The Composition

On a certain friday was our Annual Day at the school last year. I had been allotted a slot for 20 minutes to present an orchestral performance by the students of the school, trained by me. I’ve been doing this slot for the last two years, so I was not really very apprehensive this time, as compared to my first year. If I was to believe the Principal of the school, in his words, my slot was a breath of fresh air in an otherwise routine annual day celebration. So with all my modesty, I must admit I was quite confident. And it was honestly up to my students, I am always backstage. So once I was done making the composition, I really did not have a lot to perform, apart from guiding my students to play the composition in the way it is made.

Kashif, a prodigious talent, from the 8^th standard was my ace of spades. He was learning Sarangi from the tender age of 6, and already by now, he was well accustomed with most of the Raagas and the improvisations they lead to. His guru, his father himself, Ustaad Shareef Khan, is a descendant of the rich heritage of Sarangi players of the Sabri’s from the Maihar Gharaana. The first time I heard him last year when he played a dhun in Bhairavi, I was extremely moved. It is difficult, to say the least, to find such a young boy play a composition in a Raaga, understanding the Raaga’s personality. More often than not, even the very good musicians at this age would play a composition exactly the way it has been taught. Kashif was not one of those. He had an intuitive understanding of the mood, and hence he would play a note with his own understanding and maturity, prolonging or twisting the note just enough to evoke catharsis. I really believe, he is a prodigy. I do not use the word too often, but he is one.

As the corporates say, a smart boss would always use his brightest employee in a way that magnifies the boss’s reputation. I did the same with Kashif this year. Integral portions of my composition would be played by him, also because the composition was set in Maand. I believe Maand sounds best with earthy instruments, specifically on something like a Sarangi, giving it the adequate flavor of Rajasthani folk. Chhote ustaad, as I would call Kashif fondly sometimes, played my composition with utmost ease. I must mention that he had also added a few phrases which he thought would go well with the piece, and they were indeed beautiful! The rest in the orchestral group were all catching up with him, always. They had crossed the stage of being envious of him. They were now in awe of him, realising he is a talent. This is a hard stage to reach, even for Kashif. I remember I wasn’t even close to being someone anybody would be envious of. I could see the unease Kashif had dealing with this stardom. He is a teenager after all. He couldn’t fathom how to take complements, or answer quintessential questions related to any composition. He is a fine musician, but people forget he is still a kid. His concept is intuitive. He is still figuring it out in his head. But I must also add, he is not pompous, yet. He is not overconfident, yet. He is not a star in his head. Yet.

He had asked me if he could miss the rehearsal on thursday, a day before our annual day performance. Although I wasn’t too pleased with the request, I could not refuse him. I was certain he would play the way I expect him to on the day of the performance, even if he misses our final rehearsal. I was actually uncertain about others who were playing with him, because they were merely memorising the composition, unlike Kashif, who always, even on stage, would let the composition breathe on its own. So during the final rehersal on thursday, I sang out aloud the portions Kashif would play, for everyone to “memorise” one final time where they need to stop and begin again. On the day of our performance, we all reported at school 2 hours prior to our slot. There was a short sound check shortly after which the guests were allowed to come in. The football field was full of chairs covered in a white cloth, the ones you would see in a North Indian wedding in Delhi. These were perhaps from a wedding last night, for many of them had stains of gravy dropped on them while hogging the age old stale recipes, the likes of paneer makhani and dal mutter, or is it paneer mutter and dal makhani, whatever, I couldn’t care less. It all smells the same. I am also more certain since it was winters, and all Annual days and weddings are scheduled in winters in Delhi.

Kashif did not show up for the soundcheck. He was infact missing almost till five minutes before we were about to get on stage. I had lost my temper by now. I was shouting randomly on students who I thought could get in touch with him and find out his whereabouts. I did not have the balls to tell our Principal to postpone our slot a little, he seemed extremely busy attending to his chief guests. I had to find a way to execute our performance without Kashif, in case against all hope, he doesn’t turn up. But he did turn up, almost in the nick of time. I did not have the time to even inquire him about his disciplinary lapse. As soon as he came, we almost immediately had to rush to the stage and set up the instruments. I was helping in placing the microphones in front of the significant players. Kashif needed an independent microphone. When I reached him, I saw him sitting with a harmonium he had borrowed from another student.

“Where’s your Sarangi?” I asked. He kept looking at me, his eyes brimming with tears. I had to place more microphones quickly so I moved ahead. Kashif played the harmonium almost with the same ease. He played his improvisations too, but something was missing. May be at his age and calibre, even some of his improvisations are rehearsed. I do not know how to put it, but it did not sound organic. For someone like me who knows him so well as a musician, it was apparent he was struggling to be at his best. Something was bothering him. Well, and if you ask me about the orchestral performance, it did not sound the way it did till the second last rehearsal. Taking nothing away from harmonium the instrument, it could not add the flavour a Sarangi would have. There was a huge cheer nonetheless, after the performance got over. Apart from me and my orchestral group, no one realised what the piece would have been if Kashif had carried his Sarangi.

“Where is your Sarangi?” I asked him again once we went to the music room after our performance to keep all the instruments.

“My father did not allow me to bring it” he replied with a broken voice, trembling with fear and embarassment.

“Why?” I asked

“He did not want me to play today with the school orchestra” Kashif said.

“Why? All of a sudden?” I enquired.

Kashif stayed silent for a while, which completely flew the lid off my temper I was trying to control for so long.

“You think this is a joke? Why did he not want you to play today after so many months of rehearsals?” I shouted at him.

“He did not like your composition” he replied so softly that it was almost inaudible.

“What?”

“He did not like your composition” he repeated, this time I heard it clearly.

“When did he hear it?” I asked.

“He wanted to listen to it, so he asked me to play it yesterday at home. He said this is not Maand.”

Kashif replied, now without trembling .

“What is it then, if this is not Maand?” I asked as if a child has ridiculed my musical knowledge after years of training and practice.

“I don’t know sir. He said it is a bad composition, and I do not want you to play something like this in front of people.”

It took me a while to assimilate and absorb what Kashif had said. I wasn’t expecting anything like this as the reason of his almost missing the performance. I gathered myself again to ask him “How did you come then at the last minute?”

“I ran out of the house without telling him. I did not want to spoil your orchestra at the last minute because of me.” replied a mature 14 year old boy in a fix between his father-guru and his school music teacher. He continued after a brief pause, “I will not play any more for the school functions from now, my father does not want it. Sorry sir.”

There was silence in the room for a few minutes once Kashif said this. He kept looking at me, expecting something from my side, either a disapproval or an angry comeback, anything. I had a lot to say but it was not meant for him may be. So I had to chose whatever I wanted to say very carefully. I was aware he is a child and is powerless in front of his father’s wishes.

“Kashif you are doing what your father has asked you to, and so you are helpless. But will you remember one thing forever if I tell you now?”

“Yes sir”

“Never do this with your son or daughter when you become a father. Let them perform at functions you think are unimportant or not worth it. The recognition amidst their peers is important for their development. And for all you know, it may not be worthless for them after all.”

Kashif touched my feet and left the room in tears.

He kept representing the school at inter school competitions, and then eventually at state level competitions. He won a lot of them. But he refused to play for the school functions despite immense coaxing from the Principal himself. I met Kashif’s father once at the parking lot when he had come to drop Kashif to school one day. He greeted me with folded hands and said “Kashif speaks very highly of you.” I smiled and told him his son is a very bright talent and it is a pleasure to have him in the school. I felt nervous in front of him. I was intimidated by him to be precise.

He awkwardly then mentioned the annual day incident, “I believe Kashif has told you what I thought about the composition. I hope you didn’t mind.”

I had done my research on the composition I had made by now, after discovering it is not set in Maand. I said, “Yes Kashif told me, but don’t worry, I didn’t mind. He was confused with what all I had said about the composition when I was teaching them. He is a child, so he only remembered the Maand bit. I had made the entire composition in Khamaj, with shades of Maand in it.”

He replied “Oh, no wonder! I kept thinking how come a music teacher in school made such a mistake. I’m really sorry.”

I had just managed to redeem myself.

TO EACH HIS OWN

November, 2008
I knew it would get ugly today. But I had no control over the choice of conversation. This was inevitable. It was one of those Sundays - the once in a month Sunday, when my father is not keen on reading his newspapers. He woke up at eight in the morning as usual, and then spent his time reading the newspapers casually with a couple of rounds of tea till I woke up. I usually wake up anywhere from ten to eleven in the morning, depending upon the length of the film I saw online the night before. My tea which was served hot to me, was left untouched for about an hour. I had almost forgotten that I had to sip it in between dialogues.
As soon as I sat on the sofa with my tea, my father who was reading the newspaper saw me settle down with the corner of his eyes, and then turned to me and said, “How long will you carry on like this?”
“As long as I don’t figure it out” I said. I already knew what he was hinting at, there was no need to ask.  I had graduated 4 months back with a Bachelor of Science, general degree, and had been home since then. I was extremely unhappy with my choice of subject for my graduation, hence I was quite certain I wasn’t going to continue with the same stream. But I really found it hard to put my finger on anything else.

July, 1994
We had been sleeping all day to be prepared for the night. As a 7-year old boy, it was hard to stay awake at night, but thanks to the summer vacations, my parents were at-least not stressed about my going to school the day after. So permission was easy. Also because it was the World cup Final!
I wasn’t regular at following the championship throughout, but I was updated with stats and information regarding what’s what and who’s who about the major teams by my elder brother. Ironically enough, he was taking his cricket coaching classes in the day. He was equally passionate about football in the night, at-least during the World cup. But I later realized it is very Indian, to practically seek a sport which is so coveted in the country, but to cerebrally be fascinated by the most popular sport in the World, but not here.
Brazil was facing Italy in the finals, and as a seven year old boy, I knew quite a lot about both the teams. I was also very good with names. I knew the names of the players like I knew the names of my classmates. I knew Roberto Baggio is Italy’s superstar, and the danger man too, if one is supporting Brazil. Romario on the other hand, was Brazil’s trump card, and was in exquisite form throughout the tournament. But during the match, I spotted another player, who took my breath away. Bebeto, was a revelation, at-least to me. I’m sure South America was aware about him, but at the World stage to emerge like this was quite something. His goal, and then his celebration, swaying with his shirt, is unforgettable. At that age, when I honestly wasn’t sexually aware, I think I had a man-crush on him.
The next few days went in convincing my father that I want to play and learn football, or learn and play football. Whatever! It took him around two weeks to buy me studs and a ball, and a Bebeto jersey from Palika Bazaar. I wanted to be a footballer. I wanted to score a goal and celebrate like him, with the world at my feet. I wanted to be Bebeto.


July, 2000
The queue for the booking counter was long. My brother though, was always a patient boy, and took the onus of standing in it. Amitabh Bachhan’s son Abhishek Bachhan’s launch was the talk of the town, and my mother and I were extremely excited to see him in a film made by the same man who had made “Border”. My father would largely opt out of mainstream commercial films, so my mother and her two sons decided to go on their own for this film we had been looking forward to, called “Refugee”.
As much as I try and remember the film now, I hardly have a few scenes in my memory, but what stood out were the songs. I went crazy listening to them every day after I bought the audio cassette. And it was not just because of the melody, but also because of the playback voice behind almost all of them. Sonu Nigam had sung them like it was honey mixed in milk. He had sung popular songs earlier too, but with “Refugee” I really took notice of his prowess. His voice quality seemed unparalleled, his expression exemplary and perhaps the adequate amount of technical ability. He had age on his side too, with all the contemporaries either not so good, or older at-least by a decade.
Sonu Nigam became one of my idols. He made me want to sing. I felt I would only be happy and content if my voice sounds like him. I spent a lot of time in my room, locked from inside, appearing to be studying, but in reality practicing Sonu Nigam songs. It took a couple of months for me to realize that I had to get trained. I wasn’t sounding anything like him. I asked my mother if I could learn singing from someone. My parents seemed reasonably happy with this wish of mine, also considering there was no immediate expenditure to it. The guru they chose was someone who stayed in our colony, and had no great expectations regarding the fee. But while I was learning Hindustani classical music from him, my interest was in something entirely different. I wanted to sound like Sonu Nigam.

November, 2008
On listening to “As long as I don’t figure it out”, my father pounced back at me.
“You do not have your entire life to figure out what you want to do. You are 21. You think I can afford to keep you at home like this without any future? Is this a joke?”
 I replied, “What do you want me to do then? Should I leave the house?”
My mother interrupted, “What nonsense are you both blabbering?”
“This isn’t nonsense at all. I have been forced to talk like this after so many months. I see no drive in him about anything. He has stuck to nothing in his life. Once he wanted to be a footballer, then he forgot about it in months as soon as the cricket season was on. Then he wanted to become a singer. He thought he would sit at home and become Sonu Nigam without continuing to learn and without practicing. Is this a joke?”, my father shouted.
I had to get back with a reply. Plain arrogance. I had no defense, but I could not accept defeat just because he had facts. I shouted back “Every kid and teenager has idols whom he wants to follow, that doesn’t mean I will become like them!”
“Exactly!” exclaimed my father. I was amazed, how did he agree to me all of a sudden. But then he continued, “Now that you have realized this, you must know what you will become. You have been given everything you have asked for, now what we are asking for is a very standard thing in every household. You have to do something with your career, do anything, but just stick to it and complete it. We don’t expect great things from you anymore.” He left after finishing his line.
He had broken me to pieces. There is nothing more painful than your own family not expecting anything from you.

Present Day
It is nine in the morning here. We are almost eleven hours behind Indian standard time here in Texas. But it is around 8-8:30 pm in India right now. This is the time we usually chose to Skype call my parents. My wife Nitya and I, leave for our respective offices around 9:30am, so this is the time we get at the breakfast table. I met Nitya during my MBA years in Hyderabad. My parents had loved her the moment they first met her. My father had always believed that South Indians are much more cultured and well read. My mother too, had immediately felt that Nitya is a simple girl, strongly rooted and without tantrums. This she told me later, but I had seen the approval in their eyes.
“Are you guys ready for office?” my mom asked as soon as the Skype call was connected.
“Yes yes, we are having breakfast, we will leave in half an hour” replied Nitya
My mom came up with another question immediately “How long are you going to go to work? Isn’t this your 4th month?”
“Yes it is, I will probably be home from next month.” Nitya answered.
“Be careful beta, is your mother going to Texas any time soon?” mom asked another question instantly.
“Yes, she is planning within a month. How are you and uncle?” Nitya smartly slipped in a question with her answer this time.
“We are absolutely fine.” My dad answered, standing behind at the door, smoking his cigarette. He continued “How is your job going?”
Nitya shifted the laptop a little towards me once she realized the question was directed at me. “It is alright... Nothing great.” I replied.
“Is that bothering you?” my father asked.
“Not really. I mean I was always told I was not meant for great things. So it is ok.” Nitya immediately looked at me after I said this. She understood my reference. I had obviously told her about the incident. But she realized my comment was uncalled for.
My dad slowly left the room, telling my mother to continue chatting till he comes back. My mother spoke for a little while more, mainly with Nitya. But post that, the entire day, I have been analyzing why I said that. I have done well for myself and I’m happily settled with a wife in United States. There was no reason for that sudden flip of temper. I’m not exactly very keen on apologizing too. But I know it was a mean thing to say, to your father. I mean I’m going to be a father in a few months. I have already started feeling the warmth and kindness you have for your child. And my parents feel the same way about me, I’m sure about that. It is just may be a mere choice of words sometimes that makes something extremely acidic. I had enough intelligence when I was growing up to understand that my father did not think of me very highly. But to put it in as many words one day, of not expecting anything great from me, was shattering. I’ve slept with those words for months. I also realized that may be he said it out of anger, and obviously not wishing any mediocrity for me. But in hindsight how do I even completely blame him? I have hardly been persistent with anything till my college years. That’s a major chunk of youth just wasted. Though after I went to Hyderabad for my MBA, I worked hard on myself. It is just that some people work on themselves a lot earlier. So yes, I wasn’t a genius. I wasn’t an extraordinary child. And I too now say things out of pure anger sometimes, as acidic as they might sound. I don’t think I’m frustrated. I’m just angry. Of-course at myself more than anything else.
But I guess this is what I’ve become. This is the man I’ve become. Not Bebeto, not Sonu Nigam. But someone a lot like my father, I guess.

"Bombay Dy(e)ing"

'Baba? why are you cleaning your camera lens?' i asked my father, who after 9 months of staying at home and being jobless, took out his camera that morning. He was the salaried still photographer for Bombay Dyeing, which was shut for the last 9 months due to a strike by the mill workers, led by Mr Datta Samant. In these 9 months, we had witnessed the increasing diameter of the hole in our savings. To begin with, even his regular salary was far from enough to make us a privileged family. But in these months of his unemployment, we were now bordering poor, the monthly budget was now next to nothing. Next to our colony, there would be these beggar children who would stand in a que during late afternoon every day, and some rich businessmen would come in their big cars, and give turn by turn each kid 1 piece of bun maska. My father came out to pick his towel one afternoon from the small veranda every chawl flat had, and saw me standing in that que alongside beggar children. He could have jumped from the veranda to catch hold of me but thank god that he was aging. He still ran, like a wounded tiger, and picked me up from my unwashed shirt's collar and aerially dragged me home. What happened after that is a common story with most children in our country.

'I have to go to work, to click pictures today, so i need to clean the lens, it has caught fungus due to no use' replied my father. I was elated, i ran to the kitchen, hugged my mother, telling her that 'baba will get money today'! She nodded, her response was undoubtedly cold, but i could imagine why. After months of no income, one day's working wage would hardly bring us out of the gutter of debt. My father left for work and we stayed home waiting for him till he came back. Usually he would come back in a few hours, since he would take pictures of an event or a minister's visit to the mills, and then his job would be done for the day. But that day we kept waiting till late evening, now my mother was getting impatient too, someone whose patience in these months was comparable to Sunil Gavaskar's against the mighty West Indian fast bowlers. My mother, now that i look back, was silent throughout this financial lull, absorbing every jolt a no income family gets. If she would have lost it, or mismanaged in the no budget times, i don't think my father would have picked up the camera ever again. But its unfair to just judge a homemaker by only her resilience, control and balance. It would be criminal to say that she had no dreams. But that's how it is, in our country, women need to stand by their husbands, in their good and bad times, live their husbands' dreams, feed them with tasty food when they come back home from work, make love to them in the night and give them pleasure.

It was 9:45 in the night when my dad appeared at our main door, which was kept open. He had red eyes. He must have cried for a long time. He had consumed alcohol too. That added to the redness of his eyes. This was not the first time he had come back home sloshed, but it certainly was the first time he looked so upset after his drinks. He sat on the floor with his head resting on the wall, and stayed like that for almost an hour. I kept looking at him and then I eventually fell asleep on my mother's lap.

The strike continued for a total of 2 years, during which all the mill workers were jobless. My father though would go to work almost once every 2-3 days. My mother told me much later, in my college years, that we were lucky because her husband was a still photographer. Everytime a mill worker committed suicide during the strike times, my father was asked to take the body's picture, after which the case was lodged. He would earn wages out of taking pictures of the suicide victims, most of them his friends, for the next year or so.

A Brother's Letter

Dada,

Forgive me for being extremely nostalgic, do you remember the Barasaat days? When you were giving your boards or something and i started playing cricket with your group in the ground below? I just remembered this one evening out of a sudden today. 
That evening i was playing with Yogesh & others and you were sitting in the balcony. Its funny how i exclaim them as Yogesh and others! Anyway, i was in the side bowling first. I got to bowl a couple of overs, only because i was your younger brother. These guys were absolutely smitten by your left arm 'god knows what' bowling, and never had a clue whether it would swing or it would spin once the ball came out of your thin left arm and stick like fingers. I, on the contrary, as you know had a very conventional right arm bowling talent, without much guile and variation, but would bowl wicket to wicket and had a good yorker. Hence, in a match within friends in a colony park, i was an useful bowler, but never the talisman you were. The two overs i bowled that day, i don't remember much, but what happened after we started to bat is what i remember clearly.

We were chasing a huge total since Yogesh had made the ball vanish quite a few times with his monstrous hits while we bowled to him. In our side too, we had these lanky boys who could hit long sixes, almost as if they were playing golf, but this evening it almost seemed as if the match was fixed. None of the hitters from our side could put bat to ball, instead, the wickets were far more consistent in connecting with the ball that evening.The ball got lost when i finally got to bat and hit the ball in the bushes. No one could find it since it was almost dark, the ball's light green outer cover had already gotten peeled and only the dark grey colored rubber had survived, thanks to Yogesh's ruthless hammering earlier in the evening and the numerous times the ball got wet due to falling in the drain next to the park. It hence became almost impossible to spot the dark grey ball in the bushes in paucity of light.

I came back & you asked me in the balcony- "They didn't allow you to bat, right? "
I replied- " No, they did, but the ball got lost.."

I did not feel like answering or explaining anymore. I felt more enraged with your question, since it was true. I was asked to bat only at the end after everyone else was dismissed, and if i had been given a chance to bat a little earlier, i would have batted longer, if not won it for my team.

I still remember the way you looked at me after asking me. I know that look, of pity, concern, love, and genuine sadness for your brother's insignificance to our playing group. And i know it wasn't only because i was your younger brother, it was also because you knew i was better than a lot of players in the ground, and that i deserved an equal chance. I know it was also because of the way you looked at the game, the way a civil engineer looks at a flyover, because you believed a good player should get a fair opportunity, and it was intolerable to you if it didn't happen.

After almost 15 years today i write about this to you, to thank you for that question. A question which gave me respect, an identity, atleast in your eyes. Sometimes, that's all it needs...

From your ignorant younger brother,
Love

Death of a thought!

“Your dad is no more with us!”

The voice, or rather the person from the other side of the telephonic conversation broke down. I kept the receiver down, not managing to put it at its correct place. I lied down on the single mattress, not thinking of the bed bugs this time, and faced the ceiling with my eyes wide open. The visual slowly became hazy, as water from my tear glands made their place just in front of my eye balls! As I shut my eyes slowly, the tears fell on the pillow via my earlobes due to gravitational force, rather than a more cinematic rolling down the cheeks! I rose after a few minutes, deciding to leave for my home town and being present for the cremation!

My father was a man of arrogance! Throughout my childhood and teens, my mother was the person I felt being with. Dad was always someone I loved to avoid! I always felt and believed that he was too harsh on me, being his kid. Only after my teens, did I start finding a person beneath his layer of rudeness and arrogance, who was genuine and soft! This was the time when I got through the Govt. Art college in Kolkata and shifted base to Kolkata, whereas my parents continued staying in Vardhaman!

I was 15 when in school once I had scored poorly in Sanskrit. Sanskrit was the only subject my mother taught me, everything else was from my father. Hence somehow scoring less in Sanskrit seemed none of my father's business. He remained extremely calm and composed, but there was the other parent. For a change, my mother found all the rudeness, after years of marriage with a rude man! She shouted at me and hit my head with her knuckles. I was too old to cry, instead I revolted, and insisted that it wasn't my fault. After some time, she gave up on me, and came to the living room, where my father was reading a newspaper so relaxed as if nothing had happened. She came to him and complained, “our son has become impossibly stubborn, its difficult to tell him anything!” I remained at the door of my bedroom, watching and listening to this. My father replied to her in the most nonchalant way possible, “let him remain stubborn, it will help him if he uses it in the right things...”.

I used it. In the right things. I became an artist and a creative designer in an ad agency, earning much more than my academically brilliant brother, who went on to become an architect. I needed to be stubborn to reach here. My father's stubbornness didn't pay him. He couldn't be stubborn when he needed to be the most. And he knew it more than anyone else. He possibly didn't even know that I overheard him that day from the bedroom, that how he unknowingly said something that remained with me all these years and helped me achieve what I wanted.

In the living room, lay my father's body, wrapped in a cold white cloth. His abdominal part had expanded and become bigger. It was strange to see him lying like that, not reacting to so many people around. He was not fond of public gatherings, avoided crowded trains and buses in his mid life before owning a car. Both his sons worked in different cities, so it was quite natural that they would take time to reach here. I had reached earlier than my elder brother. Once my brother arrived, and after he touched dad's white and stiff feet, people started hurrying the proceedings. I was asked to pick my father from his legs, along with my brother. My two other cousins picked him up from the shoulders. The wooden ply seemed unusually heavy for a single man's weight. The position of dad's left leg was next to my right shoulder, and vice versa for my brother. It was a difficult walk till we put him in a car. I decided to stay at home with my mother, who also chose not to go to the cremation ground.

A speeding ambulance killed my father. He was on his way back from office, unusually on a scooter that day, leaving behind his car for servicing. The ambulance with a patient inside it, needed to reach the hospital as quickly as possible. In order to do that, it landed up on the wrong side of the road, honking and moving at a good speed. My father, with his glasses and in his not so attentive age, must have missed the sight or sound of it. He crashed head on to the ambulance, a vehicle that is supposed to save lives! I'm not sure about the patient inside the ambulance, but my father was declared spot dead. He couldn't remain stubborn enough to live a little longer, to reach a hospital, to get treated.

The Or-Jismic Experience!

Interviewer- Hello everyone! Tonight we talk face to face with the most coveted female breather..oops..female actor right now in Jollywood ! We welcome none other than the gorgeous Cloudy Diyo-ni?

Cloudy- Hi (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Cloudy, is there really a question mark after your surname, diyo-ni? ?

Cloudy- Yes (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Are you a Sindhi?

Cloudy- Sorry, i don't know Hindi! (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- ahem..(clears throat)..are you asthmatic ?

Cloudy- No (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Fine, so tell me something about your next project, what is it called?

Cloudy- the Orjism (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- And who is directing it?

Cloudy- Brohit Doori (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- How do you see yourself becoming the bust...i mean the best actress ?

Cloudy- Very (sl)eazily!! (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Wow, you are not just confident but you are quite modest too. So are you learning hindi to make yours... i mean to make it big?

Cloudy- Haan (breathes heavily)

Interviewer- Can the audience know if you are mating....i mean dating someone?

Cloudy- (breathes even more heavily) I....I....I....(breathing heavily)
(Jumps on the Interviewer as the cameras stop rolling while they make out rolling on the floor!)

Double bed and double standards!

DRAWING ROOM:

Arpita- (shouts)Shona, are we going for Madhu's birthday this weekend?

Pinaki- Can you please come out of the bathroom and then speak to me? No point shouting from there, I cant really hear you, except the weekend bit!

Arpita- (shouts) alright, wait, i'll be out in a couple of minutes!

Pinaki- still can't hear you babe! (murmurs) these women are more stubborn than badly brought up kids!

Arpita- ya so I was saying..

Pinaki- (startled) What the....?? You said a couple of minutes didn't you?

Arpita- Yes, but you said you were not able to hear me at all?

Pinaki- Umm..ya...it....you know...sounds....ummm...muffled...you know??

Arpita- Ya I know! Can you hear me now baby (licks Pinaki's left ear)

Pinaki- hehehehehe...huhuhu, dont do that, i'm ticklish there!

Arpita- Ya ya alright! Listen, I was asking whether...

Pinaki- No, I have plans for the weekend!

Arpita- And why isn't Madhu's birthday amidst one of your plans? And by the way you heard me properly from the bathroom.

Pinaki- Yes I did, because you were shouting really loud, it's audible, but it's annoying! And the weekend plan was made earlier than I got to know about Madhu's party. Besides, she didn't invite me directly!

Arpita- That's alright baby, she told me to tell you! And how would it look if I go alone there?

Pinaki- Then don't go alone, come with me, i'm meeting a few friends from high school for some beer and pool!

Arpita- Do I know them?

Pinaki- You know about them!

Arpita- See? But you know Madhu, she's your friend too?

Pinaki- No, she's your friend, I befriended her because she was your best friend from college, and whenever I would come to your college, I would meet you and her together. It was not out of choice, but almost out of compulsion.

Arpita- Pinaki, this is the limit now, you are continuously being rude, and am taking it!

Pinaki- What's being rude in this?

Arpita- Why can I befriend your friends as if they are my friends and not feel obligated and you befriend my friends out of compulsion?

Pinaki- This is about Madhu, not all your friends. Why do you generalize all the time?

Arpita- No, right now its about Madhu but there have been other instances! It is pretty apparent that you don't look at my friends in very high light and think that they don't match up to your intellect or something!

Pinaki- Look, this is getting somewhere else now, you asked me whether we were going to her birthday party or not, so I said no I have other plans. Simple. Over.

Arpita- Alright! (gets up and walks out of the room)

KITCHEN:

Pinaki- Ok fine, we will go to Madhu's, alright? Is it saturday or sunday?

Arpita- Saturday

Pinaki- Oh great. I can shift my plan to sunday.

Arpita- No need, don't do me this favor. I won't force you to come with me to Madhu's if you don't want to!

Pinaki- No you are not forcing me. It is my choice. And can you look at me and talk please, instead of crushing coriander!

Arpita- It's not coriander, these are mint leaves. You don't know jack shit about cooking do you?

Pinaki- Whatever! Pay attention to me..

Arpita- Alright. Tell me.

Pinaki- I'll come with you to Madhu's, ok? Now just hear me out why I didn't want to come.

Arpita- Why?

Pinaki- Look i'm very non-cultural, if there's a word like that! I might be a bengali but i'm neither a musician nor a painter nor a poet! In fact I wasn't even a good football player. These people who come at Madhu's place are all true and pseudo intellectuals who sing beautifully and narrate great poetry written either by them or by Tagore! I don't like it there. Its suffocating for me. I only drink with my friends and gossip, that's my hanging out! Are you getting it?

Arpita- Baby I understand, but you can do what you like all the time na? This is someone's birthday, cant we manage this much as grown up individuals?

Pinaki- Precisely why I said i'll come with you!

SATURDAY EVE AT MADHU'S:

Tejas ( Madhu's fiance )- Ok who's next? We can't let this stop, just one after the other we need to keep singing, or else the whole point of a Karaoke is lost!

Lady in Rich Saree- Ok i'll try a Rabindra sangeet...i learnt during my school days!

Lady's husband – All bengalis have...that's why we are so weak in mathematics.....hahahahaha

(LOUD LAUGHTER OF THE WHOLE GROUP)

Tejas- Actually maam, I don't think this Karaoke machine has Rabindra sangeet songs fed in it. You'll have to select something from this diary, all bollywood songs...

Madhu- Arpita will you sing something? You used to be so melodious in college days!

Arpita- Haha, hardly, nowadays not even our singers sing melodiously, how do you expect me to do it?

(LOUD LAUGHTER OF THE WHOLE GROUP)

Pinaki- Excuse me?? Can I sing a song?

Tejas- Sure dude, which one?

Pinaki- Kuchh to log kahenge, Kishore!