Visarjan: God's Own Farewell Party

A few days back the city was brought to a stand still by the seaward movement of a large rotund figure, all decked in gold. No I am talking about Bappi Lahiri going out for a stroll. What I refer to is the grand visarjan of Lord Ganesha.

Let me recapitulate for those of you who may not be fully aware of what a visarjan is probably because you’re a bit ignorant when it comes to religious rituals or you were born and raised on a different planet. Ganesh Chaturthi, which is the celebration of Lord Ganesha, is a 10 day festival that ends with idols of the deity being submerged in water causing irreparable damage to the marine ecosystem.

Though the festival lasts for 10 days, worshippers are allowed to immerse their respective idols at regular intervals depending on how many visitors they can stand coming to their house. One can immerse an idol after one and half days, 5 days, 7 days and if you can withstand the onslaught of relatives, friends and bhajans for a while longer, 10 days. 

The actual virsarjan is just as grand an event as the worship. Transportation is arranged to carry the idol to the local water body. This is can be anything, from a cart or a tempo to being just one really strong family member. Then a shaadi band is arranged for because what God really wants for his send-off is not prayers or a tearful goodbye but a really loud, instrumental rendition of, ‘Sheela Ki Jawani.’

The Visarjan procession is an age old tradition that involves large groups of people dancing to music and holding up as much traffic as possible. No other time would you see people this happy when going to immerse an object in water. Slogans are shouted out(“Ganpati Bappa Morya”, “Ek, Do, Teen, Chaar, Ganpaticha Jay Jay Kaar.” And, “Chalo Chalo Aage Bado.”), songs are sung and the whole family, including the 78 year old grandmothers, dance tirelessly in what is, a makeshift disco on the road.

Eventually, they manage to reach a water body and after beating off all the other Visarjan candidates for a nice spot, the Ganpati Idol is immersed. The Ganpati Idols which are made of paint and other harmful chemicals then get dissolved in water and are more damaging to the environment than Jayalalitha is after dinner.

To get around this problem, artificial lakes are created. These are basically pits that are dug and filled with water specifically so that idols can be immersed in them without it being a holocaust for fish. This is one of the most bizarre ways to solve a problem. Its like, instead of getting people to stop smoking you look to grow them another lung.

Overall the Visarjan is just one grand farewell party, fit for a God. I could never ever imagine any of my friends or colleagues ever giving me such a smashing farewell party, complete with music, dancing and such boisterousness! What I can imagine them doing, however, is immersing me in an artificial lake.

F1 : More Than Just A Key On Your Computer.

So F1 finally made its way to India. I must admit up front that I’m not really a big F1 fan. I am what they call an amused follower, who basically knows the sport and most of its protagonists but would definitely not part with a kidney to meet Lewis Hamilton.

On the whole I think F1 coming to India is a good thing although I still have reservations about how popular it will become, not because of any flaws in the sport itself but simply by the virtue of it not being  cricket. I really find it hard for most of us Indians to stand in the hot sun watching a sport without the incentive of shouting, “SACHIN, SACHIN!”

Also I find it hard for us Indians, for whom cribbing about petrol prices is the second most fun thing we can do with our time after, of course, cribbing about nearly everything else, to actually take to a sport that guzzles gallons of petrol without the cars really going anywhere; like to the mall or to a relative’s house in Dombivli.

This however is good news for Narain Karthikeyan and Karan Chandok because finally people will know what exactly they do for a living, up until now people not being impressed by the fact that they were “drivers”. It is also going to be a good thing for youngsters who want to pursue a career in the sport, to see up close and in person what F1 is all about, that is if they manage to look away from the pit babes.

I hope Force India gets its act together. It would be pretty embarrassing to trundle in last when you’re racing at home. Force India’s boss and reigning King of Good Times, Vijay Mallya, will no doubt be present and will be hoping that his racing team can at least manage to preserve his dignity like his IPL team has been doing for the last 3 years. Incidentally by owning an F1 team Vijay Mallya has found the only successful way to mix drinking and driving.

F1 coming to India is also going to be a challenge to the Government and administrative bodies because the sport involves them having to keep a stretch of road pothole-free, something which they find very hard to do! It really would be a sad spectacle to see Michael Schumacher and Sebastian Vettel bouncing along on a track that is as smooth and even as a graph showing a man’s heart rate right after he’s seen Katrina Kaif’s Aamsutra ad.

In a country that was at best known for its fast carts, the entry of fast cars is indeed revelatory. This does raise the question of whether Indian companies will see any potential in the sport and begin pumping money into it. I wonder if we’ll ever get to see ‘Manickchand’ emblazoned across Fernando Alonso’s chest or ‘Reliance’ streaking across on the side of a race car or ‘Vicco Vajradanti’ slapped on to the top of a Helmet.

How F1 fares in India is up to time to tell but it sure will be a welcome change that will hopefully remind  people that the word ‘Fast’ doesn’t just mean to give up food.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Potholes.

Mumbai is one of the rare cities in the world that doesn’t have roads because what it really has are potholes connected by asphalt. Yes, potholes are one of the gravest problems plaguing this great city of ours, the others being when will Sachin score his hundredth hundred and Tushar Kapoor.

Come the Monsoon, the roads of Mumbai seem to evaporate in large chunks leaving behind what looks like the lunar landscape. So big and deep are these potholes that it’s rumoured that the Titantic was actually found at the bottom of a pothole near S. V. Road. All of a sudden what was once a road becomes an obstacle course for vehicles. 

The root cause of this problem is the way the BMC goes about planning the construction of roads. The planning process is a long drawn one that involves many complex decisions, made to find out who the most inefficient contractor is, so that they can be hired and given the entire road development budget. The contractors then buy substandard raw materials such as salt and attempt to make roads with them. These roads eventually crumble and disappear because they weren’t made as well as the toll booths which seem to last forever and force people to pay up large sums of money for roads which are worse than a small mud track in a swamp.

There are an estimated 4,500 potholes in the city this year and the BMC has a different excuse for each one of them (“We are working on it.”, “That is not a pothole that is a manhole without a cover” and, “The residents of this road always wanted a swimming pool.”) 

When complaints are made to the BMC about potholes they usually do one of two things:   

A.   Send workers to repair it, who inevitably end up causing more inconvenience than the actual pothole.

B.    Do nothing.

94% of the time they go with option B.*

So harmful are they that too much driving in pothole-laden roads can lead to severe long term illnesses such as slip discs, sore buttocks and excessive abusing. And that’s just the damage you have to suffer. The damage to your car is much worse. Entire tires get chewed up, suspensions get worn down and the undercarriage of your car gets scooped out because of the incessant dragging through potholes. The only positive that has come out of this situation is that Mumbai drivers are now one of the most alert drivers in the world, they always keep their eyes peeled out and don’t drive too fast, just so that they aren’t taken unawares by a lurking pothole.

As if traffic and the lack of parking spaces weren’t big enough problems the BMC has now added potholes to the list of reason why it’s suicidal to be driving a car. Sometimes it really makes me wonder whether the BMC actually has some grand plan, such as saving the environment, behind its constant dissuasion of people driving on roads. We may never know. Excuse me now while I apply some Zandu Balm to my sore buttocks.

*100% of statistics in this article are made-up.

The 9 Types Of Co-Workers.

The office is a strange place and I’m not even talking about the uneven cooling that makes where I sit, ideal for breeding penguins. In the one month that I have spent in a corporate environment, I have realised that every individual is not unique. Or to put it another way, when you’re in office you fall into 9 easily identifiable categories. Yes, that is why the HR department made you fill out that form.

Presenting the 9 types of co-workers:

1.       The One on the phone: This person will sit at her desk with the office phone to her ear talking to all the people who live in places where it’s too expensive to call from home. Seeing her, makes you wonder how she doesn’t run out of things to say. It also makes your social life look sickly when you realise that the only call you’ve received in the last 4 days was a missed call from a wrong number.

2.       The One who Surfs the net: This person makes full use of the office’s high speed internet to look up lots of important work related videos such as, “Animals Singing Christmas Carols.” If ever you see him staring transfixed at the screen for more than 15 minutes and then quickly reach for the mouse when someone approaches be rest assured that he is not working on that presentation due at the end of the week. You will also find it strange that although he will be at his PC all day he never seems to see any of your e-mails until you bring them up.

3.       The Flirt: If you don’t find the flirt at his desk, which you never will, then immediately start checking the desks of every single person in the office. And by single, I mean not seeing anyone romantically. The Flirt can be identified with his ability to make up random excuses to go and talk to people, (“Hey do you have a pen?”, “Do you think Antelopes make for good house pets?” and “Did you know tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterward?”)

4.       Mr. Do-Not-Distrub: These are the 3 people because of which the entire company is running. They are the hardcore workaholics who sit hunched over their desk with a look that makes you think that they might just burn a hole through their work if they glared at it long enough. Their focus on the job is so extreme that they make Zen masters look like 20 year olds in a night club. Cautionary advice: If you disturb them while they’re working they will explode in your face.

5.       The Creative One: This breed of office workers is very easy to identify (Clue: They usually wear Cowboy hats to work.) You’ll see them sitting with their feet on their desk with their music on, dressing up Barbie dolls because that’s what helps them make that all important presentation to the client on whom the company’s future depends. They will also be the ones who will vehemently oppose anything logical because after all art is stifled when sense prevails.  

6.       The Busy One: If ever you’re sitting at your desk and you hear a slight whooshing sound but when you look up there’s nobody, don’t panic because the busy one just passed by you. The busy one is that one person in office who is always on her feet hopping about like a caffeinated sparrow.  You will never know what work the busy one is busy with but just looking at her doing so much rushing about will make the 15 reports that you have to write feel as easy as adding single digit numbers WITH a calculator.

7.       The Messy One: The place where the messy one sits is usually classified as a grade three dumping ground by most municipal bodies. His desk is always surrounded by a mound of trash the dimensions of the Great Wall of China. The messy one hasn’t ever tidied up his desk so basically if he has to find anything on it, a specially trained archaeology team has to be called in to dig it up. The computer keyboard of the messy one invariably forms a record of all the things that he has ever eaten. It’s covered with oily imprints (parathas), brown stains (coffee) and feathers (don’t ask).

8.       The It’s-5-o-clock-let’s-go Guy: When the clock strikes 5, nothing and by nothing I mean not even a herd of wild Mayawati’s can stop this man from leaving the building. He comes in at 8 in the morning and puts in an honest day’s work but the moment the clock hands change from their 4:59 position, he is, to use Ravi Shastri’s words, off like a tracer bullet. No matter how important the work left for tomorrow is and no matter who it’s for, if the clock has reached the magic mark, then the it’s 5-o-clock-let’s-go guy considers it as significant as an actress in a Salman Khan movie.  

9.       The Prankster: In every office there’s one person who’s day is made if someone sits on a pin that’s been strategically placed on his seat. Or if someone finds a dead animal in their soup at the office party. Or if someone’s Facebook status is changed to, “I love my boss. I want to marry him NOW!” while they had left their computer unattended. The Prankster is basically that guy who forgot to grow up after 4^th standard. The prankster is the one who everyone involuntarily looks at when anything goes wrong, even though it may not be his fault for example, if the building catches fire.

Monsoons and not a moment too soon!

The monsoons are here. It’s that most wonderful time of the year again, when you are filled with unbridled love because your girlfriend’s clothes have turned translucent in the pouring rain. It’s the season that invokes the most nostalgia as you think back to the those enchanting times when you’ve had to swim back home because of all the water-logging. It’s that time of the year again when TV news channels go on extended holidays leaving last year’s footage of a gigantic puddle of water on loop with the headline, “IS KURLA THE NEXT ATLANTIS?”

This year the rains arrived pretty early which the MET department predicted correctly with the use of their new, sophisticated, weather forecasting system called, “Guesswork.” As the first lilting showers fell ever so gently on the thirsty earth below, kissing it with its wet raindrop lips, people were inspired to write lines such as this one. After the oppressive summer heat, the cool showers of monsoon felt exactly like switching over to the BBC after hours of watching AAJ TAK.

But all this rain-loving is but a matter of a week when the novelty of seeing water falling from the sky wears off. After that the rains become more of an inconvenience than a wonderful and romantic season, especially so if you have to step out of the house a lot.

The monsoons replace that uncomfortable sweating in the scorching heat with the uncomfortable sweating in the stuffy humidity. The air gets damp and sticky and your clothes take more time to dry than it takes an Ashutosh Gowariker film to reach its climax (7 years and 3 days).

The umbrellas and windcheaters start coming out after months of hibernating in the section of the cupboard which also contains your dirty magazines and it becomes terribly inconvenient for two people to walk with umbrellas on a footpath which is designed keeping in mind that no one is supposed to walk on it. Always make sure that you choose an umbrella befitting your gender. If you are a man then it is absolutely necessary that you carry the ‘gent’s’ umbrella, which is basically a simple black umbrella the size of a military helicopter. If you are a woman, your umbrella by default has to be of the foldable, compact type with colourful floral patterns on it. This distinction has been made because woman can get away with having a cute little pink umbrella without the risk of being called gay.

No piece on the rains would be complete without mentioning the brilliant flood control measures that our country has. Let me attempt to explain this complex system to you. Every time it rains, we open a drain, which causes water to start flooding the streets and that’s when our state-of-the-art-system of “evaporation” kicks in to get rid of the water in a record time of 4 days. This system works well as long as you don’t fall into any of the open drains.

Shoes are to be avoided in the monsoon. If you’re a woman that basically means putting aside 90% of your belongings for the next 3 months. And if you’re shoes are made of leather, then you better be more careful about their safety than a girl going home at 7 o clock in the evening in Delhi is about hers. Rains are to leather shoes, what the Taliban is to a woman who wants to play to football, that too in shorts.

Talking of which, the one defining cliché that everyone must do, is play football in the rains. People seem to think that a wet day somehow adds to the enjoyment of playing the sport. It’s not hard to see why they think like this, after all football is most fun when passing becomes impossible because the ground has been turned into a mud swamp, where you spend most of your time slipping and rolling around in the slush like a pig. The only person who doesn’t share your joy of playing football in the rains is your maid who has to wash what is basically a lot of mud in the shape of your T-Shirt.

All in all the monsoons are a wonderful season, not just because of the joy you get when your car splashes water on a person wearing a white shirt, not just because of the cold breeze that precedes a downpour and makes you want to rub Vicks Vaporub all over yourself and surely not just because of the sadistic joy you get out of seeing little children cry every time there’s a loud clap of thunder. No, the monsoon draws its beauty from the refreshment and the metaphorical cleansing that it offers to all those who’ve somehow managed to avoid falling into an open drain.

Rain Rain Come Again...

French Open 2011: Well Clayed, Rafael Nadal.

The French Open was played between two of the greatest rivals in recent times: L.K. Advani and Sonia Gandhi. No, that’s not it. The second slam of the year was actually played between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal on a brilliant Sunday afternoon in France and whose live telecast was watched in India on a soggy Sunday evening.

The match started with Fedrerer quickly asserting himself and showing everyone why he was once upon a time, the number one player in the world by taking a 3-0 lead in the first set. Federer had a lot to prove coming into this final having won his last grand slam in the Australian Open in 2010, or in tennis years, 65 million years ago.

Nadal on the other hand was looking to equal Bjorn Borg’s record of most French Open titles won by long haired men (6). On the day, Federer was wearing a red t-shirt in his classic one-size too small look. Nadal too wore his trademark really-tight-and-always-has-to-be-pulled-out-before-service underwear.

Coming back to the point (pun intended), the first set looked to be going Federer’s way, until Rafa Nadal who’s name is Spanish for, “One who never gives up.”, began doing what he does best, grunting really loudly. Am kidding of course, Nadal actually began playing some of the tennis that earned him the nickname, “King Of Clay.”, which by the way is English for, “Rafa Nadal.”

Suddenly, he began winning all the long rallies and amassed a lot of points by using his powerful forehand. Showing the determination of an Indian Government in making sure that there’s a scam every 15 days, Nadal scraped his way up and ended up winning the first set. In doing so, he broke Federer’s serve more times, than India TV could break headlines in the same amount of time. A minor record in its own right.

Nadal started the second set brightly. Federer’s body language looked deflated. Hope was ebbing out of him. His backhands that had once been firm strokes of assuredness, like the kind made by a master painter suddenly looked like the hasty, brutal hacks made by a deranged serial killer. Just when it looked like Federer’s serve was going to broken again with him 4-5 behind, the most unexpected thing happened: Nadal was struck by lightning. No, sorry that was what Federer’s wife was wishing for, what actually happened was, it rained.

The match was stalled and the players headed to the changing rooms, giving Nadal the much needed opportunity to take off his shirt on camera. When the play resumed, Federer looked a different player (some even said he looked like Zaheer Khan) and he forced the second set into a tie-breaker which he eventually went on to lose comprehensively. However you could tell he was heading toward something and that something was winning the third set, 7-5.

Suddenly everyone hoped there would be a heroic fight back from the former world number one but he quickly put those hopes to rest early on in the fourth set. In fact the most activity from Federer in the fourth set was done by his hair, which bounced and swayed in the French breeze. If only the same could be said about his returns.

This being the French Open the crowd was so well dressed that it looked like Nadal and Federer were playing the final in the middle of the spring collection catalogue of Donatella Versace. An example of their extreme fashion sense: Nearly everyone had hats on not because it was too sunny but because they were French.

Also a special mention must be made of the commentary which thankfully did not change after every five games and didn’t include Ravi Shastri. In a welcome change from the stuff we’re used to in cricket (“That’s a BIGGIE”, “The ball went like a tracer bullet to the fence” and the mother of all statements, “Whatever happens now, in the end cricket is the winner.”), the commentary was informed, intelligent and best of all, they kept quiet while the game was on and spoke only when Nadal was adjusting his underwear.

Coming back to the match, the final score, for those of you who keep track of such things was, Nadal winning: 7-5, 7-6, 5-7, 6-1. In winning the French Open, Nadal showed an all-around dominance, determination and a hunger to beat his opponent. In short all the things that mark a champion and/or a Delhite.

 

Our generation is indeed privileged to see two such great rivals, constantly battling it out with each other. Their contests provide us with such high level of entertainment, every single time they compete. One is all ready a legend and the other stands on the threshold of becoming a legend. We truly are blessed to have L. K. Advani and Sonia Gandhi. 

Johnny Jackson.

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A Royal Wedding Despite Camilla Parker-Bowles.

On the 29^th of April, 2011, a simple, everyday girl got married to a Prince. It would have been a perfect modern day fairytale were it not for the fact that this Prince Charming was a bit bald and his dad was married to Camilla Parker Bowles.

I speak of the marriage between Prince William and Kate Middleton or as we Indians like to call her Kate Half-Century. A love story that started in college, ten years ago and ended with a million girls all over the world, staring tearfully at a TV screen and going, “Awww...”, at the same time. And they had good reason too. The wedding, like the love story, was possibly the most elaborate romantic event in history. After Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, of course.

Dubbed ‘The Royal Wedding’ by the ever helpful media who dutifully updated people about every royal preparation of every royal day until it got royally annoying.  A lot of money (A little more than the GDP of Singapore) was put into ensuring that the wedding lived up to expectations. The guest list was extremely exclusive with only the absolute who’s who of the who’s who being invited. In fact, so who’s who were these who’s who’s that even the royal family didn’t know who some of them were (Answer: They were David and Victoria Beckham). 

From very early in the morning thousands of people thronged Westminster Abbey. These people were incorrectly described as ‘well-wisher’s’ when they were more accurately ‘People-who-paid-taxes-which-funded-the-Royal-Wedding’. They were just there to see how their hard-earned money was being spent. I would have been curious too, if a make-believe monarchy was having a really smashing wedding at my expense.

The bride was dressed in an intricate and most beautiful wedding dress that was, contrary to strong rumours, not designed by Manish Malhotra. It was so blindingly white that it made up for the sun on what was a depressingly cloudy day and people were astonished at how long and trailing the end of her gown was. It was later revealed that her designer (not Manish Malhotra) had stitched a large part of Antarctica on it. Prince William, of course, was dressed exquisitely too, in a red uniform that made him look like a security guard. Camilla Parker-Bowles looked stunning as well in her Frankenstein costume.

The wedding ceremony was an extremely long affair because it took a lot of time to get the bride and bridegroom to the altar. Prince William and Kate, began their journey to the altar, fresh and early at around 11 in the morning and after what seemed like 7 days of travel they had only reached the middle of Westminster Abbey. In fact they were walking so slowly that there was really fear that they might miss the Mahurat. To be fair to them, it’s not easy walking fast when the bride has to drag half of Antarctica behind her.

Eventually the priest began the wedding rituals. Choir boys sang, the band played (God save the queen, Humpty Dumpty and Sheela ki Jawaani) and guests waited expectantly for someone to object. But no one objected and the Royal couple exchanged their wedding vows, Kate blushing like a red rose and Prince William still looking like a security guard. At the end of the ceremony and the signing of the registry, it dawned on the watching world that they had been witness to a moment of great historic significance: Yes, the moment when Kate Middleton realised her surname was now ‘Of Wales.’

After that the Royal Couple slowly,(2 hours 15 minutes) made their way to the balcony. The crowd went ballistic on seeing the new royal couple and they expressed their joy in the only way they could, by shouting ‘Kiss, Kiss’. And so, very awkwardly the Prince leaned in and smooched his Princess and the men clapped and applauded and women wept tears of joy. Never had two people been watched kissing on a balcony by 2 billion people, usually it’s just the one 15 year old, neighbor's boy, watching through binoculars.

All in all the wedding was exactly what it promised to be: A 30 year old man marrying his girlfriend of 10 years. So magical was this occasion that every single woman watching the wedding had only one thought going through her head, ‘Harry is still available’. Having to change your last name to 'Of Wales' is a small price to pay for a fairytale wedding.

Great Minds Think Alike. Ok, Almost Alike...