Bhatti Sahab

I don't usually get affected when something like this happens, but would like to make an exception here.

I was first introduced to the concept of intelligent comedy through Flop Show, and boy! What an introduction that was. I think that is where my disregard for mindless comedies (a la Govinda et al) stems from. Besides, there was a certain romanticism with which you captured India of the 1980's which is yet to be replicated. The extraordinary part is that the stories are relevant even today.

Every one of us has their own fallacies and shortcomings, yet only a few people realize this. Of those few, only a handful have the courage to accept them and an extremely miniscule number actually possess the ability to actually laugh at them. You, Sir, belonged to that class of people.

It is rather unfortunate that we could not learn this skill from you during your time with us. For it is a skill we could really do with in today's times. When one is able to laugh at his mistakes, means that he is he ready to acknowledge them and only when we are ready to acknowledge our mistakes can we begin correcting them.

I wish I could end this by saying that you will be 'hurriedly forgotten' or that we are 'thankless' just like you used to end your iconic show with a 'misdirected by' or a 'we are thankless to...', but I can't. Thank you for the laughs, Sir and for having the courage to hold a mirror to our faces, no matter how ugly.

 
RIP, Jaspal Bhatti. Forever remembered :'(

The Jasmine Ghost

It was the winter of 2006. Fed up of the daily grind, I had been wanting to go away, fly under the radar for some time, and what better place to do so than Goa. Now, everyone touts Goa as the place to visit with friends. But that's been done to the death in my opinion. I had already had a 'touristy' experience of the place on two previous occasions but this time my objectives were different. So there I was, in Goa, right after new year's. With me for company were Marley, and marijuana. The perfect recipe for some rest and relaxation, right? It would have been, had that ghost not meddled in my affairs.

The first evening was way beyond satisfying. The beach, ever so slightly populated...the sun, a shimmering disc of light...the sky, an ever changing vista, ablaze in a million shades...the beautiful Arabian Sea, giggling like a child tickled, the cool ocean breeze...teasing, rejuvenating. And of course, the beer and the weed accentuating it all to surreal levels. Fucking beautiful. It was almost two in the night when the iPod conked off and I decided to head back. It was a new moon. As I neared the hotel, the wind picked up. It was getting chilly. The streets were empty and there was a distinct smell of jasmine lingering about. I must admit, I was pretty high and happy at the point.

The property adjoining my hotel consisted of an old colonial era house, and a large attached courtyard. Strangely, there was no gate and its general shoddy state seemed to suggest that it had been abandoned some time ago. I could see my hotel in the distance as I passed the compound. Suddenly, I heard a strange noise, as if someone was playing a very flat trumpet. I thought it was a truck as some of them have similar sounding horns. I stepped to the side of the narrow road. Strangely, no truck passed by. As I stood there wondering, I heard  the noise again, only this time it was not as intense as before. It was then I realized, that the sounds were coming from my left, not behind as I had initially thought. The source of the sounds was within the abandoned compound.

I stood at the boundary, peeking in, trying to make sense of the situation. It was pitch dark and I couldn't see anything. Suddenly, I saw a light being flashed at me from the other end of the compound. I was intrigued. The noise did an encore, and the light flashed again. Whatever it was, it had my attention now. In a sober state, I'd have walked away from the situation, But that night, I was anything but sober. I checked to see if there was anyone still out on the street, but it was empty. A few stray dogs looked up from their nightly forays, interested in my next step. As I made the decision to walk into the compound, they ran away. I was well and truly on my own. The jasmine smell grew stronger. I walked past the house, half expecting someone to notice me trespassing, but nothing happened. I reached the end of the compound and was met with a strange looking vehicle.

It was stretched out like a limousine, but wasn't very classy. There were no doors in the rear. Instead, there were huge windows. Even in my inebriated state, I understood that I was looking at a hearse van. Surely there was nothing to be scared of. But then the deathly trumpet played for a third time. It was definitely from within the car. The effects of alcohol and marijuana were being forcibly stripped from my system. I could feel my heart beating loudly. I peeped in from the front window and what I saw shocked me, to say the least

There were no seats but the rest of the front cabin seemed to be standard specification. A tightly wrapped cloth bundle lay on the floor of the car. Something was protruding out of the cloth though, and I almost retched when I saw that that something, was a human leg. There was a dead body in the front of the car which usually has a designated space for them at the rear. I turned back and started running. The dogs barked as I exited the compound. The temperature had dropped another couple of degrees, but I was sweating. The cold air singed my face and the smell of jasmine grew stronger still. The hotel gate was only a few meters away. I thought I bumped into someone just then, but kept on running. There was no time for apologies and I was scared of looking back anyway.

I burst into the hotel reception and blurted out my room number to the receptionist. She gave me my keys. I asked her if she had seen any strange occurrences lately. She nodded in the negative. I ran to my room and tried to sleep. But the cocktail of alcohol, marijuana, tobacco and adrenaline ensured that I spent an uneasy night.


The next day, I was still trying to make sense of the previous night's events. Part of me wanted to attribute it all to the dope in my system, forget it and move on, but there was another part of me which wanted to get the facts straight. Ultimately, logic triumphed and I decided to visit the compound again that night. Only this time, sober and better prepared for any emergencies.

The day passed by in a blur. I spent most of it indoors, sleeping and occasionally peeping out the window to get a look at the house, but it seemed pretty innocuous. In the evening I talked to my folks back home, let them know about the awesome time I had been having. All lies of course. Finally when the clock struck two, I gathered all my courage, and went downstairs. The receptionist was at her post. For the first time I looked at her for more than a few seconds. She was a typical Goan smart looking girl. I managed to steal a glance at her name tag, but wasn't able to read it very clearly. I deposited my keys with her, smiled, and made my way towards the compound.

I could see that the van was parked at its usual place and as soon as I stepped into the compound, the trumpet sounded loud and clear. It was cold. The first thing I did, since the logical part of my brain was in charge, was have a look at the number plate. I could not make any sense of what was written on it, which added to my fear. The lights flashed just then as I went around to check the back of the car. It was empty. I could feel my heart beating faster with every passing moment. It reached a crescendo as I came to the front of the car and looked in. Sure enough, there was a body inside, covered in a shroud like the previous day. My trembling fingers automatically reached the cellphone in the pocket of my jeans and started fumbling for the four key presses that would connect me with the police. My eyes were affixed on the dead body at all time. And then, it moved. It fucking moved.

The body turned on its side, and I heard the distinct 'click' of the van doors being unlocked. I was petrified and couldn't move. The door opened and a tall being stepped out. It was too dark to make out any particular features, but he was wearing white clothes, and appeared mighty pissed at me for having disturbed him. I thought I was going to die. My throat was so dry I wasn't even able to scream. And then the being asked me -


"Nimige Kannada gotha?"

I didn't understand what that meant, but nodded my head, more out of reflex than anything else.

"Sorry" he said, got into the van, straightened the backrest of the driver's seat and sped off. Everything was over in less than five minutes. It took me another five to figure out what had happened.

Apparently, there was no ghost to begin with. The driver of the hearse van probably didn't have a place to stay so he had to sleep in the van. And seeing as to how the bungalow was not in use, he must have thought it to be a nice, quiet place to spend the nights. And when he turned about in his sleep, his feet hit the steering wheel, activating the horn, or the adjacent switches, activating the lights. The van was registered in Karnataka, and the number plate too was in Kannada which is why I couldn't read it. And as I would later find out, the driver, when he came out of the car, asked me whether I spoke Kannada or not. Obviously that was the only language he knew.

What a relief! A sense of calm came overcame me as I headed back to the hotel. The receptionist wasn't there, but I knew where my key was, and took it. For the first time in two nights, I slept peacefully.

The next morning, I awoke to find the doors of the old house open, and a car parked inside the compound. No, it wasn't the hearse van, but a newer, modern car. I could also see an old couple there. I went down and asked if anyone knew them. Apparently, everyone did. They were the hotel's owners and had been visiting their daughter in Assam for the past month. I felt like going over and talking to them about my little encounter, which I did.

"Good afternoon, I am staying over at your hotel...lovely place." Flattery gets you everywhere. They invited me in.

"Why thank you!" they said in unison. They seemed really nice and warm. Their house, from the inside was very beautiful. Soon we were chatting over tea and some lovely cupcakes.

"You weren't here for the past few days...your house...it almost looked abandoned."

"Yes, we don't really enjoy the new year crowd so much. So we take a long vacation every year around the same time. I had asked these people to look after the house, but the buggers didn't bother."

"You know, you really should install a gate here. Your house was being used for illegal parking...God knows what else."

"Really!?!"

I told them everything. They listened intently.

"And you know, it seems so funny now, but at the time, I really thought I had encountered a ghost." The old couple looked at each other. A look of seriousness came over their faces and then the gentleman spoke to me.

"But son, you really did encounter a ghost. You said you could smell jasmine in the air. Have you  seen any plants around?"

"No..." I said.

"And you also said you bumped into someone your first night out, which was a new moon..."

"Yes"

"Well, that was the spirit of a Portuguese girl who was killed here. She has been haunting this place for centuries. Comes out only on new moons. She's usually not malevolent, but there have been incidents...you were lucky."

I felt the blood drain from my face. The cake I was holding in my hand fell down and it somehow made the lady laugh.

"Oh stop it now! Can't you see he's scared enough as it is without you having to add to the poor boy's misery?"

"There is no ghost here" she continued. "My husband's just teasing you. The jasmine plants are in our backyard, totally invisible from the road. That is why you didn't see them."

I was so relieved. I joined in the laughter and told them. "And anyways, had there been a real ghost around, I don't think you'd have found anyone to manage the reception at nights, much less a woman."

This time, it was their turn to be surprised.

"But young man, we haven't had anyone managing the reception at night since..."

"Since when?!"

"...since the last girl committed suicide...poor girl. She was very smart. Wonder what went wrong..."

I left Goa that same evening and haven't returned since.

Just click here

"It's really very simple Sir! Just click here" said the young engineer as he fervently pointed to the button at the bottom of the screen, his voice rife with amazement.

He couldn't, for the life of him, understand his senior's behaviour. It wasn't as if he hadn't been informed. He had reminded him to process his leave application just a week ago and under his mother's instruction, that morning too. The veteran had agreed on all occasions, and clicking the 'approve' button on the online form would have made it official.

After staring at the computer screen for what the young engineer perceived as an eternity (but in reality, were only about five or so minutes) all that PKC could come up with was-

"Get me a written application. Please." His voice was two tenors below his normal speaking tone which was barely audible in the first place.

The young engineer stormed out of the room in disbelief. As he did, he made a mental note of all the departments and officials he'd have to personally inform about his impending absence. He wished his senior understood technology better.

Prasenjit Kumar Chatterjee, or PKC, as he was popularly known was the technical manager at Mechalite Industries. He was a brilliant engineer and manager, but was known to be very miserly and austere. Even at the fag end of his career, he dressed simply, did not carry a cellphone, and commuted by public transport. He hung on to every penny he earned while his peers splurged on luxuries like cars and expensive gadgets. Ah yes, the gadgets.

Modern electronics have developed at an amazing speed over the past few decades. They have completely revolutionized the way people work, and PKC was a perfect example. As a student, he'd learned to do his calculations on a slide-rule and using logarithms. Once he started working, he was using the electronic calculator and now in the final lap of his career, the personal computer. Understandably, he was a little bit of a novice when it came to operating it. He had mastered the basic commands, but that was it. Although he had hesitantly accepted one at work, he hardly ever used it save for checking the odd email or two. 

That's why it didn't bother him when he one day received an email from a Nigerian prince who was looking for help. It detailed how he had been through tough times and that 'a trusted contact' informed him that PKC was the right person for keeping his $1 million inheritance safe from the anarchists in his own country. Of course he'd collect his money in due time and offer a generous reward to PKC for his services. PKC wondered who the trusted contact was, but then remembered that his wife's brother had been posted in Nigeria for some years. This realization ensured that he parted with his bank account and other details to help the prince transfer the money. After all, a friend in need is a friend indeed.

When he came back the next day, he saw an email from the IT department warning staff about a hoax email doing the rounds. Apparently, some scamsters were sending out emails in the names of fake Nigerian princes complete with the riches to rags stories of how anarchy in their country had robbed them of their once regal lifestyles. It categorically asked staff to not share any details with the sender. PKC immediately had a sick feeling in the gut of his stomach. All the grammatical and factual errors in the email he'd responded to started registering in his mind. He called his bank to check his account status, but in his heart of hearts, he already knew. The operator only confirmed his worst fears. His entire career's worth of savings had been reduced to zero.

What followed were an embarrassing few months as he came clean in front of his family, and then, for the first time in his life, borrowed money from his friends and relatives. Of course, this was only till the following month's salary came in, but that didn't make it any more comforting. He had to default on his home loan, couldn't send much money to his son studying in Benares, and give up on his dream of owning a bigger car. His wife didn't like it one bit and he hated it even more. But there was no way to undo what had been done. He simply had to find a way to live with what he had done, and that was why he was always careful with his money to the extent of being miserly.

Of course his subordinate didn't know this. PKC, along with his life's earnings, had lost his faith in modern technology that fateful day three years ago. He really did understand technology, but, to him it was much more complex than 'just click here'.

Travels, Travails

April 17 1979

Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Department of Physics

Dr. Ariel Rosenborg was lost to the world as he worked on his new contraption. There were books, papers, journals, calculators and other paraphernalia strewn about on his table. All of a sudden, his eyes lit up. A semblance of a smile began to form upon his lips. The calculations were correct. The readout on his velocity panel showed 99.99%.

Dr. Rosenborg, Ari to his friends, was a much loved and revered person in one of the best departments of physics in the world. A true authority in the field of particle physics. At 45, he already was leagues ahead of his peers. To add to his shining academic credentials, he was genial, easy going and a great person to be around. He had just completed his most brilliant work to date. But before he could tell anybody, there was one thing left to do...the reason why he had spent so much time and effort working on this project. The world does not need to know about time travel just yet.

Few people knew that he had survived the holocaust as a child. Not even his wife. He preferred it that way. He was one of the lucky few who had managed to reach the United States after fleeing their homes, but not before witnessing much brutality being meted out to his relatives, friends and neighbours. Treatment that ranged from cruel to downright barbaric, just to satisfy the whims of one man. Adolf Hitler had no right to die the way he eventually did, without facing consequences of his actions. Dr. Rosenborg had wanted to personally deliver justice on Hitler for a very long time. Beneath his calm exteriors, this was the fire that raged.

The plan was simple. He would go back in time and eliminate Hitler. Clean and simple. The day: April 20, 1939. Hitler's fiftieth birthday. He vaguely remembered the day as he had lived through it once as a five year old. He remembered there was a military parade and that Hitler met a lot of people that day giving him the perfect opportunity to finish his job and make a clean getaway. He chose his weapon, an Uzi sub-machine gun, and wired himself to his time machine. He adjusted the time jump and the coordinates of his destination. He even pre-programmed his return a day after the assassination. He pushed a few buttons and was on his way. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was his laboratory spinning real fast.

April 20, 1939

Berlin

Nazi Germany

As soon as he regained consciousness, he knew where he was. The streets of Berlin were familiar to him. There were a lot of people around. They were all preparing for something. There were huge signs and posters everywhere. He was wandering around when he was spotted by a Nazi officer who seemed to be in charge of the preparations there. Their eyes met. He shuddered and tried to make a dash for it, but there were other officers close by. He would never make it. He had little choice. The officer came up to him. Ari stayed mum. Speaking was tantamount to getting killed. He looked at Ari and then at his list. He checked it twice or thrice, cursed the junior officer who had prepared it, placed a bunch of flowers in his hand and led him to an area where people were greeting a short, mustached man. Ari was uneasy. As he came towards Ari, he could feel his stomach cramp up. When he saw Ari, the mustached man bent down, kissed his cheek, took the bunch of flowers from his hands and moved on. The next day, newspapers carried the following photograph, amongst others. Of course, no one knew who the child in the plain shirt and dark knickers was.

April 18, 1979

Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Department of Physics

Hours after returning from his time trip, Dr. Rosenborg cut a distraught figure. He was slowly realising the fact that transporting humans through time is not as easy as transporting protons and electrons. He needed to think of a way to time travel, whilst maintaining the current state of the body and the mind. He stepped out to call his wife and tell her that he'd be spending some more time at the lab.

April 21, 1939

Berlin

Nazi Germany

The junior Nazi officer who had prepared the list of children offering floral greetings to the Führer wondered why his senior was unhappy with him. He could not have messed up the number, after all, he had personally escorted each one of them to the holding area.

A few years later, Major Uziel Gal of Israel would design the first Uzi sub-machine gun.
-----------------
References:
1. Wikipedia, of course, for the historical facts
2. German Propaganda Archive for the photograph

P.S: The preceding was a re-telling of a story my father told me one night over dinner, many years ago. I happened to chance upon the picture you saw above and that's what sort of rekindled the idea in my mind. Neither I, nor my father make any claims regarding the originality of this story.

Also, this is a light hearted attempt at highlighting one of the paradoxes of time travel, set against the backdrop of one of the worst periods in human history. I sincerely apologize if anybody felt offended by it and assure you it was not intentional.

The last time

Think about it. Think about it real hard. When was the last time you-

spent three and a half tense hours?

had a lump in your throat from trying to not cry?

actually cried?

danced with random people?

saw the entire nation celebrating as one?

If you answered all of the above with a 'today' then congratulations, you have witnessed something which a lot of people have waited a long time for, something which every toddler learning to hold a bat dreams of, an encore which was 28 years in the making. Yes ladies and gentlemen, you have witnessed history being made today. If (heavens forbid) you were to die tomorrow, you'd do so in peace.

There are victories and then there are victories. Sometimes people win because they are destined to. But most of the times, they win because they have toiled for it. This victory belonged to the latter category. You saw it in the way the players reacted after the match. You felt it in Dhoni's eyes as he watched the last six sail over the boundary ropes. You heard it in every battle cry Yuvraj Singh let out. This was no ordinary victory.

But perhaps the most alluring image of this world cup was that of the young brigade, carrying their God on a victory lap of the stadium...the same way he has carried the expectations of the entire country for almost two decades.What is also most satisfying to learn is that he has now filled the only lacuna in his trophy cabinet. But we have to remember one thing.

Shortly after the euphoria of the victory has died down, the wave of expectations shall begin to amass anew. There will be new challenges, new scales to peak and new demons to exorcise . We may not win every time, but whatever tomorrow brings, today is ours. We have proved to the world that we too, can be the best at something. I sincerely hope that this belief infiltrates the mentality of every man, woman and child in this country and today is also the last day we block ourselves from realizing our true potentials!

Walking the talk - Episode 2

Les gens, today we talk about a very important topic. Amongst people in my generation, it has been quietly gaining attention for the past few years, and today has become a top priority. In fact, I think its currently beating beer and shopping too. Some have already experienced it, and it seems that most of the others want to do it sooner rather than later. No, I'm not talking about sex. Today's topic is much more complicated than that. Yessir! We're talking about marriage here.

I was walking home after work one evening. As usual, I was deep in conversation with myself and the discussion quickly turned to the topic of marriages, and later (to my dismay) my marriage.

So winter's upon us. Soon, the marriage season will commence.

There is nothing new about that...is there?

Well yeah, so many of my friends are doing it/planning to do it this year! I mean I look at all these marriage invitations in their pastel colurs and glitter covered envelopes (seriously, stop doing that) and think "It wasn't long ago that this guy was winning farting contests", or "No more free booze", or "Time to strike another name off the drunk dialing list".

Yeah, they've grown up now. They've become more responsible. Besides, everybody does stupid things when they're young. Want to start recalling yours? 

I think I'll pass on that one. But what surprises me really is the pace at which this change is happening.We're only 25 for god's sake! We've just taken over the reins of our lives. Shouldn't we enjoy this freedom for some time before settling down?

Perhaps. But why do you think there should be a waiting period? I mean, you've already started working, and unless something radical happens, a few years down the line will see you doing the same things you're doing now. You see the right person, you like each other, you get married. Simple?

The hell it isn't, and stop sounding like my mother. Let me elucidate. Like we agreed, its only been a short while since we started fending for ourselves. Choosing the right partner is one of the most important decisions of our lives. To make any good decision, one needs experience and we don't have that because we've just started fending for ourselves. See the circle there? It's scary!!

Yeah I do. There is a 50% chance that you'll screw up this important decision. But whatever happens, I'm sure that eventually everything will be alright. It always does.

Chance? Probability? I hate that shit!

Hey...from the time the right gametes fused to create you, to this day, every event had multiple possiblities. Even if one of those had had a different outcome, who knows...where you would have been. Yet we're having this conversation here today. You're healthy, have a good family and good friends, are well (,) educated, earning, drive your own car etc. It's all been good.

But that doesn't prove anything. I'd be driving a bigger car, and have eight pack abs for all I know. How do I know that the best outcomes have happened to me?

I guess what you're saying is right...and there have been times when better things could have happened. But you'll have to agree when I say that on an average, probability has been kind to you and there is no reason for that trend to change all of a sudden.

So I should not be scared because I have probability and statistics on my side? Is that what you're saying?

Yes

Fuck.

Language woes

"But you speak good Marathi..." is something I hear a lot. You see, because of my rather North Indian sounding name people somehow don't expect me to speak the language of the state where I was born, raised, studied and am now working. It is only when I explain the born and raised part does their confusion seem to ease away a bit. 

However, it not being my mother tongue, I lack the fluency and the vocabulary that a native Marathi speaker possesses. I get mixed up in the tenses and genders. (But hey, that is something a Marathi speaker does to Hindi as well)  Somehow, despite my best efforts, this deficiency does get exposed during every Marathi conversation that I have, forcing the speaker to switch to Hindi or English. Honestly, that hurts just a little bit. But I have no problems in accepting that my Marathi is constrained, and that I am working on it.

So what about my mother tongue? Once again, I am almost there but not quite. I can neither read nor write Punjabi. I can understand it very well. I can even speak it, but here's where things get bizarre. I don't speak Punjabi at home. Well, for the most part anyways. When I was a little kid, my parents in a stroke of genius decided that they would teach me Hindi so that I'd pick up the language and thus have no problems in  "talking to people outside the family" (their explanation). Suffice to say that while my parents succeeded in their plans, with so much Punjabi being spoken around the house I picked it up too. Unfortunately, since I don't get to speak it much, any half decent Punjabi speaker identifies the rustiness in my speaking and quickly switches to Hindi or English. A complete fail here as well.

Then I must be good at Hindi, no? I used to live under the same impression. But the two years (and beautiful ones at that!) I spent in the Hindi heartland of the country taught me that what I thought was Hindi, was in fact Bambaiya, which is Hindi of unsure genders and tenses, along with a spattering of Marathi wherever applicable. I can still see the bewildered looks on people's faces whenever I called an amrood a peru, got confused between a kakdi and a kheera or between halwa and sheera and so forth, whenever I announced main jaata hai or told an elder aap chalo/aao/khao etc. No luck here either.

So this brings us to English, the language of the queen, the medium of instruction (officially at least) at all my places of learning. One would expect me to be good at it. But my cup of woe still overfloweth. My school was dominated by Hindi, nay, Bambaiya, college was a Marathi bastion and Kanpur, as we know, is a chaste Hindi speaking area. So whatever English I know, I have learned from books, newspapers, movies and television. While this means that I possess a decent enough vocabulary, the 'text to speech' interface is still pretty primitive and I can still be found fishing for words in a conversation with someone who speaks the language more fluently than I do. Being able to think in English and speak it are two different things altogether you see.

So there we have it. Gaping flaws in all the four languages I claim as my own. I do not know if and when the day will ever come when I will be able to confidently communicate in either of them. If it doesn't, maybe I'll  invent a language of my own.