Please Never Grow Up (But Maybe Brush Your Hair?)

When will you grow up?

Wait. Don’t. Ever. Please.

Honestly, I don’t even know what I’d do if you actually did grow up. You’ve somehow mastered the art of living a child's life disguised as an adult, or is it the other way round? Either way, every day I watch you, and every day I marvel at how little has changed since, presumably, age ten.

Let me paint a picture.

You eat like a toddler with an exclusive contract for chaos. There’s always a bit of ketchup lounging at the corners of your mouth, some coconut chutney clinging to your kurta like a koala on a eucalyptus tree. Every meal ends with me debating whether I should wipe your face with a towel or just watch the mess unfold like a Netflix series titled "The Chronicles of Condiment."

And don’t get me started on the paneer butter masala. You've corrupted my palate so thoroughly that if the paneer isn’t charred with that generous hint of burnt milk, I send it back. At an actual restaurant. To a trained chef.  Because apparently, you are now my five-star benchmark for dairy-based curries.

Your hair? Ah, yes. Always styled in “High Voltage Balloon Static,” like you've been experimenting with Nikola Tesla’s leftovers. I keep wondering, have your parents ever introduced you to a comb, or is this part of a lifelong rebellion against grooming?

And the excuses. My God, the excuses. Like that time the peas korma tasted bitter, and you confidently said it was due to “less salt.” I have a doctorate, and exposure to molecular gastronomy and yet, nothing prepared me for that culinary theory. You improvise explanations with the flair of a magician pulling logic out of a hat.

Then there's your definition of punctuality. “I'll be ready by 8:30,” you say, but what you mean is: “I am currently in a philosophical debate with time itself.” You live on MST - Mera Standard Time, while the rest of us obediently tick away in IST and just sit around ageing like avocados. P.S. MST is 25 minutes behind IST, and I now have two clocks running in my head.

Remember that day we turned the whole house upside down searching for the AC remote? We accused the cushions, CBI interrogated the child, and you nearly filed a missing item report. Only to later discover that you had “inadvertently” wrapped it up with the bedsheet and meticulously placed it in the washing machine. Yes, it came out sparkling clean. Also, permanently dead.

Then there’s your signature move: the great dismissal. You have an Olympic-level ability to shrug off things pointed out to your face. If confrontation were an art form, you'd be its most elusive subject. “Responsibility?” you say, like it's a new word you've never heard before. “Sounds French. Can I return it?”

And of course, how could I ever forget, the great poriyal incident. You laid out a platter of what looked like heaven: freshly fried potato poriyal. My soul actually did a small happy dance, and my gustatory reflexes kicked in. I took a bite, and... my world collapsed. You watched, without flinching, and casually said, “Oh, that’s sweet potato.” Sweet. Potato. You scarred me so deeply that I now flinch at fried things. I feel like I need therapy every time I see a root vegetable.

Sometimes I truly ask myself, Why didn't you ever grow up? And then, I see it. The way your joy is so unfiltered, your reasoning so marvelously unhinged, your presence so maddeningly lovable. If you had grown up, I’d have missed out on this theatre of absurdity I now call daily life.

So I remain torn. Should you grow up? Maybe. Should you stay just like this forever? Absolutely.

Just... maybe skip washing electronics next time. And for the love of potatoes, fried items shouldn't taste sweet.

Hey Is That Kodikapuli !!!

It started with a quick glance. We were driving down a busy road, caught in the usual silence that had begun to fill our car rides lately - mundane days punctuated by quiet dinners, exhausted evenings, and conversations reduced mostly to practical matters. Suddenly, her eyes lit up. She pointed excitedly, "Look, kodikapuli!" [Madras thorn] Her voice was filled with a rare and genuine joy. A spark I'd not seen in a very long time. It was the kind of excitement that took her back to simpler, poorer but happier days before responsibilities began weighing down on us.

But the reality of heavy traffic pressed against us, just as our responsibilities always seemed to. I didn’t suppose she wanted me to stop and buy it for her even though I wanted to but stopping wasn't possible. As I drove ahead, her initial delight slowly faded, replaced by gentle nostalgia. She slipped into one of those long-gazed open-eye dreams replaying carefree childhood afternoons spent climbing trees, gallivanting the streets of our village, stealing from the kitchen, doing odds jobs for the seniors and earning a  rupee or two to buy mangoes and stationery, renting cycle and driving all around and picking up fights with children in the next street and her laughter echoing freely without any worries.

Something about that moment deeply moved me. I realized how long it had been since I'd seen her genuinely happy about something so simple. Life had subtly turned into something practical, comfortable perhaps, but also somewhat strained by the monotony and tiny frustrations that accumulate silently over years.

I wished I could rekindle that lost spark, at least in some small way. Ever since, I've secretly scoured markets, hunted street vendors, searched tirelessly online but the elusive thorn remains nowhere to be found.

I refuse to give up. It's been far too long since I've truly surprised her, since I've done something purely to see her smile. And deep down, I believe love can still be revived by such simple, heartfelt gestures. Maybe rediscovering kodikapuli isn't just about some fruit from her past but maybe it's about rediscovering us, about showing her that beneath the wear and tear of daily life, I still cherish her deeply, and I'm determined to remind her of the joy we once shared.

Now, bring me that thorn!

Worth the Wait!

Today, something strange happened to me. As usual, I was sitting in the car, waiting for her to come down and take her to work. She takes her time before leaving—carefully locking up, checking everything twice, making sure the house is in order. It’s something I used to find frustrating, but over the years, I’ve come to understand. Maybe it's a stereotype about women that men (including me) propagate, but honestly, it’s also one of the little things that makes her her.

Still, the waiting wasn’t always easy. I’d sit there, keeping the engine running, thinking she’d be out in five minutes. I’d leave the AC on so the car would be cool for her. But as ten minutes passed, my mind would wander to the wastefulness of it—burning fuel for no reason. So, with a sigh, I’d turn the car off. And, like clockwork, within 30 seconds, she’d appear, only to frown and complain about how hot the car had become. This has been happening for ten years.

But today, something felt different. As I sat there, I suddenly had a thought: If I switch off the car, she will come. Not just because of some strange pattern I had noticed, but because I wanted her to come. Because I missed her. Because in that quiet moment of waiting, I realized I wasn’t just impatient—I was lonely.

So I turned off the car, half-smiling to myself, feeling silly for believing in this little ritual. And then, just like always, within seconds, she appeared. Was this cause and effect? Ah, may be I am reading too much epidemiology.

And then it dawned on me, the wait didn’t matter anymore. I can turn off the engine anytime and she would be there, always!

 

Kya rakha h un kuch palon mein

Kya rakha h un kuch palon mein?

Kya hojayega ek do din mein?

Tum toh yun ud jaoge,

Bin bataye ke vapas kab aaoge.

Aandhi ka saamna,

Jhuggi kaise kare?

Doosra ghar to basa lenge,

Dubara man bhi baha lenge.

Kya rakha h un kuch palon mein?

Kya hojayega ek do din mein?

Kitne kadmon ko rokenge?

Kitni chittiyan likh ke fadenge?

Das me do sher h tuje pasand,

Baaki jhumlon ka kya karein?

Darte h tere faisle se,

Tu kahe to vo ahem,

Tu kahe to kuch bhi nahi.

Kya rakha h un kuch palon mein?

Kya hojayega ek do din mein?

Khushiyon ka rah dekhkar takh gaye,

Titliyon ko kaun kabze me laata h?

Nahi karenge pyar ki poori bayan,

Laal kalam lekar bhait jaoge,

Ki yeh sahi h aur ye ghalat.

Un dabi si aashaon ko, lafzon ko,

Jholi me lekar ghoomtha pagal jaise,

Mere kabr me milenge vo sab,

Guzarte logon ko mashwara dete hue,

Ki pyar ko kaabo mat rakhna,

Balki pyar ke kaabil ho jana.

The Murungakaai Sambar

I was returning home from office and as soon as I opened the front door, my two-year-old daughter sprung on me and took me to the ground. I played with her, listened to the garbled stories she had to narrate and a good 30 minutes went by. I went to freshen up and came back to sit down in the living room sofa. My daughter and wife were engaged in their own activities, as I was staring emptily into the TV that hadn’t been switched on, sulking about the week and the day that had been unproductive so far – neither a single creative idea nor a single worthwhile piece of work done. Apparently my wife was planning to make Murungakaai (drumstick) Sambar for the evening and realised that we had ran out of the key ingredient murungakaai. She came out of the kitchen and seeing me loitering away, ordered me to fetch some from the market. Angry as I was for not being productive, I took on her request grudgingly. I put on a blue t-shirt and as per custom, carried my daughter to the market.

Sulking all the way, I entered the vegetable section while my daughter happily got down and homed in on the candy section. While she was making her selection, I was going through the assortment of murungakaai, all the while not letting her out of my peripheral vision. As most Tamils would confirm, selection of the perfect murungakaai is a skill in and of itself – neither too thick nor too thin, neither too long nor too short, neither too fresh nor too ripe. If the perfect kaai is not used, the Sambar would be a disaster, an outcome that my wife does not take lightly to. Most young people gain this particular skill by watching their parents and I am no exception to this phenomenon, as I remember the nuances of vegetable selection my mother used to teach me whenever we went to the market together.

Unfortunately, this evening the perfect one was not to be found - adding to the frustration of not being able to solve the problem of missing data in time series at work. As I ran my fingers through this one particular kaai, I found that it was not perfect. In my opinion, Murugakaai is a very peculiar vegetable. Unlike the other bulky and round veggies, it is long and slender and has small swellings at regular intervals much like the knuckles of the human finger. The ‘knuckles’ are largest in the middle of the vegetable and taper uniformly towards both the ends. However, this particular kaai that was in my hand was missing some of the ‘knuckles’. It hit me like an apple falling from very high up a tree. I realised that the missing knuckles’ sizes can be predicted from the sizes of the adjacent ‘knuckles’ through imputation, as the sizes were correlated in space. By now, my daughter had already made her pick and was eagerly waiting for me to give her the nod and bill it. I grabbed the imperfect kaai and went straight to the counter. I couldn't wait anymore as I desperately had to Google. I paid the cashier an amount that was within the range suggested by my middle class brain’s pricing conventions.

I rushed home as my daughter kept uttering ‘kaai…kaai…kaai’, one of her favourite words in her every growing vocabulary. I blasted the door open, transferred my daughter to the ground and handled over the kaai to my wife with a triumphant smile. Without being too impressed, she half-heartedly accepted my submission, while staring confusedly at me for having that smug across my face. It took me a while to realise that I was smiling from corner to corner and corrected myself. I turned around and reached for my phone and started to Google ‘impute missing data in cross-sectional time series’ and the results it threw were to my utter joy. And I resumed my smile. My wife silently observing all these, yelled from the kitchen, “You can thank me later for the discovery!” She knew that I had found something that was useful for my work and that she in her own little way helped me get there. I merely nodded and smiled.

The Murungakaai Sambar came out wonderfully and we all sat down in a circle to enjoy dinner. I exchanged a smile with my wife and nodded my gratitude to her, which she acknowledged by helping me with another serving of the tasty meal.

Fall from the summit of pride!

In a place where I smile but without joy,

Where I live but without life,

Where I walk but on fiery sidewalks,

Where even the air refuses to enter the soul,

And the chillness dries out the tears;

The Sun shines heavily but,

No warmth I can feel around me;

No shoulder to talk to and where,

Courtesy comes at a cost.

Is this how death feels? I ask myself.

No malady seems greater,

Than what is the present state.

The land is so foreign it confused me,

And sent my principles to hell.

Solitude took me prisoner,

And I it.

A prince turned vagabond, 
A fakir in disguise I was.

Thought I set out to find God, but

Instead took advice from the devil.

The mind wandered to dark places,

Against my will and control was futile.

I misread, missed my way and went astray,

Talked when I should have been silent,

Thought when I should have slept.

In a moment of fit, threw up a tantrum when, 
An unsuspecting angel,

Got caught in the crosshairs;

Its wings singed and pride injured.

Unable to help for fear of further injuring,

I stood there and my head bowed until,

I realized that it was no less than a death blow.

No amount of excuse would suffice,

To repair what has been undone.

A thousand births I would take

For the sole purpose of redemption.

But even that feels undeserved, because

The greatest sin is betrayal of trust.

How could I ever bring myself to reconcile this?

I lost the moral ground of which I have

Always be too proud of.

May be this is God’s way of telling,

“You are not as prefect as you think.”

To proud to realize how blessed I was before,

It is now all ruined.

There is no more hope.

Dare I say, that one day in the future

I can face my creator and seek forgiveness!

I will trade Him the benefits of all my good deeds,

In return for my guardian angel’s restoration;

Free it of all scars, past and present,

So that it may emerge,
Once again in all its glory and pride!

The Mumbled Prayer

You must have heard or seen these statements at some point in your road life; ‘Don’t drink and drive’, ‘Drive safely because someone is waiting for you at home’, ‘Alert today, Alive tomorrow’, ‘Do not mix drinking and driving’, ‘No belt, No brains’, ‘No safety, Know pain’ and many more. Well, these are some examples of the coercive, emotional, passive aggressive, sarcastic and pun-filled carefully crafted ad slogans that transport departments across the world use to warn road users to stay safe. 

I don’t know about other countries but in India such messages mainly play the role of placing the onus on the road users to stay safe rather than honestly caring for road users; some elected officials deliver this hypocrisy personally in radio advertisements. Have you ever heard of an ad saying ‘Avoid the potholes or you will be dead’, ‘This road may kill you because there is poor lighting’, ‘No signals, use at your own risk’, ‘By using this road you accept the risk of dying and your kin can sue the contractor or rain for it’ and the answer is obviously ‘no’; No government officer will incriminate himself because that will be honest and stupid and honesty is the last thing you expect from a public servant and stupid they are not.

We can debate at length about how much each human, vehicle, road maintenance, victim and environmental factor contributes to the death and injury tolls that occur due to road traffic accidents (read here) but unilaterally accusing human factors in media campaigns may not help much. I have thought about this for a long time now but have learnt to accept the fact and ignore the possibilities.

Alright, let’s come to the point. My wife. She is a thing of peculiar habits. I cannot tell you about all but I’ll discuss one relevant habit today. Every morning when I leave for work, she accompanies me to the gate and sees me off till my car exits her line of sight. She has been at it since our marriage and so far I have ‘unsuccessfully’ discouraged her from doing so as she has many other important things to take care of in those busy morning hours.

I thought she was being sentimental but did not tell her for fear of hurting her feelings and did not bother her anymore. I did not put much thought into her 5-minute bustle either. As time flew by her behavior grew upon me and I almost became dependent on it; I would not leave unless she stood there at the gate and waved me goodbye. I don’t know why but maybe it just became a conditioned reflex!

Accepting the defeat of not being able to stop her fastidiousness, I gave into her and started observing her more intently during that 5-minute encounter between entering the car and driving off. This is when I realized that she was almost ritualistically following this protocol. She would do all the girly stuff, close my door and then mumble something, keeping her eyes on me all the time. I don’t think she noticed me noticing her (to this minute she is blissfully unaware, I guess). Many a time, I wanted to ask her what she mumbled every day while sending me off but refrained myself because I didn’t want to startle her and modify whatever she was doing (a truly observational study).

In fact, I did not have to ask her because I knew exactly what she was uttering so softly with such passion and commitment that you can see in a 3-year-old trying to eat an ice-cream without spilling. I most certainly think that she was praying to the gods (no, the God - she is a strict monotheist) to keep me safe on the highways of death.

I can’t say if god has the power to prevent road traffic accidents but governments surely do. I don’t drink and drive (because I don’t drink), I always wear seatbelts, I never drive in the opposite lane, I never cross speed limits, I maintain my car, I pay my taxes (in the hope that better roads will be built) and I follow all (well, almost all because I too am a human) the rules. I may not have been the best of drivers but I have strived to be better. But if the non-me factors such as the surprise pothole nightmare, the stressed bus driver who took on the added responsibility of population control, the malfunctioning signal, the signage lack, the corruption, the lack of political will and the bureaucratic apathy are not taken care of, what am I supposed to do?!

Even without any media campaigns advising me to be responsible for my safety on the roads, there is one thing that will keep me safe always; whenever I feel the urge to make a rash decision on the road I will be reigned in by the memory of the passionate face that utters the mumbled prayer.

Mom, Sudoku and Women Empowerment

The conventional south Indian housewife, of which my mom is a typical example, didn't care much about leisure time activity options, because the modern marvel TV has made it easy for them all. The Box has been her true friend with all the tearing sop operas and scintillating news items it provided her constantly. Her afternoons were spent either pitying the poor silver screen daughter-in-law or awe-stricken at the latest divorce of the famous movie star. But in the last couple of years, the TV has failed to get my mom's attention, and my father remains the sole user of the remote. So what about other leisure time activity options.

For a regular housewife the newspaper doesn't hold much charm beyond the interruption of power/water supply info the third page provides. But my mom was anything but regular. Beneath that veil of a housewife disinterested in the more intellectual ways of the world, she had her own convictions about the working of the universe and everything in it. Even when sobbing for the unfortunate daughter-in-law, she would casually browse to the more serious news channels and update herself with the happenings, albeit less frequently and less intensively than Obama. Her focus was on middle east developments, national politics, the USA, the teardrop at the tail of India, origin of religions and their interconnections with science, of course Mugals, how can she forget the Mugals and lastly but not leastly the bullion rates. For such a woman, the newspaper must surely hold more as a leisure time activity. So which portion of the news would interest her more, there is the science page, the local politics page, the national politics page, the international page, the editorials, or the least likely sports page.

One afternoon when I was incidentally at home, I observed that in her room there was the newspaper wide open, with a pencil and rubber parked on it. I thought that these accessories had no earthly business there, 'cause there was no child in the house who would be using them. After some time I saw her entering her room with a vengeful look on her face and I thought she was probably going to relax for a while and by relaxing I mean, sleeping. 

Later that day I was informed by my father that solving the new math game that the papers are running on the last page has caught her attention. The game was a 9X9 Sudoku puzzle with different levels of difficulty represented by number of stars, one star for easy and five stars for a difficult level. So that explains the pencil and the rubber. She continues at it for hours at a time until she solves it. She began doing the easier ones and used to check with the answers that came in next day's issue. Slowly but steadily she has reached the four star level. It drives her crazy that she takes a long time to solve them difficult ones. But she is determined. No man in the house would dare to disturb her while she is at it, solving away the squares, constantly rubbing off her errs. Ever since every afternoon instead of sobbing or being bedazzled by sensationalism, she now retires to her room with the newspaper, pencil and rubber and strives to win the battle against the cunning and evil Sudoku. After she has won she awaits the man of the house to come home to proclaim to him what 'star' level she had conquered today. 

She has become so obsessed with this that I guess she must probably be thinking of the foe the next day paper is going to bring her before she says her bedtime prayer. It is only a matter of time that she conquers them all and becomes the modern Chengis Khan. Only time would tell us that after this conquest what leisure time activity is going to pick her interest.

Occasionally the unexpected, unthinkable and unimaginable things happen. Today universal women empowerment may seem a distant reality, an ideal that will never happen. But slowly and steadily women will achieve their dream and the world will be a much happier place than it is today. I pray and believe.

Random transmissions on research

Investigation of a paradox is the most likely path to a scientific breakthrough, that cannot be achieved by mundane explorations of the ordinary. Likewise, it is the weird people who add spice to life as the routine ones take away from it.

The Capital - 1.The Political Game Changer: aka Piyaaz!

This is the first chapter in this series and the topic for discussion was destined even before this idea was born. It had to be about the food. Nothing else could be thought of as being so mysterious and archaic about the north Indian food to the southee and vice versa. So there you go. Enjoy your meal.

Eating out in Delhi is a custom that is common to all metros. Mostly because the unmarried and educated working lads and gals do not have time to cook after a hectic day at work. The wealthy, usually afford a cook. But for post-grad-medico-students like us eating out is a routine act. It's usually the hostel mess, or the roadside dhaba and rarely the proper 'restaurant'.

Often I go out with my northee lads to such eateries. In the initial days, I wouldn't care less if someone asked for some piyaaz before ordering the meal itself or if someone asked for more piyaaz during a meal. By the way piyaaz is Hindi for onion or venkayam. Here in north, people use only the bigger version of the vegetable, I doubt that they would be even aware of the smaller variety that is so commonly used in the south and which is much more tastier (so says my mom!). Back to the hotel scene, as time grew I found myself wondering if this behaviour is normal. NO!! was the answer my brain immediately sprang at me. As any southee would tell you, eating raw piyaaz is a big no-no as it makes your breath go stale. It is true actually. However, the northee would almost obsessively and instantly look to chuck down a bunch of piyaaz springs down that throat, almost reflexively. The habit is so pervasive that they may have meal without water but not without piyaaz, even kids are affected. But, hey! who am I to judge?, they also drink sambar in a glass with spoon. 

Ever wondered why there is so much political conniption when the piyaaz prices go up. It has always been my inexplicable mystery while growing up down south. Political parties take to the road, agitating against the government, accusing each other over hoarding, poor crop management and illegal exports. Recently in Delhi, the ruling party was staging a 'road roko' for the rise. Confusing, isn't it? It would be even for the seasoned economist if he wasn’t a local. The mystery finally unfolded, and I had to come to the Capitol for the answer. Piyaaz is so entwined in the northee cuisine and so ingrained in their taste buds, that it is almost equivalent to the breathing air for them. If you ask me for a southee equivalent, I would probably think for a while and still I would come up with a few competing answers, no unanimous winner. History shows us that piyaaz holds to the key to government, here at least in the north. It has the power to make or break The Government. In my opinion, piyaaz symbolizes the true spirit of democracy in a country where common symbols are uncommon.

I must confess now, that after three years I have taken a liking to the piyaaz, as a symbol of unity, as a vegetable and as a revolutionary. However I miss the taste of small onions and the rice broth that goes along well with it.

The Wait on Valentine's Day.

Light from the screen of her mobile phone lit up the tear that had just landed on it and made it look like a pearl. She was trying to sleep but the dark room didn't help much, as did the moonlight casting a shy shadow of the window across her face. She awaited a call from him. “Or at least a text”, she thought. It was more than a minute into the day celebrated as Valentine’s Day. Deep down in her heart she knew that he did not truly love her and he was just performing a duty to her. But nonetheless she waited and expected. What is the loss anyway; they were bound together by the holy bond. Her logic tried to convince her heart that he would not call her, but her heart kept on believing in the impossible. The battle between the two lead to more tears and the fatigue had finally caught up. She fell asleep.

Throughout the day the battle continued. She kept checking her inbox and call logs. But there was no sign of love in the signal. The day was almost nearing its end as was her hope. The battle reached an impasse and she had almost given up. Probably he is busy at work, or his phone is not working or maybe it’s the poor network, she continuously thought of reasons to explain the non-event. However, she was consciously avoiding that particular reason which was possibly true.

She declared that enough waiting had taken place and vowed not to check her phone anymore. She switched it off and tried to concentrate on other things around her. But no matter how hard she tried, her heart kept imaging the impossible and imprisoned her thoughts like the bird in a cage. Every song on the TV, every hero in the movie and every scene in the day had his image all over. It was too much to bear.

She succumbed. She frantically switched on her phone and…

The Capitol: As seen by 'southern' eyes (coming soon...)

I plan to write a series of notes on incidents that occur in the day to day life of a common Delhiite that many south Indians esp. Tamils, find peculiar and goofy, and worthy enough to document here. These observations are only meant to be an archive of such goofiness, but by no means exhaustive. Since these observations are only mine, they might have to validated by concomitant comments. 

Disclaimer: The data provided here shall not be used for scientific research purposes without prior permission. Also, if anyone feels offended I would like to tell them that I am neither a naive nationalist nor a radical regionalist. It is only an attempt to document the cultural nuances of one party by another party representative in the true spirit of cultural exploration. 

Lesson 3

As narrated by my friend. 

As you all know India is a very 'cleanliness' conscious country i.e., we are always conscious to stay away from it. All said, you have to accept that the Delhi metro rail is one of the cleanest places in Delhi, perhaps much cleaner than most temples or hospitals in the city. An incident that took place in one of the metro coaches ensues. My friend was travelling with his friend in the Delhi metro's yellow line. My friend and his friend merit a little introduction. There are self-proclaimed social activists and a very calm group at that, unlike the blow horns you read in newspapers every day. They were standing next to a mother son duo who were comfortably seated. The boy was about 5 years old and the mother was in her mid thirties. Suddenly the boy started crying, and the mother naturally started to console him. When her son's pitch went past the critical, she hesitatingly took out a piece of candy, unwrapped it and gave it to him. The cry stopped. But what she didn't have to do, she did next. She threw the wrapper casually on the coach's floor. She had committed the most 'Indian' defining act in the most elegant manner. My friend's friend who was passively noticing the entire drama, at once wore his 'activist cap'. He did something which none would have expected. He, in the most unassuming manner without a whisper, bent down, took the wrapper and kept it in his coat pocket. The mother felt so bad that she pleaded with him to give it back so that she can dispose it off in a proper place. She must have felt slapped with sarcasm. But he stated 'ab rehne do aunty ji' (now leave it aunty). He probably felt that it was his duty now to dispose it in the dustbin. The expected station arrived and all got off. The mother may or may not have changed her future behavior, but that's beside the point. The metro coach's integrity was however saved that day by the 'activist'.

The lesson: Action indeed speaks louder than words, but it doesn't have to be extravagant. It can be as simple as you want it to be.

Lifted from elsewhere (ahem!!)

It is only in the mysterious equations of love that any logic or reason can be found.

Friends. I do not have that luxury.
Time. I do not have that luxury too.
Love. You gotta be kidding me!

We have not lost hope, but merely transferred it from God to doctors.

It is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.

Randoms neural transmission (under exam prep mode)

The greatest illusion in life is to think that we are in control.

On Randomised Control Trials

• A large proportion of our interpretational fallacies arise due to the explicit examination of obvious facts in isolation and lack thereof to compare them with unobserved and unobvious alternatives.
• Thus following, if a RCT is one such obvious observation can't there be other simultaneous RCTs hitherto not thought of.

Gazals, Sufi songs and Qawwalis - Soothe the soul that is restless or injured.

Sufism (as I understand it) - Glorification and Commonisation of God (at the same time). Godification of Man, Godification of the lover (the unrequited one). The major subjects are Unrequited Love and Lover, the Wine, the Wine Glass, the Bar and last but not the least, the Barmaid. 

Our meetings have to be coincidental to evoke awe, they cannot be pre-arranged, like the sunrise or sunset but like the storm.

Sometimes in life, one single act of Hope can change everything. 

It is far more satisfying to lit a lamp that has never been lit than to poor oil into an half burnt one.

I am constantly amazed at the rate at which co-incidents occur. It makes me wonder if such a thing as randomness truly exists or may be it just reflects our inability to make connections and find associations.

Random thoughts on Coffee, Tea and other beverages

It has occurred to me that coffee is best consumed by oneself or in the company of a pretty girl (or handsome guy), whereas tea must be had in groups of peers (Eg. friends). This will bring out the true purpose of the beverage in question. Much importance has to be attested here as these findings have resulted from my astute and long drawn observations. It is entirely based on economics. Please refer to table of differences for further enlightenment.

Differences 

1. Whereas coffee is relatively expensive, tea is cheaper.
2. Coffee is often associated with a sense of being rich, exquisite and exotic, tea is on the other hand humble and common, with the exception of green or herbal tea (a marketing ploy).
3. Coffee is often consumed by those high in the social ladder, tea does not submit itself to class politics, a true socialist drink (save alcohol).
4. Coffee beans come in several types and there are even more ways of preparing it (cappuccino, latte, decaf etc.,), but the humble tea is had either with or without milk only. (tea types you see are just marketing ploys)
5. Coffee is usually served in westernised shops known as 'coffee houses' which have A/C and good ambience. Tea can be had almost anywhere, most commonly roadside with no seating options.
6. Coffee is rarely offered to guests, but tea is otherwise.
7. A cup of coffee is an article of luxury, it elates. Tea is a necessity, it relieves.
8. Coffee is had rarely, when something 'out of routine' has to be done. Tea can be had up to five times a day.
9. An american would more likely prefer coffee, whereas the british would prefer tea any time.

So, that is the humble tea and the luxurious coffee story. What's your cuppa?

Lesson 2

It was a hot summer afternoon. Everybody was busy with work. A mobile phone's ringtone broke the silence gently. My friend was the owner of that mobile and he answered the call with as gentle as a human voice could be. It seemed from his short consoling utterances that someone who was a friend of his friend was in trouble and needed desperate help. My friend then retired to a private corner to continue the chat. After half an hour he sat down in his seat. I enquired him about the details as I was 'interested'. He said that his friend's friend's father-in-law required urgent medical help and he was contacting people known to him to get the help. As he was conversing with me, he was readying to go somewhere. When I asked where he was going, he said "to see that gentleman". I was taken aback a bit because I would think twice to do such a thing even for a friend. The next day he seemed a bit dejected. I sensed that something went wrong and so was the case, the gentleman had died. When I tried to console him saying "he was just a distant friend's father-in-law", he replied "life toh life hai dost, ek din humari bhi baari ayegi." (life is life no matter what, our time would come soon) I stood there in contemplation. 

The lesson: Helping someone from whom you can't expect anything in return is the purest form of help. Helping is an attitude, make a habit of it.

Lesson 1

It was the first day at work. I was roaming about in the office corridor with radars out looking for a colleague in my wavelength. Suddenly I came across a seemingly unassuming person in the corridor. He smiled at me and i said Hi. He asked me whether i was new there and I answered affirmatively. He had a limp in one of his legs, probably due to childhood polio. I managed to assess it without him noticing me. He was going to the canteen and wanted me to join him. As we both walked towards the canteen stairs, he caught hold of my hand for support. I became uncomfortable. Then i realised he would not be able to climb without the support and let him hold my hand. We ordered samosa for him and chai for me and sat down. As he began speaking, my picture of him started changing rapidly. He immediately gained my respect. We had the formal exchange of personal whereabouts and returned back to work. That day he told me about the things i needed to know to navigate smoothly at work. He gave me pointers about the bosses. He did all these to me even though i was a complete stranger to him. But he had a weakness, he wasn't that witty at work. He had to get something completed but wasn't able to. I offered to help him. Not for a second did he think that what a newbie like me would know, he immediately handed over the laptop to me and said, "Isko kaise bhi nipta de yaar." (finish this thing off as you see fit). I finished it off in no time. It made him so happy that he said, "You will be my saviour at work from now on." And I said to myself, "You would probably be my saviour outside work."

The lesson: A friend in your wavelength is hard to come by, and comes unexpectedly  and when he/she comes its your job to recognise and capture them for eternity.