Every culture, every society has over time come to see certain rituals as rites of passage. Call it a baptism, a bar-mitzwah or an Upanayanam (I am a Tam-Brahm after all! :P), these are the true signaling devices that we have devised to announce our arrival. Reliable sources tell me that in some cultures even castration is considered a rite of passage (Ouch! Maybe the final pack . . . er passage :P)
But I digress. The reliable source mentioned above a.k.a. Wikipedia, has, I see, left out one very very important rite of passage. Granted, it does not have history and tradition on its side. It is less than 100 years old. But what it lacks in historical depth, it more than makes up for in its geographical spread. No matter what your sex, caste, creed, race or nationality, you have to undergo this ritual if you want to drive.
And like all rites of passage, this one has a perfect time. Your 18th birthday. If you are an ideal person, this is what you would have done: drunk yourself silly on the last night / first day of your 17th / 18th year and shown up hungover for the driving license test. It shows. Just look at your license photo!:P
Anything less than ideal, you would have given a few days gap between the 18th birthday celebrations and your driving license test. I fall in this category. You see, I gave my driving license test for a motorbike 11 years after my 18th birthday.
Why, you ask? Why now? Because it is only now that the ‘macho’ness of the idea of a sole biker riding his bike across a mountainous terrain overcame my innate and abundant inertia. And so I stood in a line filled with babies. From the next decade. The test itself was fairly simple. Drive a Kinetic Honda for 5 metres and turn back. No sweat there.
At least that is what it was to me. But then I realized that I was thinking from a vantage point of somebody who was 10 years older. For a boy / man or a girl / woman at the cusp of adulthood, this was a fricking big deal.
And so I watched them delicately nurse the Kinetic across the ten metre course. Some were tense, others nonchalant. However, in the end, we had all made it. Or so I thought.
The advantage of maturity is invisible. There is no halo that shines behind your head indicating your ability to navigate the roads of Mumbai. There is no indication that your heart beats normally when the babies’ hearts beat a little faster. In the end, the result is the same. The Kinetic is back safely at the starting point.
The disadvantages of maturity are however easily visible. The glasses. My glasses. My soda-bottle glasses. So when the inspector glanced up from my application form, I believe that he focused not on making eye contact or in confirming my identity, but instead on the oh-so-prominent symbol of maturity that I wore. In his version of Serengeti I was the limping gazelle, masquerading as the preying lion.
It was here that my heart filled with dread. I was going to get rejected on grounds of poor eyesight. At least made to jump through some extra hoops. The inspector could insist on a vision certificate. From a government hospital. From experience, I know that I will never get a clean certificate. My dream of riding a bike to Laddakh was over. Finito. Time to wake up and smell the coffee.
But all was not lost. While maturity has given me the prominent addition to my face, it has also given me the ability to cope with the situation. Long lines in various government offices in multiple countries had given me the ability to instantly put on my appeal-to-your-nobler-side face. An impossible combination of a soulful look with down-cast eyes, it worked very well in immigration lines, ration card lines, passport offices and on one memorable occasion with a cop who had almost written me a ticket for going 20 miles over the speed limit. It was this weapon of last resort that I deployed. . . and . . . incredulity slowly gave way to comprehension and then assent.
He smiled, shook his head and advised me to drive carefully. I nodded and walked out the room. 25 years after I fell in love with motorbikes, 22 years after I learnt to ride a normal bike, 11 years after I should have gotten my license, I've actually gotten my driving license.
The rites of passage are complete. I am a biker now. And I love it.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
On fitness and unknown women - a study
Thank you! Yes you! I know I've never met you. We've seen each other though (I hope). Oh,alright! I've seen you before. And through this post I want you to know that you profoundly affect my life every day.
You see m'dear, the effect you have on me is transformational! All I have to do is look at you. Yes. Really. One look at you, whether it is in the elevator, or at the movie theatre / mall, is enough for change. Yes I Can! In goes my belly and out comes my chest. My back is straighter and my stoop is now a swagger. And while it may look like I'm holding my breath, what I am really doing is assuming that new yoga posture that will become tomorrow's craze. Really I swear.
Or let's talk about the gym. Yes folks, it's true. I do go to the gym. Yours truly succumbed to the deadly forces of obscure medical jargon (what in the world does 'high levels of Low Density Lipoprotein' mean?) and blatant threats ('either you reduce that tummy or no more cheese dosas for you, young man!') unleashed by my mother. But I digress.
So I landed at the gym 2 months ago. Lost amidst the weapons of mass er.. fat destruction, I quickly spotted my life saver: the treadmill. Here was a machine built just for people like me. It could operate at low speeds and has a 'Stop' button placed prominently on the panel. I felt happy. A serene walk for fifteen minutes at 4 km / hour couldn't be so bad now, could it?
It worked like a charm. At first. I kept going to the gym and gave Mom no opportunity to action her threat. If there were any doubts about the effectiveness of my routine, they were certainly never expressed to me.
And then you came along. To the adjacent treadmill. Why, oh why couldn't you have come in just ten minutes later? I would have been long gone. Life as I knew it would have gone on beautifully. But no. You fiddled with controls of the treadmill next to mine. And then I looked at you. Out came the swagger, in went my belly. All this while the treadmill threatens to throw me off.
It was then I committed my gravest sin yet. I took a quick peek. No, I didn't look there! I looked at your treadmill speed. you were STARTING at 6.5 kmph. You cruel cruel thing!
So of course, I nudge my speed up to 7.5. And begin to pray. Dear God, let this be over fast. She's such a petite girl. Surely she must have burned off yesterday's dinner by now. And even day before's. Aaha. Her hand moves to the speed controls. Thank you God! Surely she will get off now. I'm saved! My legs can rejoice now. Wait. What's that beep? And why is she running? 9 KMPH!!!
AARGH. I contemplate throwing in my towel right then. But I couldn't. Why you ask? Blame it on evolution. Sure enough, my hand found its way to the speed button and nudged it to 9.5 kmph.
My legs made all sorts of threats. My head made all sorts of promises. Compromise and cooperation were achieved.
After an eternity, you slowed down. First. Ha! I waited a respectable 15 seconds before following suit. My legs were safe after all.
As I slowly transform back from a pair of revolving legs into a evolved human being, I become aware of sights and sounds that I had never paid attention to before. The calorimeter, I realized actually has three digits, not two. And that 'thud thud' comes straight from my heart pumping away in all its glory.
This dear folks, happened two months ago. For the first time. Thanks to the coincidence of matching schedules, I've become rather used to the daily assault on my body. In fact I look forward to it.
But believe me, I am so glad she caught me at the treadmill. I shudder to think what would have happened if she had caught me lifting weights.
Till next time.
You see m'dear, the effect you have on me is transformational! All I have to do is look at you. Yes. Really. One look at you, whether it is in the elevator, or at the movie theatre / mall, is enough for change. Yes I Can! In goes my belly and out comes my chest. My back is straighter and my stoop is now a swagger. And while it may look like I'm holding my breath, what I am really doing is assuming that new yoga posture that will become tomorrow's craze. Really I swear.
Or let's talk about the gym. Yes folks, it's true. I do go to the gym. Yours truly succumbed to the deadly forces of obscure medical jargon (what in the world does 'high levels of Low Density Lipoprotein' mean?) and blatant threats ('either you reduce that tummy or no more cheese dosas for you, young man!') unleashed by my mother. But I digress.
So I landed at the gym 2 months ago. Lost amidst the weapons of mass er.. fat destruction, I quickly spotted my life saver: the treadmill. Here was a machine built just for people like me. It could operate at low speeds and has a 'Stop' button placed prominently on the panel. I felt happy. A serene walk for fifteen minutes at 4 km / hour couldn't be so bad now, could it?
It worked like a charm. At first. I kept going to the gym and gave Mom no opportunity to action her threat. If there were any doubts about the effectiveness of my routine, they were certainly never expressed to me.
And then you came along. To the adjacent treadmill. Why, oh why couldn't you have come in just ten minutes later? I would have been long gone. Life as I knew it would have gone on beautifully. But no. You fiddled with controls of the treadmill next to mine. And then I looked at you. Out came the swagger, in went my belly. All this while the treadmill threatens to throw me off.
It was then I committed my gravest sin yet. I took a quick peek. No, I didn't look there! I looked at your treadmill speed. you were STARTING at 6.5 kmph. You cruel cruel thing!
So of course, I nudge my speed up to 7.5. And begin to pray. Dear God, let this be over fast. She's such a petite girl. Surely she must have burned off yesterday's dinner by now. And even day before's. Aaha. Her hand moves to the speed controls. Thank you God! Surely she will get off now. I'm saved! My legs can rejoice now. Wait. What's that beep? And why is she running? 9 KMPH!!!
AARGH. I contemplate throwing in my towel right then. But I couldn't. Why you ask? Blame it on evolution. Sure enough, my hand found its way to the speed button and nudged it to 9.5 kmph.
My legs made all sorts of threats. My head made all sorts of promises. Compromise and cooperation were achieved.
After an eternity, you slowed down. First. Ha! I waited a respectable 15 seconds before following suit. My legs were safe after all.
As I slowly transform back from a pair of revolving legs into a evolved human being, I become aware of sights and sounds that I had never paid attention to before. The calorimeter, I realized actually has three digits, not two. And that 'thud thud' comes straight from my heart pumping away in all its glory.
This dear folks, happened two months ago. For the first time. Thanks to the coincidence of matching schedules, I've become rather used to the daily assault on my body. In fact I look forward to it.
But believe me, I am so glad she caught me at the treadmill. I shudder to think what would have happened if she had caught me lifting weights.
Till next time.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Flight of Hope
Hope hovers, unsure if she is welcome,
I hold her at once close and yet far,
Stay! I tell her, don't go!
But let no dreams turn false today,
In fact, I tell her,
Better it is that I don't dream at all.
But dreams do come, wishes and desires multiply,
And I dream of soaring in the sky,
But then the demons of fear dance and shout,
They yell, "Ha! Ha! Ha! You'll fall to the ground!"
And then I look at Hope,
With pleading, beseeching eyes
Begging her, "Tell me, I won't!"
But she won't.
All she offers is an embrace,
An empty one I feel, with no assurances,
And therefore I reject.
But when she turns to leave,
I ask her to stay.
And she stays, at once near and at once far,
Her arms still open and empty,
Waiting for me should I ask for help.
And at the time of reckoning,
When the demons shout louder, willing me to fall,
Hope embraces me,
And in that instant, I am Hope, and Hope is me,
The demonic voices grow smaller and the dancing stops,
I take wings and soar freely in clear skies.
I hold her at once close and yet far,
Stay! I tell her, don't go!
But let no dreams turn false today,
In fact, I tell her,
Better it is that I don't dream at all.
But dreams do come, wishes and desires multiply,
And I dream of soaring in the sky,
But then the demons of fear dance and shout,
They yell, "Ha! Ha! Ha! You'll fall to the ground!"
And then I look at Hope,
With pleading, beseeching eyes
Begging her, "Tell me, I won't!"
But she won't.
All she offers is an embrace,
An empty one I feel, with no assurances,
And therefore I reject.
But when she turns to leave,
I ask her to stay.
And she stays, at once near and at once far,
Her arms still open and empty,
Waiting for me should I ask for help.
And at the time of reckoning,
When the demons shout louder, willing me to fall,
Hope embraces me,
And in that instant, I am Hope, and Hope is me,
The demonic voices grow smaller and the dancing stops,
I take wings and soar freely in clear skies.
Faded Beauty, Wider Smiles
Her beauty faded away,
Is compensated with wider smiles,
Smiles that do not reach the eyes,
Smiles that only accentuate,
The harsh reality of absent beauty.
Hands held on the hips,
Her walk is jauntier
Than the younger ones,
Hoping to attract somebody.
They come and they see,
The walk they admire, the hips too,
Then they see the face
And turn away with disgust.
The smile becomes smaller and vanishes,
Lips tremble and the tears come,
They glimmer before being hurriedly wiped away.
She knows that lack of beauty would repel many,
Tears would repel all.
But the eyes, those damn eyes,
They show her desperation
And as she turns them skyward,
Her lips whisper a silent prayer,
'Dear God, I do not want to be hungry tonight,
Lust, I can handle, poverty I can,
The jeers of all the world is manageable,
But... hunger isn't'
She waits for a sign,
A sign of being heard,
A sign that all will be well,
But the clouded sky gives nothing away.
Down the street,
She hears drunken laughter,
And she sees the unsteady walk,
She senses wandering eyes that ask,
"Is pleasure on sale tonight?"
Her beauty faded away
Is compensated by wider smiles,
Smiles that do not reach the eyes,
Smiles that only accentuate,
The harsh reality of absent beauty…
Is compensated with wider smiles,
Smiles that do not reach the eyes,
Smiles that only accentuate,
The harsh reality of absent beauty.
Hands held on the hips,
Her walk is jauntier
Than the younger ones,
Hoping to attract somebody.
They come and they see,
The walk they admire, the hips too,
Then they see the face
And turn away with disgust.
The smile becomes smaller and vanishes,
Lips tremble and the tears come,
They glimmer before being hurriedly wiped away.
She knows that lack of beauty would repel many,
Tears would repel all.
But the eyes, those damn eyes,
They show her desperation
And as she turns them skyward,
Her lips whisper a silent prayer,
'Dear God, I do not want to be hungry tonight,
Lust, I can handle, poverty I can,
The jeers of all the world is manageable,
But... hunger isn't'
She waits for a sign,
A sign of being heard,
A sign that all will be well,
But the clouded sky gives nothing away.
Down the street,
She hears drunken laughter,
And she sees the unsteady walk,
She senses wandering eyes that ask,
"Is pleasure on sale tonight?"
Her beauty faded away
Is compensated by wider smiles,
Smiles that do not reach the eyes,
Smiles that only accentuate,
The harsh reality of absent beauty…
Thursday, January 14, 2010
A requiem for What Matters Most Part 1
Some time back, I had posted an entry on what matters most.
It seems that my thought processes are not unique. Most Indians think like me.
Attached is the proof:
1) google.co.in screenshots for most popular searches with the term 'removing'
2) what does the world think? well lets try the same search on google.com
Need I say more?
It seems that my thought processes are not unique. Most Indians think like me.
Attached is the proof:
1) google.co.in screenshots for most popular searches with the term 'removing'
2) what does the world think? well lets try the same search on google.com
Need I say more?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Great Indian War
India is at war. And you wouldn't know it even if you see it.
You see, it is a war of attitudes. Indian vs the rest of the developed world. Or so I think.
Every night, Airplanes from all major airports in Europe sneak into Indian cities. A couple of days back, I was on one of them. As always, the plane gracefully swayed and sashayed into Mumbai, giving me one of the best views of Marine drive, even though I was not sitting at the window seat this time.
The landing was bumpy and the taxiing was brief. We had stopped. And then began the great Indian thrust - to be the first to disembark. A huge force propelled us to rise as one and open the overhead babbage bins and we began pulling out our stuff. Um.
The parry: 'All passengers are please requested to be seated TILL WE ARRIVE AT THE GATE. WE HAVE NOT REACHED OUR GATE YET. SIR. SIR, PLEASE PUT THAT BACK . . .'
The air hostess was at her wits end as to how to handle it. In Europe, we were all such well behaved gents and ladies. We waited our turn, were polite even as we were asked who had packed our stuff. Yes, Ma'am. I packed my own bags. No. No one gave me anything. Yes, we had battery operated devices. Cell phones, cameras and laptops. Yes Ma'am. Thank you Ma'am. And we flashed our Colgate smiles with our twinkling teeth.
And the moment we landed in India, the desi air seeped through the pressurized cabin and we geared up for what worked in India. To compete in India, to be the best, we needed to take advantage of every opportunity. Even the opportunity to get off the plane first.
I guess, it shows in the way we talk, the way we act and the way we drive. If there is an opportunity to get an advantage by jumping a queue, I will take it please. Yes, I am Indian. A proud one at that.
Yes, in your world, I will politely wait my turn to be serviced, and wear that smile on my face. But that is not who I am. Very briefly does the mask slip in your world. But the landing terminal is one such place.
I make no judgements, just tell it like it is. You may think I am rude. I am not. I am just the water. I take the shape of the bowl I am placed in. And that is adaptability.
The signal is about to turn green. There are still ten seconds left. I switch on my engine. and I creep forward. . . when I am half way down the crossing, it does turn green. and . . .Yes! I have crossed first.
PS: Re, the thrust and parry, there is a saying that goes thus: He who deplanes first, waits longest for his baggage to arrive. Touché?
PPS: Oh Alright! I made it up.
Till next time
You see, it is a war of attitudes. Indian vs the rest of the developed world. Or so I think.
Every night, Airplanes from all major airports in Europe sneak into Indian cities. A couple of days back, I was on one of them. As always, the plane gracefully swayed and sashayed into Mumbai, giving me one of the best views of Marine drive, even though I was not sitting at the window seat this time.
The landing was bumpy and the taxiing was brief. We had stopped. And then began the great Indian thrust - to be the first to disembark. A huge force propelled us to rise as one and open the overhead babbage bins and we began pulling out our stuff. Um.
The parry: 'All passengers are please requested to be seated TILL WE ARRIVE AT THE GATE. WE HAVE NOT REACHED OUR GATE YET. SIR. SIR, PLEASE PUT THAT BACK . . .'
The air hostess was at her wits end as to how to handle it. In Europe, we were all such well behaved gents and ladies. We waited our turn, were polite even as we were asked who had packed our stuff. Yes, Ma'am. I packed my own bags. No. No one gave me anything. Yes, we had battery operated devices. Cell phones, cameras and laptops. Yes Ma'am. Thank you Ma'am. And we flashed our Colgate smiles with our twinkling teeth.
And the moment we landed in India, the desi air seeped through the pressurized cabin and we geared up for what worked in India. To compete in India, to be the best, we needed to take advantage of every opportunity. Even the opportunity to get off the plane first.
I guess, it shows in the way we talk, the way we act and the way we drive. If there is an opportunity to get an advantage by jumping a queue, I will take it please. Yes, I am Indian. A proud one at that.
Yes, in your world, I will politely wait my turn to be serviced, and wear that smile on my face. But that is not who I am. Very briefly does the mask slip in your world. But the landing terminal is one such place.
I make no judgements, just tell it like it is. You may think I am rude. I am not. I am just the water. I take the shape of the bowl I am placed in. And that is adaptability.
The signal is about to turn green. There are still ten seconds left. I switch on my engine. and I creep forward. . . when I am half way down the crossing, it does turn green. and . . .Yes! I have crossed first.
PS: Re, the thrust and parry, there is a saying that goes thus: He who deplanes first, waits longest for his baggage to arrive. Touché?
PPS: Oh Alright! I made it up.
Till next time
Saturday, October 24, 2009
How does a building get a life
We moved into a new building in June. It was incomplete. Bamboo sticks had still not been removed, especially from the elaborate structure at the lobby.
The lifts were covered with wooden planks and the final coat of paint still needed to be given in the staircase area. It was not a home, just an unfinished building. And we were the only occupants.
Every day, as I returned from work, I noticed the lights on only in one flat - ours. The building had not yet come to life.
As time went by, I got used to the single light. Busy Workdays and exhausting all-nighters were beginning to take over my life. It was then that the miracle happened.
Just before Diwali, as I came in after yet another late night, I glanced out of the rickshaw that dropped me home. Our light was switched on as usual. BUT there were many more!!!
In the ensuing months, the bamboo sticks had been removed, the paint had come on, and people had moved in. Our building had a pulse.
By glorious coincidence, the late nighters reduced and I started coming home on time. I saw people coming in, chatted with them and even got an occasional ride from them. Come Diwali, the building, my building came alive to the sound and lights of fireworks.
I don't stay in a building anymore. I stay in a home now. And I love it.
The lifts were covered with wooden planks and the final coat of paint still needed to be given in the staircase area. It was not a home, just an unfinished building. And we were the only occupants.
Every day, as I returned from work, I noticed the lights on only in one flat - ours. The building had not yet come to life.
As time went by, I got used to the single light. Busy Workdays and exhausting all-nighters were beginning to take over my life. It was then that the miracle happened.
Just before Diwali, as I came in after yet another late night, I glanced out of the rickshaw that dropped me home. Our light was switched on as usual. BUT there were many more!!!
In the ensuing months, the bamboo sticks had been removed, the paint had come on, and people had moved in. Our building had a pulse.
By glorious coincidence, the late nighters reduced and I started coming home on time. I saw people coming in, chatted with them and even got an occasional ride from them. Come Diwali, the building, my building came alive to the sound and lights of fireworks.
I don't stay in a building anymore. I stay in a home now. And I love it.
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