare raste baat karni hogi…tu mera partner hai iss train mein’.

That’s how we met, soon a conversation rather an interview started, just that this time I had exchanged roles and was now the interviewee.

“Kya karta hai?”

“Kitna kamata hai?”

“Andar ke kamai bhi hoti hogi, kyon??!!”

Accha tu to Media se hai tab to tujhe sab pata hoga, yeh bata yahan road aisi kyon hai?

Is train mein kitne bogeys hain??? (Wouldn’t have been surprised, if he expected me to know about his sex life)

My only escape was my book, and soon I looked for Mr. Pamuk to help me out.

The moment I opened it, Mr. Haryanvi’s came close to me, and with a menacing smile said, “Isko to band karde Ikram, mere saath to yeh pad nahi paayega!”

I was speechless, never in my lifetime had anybody said something like this. Suddenly it seemed that this person had known me for ages and I was somebody he can just bully around.

Me being me, politely asked him to shut up, which obviously fell on deaf ears. Soon, there was a volley of questions and I had no option but surrender to the Mister’s demands.

The rest as they all say is some vague memory, dinner was served under his supervision. Soon, it was time to sleep (or I made it a point that I call it a day even if it was just eight in the evening), and for the first time I saw that face – not that wicked smile but creased and defeated, for once.

Time to introduce the other characters but before I do that let me take a break (to spit some more venom) and reaffirm the fact that the men in uniform especially from Haryana and in Delhi Police are an impossible breed. It seems that they don’t have an important organ called ‘Ears’, it’s absolutely missing or they just don’t realise/care what the other person is saying.

Back to the incident, there is a smile finally a sort of satisfaction on my face right now after my share of mudslinging. Polar bear was right, I guess I am a sadist.

Two Gujarati gentlemen (the third mistake) speaking Gujarati walked into our bogey, (Dunno if they walked, crawled, flew their way into the bogey…it’s just an assumption based on some very basic facts)

This species, I guess also has the same ‘Ears’ problem. Suddenly I woke up and thought that I had slept in an office board room meeting or probably the Stock Market in Bombay.

‘Behanchod, yahan log so rahein hai’, I muttered but apologised the moment I opened my eyes to see two young men who it seemed were responsible for half of the Dhokla and Khakra consumption in Gujarat.

They stared at me and I quickly turned my back to avoid an avoidable argument (for my own benefit).

My bad luck that they slept on the opposite berth and just wouldn’t talking (read shouting) about some random stock which had fallen like the British Empire or the profits and the nitty gritties of a good business like pickle and papad.

Dunno when sleep got to me, but early next morning felt something pulling my blanket from my face. A couple of times I tried to pull it back but then it seemed somebody was hell bent on pulling it down. Finally, I stuck my head out to find Mr.Jat/Haryanvi’s toothy smile, ‘Ikram uth ja….tera partner bore ho raha hai…uth ja ab bhaut so liya…yeh sahi nahi hai….’ he literally tried to pull me out….that’s when I shouted….and I did shout….as everyone just stood astonished at the rare flash of bravery.

He quietly went back to his corner, the Gujaratis, I guess realised that I was neither interested in buying papads nor pickles so stopped talking about it.

As for me, I finally had a say in the whole journey.

Finally!!

Carcass of a Soul

Battered, beaten and bruised.
Beneath a baggage of a thick skin,
under the closet of rotten flesh
lies the carcass of a lost soul in this lost city.

From the jostling crowd, trying to find a footing in the local train,
to the slippery floors of the busy corridors of the corporate park.
Seems like a race,
a race among the carcasses to reach the top.
A race to be lonely or a race which leaves you lonely.

The city never sleeps, neither does it let the carcasses sleep.
For, its hard to sleep with your eyes open
Hard to dream with unfulfilled dreams in your eyes.
The clock ticks, the time bomb about to explode.
The race still on,
The winner still a mystery.

Carcasses all around, not a soul.
All carcasses of a lost soul,
A thinking machine of flesh and bone,
Just like the ‘think - pad’ you see in the ads.

Lost and delirious I stand,
Just like the carcasses, I see - Without the soul.
On ‘them’, I comment
‘Them’, I criticise,
‘Them’, confuses me.
But sooner than later I realise,
I am also running the race,
with no purpose or aim.
for me also, its hard to sleep,
as the eyes just don’t close.
I am also one of them.

I am a carcass without a Soul.

Faisal Ahmed Ikram

Early days in The Melting Pot

This is what somebody told me is how Mumbai is referred to…its been only a couple of months that I have spent in the city but it is slowly seeping in, getting in the veins to a point where its hard to live without it.

It has a strange rush, everyone seems to be running but don’t know what they are running for (something which I feel). Every morning you wake up, with an ‘agenda’ you sleep wondering whether the ‘agenda’ was fulfilled or not.

I miss Delhi, having spent all my life there. It’s a strange feeling coming to a new city with new dynamics, new people, a new job, a new industry. The first few days were a cultural shock – the food, the roads, the atmosphere, the loneliness. I used to cry in my heart, reconsider my decision, but something held me.

Guess it was the spirit of Mumbai – the melting pot.

A strange city, you hate it, you abuse it, you crib, but you just can’t let it go. The city seems to be addictive, just like the smoke in my hand right now.

You just can’t let it go.

For a ‘Dilli ka Ladka’ it was hard to start your day with Vada Pao but then some do adjust to it (I wonder when that day will come in my life).

Mumbai/Bombay till now has treated me well (and Insha Allah it will continue to do) but there is just one thing it doesn’t give you, the time to be with yourself, the time to be you and sometimes to miss that ‘you’.

The Taste

I think it was 7th grade when I read that poem. I didn't understand it much, but had an instant liking for it. It's strange but then I guess sometimes you just tend to like some things without even realising/knowing, why/what do you like them for?

Now when I sit down to write about it, I am not able to recall the name. It was called (I think, trying to be as close to the name as possible) "Success is counted sweetest by those who haven't tasted it" or something like this.

I certainly haven’t tasted it for long.

Not sure about the ‘sweet’ taste, but I am more than certain than I am missing its taste. This word has a strange effect on the people around you, your environment. And it’s more noticeable than the effects of global warming on the very same environment.

Its strange (at least for me) meeting people concerned for you than you are for yourself. Even stranger for me was to meet people who suddenly seem to have forgotten that you exist. The best part is when they do realize my existence, suddenly ‘A beautiful life’ changes to ‘I am going through a lot’. It made me smile a couple of times, but then I am so used to it now that I have learnt to make an even more sullen face to go with ‘I understand’.

Speaking to a friend (So brother finally you have a mention on my blog) a few days back. I was told that you are as good as your last drawn salary. And soon you HAVE to buckle up. Or, you might not get to taste ‘success’.

The irony of the situation is that when you have the sweet taste you are surrounded like a hive, the same hive becomes a dry riverbed when the tide turns against you.

What goes up, has to come down and what goes down has to come up, Law of Nature - I am told.

But if success is more like an illusion, which sooner or later will change. Then why so much fanfare about it. Why these changing faces, why this hypocrisy?

More importantly the question or the reason for this post, ‘Do I still need to taste it?’

Better late than never

So, here I am after doing stories on how 'The Global Recession" has hit everyone from Lehmann Brothers to the neighbourhood Sabzi Wallah . It’s my turn now to have a first hand experience of it...

The dust has finally settled, the final paperwork (The last rites as I say) is complete. Life seems to have changed somewhat, I am not charging my phone twice in a day, I am smoking a lot lesser and ironically eating three times in a day.

Life indeed seems to have changed.

It’s a funny sight switching on the TV to find your friends doing the stuff you once used to do….funnier because being there u know what all goes in to ‘make’ it, you can actually what’s happening behind the camera. But it’s a tough job….tough not because it’s a lot of hard work (which it is)…but also because being a scavenger 24x7 can be torturing sometimes.

It’s time to move on now…

This recession has been lucky in its own ways to me …its been unlucky, in its own way. The few months have just whizzed past….recession, lay offs, new things in the horizon…finding some….not being so lucky sometimes…etc etc…it’s been a roller coaster ride….n m enjoying it like one enjoys a roller coaster ride (lets hope that I am enjoying even when I get down from it)…
Lately I have asked myself a question, ‘Why was I doing this job?’ I had no answer to this question, this question came to my mind several times, and each time I couldn’t find an answer. I asked the same thing to a lot of people but nobody had a definitive answer, why are they doing whatever they are doing professionally?

Maybe Money….

But is it all about the money…I again asked myself this question…