I bought a bike for 1.13 Lacs. I had the money to spare so I spent it. To hell with it. So dont look at me with those ugly disdainful eyes of yours as if you know what to do with your money.
The bike has amazing specs and is a fabulous looker. Six speed transmission, a liquid cooled engine and a body derived from Yamaha R1 ......well for all of you uninformed peasants..it is a better bike than the current production bikes of less than 200cc displacement.
The day I got the bike delivered, I was asked about 5-6 times about the bike by a no. of people.
Whenever I am stuck in traffic astride my bike, people on other bikes pull up near me and ask me about the specifications.
I have even had Tempo walas, paan walas, junkies, policemen, traffic policemen, my company's security guys ask me about the bike. I have answered all of them with sometimes patience and sometimes with a look of pure glee.
I mean one can only explain something and enjoy it if one thinks that the listener can actually make out what one is saying. I am sure you understand me ....!! If not... go bury your head in sand...you are not eligible to read my post. Stop now.
However, soon it started getting on my nerves whenever a zero IQ bummer would proudly comment on how much average his bike offers..!! I mean ..come on..!! If my bike looks like a premium bike, then I give it the right to guzzle on gas akin to a premium bike...If I can pay 1.13L for a bike I can very well afford the petrol.
Now coming to the reason as to why I am writing this post.
Flashy jeans. Three undone buttons on the shirt. Leather (I doubt) boots..!! and with a lot of bling bling stood a guy near the entrance of my building. He must have seen me enter like.....Rossi...(I would like to think ..!!).
NO eye contact. So I did not pay any attention to him.
"Whats the procedure of this bike?"
And I was like "wha?????". It is one of those Qs which take you by surprise. The sheer stupidity of the Q makes you think twice to find any hidden meaning or slang to which you were hitherto an alien to.
"Whats the procedure of the bike?" He repeated. This time directly looking at me. Thank God. I was atleast visible amidst all that bling bling.
This time I said, "I am sorry ?"
And with an air which exuded his supremacy over little nothings like me, he shrugged, "What is in the bike?"
Another poser. All those who know me a bit, know that I am very cynical about such abhorrent stupidity.
So instead I just launched into telling him the general specifications until I reached the Mileage.
I said"35 KmpL". Ohh, believe me 35 is decent.
The answer was"The rest is good (as if he appreciated the Liquid cooled engine, the Superbike chassis...)....but for the mileage , I would have bought the bike"
That did it. Something just snapped. And out came a cliche, "You know what, you are not worth that bike. Go get your self that 109KmpL bike. That should satisfy your cheap biking sense"
I said it with a bit of force but it was successful in changing his demeanour. He just shut up and looked elsewhere. Our sentry, who until now was a mute audience, winked at me.
And I went home. Content.
Yes. I do find my pleasures in small things as these. I am sure you understand me ....!! If not... go bury your head in sand...you are not eligible to read my post. Stop now.
P.S.: This post is dedicated to a) One who initiated me into blogging and wants me to write more without writing anymore herself b) My Rock at office. [Someday I will give you a ride...someday :) ]
September 12, 2008
July 24, 2008
The Girl with the Baskets.
The following is an abridged and a bit modified version of a short story by Ruskin Bond. The original story is written very well but is a bit too long for Blog readers who want to read only if it is short. This post is not quite short, however..!!! Oh...Please forgive any Typos..I am too lazy to proofread something this long... :)
With all due respect to Mr. Ruskin Bond's work, please tell me if I have trespassed on any laws. If so I will promptly delete this post.
The Girl with the Baskets.
When I was at college, I used to spend my summer vacation in Dehra, at my Grandmother's place. I would leave early in May and return late in July. Deoli is a small station about thirty miles from Dehra.
The train would reach Deoli about five in the morning, when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs. Deoli had only one platform, an office for the station master and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor and a few stray dogs. The train stopped there only for 10 mins before going on.
Why the train stopped at Deoli, I dont know. I have never seen a coolie there. But the train would stop there for a full 10 mins and then the train would move onward forgetting Deoli.
I used to wonder what happened at Deoli, behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform, and for the place nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day i would get off the train at Deoli, and spend the day there, just to please the town.
I was 18, visisting my Grandma and the night train stopped at Deoli. A girl came down the platform, selling baskets.
It was a cold morning and the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulder. Her feet were bare and her clothes were old, but she was a young girl, walking gracefully and with dignity.
When she came to my window she stopped. She saw that I was looking at her intently, but at first she pretended not to notice. She had pale skin set off by shiny black hair and dark, troubled eyes. And then those eyes, searching and eloquent, met mine.
She stood by my window for some time and neither of us said anything. But when she moved on, I found myself going to the carriage door. She noticed me at the door and stood waiting on the platform looking the other way. I walked across to the Tea stall. A kettle was on the boil but the owner was busy serving somewhere on the train.
"Do you want to buy a basket?" she asked. "They are very strong made of the finest..."
"No", I said. " I dont want one."
We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then she said, "Are you sure you dont want a basket?"
"All right give me one." I gave her a rupee hardly daring to touch her fingers.
As she was about to speak, the gaurd blew the whistle. She said something but it was lost in the clanging of the bells. I watched her as the platform slipped away. She did not move but she was looking at me and smiling.
I sat up awake for the rest of the journey as I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl's face and her dark, smoldering eyes.
But when I reached Dehra the incident became blurred ad distant for there were other things to occupy my mind. It was only when I was on the return journey, two months later, that I remembered the girl.
I was looking out for her as the train drew into the station and I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her walking up the platform. I sprang off the foot board and waved to her.
When she saw me, she smiled. We were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old friends. She did not go down the length of the train selling baskets, but came straight to the tea stall; her dark eyes were suddenly filled with light. We said nothing for some time but we couldn't have been more eloquent. I wanted to take her away with me. She moved to put her baskets down. She put out her hand for one of them but I caught her hand and held it.
"I have to go to Delhi", I said.
She nodded. "I do not have to go anywhere"
"I will come again", I said. "Will you be here?"
She nodded again, and, as she nodded the Guard blew the whistle. I went back to my train.
This time I did not forget her. She was with me for the remainder of the journey. All that year she was a there too. As my college term ended, I rushed to my Grandma.
The train stopped at Deoli and I looked up and down the platform. But I could not see the girl. I was deeply disappointed, and overcome by a sense of foreboding. I ran up to the station master and said, "Do you know a girl who used to sell baskets here?"
"No, I dont. And you better get on the train if you dont want to be left behind."
My Grandma wasn't pleased with me as I hardly stayed a week when I was back on the train for Delhi meaning to ask the Station master a few more Qs. But at Deoli there was a new station master. I found the owner of the tea stall but he said, "Yes. There used to be a girl selling baskets. But I dont know where she is now. I havent seen her for over 5 months now."
As the Deoli platform receded, I decided that one day I would to break my journey there, spend a day, make enquiries and find the one who had stolen my heart with nothing but a look from her dark, impatient eyes.
With this thought I consoled myself throughout my last term in college. I went to Dehra again in the summer and as the train drew into Deoli I looked up and down the platform for the signs of the girl, knowing I wouldnt find her but hoping just the same.
Somehow, I couldnt bring myself to break the journey at Deoli and stay a day there. If I had been Bomkesh Bakshi, I reflected, I would have cleared the up the mystery and found a suitable ending to this story. I think I was afraid to do this. I was afraid of discovering what really happened to the girl. Perhaps she was no longer in Deoli. Perhaps she was married, perhaps she had fallen ill......
In the last few years I have passed Deoli many times and I always look out of the carriage window half expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. But I will never break my journey at Deoli. I prefer hoping and dreaming, and looking out of the window up and down the lonely platform, waiting for the girl with the baskets.
With all due respect to Mr. Ruskin Bond's work, please tell me if I have trespassed on any laws. If so I will promptly delete this post.
The Girl with the Baskets.
When I was at college, I used to spend my summer vacation in Dehra, at my Grandmother's place. I would leave early in May and return late in July. Deoli is a small station about thirty miles from Dehra.
The train would reach Deoli about five in the morning, when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs. Deoli had only one platform, an office for the station master and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor and a few stray dogs. The train stopped there only for 10 mins before going on.
Why the train stopped at Deoli, I dont know. I have never seen a coolie there. But the train would stop there for a full 10 mins and then the train would move onward forgetting Deoli.
I used to wonder what happened at Deoli, behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform, and for the place nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day i would get off the train at Deoli, and spend the day there, just to please the town.
I was 18, visisting my Grandma and the night train stopped at Deoli. A girl came down the platform, selling baskets.
It was a cold morning and the girl had a shawl thrown across her shoulder. Her feet were bare and her clothes were old, but she was a young girl, walking gracefully and with dignity.
When she came to my window she stopped. She saw that I was looking at her intently, but at first she pretended not to notice. She had pale skin set off by shiny black hair and dark, troubled eyes. And then those eyes, searching and eloquent, met mine.
She stood by my window for some time and neither of us said anything. But when she moved on, I found myself going to the carriage door. She noticed me at the door and stood waiting on the platform looking the other way. I walked across to the Tea stall. A kettle was on the boil but the owner was busy serving somewhere on the train.
"Do you want to buy a basket?" she asked. "They are very strong made of the finest..."
"No", I said. " I dont want one."
We stood looking at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then she said, "Are you sure you dont want a basket?"
"All right give me one." I gave her a rupee hardly daring to touch her fingers.
As she was about to speak, the gaurd blew the whistle. She said something but it was lost in the clanging of the bells. I watched her as the platform slipped away. She did not move but she was looking at me and smiling.
I sat up awake for the rest of the journey as I could not rid my mind of the picture of the girl's face and her dark, smoldering eyes.
But when I reached Dehra the incident became blurred ad distant for there were other things to occupy my mind. It was only when I was on the return journey, two months later, that I remembered the girl.
I was looking out for her as the train drew into the station and I felt an unexpected thrill when I saw her walking up the platform. I sprang off the foot board and waved to her.
When she saw me, she smiled. We were both pleased, and it was almost like a meeting of old friends. She did not go down the length of the train selling baskets, but came straight to the tea stall; her dark eyes were suddenly filled with light. We said nothing for some time but we couldn't have been more eloquent. I wanted to take her away with me. She moved to put her baskets down. She put out her hand for one of them but I caught her hand and held it.
"I have to go to Delhi", I said.
She nodded. "I do not have to go anywhere"
"I will come again", I said. "Will you be here?"
She nodded again, and, as she nodded the Guard blew the whistle. I went back to my train.
This time I did not forget her. She was with me for the remainder of the journey. All that year she was a there too. As my college term ended, I rushed to my Grandma.
The train stopped at Deoli and I looked up and down the platform. But I could not see the girl. I was deeply disappointed, and overcome by a sense of foreboding. I ran up to the station master and said, "Do you know a girl who used to sell baskets here?"
"No, I dont. And you better get on the train if you dont want to be left behind."
My Grandma wasn't pleased with me as I hardly stayed a week when I was back on the train for Delhi meaning to ask the Station master a few more Qs. But at Deoli there was a new station master. I found the owner of the tea stall but he said, "Yes. There used to be a girl selling baskets. But I dont know where she is now. I havent seen her for over 5 months now."
As the Deoli platform receded, I decided that one day I would to break my journey there, spend a day, make enquiries and find the one who had stolen my heart with nothing but a look from her dark, impatient eyes.
With this thought I consoled myself throughout my last term in college. I went to Dehra again in the summer and as the train drew into Deoli I looked up and down the platform for the signs of the girl, knowing I wouldnt find her but hoping just the same.
Somehow, I couldnt bring myself to break the journey at Deoli and stay a day there. If I had been Bomkesh Bakshi, I reflected, I would have cleared the up the mystery and found a suitable ending to this story. I think I was afraid to do this. I was afraid of discovering what really happened to the girl. Perhaps she was no longer in Deoli. Perhaps she was married, perhaps she had fallen ill......
In the last few years I have passed Deoli many times and I always look out of the carriage window half expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. But I will never break my journey at Deoli. I prefer hoping and dreaming, and looking out of the window up and down the lonely platform, waiting for the girl with the baskets.
April 30, 2008
My Turn?
Today it was my turn to buy 2 Cadbury chocolate bars. It is a custom that I and my friends at office have developed. Every day after lunch, we go out of our campus to a nearby convenience store and get 2 bars which we split among the 5 of us.
Wednesdays and Fridays are when non-vegetarian food is served in our canteen. Not so good. Not so bad. These days see a lot of people excluding the IT girls. Sigh ! The food was surprisingly good today and I and my friends ate like pigs..!!
There is a peculiar practice in my canteen. The non-veg counter is always overcrowded with salivating people who unashamedly pile up the food on their mould-cast plates. The line is held up by the one who is lustily picking up the best chicken pieces that one can find..!!
I am always surprised by the amount of food we collectively waste. I dont know what prompts one to take a large helping of an item and eat only a bit of it. But not one person thinks twice about the food that one wastes. After a long retrospective session, I have come to the conclusion that.....I am a very good boy as I do not waste quite a lot of food.
So...it is Wednesday today. It was my turn to buy chocolates for our group who, like me, had gulped down at least a ton of food between us. The chocolate bars cost me INR 36 only. Expectant hands quickly shot in my direction as I emerged from the store. We tore away at the protective wrapping with lust dripping from our mouths.
"Daal-Chawal khila do na...." came a weak voice. ("Please feed me some rice... ").
"Saab.....daal-chawal khila do na..."
I heard him the first time. Others in my group did too.
The eyes were large, pleading and strangely dry. Hair was unkempt. Face was soiled. The shorts were torn in a number of places and held in place with a string improvised as a belt.
"Khila do na...." Now directly looking into my eyes. In turn, into every one else' eyes.
The boy looked hungry. However, the eyes belied nothing. No feeling. No urge to curse people around him who fed their obese selves incessantly. The 'People' always have a hard time coming to a decision to do some charity.
"Chal chal ....hat......abee...hat..!!" The security man posted outside the store shoved the waif away. ("Go on now....come on...go ...!!!")
We went back to hastily devouring our remaining pieces of chocolate. We had to get back to our desks. Our commitment to work should be displayed with utmost care.
It occurred to me that the boy had strangely dry eyes. Maybe he was tired of crying.
Wednesdays and Fridays are when non-vegetarian food is served in our canteen. Not so good. Not so bad. These days see a lot of people excluding the IT girls. Sigh ! The food was surprisingly good today and I and my friends ate like pigs..!!
There is a peculiar practice in my canteen. The non-veg counter is always overcrowded with salivating people who unashamedly pile up the food on their mould-cast plates. The line is held up by the one who is lustily picking up the best chicken pieces that one can find..!!
I am always surprised by the amount of food we collectively waste. I dont know what prompts one to take a large helping of an item and eat only a bit of it. But not one person thinks twice about the food that one wastes. After a long retrospective session, I have come to the conclusion that.....I am a very good boy as I do not waste quite a lot of food.
So...it is Wednesday today. It was my turn to buy chocolates for our group who, like me, had gulped down at least a ton of food between us. The chocolate bars cost me INR 36 only. Expectant hands quickly shot in my direction as I emerged from the store. We tore away at the protective wrapping with lust dripping from our mouths.
"Daal-Chawal khila do na...." came a weak voice. ("Please feed me some rice... ").
"Saab.....daal-chawal khila do na..."
I heard him the first time. Others in my group did too.
The eyes were large, pleading and strangely dry. Hair was unkempt. Face was soiled. The shorts were torn in a number of places and held in place with a string improvised as a belt.
"Khila do na...." Now directly looking into my eyes. In turn, into every one else' eyes.
The boy looked hungry. However, the eyes belied nothing. No feeling. No urge to curse people around him who fed their obese selves incessantly. The 'People' always have a hard time coming to a decision to do some charity.
"Chal chal ....hat......abee...hat..!!" The security man posted outside the store shoved the waif away. ("Go on now....come on...go ...!!!")
We went back to hastily devouring our remaining pieces of chocolate. We had to get back to our desks. Our commitment to work should be displayed with utmost care.
It occurred to me that the boy had strangely dry eyes. Maybe he was tired of crying.
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