tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65971898073512087222024-03-14T21:31:34.176+05:30A Different ViewHanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-12029634099117838612014-06-14T18:36:00.000+05:302014-06-19T20:15:44.944+05:30Nana Jaan Ki Shaadi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Spark-off warning: Dear
reader, your venturing further into the reading of this article may
spark-off envy, especially if you are an ageing male marooned in a monogamous
marriage; the rendition could create a feeling of inadequacy. Proceed at your
own risk!</span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Once
upon a time, in the twenty first century, there lived a Nana jaan (beloved
maternal grandfather). He had granddaughters of marriageable age. About six
months back this zestful Nana jaan lost his wife due to old age. Being bored, he started
twittering. He tweeted his opinion on everything. Then one day he tweeted “I am
in a relationship with a married woman, a TV artiste, twenty five years my junior. Whoa.” </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">As
expected all hell broke loose. However, matters quietened down when the lady in
question tweeted sweetly that, “I am ready to tie the knot with my love as soon
as I get my divorce. Till then the relationship will continue.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That settled it. He had to be married off.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc4nUnhPFRmhZGN7AlGZPA23YbiVP3YhBglGl8PNVKyvUCHnYaRuKEyzv3vgHX0hhmODHa_Y99IAA6xeVnkqpbemEbOl-3mQl9d24QgoWSyAT2JJT9AYBcUScOu6r7MwOlk2eBCqUezvR/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Sehra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAc4nUnhPFRmhZGN7AlGZPA23YbiVP3YhBglGl8PNVKyvUCHnYaRuKEyzv3vgHX0hhmODHa_Y99IAA6xeVnkqpbemEbOl-3mQl9d24QgoWSyAT2JJT9AYBcUScOu6r7MwOlk2eBCqUezvR/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Sehra.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Accepting
the inevitable, the granddaughters started preparing for a
big fat wedding for Nana jaan. Save the date invite gives a peep into the
wedding plan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
invite began thus: We, the grandchildren, have great pleasure in inviting you
to the wedding of our dear Nana jaan, on November 22, 2014 and would request
you to save the date.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Our
Nanee ji, to be, is the daughter of ….. oops, sorry, sorry. No, please make that
wife of Mr. Rai Bahadur. She is trying hard to separate officially from Mr. Rai
Bahadur but if it does not happen, then Mr. Rai Bahadur will give her away to
our Nana jaan on November 22. Mr. Rai Bahadur says that nothing would make him
happier than to perform the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">patni daan, </i>if
it maybe called that<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, </i>on that
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Have
A Quick First Look</span>: Bro Karan has taken upon himself to attire the bride and
the bridegroom. You know how bro is. For the bridegroom it is a white designer <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sherwani</i> with exquisite embroidery work
in silver thread. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sherwani</i> has a
small V-opening at the top to showcase the cravat that Nana jaan will be
sporting round his neck. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pagdi </i>is
adorned with an heirloom diamond. With <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">choost
pyjama </i>and silver coloured <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mojdis,</i>
Nana jaan looked dapper at the trial.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bm6mkuBBHJcwfTNarDOryFrF1Yz6nQkoHy9VPpPS56dbNJ_F91-qg0sTuF2cNBcuo1woth2nehkT8fi1JI5U3Cf7rSCaE0IO4q0p5BGhItG_l-LIdVPIrvQCLaDJDGVbSf3DqV6ZJvNt/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Kolahpuri+Pheta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bm6mkuBBHJcwfTNarDOryFrF1Yz6nQkoHy9VPpPS56dbNJ_F91-qg0sTuF2cNBcuo1woth2nehkT8fi1JI5U3Cf7rSCaE0IO4q0p5BGhItG_l-LIdVPIrvQCLaDJDGVbSf3DqV6ZJvNt/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Kolahpuri+Pheta.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> Bro
has, of course, gone OTT with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lehenga</i>
and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> choli</i> for the bride. The artistic
pattern, the gold thread embroidery and the precious stones in the ensemble,
made Nanee ji, to be, look unbelievably regal.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Sneak a peek into the Programme: At 7 o’clock of the
evening of November 22, the huge <i>baaraat </i>of
the bridegroom, headed by us, will start from Nana jaan’s house accompanied by
full <i>band baaja.</i> The first number
will be by Alka didi singing the famous song from Raj Kapoor’s film <i>Aah</i> but with the lyrics slightly altered
by an impish <i>chachu</i> to make them more
meaningful. Have a small glimpse of what it is going to be like:</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Nana Jaan ki ayegi baraat,</span></i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Phir se rangeeli hogi unki raat,</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Magan mein nachoongi, Ho, ho
Magan mein nachoongi………</span></i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">Alka didi guarantees that her Runa-like rendering of
the song will send the gathering into raptures especially the youngsters who
will start dancing with full <i>josh</i>.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%;">The High Point: At the reception, after the pundits
are done with, Nana jaan will do the present in-thing of Bollywood ishtyle
marriages by performing a sixty seven second (one second for each year of his
age) jig for the invitees. Nana jaan has been extremely sporting to agree to do
his thing to a two-line bit from a song in <span style="color: #444444;"><i><span style="text-decoration: none;">Yeh Jawaani
Hai Deewani</span>.</i></span> We are sure you must be knowing the song we are
referring to. Vaibhavi di, incidentally, has done a great job of choreographing
it. It will remain an unforgettable moment.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Nanee
ji, as she will officially be now, is slightly diffident of performing in view
of her changed position. She may just take a bow. After that the invitees will
dance their heart out till it is time for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bidaai.</i> </span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The
Send-off: The event manager thinks that under the present circumstances this
has to be different from the usual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bidaai</i>
– it will not be one of sadness of parting but a celebration of a union.
Therefore, when Nana jaan steps down from the stage to take the bride home, the
DJ will play:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Le jayenge le jayenge
dilwale dulhaniya le jayenge, </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Aji reh jayange reh
jayenge, </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">dekhnewaley dekhte reh
jayenge.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjvujOfLy2jMgLCkw_5585qcS0HUCu_JtQBkH5mviRApMnvgvaUymv2PRW9_7-RzbAnRFzxY9_LIZ9-ZrLdvvp8pzs-0u0-0Io7bpSDPnIEJqvUwP9MOZlWViRwN7UE1RV-Q-eD_ARybT/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Cinerella+coach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjvujOfLy2jMgLCkw_5585qcS0HUCu_JtQBkH5mviRApMnvgvaUymv2PRW9_7-RzbAnRFzxY9_LIZ9-ZrLdvvp8pzs-0u0-0Io7bpSDPnIEJqvUwP9MOZlWViRwN7UE1RV-Q-eD_ARybT/s1600/HM+-+Pic+-+Cinerella+coach.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> And
then, as the couple is about to reach the white horse carriage, the DJ will
play the sensuous Asha Bhosle and Lata Mangeshkar number from Utsav:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Man kyon behka re
behka aadhi raat ko<br />
Bela mehka re mehka aadhi raat ko<br />
Raat hoti shuru hai aadhi raat ko</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Man kyon behka re
behka aadhi raat ko</span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The Finale: Wishing Bon Voyage to our fun-loving
Nana Jaan onward to Hawaii for his honeymoon.</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-10395831108533104802013-08-14T15:15:00.000+05:302013-11-28T15:36:04.301+05:30The Queen and I (Nominated for BlogAdda Blog Awards)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I was a cry booby in school for many
years. Being the youngest in class, bursting in to tears was my main weapon of
defence against boisterous classmates. I also did not have many friends, in
school or outside, but surprisingly did not mind it at all. I was happy in my
own world. This continued until I reached standard 8 B of my school.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">In the beginning of that term, two
momentous events took place in our school. The first one was that Standard 4 C
got a new class teacher. She was a real stunner. Her beauty was of the Audrey
Hepburn kind - both of face and figure. Additionally, she had a dimpled smile
that was enhanced by a small little beauty spot on the right side of her upper
lip.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">She also could not have been more than 4
or 5 years older than the students in the senior classes. It would not be wrong
to say that the whole all boys’ school fell in love with her. But she knew how
to keep her distance and did not encourage familiarity of any kind from the
seniors. She was almost unapproachable. Her name was Vera D’cruz (wonder if actress Ileana D'Cruz is related to her) and so regal was her attitude that she was always referred to, by all the
students, as the Queen.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"><span id="goog_89821034"></span><span id="goog_89821035"></span><span id="goog_1424260630"></span><span id="goog_1424260631"></span> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.hiphipgingin.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/Audrey-Hepburn-How-to-Steal-a-Million-.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.hiphipgingin.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/Audrey-Hepburn-How-to-Steal-a-Million-.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image of Audrey Hepburn. Courtesy Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">It was almost unimaginable to think that in a few
months time the Queen would give me a sizzling peck on my cheek in full view of the
school.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The other event was the admission of a
boy named Ahmed from another school to Standard 8 A of our school. He was
little old for the class and one of the few in the school who actually shaved.
He, therefore, always had a clean and neat look about him. He also walked with
a swagger and seemed to have been born with a superiority complex. The other
factor that distinguished Ahmed from the other students was that everyday he
wore a fresh pair of well ironed uniform. The rest of us used to wear uniforms that
were pressed under mattresses! Moreover, it was talked in whispers that Ahmed’s
father also owned a car. The whole school was, therefore, in awe of Ahmed and
that added further to his aura. In a most unexpected way, our avenues were
going to cross each other in a short while.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Ahmed was well built and, although, he
was new to the school, the Principal created an innovative designation that put him even above the Head Boy of the school. Ahmed was officially appointed an ambassador by the Principal - somewhat like his accredited representative.
He was given two bright red epaulettes embroidered with the word “Ambassador”
to be fastened on his shoulders. It gave a sense of a status and authority to
him. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Ahmed was specially assigned to reduce the noise levels of the
students during the 10 minutes recess in the mid morning and in the 45 minutes
of the lunch break. He carried out his mandate with such success that the
decibels in the corridors of our school during that period must have dropped to
no higher than the traffic sound on a Sunday morning. His success even commanded the respect of the
staff - so much so, that if any disciplining was required anywhere in the
school, Ahmed would be called. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Ahmed, in his capacity as a super
monitor, also used to make, without fail, a daily call on the Queen in her classroom at 4 C.
She, somehow, never seemed to care much for him. His showing off in the school
did not impress her. Still, he would persist and talk to her for a few minutes
every day much to the envy of all the other students. However, as far as the
young Miss D’cruz was concerned, she just viewed him as a pesky nuisance but,
unfortunately, could not do much as he was a blue-eyed boy of the
Principal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just before the Christmas holidays of that
year, for the first time in the history of our school, a debate was arranged
between standard 8 A and 8 B. I still do not know who thought of the idea of
the debate or decided on the subject of the proposition – “Science has done
more good than harm.” All that I remember is that 8 B would be supporting the
proposition and 8 A would be opposing it. I was one of the four students
selected to participate in the debate from our class – 8 B. Why I was selected,
I still do not understand for I was a timid and introverted child who reveled
in being left alone.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The day of the debate dawned. It was to
be held at 2 pm., immediately after the lunch break, in the school hall. At
11.30 in the morning, just as the recess bell rang, I was given a message that
I had to immediately see Miss Doyle, the class teacher of Standard 8 A, which
was one floor below our classroom. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Miss Doyle was the senior most teacher in
our school and had the most benign and grandmotherly look about her. But cross
her path and she could make the most unruly of the students cry out in agony as
she would tightly twist his ear and continue to wrench it till the poor guy
would ask for her mercy with folded hands. Her reputation for maintaining discipline in the class
was such that a glare from her would be enough to quell any thought of taking
her on and rarely would she have to use her deadly weapon.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Therefore, it was with great trepidation
that I went down to meet her but surprisingly she met me with a broad smile.
She said it had been decided that I was to be the leader of the proposition
team and Ahmed would lead the opposition team. Just for a moment I thought she
was favouring her own class by putting up a weak and nervy candidate like me
against him. </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">She then said that as a leader of the
proposition, I would have the right to reply after all the members of both the
sides have spoken. She, thereafter, opened her purse and took out a neatly
folded sheet of paper written in her own hand. Then, in a rather stern manner,
she addressed me, “This is your rejoinder to all the points raised by the
opposition. Put this paper in your pocket and, I am warning, you are not to
open and read it until you reach home in the lunch break. After that memorise
the main points and,” then, lowering her voice to a whisper, conspiratorially
added, “tear up the paper before you come back to school. I do not want anybody
to know that I have written it for you. Go run back to your class.” </span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">All of a sudden I felt quite elated at
being selected to be the leader of the proposition and also thrilled in being involved
in a little conspiratorial plot with Miss Doyle. As I reached my class, I
informed the other members of my team what I had been told by Miss Doyle – that
I was to lead the proposition. I was almost feeling as puffed up as Ahmed! I
then told them, in confidence, that Miss Doyle had given me a note for my final
reply to the debate. At that, all the other members wanted to see the note. I
resisted initially telling them that Miss Doyle had strictly told me not to
open it until I reached home. However, curiosity got the better of us. We
opened the note.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The gist of the memo was that since
Ahmed, who wore spectacles, had personally benefited from this invention of
science, he had no business to speak against it. We were all very overjoyed at
the killer reply that the teacher had drafted and swore each other to secrecy
about the covert bludgeon in our possession. On this happy note, I left for
home at the lunch break to rehearse my speech, my reply and, most importantly,
to change into a freshly ironed uniform - especially done for the
occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">As I reached back to the school, I could
feel that there was some kind of a buzz going around. Soon, I got the bad news.
Ahmed and his team had come to know of the reply and it had been decided by
them that he would not be wearing his spectacles during the debate. My small
world of plotting and planning came crashing down.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">However, there was no time to think as I
rushed up to the hall. As the participants were trooping on to the stage, I could see that
Ahmed had taken off his glasses. I saw a full house in the hall and felt that
the boys were giving me knowing smiles - enjoying the fact that I had been
trumped. In the audience, I also spotted Miss Doyle and the glare that she gave
me made me lower my eyes at once.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Soon I was called upon to speak. The
arguments presented by me were mundane and at the end, I received a perfunctory
applause. Then Ahmed began in his usual confident style with an air of almost
having won the debate. My mind was really not on what was being said by him or
the others but on what my reply would be now that Ahmed was not wearing his
spectacles. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Many ideas came but were discarded because they were not capable of winning the debate which already seemed to be drifting away from us.Time was passing by and I still did not have
a suitable reply. Finally, I thought of a reply that could succeed provided I
delivered it right. It was an extremely high-risk strategy that had a good chance of succeeding but also had an
equally good chance of failing. I discarded it. Defeat, shame, humiliation
were staring me in the face and so were the repeated glares of Miss Doyle. In
desperation, I again brought back the high-risk plan into consideration and
decided to chance it. I was trembling with fear because if it failed, I would
have no place to hide my face until I passed out from school after a couple of
years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I heard the moderator asking the leader
of the proposition to reply. As I stood up, the audience was well aware that my
strike weapon had been blunted. I began, “Mr. President Sir and friends.” I
could feel the tremor in my voice but I continued, “All of you will agree with
me that the leader of the opposition in today’s debate is one of the most
popular students of our school.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">The sarcasm worked, there were sniggers
all around, just as I had hoped. Actually, this was the most critical line. If
it had fallen flat, it would have been curtains for our team. Therefore, the
few titters around the hall were most welcome. I started feeling a little
better as I now added, “But I do not know why he is looking so different to me
today.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">There was a loud burst of laughter as
many of the audience understood what I was driving at. Some from the audience
even shouted, “Specs, specs.” On hearing that, the whole audience started
cheering and clapping for me. However, I pretended that it was the first time I had
realized that he was without his specs as I said with wonderment in my voice,
“That’s right, he is not wearing his specs.” With more faux surprise, I posed a
question, “I wonder why he is not wearing his specs? He does not look that good
without it.” After a pause, I asked, “Does he?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">This led to an uproar in the audience
with almost the entire crowd seeing this as an invitation to mock him for his
duplicitous behavior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somebody started a
chant, which was taken up in unison by all the boys, “Wear your specs, wear your specs.”
My purpose was served – I had virtually put the spectacles back on Ahmed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I now motioned to the crowd to be quiet,
as I was not done with. “Friends, we all know that the leader of the opposition
is an honourable person,” which was met with shouts of, “No, no.” That was
music to my ears. I now moved in for the kill to deliver the lines written by
Miss Doyle with a little addition of my own at the beginning and at the end, “I, therefore, feel
that he should not have removed his spectacles because without this invention
of science he would have been handicapped. If the honourable leader of the
opposition had been a person of (in a slightly more emphatic note) principles,
he would have been standing in my place, of course with his spectacles on (the
remark again drew a huge collective guffaw from the audience), to support the
proposition. Without the invention of science, he would not have been able to read or
write and, most terribly, would never have been able to identify the students
who are making noise in the school.” I paused here to get the full attention of
the crowd that was waiting in anticipation for my next wicked blow. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">“And still worse, he would not have been
able to peer into classes 4 A, 4 B and (in a little louder tone) especially,
Class 4 C.” There was near pandemonium at this in the crowd – clapping,
laughing and booing at the same time. I was prepared to continue but the moderator
of the debate, Mr. Barretto, stopped me.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">He said, “I will ask the leader of the
proposition to resume his seat as I would like to put the motion to vote.”
After the crowd became silent, he asked, “Those in favour of the motion?”
Unbelievably, the whole audience raised its hands. Some even raised both their
hands! But my eyes were only seeking Miss Doyle to see her reaction. She had a
big grin on her face and had also put up both her hands!</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">For the sake of formality, the moderator
then asked, “Those against?” He was not expecting anyone to vote against it but
- and that is a moment I will never forget – one solitary hand of my class and
bench mate, Jehangir Irani, went up. The crowd asked him to put down his hand
but he just would not do it. Mr. Barretto then declared that the motion was
carried by a majority. Had Jehangir not spoilt the party, the voting would have
been unanimous in favour of the proposition but, in retrospect, a lesson in
democracy was learnt by all of us.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">As the debate was closed, I was mobbed
and lifted by my school friends. It was a heady moment. From the corner of my
eye I could see the forlorn figure of Ahmed standing all by himself talking to
the Principal. Even his team pals were not there with him – they were busy congratulating
us. In the midst of all this, a class fellow came up to me to say that the
Queen wanted to see me.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I could not believe my ears. I disengaged
myself and, as I started walking towards her, I found, almost a whole crowd
following me. As I reached her, she did not say a word; she just lifted my
chin, turned my face and gave me a tight kiss on my cheek. She then told her
colleague, “He is my David. Saw how he slew that Goliath. Serves that bully
right, peeping into my class all the time.” She smiled and said, “Now you can
go, but wipe off that lipstick on your cheek before you go home.” At that
moment, I came of age. </span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img class="irc_mut" height="200" src="https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSathNpVlRVvWmAI_FoISqLnankDQJOt1xwG-bOB7egq4Qab0m1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px;" width="170" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image of Audrey Hepburn Courtesy Internet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
</div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">This story was posted on sulekha.com on October 31, 2008. The most amusing part of this blog was that the first four comments, independently
of each other, gave a Wow. And, never thereafter,
have I received such opening comments. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-59055811184390963562013-03-04T22:38:00.000+05:302013-03-12T13:32:00.289+05:30A Review "My Lawfully Wedded Husband"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
He was just deadly
that Sunday morning; she had never imagined that he had it in him. She had
screamed in pain and agony. Although he had got her sprawled awkwardly on the
floor, although she was in a state of severe shock, yet she was looking up in
great admiration at her “lawfully wedded husband” standing above her. He
deservedly sported a triumphant smile. Madhulika Liddle spins a powerful story
of an illicit dalliance of a woman stuck in a boring marriage, which ends in a
horrific surprise. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Madhulika has a
smooth flow in the narration of the 12 stories in the, “My Lawfully Wedded
Husband and Other Stories.” What I particularly enjoyed, additionally, in her tales
were the picture perfect descriptions of the everyday scenes that one takes for
granted. Sample these two:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“Sudha, curled
the fallen hair around the tip of her forefinger,” from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hourie.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“Her mouth was
full of clothespins – ugh – and her shoulder was heaped high with pillow
covers, a bed sheet, petticoats, shirts and an apron printed with bright
crimson poppies. She had close-set eyes, bright and prying………,” from “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Lawfully Wedded Husband.”</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Her tale about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hourie</i>, the whore, could pride itself of
a superior research and, thus, sounds more authentic than that of other Indian
authors who have attempted stories involving prostitutes. Her storyline also
has a mild touch of erotica. However, the ending is not very dramatic. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
In contrast, the
opening story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sum Total </i>has you
guessing until the end when the author lets loose a double whammy of twists to
the tale. A Sheldonesque take, if one may say so. In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Brief Lesson In Trust</i> the author allows the protagonist to
cynically take advantage of the gullibility of a naive friend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
Again, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Crusader, </i>the story is interspersed
with enjoyable, intimate whispered conversation between a couple whilst watching
a movie – eavesdrop on it:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“Hummpf. In that
nightdress he’s wearing? Looks stupid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
“Who cares about
the nightdress? It’s what’s under it that matters.” Deeksha giggled. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Tale of a Summer Vacation </i>is about two
sisters loving the same man and lays bare the machination of one of them to
achieve her goal of getting him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">St.</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> George and
the Dragon</i> is a story set in a government office that goes on to prove that
there is lot of merit in the Biblical Beatitude that says that “Blessed are the
meek, for they shall inherit the earth!” Of course, with a little help from
Shivani Sinha.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Feet of Clay </i>falls a little short
because it is along expected lines; perhaps, because the newspapers cover the
subject of child molestation extensively. Hence, the twist is not knotty
enough. On the other hand, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On the Night
Train </i>is quite naughty and delightful. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Silent
Fear </i>is creepy enough to give <span style="font-family: Calibri;">cutis
anserina</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
The last story, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Howling Waves of Tranque Bar, </i>is of an
artist of a different kind. It is the story of <span class="hps"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">grève</span></i></span><span class="shorttext"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;"> </span></i></span><span class="hps"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="FR" style="mso-ansi-language: FR;">d'orage</span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
This compendium
of crime stories makes a good read.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<code>This review is a part of the biggest <a blog.blogadda.com="" href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=" http:="" indian-bloggers-book-reviews="" target="_blank">http://blog.blogadda.<wbr></wbr>com/2011/05/04/indian-<wbr></wbr>bloggers-book-reviews</a>" target="_blank"> Book Review Program </code></div>
</div>
for <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=" http:="" target="_blank" www.blogadda.com="">http://www.blogadda.com</a>" target="_blank">Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!</div>
Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-22670436714255916522013-01-18T21:18:00.000+05:302013-01-20T14:03:51.112+05:30Oh, to be a masseur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">It was, indeed, a showcase wedding. The entire
elite of Mumbai and Delhi,
it seemed, had descended upon Jaipur for the event. Film stars, industrialists
and politicians intermingled in a fusion of power and affluence. The décor at
the scene took one back to the opulent times of the Mughals. The global
cuisine, lavishly spread over the vast venue, completed the picture of the
glitz and glamour on that memorable evening. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">But the showstopper of the evening was not
any of the celebrities or the bridegroom or, even the bride, but it was the
bridegroom’s father – Rohan - my friend of more than forty years. Standing on
the stage with the bridal couple, he looked dapper in his black bandh gulla
with the top two buttons stylish left open to display a sparkling white shirt
with a Chinese collar. Needless to say, he was clean shaven. His athletic
stance was still intact but his totally gray hair, slicked back with a left
sided parting, made him look both debonair and avuncular. The guests who were
going up to greet him were all known and identifiable faces. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">Therefore, it was understandable that I
felt a total misfit in this setting. My wife succinctly summed up the situation
– that I appeared to be the only non-achiever in the crowd! She is a great one
to pep up one’s spirit – especially, if one is feeling low!</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">Then it happened. Suddenly, I got
recognition. Rohan caught my eye, gave me a broad smile and topped it with a wave
and a thumbs-up. A bejeweled film star of yester years, sitting in a row just
ahead of us, turned around and in a well modulated silky voice asked me, “A<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ap Rohan ji ko pechhantein ho?”</i></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">With a put on nonchalant voice, I answered
“Oh yes. When we were both fifteen years old, we had together run away to Goa …….to become hippies.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">The unknown face of a few moments back had
actually made a former film star burst into a good-humoured laugh. In between her
mirth, she told the friends around her, “Can you believe it, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yeh janaab</i> and Rohan ji had gone to Goa to become hippies.” This was followed by another
round of hilarity. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">A well known builder of Delhi double checked, “Do you mean to say
that Rohan Shenoy, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">samrat </i>of the
stock exchange, once upon a time wanted to be a dropout? Unbelievable.” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">With a conspiratorial smile on my face and
theatrically raised eyebrows, I answered, “But it is a fact.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">Turning to his wife, he said with great admiration
in his voice, “Rohan Shenoy hardly pays any tax. Most of his income is
officially tax free.” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">Sadly, as quickly as it happened, so did
it end - my fifteen seconds of fame were up and over. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">However, Rohan’s generous acknowledgment
took me back to my school days. He and I had been bench mates from the KG
class. Then, in the final year of the all boys’ school, like everyone else, we
were also suffering from the onslaught of the hormones. Concentration on studies
was getting more and more difficult. Mere pictures of female models in
magazines would light us up. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">Venerable female teachers had suddenly
turned into desirable objects. However, at few times, Rohan, looking at the shapely legs of a teacher, would sigh under his breath, “I wish she had opted for her
hair removal.” Rohan was beginning to develop aesthetic sensibilities. But the overarching turbulence of the testosterones continued to overwhelm us.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">It was during one such time of acute stress that
Rohan told me, in all seriousness, that he had decided upon his future; he would
like to become a masseur. Massaging was to be his career of choice. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">He told me all the positives of that
career. I was totally taken in by his argument. Day and night we would
passionately dream of achieving our aspiration to become masseurs. We would
think of new and innovative ideas that we would bring to our job. Client
satisfaction would always be our main goal. Studying for the Board exam was
proving to be such a distraction.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">At that time, we heard stories that hordes
of hippies had descended on Goa and were leading
a totally carefree life – life free of all encumbrances, including clothes.
Better news was that enterprising Malayalees had set up Kerala massage shacks
on the beaches of Goa and were doing rip
roaring business. Rohan and I were drooling to set up our own shop on a beach
in Goa. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%;">It was then that we decided to run away
from home immediately after the painful Board exam would get over. It would be
for the noble purpose to pursue our career dream. The entrepreneurial spirit in
us was aching to get started.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Finally, the two
charged youngsters landed in Goa. The Baga
beach was a voyeuristic delight. The youngsters found it difficult to suppress their
happiness; it was showing. But their top priority was to get an internship at
one of the massage shacks to get a hands-on experience of pressing, rubbing and
manipulating muscles and other soft tissues with their hands and fingers. But
apprenticeship was difficult to come by – the Keralites proved to be very
clannish. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">However, what
brought our dreams to a crashing end was an encounter with a 21 year old Swede
– one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen to date. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Rohan and I were
a dejected lot by Day 5 in Goa. We were
listlessly sitting on the beach when this beauty approached us and said, “Mind
if I join you? Do you speak English?” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Rohan was the
first to recover and suavely said, “WHOA, for your sake I am ready to speak
Chinese too!” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">“Then Swedish is
what you will have to learn,” she replied with a saucy toss of her head. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Her next
observation took us by surprise. “Kids, it is obvious you have come here on a
naughty mission. Have you achieved it?” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">We were left
speechless not knowing what to make of it. Was it just curiosity or a subtle
invitation? The androgens jumped to a rash conclusion that it was the latter. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Alas, it turned
out to be the former. </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">After a long
pause, she said, “I have also come here to have a mischievous escapade but you
guys are not the ones.” </span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">We were crushed.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">“Actually, I am
looking for a fisherman. I really get turned on by these bare chested, dark
sinuous fishermen here, especially as they cast their net in the sea. The whole
rhythm of their heaving the net in the sea drives me up the wall!!!!! And the
sexy colorful short wraps around their hips …………..drives me crazy.”</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">After being lost
in a long reverie she said, “Unfortunately, they don’t speak English. Hey
buddies could you help me out - be my interpreters? Of course, I could recompense you with some
pocket money for doing my work.”</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Rohan and I
looked at each other. Rohan, with his usual sardonic wit, whispered to me,
“We had come here to become masseurs but it seems we will end up with a career
in the second oldest profession!”</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Sheepishly, we
decided to return back to Bombay,
as Mumbai was then. With tears in our eyes, we bid adieu to our dream career of
massaging. But one can never forget one’s first love.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">A couple of
months after the splendid wedding, I read a scandalous news item in a tabloid.
An Indian actress, who had a few months back given a big Bollywood hit,
traveling first class on the national airline to London, was found having a surreptitious
massage under a blanket from a fellow Indian passenger who had recently celebrated
his son’s marriage in an ostentatious manner in Jaipur. Her alternating moans and
giggles had disturbed other passengers.</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">I called up
Rohan’s house and was told, “Saab London gaye hain.”</span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"></span></h1>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;">Oh, to be a
masseur, is my dream once more.</span></h1>
<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
</h1>
<div class="dirtycode" id="dirtycode208211" style="display: block;">
<code>This
post is a part of the <a href="http://www.satincare.com/" target="_blank" title="Gillette Satin Satin Care">Gillette Satin
Care</a> contest in association with <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/" target="_blank" title="BlogAdda.com">BlogAdda.com </a></code></div>
<h3>
</h3>
<h1 style="line-height: 150%; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 24.0pt;"> </span></h1>
</div>
Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-81767963941398028102012-01-15T20:42:00.000+05:302012-01-15T20:42:10.238+05:30How I Came To Be A Wish Tree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The rains had failed the village again. Starvation was rampant and extensive. Villagers were walking miles in search of water. Men, women and children were subsisting on roots and plants. There was unbroken weeping and wailing all over the place. Despair was written far and wide. A dreaded epidemic seemed just a breath away. In such a landscape, I was brought to this village.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The tragedy that the village was going through was partially man-made. The green shield that the village had enjoyed for centuries had been destroyed by greedy predators and now the land lay barren. The government thought that if trees are planted, a rain cover could be recreated. The truck carrying us had trees of all shapes and sizes. I, being a mere sapling, was the smallest and weakest of the lot. Looking back it seems fortuitous that I survived at all. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After it was unloaded at the village, I was the only one left behind because I was lying in a neglected corner at the back of the lorry. Luckily, a young girl saw me, quickly climbed into the van, retrieved me and jumped out just as it was about to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">At night she took me to sleep with her. She wept copiously as she unburdened herself to me. I must have provided some solace to her for I happened to be a very silent and attentive listener. She told me that she was in the final year of her school but because of the drought the school had nearly closed down. However, a fellow classmate, by the name of Ajeet, was helping her with the syllabus study. It became clear to me that she was fond of him. Everything in her talk was in relation to Ajeet and his thinking and opinions. After her long soliloquy, she coolly addressed me, “Chintu, you have been talking for long and, now, please allow me to go to sleep!!!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Next morning, apparently, I must have appeared withered to her for she very poignantly told me, “Chintu, I think we will all die very soon but let me at least plant you in our courtyard.” With great care she dug a hole just big enough to accept my roots. After placing my roots inside the opening, she packed it firmly with the soil. However, I was so weak that I wilted. She started weeping and in between her sobs said, “Chintu, there is no water for you. I think you will die tonight,” and burst into further tears. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Just then there was a rumble in the sky followed by lightning. The whole village was stunned by this phenomenon. A light drizzle ensued and, thereafter, it rained steadily the whole day and night. Just as I was thinking it was too much water for me, it cleared up and the sun shone strongly. My health improved and I found that I could stand upright. Madhuri, my young friend, thought that this freak rainfall was organised by me and that I was empowered with supernatural powers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The word spread fast and soon a group of women performed an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aarti</i> for me. Only Ajeet was skeptical about all this and said this change may have come about due to the El Nino effect. When he tried to explain that the unusual nature of the El Niño</span><span style="font-family: "MS Mincho"; mso-ascii-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-family: "MS Mincho";">‐</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Southern Oscillation (ENSO) event in an ocean thousands of miles away could have caused the unseasonal rain in their village; most of the villagers just nodded to him out of traditional politeness but preferred to give me the full credit for it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The next monsoon was bountiful and there was a dramatic change of mood in the village. There was joy and laughter in every household. Madhuri and her friends were now sporting the latest mobile phones and were dancing around me to songs specially composed in my honour. I was also growing fast and was now taller than most of the women in the village. I had a most luxuriant growth of branches springing out of my trunk. Now people from even surrounding areas were coming to have a look at me and clicking my image on their cameras.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">One day a poor harassed woman came to me and complained that she was childless although she had been married for fifteen years. She then took out a string, smeared it with her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sindoor</i> and tied it to one of my branches. Having full faith in me, she may have relaxed from the worry of not conceiving. Unsurprisingly, after a month, she was expectant. However, the news spread like wildfire that tying a thread on one of my branches was the surest way to get pregnant. The crowds started getting larger everyday. Soon stalls for eateries started sprouting all around to cater to the throngs that were starting to arrive from early morning. It was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mela</i> everyday. The only sad part was that Madhuri was not spending any time with me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After a couple of years, at about 3 a.m. in the morning, when the crowds had thinned out, I saw a beautiful young lady approaching me. As she came closer to me she said, “Chintu, do you remember me?” It was Madhuri. Oh, how she had grown up. She was accompanied by a young handsome youth. Madhuri, in whisper said, “Chintu, this is Ajeet. He has got admission in a top college in the city. He wants me to accompany him. But my father will not agree to our marriage as I am of higher caste than he is. Chintu, how can an accident of birth determine our choices for the rest of our lives?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Then she turned around and called out, “Ajeet, come and do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pranam</i> to my Chintu and our problem will be solved.” With hesitant footsteps and a most sour attitude, the young Ajeet folded his hands before me. Just then a leaf from one my branches chose to fall on his folded hands. Madhuri thought it was an omen sent by me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Unfortunately, Madhuri’s family and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gram panchayat,</i> proved recalcitrant about the blending of the castes and no amount of pleading by Madhuri could make them change their minds. After a week, Madhuri was a totally shattered person. She came to me one early morning, carrying a stool with her. She put the stool next to my trunk and stood up on it. There was an eerie silence all around us as she started speaking to me in a soft voice. However, it also had a tone of suppressed anger. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Ajeet was right. You are just a dumb tree. It was so stupid of me to attribute so much power to you. Now, I am going to hang myself from one of the branches and let me see how you can stop me. Good bye Chintu. In a few moments, I will be gone from this world.” I was dumbstruck as I saw Madhuri pull out a cord which already had a knot at one end. She started tying the other end to a shoot protruding from my trunk. I could only mutely watch her. She then put the knot around her neck, gave me a last look of contempt and kicked the stool out from below her. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">And then, I heard a shriek followed by a thud. Thereafter, I saw a surprised Madhuri lying on the ground trying to shoo away the white ants which were all over her. It seems the termites had weakened the shoot and it gave way under her weight before the knot could tighten. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">On hearing her scream, Madhuri’s entire family rushed out. Most concerned was her father. After a while, tenderly he asked her, “Beti, are you sure that you want to marry Ajeet.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Madhuri, with tears in her eyes said, “Yes and no. Yes, I want to marry him. But no, not without your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ashirwad.</i>” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Father and daughter hugged each other, as the father said, “There can be no grater happiness for me than your happiness. Madhuri, you have my blessing for your marriage and may you and Ajeet live happily ever after. Love should not be bound by any borders.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After this event, my reputation had sky-rocketed and the multitude is much larger today than it ever was. VVIP passes, costing a fortune are being issued, to have a priority <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">darshan</i> of me. Only Ajeet is still holding out, saying it is just a matter of coincidences. I humbly say, to each his own. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="dirtycode" id="dirtycode152651" style="display: block;"><code>This entry is a part of <a href="http://contests.blogadda.com/">BlogAdda contests</a> in association with <a href="http://www.zapstore.com/">Zapstore.com</a></code></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-49080801321563091332011-12-08T12:31:00.004+05:302011-12-08T12:56:18.023+05:30Smoke and Mirrors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Alex Jr. McQueen, a white American, considers himself a lineaged investigative lawyer. He is the third generation of “McQueen, McQueen & McQueen.” However, at times, he wonders if there would be a fourth-generation McQueen, for, if truth were told, Alex Jr. does not fancy the female of the species. Actually, he fears that he is leaning otherwise.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Presently, the business at his firm is on the upswing thanks to his highly efficient knowledge partner, Sundari Subramanium - an Indian by birth and, particularly, proud of it. Otherwise, she is a complete American. Sundari, also popularly known as Sunshine, is of good height, well groomed, comes to work in smart bespoken western office wear and, above all, is supremely self-assured. Moreover, the sparkling hexagon-shaped diamond studded ring, a family heirloom, she says, that she sports on her finely chiseled nose adds to her stately look. Alex Jr. considers himself lucky to have found her. However, he is unaware that Sundari is as happy to work with him for she believes that he is safe. She does not believe in mixing work with distraction. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was on November 30, 2011, that McQueen, McQueen & McQueen came into the life of India. A call came from an important TV news anchor of India to their office on the 5<sup>th</sup> Avenue, New York, asking them to investigate what the anchor called the curious case of petroleum pricing in her country. She gave a brief background of the events in the last few weeks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The story began on the midnight of November 3, 2011. At that precise moment, the oil marketing companies (OMCs) of India raised, once again, the price of petrol in the country citing the rising prices of imported crude oil and the dropping value of the Indian rupee as the cause of it. The so-called expert analysts unquestioningly bought the argument. Perhaps, sitting in the comfort of air-conditioned TV studios had made them too lazy to do any serious homework. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">A couple of days after that, on November 5 to be exact, to lend a sharp edge to the rationale for the increase in the price of petrol, Indian Oil Corporation, the nation’s largest oil firm, came out with its financial performance for the quarter ending September 30, 2011. It reported a net loss of Rs 7,485.55 crore (US$1.5 billion) due to mounting losses on fuel sales. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The scenario turned scarier when the Chairman of Indian Oil Corporation said on November 9, that the borrowings from the banks has almost reached the limits and getting further loans from banks may not be possible after December. At that stage, the corporation may not have money to import crude oil and may have to close down some of its refineries leading to a shortage of petroleum products in the country. Another massive price increase seemed to be in the offing for all petroleum products – petrol, diesel, kerosene, and gas cylinders. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">However, in a most dramatic turn around, on November 15, to the disbelief of everyone, the news came that the OMCs had reduced, yes, reduced, the price of petrol by Rupees 2 a litre. It was a theatre of the absurd at its best. And, again on November 30, the price was reduced further by another 78 paise per litre.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was for this reason that the TV channel had called Alex Jr. McQueen to look into the mystery of the double price reduction considering the heavy losses claimed by the OMCs of India in the past. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Alex Jr. then called Sundari Subramanium who said that she had overheard the whole story on the extension line and had already started studying the matter. Thanks to the internet, she said she would have the report ready in 30 minutes. She was true to her word.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">She began, “Alex, the first thing to be understood is that the petroleum pricing in India is an optical illusion.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The statement startled Alex Jr. McQueen but recovering quickly he said, “But Sunshine, I was under the impression that India had long given up being known for its rope trick.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">She gave a small smile and continued, “The U.S. Energy Information Administration (EIA) publishes every month, for the benefit of the US consumers, a ‘<i>What We Pay For In A Gallon of Regular Gasoline</i>,’ giving the break-up of cost under four different headings — crude oil, refining, distribution and marketing, and indirect taxes. Indian OMCs could also furnish numbers in the same EIA format. Unfortunately, they will not do it because it would give away their game.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Uh, uh that’s interesting.” </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After a pause, she continued, “Alex, you would know that the average retail price of petrol in the U.S., for the week ending December 05, 2011, was US$ 3.29 per gallon (an American gallon is equivalent to their 3.79 litres.) Therefore, converted into rupees, even at the rate of Rs.51.75 to a dollar, an American only pays Rs.45 for a litre of petrol at his gas station.” </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“And what does an Indian pay?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Alex, hold your breath – even after the reduction of Rs.2.78 per litre, he still pays about 50% more per litre.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Alex Jr. exclaimed, “Oh, my God. You mean to say an Indian pays Rs.68 for his litre of petrol and yet Indian Oil Corporation makes a loss. Gee, that requires some accounting jugglery. Sure, rope trick is still alive in India.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Yo, there is still some more to come. If one deducts the indirect taxes of 12% and the gross profit margin of 20% that is charged to an American in the Rs.45 per litre that he pays at the gas station, the total cost of production of petrol would work out to little less than Rs.32.00 a litre in the US. Even granting that the cost of production of petrol is the same in India, a recovery price of Rs.32.00, without taxes, would not entail any loss for the Indian OMCs.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Hey Sunshine, since petrol in India is currently being retailed at an average price of Rs.68 a litre, our mission is to trace where the difference of Rs.36.00 per litre is walking off to.” </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sundari Subramanium laughed at the lawyer’s witticism. </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Alex Jr. happy at her appreciation, continued, “Seriously speaking, the OMCs can only make a loss if they are recovering less than Rs.32.00 a litre for themselves of the Rs.68 a litre being collected from the retail customer. And, if the OMCs are, indeed, making a loss, then the conclusion is that the various governmental authorities are collecting a hefty amount of indirect taxes - far more than the actual cost of production! And, thereafter, to blame the rising prices of imported crude oil and the dropping value of the Indian rupee is, indeed, smoke and mirrors.” He followed it with a light-hearted guffaw. </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sundari, tapping her nose ring, a sign that she was in deep thought, finally added, “Alex Jr., there could be a corollary to that. Suppose, if by any chance, the OMCs are recovering more than Rs.32.00 per litre, they should be making a profit. The question then would be how these profits are being turned into losses.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Wow that could be a multi- million dollar question!” </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Sure is. But Alex, there is another interesting story. A former Petroleum Secretary, T.N.R. Rao, speaking on the prices of a LP cooking gas cylinder, said in 2005, “that routine cost-padding and inefficiencies actually hike the per cylinder price by as much as Rs.100!” At that time, the so-called “under recoveries” per cylinder were also put at Rs.100! I suppose the present cost padding must be Rs.246 per cylinder.”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Hey, how can you say that sitting here?”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Elementary, dear Alex. The present ‘under recovery,’ hyped by the government is that it is Rs.246 per cylinder.” </span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">With a loud chuckle, Alex Jr. gave a thumb up sign to Sundari.</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">“<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Alex, pack your bags, I have some good news. We are leaving for Delhi tonight. I have booked two first class tickets on Jet Airways and the Indian TV channel is putting us up in one of the special suites at the Maurya Sheraton,” and, with a wink, added, “to unravel the rope trick!”</span></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">PS: The Math for those inclined.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;">Reference for USA prices per gallon:</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.eia.gov/oog/info/gdu/gasdiesel.asp" target="_blank">http://www.eia.gov/oog/info/gdu/gasdiesel.asp</a></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">PS 2. 1 US gallon = 3.78541178 liters.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">PS 3. Broad Calculation to arrive at the cost of production:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">US price at the retail outlet Rs.45.00 per litre</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Less 12% indirect Federal and State Taxes Rs. 5.40 per litre</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Less 20% Gross Profit Margin Rs. 7.92 per litre</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cost of production at American prices Rs.31.68 per litre.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Rounded up Rs.32.00 per litre</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-67727293805927675032011-11-11T11:16:00.001+05:302011-11-11T15:01:44.826+05:30Flirting with Anna ji<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My husband is the strong, silent type and speaks only to the point. His favorite piece of conversation with me after marriage was, “Sweetheart, tea, coffee or me.” And my reply used to thrill him. After all I am a Punjabi <i>kudi. </i>Although we are happily married, I am very different from him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I do not mind confessing that I am a chatterbox and was always one. As I tell him quite often “After you, I love gossiping the most.” However, these days, the Gujarati <i>chchora</i> is little doubtful about my loyalty – he thinks that ever since I joined the new kitty group, he is no more <i>numero uno</i>. But, I must say, he has some justification for it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Recently, a scandal broke out in our kitty group. A young married female member from my new kitty group got involved with the husband of another member. I was waiting anxiously to know if this would turn into a relationship. Naturally, I had to keep in constant touch with my friends to know the latest developments. The suspense to find out how far they had gone with each other, in real time, was killing me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was during one of such late night, yummy and mouth-watering exchange of text messages between the members of our kitty group on the emerging situation, dear husband came up with the same old request. I told him to wait. He sulked and went to sleep. When I joined him, after about a couple of hours, I saw he was having a restless sleep. I did not disturb him for I had far more important matters on my mind. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After a few days, the news came that she had gone back to her husband (oh, no) but my husband continued to be in a huff with me. Therefore, when I came to know that our club was organizing a qawwali programme, I decided to surprise him. He is very fond of Indian music and could not say no to my bait. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We reached the club in good time and met a few friends. The first half of the qawwali programme was disappointing – it was quite <i>thanda. </i>I love the <i>masti and dhamaka</i> in a qawwali programme especially the <i>muqabbla,</i> which generally takes place between the male and female qawwals. However, my husband enjoyed the session. He likes his qawwalis a little differently. He partakes the <i>lutf </i>from the allegorical references of the sufi renditions. But, being a Gujju, many a times he had to refer to me to understand the subtle connotations of the Urdu words. Other than that, he still maintained his distance from me at the programme.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">But the qawwali troupe promised that the second half would be livelier. True to their word, the second half started a little differently. Each accompanying instrumentalist was given an opportunity to give a small solo performance before the main qawwali resumed. The final solo turn was of the tabla player. He started with the slower rhythm but soon went on to the faster beats. After a time, the beats started getting faster and faster and the tabla maestro’s fingers were flying as if in a blur. Mischievously, I got up from the seat next to my husband and moved one row back. I then started drumming on my husband’s back in unison with the tabla player. The ice was broken, as I could make out that hubby was enjoying the touch and the fast beat. The tabla play ended with a crescendo followed by a loud applause. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">As the orchestra was getting tuned for the next number, I saw a well dressed and an attractive middle-aged lady walk down with great poise on stilettos towards the row where my husband was sitting in sole splendour. She inquired of my husband, with her eyes, if the seats next to him were vacant. She then gestured to the man behind her, who looked like a henpecked husband, to follow her. To my amazement, he was extremely well dressed too. He was wearing a red shirt with snug fitting beige trousers. He looked dapper but what really made him stand out was the printed silk cravat that was tucked inside the shirt. I thought that he, obviously, was a vain person for even his thinning hair seemed to have been placed with great care to cover as much area as possible of the pate underneath.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When the qawwal started singing the turbo-charged Runa Laila number <span class="description">“<i>Dama Dum, Mast Qalandar,</i>” I too joined in and started swaying to it. And when he came to the fiery “<i>Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,</i>” I gave a hard thump on my husband’s back, which made him say a loud, “Ouch.” That made the gentleman in the red shirt turn around to have look at the person who made my husband say, “ouch,” and I could not help blushing at my impetuosity. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The gentleman turned out to be rather bold. With a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes he said, “Young lady, has anyone told you before that you very much resemble Sonam Kapoor.” I was floored by his compliment but, also, rather amused by it. I started laughing on an impulse </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After I recovered from my laughter, I told him, “I wish I could say, with a straight face, that you look like Shahid Kapur” and burst into more laughter.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">He knew I was mocking at him but recovered quickly with a self- deprecating repartee, “Shahid Kapur toh raha dar kinare, these days people think I look more like Anna Hazare.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Oh, ho that was too funny, I thought – Anna Hazare with a cravat.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Later my husband wanted to go out for some snacks, so I softly asked, “Anna ji, could I get you and your wife some coffee.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Again, with the same smile and gleam in his eyes, he put on a husky voice and said, ““Sonam ji if you insist, how can I say no to you?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Wow, that line had so many layers of meaning in it besides saying yes to the coffee. It also came wrapped in a suggestive proposition. In admiration, I patted him lightly on his shoulder and said, “Anna ji, you are just too much.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Later, whilst having coffee, I innocently told him, ““Anna ji, we must keep in touch.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">He immediately changed the meaning of my words by giving it a literal slant when he replied, “Sure. I always like to be in touch with good looking ladies. Closer the better.” And, there again was the evocative pass.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Once more, I could not suppress my laughter. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We parted after exchanging telephone numbers. Anna ji only has a landline telephone and does not carry a cell phone. He said he could not afford one. </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After returning home, I tantalizingly told my husband, “Tea, coffee” and before I could complete my sentence, he sealed my lips. Thereafter, everything became as it used to be. All waz well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Next morning, I looked closely at myself in the mirror and did think Anna ji had a point. I did resemble Sonam in a few departments – like the eyes and the smile. I was also slim and tall like her. Hats off to Anna ji for his discerning eye. What my husband did not see in me in so many years of marriage, Anna ji saw it at the first glance.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After a week, I called him on his landline number. I recognized his voice the moment he said, “Hullo.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Coyly, I said, <span class="description">“May I speak to Anna Hazare ji?” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Imitating an older person’s voice and with a slight tremble in his tone asked, “Aap kaun bhenji bol rahi ho?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Brazenly, with a laugh, I said, “Tumhari Sonam,” hoping to throw him off balance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">But he turned out to be a <i>poorana khiladi. </i>Substituting “Sonam” for “Sanam,” he gave a totally new meaning to the lines, as he crooned softly in the receiver a la Sunil Dutt in Sujata. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> “Aaajaa Sonam …. madhur chandni mein, </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 1in; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Agar Hum Tum mile to wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar.” </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 1in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></i></span><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">That “<i>wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar” </i>I thought was extremely hilarious. I went into an uncontrollable laugh imagining poor Anna ji’s plight as he portrayed it.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Between a few more laughs, we chatted for some further time before disconnecting.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Let us see what the future holds. But for the present, <i>Kya Karoon haye, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-12631329835070789142011-10-25T22:33:00.004+05:302011-11-02T14:26:14.211+05:30Tumhari Sonam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"> <span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Qawwali is of the <i>dhoom dhadaka</i> variant in the pantheon of Indian music. Qawwalis are loud, to the point of being deafening, boisterous, to the point of being raucous but, it has to be granted, once the live qawwalis get going, they can lift you into the stratosphere. The <i>asli mazaa</i> in a mehfil-e-qawwali, is to let yourself go and participate uninhibitedly with the flow. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I, being of an unadventurous nature, therefore, do not fancy qawwalis too much. Hence, I was slightly reluctant to go to this programme of qawwali organized by our club recently. However, at the persuasion of my wife and friends, I agreed to give them the pleasure of my company.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My mind went back to the first qawalli programme I attended as a gangly fifteen year old in the company of a <i>shaukeen</i> uncle. My mother, after strictly warning my uncle to take good care of me, also decided that I should wear my new churidar along with the embroidered silk kurta to the function. After donning it, I preened myself in front of the mirror and, in a moment of fantasy, thought that I had a faint resemblance to Dev Anand of that time. Uncle and nephew started for the venue but not before receiving a few more last minute instructions from my mother. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The event was being held in a school hall and it was fairly packed, with an all male crowd, by the time we reached there. Everyone was sitting cross-legged on the mattresses placed on the floor and the last row had come almost close to the entrance but my uncle was determined to sit right up in the front row. So, we started navigating towards the front row by parting people who had arrived much before us and then stepping across the breach. When we were half-way in our mission, the lady qawwal started singing, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 2in; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Koi Rangeela, sapano main aake,</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> Ek Nazar ka khel rachake,</span></i></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke…</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> Yalla yalla dil legaya”</span></i></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">to the great delight of the listeners. I suppose on seeing me, she went on to improvise by crooning, </span></span><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> “Koi rangeela,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> Reshmi kurta, choost pajama pehney,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke...</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> Yalla yalla dil legaya”</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">followed by an uproar from the audience. As I was wearing the attire she was referring to, I looked up and the lady qawwal did an <i>aadab</i> to me to another huge appreciation from the audience. I did not know what had hit me but I just stood transfixed. Luckily, my uncle patted me on the shoulder and I sat down with my eyes bonded to the floor.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The lady qawwal had struck a gold mine to work the crowd at my expense. She sang many stanzas from the song but the punch lines would always be: </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Koi rangeela, reshmi kurta, choost pajama pehney,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke (gesticulating that a dagger had pierced her heart)...</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Yalla yalla dil legaya.”</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I started enjoying the <i>masti</i> too but could not hold eye contact with her for long because she would keep on embarrassing me, either with a flying kiss or a coy, but sensuous, gesture of pulling down the diaphanous duppatta to cover her face. All the same, it was incredible how the audience would cheer her every time for this play-acting. It has to be admitted that this interactive atmosphere added to the pleasure of the programme. So, it was not surprising that at the interval, a lot of people came up to me and, in good humour, said, “Kya jadoo chalaee aapne Zeenat Bano pey.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Decades have passed since that experience and I did not believe that, wittingly or unwittingly, I could become a centre of attraction at the qawwali programme we were going to at the club. But fate had a surprise for me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">When our group reached the hall, it was nearly full. For a change, it was a mixed gender crowd comprising mostly of Gujaratis and Marwaris. The seating arrangement in the hall was of chairs, perhaps, in deference to the graying tribe of the members of the club, including me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The programme began to the cacophony of an orchestra that could have awakened a comatose person. Thereafter, the first half was dedicated more to devotional songs and slow film numbers and as a fellow member pithily said, <i>“Mehfil mein rang nahi aa raha hai.”</i> Thus, at the intermission, almost two-thirds of the crowd melted away. However, the ones that remained were obviously hard-core lovers of qawwalli. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The second half started with a bang with the popular qawwalli number of Mughal-e-Azam, <i>“Teri mehfil mein kismet azmakar hum bhi dekhenge”</i> and the ladies in the audience spontaneously joined the chorus of the stylized rhythmic hand-clapping along with the swaying from side to side – qawwalli style. This was the trigger needed to charge the spectators.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We were sitting in a row where the aisle chair was occupied by a quiet young man and I was sitting next to him followed by my wife. As the music started for the next number, the listeners could identify that it was the evergreen super fast-paced, “<i>Dama Dum, Mast Qalandar,</i>” first popularized by Runa Laila, and when the lead qawwal opened with “Oh ho, oh ho ho” the crowd started singing along with him. The mood was almost delirious as the qawwali proceeded and when he recited the punch lines “<i>Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,</i>” the audience went into a frenzy except that my young neighbour shouted ‘Ouch.’ </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It so happened that his wife, who was sitting behind him, was apparently drumming with her fingers on his back and when the qawwal sang the line <i>“Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,</i>” with full <i>josh,</i> she thumped his back with equal vigour. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I turned around to have a look at this percussionist and found her to be an extremely good looking woman and the flush of embarrassment on her face made her look even more attractive. She gave me a shy but broad smile and I could not refrain myself from complimenting her beauty and said with a smile, “Young lady, has anyone told you before that you very much resemble Sonam Kapoor.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">She was taken by surprise but as the impact of the comment hit her, she put her head down and started laughing softly and then slowly raised her head and tried to suppress her laugh by covering her mouth with one hand. Still laughing, she leaned towards me and said, “I wish I could say, with a straight face, that you look like Shahid Kapur” and burst into another round of laughter.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I conceded and said, “Shahid Kapur toh raha dar kinare, these days people think I look more like Anna Hazare.” Once again she thought it was a funny remark and laughed a little more loudly and that attracted the attention of the qawwal too. Looking at the age difference between the young lady and me, he started singing with great fervour, </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Khuda sawal karega agar qayamat mein,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">To hum bhi kah denge hum lut gaye sharafat mein,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hamen to loot liya mil ke husn walon ne,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Kaale kaale balon ne gore gore gaalon ne.”</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The import of the song made me straighten back to my original position in a hurry. But the lines evoked great boisterousness – clapping, foot-tapping and pumping the air - in the crowd that could have matched any in a rock concert.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After a few minutes, the young man next to me got up to leave and I thought, with some sadness, that this was, perhaps, the last of Sonam that I would be seeing. Just then, I heard a soft conspiratorial whisper from the back saying, “Anna ji, could I get you and your wife some coffee.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I smiled at her and, with the practice of some many years, said in a flirting tone, “Sonam ji if you insist, how can I say no to you?”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">She gave a light pat on my shoulder and said, “Anna ji, you are incorrigible.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The only person not enjoying this was my wife. She hissed, “It doesn’t suit your age to say such dialogues to a young girl.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">But I was on a high and dismissed her concern with a flippant, “Ah ha, what you should actually admire is that even at this age, I can charm young ladies especially if they happen to be slim and trim.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Coffee arrived and the young lady sat next to me in the chair vacated by her husband. She said, “Anna ji, we must keep in touch.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Sure. I always like to be in touch with good looking ladies. Closer the better.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Again, the remark caught her off-guard and this time she had to put both her hands to her mouth to silence her laugh. We exchanged telephone numbers but with the condition that she would make the first call and not me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The story would have normally ended here if there had been no follow-up. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span class="description"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">But after a week, Sonam called me on my landline. Chirpily her opening lines were, “May I speak to Anna Hazare ji?” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">In a playful but serious tone I replied, “Aap kaun bhenji bol rahi ho?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">And she laughingly said, “Tumhari Sonam” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Seizing the opportunity, I broke into a song, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">“Aaajaa Sonam …. madhur chandni mein,</span></i></span><br />
<span class="description"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Agar Hum Tum mile to wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar.” </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">And the “virane mein bhi aa jayegi bahar,” set her off again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">After ten minutes of such nok jhok, we disconnected.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Ab dekhein agay agay hota hai kya. But for the present, wife has gone on a crash diet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-25265301281844739172011-02-26T00:27:00.003+05:302011-02-26T01:19:03.006+05:30Lover's Tiff<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> “I just don’t understand what you see in that guy?”<br />
<br />
”Darling it was just harmless socialising.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Just get lost.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Sweetheart it’s not good to take anger to the bedroom.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> “You brought it on.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> “Okay I am ending it. Honey, Kuchh meetha ho jaye.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">“Ooh, ooh your bite is hurting, maan” said he turning over.<br />
<br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-71390160970624061192010-12-25T16:20:00.000+05:302010-12-25T16:20:13.474+05:30MALIA ANN - WITH LOVE FROM SANTA CLAUS<div style="color: #cc0000;"><i><br />
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div align="center" style="color: #cc0000; text-align: center;"><i>Bina Gupta encouraged her friends to write</i></div><div align="center" style="color: #cc0000; text-align: center;"><i><span> </span>An <strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">answer to a letter mailed by a child to Santa Claus. </span></strong></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #cc0000; text-align: center;"><i>Not to cross limit of 300 words.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">My dear Malia Ann, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I am so delighted to receive a request from the most powerful address in the world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">It was heart warming that you wished for small statue of a person who has been described by Albert Einstein: "Generations to come will scarce believe that such a one ever, in flesh and blood, walked upon this earth." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">However, such a one would have been amused that you have asked for his statue. He, with a mischievous smile, would have told you, that he is somewhat responsible for you being there at your present address. He would have recited, with a twinkle in his eye, “Thanks to Rosa Parks who sat, Martin King could walk. Martin King walked, so that Barrack Obama could run. And, Barrack Obama ran and ran and ran and reached the White House,” followed by his trademark loud guffaw. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Dear Malia, Gandhiji was the inspiration to all the three of them as he is to all of us. Non-violent resistance to tyranny is what he taught the world. He also had the courage of his conviction to practice what he preached and even laid down his life for it. Unfortunately, the world leaders, including your father, have failed him. Jawaharlal Nehru rightly said, on Gandhiji's death, that the light has gone out. Now it is up to young people like you to bring the light back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Therefore, greater than keeping his statue would be to read about his philosophy and to spread his message. Hence, along with statue, I am also dropping his autobiography, “My Experiments With Truth,” as surprise bonus gift for you. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">And, in keeping with spirit of the season, there is also a complimentary ticket for my dear friend to jingle all the way to India during the next Diwali holiday season. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">300 words.</span></div> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-5002907462307244192010-12-09T18:32:00.011+05:302011-11-18T09:37:38.111+05:30MYSTERY OF DESTINY - Hanif Murad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #38761d; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">There is a complexity to human affairs before which science and analysis simply stands mute.</span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i> David Brooks</i></span></div><br />
In the <i>New York Times </i>of May 11, 2009, David Brooks, in his article, “They Had It Made,” wrote, “In the late 1930s, a group of 268 promising young men, including John F. Kennedy and Ben Bradlee, entered Harvard College. By any normal measure, they had it made.” The group became the subject of a cohort longitudinal study initiated by Arlie Bock at the Harvard University in the 1930s. It came to be known as the Grant Study.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">The purpose of the study was to observe and co-relate, over a long period, the life events of each individual in the group standing, at that point of time, at an almost identical threshold in their lives.<span style="font-family: Verdana;"> </span>The result was surprising for, “Their lives played out in ways that would defy any imagination …...” The conclusion of this fascinating study was that predicting a life course is difficult even of those who, at some stage, seem to have it made. But, perhaps, there could be an alternative explanation – theological determinism. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Maybe, these life stories, like the life stories of the rest of us, were preordained to play out the way they did. This theory of theological determinism is also called predestinarianism. The doctrine propounds that from all eternity, God has foreordained everything that happens. However, it has to be conceded that the definitive paradigm of theological determinism can only be identified in retrospect, for rarely does it give a preview of its flowchart in advance. Still, one wonders if there could be a preset program, assigned to each of us at the time of birth, which mortals do not know of. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">A retrospective study of the unbelievable ascendancy of Sonia Gandhi to the pinnacle of political power in India appears to have been made possible by the occurrence of what Pieter Geyl would have described as, ”concatenation of events ……… caused …… by impersonal forces ………<i><b>independently</b></i> from the wishes or efforts of individuals.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Sixty-four years ago, how would one have figured out the possibilities of a just born girl child, to a middle class family in an obscure village of Italy, to attain the highest political office of India? The question, if posed, would have been ridiculed. The girl was an Italian national and was thousands of miles away from India. The primary issue then would have been as to how would she ever reach a country almost unknown to her family? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Antonia Maino, as she was then, was born on December 9, 1946. In 1965 providence took the first step in propelling Sonia Gandhi, as she is now, towards her destiny. She decided then to leave Italy to go to England to work as an <i>au pair</i> and to learn the English language. Rajiv Gandhi, who also happened to be in England at the same time, saw her in a restaurant there and it was he who sought an introduction to her. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Rajiv Gandhi was the son of Prime Minister of India, Indira Gandhi and the grandson of Jawaharlal Nehru, who was the first Prime Minister of India. Still it took Rajiv three years to convince her to marry him. They were finally married in February 1968 at Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s residence in New Delhi. Sonia Gandhi without her knowing had moved a step closer to the realization of her destiny. She had landed in the country of her future.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">The big question still remained, how could it be possible for a foreigner, a woman at that, to assume the top political leadership of such a large country especially as she would have to democratically battle it out with local aspirants? How could she ever triumph over them? Would she not also be handicapped in communicating with the people of that country as she would not know any of its several languages? </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">How would she prevail over the cultural and religious difference, for, was not India a Hindu majority country with a deeply embedded culture of its own? The negatives would be endless and, therefore, the whole possibility of her reaching the highest political office of India would have been dismissed as an exercise in fantasy. But unfathomable are the ways of the higher power that makes the impossible, possible.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Although Sonia had married the son of the Prime Minister of India, she and her husband Rajiv Gandhi were not at all interested in politics. He actually became a pilot in the Indian Airlines and continued to be one till 1980. She became a home-maker in the Gandhi household. However, the years between 1968 and 1980 were politically tumultuous for Sonia’s mother in law, Indira Gandhi. Sonia, who was staying with her throughout this time, must have observed it all from very close quarters. It was like a first-hand tutorial on Indian politics for her. The unseen power, it seems, was readying Sonia for her ordained future. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">In 1980 Sanjay Gandhi, the younger brother of Rajiv, who was attracted to politics and perceived as the natural heir and successor to Indira Gandhi, died in an air crash. Rajiv had to resign from Indian Airlines to help his mother in her political work. Sonia understood the situation and concurred to his taking up active politics. She was totally unaware, at that time, that with the death of Sanjay Gandhi she had actually moved a niche closer to the call of her own destiny.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">The tragic assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1984 must have created in Sonia an abhorrence of Indian politics. It is well documented that she fiercely opposed Rajiv Gandhi becoming the Prime Minister of India on the death of his mother Indira Gandhi. Rajiv, however, did become the Prime Minister but Sonia, unknown to herself, had also inched closer to her final call in her own right. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Seven years later Rajiv Gandhi was brutally assassinated by a suicide bomber in Sriperumbudur in south India and Sonia Gandhi and her two children were shattered. Sonia’s strongest bond with the country had been snapped. One does not know what inner strength she drew upon at that excruciating time to remain in India and not move back to Italy. However, she withdrew from Indian public life and dedicated the next seven years to bringing up her children. She made just a few public appearances and displayed no personal political ambitions during that period. However, the design of the destiny could not be denied. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">In 1998 the Congress party of Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira Gandhi seemed to have become rudderless and was in danger of extinction. In this grave hour of crisis, the party turned towards Sonia and implored her to assume its leadership. After great persuasion, she agreed, perhaps, against her own inclinations. However, within 6 years, she single-handedly achieved the almost impossible feat of dislocating the then ruling coalition, headed by ultra Hindu nationalists – the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) - from its perch of power by narrowly defeating it in the Lok Sabha general elections of 2004 – the then largest democratic elections of the world. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">Thereafter, the President invited her to become the Prime Minister of India. The girl child, born in Italy, had finally reached the zenith position in Indian politics – a summit that had been conquered by only 13 persons before her. She, however, graciously declined it by citing it as a call from her ‘inner voice.’ Five years later, she once again reconfirmed her supremacy in the General Election of 2009 by defeating the same BJP but by a larger margin. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
It may be, thus, open to conjecture that an ordained outcome, premeditated by a supreme power, could only have engineered her rise to the high noon of Indian politics. However, it has to be conceded that the law of cosmic design of determinism, in its entirety, will always remain beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-39073775727828940372010-11-22T11:13:00.013+05:302011-03-13T22:35:11.796+05:30OLDER, BUT NEVER WISER<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDBpGHuBbjn-eKq0VimMyGlaAVjpB0Lw3Ep22TVETazjP5R-vpjuBaOGFKUJQU36ufitEjQ5Ne6QSbA1ygv-_2Yh-HhtzdHSb8AKRx2y_xe0tkBLmaDJNm5dHuBFfZjnuyGYVN_ENQlKE/s1600/blogadda-contestwinner.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDBpGHuBbjn-eKq0VimMyGlaAVjpB0Lw3Ep22TVETazjP5R-vpjuBaOGFKUJQU36ufitEjQ5Ne6QSbA1ygv-_2Yh-HhtzdHSb8AKRx2y_xe0tkBLmaDJNm5dHuBFfZjnuyGYVN_ENQlKE/s200/blogadda-contestwinner.png" width="200" /></a></div></div><div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3333ff; font-style: italic;"><span style="color: red;">A winner of Blogadda's "What Men Want !" Contest <br />
<br />
The contest was judged on December 3, 2010 by Jamshed Rajan </span></span><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">and he wrote,<br />
</span></i><b><span style="color: black;"> </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: black;">"</span></b><b>Hanif Murad </b> tells a <span style="color: blue;">story of one of his many loves"</span><span style="color: blue;"></span><a href="http://kreativekomments.blogspot.com/2010/11/older-but-never-wiser.html" style="background-color: cyan; color: blue;" target="_blank" title="What Men Want"><b></b></a><b>.<span style="background-color: blue;"></span></b> </div><i><span style="color: #3333ff; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><i><span style="color: #3333ff;"><br />
</span></i></span></div><div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"></div><div style="line-height: 200%; text-align: left;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Since the time of Adam, all men want the same thing. They think about it every seven seconds and 5000 times a year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">In the pursuit of this goal, men have expended plenty of time, money and energy; resorted to camouflage, deceit, and lies and, some have even gone to war for it. However, only a small percentage of men have succeeded in getting what they desire and the rest have just fallen by the wayside and surrendered. However, hope burns eternal in their hearts that perhaps someday, sometime they may strike gold. Gene Raskin captures the plight of these losers in the song, “Those Were The Days,”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Oh my friend we're older but no wiser<br />
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I must confess that I am in the majority and live with the same hope.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">However, there were days when I was young and fanciful. One of my fantasies was that I was irresistible to women – like God’s great gift to womankind. My daydreams, in those days, were made of these flights of fancies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Those were the days my friend</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We thought they'd never end</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We'd sing and dance forever and a day</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We'd live the life we choose</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">We'd fight and never lose</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">For we were young and sure to have our way.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Of course, those were also the days when I dreamed of all the great things I would do. I mused that someday in the future I would be a leader of the nation. In the pursuit of this </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;">goal, I wrote an article entitled “The Need for an Alternate Party to the Congress.” It was a blueprint for starting a new political party and how it could be corruption free. It also talked about a strategy to defeat the Congress at the polls.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Thus, it came about that I was invited, by a well-known organization for leadership development, to speak on the subject at a seminar. I was all of 25. This organization was funded by a large corporate house and the 3-day seminar was to be held in their management institute at Pune. Five star accommodations were provided on the campus. On that fateful day, a cold wintry December morning, there I was in a smartly tailored steel grey suit backed by coordinated accessories. Power dressing, if you please. I considered myself “Observed of all observers.”</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">There was a good omen and a bad omen when I arrived at the hall just a few minutes before the start of the seminar. The good omen was that the hall was nearly full and the bad omen was that the crowd was almost all male with just a sprinkling of middle-aged women suffering from “seminaritis.” A situation I was not particularly happy with. Then it happened.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">With only a couple of minutes to go, she arrived. Even as she stood at the distant doorway, hesitating just for a moment to check if she was at the right venue, she exuded a presence. I was already seated at the table and I unabashedly stared at her as she walked in with great poise and sat in the front row just opposite to me. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">She was fair, tall and slim. She was in a crisp cotton sari and had a bright red s-shaped fine vertical tikka on her forehead. Her hair was dark with natural blonde streaks. As she sat down and very daintily crossed her legs, I noticed she was wearing gold zari braided kolhapuri slippers on perfectly designed feet and toes. However, what dazzled me were her lovely light gray eyes behind her rimless glasses. She was Archana, a Chitpavan Brahmin, who, as I later found out, happened to be just three days younger than I was. I felt a certain kind of glow within me in her presence. She smiled at the administrator of the seminar sitting next to me. He proudly told me that she was his daughter. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">The seminar was then inaugurated. I was introduced to the audience and, thereafter, stood up to give the speech. I had done a course in public speaking that taught us that whilst delivering a speech, to make an eye contact with the audience. Hence, when my eyes came to dwell on her, I saw her staring intensely at me and was all attention to what I saying. However, she also had a small smile playing on her lips. The speech was well accepted by the audience, although, ultimately, nothing came of it – exactly as Archana predicted at that time. After all, she had done her MA in political science. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">As we were about to break for lunch, Archana came over to our table to speak to her father. She spoke to him in Marathi and there was such wistfulness in her tone whilst speaking to him that I fell in love with her at that moment. I have never ever heard anyone speak Marathi as beautifully as she does.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">That evening at dinner, Archana, in a beautiful salwar and full sleeved kameez, looked absolutely radiant. She and I got talking. Surprisingly, we came to share a chemistry very quickly and our tête-à-tête that evening proceeded from the dinning hall to the footsteps of the administrator’s bungalow. We sat on the either end of one of the steps – a distance of about 4 feet separating us. We talked of politics, plays, music and our dreams. The great thing I discovered was that I could make Archana laugh fairly easily with my take on the topics we were discussing. However, if I tried to make any pass at her, she would laugh it off and use a favourite Marathi phrase of hers, “Gup bas,” to put me off. It was a Laxman rekha that I was not supposed to cross.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Time winged away that bitterly cold night and at 2 am in the morning, I decided that I wanted to marry her. I gave my proposal a political color. I told her half-jokingly that if both of us get married, I, with a beautiful Hindu Maharashtrian wife, would be a surefire winner at the polls and, some day, she could, perhaps, become the first lady of the country. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">She laughed, got up, on tiptoes climbed up the steps, and prancingly weaved her way to the house. I vended my way back to my guest apartment and lay awake, with the glow burning more fiercely than ever, till 5 am.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">The next morning she told me that her parents wanted to meet me over tea in the evening. I raised my eyebrows and told her with a smile, “So soon? Oh, they must be thinking that I am a suitable boy for you. But, I hope your parents will not force me into marrying you.”</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">She laughingly retorted, “Ha, ha, <i>Yeh munh aur masoor ki daal.</i> Keep on dreaming.” </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I left the next evening for Mumbai but Archana and I kept in touch on phone. One evening her mother called me and said that Archana was getting married to a Maharashtrian doctor in America and it would not be appropriate for me to speak for such long hours to Archana anymore. She, however, invited me to the wedding in Pune. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Archana looked gorgeous in her bridal wear on that day. When our eyes met, she gave a shy smile and looked down.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> "Then the busy years went rushing by us</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> We lost our starry notions on the way"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">After many years, Archana, now a mother of two, called me but I felt as if it was only yesterday that we had talked to each other. The intermediate years melted away, we were young once again and, now that she was married, my jokes were a little naughtier and the ad libbing contained many double entendres. She enjoyed them and, indeed, confessed that she had not laughed that hard in a long, long time. I immediately paid a compliment to her husband for not wasting his time in trying to amuse his wife. Out came her favourite Marathi phrase, “Gup bas.” She added that her husband was a very good person but admitted that he was bit of a bore. I then told her that I was always there to bring some spark to her married life. She laughed and said, “Keep dreaming.” </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">And dream, I did. I dreamt that,</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">‘I was invited by the king of good times to an inaugural flight of his new airlines to Switzerland. There were to be only four of us, besides the crew, on that flight. He, his girl friend, Archana and I. The programme was that all four of us would spend the previous night at the Hotel Centaur near the Mumbai International airport before taking the inaugural flight early morning the next day. He had booked the best two suites at the hotel. After a sumptuous and a laughter-filled dinner, we were ready to go to our rooms. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">As Archana and I reached the suite, I grandly swiped the card, opened the door, bowed and invited her to go in first. She gave me her million-dollar smile and her lovely gray eyes twinkled as she walked in. I followed her with rising expectations. However, Archana seemed more interested in the décor, the carpet and the paintings in the suite. After inspecting the entire suite and drooling over the luxurious beds, she pointed to a long sofa in the anteroom and told me that I was to sleep there whilst she would sleep on the bed. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I protested, saying, “Archana, after so many years of yearning, finally we are together and you want to waste this golden opportunity by sleeping separately.”</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">She replied with her favorite Marathi phrase, “<i>Gup bas.” </i>Then smilingly added, “<i>Jo garajtey hai, woh barastey nahi.</i>” The coup-de-grace came in her soothing Marathi, “<i>Atha gup chup zopun ja, sakaali laukar uthun jayacha aahey. Good night.</i>”’</span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I got up with a fright and was immediately thankful that it was only a dream. Later, I called Archana in USA and narrated my dream to her. She burst out laughing when I came to, </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">“<i>Jo garajtey hai, woh barastey nahi.</i>” </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">and just could not stop. She said she had not heard anything funnier than that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;"> However, not all was lost. After a few days she called me and said that the previous night she had gone to a party with her husband and he had worn such a baggy suit that she remembered how smartly dressed I was in the black suit on the morning I gave that speech in Pune. “I wished you were there instead of him.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Uh, hunh, did I not say that I was irresistible to women …………………even if they are on the verge of grandmothers to be? </span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"> I still dream that I may someday conquer a woman – as Adam and billions after him have dreamt in vain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</span></i></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-48972366163879640552010-10-17T13:28:00.013+05:302014-09-23T19:14:43.829+05:30A RECORD BREAKING SHOT<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="color: #3333ff; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;">(Submitted for the Blogadda "</span></i><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 200%;"><a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/10/06/sporting-memories-blogging-contest"><i><span style="color: #3333ff;">Sporting memories</span></i></a><i><span style="color: #3333ff;">" contest)</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I was born with a manufacturing defect. Unfortunately, I did not come with a warranty that the product could be returned, if found deficient. Thus, the deficiency in the product only came to light around the age of seven. The problem was that the right foot instep was slightly inward looking. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Hence, whilst running, whenever I would try to pick up speed, the right leg would go across the left leg and……..boom………I would be sprawled on the floor. It could be called a built-in self tripping mechanism. However, this inward looking shy instep was not a problem when walking or even jogging at a slow pace; only, it played up, when trying to run at a speed. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Therefore, as may be guessed, most sports were out. But it was in cricket that I found my true calling. I was a natural batsman endowed with quicksilver reflexes. It was almost impossible to get me out even by boys double my age. I could play pace and spin bowling with equal ease. However, my batting skills were of no asset to the team as I could not run fast enough to score runs. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">However, I vividly remember a cricket match I played when I was about 12 years old. It was played on a ground attached to a small neighborhood school. The playing field must have been 100 feet in length and about 50 feet in breadth. The pitch was in the centre of the playground. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">The match began at 4.15 p.m. The opposing side batted first and were all out for 49 runs. It was strongly believed that the scorer, who was from their side, added a few runs on the sly. All the same, our team started strongly and in no time we were 25 for no loss. And then 9 wickets fell for the addition of only 20 runs. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">With 5 runs still needed to win the match, I was the last batsman to walk in and a discernible groan went up in our camp. The captain of our team gave me strict instruction to play a shot and just scamper across. He said that the other batsman will try and hit a boundary after that. The situation was terribly nerve-racking.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Needless to mention, the captain’s instruction was weighing on my mind as I walked to the middle. I took a middle-stump guard and prepared myself to face the first ball. The bowler came charging in and bowled a pretty fast ball but it was way outside the off stump. I had half a mind to run and take a bye and go over to the opposite side but stopped myself just in time as I saw their wicket keeper collect the ball cleanly. There was a lot of buzz around the field as their lanky bowler started walking back to his bowling mark. I could feel the pressure around me.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Once again, I saw the bowler charging down and this time he bowled a huge bumper that could not be played. I then saw our captain running down towards me. Breathlessly he told me that the next ball was the last one of the over and under no circumstance should I take a run now. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Once more, I bent over my bat as I saw the bowler running up to bowl the last ball of the over to me and this time the ball was on the stumps. I saw it quite early and I hit it hard past the bowler. I stood my ground as instructed by the captain but the rest of the team from the sidelines started shouting “Run, run.” I was confused and started running towards the other end and had almost reached it when I saw a fielder throw in the ball. I tripped as the ball crashed into the stumps. But even as I fell forward, luckily, my bat went just beyond the crease. It was very difficult to decide whether the stumps were broken first or I had reached the crease before that. However, the umpire, who was from our team, ruled me not out. There was a huge sigh of relief. It pays to have an umpire on your side.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Now four runs were needed for victory but, alas, I had crossed over to the other side. There was palpable anxiety in our team as I would be facing a full over.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I took a fresh guard and prepared to face the new bowler who also had a long run-up. The school building was now on my right and the road on the left side with the school wall in between. Besides that, there was only deathly silence all around. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I took my stance. The bowler started running in slowly, then picked up speed, came up to the stumps and bowled. The ball was a half volley. As I saw the ball land short of length, all instructions and admonitions were forgotten. By sheer reflex action, I put my left foot forward and across and then went down on my right knee and swung my bat at the ball towards the area of what would have been between the square leg and the midwicket. It was almost a copybook shot as the ball hit the sweet-spot on the bat. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">There was a loud gasp as the ball started rising in a majestic arc, sailing way above the compound wall and traversing regally across the road. All eyes were on the ball as everyone seemed to be collectively holding their breath. The journey of the shot came to an end as it entered, unannounced, into a music shop on the other side of the road. And ………..it was followed by a loud shriek.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">Immediately, a girl slightly older than us came out of the shop and excitedly shouted across the road, “You have broken a record.” I was amazed at her understanding and appreciation of the game of cricket. So, shyly, I raised my bat in acknowledgment. However, I could not grasp her next words when she said, “Who is going to pay for the broken record.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana;">I looked around for some enlightenment and found that both the teams, the umpires and the spectators had vanished. It finally dawned on me that my shot had broken an antique 78 rpm vinyl record. The owner of the music salon turned out to be a tough negotiator and finally, my poor father had to pay for that record breaking shot.</span></div>
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Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-6443302143321830062010-07-23T15:07:00.006+05:302014-09-23T23:17:13.408+05:30THE FUTILITY OF IT ALL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">This Was A Contribution For Creative Collaboration for<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Bina Gupta on Sulekha.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rules: <b>225 words. City is the speaker in the post.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I am a seat of power. I have been constant witness to the folly and foible of ambitious men and women who desperately seek to win me. I am the centre of major and minor conflicts. I have been such for centuries. Therefore, my moments of ecstasy are rare. Sorrow is more my providence.<u3:p></u3:p></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hence, a joyous moment that happened on my terrain on the midnight of August 14/15 remains strongly embedded in my memory. At that point of time, the yoke of subjugation of 400 years was lifted off my neck and my own sons and daughters took on the responsibility of looking after me. One of the noblest sons of mine in ringing tones proclaimed, “Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny ….. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.” It was a moment of joy. It was a moment of inspiration. <u3:p></u3:p></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">However, it was short-lived. Alas, within less than six months the same son was saying, “Friends and Comrades, the light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere.” It was a moment of depravation. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">The apostle of non-violence had been felled. As the great messenger of peace sank into my bosom, I received him - the ultimate destination of the powerful and the helpless.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-46810610311182361082010-07-05T10:52:00.007+05:302010-07-11T01:21:39.483+05:30CUPID'S CAPERS<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Their marriage was only six months old but already showing signs of foundering. Thus, the drive from Mumbai to Khandala was an agonizing experience with Paayal moaning all the way that it was going to be an unexciting get-away. After checking into the luxurious holiday resort, it was still the same story.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“It is so dull and boring here in Khandala. I am dying for some action. Rinku, think of something exciting.” whined Paayal.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“Let’s go to the Bushy dam” said he, trying to placate her.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“No way. The crowd there is full of eve teasers and you are no Samson to be able to keep them away” snapped Paayal getting back on to her cell phone. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“But all the same we will have some action” replied Rinku with sarcasm dripping from the corner of his lips. But it was lost on Payaal as she seemed involved in a cell phone conversation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">After she finished her over animated chat, she excitedly said, “BTW, Rinku, my office friend Jason is also in Khandala. I’ve invited him over. He is so witty and charming and such a delightful company. Not a recluse like you. You really are going to hate him” she added with a mean laugh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Jason arrived. He was indeed a tall and good looking guy with an air of easy charm about him. Paayal went ballistic on seeing him. She hugged and air-kissed him. Rinku looked on resignedly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Suddenly, Jason’s wife Rehana, who was at the back, shrieked and called out, “Hey, aren’t you, Rinku.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“Rehaaaana” replied an equally delighted Rinku.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">In no time they were transposed back to their college days, laughing and exchanging high-fives. Rinku bloomed and was in his element making Rehana burst into giggles all the time. Stories and escapades of days gone by were remembered, related and relished with great glee and amusement. At that moment of time, they were lost to the world. It was only as if just the two of them were there. The spark of the former days looked like igniting once more.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Jason, the lady-killer, had never seen this side of Rehana ever and was literally dumbfounded at the chemistry between the two.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Rinku and Rehana simultaneously remembered their college picnic to Bushy dam and how they had cavorted under the waterfall.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">“And Rinku do you recollect how you carried me when my foot slipped?” said Rehana bursting into peals of laughter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">Jason now had enough of it. However, with a polished tone, he said “Rinku, can I have my Rehana back before you seduce her any further?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">There was laughter all around and to which Paayal added, “And Rehana, may I have my hunk back? I want him to take me to the Bushy Dam.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; line-height: 150%;"><a href="http://blogadda.com/">blogadda</a>
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<br />Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-59703383837755696612010-06-27T14:31:00.001+05:302010-07-04T21:41:50.323+05:30THE PATHWAY TO A WOMAN'S HEART<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Women, of all ages, are romantic at heart. It is one of the world’s most well kept secrets.<br /><br />Women are, thus, a soft touch for starry-eyed stories. This is the golden pathway to a woman’s heart. This is what women really want – a good warm story. Only Yash Chopra and I are on to it.<br /><br />Accidentally, I just happen to be an incorrigible storyteller. In my stories, I love mingling facts, fiction and fantasies. I have become such a veteran of this art, that after having woven the story, even I cannot separate the ingredients. Neither can Yash Chopra.<br /><br />The biggest victim of these endless flights of my imagination was my wife in the early days of our marriage. Like any insecure person, I would tell her stories, more likely, fables, wherein I would make myself the hero. I could put Walter Mitty to shame any day.<br /><br />Just after marriage, this story had my wife spellbound. I feel it is best to hear that narrative as I had told to my wife then. It made her believe that she was extremely lucky to be married to a very enviable lady-killer like me. Of course, she is wiser now. But unfortunately for her, it is a little too late! The stick-on has set.<br /><br />I commenced the story to her thus:<br /><br />“In my class at the college, there used to be an extremely beautiful girl by the name of Simran Bedi. She was really a pocket edition Venus. However, overpowering her total beauty, were her eyes. She had such lovely translucent eyes – light gray- green in colour.<br /><br />Naturally, all the boys wanted to be friends with her but, somehow, it seemed that she was allured only by me. In spite of this, she and I would only exchange shy glances, for both of us were too timorous and hesitant to approach each other. Sadly, that was also the state of the entire new entrants to the college – all were finding it difficult to interact across the small groups that they had formed.<br /><br />Therefore, the college organized an evening social for the first year students as an ice-breaking event. The social was to be from 5.30 pm to 7.30 pm as girls in those days were not allowed to be out of home after 8 pm. No hi-jinks or dancing was even contemplated for this get-together; only tame party games were to be played so that students would get to know one another. That was about all. The compere for the evening was a senior, Murli Mirchandani – popularly nicknamed Mirchi. He could well have been nicknamed, motor mouth.<br /><br />The social was in a big hall in the basement. Mirchi, the master of ceremonies, went ho-hum in his opening remarks that evoked few nervous titters. The audience was too tense to enjoy his witticisms. After a few opening games, the ever popular ‘passing the parcel’ was announced.<br /><br />The music started for the game and the parcel started going around at a fast pace. The music would then stop suddenly and the person holding the parcel, at that point of time, had to peel off the top paper layer of the packet and pay the penalty as written thereon. After many enjoyable punishments, the atmosphere seemed to be warming up.<br /><br />As the game was nearing the end and the packet was being handed over frantically from one to another like a hot potato, the music stopped and the parcel was in Simran’s hand. She took off the top layer and the forfeit read, ‘You have to be kissed by a person of the opposite sex.’ There was an audible murmur of shock and disbelief in the audience.”<br /><br />I paused here for an edge-of-the seat effect on the wife. She was wide-eyed and very excitedly asked, “Then what happened?”<br /><br />I grandly asked for a glass of water. I drank the water at a leisurely pace to deliberately give her some extra anxious long moments. Thereafter, I continued,<br /><br />“Simran was feeling extremely embarrassed and wanted another simpler fine but Mirchi would not hear of it. Finally, she agreed and looked around for a suitable boy. Frankly, Mirchi was hoping, she would select him. However, Simran, after looking around for a while, chose me.<br /><br />As I started walking towards her at the centre of the hall, I could see that she was feeling extremely nervous at the prospect. I do not know what got into me at that moment for I boldly took the opportunity, bent down and ………………..gave her a very light peck - barely touching her cheek. She was relieved. Quietly, she said, ‘Thank you,’ but her eyes said much more.<br /><br />The ice between the most beautiful girl in the college and me had been broken as I graciously said, ‘My pleasure.’ And, with a twinkle in my eye added, ‘You are welcome again, anytime.’”<br /><br />As I ended my story, there were stars in my wife’s eyes. Spontaneously she said, “What a chivalrous person you were.” With that, she rushed towards me saying, “I love you soooooooo much.”<br /><br />Quickly, I said under my breath, “Thank you, Walter Mitty.”<br /><br /><br />This post is an entry for the contest What Women Want <a href="http://www.blogadda.com/">@blogadda.com</a> and <a href="http://www.pringoo.com/">pringoo.com</a><br /><br /></div>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-62073218543687638052010-06-12T17:57:00.012+05:302014-09-23T18:06:38.236+05:30A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-style: italic;"><span style="color: red;">One of the winners of Blogadda's "My first Crush !" Contest <a href="http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/06/18/winners-of-my-first-crush-contest" onclick="window.open('http://blog.blogadda.com/2010/06/18/winners-of-my-first-crush-contest', 'myWin', 'toolbar=yes, directories=yes, location=yes, status=yes, menubar=yes, resizable=no, scrollbars=yes, width=600, height=300, top=50, left=700'); return false" target="_blank"> declared </a> June 18, 2010.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3333ff; font-style: italic;"><span style="color: red;"> The contest was judged by Preeti Shenoy author of </span></span><i><a href="http://preetishenoy.com/book.html" style="color: #000099;" target="_blank" title="34 bubblegums and candies">'34 Bubblegums and Candies</a>’. </i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"> She wrote: </span></i><b><a href="http://kreativekomments.blogspot.com/2010/06/moment-of-weakness.html" style="color: #cc33cc;" target="_blank" title="A moment of weakness">"A moment of weakness</a> by Hanif Murad</b>:</div>
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"Reading the above piece made me go‘aaaaaaaaw’. It is very well written too. Read it and you will see why."</div>
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As Bombay started receding from the rear view mirror, we could feel the change in the weather. The chilliness in the air was bracing, as the car slowly started climbing the ghats towards its destination. The holiday resort we had booked was perched right on the top of the hill and was supposed to have a breathtaking view of the valley. It promised to be a great holiday. I had, then, just been promoted to Standard X of my school. I had also attained, for the first time in my school career, the top rank in the class. However, I was bespectacled and gawky in my looks.<br />
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The owner of the resort and his wife were a friendly and an affable couple. However, their 15-year-old daughter, although living in a small hill station, had a mega attitude about her. She preferred to stay aloof from everyone. It was by sheer chance that my parents casually mentioned about my recent scholastic accomplishments to the owner’s wife. She, thereupon, requested me to coach her daughter some mathematics as she had failed in that subject.<br />
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I was thrilled by this opportunity for, truth be told, I was smitten by her fresh scrubbed looks. Therefore, I was secretly delighted that she had failed in mathematics for I thought this would bring down her conceited bearing when we would meet the next day for the tuition. However, I was in for a surprise.<br />
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The next morning found us sitting together, at one corner of the huge dining table, for the teaching and learning of the Unitary Method. She was arrogance personified and almost made it appear as if she was doing me a favour by being willing to learn the subject from me. I checked her mathematics’ class workbook and found it not only untidy, but also full of angry crosses by her teacher in red ink.<br />
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Nevertheless, keeping her outlook in mind and my feelings for her, I asked her in a very conciliatory tone, “Mrinalni, tell me what you don’t understand about these sums?”<br />
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Haughtily she replied, “Everything.”<br />
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Keeping my cool, I jokingly replied, “That’s good. We can start from the beginning.”<br />
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She condescendingly nodded her head to imply that she may just deign to hear me out. It felt that I was the one actually on trial.<br />
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I started with the simplest of the equations and told her how to place the fixed and the variable values in the proper slots to arrive at the correct answer. Thereafter, I set her a problem but she just could not get it right. Being as infatuated as I was at that time, I remained extremely patient with her. Repeatedly, in different ways, I tried to explain the formula to her but it was all in vain.<br />
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Finally, I could not take it anymore and with great exasperation told her, “You don’t have brains. You have sawdust there.”<br />
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She flared up at that, and with her cheeks glistening red with anger, she pulled the books from me, shut them with a loud bang and, after giving me a regal sneer, walked away. She went straight to her mother and banging her fist forcefully on the table told her, “I don’t care if I have to repeat this class for a hundred years but I will not be taught by him. He is an awful teacher. He cannot even explain a simple formula!”<br />
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For fifteen days after that, we did not speak to each other. However, a picnic and a game of antakshari came to the rescue. Knowing the cold war between Mrinalni and me, we were put on opposite sides. I launched the game with the soulful number from Madhumati, ending with,<br />
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<b>Ruthhe Hain Naa Jaane Kyo, Mehamaan Woh Mere Dil Ke </b><br />
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I must have rendered the song with some feeling for most people thought I was pouring out my heart to Mrinalni. The game, however, proceeded normally until Mrinalni, most unsuspectingly, responded to a later antakshari cue and sang the opening line of another song from Madhumati,</div>
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<b>Aaja re,</b><br />
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There is a small interlude after that and as Mrinalni paused, a lot of furtive glances were exchanged amongst the participants but Mrinalni was totally unaware of them. She continued,<br />
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<b>Pardesi,<br />
Main To Kab Se Khadi Is Paar, Ye Ankhiyaan Thak Gayi.<br />
Panth Nihaar, Aaja Re Pardesi</b></div>
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As she innocently ended the mukhda, there was a burst of spontaneous laughter. Someone, looking towards me, quipped, “Hey, you have got your answer.” That was the first time Mrinalni realized the possible implication of the song. She blushed furiously, hid her face in the palm of her hands and went right at the back where no one could see her. After the game ended, I went up to her and said, “Mrinalni that was a beautiful way of expressing your feelings.”<br />
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“Eh, Mister, don’t flatter yourself. Chhera kabhi seeshe mein dekha hai” was her quick retort. It was vintage Mrinalni. But the defrost had begun. After a week, I left for Bombay and Mrinalni found it difficult to put up a brave face at my departure.<br />
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Many years have passed since then and Mrinalni is now married and has two cute children. The children love to hear me recount the above anecdote. I begin the narrative thus to them, “Your mother is a very beautiful woman but even at the age of 15, she could not add up 9 + 7.” The children - who are five and seven years old - are greatly amused by this revelation about their mother. Finally, I would end the story by saying, “Ananya, you are as beautiful as your mother but I hope you don’t have sawdust in your head!” At this, both the children would squeal in delight and Ananya would say, “No, no. I am like Papa.”<br />
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Mrinalni, at this point, with mock-strictness, would tell the children, “You have heard your Papa’s favorite bedtime story, now off to bed.” Mrinalni fondly remembers that Valentine day, about nine years ago, when, as she blushingly says, in a moment of weakness she had agreed to marry the Pardesi.<br />
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Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-79975728763612944642008-08-28T11:04:00.001+05:302010-08-04T21:39:54.474+05:30US Playing Good Cop, Bad Cop With India - Post 007<p>As expected, some Nuclear Suppliers Group (NSG) members like Austria, Ireland and Switzerland are against giving India a "clean waiver" without a formal assurance from it that there will be no further nuclear tests. Now, New Zealand, Canada and Japan have also joined them. They are the bad cops. All the same, this is an upfront demand and India, if it so wishes, can reject it. </p><p>However, the real danger is the United States - playing the role of the good cop. The Bush administration is deploying the classic diplomatic strategy of appearing to be India’s friend whilst persuading the UPA government to give in to the demands of the above countries to incorporate the additional clause - that all nuclear commerce would come to a halt if India conducted any further nuclear tests. This would virtually mean signing the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty (CTBT) in another form and accepting a status of a non nuclear weapons state permanently.<br /><br />It would also mean that the pioneering work of over 60 years of the Indian nuclear scientists in developing indigenous nuclear technology, despite the strenuous attempts of the Western powers to suppress their endeavor, would also go in vain. As per the terms of the safeguard agreement, all further work would have to be done under the scrutiny of International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA). These scientists have done such highly creditable research work that even the nuclear deal 123 agreement, which also refuses to recognize India as a nuclear weapon state, admits that India is a state "possessing advanced nuclear technology."<br /><br />Moreover, India also has sufficient uranium resources for its immediate requirements. Mr. Ramendra Gupta, the Chairman and Managing Director of Uranium Corporation of India Ltd., categorically stated on June 8, 2008, in an interview with a leading national newspaper, “We have enough uranium resources.” He went on to add, “There is some mismatch for the time being which is expected to be over once these new projects (mining and processing) are commissioned. And for 20,000 megawatt of power, we have enough uranium resources in the country.” By that time, hopefully, Indian nuclear scientists, if there are no restraints of IAEA on them, would have cracked the advanced heavy water reactor technology of using the substitute thorium, described as the fuel of the future, instead of uranium, to generate electricity on a massive scale. And we have the world’s largest reserve of thorium.<br /><br />Therefore, there is absolutely no need for India, at the behest of USA, to back down on our terms of a clean waiver from the NSG. Security of India should not be compromised to propitiate the Bush administration.<br /><br /><iframe src='http://www.blogadda.com/rate.php?blgid=5647' width='170' height='75' frameborder='0' scrolling='no'></iframe> <br /><br /></p>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-51878361784994061892008-08-21T15:23:00.001+05:302010-07-05T21:04:06.877+05:30Shahrukh Ke Pass Kya Hai - Post 006<strong>An on site account of Kat’s Birthday Bash.</strong><br /><br />Enter Shahrukh.<br /><br />“Hi, Kat. Happy birthday. Won’t you kiss me?”<br /><br />“Of course Sharukh, I will. But in private.”<br /><br />Laughter all around. Kat then goes off to meet other guests.<br /><br />Sallu now enters the scene.<br /><br />“Hi, Shahrukh.”<br /><br />“Hi, Sals.”<br /><br />“Dude, I believe you are getting too close to Kat. Just lay off her.”<br /><br />“But, what can I do? She is the one who dreams about me all the while.”<br /><br />“Oh, she told you about it.”<br /><br />“Yeah, she did. But really not her fault. Actually, my charm is such; millions of women go to bed dreaming about me.”<br /><br />“And I believe, some men too. Whatever be it, just forget about her. Remember dude, you are trespassing on my property.”<br /><br />“Uh uh. That’s not right. Kings do not trespass. All properties belong to the king and he can go wherever he wants.”<br /><br />“King or not, just lay off Kat.”<br /><br />“Sals, threatening a king is high treason.”<br /><br />“I don’t know about that but if you do not lay off her, I will make the king literally bite the dust in the next few moments.”<br /><br />“Cool it, buddy, I was just kidding. Okay, if you say so, I will only stick to K… K… K… Kiran.”<br /><br />“Hey, who is talking of my wife? No one is sticking to my Kiran. She is mine and only mine.”<br /><br />“Heard that dude? Same way, Kat is mine and only mine.”<br /><br />“And Kareena is only mine, for the time being at least” said a new voice.<br /><br />Then all the 3 voices said in unison, “And, Your Majesty, who do you have of your own?”<br /><br />The king having no one, thought for a moment and then said, “Mere pass K….K…. K….. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Karan</span> hai.”<br /><br />And with that the king walked out from the party in a huff.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://blogadda.com">blogadda</a>Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-12446336254519243932008-08-17T11:38:00.000+05:302014-09-23T23:19:32.294+05:30Why Kat Went Under The Bed - (Post 005)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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THE PREQUEL TO THE BIG BOLLYWOOD FIGHT</div>
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Kat picks the landline phone and hears,</div>
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“Hi, Little Kitten. Happy Birthday.”<br />
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“Oh, hi, Sharukh sweetheart. Thaaanks. Hope to see you at my birthday party to-night. Sweety, I’ve to tell you something. I’ve been thinking about you the whole night.”<br />
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“Oh, have you?”<br />
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“Yes darling. The kiss you gave me last night at my pre-birthday party is still lingering on my hot burning cheeks.”<br />
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“Oh, really.”<br />
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“And also the tight hug you gave me afterwards. I replay those moments in my memory all the time.”<br />
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“Oh, do you?”<br />
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“Yes dear, I do. Thank God Sallu was not there.”<br />
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“Oh, were you happy he was not there?”<br />
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“Yes, I was. He spoils everything.”<br />
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“Oh, does he?”<br />
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“Anyway, let us not talk about him. Tell me, when are you coming over to my pad?”<br />
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“I am on my way. Only this is not Sharukh but Sallu. Keep your door open. You know what I do to closed doors.”<br />
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“Help, Billy. Billy, please open the door quickly. He is coming.”<br />
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“Who? Sharkuh?”<br />
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“No, no. He is coming.”<br />
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“Oh my God.”<br />
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Both the sisters then cover themselves with a big single bed sheet and go under the bed.<br />
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“Billy, I have closed my eyes and you also shut your eyes tight. That way he will not be able to see us.”</div>
Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-60107927924857881362008-08-12T18:31:00.000+05:302008-08-14T17:35:50.975+05:30God, Tussi Ka Jawab Nahi - Post 0041. India is populated by 1.2 billion Indians. Yet, its sole undisputed leader is Made in Italy. God, tussi ka jawab nahi.<br /><br />Folks, you can try and improve on this. Or, write your blog on my comments post; only it should end with"God, tussi ka jawab nahi." Remember, brevity is the soul of wit. Genuinely witty ones will be incorporated in this post with due credit given to the writer. Go for it.<br /><br />Ciao.<br /><br />HanifHanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-27107332962491962412008-08-09T18:25:00.004+05:302014-09-23T23:20:22.275+05:30Mr. Speaker Sir, May I Speak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Mr. Speaker Sir,<br />
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The Hon’ble members of the 14th Lok Sabha have spoken on the motion of confidence moved by the Hon’able Prime Minister. They have also concluded their ‘deals on the deal’ and voted accordingly. May I address you now Hon’able sir?</div>
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What makes you feel that you have the right to address me?</div>
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Sir, I am the woman for whom the Indo-US nuclear deal is being signed. It is to give me energy that the governments of India and America are working so hard to have the deal signed. Therefore, I wish to say something in this regard.</div>
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Okay, you may go ahead.</div>
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Thank you sirjee. Mr. Speaker Sir, you may have heard that Rahul baba thinks that my cause of backwardness is lack of energy. He said so in the Parliament. Therefore, he is proposing to get electricity, at whatever cost, so that I can have light in my life.</div>
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Sir, onche log ke khyal bhi kitne oonche hote hai. Sir, I am very greatful to Rahul baba for getting the light for me but sir from where will I have money to buy that light? However, with your permission, I would like to make a humble suggestion and I hope the baba log of this House, most of them educated abroad, will not be offended.</div>
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Yes, go ahead.</div>
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Sir, if instead of giving such large sums to foreign companies for the nuclear reactors and the nuclear fuel, can we not spend a small fraction of the same money to create facilities for rain harvesting? My crops fail not because of lack of energy but lack of water. Sir, have you heard of Rajendra Singh?</div>
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You mean Rajendra Kumar the film actor?</div>
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No, no sir. Not the actor but Rajendra Singh the Magsaysay award winner for rain-harvesting. He has made so many villages of Rajasthan drought free.</div>
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No, no. I have not heard about him. In our party we are not allowed to read about BJP ruled states.</div>
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Sir, it is said that thanks to Rajendra Singh saheb five rivers of Alwar are seeing life after death. It is also said that he along with the villagers, was instrumental in rejuvenating River Ruparel that started flowing perennially after three decades.</div>
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Chhota mooh aur badi baat karma nahi chhahti hoon phir bhi I have heard from our sarpanch that the nuclear waste from nuclear reactors will remain radio active for thousands of years. Sir, Rajendra Singh bought dead rivers back to life but I do not know what we are goint to bequeath our future generations – I hope they find some way to deal with the radio active material.</div>
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Sir, I would like to end my address to you with a message of hope. Sir, you will have to excuse me if I go back to Rajendra Singh for the last time. When Rajendra Singh was asked, “Is it possible for other villages in India to replicate your success in making Rajasthan drought-free?” He said, “Definitely. Not only in India, it is possible throughout Asia.”</div>
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Sir, I hope Rahulji will bring rainwater harvesting to Maharashtra and all the other states before bringing energy we cannot afford. I would like to thank you for giving me a patient hearing. Dhanyawaad.</div>
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Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-80656623993094583402008-07-27T15:20:00.000+05:302008-08-14T15:21:45.016+05:30Dr. Manmohan meets President Bush - Post 002The Indian Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh and the American President George W. Bush had some time back scheduled a very important meeting in Japan. The meeting was to discuss the progress of the Indo-US nuclear deal that both the governments were planning to sign in the near future.<br /><br />Well, as everyone knows, the meeting was a pre-breakfast one at 6.30 in the morning. Our PM was sharp on time as he rang the bell of the Presidential suite. However, he was taken aback when the President of the USA himself opened the door – with an electronic toothbrush in his mouth. He gestured to the PM to walk in as he rushed back to the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth.<br /><br />As he came out again he said, “Mr. Prime Minister, I am so sorry but I over slept. Make yourself comfortable. I will just bring out my treadmill and do my exercise for 15 minutes. Of course, I will not be able to talk to you as the music will be on at the same time. Anyway, I have something for you to pass your time. Laura dear could you please give the PM the wedding album of our daughter? He would be happy to see the pictures.”<br /><br />“But Mr. President, I have come to report the progress we have made on the important agreement that you and I signed in July 2005.”<br /><br />“Aw Mr. Prime Minister, I sign so many agreements. Early morning, I cannot recollect the agreement you are referring to. Just let me finish my treadmilling and, then, perhaps I may remember. In the meanwhile have a look at the pictures.”<br /><br />Fifteen minutes later, our poor PM has gone through the album thrice and knows by then all the guests by sight who attended the wedding of the President’s daughter.<br /><br />The President finishes what he called his treadmilling and says, “Mr. PM, you will have to excuse me again for another 15 minutes as I have to shower.”<br /><br />“But Mr. President, the agreement ..”<br /><br />“Oh, yea. I vaguely remember it now. Was it about global warming? Or, was it about Iran? Anyways, let me go for my shower and I may remember some more details of our agreement. Laura darling could you give the esteemed Prime Minister of India our wedding album to while away his time whilst I get dressed.”<br /><br />After another 15 minutes the President comes out looking fresh and glowing and our poor PM is wilting. He has just endured going through the President’s wedding pictures. “Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for being so patient. Mr. Prime Minister, you are aware how much I respect you and your great country but I am sorry that at this moment I have to have an important confidential talk with Condi. We have to give a fresh threat to Iran as the oil prices have started coming down. Please excuse me for a little while. Laura sweet heart can you get my father’s wedding album for the honored Prime Minister of India? And Laura, whilst you are about it, also my childhood pictures album. I do not know how long I will take with Condi.”<br /><br />Forty-five minutes have passed since the PM came to meet the President. The PM is decidedly looking pale. He has just seen the photographs of the three generations of Bushes. Finally, the Prez emerges and says, “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, Condi just told me it is the nuclear deal we have to discuss. I had thought that the deal had already gone through because I found you so supportive of our policies on Iran in the last 3 years - just as it was envisaged in the Hyde Act. By the way, in a few hours from now, we are going to let out that Israel may bomb the nuclear facilities of Iran. Then, Mr. Prime Minister, see the oil prices rise. I love yo-yo-ing the oil prices”<br /><br />“Yes Mr. President. Mr. President for the nuclear deal, the commies of our country are giving us a lot of trouble. But not to worry, I have just sent the safeguard agreement to IAEA without their knowledge. Boy, they are going to get mad when they find out.”<br /><br />“Mr. Prime Minister, thank you very much for coming. Let us meet the media that is waiting out.”<br /><br />The PM could only utter, “I was with the President for 50 minutes and I already feel like a family.”Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6597189807351208722.post-17450487858459968712008-07-26T14:35:00.000+05:302008-08-14T15:20:45.211+05:30No Need for Indo-US Nuclear Deal - Post 001Prime Minister Dr. Manmohan Singh and UPA chairperson Mrs. Sonia Gandhi are about to commit a grave mistake if they decide to go ahead and sign the India-specific safeguard agreement with the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA).<br /><br />The whole ball-game on the India - US nuclear agreement decisively changed on June 8, 2008 when Mr. Ramendra Gupta, the Chairman and Managing Director of Uranium Corporation of India Ltd., categorically stated in an interview with Hindustan Times, “We have enough uranium resources.” He went on to add, “There is some mismatch for the time being which is expected to be over once these new projects (mining and processing) are commissioned. …And for 20,000 megawatt of power, we have enough uranium resources in the country.”<br /><br />At present India is just producing about 4,000 megawatts of nuclear power. Therefore, the whole underpinning of the Indo-US nuclear deal, that India needs to import nuclear fuel as it does not have sufficient uranium reserves, falls through. Moreover, India also has the technology for uranium enrichment and the latest know-how for setting up the state of the art nuclear reactors. Thus, one does not see any need to sign the intrusive safeguard agreement, much less to operationalise the 123 agreement.Hanif Muradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12679378251072700268noreply@blogger.com0