Football Shootball Hai Rabba

This was the earliest that I had reached home in quite a while. 5:15 PM to be exact. The Cauvery water tribunal's final order was far below Karnataka's expectation and there were rumors of build-up or possible violence. Most organizations of the old and new economies closed pretty early, so that employees could reach home before dark. With Rajakumar riots in the background nobody could afford risks. In the Sadashivnagar area, establishments become resourceful and tied huge fishing nets over the glass facade. At the frequency b'lore is getting volatile and profusion of glass in offices the fishing net manufactures could find a good market here. The case of a product finding a totally orthogonal market.

My best plan for the evening was to catch up on Gunter Grass, finish some pending work and end it with somarasam and a movie. As I turned into the apartment compound the usual pack of boys were on their way to a game of football. There is vast expanse of land, possibly owned by a land shark, right next to the gated community that the children have converted into a football ground. Lest you have any illusions, the goal posts are 2 stones kept a few feet away and an implicit horizontal bar in thin year air based on how much the goalkeeper can jump was the upper limit. But compared to the Deshabhimani road by lane where we kicked of our dream of being Pele and Paulo Rossi this ground was very generous. I used to see the crowd at the game on weekends, but could never join them since weekends are tightly packed. At home, changing into a shorts and T-shirt I was a little edgy as to how the kids would receive me. Would the Reebok football that I recently bid and won for Paru while traveling Air Deccan entice them. However the Reebok football had diminished into a half-moon and there was no way I could impress them with that.

I put on my sneakers and walked quickly to the field. Wearing the intense look of a talent scout on a mission to recruit for the national team I parked outside the field. Didn’t have to wait much long before a call came in to play. Before I could get a hold of my teammates the ball was passed to me. Shouted out and found Vivek who called me in and passed it to him. He passed it back to me in the midfield. Couple of dribbles later I was in the penalty area and kicked it to the young boy who was calling "Uncle Uncle" he was deft with the ball and just connected it. Goal... 30 seconds into the game I had proved. I put on the nonchalant demeanor and congratulated Adhil ( the young boy) and Vivek. That detachment to success and a failure is a relic from the hockey days with Shenoy Sir – our favorite coach. There was strict diktat against expressionism of any form after striking. After all we just doing our karma. Can’t remember a better practitioner of the Gita than him. We would have looked from another planet in these days of somersaults, knee skating, and practiced seagull runs. I had made a mark as a play-maker and the opposing team started to sneer as if Zidane himself had been come in. Score 1-1

Now it was time to know the team. There were no formal introductions. There was Perry the tall slip chap who would have done better in basketball court. Sanjana reminded me of Jess from Gurindher Chada's cult movie Bend It Like Beckham about a traditional Sikh girl in London aspiring to be a professional footballer. Sanjana's smart little sister whose name I forget would tow her sister whenever she went near the ball. Vivek and Adhil were the other two. I realized early on in the game that the way to the kids hearts were to pass the ball as soon as I get it. More so because they were shouting "uncle uncle" every time the ball landed on my foot. Should say it fitted well with my overall grounding in team sports, at times perilously collaborative.

Breezing across the ground we made some excellent moves and passes, which were lauded. Nevertheless couldn’t convert any. Even relinquished the ball once to an unsuspecting Adhil when it was an easy goal for me, just that I don't appear selfish and be on right side of my teammates. But the end was near. I was fizzling out. We were playing without positions unlike the hockey and football I was used to and everybody was running everywhere. Ten minutes into the game panting like a mad dog I moved into the sidelines. The kids with their agile metabolism could take it. But my hulk that hasn’t set foot on a playground since college except for random bouts in the apartment Gym had given up. Years of desk job had taken its toll. If not for the last bit of pride, I would have left the ground.

It was time to hibernate, which meant - waiting for the ball to come to me, passing it as soon as it comes if not to my team atleast to the opponent, cheering the gang with amplified “well played”s even when they struck bad or good etc. Just anything that would let me stand and play the game. Alas this is football and it doesn’t remain frozen like the computer. The opposition struck 5 times in succession. Should say they had an excellent striker in Srikanth who could make into a club team if he pursued Football. Score 6-1

Suffice to say the initial aura had vaporized. They could see through me. Statements about being out of touch to anybody who would listen went unregistered. It came to point when my teammates were ready to trade me for Kaushik - the cool dude who landed up in bike near the playground. Me who captained the school hockey team, me who missed the Calicut university hockey team because my college never had a history of participating in the inter-university matches, me who with Mathai ruled the Deshabhimani bylane football for as long as it has been there. How could they ? I turned dumb and looked the other side as they were riveted in transfer negotiations. Luckily the opposing band didn't have any better appraisal than mine. “At best he could be stone pillar struck diagonally across the goalpost” someone remarked. They let Kaushik play in our team, without trading me. Thank God.

The strategy required a revamp and I fount one in the goalpost. Perry was supposed to be our goalkeeper. Being a Higuta himself, the opposing team's goalpost was where he colonized mostly. He would hire Sanjana's sister on temporary assignments to guard the post while he went on his expeditions far and wide. I smelled the opportunity and immediately opted to be the goalkeeper to Kaushik who had taken in the reins of the team by then. Kaushik showed sparks of brilliance along with Vivek and Adhil make some brilliant maneuvers.

The goalpost was also not cent percent stand zone. On one such occasion while I had gone little forward to kick, the ball came behind me . Srikant just hade to glide it slowly into the post while I watched sheepishly. I shouted excellent to register my infallibility. By then Kaushik developed a sudden sprain or he probably had the same problem as me and took over the goalpost. Back into the trenches after fifteen minutes of bliss. Score 6-1

It was time to play positions. If not the junta, a sensible game with little running, weighing my bodies compulsions was the need of the hour. The right flank was less occupied and I camped there, though the left extreme was were I aced in Hockey. I could take time to look around and get a sense of my buddies before I kick, since the competing boys were reluctant to tackle me due to the larger frame. Size and aggression always helps in amateur game. When I saw the ball flying slowly I almost tried a scissor cut. Some excellent teamwork later we scored the second goal. I scored the third for my team. This time I decided to be less of a socialist and kicked the ball to the post when there wasn’t a soul between the keeper and me. Srikant an co. struck again. But we had found our rhythm. The match ended at 6:30 when it was time for Sanjana and her sister to get back home. Score 8-3

On my way back I made small talk with the group. They were and interesting bunch. Most were between the 5th and 10th standard and went to Delhi Public school or Baldwins. However F*** as an adjective with every phrase was revolting even to my liberal self. At home in the shower, I was reminded of community baths at Rajagiri, conversations with a girlfriend coming back from the library as dusk set into Rajpath, hoping for a good piece of Chicken along with ghee rice at the hostel mess. All after a tiring game. It took only a good game and a little more to be happy those days

How much have we changed, how little is our life changed – Premchand

Cartoon Camp

Jimmy was wondering why the Manager selected this of all the places for the office get-together. It was pretty far form the city where they worked. Tucked in the deep south of the subcontinent all the employees had to be flown in by a charted flight. Some had already made other plans for the weekend and he had to use all his persuasive power to get them in. Nobody wanted it to miss it really though. They had worked like crazy for last 6 months. But the announcement was so sudden. Anyways except for a few almost everybody made it to the party.

As he tucked into the third glass of champagne he was swept by a sense of loss. The park they were having the getto was opposite to the college that he so loved. It’s imposing medieval structure had corners that would open at every turn with their own little secrets. of love lost and love made, of silly fights for the great ideology, of half done busts that looked full. Jimmy had just spend 2 years in that institution. But this was the place where he belonged. On evenings they would walk to the park and sit by the backwaters. Sun setting in the background with a poet breaking into Neruda.

Meanwhile the group was drinking into the beauty around. Everybody moved towards a corner and were getting boisterous. They had become a little unruly and were close to the ridge . He couldn’t help shouting aloud about a friend who fell into those waters and never returned. A pack of friends were so precariously poised against the stone walls by the backwater and he was jammed inside . A mortal fear gripped Jim as he saw Rekha coming near. She just touched and they fell like a pack of cards into the murky waters below. thud... thud ... thud they splashed rapidly into the sludge below. Plunging deep into the water body below all he could see around was cocktail of crude, hay and water. It was like an endless tunnel to eternity. He flapped like crazy ... he had to. Cannot surrender so fast. Finally a hand came in from nowhere as he broke into air. It was an arduous climb up the slippery moss filed walls back into the park. There were a couple of hands clamoring be rescued from below. He wanted to help them. But someone told they were all taken care of. Rekha was looking back as she walked out of the main gate. Of all the people why she ??

He rushed to the shower nearby and washed all the dirt. Didn’t really care whether somebody was looking. Felt like there was accumulated dirt of centuries. Coming out of the shower the park had transformed. Beastly carton characters with large heads had taken control. They romped freely on the pavements whipping everybody who came near. The park had turned into a cartoon farm while he was reborn. Don’t know how they had taken over. But they were absolutely in command trampling anything that came on their way. They showed no mercy to women or kids. Everybody was bought into meek submission in the labor camp and was never let out. The beastly toons walked, metals whips in their hand swirling it on any being that they took a fancy.

Years passed…. everybody had settled to their fate. The winds of change were blowing slowly. Over the years the cartoon masters were growing week and old. Or probably it was futile for them to keep a talented populace under submission. They allowed small concessions. The new generation were allowed out of the camp. But they there was tough exam to clear. Jimmy sat by the steps of his modest dwelling as he trained his beautiful grand daughter for the exam.

Collective Chaos - Provisional Obituary

First day of January 2007 came with an email announcing surprise from Collective Chaos*. As I clicked the hyperlink the only thing that wouldn't amaze me was the end. Somehow there was a premonition that CC was nearing it end. There was too much chaos on ethereal that it would have burst if it had not been put to death. So the surprise wasn't a surprise after all. As I sit down to write the obituary, Saddam Hussein hanged the day before was on the airwaves

Collective Chaos was my first foray into a different kind of cinema. Coming from a place with an active film culture, some how I missed the boat during college. Adoor or T.V. Chandran movies that came and went like a whirlwind on the screens, were my only exposure at that time. Maybe the film society movement that was very active in the 70's and 80's went dormant during the early 90's. Maybe I didn't actively seek. From my first Yesterday festival to the last Luis Bunuel movie, the screening were an enriching experience. Dogvillie through Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring, the range of emotion was varied and spiritual in its impact and convinced me why Cinema is the most predominant art form of our times.

The well designed mails announcing the screenings would arrive in advance with reminders as they get close. That helped to plan my travel in advance so that I don't miss the movies I wanted to watch. The website always had a synopsis with details about the director. Screenings were orderly and always started in time. Organizers always remained discreet. There were no animated introductions or analysis in the end. It was just cinema in it elements. The chaos was all inside. The format worked like wine that swirled in your head till it hit you. Like how Saddam of Baathist days created a sense of pride among the Arabs, CC made me gratified of being in Blore

But on the other side the collective was getting into a police state. I used to like the posters they put up snubbing mobile usage during screening, But when it came to actually shoving people of the hall I started to detest. It did irritate terribly when a mobile beeped, but there is always a dignified way of making people understand how obstructive and idiotic they are. And the purveyors always had a sadistic streak in sending them out. In most cases the culprits would have been a new member.

And the tone and tenor of some the emails. Instead of serious debate it became into a mud-slinging session. Some emails looked like they were written to provoke and would pass the moderator. The whole idea of monitoring the emails seems irrelevant. We live a world were we have fast growing encyclopedia maintained by a self-moderated community. Was it a Goebbels watching over our shoulders. Like Saddam the tyrant, CC started to take itself too seriously.

Saddam had to die but Dubaya made him a martyr. Collective Chaos has to be around but the contradictions let it end.


* A Film Society in Blore

Kanua - chateau by the Mediterranean

There are some places and people that totally surprise you. Places totally unanticipated that really gets one hooked... Or people who catch you by the neck and say "I exist" The Friday dinner at Kanua was one such otherworldy experience. A close friend had come down for a short visit. He was docked at Sarjapur Road which is like a trek to the moon from where I work and live in the notorious Blore traffic. After some time at his Sister's home, we started driving out of the city along Sarjapur road. The serendipity drive I thought would lead to the magical dhaba by the river. Suddenly my friend had a brainwave and thumped the mobile.

A right turn after the Fabmall in Sarjapur Road leads to a dirt track can give any rally freak an adrenalin rush . The road ends at a 3-storied building on the right with a vast expanse of grass in front of it. The dimly lit building has a slight gothic touch and the lovely Blore weather in December makes it chique. A wooden staircase that winds 2 floors leads to the hideaway.

I first had the notion entering into an old Goan home with the muted lighting and portuguese music. Then I imagined sitting in a chateau by the Mediterranean. The decor is definitely period with doors that open into two, large blocks of wood for railing and tiled roofing. The exquisite dining area is without walls and gives a sense of watching a play by nature on all three sides. There is small lounge area to cool off.

I started with an Iced tea. The menu is predominantly fish or atleast that is what my eyes could read. But there are ample doses of chicken and vegetables. If you have to absolutely tie it to a region, the Konkan which includes both the Mangalore and Goan streams suits best. A medium sized white pomphret was the first cold-blooded vertebrate on the table. I had long since stopped ordering food by their names. The fish was either baked or medium-fried with right amount of spice. There might have been a tinge of vinegar thrown in. The masala was not completely dried and tasted great. It sort of melted like chocolate in my mouth.

The main course was seer fish curry with rice. Kanua serves two varieties of rice - the standard Basmati type and boiled ( bee size according to a N Indian friend) predominant along the west coast. The gravy tasted like the coconut grated & fried variety, but it was not exactly the same though. There were some unrecognizable ingredients that made it quite unique with an appetizing aroma. Fish was fresh and the potions were enough for two.

Now for the wallet factor. Compared to other seafood places in B'lore like Harbour Market ( Mohanlal's) & Tiger Bay, the place is light on the pocket. The pricing is as honest as it can get for seafood out here. The chicken and vegetarian dishes were also decently priced. Kanua doesn't serve drinks. This was the only glitch in the otherwise superb experience. But diners can carry bottles which they serve out there. I would recommend this joint just for the ambience. The top-class food is an incentive. If you like the old-world charm like at Koshys, the place is for you. I would have shifted the weekend binge except for the variety and crowd at Koshys. It can also be ideal place for a heavy lunch with a siesta in a hammock.

Check this place. It is worth the trek.. ooops the drive.

Lesser Mortals

Woke up this morning thinking about conversations with a colleague generally about developmental and economic issues. Was reminded of how 2 neighboring states have a remarkably different way of dealing with certain tragedies that affect the poor. The first thing that hit me on today's newspaper was about the collapse of the scaffolding at a construction site in Infosys campus and resultant death of 5 migrant laborers. This was the exact same thing that I was thinking about 10 mins back. Such tragedies are commonplace as Banglore shapes into a technopolis.

2 weeks ago a storehouse collapsed at Biocon and killed 3. There has been atleast 7 such incidents since I starting counting them form 2005. Anywhere between 3-7 people are killed in each of these incidents. Near the place I used to stay at R.T. Nagar the scaffolding gave in on the day of concreting. 5 dead. At another site in MG road had the land give in when excavating for the basement. 3 dead.

The victims in most cases are migrant laborers from rural Karnataka or the BIMARU states . Political parties ignore them because they don't form a vote bank. The workers are never a part of any union. The media cold-shoulder them since such news don't appeal to their urban target. The TOI for example found it worthy of only a 2 column article in the second page. That is when they can waste reams and reams of paper on Shilpa Shetty's latest beau or on which girl appeared in what skimpy clothes at which all parties. The more socially obliged among them might have one follow-up article. Haven't heard about any NGO's who pursue such cases. And forget about anything coming up in the courts. Nobody seems to be bothered about those 5 hapless, poor souls who pay with their lives to create the pillars of 21st century India.

There are probably no villains in the story. But there is an institutional failure in letting such criminal negligence go unpunished. The building contractors are powerful enough to influence the civic authorities and the police. And even if charge sheeted the case would be so weak. The standard rebuttal by the contractors is that everything mandatory has been done. Don't know if the families of the dead are even compensated properly. In today's case the construction company Sobha Developers which is among the reputed here has announced an ex-gratia payment of Rs. 2,50,000 and that would be last. As an aside the CEO of Soba developers recently did a Thulabaram ( offering to the deity in ones weight) in Gold at Guruvayoor temple worth Rs 7 Crore.

The economic theory doing rounds lately is that India's population is the bouty that will propel it to the superpower league. Does it mean we have more lives to loose than others and we don't care. Does it mean that the rich can subsidize their lifestyles at the cost of the poor. The affluent and middle-class need to really think if violence like one after Rajkumar's death or the most recent Dalit angst in Maharastra are emotional outbursts of the marginilised majority.

I wish Infosys which has set global standards in giving back to the society make an example of this case. The least they could do is to ensure that the families are compensated and children's future protected. The best would be to pursue this case and bring the culprits to book. But that might be too much of a price to pay. The middle-ground could be to create some frameworks so that such accidents don't repeat.

Eulogy to Sari

I am outraged. I am hurt. I am helpless No it is not the politics, Nor is it the performance of the Indian Cricket team. It is much more existential than that. It is the slow death of that uniquely Indian attire. The six yards of cloth, that adorned Indian women for centuries. Usage of Sari is very much on the decline across India, more so in the cities. Onslaught of salwar-kames, jeans, gagra-cholis and assorted clothing have replaced Sari form its preeminent position till the 80's.

This is not a debate about western cultural influences in the post-liberalized India. Neither is it a middle-aged man's case to ogle over the female anatomy. Before casting any such aspirations, let me tell you. There isn’t anything in this whole wide world that can give women the grace and beauty of that long strip of unstitched cloth. There is something angelic and out-worldly about a lady draped in a Sari. That is probably why Indian iconographers painted our Goddesses in a sari, except in some recent overtures of M. F. Hussein who had to pay with his blood for that. And who can forget Indira Gandhi, the iron lady who ruled India for a long time. A lot of Indira's persona had to do with her saris. The crispy white ones during the election campaigns and colorful organza prints when at the world stage. She could carry immaculately amongst the likes of Khrushchev and Kennedy with that drapery. Apparently Mrs. Gandhi and her friend Pupul Jayakar were patrons of good weavers from the Hindi heart land, just like Jaya Jaitley and Brinda Karat in recent times, who make the normally boring evening news so adorable.

Now for some random statistics. In a poll taken in one of Banglore's upmarket malls ( absolutely abhor them), I could only see 1 out of 50 women in the 20-50 age group who wore a Sari. These numbers might be skewed since age itself is morphable by modern technologies like face lifting and silica. But you get the drift. And now with these other dresses every maiden looks like they are churned out form an assembly line . Each one looking like the other. The same denim/khaki trousers, the same black tops. Even the hairstyles look similar. It is not only Banglore's landscape that has that has changed. The girlscape too has been distorted. A friend who came back to Banglore (B2B) after 10 years got absolutely bored after a roundtrip across Brigade road and some malls. And this is not just B'lore alone. India metros are slowly becoming populated with replicas. That is why occasional trips to Kerala where the grass is green and sareefull is such a relief. Hope it stays that way. Atleast there is a place to retire.

There are can be lot of arguments against a Sari. The most common being that it cant be a daily wear. Ladies ...............My Grandmother who retired as a Headmistress wore sari to work for all of her, 30 year career. You could try it once a week to bring some fresh air to that clustered rate maze at office. If you can wiggle into that choking lycra top every other day, sari is a cakewalk. And for the revealing bit less said the better. I mean.. look at any PYT on the road and you can see the subtle placement to hide less and show more. And since when did Indian Women hide into a cocoon. We are the land of Kamasutra and Natya Shastra where the navel of the Supreme Being is considered to be the source of life and creativity. The sari atleast can give you flexibility based on your mood. Drape around when you want to appear demure. Casually throw it when you want are on assault mode and project oomph. I am sure it can leave your prey speechless.

I am not positive... But I have made my noise. If you want to give the Sari an unceremonious death let it be. But generations to come would curse you for destroying a piece of art that could make a beauty of every lass.

Belle de Jour

Crevises that cry out loud
Cannot hear
Nor fathom
Restless as in a mouse trap
Double lives threaten to meet
To create a cloud
For the soul to find its space
Picture perfect postcards
Shread into a thousand pieces
Reality is a myth
Created by our fantacy
Belle de Jour
The spirits mystery

Inspired by the movie Belle de Jour ( beautiful by day ) by Luis Bunuel

Opera Mini - Mobile Browser

For those who think the Internet started and ended with Internet Explorer, the Opera Mini will be a revelation. This mobile browser could be the next killer application that let us see and touch the world from an appliance that has become our alter ego. Why would one carry a laptop when you can browse and email in sheersana from a mobile phone.

Skeptics might ask why reduce the form factor and strain the eyes. Opera Mini doesn't take much to get used to . Most of the browser functionalities like history, bookmarks etc remain the same. And when your mobile device is becoming the camera, radio, media player and anything that you could imagine why use a bulky device to check and reply to that important business email. This is miniaturization at its best.

Opera's Small-Screen Rendering™ technology uses a 'proxy' web server that takes requests and optimizes the results for a specific mobile device. Most of the processing is done by these proxy servers who get the web page that is requested and pygmies it into size that renders on your device quickly. Connection can be through a WAP access point or GPRS depending on your service provider.

To install Mini go to mini.opera.com The server detects the make of the device and downloads the appropriate version. At 110 KB it makes only a small footprint on the memory and installs quickly. Opera Mini is written in Java and works in most mobile phones. So you really don't need a smart phone to access the world wide web.

The user interface is pretty intuitive and simple. The menu button on the left opens common functions like address, bookmarks and tools. Bookmarks itself can be accessed by shortcut keys that can be set by the user. That makes checking your email just 2 clicks away. The font size can be adjusted based on your eye sight. Home page can be customized to get quickly into the most visited sites. One could google in from the home page or know everything about anything on that monster of a Wikipedia. The Opera servers pre-process the content into single column, eliminating the need for horizontal scrolling. Not every web page looks perfect with this verticalisation, but that is a small price to pay. The Opera Mini 3.0 which is in beta now lets photo upload and compatibility with your favorite RSS feeds.

What is in it for you and me other than checking emails and messaging. Every killer software is worth only its applications. In 2 days I found 2 applications for it. One to get a read reviews of the movie that plays at night on the cable. Now I don't sit watching some crapy Ninja Turtles on HBO, hoping that the next scene would turn it around. Another to look at the meanings of bombastic words that a friend uses without context. I have listed dictionary on my home page and I know the meaning before he finishes the next sentence. I have not told him yet about Opera Mini. But then that is another day.

Sethu

Saw an interview of Sethu ( famous Malayalam literary figure who recently won the Vayalar award) in which he describes the premise of one of his novels that did't get too much attention. Apparently in a Tamil Nadu village there was an unusual number of deaths among people working in a particular company when they turn 59. The company itself heralded modernity in a once idyllic village with all the assorted cacophony it brings. It seems the sons kill their father when he turns 59 so that he gets the father's job. The mother and other female members remain passive if not active accomplices in the crime. It has become a sort de rigueur in the village that nobody in the community or the police raises an eyebrow against it. And the twist of it is that fathers start to suicide when they near 59 so that they can save their son's of the horrendous crime. In Indian tradition Father is equivalent to God and he doesn't want his son to be stained by such a big crime. Sethu's story goes on to describe how an idealistic personnel officer fights against it but the crux of the novel is not fictional.

Was really disturbed by this. It portrays the depths to which we can go. Even some animal species who eat their offspring's pale before such barbarity. In some senses it is an indicator of the despair in our villages and rural hinterland. It is hard to imagine the mental landscape of the father and son as they near the d-day. Don't know if we can ever rationalize this.

Pulee and the art of motorcar driving

A piece written before the blog. Thought of publishing since there hasn't been any momentum for some time

Of late I had the pleasure of being on the roads with Pulee. For the uninitiated Pulee( tiger ) is the recent avatar of a close buddy, and henceforth will be referred so. One moment he can be a Pulee giving funda on the intricacies of air flow in the carburetor and the next he would go ga-ga over the correlation between the mood of the artist and predominance of blue color in the frame. The long and short of it is that he can be a Pulee- in engines, mobiles, photography and all assorted techie stuff. He says that his biwi is also a Pulee and that they going to name their home "Pulee bhavanam" . But the biwi has not claimed to be a pulee and does not show any traces of puleness except when putting down the pulitharam of Mr. Puli.

This note is warranted in the context of the mail on driving experience forwarded by Pulee. Pulee feels that the entire road is his playground. The hapless drivers and who ply the highways are the villains. Pulee has many times expressed his intention to shoot the drivers point blank for such grave omissions as not giving him way when he honks repeatedly, not to mention the swearing at every lorry that he overtakes. Pulee would then give lectures of his psycho-game while overtaking where he would drive into the opposite vehicle and get the hapless oldie into submission while I would almost pee in my pants. ah before I forget another of his antics is to corner a truck out of the road if it fails to give way after repeated honking - begging, threatening and swearing. Pulee is conceptualizing a new protocol where one could express 4 letter words through the horn. 2 small for F***.1 long 1 short for AH etc.

Agreed that the Indian roads are in perpetual chaos and mayhem and the drivers need to be whipped on their butts. But where else could one enjoy such unobstructed freedom. One could shout, drive on either side of the road and do whatever nonsense that one could think of. Pulee himself narrated how a friend of his was screwed by the truck drivers when he tried to be smart in a US highway. They radioed all the nearby trucks and gave this fellow a run through the maze they set. Thank God our drivers are not that tech savy. otherwise pulee and me would never have made it home.

The final straw was when after the nth tuning of his work horse ( Maruthi 1000) pulee took to testing the performance. 3 guys on a motorcycle(as they often do , I have tried 4 once) decided to try their luck when they saw our man powering to 100. There was a nano second of braking, turning and shouting. The car stopped with a slight scratch on the front bumper and the alloy wheels. It was so fast that I didn't even get to feel the goose bumps that one normally gets in such situations. Thanks to our parents prayer's we escaped the ordeal at the police station and courts for killing 3 people.