Hitting Old Age In High Definition

I think I’m getting old and I have a television to thank for this. You see, I was at a friend’s house recently and he had just gotten a new TV. It was a gigantic, black, painting-like beauty which he had hung in his drawing room. It worked much better than it looked. Picture quality – excellent; sound quality – good enough to cause his cat to go stone-deaf in a few years; channel playing when we switched it on – Aaj Tak. Excitedly, I took the remote from him and that’s when I took a huge leap into grandfatherhood.

The remote that I held in my hand was enormous. It had close to a 100 buttons, each named, numbered and coloured differently. At an earlier age, I could have randomly pushed 25 buttons and figured out each feature on this TV, including some that weren’t even there. Now I was afraid the TV would explode even if I moved the remote. Plus, nothing was written in the familiar way that I was used to. The only things I could identify were the buttons for volume and the buttons for changing the channel. But if you had asked me to mute the TV for you, I’d have to reach for the instruction manual. And that’s the tell-tale sign that you’re heading toward old age. Nothing says you’re getting old like reaching for the instruction manual when trying to figure out a device. A young person would never do that. Pah! They would have just used their fancy method of, ‘Fiddling’.

And the more I watched it, the more I wanted to say the catchphrase of us, old-timers: “Why weren’t there TVs like this in our time?” The TV – if it could be called that – was something bordering on magical compared to the clunky, tubby boxes that I had grown up on. To begin with, it was High Definition. Things were so clear on this TV that it seemed as if the old technology for making televisions involved filling them with dense fog.

The last indication of an imminent old age is having an irrational loathing toward things you can’t understand. For me, it came less as loathing and more as mild depression toward this glitzy, novel technology. It was just so depressing seeing channels in High Definition. When I saw a soap opera in HD, I could see the plot loopholes more clearly (“How could she possibly believe that’s her husband. On this HD TV I can clearly see, he looks nothing like the man she lost in that car accident.”) Earlier when I watched football on my fuddy-duddy television, the players all looked like nameless blobs, or in other words, like me. Now, in HD, I could not only read the names on their shirts but I could also see each definition on every muscle of their body. They suddenly seemed nothing like my low-definition self. Worst of all was when I put on FTV and saw those models going down that ramp in clarity that I would only imagine when I was 13 and home alone. It just made me want to moan it out loud, no matter how old it made me seem: “Why weren’t there TVs like this in our time?”

The Life and Times of a Beckham Fan

Fan: n. a fan, sometimes also called aficionado or supporter, is a person who is enthusiastically devoted to something, such as a band, a sports team or entertainer. The degree of devotion can range from simple admiration to the deluded belief that they have a special relationship with the star which does not exist. This is the story of just such a belief.

The 21^st of June, 2002 was a yellow hot day at school. It had been two weeks since the summer vacations had gotten over and the thrill of reaching the 5th standard had already begun to fade. We were sitting in the computer lab. We were usually excited to be there but that day something was different. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. There was a constant low-key buzz of discontent hovering about the class. The computer teacher pretended it was just the hum of the AC’s and continued teaching.  

I looked around me. All the boys were whispering. I could hear snatches of conversation.

“..Against Brazil! I didn’t want to come today...”

“He’s playing...”

“Bastard that’s my pen!”

“They’ll fuckin win, I’m fuckin’ tellin you!”

“Why should I ask him? You ask him na...”

“Fine!” said Rajiv Job and got up from his seat, “Sir, excuse me sir?”

“Yes?” said the computer teacher.

“Can you take us to the AV room? We want to see the match” said Job unflinchingly.

“What match?” said the computer teacher.

“The World Cup, sir. England v/s Brazil, sir.”

The computer teacher’s eyes bulged. He’d never seen such brazen impetuosity from a student before.

“What! What nonsense is this? What is all this about matches. Sit down and be quiet!” he sputtered.

“But sir!” whined Rajiv, “David Beckham is playing!”

And with the mention of that name the whole class began shrieking and shouting. The computer teacher had never seen such commotion. He barked and stamped and flapped his arms but the mutiny had grown too rampant. He looked around bewildered and finally darted out of the room locking the door behind him. He couldn’t understand it. What was wrong with these boys?  Why did they want to watch this match so badly? And who on earth was this David Beckham?

It was on that hot, afternoon in the computer lab that I first heard the name of the man who would become my idol and a counterpart of destiny for the next decade.

     

                     *                             *                             *

In 2003, my family moved from Lower Parel to suburban Thane. My father had gotten a new job and it meant being uprooted and hauled away to a new town and a new school. It was terrible. My 11 year old world lay in ruins. I hadn’t wanted to shift but like anyone was going to listen to me. So I did what any hormonal, surly, unable-to-adjust, ticked-off pre-adolescent would do – I threw a fit. I rebelled. I refused to allow happiness within 50 feet of me. It was all very rain-soaked and melancholy.

Then one morning, I opened the newspaper and saw a small headline: DAVID BECKHAM LEAVES MANCHESTER UNITED FOR REAL MADRID.  

Hmm, I thought to myself, I wonder if Beckham has trouble making new friends.

Almost instantly, I had found in him a strange kinship; it was as if, far, far away albeit on a ridiculously different level, Beckham too might be going through the same alienation and distress that I was feeling.

He had hardly been a few months in Spain when the false (not even alleged. I’m a fan and objectivity has no place here) allegations of his affair broke. If he hadn’t been it before, now Beckham was definitely as distraught as I. To compound matters Madrid had a woeful season and his year ended trophy-less just as mine ended with me moored somewhere at the bottom of the class. Clearly we were thinking the same thing: we were better off without moving.

                   

                    *                             *                             *

It’s not easy being a fan. When I look back at how I reached the point where I wore a hair band to school just to recreate his late 2003 look, I’m surprised at the long and bumpy road to fanaticism. You do not become a die-hard hero-worshipper overnight. It takes time and patience and then if you’re lucky, you are granted the opportunity to enter into fandom.

It is a tough screening process and rightly so, because at the end of the initiation, your devotion will be there for life – unshakeable, unceasing and for the most part unreasonable. This is not something that should happen lightly. For most fans, it takes years to cultivate that germ of a positive feeling into the full-blown mania that it eventually becomes.

Take my adulation for Beckham. It started with the irrational link that I threaded between our coincidental migrations. That fortunate moment led me to follow his career more closely and that meant taking an interest in football. Seeing that I was finally doing something other than stuffing my face with potato chips and sulking, my father decided to fan those football flames. He bought me Beckham’s autobiography, “My Side” and a jersey. I read the book and found that I liked this person even more – so I began wearing the jersey.

What started with spending hours on the pitch trying to replicate his crosses, gave way to spending hours in front of the mirror trying to replicate his hairstyles. I can safely say that David Beckham introduced me to hair gel. When you’re a teenager, you’re trying a dozen personalities a day to see which fits and I found that I really liked the way Beckham’s seemed to look on me. I copied the way he smiled (lips straight and wide with no curl on the sides), the way he walked (heel first, moderate swing on the arms) and even the way he scowled (with one eyebrow raised high enough to look like a hairy upside down Nike tick on his face). In those days, I really did believe I was the outsourced Indian version of David Beckham, a special edition made solely for my school football team. The funny thing is that no matter how disparate a fan and his fancy may seem at first, just by sheer repetition and brute assertions, people around them begin seeing the similarities too. I was referred to as Beckham in the school team even though I wasn’t allowed to take a single free-kick and my crosses were more wayward than most weather reports. I did however take corners and for me that was proof enough that I was the school team’s resident Beckham.

                                                             

                   *                             *                             *

The next few years went by humdrum and dispiritingly devoid of any major achievement for us both. Beckham failed to win a major trophy and I didn’t even contest for one. That was until 2006. It was the year I reached the tenth standard; the last year of my school life, at the beginning of which I had not an inkling of the turbulence and triumph that was to follow. I’m sure Beckham was just as blissfully unaware of the fast-approaching terror when he captained the England Football team at the World Cup.

Almost uncannily, our year crumbled at around the same time with the same rapidity. England lost in the quarterfinal and Beckham’s leadership and ability were questioned. In a dignified and tearful press conference, he announced that he was stepping down as England captain. Back at his club, the news was no more cheerful. The then manager of Real Madrid made it publicly known that Beckham would not be playing another game for the club. It was seemingly the end.

As for me, I played alrightish in school tournaments but we never managed to win anything. The cruellest defeat of all was losing in the final at a tournament held in our own school ground. I was doing just as woefully in my studies; finding tenth standard a major drag. There were just too many tuitions and too much at stake to enjoy studying. My overwhelming passion for football wasn’t helping matters either. Consequently, I was served an ultimatum by my mother: You will never play for the school team again. Sound familiar?

The quality I admired most in David Beckham was his dogged determination. There are only two ways that you can react to a setback: one is to blame the universe and cry and crib and the second is to accept the mess you’re in and heave and shove you’re way out. Beckham kept quiet and showed up to training with his resolve unshaken. He was a winner and he was hell-bent on avoiding ignominy. I looked at the depressing daily news clippings of his progress and couldn’t help but get inspired. Put your head down and keep working. Luck will change, I told myself, you see it will.

And things did turn around after Christmas; our luck did change! That winter Real Madrid sat a few points below Barcelona. It looked as if the rivals were going to get away with the league. The coach went back on his decision and brought Beckham into the team and they never looked back since. Beckham wasn’t the sole reason for their resurgent form but he sure played with the most hunger: an unpleasant, gnawing emotion vital to success.

I studied for my boards with equal fervour. My prelims notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but feel that the unfriendly times were rolling back. Something beautiful was around the corner and just like Beckham all I had to do was keep working hard. I wrapped up my Boards in April and Real Madrid wrapped up the title in May.

Madrid won the title on the last game of the season – a week before I got my results. It had been an incredible year; almost miraculous, in the small and large ways those miracles tend to work. I looked at the relieved, ecstatic and all-conquering face of Beckham, beamed into my drawing room on the night they won the title and couldn’t help but feel the same. We had overcome. He was now leaving a happy man for a new challenge and sure enough, so was I.

                          

                      *                             *                             *

Beckham was never the greatest football player. You couldn’t have said he was an equal to Pele or Maradona without causing a lot of people to choke on their drinks with laughter. Flaws, he had aplenty; the biggest and most glaring one being his missing left foot. In his distinguished career Beckham must have used his left foot fewer times than a person living on the twentieth floor uses the stairs. His speed, though acceptable wasn’t especially rapacious by winger standards.

But Beckham was never a man of his shortcomings. He never seemed unduly bothered by the limitations of his abilities. He chose the magnification of his strengths instead. My respect for Beckham rests on clouds because he was simply put – and in his own words – a hardworking footballer.

Football is considered a natural talent in the league of singing, dancing and playing Ludo blindfolded. Era after era, players dazzle with their innate genius, their easy ability, the fluid manoeuvring of a body built for the task. You don’t question the magic of Ronaldhino, the pirouetting of Zidane, the mad-dash energy of Roberto Carlos. Beckham on the other hand seemed more human than anyone else on the list of greats. He didn’t do outrageous tricks, he didn’t turn matches on their heads by sheer will and wasn’t exactly a goal machine. It was no wonder that his place among the Galacticos was questioned.

Here was the thing with Beckham: everything that he was exceptional at came out of effort; out of a desire to improve. Sir Alex Ferguson identified Hard Work as a talent and in that one aspect David Beckham was probably the most talented of them all. His mythic right foot crosses and freekicks were not compliments from God but cooked up on the training pitch – slowly, painstakingly. If he could bend it like Beckham, it was only because he practiced like Beckham. He strengthened his accurate passes with intelligence and creativity. He made up for his lack of pace by having a tireless work ethic. Long after the lungs of fans were exhausted by mere cheering, Beckham would still be charging around, busting his own lungs for the cause. It’s a rare ability to even try that hard.

I wasn’t born with magical gifts either; very few of us are but I learnt from watching his career that as long as I had the character and willingness to dig in, to be resolute, to not flinch from the labour – it really wouldn’t matter. The value of effort has been the most wonderful quality that I have picked up from David Beckham. It’s probably the most immense gift one could give a fan.

                      *                             *                             *

I returned to Lower Parel as Beckham flew off to America. I went to college as he joined the L.A. Galaxy. The years of his decline had begun. The American league was widely thought of as the children’s riding pen where old stallions got their final run out. Everybody thought that Beckham’s move was the first, cascading toward retirement. I held out against this opinion for a while but his first two seasons were too lacklustre to sustain any argument. Beckham’s all-mighty hold was loosening over me, as it was over the larger football community.

As college began and my world flung open to new and overwhelming experiences, I found my interest in football dissipating. I played for the college team with some success but as the years ticked by, I played less and less. My interests took new forms and I found new heroes to look up to. The football games for which I would wait weeks in advance now became background noise. I wasn’t eager for results and I wasn’t thrilled by the spectacle. Beckham’s matches in the United States were telecast at a time too abnormal for the Indian viewer. There was nothing more to do but give up and move on.

Junior college ended and I shifted once again to pursue Mass Media. Unsurprisingly, Beckham moved that year too. He went on loan to A.C. Milan. The 2010 World Cup was approaching and Beckham was battling tooth and nail to make the England Squad. His return to Europe and more importantly to a friendlier broadcast schedule meant that I got an extended look-in at my boyhood hero.  His powers were diminishing like a candle reaching its base but he still flickered as bright as ever. I found myself rooting for him; for his chance to make the World Cup Squad. He deserved his last hurrah.

But though his mind was willing, the body didn’t hold up. I watched the game against Chievo, when he received the ball, arched to pass and suddenly stopped short. He hopped in pain before making it to the sideline and collapsing on the turf. All the years of running, the endless bustle and non-stop pressure of David Beckham’s life had cruelly caught up with him. He lay in agony on the side of the pitch, clutching at his left ankle as medics tended to him. He knew the moment the kicking spasm of pain surged past his foot that his hopes of reaching the World Cup had snapped with his ligaments.

I couldn’t stop the tears in my own eyes at the heartbreak of that moment. Even the great David Beckham couldn’t have his way against the plans that were bigger than all of us.

                 

                      *                             *                             *

He was no Helen of Troy but he had a face that could sell a thousand products. There was an irresistible pull to Beckham’s face when spread across a billboard. It pulled out all your money. Hardly any sportstar even comes close to that hurricane called, “Brand Beckham”. I was sucked into the eye of the storm too. I have so many studs that at least the next 17 generations of Srivastava’s will not have to buy another pair. I use a Samsung phone because Beckham asked if I would, over the television. I still prefer Adidas over Nike because Beckham was its brand ambassador. I’m guilty of being an unthinking, will-less, droid controlled by the selling power of Beckham. At least I used to be.

Sadly, it will be for introducing the cult of superstardom to football that he will be most remembered for. History will treat him less a player and more a shirt. He was a good-looking, responsible, successful and humble human being or as marketers called him, “Bingo!” No emotion looked out of place on his face: his smile was charming, his glare was intense and his scowl was sexy. Whatever you wanted Beckham to sell, he could do it with conviction and disarming sincerity. I’m sure karela would have become the number one vegetable if Beckham had appeared in a commercial saying, “Karela gives me a FREE KICK!” Then he would have kicked a karela-shaped ball, smiled and watched as millions of teenagers fell over each other to get to their nearest sabjiwallahs.

Such adulation didn’t come cheap. The megatonnes of media pressure that Beckham lived under would have crushed another man. He most admirably kept himself sane while living each minute under a gigantic circus tent of flash and glamour. It’s an achievement to have maintained his game alongside all the jet-setting and red-carpeting. He didn’t combust as so many celebrities do; he didn’t self-destroy, didn’t throw fits and largely respected the jobs of the moth-like paparazzi. As a celebrity he was the model for what you should do when your every move was served up in newspapers day after day.

Glitzy and bright as all of it must have been, I’m sure the footballer that was David Beckham will not know what to make of it all. I’m sure he’ll also be a little irritated by all the diversionary focus that his celebrity created; of being trapped in the strange paradox of celebrity: where you are given more attention but taken less seriously. He was a great, great footballer and it’s just so easy to forget that.

                                           

                       *                             *                             *

Beckham remained largely submerged in the last three years of his career. He blipped on the radar twice when he won two championships with the L.A. Galaxy in 2011 and 2012. It vindicated his intention to move to the United States. 6 years on, he was leaving America not as a celebrity freakshow but as a muddied, gritty, football champion. The crinkles had increased around the eyes as he steadfastly maintained that he wanted to play a little longer.

I left college the year Beckham ended his American adventure. Now at last our paths had reached the diversion: mine headed straight to the clear fields of possibility and his wound toward the dark forests of oblivion. Then suddenly in 2013 like a huge humpback whale bursting forth for air he flew out of inattention and made a massive splash by signing for Paris Saint-Germain. It was the last charge of an aging hero.

I was delighted. This fan had to make a final journey and David Beckham had been gracious enough to provide company. And so the last, protracted weeks went by blithely. Beckham did not embarrass himself. He proved his worth in a young side. He accepted his reduced role in the team with grace and when he did play, he played with uninterrupted elegance.

I was slouched on the sofa when I heard the news: “A DOG THAT BARKS LIKE AN AMBULANCE BUT FIRST DAVID BECKHAM ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT!” I sat stunned for a while. The day had eventually come. It had been a slow and inevitable death and though I had known it was coming when it did happen, it left me gasping for breath. I gathered all the many memories, the sepia moments from school and the frostiness of recent years and looked at them a last time. David Beckham does not even know you, I thought to myself, and yet here he is, pictured in so much of your life.

I wondered what he would do now. Age 38 is young for a first death but that was what it was. For David Beckham, the footballer was dead. The ball would find new legs to kick it around. Football is ruthlessly aware of time. A decade is two generations in sport. In football, careers are on fast-forward; played out with a high-pitched squiggle and jerky urgency. Yesterday the player, who had promise, is today the superstar and will tomorrow be forgotten. The machine will keep whirring. 14 year old children rage over the internet about a flock of players that already seem as if they don’t match up to the legends of my era. When I was a schoolboy looking up to Beckham, I thought I had all the time in the world to grow up. Now Beckham had retired and growing up was no longer that far away.

I saw Beckham’s last match. He played in the centre of midfield. He made his trademark long passes, he took a free kick and he ran with the energy of a man who knew that this was the last bit of running he had left. I couldn’t focus on the match. Every few seconds I would hear a devilish little voice in my head say, “Watch this well because this is the last time”. In the 83^rd minute, David Beckham was substituted. He left the field in tears. He was hugged by all his team mates and he got a standing ovation from the Parisian crowd. It was the right time. If at the end of your last game you have brimming measures of dignity and grace, it is the right time.

David Beckham accompanied his little, unknown fan on that last journey – he into retirement and his fan into maturity. Like Beckham I knew it was time, I’d just embarrass myself if I held on any longer. So, when he left, I didn’t just say goodbye to David Beckham; I waved off my own boyhood. Wherever they go from here, I’m sure they will be United.

Fare thee well in a Taxi.

Come October 11^th and the minimum fare of taxis in Mumbai are going to increase again; this time by 2 rupees. A commuter will now have to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare instead of the previous Rs. 17. We all know that this translates to a minimum fare of Rs. 20 because the Taxi drivers will inevitably never have change.

What makes this an even more ludicrous situation is that this has been the third fare hike in a year! Third! How uncertain were they about their own demands that they had to make them thrice? And how are we to know that it’s not going to stop at this? Who’s to say that the Mumbai Metropolitan Region Transport Authority (MMRTA) won’t ask for another hike next week because the price of pani puri went up and it had a direct effect on the diet of Taxi drivers and hence a direct impact on the fare?

It seems that all the taxi driver’s union had to do to get the increased fare is threaten to go on strike. I’m surprised that this strategy hasn’t caught on among the over-worked corporate soldiers. How come the smart people who work in offices aren’t loosening their ties, bringing out their placards and refusing to come to work unless they get a 25% increase their salaries? Maybe they just might now that half their existing salaries are going to go in simply getting to office.  

The Chief Minister, in a move to calm the frothing angry masses, said that though the fares will increase the service too will get better. It had better get better. For a minimum of Rs. 19, I’d at least expect seats that didn’t smell of every single person that had sat on it for the last 15 years. Also I expect less damage to my tailbone because with the increased earnings, the Taxi drivers can’t cite money as a constraint for not getting their suspension fixed. But most of all, I hope the increased fare makes them slow down on their refusals. More disheartening than having to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare is having to pay Rs. 19 as a minimum fare AND still hearing, “klik, klik, nahi jaaeyga” every time you want to go to Dadar.

This is going to be a terrible blow for the commuting Mumbaikar. The trains and buses are already crowded to such a degree that by the time you get off you’ve been standing so close to the person squashed next to you that you may as well get into a relationship.  Add to that another few thousand people who won’t be travelling by taxis anymore and it’ll be like stuffing too many woollens into a small suitcase. Eventually the suitcase pops open and there’s a mess all around.

The only people who are happy about the situation – apart from the Cabbies, of course – are old people. They’re rubbing their wrinkled palms with glee thinking of how they’ll mock their grandchildren and the terrible modern age by constantly bringing up the golden, non-inflationed, taxi fares of their time. I can already see pensioners rehearsing their lines which will start with, “humaare zamane main 2 rupees 50 paise main...” and end on a note of contempt for how Bollywood music just doesn’t sound as good and lyrics don’t make much sense either.

Well I would have written some more but I won’t unless I’m paid a minimum of 2 rupees more per word.

Freedom Would Have Come Sooner If Gandhiji Had A Beard

My shaving foam recently went to see a psychiatrist for chronic depression. My razorblade contemplates suicide as you read this. I can’t blame them either. They’ve been feeling very unwanted ever since I started growing a beard.

Oh, the shining symbol of masculinity hangs of my face in all its hairy glory. Finally, at long last I have managed to cultivate a beard; not a half-assed stubble, or a one week laziness beard, I have a full-fledged, tangling, dangling, man-bush. It’s a beautiful crop and the worst thing I can say for it is that sometimes if you pat it, a wasp flies out.

It wasn’t easy to grow my face-velcro. In this modern age, where Gillette’s marketing budget determines a man’s appearance, I had to fight for my rights to bearding. Let this be an instruction to all amateur beard growers: your passage will not be easy. Girls will frown at you for your sandpaper cheeks, your boss will insist that he doesn’t want a homeless person interacting with the client and society will brand you an insidious left-wing intellectual. In short, there will be immense pressure for you shear off your beard. Don’t. Give. In.

Remember the benefits of that proud fuzz. It saves you all that pointless time that you spend in shaving. It is time that you can use instead, to watch viral videos on Youtube! It’s the sign of knowledge! A beard gives a man authority which is why 90% of all college professors, mad scientists and movie villains have sported flowing tufts. It’s a life-saver! If you happen to lost in the wild with no sources of food, all you have to do is rummage through your beard for the left over bits and crumbs. It’s the sign of toughness! If you have a wispy voice and a thin frame, if you think you aren’t taken seriously, if people treat you the same way they treat cute babies in prams, then it’s about time you grew a beard. Just imagine how much more menacing Sachin would seem if only he had a beard. I wonder who would call for his retirement then?

Growing a beard is an act of love. It takes time and patience. It will test you in ways that you have never been tested. If you can get past the initial scratchiness that comes with hair thrusting out of your face and if you can tide over the wanton criticism levelled at you then you’ll find yourself in the possession of a lovely hairiness that will provide you with endless warmth, security (bearded men and women are robbed/murdered a lot less than their wimpy looking non-bearded counterparts) and endless hours of entertainment by giving you something to tug and stroke when you’re bored in a public place. Over time you will find yourself growing a firm personal attachment to your untrimmed patch. When you reach this phase don’t hesitate in giving it a nickname (my own is called Basant) and feel free to indulge it a few meals by dipping it in the soup by mistake.

Gandhiji, though beardless himself, gave us the most accurate description of what it’s like to grow a beard when he said: “first they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you and then you win!” Oh my brothers and testosterone-heavy sisters, make sure you win! Make sure the beard is unfurled! Make sure... OWWW! Ok, the wasp just bit me. 

A Bangalore Bachelorhood

I had strange ideas when I left for Bangalore. I imagined it as an incredibly distinct metropolis that would grab my senses and punch them with violence. It’s what I think of every place I visit and it is the surest mark of the novice traveller  We, uninitiated wanderers, expect miracles and wonders at every turn and get awfully confused when things turn out to be not so different after all. That was what Bangalore was like for me.

I don’t know what makes Bangalore tick, what is at the nub of it’s being – apart from IT companies, of course – I saw too little of it and for far too less a time to make any real judgement that doesn't involve the words ‘IT Company’. It seemed to me that Bangalore could be condensed to one road (MG Rd) with lots of shops (expensive), good food (also expensive), good beer (UB) and you guessed it, IT companies. I saw the sights and smelt the smells and travelled the metro which was pretty neat but the real essence of the trip was Bachelorhood.

A small caveat before going further: I’m sure a lot of you, who have lived on your own, without parents and with a lot of success too will find the following lines to be of a “been there done that” variety but believe me, this was an eye-opener for me to your condition.

I come from a cocoon that is cleaned regularly, there are hot meals and used clothes are not rolled and dumped in a heap on the floor. I live in a place called home. My trip was, in part, done to meet my school friend, Aman, who works in a Pharmaceutical company in Bangalore. I’m kidding; he works in an IT company. Aman, lives in a suburb in Bangalore that looks suspiciously like a village, along with three other people. They live/wallow in a 2 bedroom apartment in Pai Layout. All four of them are boys and that’s what accounts for the widespread devastation in the 2000 sq feet which they’ve rented out.

These guys had clearly worked very hard on getting that perfect hurricane hit look that all bachelor pads long to have. The floors were littered with small mounds which served almost as a way of cataloguing where things were kept. There was a pile for wires (Mobile chargers, Laptop Chargers, Wifi connection, Havell’s wires that don’t catch fire) one for Books and papers and one for clothes, which seemed almost to touch the ceiling. If you needed anything all you had to do was identify the correct pile and rummage through it.

The maid came once a week, every Sunday. That meant that she had to clear dust and trash equivalent to the amount of ash that spews out when TWO medium sized volcanoes erupt. I pitied the poor soul. In the kitchen, the situation was worse. Of the 4 of them, 2 of them could cook something that didn’t taste like the wrong end of a broom and of those 2 none were willing to do it. So food was ordered in, or you sauntered down to one of the cheap messes that gave you a roti for 7 rupees and sabji free. Alternatively, you could starve. The fridge was almost naked except for one cup of yogurt that had been placed there somewhere in the late Cretaceous period. Dishes were washed if and when they were needed and weren’t washed at all if you could make do with using a newspaper and/or the floor as a plate.

Freedom was absolute or as absolute as it could be without the neighbours complaining. There was a shelf in the kitchen which was lined with empty bottles of rum and beer as if they were academy awards. A solitary ash tray, stolen from a restaurant, sat solemnly in the corner.  You could do anything you wanted in that apartment and everything that you couldn’t do in a house with parents but after a while the freedom tires. The forbidden becomes commonplace and loses its allure and so you are reduced to selling the bottles for 2 rupees a piece and finding the joy of earning scrap money instead.

It’s a cruel life, the one that’s bachelors lead. An empty house is great for a day but lonesome for a life. The constant struggle for food, for a clean place to sleep, of ensuring that your friends don’t rip your blanket to shreds because they didn’t have anything better to do is an epic struggle. I salute the brave bachelors who undertake it every day. Bachelorhood is tough and no job in an IT company in Bangalore can change that fact.

Eye-tem Number

As I write this, my left eye is red enough to attract bulls from up to 7 kilometers away and my right eye is showing the tell-tale signs of following suite. After consulting 3 doctors in 2 cities, I now know that what I have is Acute Viral Conjunctivitis (‘Acute’, being the succinct doctor’s lingo for, “Pretty Darn Bad”).

It all started innocently enough with me getting up one morning with my left eye reduced to size of a small peephole. As any calm person under the circumstances would do, I rushed to the doctor. Unfortunately he was having a bad day. No, really. The thing was, a patient was nagging him for medicines which he seemed very reluctant to provide. It’s always a warning sign when your doctor doesn’t want to dish out the drugs. In the ensuing irritated haste he diagnosed my problem to be caused by a stye. A stye, for the unaware, is a boil that forms on the underside of eyelids. It’s the eye-version of a pimple.

He then prescribed steroid drops to be deployed into my flared left eyeball.

Now steroids as you know are used by body builders and Olympic cheats to quickly inflate to the size of an average truck. The drops of steroid I happily dribbled into my eye caused the same effect on the germs inhabiting it. Within no time, my left eye could well have been used on a traffic signal in place of the stop sign.

Still cheerfully ignorant of my condition, I then proceeded to my Aunt’s place to holiday for the next 5 days, the first two of which I spent floundering around with my one working eye. I crashed into furniture with a feverish relentlessness. Finally my Aunt, alarmed by the sheer strawberry-like tone of the thing and the damage to her tables and chairs, decided to show me to her family doctor.

My eye was peered into for a second time by an MBBS holder. She took more time than the doc who had gone there before her. She stretched and yanked at my eye-lids, prodded and poked, dilated and undilated my pupil and finally she tut-tutted,

“It’s definitely not a stye. It’s just terribly infected. Either that or it’s turning communist.”

And so I was ordered a new set of drops to be put every half an hour. This time there weren’t any steroids in them. The next morning, I woke up feeling awful. There’s no other way to put it. My eye showed slight improvement but it pained and throbbed and if I bent down it seemed like it would fall out and roll away. I said as much to my Aunt’s doctor. She was shocked for a minute.

“No the results aren’t satisfactory. I think he should be shown to an ophthalmologist on an urgent basis. The infection might have spread inside the eye where they might have already called for interior decorators to do up the place. If that happens he might have to undergo intravenous introduction of antibiotics, surgery or even a viewing of select films of the Bhatt Camp.”

It looked very grim when she put it thus.

And so, in what must surely be record time, we exited one clinic and checked into another. Even though my case was considered ‘urgent’ and written down in the visitor book as ‘an emergency’, I was shown into the doctor after about one and half hours. That's to tell you what kind of rush these eye specialists enjoy. The waiting room was packed with cataracts and people who claimed they could see everything double (which is not entirely a bad thing, if what you’re seeing is Chitrangadha Singh).

Eventually the third doctor had a look at my red orb. He obviously went much deeper than the other two, using complex instrumentation consisting of a light and a microscope, he peeked at my cornea and retina and I’m sure saw a surprised bunch of bacteria staring back at him. When he was done, he solemnly asked me to have a seat. I sat, expecting the worst. He took a deep breath and said, “It’s Acute Viral Conjunctivitis.” Those, I think, are the most joyous words, I have ever heard, trumping even, “Congratulations, you’ve passed!”

The travails still continue though. 15 days of trouble is the doc’s estimate. I still wake up with my eye clamped shut and unwilling to open (I eventually get them open by promising them a treat of internet sites and a small amount of cash.) Drops are dispatched in my eyes, though I squirm and shout less, now. And I’m listening to a lot more sob stories from people nowadays. They find me to be a very sympathetic listener. It’s not that this ordeal has mellowed me; it’s just that I’ve trained my eyes to water at the right places.

5 Things You Should Know About Freelancing At MTV

This month, I was freelancing with MTV. It was for a project which for a whole host of reasons, I cannot reveal anything about. And so, I have creatively named it, Project Top Secret. I was working as a _____ (This section cannot be published – Boss) on Project Top Secret. During the course of my stint these are the things I learnt about freelancing at MTV.

1. MTV is on the 2^nd floor, not the 4^th – The new Viacom 18 office is a massive building. It has all it channels in one place and it can get very, very confusing which is why it is important that you get off at the right floor. I spent three hours in a meeting discussing what would happen if Chotti Bahu died, before realising that I was in Colours and not MTV. I have to say though; Chotti Bahu has it bad in the coming episodes. I’d look be careful of the gas stove, if I was her.

2. Oh, look at the freelancers work – Freelancers at MTV are made to work in a small little conference room with glass doors. Which basically means, you become a zoo animal. The regular employees often pass by just to ogle at the freelancers at work and make funny faces at them. Some of them even throw in a banana.  

3. Freelunching – When you’ve spent hours brainstorming on _____ for Project Top Secret, you invariably begin to feel hungry. That is when you trudge up to the state of the art canteen on the 7^th floor. The canteen provides scientifically prepared, nutritious, filling, high-protein, all-awesome food. No I’m kidding; it’s actually just Dahi Puri and Sev Puri and some weird alien mixture of the two. This also explains why my boss is so, err, vast that his paunch has a paunch. Those are his words not mine. (These are your words and they will affect your payment – Boss.)

4.  Hard labour is now called ‘Freelance’ – The hours as a freelancer are so intense that they make Ashutosh Gowariker movies look like ad films. Manic schedules have to be kept in order to put up a project like Top Secret. You will be required to forfeit sleep, comfort and all your loose change in order to meet deadlines. In fact, at the time of writing, I haven’t been home for 17 weeks. I hear my folks are planning to file a missing person’s complaint anytime now. This is also the reason why Rahgu seems so pissed off.

5. Like a Boss – An MTV Boss is a true wonder of nature. They are sweet, caring and gentle. They nurture an environment of productivity and ensure that all freelancers are well looked after. They don’t overwork freelancers, never demoralize/demean/deliberately scrunch the souls of their freelancers by saying things like, “Plankton could have done a better job than this.” They always make sure freelancers are well looked after. They even let you out for one toilet break in the day! That is how golden hearted and amazing an MTV Boss is. Really, I wish I could one day become an MTV Boss. My boss is the best. He should get a raise. He is so spectacular that it’s a surprise he isn’t a part of the Avengers, yet. My Boss is what humankind should strive to become. 

Final Advice to Freelancers – If ever you write an article on your ordeal, DO NOT give it to your Boss to proofread. Secondly, keep in mind, by being a freelancer; you have talent but not enough talent to land a full time job. Lastly, the level of automation in the MTV toilets can be very unnerving. Do not panic if the flush asks you for the time.

Why isn't there a shoe to wear to sleep yet?

We are gradually heading toward being a nation of shoe specialists. A recent shoe census revealed that the average number of shoes per household has increased from 1 and a half in 1947 to 17 in 2012. The reason for this sudden shoe explosion, of course, is not using condoms. Oh wait, that’s the reason for the population explosion. The reason for the increase in shoes is the need to have a different pair of shoes for every activity, even the ones that don’t require shoes.

Think about it, we have one pair for ‘regular’ use. These are usually the most comfortable and durable shoes, built out of the same material that they use to make Rhinos. The other really important pair is the one for office wear. They are generally black, done so to match the colour of your boss’s heart. There’s one pair we wear to parties. These are the fancy, glittering shows that shine so brightly that plants use their light for photosynthesis. Then, of course, there are the running shoes. The importance of these shoes grew significantly when it was revealed that without the right running shoes, your knees could be reduced to dust. These shoes are usually bulky, padded and if worn without socks, smell so bad that they attract vultures from 50 kilometres away.

The running shoes though are different from the shoes you wear for various sports, even though most sports involve a fair amount of running. For football you need studs, called that because the term, ‘dudes’ wasn’t very popular then. You can’t use studs to play cricket and you can’t wear cricket shoes to play golf. You need riding boots for polo and cowboy boots if you’re a cowboy. You can’t wear shoes for swimming in a pool but you need flippers to swim in the ocean.

There are spare shoes and shoes that you keep inspite of them being so torn that they look like they’ve been through a shark attack. There are shoes for dancing; there are heels for ladies and flats for when they have to walk for more than 4 meters. There are slippers for the loo/college, slippers for the beach, sandals for the summer, sandals for the rains, gumboots if you’re between four and ten years of age, shoes with Velcro for convenience and laces for style, sneakers to go with your jeans and shoes to match your moods. Eventually all we’ll have in our homes will be shoes and our front doors will look like there’s a pooja at our place every day, with that avalanche of footwear fanning out in all directions (even spilling into the lift shaft.)

The power to stop this trend lies in your hands, er, feet. Remember all you need is two pairs. One for use and the other in case you spot a politician.  

(Being a football supporter) Is it really worth it?

Living in a cricket-crazy country and being a football supporter has very few benefits. Often times, especially after matches where Real Madrid has lost in the Champion’s League semi-final, my faith is rocked and in these dark times I am forced to wonder, is it really worth it?

It is because we football fans have to sacrifice a lot and endure much more. Sleep for one thing is always a problem for a football fan in India. A match of any consequence is always being played in some corner of Europe that has a minimum 7.5 hour time difference from wherever the Indian fan is seated. So inevitably, the live telecast happens at some obnoxious time like 1:30 am and by the time the match gets over and you’re done cursing the referee, you’re already one hour late for work. (The tell-tale sign of any football fan are dark circles big enough to be considered as lost rings of Jupiter.)

Then there’s the monetary cost involved with the whole operation. We have to buy club merchandise, which changes every season, posters, HD TV connection, beer, chips, a nice sofa, a better TV, surround sound, a bigger jersey because our beer belly doesn’t fit in the old one anymore. The total cost, with everything included, on average, is a little more than the entire defence budget of the country.

Add to that the physical deterioration that football entails. We’ll inevitably have a sore throat with all the shouting at the telly, cramps because our ‘lucky position’ – the position which we sit in every time our team wins – involves putting our left leg over our shoulder and obviously depression, irritability and high blood pressure caused by the matches themselves. Sometimes we really have to ask ourselves, what with all the existing stresses of modern life, do we really need the extra tension of supporting a football club?

And then to top it off, as if to rub it in our faces, the players we support are always going to the younger than us, earning in millions and going out with the hottest girls, so in the end, no matter what the outcome, the only losers are us, the anonymous football fans. It’s the final insult, the last mockery of our sad situation. But we’ll accept it because it’s the only way we know.

When our teams win we feel good, our chests fill with pride and we march about announcing it to the world until of course our voices are drowned out by the larger number of people discussing, Kolkatta Knight Riders V/S Mumbai Indians. There is no benefit to being a football supporter in India. There is no benefit and there sure as hell is no sleep, either.  

That Old Summer Feeling

I’m getting That Old Summer Feeling. The one I used to get when I was a kid and the only responsibility I had was to get everyone ‘out’ in lock-and-key. The feeling that I used to get when the summer vacations would begin and I would go down to play (note: everyone went ‘down’ to play even if they lived on the ground floor.) knowing that for the next month and a half, it would be just playing and trying to remember to wear my cap when I went out.

That Old Summer Feeling is nothing but feeling free, relaxed and possibly a little tanned. The reason I bring it up is because I just felt it again after a long long time. You see, as the years go by you feel this feeling less and less. The more tangled you get in your work and life, the summer slowly loses its charm and becomes just another season, without that hidden possibility of unbridled joy that it used to hold.

That Old Summer Feeling is about wearing cotton clothes all the time and still feeling itchy and hot. It’s about getting summer haircuts. It's about not stereotyping girls with a boy cut hairstyle as lesbians because everyone realises it’s just too hot to have long hair. It’s about developing prickly heat rashes (scientific term: Ghamori) and still getting by comfortably with just a nice cold bath. It’s about having mango juice trickle down your arm as you eat it like the greedy bastard that you are.

That Old Summer Feeling is about using the A/C so much that you’re name is put fifth on the top five reasons for the depletion of the ozone layer. It’s about walking in from the burning heat and having ice cold water; and then falling seriously ill. It’s about turning the fan on speed ‘5’ and then looking at it wobble dangerously and praying that it doesn’t fall. It’s about hating powercuts.

That Old Summer Feeling is about sweating so much that your shirt is actually a major salt water body, comparable to the Indian Ocean. It’s about running out of deodorants first and clothes second. It’s about flapping your shirt to cool off. It’s about wishing you could pant like a dog to beat the heat without it being socially awkward. It’s about having loads of rooh-afzaa and thinking you’re Dracula.

That Old Summer Feeling is back again and I want to enjoy it while it lasts.