Friday, March 11, 2011
Sunday, October 31, 2010
an old memory
A memory of the Mumbai Central railway station - a few yrs ago..about 8 years i guess...
I was going home after the 1st semester break during engineering. I had come down to Mumbai from Pune to board the Punjab mail to my home in Delhi. I reached Mumbai with my friend from engg and went to my school friends place in Mumbai.
Met him after more than an year but it was still like old times. Had good fun at his place and it was good to see the friendship continue.
He came to drop us at Mumbai central from where we had to board the train and he too wanted to jump onto it..he too wanted to go to Delhi after all someone very important to him lived there..he was as desperate as anyone could be..to board that train with me..but then he knew he couldnt at that point of time...and all i could do was tell him.."dude...dont worry..everythings gonna be ok..just hang in and have faith"...
its been 8 years since then...life has been good to him..and everythings good...and i am happy for him..and for the fact that we still are friends...
I was going home after the 1st semester break during engineering. I had come down to Mumbai from Pune to board the Punjab mail to my home in Delhi. I reached Mumbai with my friend from engg and went to my school friends place in Mumbai.
Met him after more than an year but it was still like old times. Had good fun at his place and it was good to see the friendship continue.
He came to drop us at Mumbai central from where we had to board the train and he too wanted to jump onto it..he too wanted to go to Delhi after all someone very important to him lived there..he was as desperate as anyone could be..to board that train with me..but then he knew he couldnt at that point of time...and all i could do was tell him.."dude...dont worry..everythings gonna be ok..just hang in and have faith"...
its been 8 years since then...life has been good to him..and everythings good...and i am happy for him..and for the fact that we still are friends...
Monday, October 4, 2010
Delhi
Nothing describes Delhi better than these words by Ghalib
asked my soul "What is Delhi"
and
asked my soul "What is Delhi"
and
my soul replied "The world is the body, Delhi its life"
Friday, September 10, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Kingfisher - the king of good times
"Dude..how many beers will you have"?? I asked my friend Nitin...
"2 cans for me"...Nitin replied...
"Give me 4 cans..Kingfisher strong".. i said to the shopkeeper..we had bought the snacks to eat along..Nitin grabbed a few smokes..and we headed to our abode...the balcony outside the bedroom in my apartment...
I arranged two chairs in the balcony.. Nitin got the smokes and lighter..i placed the beer cans on the window shelf and we sat down..there was a slight breeze about...
"The weather is nice today" said Nitin lighting up his smoke..."Gimme a can dude"..he said..
I handed him a can and took one for myself..we opened the cans and toasted to our friendship..the beer wasnt chilled as it was in the open for sometime..but then who cared..
"Do you remember the Ranikhet trip"..Nitin said...and i said.."yeah......."
and the night went on and we just talked about the good old school days...
This was our routine..on the Friday/Sat night that Nitin came to my town from Mumbai..we would have our diner..then go the booze shop..get our beer..Nitin would get his smokes and then we would head back to the flat..go to the balcony..arrange two chairs...sit down..open our cans of beer ..rest our feet on the railing...look at the greenery engulfing the balcony and chat about our school days...
Cheers guys!!
"2 cans for me"...Nitin replied...
"Give me 4 cans..Kingfisher strong".. i said to the shopkeeper..we had bought the snacks to eat along..Nitin grabbed a few smokes..and we headed to our abode...the balcony outside the bedroom in my apartment...
I arranged two chairs in the balcony.. Nitin got the smokes and lighter..i placed the beer cans on the window shelf and we sat down..there was a slight breeze about...
"The weather is nice today" said Nitin lighting up his smoke..."Gimme a can dude"..he said..
I handed him a can and took one for myself..we opened the cans and toasted to our friendship..the beer wasnt chilled as it was in the open for sometime..but then who cared..
"Do you remember the Ranikhet trip"..Nitin said...and i said.."yeah......."
and the night went on and we just talked about the good old school days...
This was our routine..on the Friday/Sat night that Nitin came to my town from Mumbai..we would have our diner..then go the booze shop..get our beer..Nitin would get his smokes and then we would head back to the flat..go to the balcony..arrange two chairs...sit down..open our cans of beer ..rest our feet on the railing...look at the greenery engulfing the balcony and chat about our school days...
Cheers guys!!
Lazy Sunday!!
It's a lazy Sunday today..
I am reading Johnny gone down and listening to Nachna Onda Nei (simply love this song)
howz your sunday coming along?
I am reading Johnny gone down and listening to Nachna Onda Nei (simply love this song)
howz your sunday coming along?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
PM And The Speech-Writer - TOI
PM And The Speech-Writer…
Surely freedom’s not just another word on Independence Day? Chetan Bhagat
On August 14, 2010, inside a quiet, leafy, guarded bungalow on Race Course Road, a stressed old man shifted uncomfortably on his sofa. A young man next to him offered solace.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve done it before. It’s only the Independence Day,” the young man said as he stacked sheets of paper.
“Do i have to give a speech?” the old man said, “I hate to talk.”
“But you are the prime minister,” the young man said, “And i am here, your speech-writer. Why worry?”
The PM remained uncomfortable. He looked at his phone. No calls or messages from high command. Without direction, life was extra hard.
The writer continued, “It’s mostly school kids who attend. There is no Q&A at the end. Unfurl the flag, stand for the national anthem, take the gun salute, read the speech – it is standard stuff.”
“Everyone gets a holiday on Independence Day,” the PM said, “why can’t i?”
The speech-writer was speechless. He changed the topic.
“Should we talk about the content?” the writer said, “what do you want to focus on?”
“I don’t know. What do you suggest?” the PM said. “Is there anything worth talking about?”
The speech-writer paused to look at the PM in disbelief before he spoke again: “So much has happened. Just in the past months.”
“Like what?” the PM said. “Like the Bhopal verdict – no real punishment.” “Yes, but i don’t have to talk about that,” the PM said, “that story has died.” “Along with the thousands,” the writer mumbled. “What?” the PM said. “Nothing. How about the crazy inflation? People are truly sick of it,” the writer said. “Really?” the PM said. “Really what? That there is inflation or people are sick of it?” the writer said. “Both i guess. I never buy anything. People do it for me. And i can’t talk about inflation. It’s too sensitive an issue.”
“But it affects your people,” the writer said. “Next,” the PM said. “Corruption? Look at the Commonwealth Games – full of murkiness. Why don’t you resolve to bring the criminals to book.” “Criminals who?” the PM said. “The politicians and officials who did it,” the writer said. “But they are important people,” the PM said. “They’ve broken the law. Isn’t the law the same for everyone?” the writer said. “It is?” the PM said. The writer could only raise his eyebrows in response. “It can’t be the same law. Have you ever seen any high-profile official in jail for corruption?” the PM said. “Any?” The writer shook his head. “I don’t like to make false promises,” the PM said. “Of course,” the writer said and cleared his throat, “how about Kashmir? Violence has flared up there. Or maybe we can combine it with the Naxalite disturbance and talk about internal strife?” “Talk what?” the PM said, “why do people like to talk? Why?” “Talk to show you care,” the writer said, “and talk about solving the issues, of course.” “Is that my job?” the PM said. “You are the prime minister. The most powerful person in the country. You can make things happen,” the writer said. “Stop making fun of me,” the PM said, “other topics?”
“India-Pakistan relations,” the writer said.
“I am not allowed to talk about that,” the PM said.
“Not allowed?” the writer said, confused on who could disallow the PM. The PM raised one eyebrow to the framed pictures on the wall above. The writer saw the person the PM was referring to. Both exchanged half smiles.
“It’s OK. I am used to it now,” the PM said.
The writer stretched his arms out. “I’m out of ideas. You guide me, sir. We don’t have that much time.” “General topics,” the PM said, “just make it broad enough that there is no controversy. But not so boring that the guards and kids go to sleep,” the PM said.
The writer bit his upper lip to mull over the PM’s suggestion.
“Like i’ll tell you,” the PM explained, “talk about poverty – reducing it, of course. And education. And stuff like we won’t tolerate injustice and inequality. Oh, and use the word superpower a couple of times – just don’t mention a specific issue or put a real opinion.”
The writer nodded slowly as he absorbed the instructions.
“OK, sir, in that case, all i have to do is look at last few years’ speeches and cut-and-paste to make a new one.”
The PM’s eyes opened wide as he shook his head. “Don’t!” he said, using his rare loud voice, “don’t do that. The TV channels catch on to the cut-and-paste. Who’s that feisty TV anchor?”
“Barkha Dutt?” the writer said.
“Yeah, her. She’ll rip it apart. Not to mention that Rajdeep Sardesai and Arnab Goswami and Deepak Chaurasia. They track all the copy-paste stuff, they’ll talk non-stop about it,” the PM said.
“OK, OK, won’t refer to the past speeches,” the writer said.
“No you can. Just make sure it is from speeches at least 20 years ago, before these anchors started work.”
“Oh, OK,” the writer said, “the content is the same anyway. Fine sir, you’ll have it in two hours.”
The writer stood up to leave. The PM escorted him to the door.
“You are a quick learner, i wish you all the success in life,” the PM said.
“Thank you sir. I wish you... well, what can i wish you? You have everything.”
“Wish me freedom, real freedom,” the PM said, looking at the writer in his eyes as the door shut between them.
The writer is a best-selling novelist.
Surely freedom’s not just another word on Independence Day? Chetan Bhagat
On August 14, 2010, inside a quiet, leafy, guarded bungalow on Race Course Road, a stressed old man shifted uncomfortably on his sofa. A young man next to him offered solace.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve done it before. It’s only the Independence Day,” the young man said as he stacked sheets of paper.
“Do i have to give a speech?” the old man said, “I hate to talk.”
“But you are the prime minister,” the young man said, “And i am here, your speech-writer. Why worry?”
The PM remained uncomfortable. He looked at his phone. No calls or messages from high command. Without direction, life was extra hard.
The writer continued, “It’s mostly school kids who attend. There is no Q&A at the end. Unfurl the flag, stand for the national anthem, take the gun salute, read the speech – it is standard stuff.”
“Everyone gets a holiday on Independence Day,” the PM said, “why can’t i?”
The speech-writer was speechless. He changed the topic.
“Should we talk about the content?” the writer said, “what do you want to focus on?”
“I don’t know. What do you suggest?” the PM said. “Is there anything worth talking about?”
The speech-writer paused to look at the PM in disbelief before he spoke again: “So much has happened. Just in the past months.”
“Like what?” the PM said. “Like the Bhopal verdict – no real punishment.” “Yes, but i don’t have to talk about that,” the PM said, “that story has died.” “Along with the thousands,” the writer mumbled. “What?” the PM said. “Nothing. How about the crazy inflation? People are truly sick of it,” the writer said. “Really?” the PM said. “Really what? That there is inflation or people are sick of it?” the writer said. “Both i guess. I never buy anything. People do it for me. And i can’t talk about inflation. It’s too sensitive an issue.”
“But it affects your people,” the writer said. “Next,” the PM said. “Corruption? Look at the Commonwealth Games – full of murkiness. Why don’t you resolve to bring the criminals to book.” “Criminals who?” the PM said. “The politicians and officials who did it,” the writer said. “But they are important people,” the PM said. “They’ve broken the law. Isn’t the law the same for everyone?” the writer said. “It is?” the PM said. The writer could only raise his eyebrows in response. “It can’t be the same law. Have you ever seen any high-profile official in jail for corruption?” the PM said. “Any?” The writer shook his head. “I don’t like to make false promises,” the PM said. “Of course,” the writer said and cleared his throat, “how about Kashmir? Violence has flared up there. Or maybe we can combine it with the Naxalite disturbance and talk about internal strife?” “Talk what?” the PM said, “why do people like to talk? Why?” “Talk to show you care,” the writer said, “and talk about solving the issues, of course.” “Is that my job?” the PM said. “You are the prime minister. The most powerful person in the country. You can make things happen,” the writer said. “Stop making fun of me,” the PM said, “other topics?”
“India-Pakistan relations,” the writer said.
“I am not allowed to talk about that,” the PM said.
“Not allowed?” the writer said, confused on who could disallow the PM. The PM raised one eyebrow to the framed pictures on the wall above. The writer saw the person the PM was referring to. Both exchanged half smiles.
“It’s OK. I am used to it now,” the PM said.
The writer stretched his arms out. “I’m out of ideas. You guide me, sir. We don’t have that much time.” “General topics,” the PM said, “just make it broad enough that there is no controversy. But not so boring that the guards and kids go to sleep,” the PM said.
The writer bit his upper lip to mull over the PM’s suggestion.
“Like i’ll tell you,” the PM explained, “talk about poverty – reducing it, of course. And education. And stuff like we won’t tolerate injustice and inequality. Oh, and use the word superpower a couple of times – just don’t mention a specific issue or put a real opinion.”
The writer nodded slowly as he absorbed the instructions.
“OK, sir, in that case, all i have to do is look at last few years’ speeches and cut-and-paste to make a new one.”
The PM’s eyes opened wide as he shook his head. “Don’t!” he said, using his rare loud voice, “don’t do that. The TV channels catch on to the cut-and-paste. Who’s that feisty TV anchor?”
“Barkha Dutt?” the writer said.
“Yeah, her. She’ll rip it apart. Not to mention that Rajdeep Sardesai and Arnab Goswami and Deepak Chaurasia. They track all the copy-paste stuff, they’ll talk non-stop about it,” the PM said.
“OK, OK, won’t refer to the past speeches,” the writer said.
“No you can. Just make sure it is from speeches at least 20 years ago, before these anchors started work.”
“Oh, OK,” the writer said, “the content is the same anyway. Fine sir, you’ll have it in two hours.”
The writer stood up to leave. The PM escorted him to the door.
“You are a quick learner, i wish you all the success in life,” the PM said.
“Thank you sir. I wish you... well, what can i wish you? You have everything.”
“Wish me freedom, real freedom,” the PM said, looking at the writer in his eyes as the door shut between them.
The writer is a best-selling novelist.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)