IN MEMORY OF THE HERO WHO WOKE UP AN ENTIRE NATION, LEST WE FORGET

REST IN PEACE, 'CAUSE YOU HAVE MOVED ON TO A BETTER WORLD AND LEFT THE PREVIOUS ONE IN A BETTER SHAPE

PLANET X-TINCT

NEW YEAR IS AT OUR DOORSTEP!
But sadly, one thing i miss is Planet X. Even its advertisements in the papers were a class apart. The ambiance, the food and of course  the Go-kart, were Mysore's first. It prominently featured in many must-visit places of travelers  lists. Of course the foreigners of the city, yoga enthusiasts and college students alike, flocked to its bowling alley and the games arcade. And the locals followed to oogle at them. The Hookah bar; man that was some place to be! Only couples were allowed. So it made complete sense if you could pass off your aunt as your girlfriend and just get in to experience the wist and whiff of aromatic hookah, gurgling scented water in the background.
The bar was the adda of many. My favorite, was how the menu and the orders were taken. It was via Blackberry and Kindle. To the Mylari dosa eating people of Mysore, this was something new. In fact  many believed that the chef was a robot from Star Wars, a jedi warrior chopping up veggies and preparing soup.
The new year eve party was the best. The girls were totally worth the money. But all hands off the merchandise, 'cause Big Brother was watching. The bouncers at Planet X were as reputed as the place itself.  Big muscular Sunny Deol copies, able to throw you up in the air so high, that you would land in the next year.
The guy who started it all, Panduranga Shenoy, was truly larger than life. My favorite was his red colored Mercedes. Plus his lavish lifestyle, which included going to South Africa with his staff. His gifts to the who's  who of the city are well known. Too bad some got greedy and decided to draw first blood. Like a Go-Kart flipping out, the place got toned down. No bars, no hookahs. But still, the restaurant was definitely worth it. My favorite was the dessert, Apple Pie. It instantly transported me to the heavens, as if i was eating it off Nigella Lawson's fingers. OOOOH the feeling of the crust!
Finally, getting tired of the yet-to-be named Heritage City's bureaucracy, the place was shut down.
RIP Planet X. You will definitely be missed.

FROM INCREDIBLE TO INDESPICABLE

I'm writing this as i'm seeing the Home Minister of our country at a Press Conference, addressing the media about the steps taken in the Delhi Gangrape case. It has become a huge issue, with many facets. One of the most prestigious places of our democracy, the Parliament, has seen an unprecedented gathering of youth.  This reminds me of the black and white footage i saw, of dhoti clad Indians being lathi charged by British controlled police, during Independence. Today, Lee and Nike wearing guys and girls of Delhi got the same treatment, with a dose of the modern tear gas. Incredible India indeed!
Flashback to the Arab spring, where the youth led an entire region's fight against repression. Facebook, Twitter and Youtube emerged as the new tools of getting your voice heard. Voices of support, whether its cut and paste comments or candle lights, are being channeled through the same tools. We have found our Arab Spring, although this is about the right of women to walk on the streets, heads held high. It is a fight for emancipation of women.
Having said that, a word of caution. Arab Spring ushered a new beginning. But those countries haven't got back on their feet. Egypt, Tunisia and Syria are still under turmoil. Protests make good footage on the 9'o clock news, but history teaches us otherwise. Change begins from within. Change begins with an idea. An idea that leads to us to believe women are humans, beautiful and caring.
This situation is similar to the song of the Minions, from the Indespicables. The two guys on the front are our courts and the police. They echo what each other says, never trying to even have a look at each other. The guy at the back is the government, who lends background voice and tries to raise his above others, making sure they are numbed out.
The last person, who blows the paper whistle, is you and me. It's us. We try to work with all the three. We play along and do our best to better the society, only to realize that we are frowned upon and our expected to shut up. When we do try to keep going, we are slapped.
Happy Indian New Year my friend.

I'M SORRY MY LADY

Yes, all i can do is apologize to the victims, past, present and future, of rape. Be it Delhi, Bangalore or our Mysore, rapists prowl the streets. What makes it worse is alcohol, which makes even a gentleman give in to his lust. It is our priority to ensure the safety of women, be it a minor, sister, aunty, mum or the cute chick you were staring at. Chances are they might not make it home in one piece and dignity intact.

Yes, we Indian men are ironical. We are Rams' and Krishnas' for keepsake and Duryodhans' in reality. We take immense pleasure in letting the Hulk out of us, than the Gandhi. We follow the episode of Draupadi getting molested in the hall, while her husbands and other "respectable men" watched. We have been on both sides of the hall. But the Krishna in our society is long gone. The police can arrest, but the politicians haven't armed him enough, either with laws to shoot or imprison. Worse, if he did intervene, he gets shot. De`ja-vu the Punjab episode of the cop getting killed when he confronted his daughter's eve teasers. Plus, the rapists have a politicians contact number in their cell phone. One tring, few rings and he's out.

The media does take up arms and "campaigns". But it is only for that prime time. A few hours later, it is back to sack Dhoni, bring in Modi, and cheer the RBI. The nation will sing to "Hello honey bunny" and will comfortably forget about the rapes. 

Yes, we all go ga-ga about the Saudis, saying rapists are hanged and women can go out wearing jewellery at night. Well, if you are frowned upon for not wearing burkha, your freedom is curtailed based on gender and because religion says so, i believe its better to be in our country. Plus, marital rape is unaccounted for.

Rape has always been used as a tool for fear and to destroy a person from within. Wars have always been synonymous with rapes, be it WWs', Iraq, Afghanistan or our very own Kashmir. Men use it as the ultimate psychological weapon. Getting the zipper down is one step closer to acheiving victory. This, i firmly believe, is cowardice and i would take immense pleasure, joining you, in kicking the balls and sending the message loud and clear. 

But to the ladies, carry a pepperspray and a knife, and learn how to kick ass, literally. Even your friendly men are helpless to protect you. And pray for loads of luck, 'cause somewhere out there, no matter what you're wearing, or with whom you are and wherever, your Krishna might be watching out for you.

"ASS" YOU LIKE IT

The other day in the news, i heard temple authorities, agreeing with our Indian patent moral police, that jeans should not be worn by women and girls when visiting temples. So much for God and gender equality. This must have deflated the boys and men, as their only excuse of visiting temples is now gone.
I agree to some extent that dress etiquette is important, specially when you're knocking on the doors of the Big Boss and Big Brother. Imagine you knelt down, closed your eyes, prayed and VOILA! you are bang facing the curves of a cute butt. All religion goes right out of the window and you're soon drifting into la-la land. Your eyes follow her everywhere and soon, all kinds of hymns and mantras magically come to your mind.
Figure hugging and custom fit don't make matters easier for the male homo sapiens. He is confused and knows it is wrong, specially when the priest is watching and frowning. But sometimes, even the priest can't help but steal a peek!
God doesn't see the clothes you wear or the brand of jeans that is obviously too tight for you in the first place. He sees how honest you are. But ladies, the men around you aren't pious saints. Hell, saints have been lured away from their tapasyas by saree clad maidens in BC and long before someone coined BC. And we men are ordinary mortals in 21st century, 2012. Levis, Wrangler, Lee or whatever your brand is, the men are not checking out the label. They are oogling your maxius gluteus and then, the lady who is the proud owner of the merchandise.
You can pooh-pooh the men and log out in disgust, but that is the truth. God created man, man created jeans and together, they made the women wear it. So you see, there is God's hand in it too.
Whether you choose to wear jeans or drape in a saree, men will be men. But when they see you ladies in jeans, they become boys all over again. Teenage deja-vu and WOOHOO! a jack pot of eye candies. The men truly believe, for that moment, there exists a God.
I have no right to say that jeans and ladies combo should be avoided from the prayer getaway. This land is made of Gods, Goddesses, democracy and the Kamasutra. But to the guys, please do not give I stare 'cause i care excuse. That's totally lame. Instead, close your eyes, fold your hands, take a deep breath and when no ones watching, smile and give a thumbs to the Gods. For all you know, denim is the answer to your prayers.

"TOTALLY" FINGER LICKING GOOD

While on a trip to Bangalore, i was fascinated by Indiranagar and the Old Airport Road, leading up to Murugeshpalya. I chanced upon Total Mall and decided to check it out. My name being the same as the locality's, i flashed my driving license to show the cashier that the area is named after me. She didn't buy that and asked me to pay up, though i insisted that i'm a celebrity. (In reality, i don't even have my bike in my name, let alone an area in a metro). Anyway, on the ground floor, i chanced upon KFC. I ditched McDonalds because the joker had spoilt my stomach the last time, and i went to complain to Colonel Sanders (he's the guy on the KFC logo).
I had to address my hunger pangs first. So i ordered a burger. I noticed that the guy at the counter pointed to me and didn't utter a word. I figured out he was deaf and dumb. I just smiled and using gestures, i had the burger delivered to table. I saw some young girls at the corner and to show off, i pulled up a bar stool, in style. BIG MISTAKE. It took me 15 minutes to sit. I'd become a Xmas turkey.
Chomping on my burger, observing the counter, i realized that except 2 staff members, the other 5-6 did not speak. All of them were specially abled. They communicated using sign language. I had never seen a restaurant managed like this. It reminded me of a Manipuri play i saw at Rangayana in Mysore. Except one guy, who looked like he ate the Dasara jumbos for lunch, the rest of the cast were dwarfs.
Anyway, my point is, language and communication are different. You don't need to speak the language in order to communicate. And importantly, the ability to change society, for good, is possible even with MNCs. So if the retail FDI provides employment to the disabled, i'm all in support of it. They (disabled) don't need our pity and charity. They need a platform to prove themselves. I empathize with them 'cause i know how much a struggle it is to be born with a disability that changes your entire life.
Yes, the chicken tasted more like roadkill grill and the fries, i guess, were from potatoes grown on the moon, 'cause they put my stomach in a vacuum. I don't recommend KFC. But i will definitely suggest the outlet at Total Mall. Just go and try to have a conversation, without saying anything. And walk away with "finger licking good" feeling in your heart.
 

WHOSE WATER IS IT ANYWAY?

Morning. Still sleepy from a 16 hour journey to, from, within and under Banglore, i heard the soft and gentle sound of a stream. I thought i'll wake up with British tea served along with French toast and American pancakes. To my dismay, i found that water was overflowing from the Indian washing machine. This has become a habit for my mom. Turning off the tap, I took up the day's paper, had a glance and marched like a Nazi soldier towards her. I pointed to the front page news, in bold headlines printed, about the Cavery agitation. Mom sighed, apologised for formality and remarked, "Well, whose water is it anyway?"
For a second, i was dumbfounded. Such a simple, yet thought provoking question. It gave a kick even better than Nescafe. Water is nature's gift to us. Do we have the right to own it, just because it flows in a state whose borders were drawn in an agitation? Before you raise the topic of home security and border security and rights, how much water did U waste today? Anyday, the ongoing metro work punctures a pipeline or the next upcoming mall or it's builder's new house digs up a road, water pipe is also included in the JCBs claws, along with a few loose cannons here and there, literally.
I'm sure people back in Tamil Nadu squirm, squint and shake their heads in disbelief every time they see water wasted by us in Karnataka. Blocking the highway, by political parties dressed as farmers, sure gets the attention of prime time news, but real farmers would rather have it opened. The highway is important for transporting their crop, to carry their sons to engineering colleges in the city and to bring the daughters back from factory work. Plus, the numerous tea shops and hotels, which dot the highway, some owned by the farmers themselves, clearly incur losses. By the way, judging the number of hotels built on farmland, agriculture doesn't seem a viable option anyway. This would mean that pretty soon, we would have to get our rice and roti ingredients from our neighbors, including Tamil Nadu. With what face should we go to them then?
 Tamil or Kannadiga, tractor farmer or BMW honcho, water is our basic right. Politicians will get their mineral water, O2 purified, delivered to their homes. For us, our only hope is the tap. Our hope lies with nature and judicious use of water, not fighting over who owns how much of it.

MYSORE AUDIENCE'S DRAMA

I took some time out to go to the "Sampada Parishe" at Kalamandir. Every time i go there to see a play or show, i return home refreshed, and with a sense of regret.
Reason: The behavior of the Mysore audience. Any Mozart can survive in any part of the world if he manages to please the audience of Mysore. The people here are A LOT choosy. For some reason, they arrive late, talk loudly, and then, leave abruptly. The constant opening of the door will of course irritate the performer or the artist, but you cannot question the Mysorean. "AATU, AATU" is the pat reply. More so irritating is the habit of munching snacks inside the hall. It is acceptable in DRC, but Kalamandir has a charm and a class of its own; it is a live performance going on. And the most irritating habit of clicking pictures with flash. Imagine the artist's eyes.....in a dark room....it's like memories of Ghajini.
And those comments! By God! Its like the average Mysorean is an avataar of Einstein, Beethoven, Tagore and Gandhi, all in one. He, and even some shes' are the pandits & gurus of every art there is. Their comment is more important to be heard in the audience, than the performer's dialogue. What makes it worse is the fact that these pundits bring their toddlers along, and their loud and music drowning wailing is a 5.1 dolby from hell in itself.
If you were a performer, the best in your field, and you train hard, to give the performance of a lifetime in a city supposed to be the cultural capital, you would be happy, right? But, not so in Mysore. It's best you start your performance with closed eyes and open them only after the performance is over. This way, you will not be discouraged by the mobile phone screens stuck to the ears, people walking off because you didn't impress them in the first 10 minutes and kids slapping their heads and cursing their parents for making them miss the latest episode of Big Boss.
Here's my advice to the audience of Mysore...Either be patient for the entire show, applaud, appreciate, and give a standing ovation at the end or even better, STAY AT HOME. It's better to perform to empty silent chairs than a hall full of noisy intellectuals.

AUTOMATICALLY AUTO 1 & HALF XTRA Part 2

During my brief stay in Namma Bengalooru, autos became my lifeline. Sure, the buses were always there. But i'm not exactly a public transport not public toilet sort of guy. The traffic jams were a real turn off, so i used the time to strike up interesting conversations with the autowallahs. On one such trip, i learnt about the current status of Banglore's underworld. Apparently, Tamils have become the Godfathers of the city. Me being one, i was dead scared when he told that he didn't like them very much. But thankfully, he said that he'll make an exemption in my case. Moreover, he said that Banglore is the only place where you can walk alone,in the dark or in the crowd, juggle a bundle a cash and still make it back intact. COOL!
My next experience was at 10 PM. I had to make it to the satellite bus stand from the old airport road. I reached in 20 mins flat! The less traffic did help, but i guess he (the auto) was from Charminar in Hyderabad. Apart from Vettel, only Charminar autowallah's are capable of taking pole positions at Buddh circuit and peak traffic.
When it comes to charging by the meter, and ensuring that you reach home safely at night, even though you are drunk, you can always trust a Muslim autofellow. This i can vouch for.
The autofellows get bugged up as much as any guy by the traffic jams. They care about the city and it's people.They are a living testament for the city's changing geography and attitude. They have seen their expenses sky rocket and earnings go down. There is severe competition within themselves and with the Indica cabs.
But there are two things you can always count they'll do. One is Kannada Rajyotsava. They care more about our state than the sad jokers that rule us. They do more for our language than the Kannada professors and the "always crying", linguistic morality groups. They drive the Kannada newspaper and magazine sales. Plus, they speak English, Hindi and just about any other language. The second is Shankar Nag. AutoShankar is THE MUST WATCH MOVIE for all of the auto brethren.  And yes, in any accident, the autowallah is the first guy to stop, help you and even carry you to hospital.
Yes, sometimes they do argue about change, talk rough and go round and round the city, just to keep the meter running and have you fooled. But, what you spend on buying the new Nokia Lumia  or Windows 8, the auto guy manages his brood of 4+ for a month. Try doing that with your IIM degree. Not possible is it?
Reality bites for the autowallahs, and it bites hard. Corrupt traffic cops, maintenance costs of the auto, bank loans and a nagging family back home, no one is born for it or trained for. Destiny thrusts it upon a few. From Charmniar to Lalbagh, from Chennai to Nagpur, their breed is unique, with even a few women joining the club. Next time, you step down from the auto, pay him and are about to walk away, just look him in the eye and say, "Thank You". Who knows, in the big and lonely city, you would have made his entire day by just those words.

Automatically Auto, 1 & HALF XTRA Part1

Not a big fan of buses? Car keys lost temporarily? Bike keys lost beneath the papers? What's the first thing that comes to your mind?
Yes amigo, it is the auto. The nation can deal with scams and natural disasters, but one day without  autos, and you know that the world is in Kaliyuga stage.
My school memories are associated with the auto. The best place was right next to the driver uncle. The worst place was in the back with the class teacher or even worse, with the thick glasses, oily pony tailed, plump girl having a crush on you! Ofcourse, less the number of kids, more the chances of stopping for an ice cream, sponsored by the auto uncle. Plus, the usual fights in the back and ofcourse, the F1 like races with the other autos, especially important to win if the geeks and the first rankers of the class were travelling in it. Can't beat them in studies? Can definitely do so by auto race. That was and will always will be NEED FOR SPEED, LKG and PRIMARY version.
Ofcourse, the meter was always a bone of contention. It always seemed to be running more faster than Hurricane Sandy. That automatically led to arguments, haggling and a final cry as to what the country has come to, whether or not you have come to your destination or not. Ofcourse, you hardly spent time thinking about the shortcuts the auto guy took to ensure you reached on time, or how safely he drove.
And then, theres' always the sight of them wearing their uniforms when they spot a cop or a signal. And boy, when they put on the music, you don't care if its Bose or JBL, your ears just explode. Add to that the local Kannda style and the lines which don't make sense, the moment you get down, you know that the next trip is to NIMHAANS. Auto's are characteristic to our country as is the re-elected Obama to America. Hell, we even go to the voting centres in an auto, even if it means paying 1 and a half extra on that day, or after 9 PM, though it is 7 PM in the automan's bible.
So, buckle up, and enjoy the....oh wait! there's no seat belt next to the 5 feet open door. SHEESH!

TIP THE WAITER

Great food, Yes. Great music, Yes. Great ambience, Yes. Great service, Yes. Great waiters? Wait a minute.

What's that got to do with a food place? Isn't that the same as service?
The answer is yes and no. Yes, service includes the waiting staff and the guy who takes your orders and the guy who cleans up after you have burped, dropped tissues on the floor and let out a silent fart to make space for paan. Waiters are an entire new breed in themselves. Rarely are waiters born. It takes skill, talent, girt, determination and ladles of patience to become a waiter.
He is the fork and spoon between the manager, the cook and the guest. He gets a fork inserted into his bum from all three for no fault of his. Unruly customers, out-of-control kids, goofy manager and a lousy cook; his problems never end. He has to wear uniforms which don't exactly suit him or his style.
His problems at home may be many, from an obese wife who demands he steal the food and groceries to kids who remind him his mistake of buying cheap condoms. Yet, he sticks a smile on his face and shows up to work. Show me any chef, banker or stock market analyst who can remember the ever changing dishes, their ingredients,what customer at which table ate what. He trains himself in having a cybershot memory. That makes him really special. And to think most of them have never seen a school, let alone culinary showoffs college.He is not your average joe who brings you food. Remember, he doesn't get to eat the food served to you. If you leave something out, and it is palatable, he'll have it behind the doors. He understands the value of food.He is the reason why restaurants work and some burn out.
The best of these waiters are found in corner hotels, where you don't have a menu and the crowd is the ever complaining middle class.The best of the waiters and the worst of the customers are found in India.
So the next time you visit a hotel, 5 star or half star, remember to smile at the waiter. He doesn't know how the food's cooked, but he knows for sure that you are to go with a full stomach and a burp.
And my friend, coins or notes, leave behind a tip. That may be the only thing to remind him that someone cares.

A MYSOREAN'S SWAN SONG

Words cannot describe the pain and fear i have for leaving Mysore. Going to an unknown city is never a good feeling all together. But change is a part of life. And life is not constant.
I owe my life to many people. I am what i am today because of the lessons they taught me. I have got the chance to start life anew at a place that has always shocked me just by the sheer sight of it. Nonetheless, there's no better teacher than life.
I thank you teachers of St. Philomena's, Sadvidya, Rotary and Mahajana's. I thank the environs of Mysore university for the breath of fresh air that rejuvenated my soul. I thank the last benches in these institutions that shaped me and my thoughts. I thank the roads of Mysore that enabled me to learn and reincarnated the biker in me. I thank the corner shop kirana Marwadi who loaned the chocolates and the baker who sold the cakes. I thank the auto drivers whose passion rekindled the Kannadiga in me and i thank the hotel's masala dosa cook whose very existence i thank God for.
I thank the neighbour's who helped me when i failed in home cooking by their delicacies.I thank my family for ensuring i lived a King's life though i was a pauper for money. I thank my sweethearts for the intense love rushes they gave me and their boyfriend's whose gashes are on my heart forever.
I thank the traffic police whom i called mama, to the college mates whom i called machha and tamma.
I thank you beloved Mysore, for all those experiences, lessons and much more. Without them, life would not be the same. I am now about to call another city as my step mother, but you shall always be my agony aunt.
Goodbye Old & Royal Friend............

THE ANSWER TO THE LAPTOP QUEST

So, after trying to figure out which port connects to which wire, i decided to buy a laptop. This initiated one of the greatest lessons in street smartness which no MBA course will teach. This is an account of how i purchased one and the interesting facets of the laptop business. To ensure that even you could benefit from this, i will break a cardinal rule and use the names of the brands. Sadly, none of the brands are sponsoring me! Anyways, here goes.
My search began on the internet, which each site claiming their review was the best. Thankfully, in all the sites, Asus and Toshiba led the pack. When it came to India, it was Lenovo. Great. Now, it was time to actually choose the model from the site. I volunteered to answer a series of endless questions on the site, followed by trying to choose the model. End result: Le-Definitely No-vo.
I took the streets, with the first shop promising a discount. Plus, a long list of freebies and 1 year warranty. Next shop, same story, but with a twist. Lenovo is good, but the service people are not. Being the guy with sweaty Jog falls in my hands, i decided service was important. So, Dell it was. 70% of the shops refused to suggest Dell. Apparently, if you call the service people, and when they FINALLY show up, they take your laptop and give it late, in some cases, your grand kids receive it after you're long deleted from earth. Some sweet talk in a shop and the truth was revealed. Dealers get comparatively less commission from Dell. No money under the table, no laptop over the counter. And this nugget of information, laptop prices change by the day, faster than the stock market.
Sony was my next on my list. Sexy Kareena was more hot than the laptop. Incidently, i went to Reliance in Mall of Mysore and boy, the salesman had me convinced that the freebies offered by them are more important, to hell with the laptop. Good old KT street was just a maze of laptops, free opinions, even more freebies and one brand bitching over the other. This was worse than getting a lapdance from my 80+ math teacher.
I had almost given up hope, when, in the distance, I spotted a cheap lingerie shop where the model was pointing right. It was a Toshiba showroom. Finally, a hope from a sexy angel. The marwadi guy over there heard my plight and said something i'll NEVER EVER forget in my life. "Dell, Toshiba, Sony, Asus, hp...all parts MADE IN CHINA".
Bingo! that's it!