Advice.....

“I hope you don’t talk to any girl”

“No Nana, I don’t”, I replied as I indulged my grandmother in her favourite pastime, me massaging her legs.

I was visiting her after a month, that’s a long time by our standards considering how closely inseparable we are.

Being close, we usually have full length conversations. She speaks in Konkani and I speak in English and somehow there is an invisible communicator between us. I say this because she doesn’t understand English spoken by anybody else and I don’t understand Konkani spoken by anybody else.

Being a grandmother, almost all conversations drift towards the category of her giving me advice – “Eat more, you’re thinner than most women”, “reduce your weight – you’ll have health problems later in life”, “don’t work so hard – The Times of India doesn’t own you”, “go to more social functions, especially weddings or who will come for your wedding?”

Ever since 2000, when school was over, I got admissions in Xaviers College and my mom informed my granny of the length of skirts that girls wear in college - my granny had made it her personal goal to protect my innocence, away from the prying eyes of all existing women who were waiting for their chance to con their beloved one in a million boy away from them.

It’s 2009 now, I have and do get laid quite adequately, am very comfortable around women and have more female friends than male friends simply because I find women more interesting, visually.

Ofcourse my granny doesn’t know that. I’m still massaging her legs. I’m still getting advice.

“I hope you don’t talk to any girl”

“No Nana, I don’t”

“Do girls work in your office?”

“Yes Nana, lots of them”

“Lots? How are they?”

“As in? How they look?”

“Are you looking at them?”

“Sometimes. They look ok. Some look more than ok.”

“As in?”

“As in Pretty. Some Sexy. Some Pretty or Sexy depending on their mood”, I played.

Nana looked at me shocked as if I had confessed to raping a girl. She then sighed, shaking her head like a king who had lost some major war. She then looked at me as if I had failed her and had become impure. Nana displayed the above 3 expressions in a total of 15 seconds, switching from one to the next with graceful ease. Once a woman, always a woman.

“Kenneth, see”.

When Nana says “see”, it means deep advice follows. I waited.

“See, You’re 24 now. A man, almost. You’ve begun to see women. It’s natural”

“Yes. Hmmm So?”

“Well this is not the time for time for girls Kenneth. You have to get on with your career. You’ve begun well but you have to sustain it. Girls will destroy you”

Nana made it sound that the sole purpose of women is to find the ‘perfect catch’ and close the deal. Her thought is even more shocking because she used to be a young woman once and only women will turn against other women so spectacularly. Men are a simpler species.

“See....I’m not saying become a priest. Do what you have to do but see that things don’t get serious. Don’t spoil the family name. Look at your uncles, all of them have married a girl of my choice”

One mention of ‘Sexy Women’ had triggered the first conversation of my marriage and how I was walking down the path of eroding the family name.

“Nana, where is all this marriage talk coming from? I’m just a kid”

“And I hope you understand that. There is a time for everything. When the time is right, we will find you a nice mangalorean girl”

“What do you mean by a ‘nice mangalorean girl’”?, I asked even though I knew the answer. After all this was going to be the prototype of the woman I’d be living and making love to, for the rest of my life.

“A girl who can take care of you. A simple girl with character and values”.

If Ekta Kapoor would start making shows in Konkani, my granny could play “Baa”.

“Nana, Simple girls don’t exist and I don’t want a simple girl and I can take care of myself”

“You can’t even boil water. And why don’t you want a simple girl?”

“There’s more to life than boiling water Nana. Simple girls are boring. No intellectual or stimulating conversations.” I played diplomatic.

The truth is, I don’t like ‘simple girls’ because I dread how mechanical the sex would be. Trying different positions is out of question.

“You want one of those modern women. Independent and all?”

“Exactly. Someone who would contribute to the finances”

“Stay away from them. Such girls won’t even make tea for you when you reach home in the evening”

It’s quite funny yet unnerving that marriage decisions in India are still determined on tea making and cooking skills.

“So I’ll order tea from outside. It really isn’t important who does the household chores”

“You have a girlfriend right?. I’m sure”.

I do have a girlfriend. I’ve had girlfriends. Plenty. None of my household inhabitants have knowledge on any. It’s not worth the bother telling them or I would be having such conversations quite regularly. It’s difficult handling Nana even though she’s sweet. Think about the added pressure of my mom and her sisters.

“No Nana, I don’t”

“Good. Stay away from that girlfriend nonsense.”

“Ok Nana”, I said, as I wrapped up my routine of massaging her legs.

“You want tea?. You want something to eat?. You must be hungry. See how thin you’ve become”, Nana resumed being Nana.

“I want tea”, I said switching on the television.

I thought of what a source of companionship, love and advice we have in our grandparents. Their thoughts and bodies may be old but at the end of the day they want what's best for us and they think their experience of life will help us from repeating the mistakes they’ve made. I love my grandmother because she’s funny, cute and great to talk to, never mind the fact that we speak different languages - literally and figuratively.

It was about 8 pm on a Saturday evening. I wasn’t at a movie or a pub or any place where lifestyle calls. I was with Nana and this was good. Even heavenly.

“Here’s your tea”, said the nice mangalorean girl as she handed me the mug.

Is it so?......

She disconnected her cell as tears rolled down her cheeks. She had just lost her virginity. The boss had truly fucked her mind up to tears. This was her first time in over one and a half year. I go through it about once a day.

My boss happens to be a very moody, lazy, egoistic and impatient man. Traits I find similar in my 6 year old cousin. But he is a nice person by heart, has our best intentions in mind.

There is a very visible sign when you’ve got my boss mad. He starts yelling at the top of his voice and can go talking for about 45 minutes non-stop. It’s quite staggering since you can’t get in a sentence in those 45 minutes because the man doesn’t stop talking, not even to breathe. In these 45 minutes he will bring about incidents happened 6 months ago, blurt out English and Hindi expressions that show how intelligent he is, make comparisons, glorify himself and sometimes even talk about bollywood actress and then somehow connects everything to what we had begun to discuss originally.

It was a normal Saturday evening when I got a call from him once. I, at once knew it was going a ramming session since my boss is too lazy to call me to make conversation on a Saturday evening.

I pressed the green button. A mistake.

“Hey Ramesh”

“Kenneth, why didn’t you give me a feedback of that meeting you went to yesterday”?.

This was the man’s first sentence on my holiday, while I was busy watching football. Plus he yelled. I didn’t like it but was used to it.

What followed was the usual loud lecture of how he worked during “his days”, how I’m a young performer but fucking it up because I don’t follow procedures and how procedures are important in life, how Madhu Sapre looked so sensual when she posed naked with Milind Soman in that underwear ad (yes he somehow connected it).

I had had enough. This man was making me miss my football match for Madhu Sapre. I gently kept my phone in my shirt pocket while he kept talking. I knew he wouldn’t stop talking for atleast another 10 odd minutes. I wasn’t a virgin. I got back to my match albeit on mute while I could still faintly hear the boss screaming through my pocket.

A goal was scored, by my team. I turned euphoric, even celebrated by punching the wall all without making a noise. It was a beautiful goal. ‘Cesc Fabregas is magic’, I exclaimed in my head as they showed the replay about 10 times.

It was just then that I realised that I was watching TV for the past 8 minutes or so and completely forgot my boss was yelling in my pocket. I imagined pictures of him shoving a hammer up my arse while I stood against a glass wall with my hands above my head.

I picked out the phone out of my pocket and gently put it to my ear ironically hoping against hope he was still yelling.

He wasn’t. I was fucked.

“Is it so?”, he asked calmly.

I didn’t know whether to say a Yes or No.

I cursed my luck. I was presented with a scenario which had a Yes or No answer and I didn’t even know the question. A wrong answer could mean a further 20 minutes. I had to play this intelligently.

So I kept quiet.

“Is it so Kenneth?”, he persisted.

Wrong move. He was adamant even though the question seemed rhetoric.

I had to take a guess and live with the consequences. It could also mean that I would miss the rest of the match.

“Yes Ramesh.”

Silence. The man was quiet. It was a sign that I had made the wrong choice. I waited. Those 5 seconds were the most fucking agonizing I’ve endured. Then God spoke.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying Kenneth”.

I had never breathed a bigger sigh of relief. Even imagined some blooming flowers in some garden.

He spoke for another 5 minutes. I have no recollection of what, since that match had begun after half time. Although this time I kept the phone on loudspeaker.

The call lasted 46 minutes, 32 seconds.

I went back to the match, turning on the volume when I received a message from him.

“I’m so sorry for my outburst Kenneth, It’s just that I want to see you do well.”

The man has a heart.

Detour.....

The thing about expression today is – the more you have in your head – the more ways you have to let it out. That’s not a bad thing.

It's with this and all of other things in mind that I have started a new "daily updates" blog titled Maybe Definitely

I have been toying with the idea of a “daily updates” blog for the past 4 years. It is a testament to how lazy I have been. The idea came about simply because I only saw Definitely Maybe as an artistic expression, not as an outlet to express how I was and how I felt on a daily basis. It seemed trivial. It doesn’t anymore. Twitter and Facebook updates have made me realise people read “you” – if only you’re brief and interesting enough.

I’ve also created the new blog to listen to the long list of readers over the past 5 years – most of whom have told me to “write more often” and I didn’t because life and its shenanigans got to me (it still does). This is a big thank you to all you guys for still reading and talking to me, even though I spoke to you about once a month. Lets talk everyday from now on.

The new blog will have a daily snippet of what I have in my mind, my day or life – whichever I find interesting at that moment. Needless to say it won’t be “Definitely Maybe” style – this blog has taught me to write and connected me to you and it will continue as usual – it would be more “current” and interactive in its personality while being briefer in its approach.

For some commemorative reason, this post is also the first post on the new blog.

I hope you find the new place worth your time like you do this blog and hope to see you around there every day.

Meeting Truth.......

I looked around and saw people drowning their evening in beer, loosening the tie, untying the hair, genuine smiles and laughs, ever happy foreigners discussing things they discuss, an overdose of cleavage and “Kingdom of Rust by Doves” playing at the background. It was an end of a tiring day and this felt nice, even heavenly.

The clocked on the wooden wall signalled 8:00 pm. I re-read her message.

“Let’s meet. It’s been long. Leopolds at 7:45. You’re definitely coming”

She arrived about ten minutes later. She is my hot married office colleague whom I refer to as “Savita Bhabhi”. She thinks of me as a harmless friend. That thought insults me; we nevertheless get along very well.

“Hey Nina.....”

“Hey baby”

“Hot. Black Saree and all”

“Had this important Deal closing meeting”

“Oh. I understand.”, I teased sacarstic “Closed it?”

“Like hell I did. 24 lakhs. And don’t give me your sacarsm, even you wear suits to look nice for deal closings ”

“To look formal, not to give my client a visualisation of me being wet under the rain, laying on grass, in an isolated cottage far far away”

“That’s a visualisation only you get, you pervert”

“Oh, by the way, I closed a 36 lakh deal today”

“Oh, that’s so amazing. Congratulations sweetheart”

“Yeah, that too just wearing a shirt and trousers”

She smiled. We ordered. Some sort of Vodka for her. Some sort of Orange juice for me. So much for sexual liberation.

Firangs on the other table were discussing how “Sach ka Saamna” was a total rip off of “The Moment of Truth”. Nina seemed mesmerised by the handsome guy talking. She looked at him with as much depth that if given a choice, she would forget she had a husband at home.

“So do you watch it?”, she asked turning her gaze back at me.

“I do yeah. My mom loves it”

“Yeah, we do too; it’s fun but uncomfortable at times”

“Yeah, people like seeing others suffer demons that they themselves face in one way or the other but don’t have the balls to speak out. Watching others acts as a security blanket which doubles up as entertainment, for us. Reality TV wouldn’t exist without this principle. Think about it.”

She looked at me for about 10 seconds, smiling. I have absolutely no idea what she was thinking.

“So you think you have balls?”

“Not as big as yours but yes I do”, I returned back to normal.

“Ok. Let’s play Sach Ka Saamna. We’l call it....“Meeting Truth”. You and me. We’l take turns. No lies. Ok?”

This was out of the blue but I had to make the best of this in any way I could.

“Fine. But if anyone doesn’t answer a question, you pay the other person 100 bucks”

“Fine”

We began dissecting the Chicken 65 on the table just as we would begin to unravel truths, thoughts and details of each other’s lives. Ofcourse my questions would be as dirty and as personal as possible. This would be fun.

She begins. Being a woman and all.

“Have you shook today?”, she blurted.

Apparently there were two bastards at the table.

“Yes, I have”

“Iske bare main kuck batana chaoge Ken sahab”, she mimicked that ‘Sach ka Saamna’ host.

“Jee haan. I woke up in the morning with a hard on. I wasn’t horny but I thought I’d shake anyways. What’s the point of wasting a hard-on?”

There was a big “ewwww” for about 10 seconds. It’s a chick thing. Then she repeated “waste a hard on” 4 times and laughed uncontrollably. I was visualising the Sach Ka Saamna audience with aunties and uncles clapping after my answer.

I sipped some Orange juice as I asked my question.

“Did you dress sexy today to mentally seduce the guy you were meeting to close the deal?”

“Actually it was...........”, she began.

“Sirf haan ya naa main jawaab dijiye”

“Jee Haan”, she said as she buried her face on the table.

“This is highly regretful”, I rubbed salt on the wound, as I made that noise between my tongue and teeth to show disgust. “The term ‘Abla Naari’ should be changed to ‘Abla Mard’

She laughed. We laughed. And ate and drank and asked questions. Deep rooted questions.

“Do you look down a woman’s top or blouse whenever you get the chance”, she asked.

“Yes I do. Sometimes I look forward to it.” I answered shameless

“I knew the male species was disgusting, but I’m experiencing it first hand today”.

Just then the handsome firang at the other table looked at her and smiled. She smiled back.

“Yes all of us men are disgusting.”, I repeated.

“Not all”, she replied smiling.

“What’s the dirtiest, sluttiest thing you’ve done?”, I asked the next question

She thought. She smiled after what I thought was a visual replay of the act in her head.

“I don’t want to answer that”

“Give me 100 bucks right now”

“Shut up. I’m not paying you anything”

The problem with women is that they talk big and when the going gets tough, they use their feminine charm and expect to get out of any situation, whether it is a life situation or a bet. It gets very irritating for us men with integrity.

“Nina, don’t fuck the integrity of our game. Either you answer the question or pay me the money”

“Ok. I’ll answer”

“We (she and her husband) were shopping at Inorbit Mall. I saw this really hot guy, in some store. I told my husband I needed to get in the store to check something out when I actually wanted to check the guy. Anyways long story short, he was hot. I got turned on. I wanted to do it. I took my husband to the lingerie store, told him to enter the changing room while I try out a few things. He got turned on, watching me try the lingerie. We then moved out of the store and found the men’s loo. There was no staff there. We got in and had sex. End of story”

“So basically you tricked your man to get him horny just because you were horny looking at a ‘paraya mard’ and used your man to ‘bujao your pyaas’?”

She roared in laughter. “YES”

“And you call us ‘Abla Mards’ disgusting”?

“Ok my turn now – Are you visualising what I said in your head?”

“YES. I’m even getting a slight hard on visualising the sight in the lingerie changing room”

She couldn’t stop laughing. Her throaty laugh was beginning to unnerve me. The handsome firang was looking at me weird. I didn’t know what that look meant so I stared back at him and his cute female companion.

“My Turn – What positions did you try in the Men’s loo, considering you were so turned on”

“I’m definitely not answering that. You can take your 100 rupees.”, she said still laughing and struggling with contents of her purse. “All I can tell you is that it was the quickest quickie I’ve ever had. I’ve never come sooner. Infact he was left ‘high and dry’, for once.”

“Courtesy, the ‘paraya mard’.” I added.

“Yes. If you have to put a reason to it”

There were other questions. Ofcourse, they were all strictly sexual in one way or the other. We two are very narrow minded and find little else interesting in a ‘Sack Ka Saamna’ scenario.

The answers were even more interesting and we got to know sides that we already knew about each other. There were references to numbers like 69, animals like Dog, corporate words like “Missionary”. At one point even Shiney Ahuja and Bill Clinton made the conversation.

I looked up at the clock atop the wooden wall, it was about 11:30 pm. We had breezed through a heady cocktail of Conversations, Vodka, Chicken wings, Noodles, Orange Juice, the handsome firang, Lingerie, the Men’s Loo, masturbation and a lot of other things, all in the name of honesty.

Guess honesty wouldn’t be that overrated if one gave it a serious go.

We paid the bill and got up to leave.

“Nina, what is the hindi word for courage?”

“I don’t remember”, she said confirming how drunk she was.

“Ok then, Aapke courage ki main daad deta hoon”, I gave a shot at Mr. Rajeev parting note to contestants on the show.

We shook hands, laughing as we waltzed out of Leopolds. “AC-DC’s You shook me all night long” was playing in the background.

I looked at her. She smiled. I smiled.

I started singing the song, loud.

She laughed hard, needing my arm for support.

That song had assumed a whole new meaning to us.

Unusual.......

“I want to make out with you right here”, he said staring at her cabin curtain seat of the Volvo.

The Volvo would take her back to Medical school, away from the city, away from him, away from “them”. The 3-day break she took all of a sudden seemed far too less time to touch him, feel him, kiss him, love him, or know him. She was desolate. He even more so, but couldn’t show it and as usual used lust as a defence mechanism. He knew it would make her smile.

She did and kissed him, tears flowing slowly off her cheeks onto his and somehow they felt “one” sharing a tear.

“I love you and we’ll be together for good”, she choked.

“I love you and we’ll be together for good”, he repeated, waving her goodbye.

They were 19 at the time and as such “lifelong promises” don’t materialise. Life and circumstances get in the way.

4 years passed. They had their share of relationships, without letting go of their friendship. The calls continued as did the conversations.

He was at work one Friday evening when “Anita Calling” appeared on his cellphone.

“Hey Ken”.

“Heyyyy, Long Time. How are you doing?”

“Ok. I’m a doctor now by the way. Forget that. I’m back in Bombay. Let’s meet up. My parents are out of town.”

“Congratulations. Sure lets meet up. Dinner at the ‘usual place’”?

“Sure. It isn’t ‘usual’ considering we haven’t been there in over 4 years”

He smiled. “I’ll see you at 8-30, which means you’ll reach by 9-30”

“No, I’ll be on time. I’ve matured.”

He sat at the “usual”, reading a business magazine. It was 9-15 pm.

She arrived fifteen minutes later looking well, beautiful.

“I thought you had matured”.

“That’s your first line when you see me after 4 years?”

“I thought you had matured”.

“Well, I’m still a woman, ain’t I?”, she smiled.

Being late is a virtual “given” with women, like a lot of other things in life. It’s a rule in an unwritten book of rules that men have learned to abide with, without question. Ofcourse it’s easier to accept when a woman’s late because she always seems to look beautiful when she arrives finally, which somehow makes up for the irritation of the wait.

“Yes you are”, he resigned.

And so the evening began.

They caught up, smiled, laughed and talked about their partners “in between”. At that moment, all their previous relationships seemed meaningless.

“So, How’s she?”

“She’s great...........I’m in love with her and I think she’s the one for me”. He carefully worded his sentence.

“That’s great. I’m so happy for you. You deserve happiness and I mean that”.

He noticed something wasn’t “alright”.

“How’s he?”

“We.....We broke up yesterday”.

“I’m really sorry to hear that.”

He stayed silent, with her, without asking questions, demanding answers or offering false assurances, he knew her all too well.

“You know I really wanted to marry him”.

The moment a woman uses “marry” in a sentence, it means the guy was special. But what I don’t get is how a woman can utter the word “marriage” at the age of 23 when her whole life and career is right in front of her.

He looked at her, said nothing.

She looked “rock-bottom”, the beauty of her face stricken with loss that yearned for acceptance, belonging and love.

They ordered starters. It let time pass.

“Let’s play a game”, he announced.

“Not in the mood”.

“Thankfully “mood” is not a necessary requirement in this game.”

She smiled, “Tell me”

“Let’s rate the women sitting here”

“What!!”, she sounded bemused.

“You have to rate the women here. Give me a justification. I’ll decide if you’re spot on or not”.

“Shut up. I don’t want to play this game.”

“Of course you don’t, it’s challenging and you’re insecure”

“Oh Shut UP”

“Let’s try one. How about that woman behind you?”

She looked behind. On the seat was seated an attractive woman, in her mid-twenties, whom he had been noticing all evening. She wore a white T-Shirt and Jeans, striking features and a smile that would have you dream. He had mentally given her an 8.

“I don’t know. 6?” she quipped, hesitatingly.

“She’s an 8!!”, he ordered.

“NO WAY”, she stopped him as if she were an expert in rating women, “I mean look at her. Her face is too sharp.”

“I don’t know what the fuck that means. She’s an 8. She’s hot.”

“She’s not. Her top doesn’t go with her figure, plus her bag doesn’t cut it for me, not to mention her shoes.”

“Jesus. That’s not how you rate women. You rate women by their “inner beauty”, not their outer accessories. She’s got great tits, not to mention slender hips to move one’s hands around while you’re caressing her curvy ass.”

“You’re sick. You rate a woman; physically by how "easy on the eyes" she is.”

“Like you can see “easy on the eyes” when the lights are off. Never make rules for games you’ve just begun playing. You know the years of science that men have used deriving the rules of this game”, he said using his most convincing tone.

She laughed, “Yeah? Explain the science”

“You look at the woman. You determine how much you’d pay to fuck her for an hour. 1000 bucks is the top limit, because I don’t want to spend more than that on anyone. Divide that value by 100 and you have your rating for that woman.”

She laughed louder calling him sick every 2 seconds. The pronunciation of the term “sick” getting elongated with every laugh.

She adjusted her hair, sat back in her chair, took another look at the woman, “I don’t think I’ll pay more than 300 bucks for her”.

“You’re such a lesbian slut. Tell me what you’d want to do with her for that hour”

They laughed. Starters were long done with. The main course was on the way as they sipped their Ice teas.

“You’re saying you’ll blow 800 bucks for an hour with her?. You must be joking”

“Yeah. I’l blow 800 bucks and receive a blow back. Good barter. If only you knew how to think with a dick.”

“You guys are so sick. So sick!!”.

“Look at the whore who just said “she wouldn’t mind paying 300 bucks to bang that woman” talking”. They laughed.

And laughed some more right through the evening. His age old trick of using lust as a defence mechanism had worked once again. It distracted her from her fucked up state of mind to the thought of deciding how much money she’d pay to fuck a woman. It was perverse, to an extent but who gave a fuck if it made her flash her truly beautiful smile; clear the lines of distress from her face; forget her troubles if only for a little while and live.

They walked out. It was 11 pm and strangely the streets weren’t that busy with traffic, people, business or noise.

“Are you getting late?”, she asked as she ate her Cornetto.

“Not at all. It’s a Friday. Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I want to sit with you, somewhere, anywhere.”

“Ok. Does there look good?”, he pointed at the sidewalk on the road, outside the shutter of a shop just closed after business.

“There?. It’s almost on the road. Hmmm.....Screw it, let’s sit there”.

They sat. Talked. Laughed. Reminisced. Smiled. Held Hands. Felt. Saw each other. Smiled again.

Just then an “outstation bus” arrived right opposite to where they were sitting. People began adjusting their luggage on top of the bus before getting into the bus.

“Do you realize, about 4 years ago, the last time I had seen you, you had dropped me on of those very buses and here we are 4 years on, sitting practically on the same road, together but not together. We’re 23, supposedly grown up. You’re with The Times of India, I’m a doctor. How times have changed.”

“Yeah”, he mustered, practically the only time that evening where words failed him as he looked at her, “but we still have each other”, he added what felt like a timely interlude.

“Yeah we do, as we always will.”

They parted ways, holding hands and looking at each other silent, the irony of life and love still lost on them.

As he stepped on the train remembering every tid-bit of the previous three hours, every joke, the woman whose price they fixed, the unintentional glances, the sitting on the road later, the déjà-vu of the bus appearing. Everything.

Just then his cell phone vibrated. She had sent him a message that got him smiling.

“Ok, I’ll pay 650 bucks for that woman, but nothing more. PS - Thank you for being you.”, it said.

The Chase......

There once existed three separate people. They still exist, un-separate.

He strode outside Churchgate Station, pumped. The shirt crisp and blue, tie well matched, trousers comfortable. Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars played on his Ipod, on repeat for the past 32 minutes since he left office. He recollected his last conversation. The conversation that would redefine his life, his career, his day. Or atleast he hoped it would.

“It will happen Ken. You know it has to.”, Stephen reassured him.

“It fucking won’t. The way things shaping and all that. Recession and all that. ” Ken incoherently cut a sorry figure.

“That’s destiny man. You know you lost those 4 deals over the past 3 months to the recession. It’s the circumstances. Not your fault. It’s written. Nobody’s doing well. The fact that you’re getting deals on the table is huge. Chin up tiger. You know you’re good for it”.

“I hope so Stephen. Those 4 deals were worth 1.5 crores. Fucking hurts like fuck.

“Tell me one thing Ken – Who cracked the Intel deal?

“I did”

“Who cracked the FAI deal?”

“I did”

“Now who’s going to crack the IOL deal today?”

“I am”, he smiled.

“There you go”, smiled Stephen, patting Ken’s shoulder.

“Stephen, you’re the cheesiest fuck I’ve ever seen. You should write movies or become a trainer or something”.

Stephen’s smiled wider, almost laughing as he visualised himself writing movies.

“Tell you what. I crack this thing today and I’l take you out for lunch tomorrow. Done?”.

“Done. I won't have breakfast tomorrow.”

It was just then that the song on his Ipod got done and he sat in the “share-a-cab” at Churchgate as he began preparing for his meeting to close the deal.


She adjusted her hair before she stepped into her boss’s office. She had memorized all the revenue figures after she got an unexpected call from her boss to see her. She picked her diary, took her Reynolds and entered his office.

“What the fuck Neena”, the boss lambasted. “I told you NO MARKETING EXPENSES for 6 months. Why the fuck did you commit to TV Ads. We’re fighting the fucking recession and you’re commiting company money to pointless fucking Ads. Ther’s no fucking revenue in it. You are our Marketing Fucking Manager. Act like it or you can get off the fucking door. Henceforth before taking a fucking decision, ask me coz you seem to be too incompetent to take one yourself.” He was literally frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, tie loosened.

“Bu.t..”, she tried.

“Leave my office right now, You’ve irritated me enough for one day”

She left his office, mind fucked. It was a state of mind she had begun to get used to over the past two weeks. She began dreading her boss’s call, a call she received daily where he let out his frustrations on her, shredding her self confidence to bits. She was contemplating resignation. She didn’t only because the job market is equally fucked. The thought of everything in her life being fucked got her mind fucked further.

She slammed open her cabin door. Ken was seated inside.

“Did I ask for you to come today Ken?” her tone authoritative.

“You did Neena, we were supposed to sign on Print Campaign deal today”

“Oh yeah, I’m sorry. Just a lot of things on my mind. Really sorry”

“It’s allright Neena. I understand. Really do”

“Thanks Ken.” She inhaled as much air as she could. “Ken, we’d not be able to go ahead with the campaign. Not right now atleast. We could look at it, maybe four months down the line, but not now. Cost Cutting, recession and all that.”

He couldn’t muster the inner strength to come up with anything to say. He kept looking at her, as if she had failed him in some way.

“I’m really sorry Ken. I really am.”

It’s allright. I understand.

He didn’t understand. Of all the deals he had initiated this was the last one that he expected to lose.

“Some tea coffee Ken?”

“No, I think I’l head out. Will talk to you better at our next meeting, whenever that may be”

“You allright Ken?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just realised ther’s another meeting I need to head to, so I’l catch up with you some other time.”

He headed for the staircase. The office was on the 15th floor of the tower but he headed to the staircase to get mentally oriented again. Walking led to thinking. Thinking led to a severe mind fuck. He had reached the 7th Floor when he decided to sit on a step and just re-gather himself. Re-gather his world. He was wearing an Arrow Shirt, a Chopard watch and Marco Ricci shoes as he sat alone, on the isolated staircase of a commercial building. Life had humbled him.

He took out his phone. 3 missed calls. 1 from Stephen, 2 from his girlfriend.

He dialled Stephen’s number.

“Hi Ken”

“They backed out – cancelled the deal”

“Fuck, I’m sorry yaar – what happened?”

“Cost cutting”

“Fuck”

“Yeah”

“You’ve got another one tomorrow naa, that KPMG thing.

“Fuck everything. It’s so fucking depressing”

“Don’t worry, keep the faith, tomorrow’s thing will work out”

“Fuck everything. It’s so fucking depressing”

“Ken?”

“Yeah man.”

“I was sacked an hour ago”, Stephen sounded choked on his own spit and life.

“WHAT? Jesus Fucking Christ...............Jesus Fucking, Fucking Christ. Tell me your fucking kidding”

“I’m not. HR called for me. I was told not to report from tomorrow. 3 months salary. That’s that.”

“What was the fucking reason. You’ve been amongst our best performers over the past 2 months”

“Downsizing. Cost Cutting. Something. I was too dazed to hear. I could only see the HR guy moving his mouth. Couldn’t hear a thing beyond that”

“Fuck Stephen, are you all right? Can we meet?”

“I don’t know. I............I......I don’t know”

“Ok....Ok. I understand. Call you tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Ken, I have a four year old and a two year old daughter. I’m fucking scared. Job market and everything.”

“Stephen. Relax. You’l get a better fucking job. Easy. You’re too experienced. You’re too good not to.”

“Fucking destiny of mine”

“You’re sure you can go back home?”

“Ya....yea, I think......I’l talk to you tomorrow ya”, he cut the phone.

Ken let the tear roll down his cheek clutching his phone as hard as he could.

He stood up after what seemed like an hour, looked up at the eight floors of deserted staircases above and seven below as he began walking down.

As he walked out of the building, the sunlight slowly kissed him on the cheek. He looked out, at the road, hawkers selling, people walking, talking, laughing, automobiles, taxis, commerce. He couldn’t hear a thing. He just absorbed the scenery. He was jealous looking at all those people on the road. He envied the happy lives they were leading to smile so openly, laugh whole heartedly.

He took his chai from the tapri, gazing back at the road as he sipped his chai. Just then, he saw Neena on the road. He tried not to look at her. She saw him.

“Hey Ken, You had another meeting right?”

“It got cancelled”

She ordered a chai for herself as they stood together along with the other people enjoying the dawn of evening.

A cutting chai is the only thing that binds a man earning 1000 a month to a person earning 1 lakh a month in Bombay.

“So how’s work?”, Neena tried to initiate a semblance of conversation.

“To be honest – Fucked”

“Tell me about it. I so want to throw my resignation at my boss and leave to a place where I can wet my legs in sand whenever I want”

Ken didn’t respond.

“Forget work, how’s life?”

“A colleague of mine, a very dear person to me just got fired an hour ago. He’s got two kids. The current job market”

“I’m really sorry to hear that”

A BMW slowly made it’s way towards them as they continued sipping tea. They looked at the car, a current symbol of impossibility. A symbol that also told them there was their whole life ahead of them. He’s 23, she’s 26. They would have countless such fucked up days in the future, innumerable arguments, failed deals and successes littered here and there which could finally culminate in a day where they sit on the backseat of their respective BMWs.

After all BMWs don’t just park themselves under your arse, you have to get it there.

Neena looked at Ken, “This was just a day”

He looked back “Yeah. This was just one of those days.”

“Tomorrow is a new day.”

“Yeah”, she smiled, a bright spot in a hazy day, “So, what are your plans for tomorrow Ken?”

“Chasing my BMW”

Looking Closeby.....

What Men?

A trademark line of every Goan Catholic (makapav) that you and I know.

Christopher is a Goan Catholic that I know of.

“What Men, you’re not doing anything for Christmas?”

“No”

“Why Men?”

“I just don’t do much. I visit my granny for lunch and that’s it.”

“Fucker men you are”.

Christopher can make 14 grammatical errors in the same statement. But that statement somehow hit me. I’m not a very “celebratory” person by nature. I don’t do parties like typical catholics or people my age. I don’t dance, drink or smoke and hence put a serious doubt to the fact if I’m really catholic. I’m more “understated” as some oversmart MBAs would conclude. But Christopher’s “Fucker men you are” somehow hit me, it redefined my Christmas plans.

25th December – 1:30 am

I stepped out of the church. People genuinely wished each other. Men kissed their wives, Boys their girls, Brothers and sisters embraced, the children smiled and laughed playing with their balloons. People were “together”. People were happy. It was Christmas and I was happy.

“You took your coffee and cake?” said mom, tugging onto my suit.

“Mama, lets go to The Heritage (A four star hotel opposite the church)”

“Why? Madowhat?”

“ I want to take you some place nice on Christmas night. We’l have coffee and eat something”

“No. Why do you want spend all that money?”

“I have the money Mama. Chal lets go. I’l call everybody else”.

It took me 30 minutes, convincing the rest of my mom’s 3 sisters and 2 brothers and their families that we should go there.

What followed in the quiet coffee shop of The Heritage at 2:15 am on Christmas night was loud relentless conversation of what was going on in who’s life. My mom caught up with most of her siblings. They caught up with her and dad. The sons and daughters caught up with their cousins. We ate. We debated. Discussed the terrorist attacks. Asked Diandra (my 20 yr old cousin) what she ate to maintain her Size Zero figure. Ordered more coffee and hot chocolate. It was 4:30 am. Christmas had arrived and “this” was a good idea, I thought as I dug out the credit card from my wallet. Mastercard could make an ad out of this. Dissolving yourself in family : Priceless.

25th December – 11:30 am

I woke up, dressed and headed to Nana’s (my granny) house. It’s a traditional thing we do on important days. Most of her 9 children were already there when I arrived, busy in mindless conversation.

I kissed Nana, wished her, gave her, her gift. Opened the cake I picked up, so we could get this thing started. Nana cut it with my 8 year old cousin Kunal, who was dressed in a miniature Santa outfit with all my aunties and cousin sisters bellowing “Awwwwww” for 15 seconds as they cut the cake and fed each other.

There was a lot of chicken, beer, cake, idlis, whiskey, wafers, children and loud voices. I guess celebration and chaos go together. Traditional gifts like watches, designer pens, mobiles, shirts, ipods, games were given to the men and children. With women, in my family, there is only one “gift” that usually gets them up, “dinner set”. I don’t understand the logic behind their collection. Every woman has atleast 4 dinner sets and the joy of getting a new one somehow rivals the previous one. Other popular gifts include sarees, electric iron, crockery, lipstick and other things that I have no interest in.

After lunch it was time for Nana’s custard and more irrelevant conversation, where the “slightly drunk” men discussed the current financial crisis each giving their own expert opinions on the causes and remedies. It was funny hearing them especially since not one of them has any remote expertise in global credit fallouts or equity fluctuations. But it’s our job to ramble, to talk, to pass time, to disagree with something we agreed upon 10 minutes ago. My fat aunty was describing how she has become an “L” from an “XL”. Everyone clapped. Tea was ready.

I connected the Karaoke machine. We started singing. We like to sing. We all have great taste in music, it’s one of the few advantages of being a catholic. The “XL to L” size woman, Greta sang “Elton John’s - Sacrifice” considering it’s slow and hence easier to score when singing on a Karaoke machine. Greta scored 95. She is a very competitive woman. My Uncle Edward is equally cunning, so he sang “The Beatles’s – Yesterday”, which is as slow as they go. He scored a 96 which was stunning considering he was visibly drunk. He started dancing, making gestures at Greta after the score. Greta got irritated, picked up the mike and started singing “Chicago’s – If you leave me now”. It’s a song she knew by heart and used it only when it was a “do or die” situation. I was in splits just looking at how hard she was concentrating at the screen. She scored a 72. My family laughed so hard that Jesus would have heard it. Diandra then sang “Shakira’s – Underneath your clothes”, the title of the 20 year old’s song raising more than a few eyebrows amongst the elders. Diandra assured them the song had a “deep” meaning. Kunal sang “Nat King Cole’s – Love” to raptures of applauses and “Awwwws”. Walter sang “The Police’s – Every Breath you take”. I sang “The Beatle’s – A Hard Day’s night” considering how short and well paced it is. I scored a 96. Edward and I danced in front of Greta. It was 9:00 pm.

We planned a family picnic to a water park on 28th December considering how much fun Christmas was. What followed was another amazing day. Another day I spent with my family, reminding me of their significance, their warmth, their jokes and what they mean to me. Those two days shattered my basic idea of Christmas being just another holiday to “do” something with friends or listen to music. Being with family somehow seemed “cool”, it seemed nice. It was the most fun I’ve had in the entire year. Work, Money and the busy Life had made me forget that sometimes happiness can be found just by looking “close”. Love resides “closeby”. You have to find it yourself.

As I slid from that 70 degree drop water slides, my entire year flashed before me. The completion of my MBA, the great job at The Times, a heartbreak, a heart mend, money, a large screen TV and a home theatre system, responsibility, maturity, gifts for the family, my first deal worth 30 lakhs, the sexy secretary of this client I frequent without work, success, failure with the recession, the terrorist attacks that tore my city, the romantic trip atop the boat with her, the incredible sex that followed, the conversations, Christmas, family, the picnic at this water park. Just them, the slide submerged me in the depths of the pool and it felt as if I had sunk in a year and was all set to welcome the next. I hope you do too. I hope and pray for me and you that the next year be a happy, fulfilling and peaceful one. After all it’s a short life and I’d rather it were pleasant for you, me and everyone else.

We drove back. I played a cassette. “The Beatle’s – Hey Jude” played and immediately everyone began singing. John Lennon would have been proud of our collective talent. We smiled as we tapped our feet singing. The worries in the world were forgotten, if only for a little while. It’s these little whiles that I will long for, the coming year.

Life is good.