Veg Jalfrezi

I've always found the whole dorm name fetish somewhat strange. Especially when my friends from a somewhat well known institute of management in Western India refer to each other as Chaddi, Jhaantu, Potty Singh and the like, accompanied by back-slapping with much gusto and overall camaraderie.

An ideal conversation, to my mind, would go something like this.

Guy: Hi, I'm Jhaantu. (Behold my awesome dorm name)
Me: I agree completely. (Har har)

Having recently heard of a pair of characters called Mooli and Gobi during a random discussion with two friends, though, I've decided to change my mind.

Consider this image of assorted vegetables - Mooli, Gobi, Aloo, Tamatar, Pyaaz, Bhindi, Shimla Mirch etc. - peeking out of those giant red-brick arches.

Unnees!, Tamchu Singh screams. Jalfrezi, I say.

General hilarity ensues.

Shimla Mirch. Now him I wouldn't mind meeting.

Along these many paths

Hold my hand, won't you?
And sift through these memories
Of raspberry dollies on a scorching summer's day,
Paper boats and greeting cards,
Last bench delights and backpacks;
Peacocks, cards on rainy days and
Glasses misted by steaming mugs of coffee.

Follow my gaze out onto the sea
From the vantage spot across the lonely road
Under the watchful light of the cross-road lamp
Or the windy rooftops of old dormitories
Stuffed with old drawing boards and broken pencils,
Salt and rain in the air mingled with stale cigarette smoke.

Or walk, softly though, through tree-lined paths
Snaking through brush, ant-hills and whispering teaks;
The bright yellow glow of street lamps bursting through darkness and silence.
Walk through the night and watch as tomorrow we return
Finally, into a world of cramped arcades, rushed hours and ironed shirts.
And know that we had and will always have the magic of the one night
Of improbable hopes and even the wildest promises
Come true, if only for a while.

Till we wake up to watch as they slip away,
Wisps of dreams disappearing
Only just beyond the impenetrable gates of reality
In all their forbidding splendor -
The dark color of a neem tree after the rain.

A campaign you won't see Tata backing

Dear Random Facebook Friend,

So tell me. Did you vote?

I'm not particularly interested, really. But I'm sure you'll tell me anyway. Through your slick media campaigns, maybe through a radio show, maybe you'll get Bipasha Basu on-screen to grab my attention or maybe you'll just inundate me with random Facebook messages about how you've exercised your franchise. Well good for you and I'm sorry I don't look more excited.

What's with the whole voting shebang anyway? What makes you feel like I care? Stop sending me random Facebook messages because you voted. Free speech be damned.

And before you can screw up your face and cry "Arm-chair critic", here's why. You did not exercise a franchise. You did not make a statement. You performed a fundamental duty through your exercise of a fundamental right.

I've talked about this before - while we have been taught that the individual’s greatest freedom in a democratic state is the right to vote, there is another freedom that is perhaps as significant as the right to vote. It is the right to refuse.

When your only choice is the lesser among evils, why exercise the power of choice at all when you can refuse? Who would you rather choose? The mass murderer, the mob-boss, the Hindu fanatic, the lunatic leftist or the bumbling puppet?

Seriously. Choose to not care. Choose to abstain.

I did.

Love,
Sahil

To the person who can honestly say that...

..."Har dil ki taar mujhse ho kar guzarti hain".

Here's a little thought for you and me.

Atoot network. Atoot bandhan. :)

I've already paid

Sheep in a coffee shop watching over the Golden Gate. Insinuations of long eyelashes. Pseudo-Chinese vegetable curry. Swimming lessons, flowers, cake and buffets. Scouring the malls for a shiny purple shirt. Luka chuppi. Robert Downey Jr. Cookbooks, Spencer's and weekend culinary experiments. DDLJ pictures in UP fields. That terrifying moment before the plunge into a freezing lake in Uttaranchal. Scything through the water in a lazy breaststroke, laughing at the weak at heart in the boats. Balloons, birthdays, Arab headdresses, hukkahs, White Russians and beer in the company of those liked. The single malts afterwards in the company of those loved. Riding with wind and surf through wild rapids, learning to drive, learning to fly - off cliffs looking over fields and Manoj Prabhakar's house a thousand feet below, treadmills and table-tennis, poshto and pasta, four glasses of sangria on an ebony shelf, goldfish, Arsenal, the virtues of Ben and Jerry's (not Haagen Dazs), Kolkata, pointing out the specifics of containers on deserted highways in Punjab, Rajasthan, UP and Uttaranchal. Nine months of indulgence, discovery, many laughs and much love. It was never going to last, I was told as you took the flight out.

And now you're back - you brought me Arsenal, I brought nothing but my memories. And we both know what memories can bring.

They bring diamonds and rust.

Late night work Haikus

I.

Festival of colours
Begins in black, blue and red
Font size fourteen

II.

Festival of colours
Ends in black, blue and red
Font size fourteen

Recruitment Haiku - I

Hot air in the hall
Young men in dark suits and ties
Speak of unemployment