Whose Land Is It Anyway?

There's a new scam involving Indians at some duty-free shops abroad. Indians shopping at duty-free shops in Dubai or Bangkok are being targeted for extortion and here is how it works. When you buy stuff and are at the billing counter, the billing assistant will slip in another package that you haven't bought. Once you come out of the shop, the police will accost you and want to see the receipt. When they find the item not paid for, they will arrest you for shoplifting and detain you. In your desperation, you will pay all your cash to get a release. And that cash is enjoyed by the shopowner, billing assistant, and the airport police. There have been quite a number of such cases according to one email floating around. And all these cases are involving Indians.

I know what you are thinking. Maybe the Indian fellow did shoplift after all? I thought so too.

We all think, despite being Indians ourselves, that Indians will haggle, steal, and cheat. That is the general perception of Indians abroad, making unsuspecting and innocent Indians the target of a smooth nexus like this. If the Indian embassy hears that guy's plea, every single Indian working in the embassy will believe the story...he must have done it, man.

The world works on such perceptions, and perceptions are formed from real stories. Maybe there are many such repetitive real incidents that help others form a general perception about a community or set of people. When a Dutch guy in Mahabalipuram is caught for being a pedophile, everybody believes it. From Amsterdam, no? Must be a pedophile. Maybe he is, maybe it is a true story, but then, the general perception about the Dutch or most Europeans is that they are here for the sex industry. There are thousands of Europeans who come as photographers, travelers, seekers of spiritual freedom, but they are mostly branded together in one slot. Because that's how our minds work and we love generalizations. That gives our lazy, unthinking minds something to talk about: Malayalis are always yapping away in Malayalam, all Bengalis wear balaclavas, all Punjabi women have well-endowed derrieres, or all Gujaratis pronounce "hole" for "hall."

We are all afflicted by such single stories of races and cultures, and believing in these generalizations makes us very narrow-thinking individuals. This is not a spiel to say I am above all this, because we grow up on stories and generalizations that are handed down to us by our parents, neighbors, and society and it is very hard to come out of such mindsets. I cannot, but I will try.

Last month I saw novelist Chimamanda Adichie's talk on the dangers of a single story and remembered the movie Crash, about which I had written earlier. It shows the workings of a society that lives just on single stories about other races or cultures. So, all I borrow from Ms Adichie is the phrase "single story," which is a very catchy and apt phrase indeed.

How do we come out of it? Where do we get the proper education to be global citizens or at least Indians instead of being Brahmins, Marwaris, Sindhis, Malayalis, or Marathis? How do we ensure that entire India doesn't start hating Biharis just because MNS in Maharashtra is throwing them out. They are hardworking east Indians who had to leave their state to find livelihood. And they went to other parts of India, their own country. MNS calls them "north Indians" and throws them out of Bombay, because Bombay belongs only to the Marathis. Who said Biharis are all unscrupulous cheats? If you look back into the history of the eastern region through the eyes of popular literature in Bengal, you will find that the delicate babus from Bengal relied on the strong Biharis to protect them from dacoits and thugs. All the watchmen were from the "West" (meaning UP and Bihar). All this talk about Biharis being thrown out shows the MNS and die-hard Marathis in bad light, but it also damages the already damaged reputation of Biharis in the mind of the Indian.

In our cross-cultural workshops where we are taught about respecting other cultures, we leave out one basic thing: respecting ourselves as Indians. We learn about the gun-weilding cowboys (another stereotype), about all Americans going dutch with their restaurant bills, but we are not taught to mingle, mix, and learn to respect other Indians. "The Tamilian Brahmins, no matter how vehemently Swaminathan Aiyar tries to deny it, try to instill Brahminism in their kids and make them stay away from other bad influences like Bengalis and Malayalis, who introduce little Tambrams to the pleasures of beef, fish, and whisky." That is my single story, a story I believe in, although I know many Tam Brams who aren't religious (some are atheists), many bongs who don't have beef, and many mallus who don't drink at all.

I see the solution in marrying people from other castes, religions, and languages. And that can happen when young men and women from one state go to other states for education. I can cite the example of West Bengal, which started experiencing a student exodus since the early nineties. Same from Kerala. (For the uninitiated, these two states were under the communist rule for ages, and have stopped functioning altogether... education sucks, there are no jobs, and in West Bengal the law and order is in the hands of the extreme leftists). These young people, coming out of their states, venture into greener pastures, mix with other people and often marry people from other races, castes, and religions. If you see a tall Punjabi man walking with his short, rotund son, you know he married a short, fat Bengali woman. Like that. Fluids, blood, sweat, everything is getting mixed these days and along with that the accents. Thick regional accents are giving way to a more cosmopolitan lingo. This trend has to be encouraged. Go out, meet others, and multiply so that one day you have Gujjus who aren't selling diamonds, marwaris who aren't staring at the sensex, bengalis who aren't writing poems, and malayalis who aren't forming political parties. You may one day even find a Sindhi in a charitable organization.

I am eternally hopeful.

Compact Diesel SUVs in India

With the Gypsy gone and the Bolero Crde being priced on the steeper side, the market for sub 7-lakh SUVs is a huge vacant space. Suzuki could have launched the Jimny to fill this void with the same 1.3 liter multijet engine doing duty on the diesel Swift, D-Zire, Indica Vista, Fiat Palio, Linea, Grande Punto, etc, but they haven't.
(Suzuki Jimny)

And suddenly you have Premier Automobiles, a company that is faded from our collective memory, launching just the thing: a sub-7-lakh diesel SUV with the same old Peugeot IDI engine that was used in the 309 GLD. Apparently they were always there and didn't die out. All these days they had a strategic collaboration with Tata Motors to provide specialized engineering services.





Here's an image of the Premier Rio. Cute, small, lovable, and an SUV for the common man. An IDI engine means you have to wait for a glow plug to go off before ignition. The car is a small Daihatsu, made by Zoyte Motors of China, with the legacy French mill that can well be called Indian now. In an age where multijet diesels are ruling the market, launching an IDI engine from the prehistoric era may sound a strategic blunder, but if you look at the price tag, you know who the Rio is targeting. All the auto mags this month are carrying stories about the Rio, so we have to wait and watch where this story heads.



Am sure other auto majors are gonna wait and watch this story like us, and I won't be surprised if this attempt at resurgence by PAL is sabotaged by other companies. What we would want is a healthy competition from Suzuki with the Jimny 4x4, which has a better finish anyday. Maybe Mahindra will launch the Classic in a compact avatar again (think Jeep Wrangler Sahara) and price it at that band? The choice of engine will have to be the 2500 cc, 97 bhp engine from the Bolero Crde.









(Jeep Wrangler Sahara)


And that would give prospective buyers of the Skoda Yeti (to be priced at 12 lakhs on road) a chance to think twice. And the Yeti will die a slow death like the Fabia even before it is born.

Way to go, Premier.








(Skoda Yeti)


Images from:
http://blog.cochesalaventa.com/_fotos/Skoda-Yeti-SUV-to-enter-production_77061_1.jpg
http://www.theautochannel.com/media/photos/jeep/1998/98_jeep_wrangler_sahara.jpg
http://allworldcars.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/suzuki_jimny_1.jpg
http://www.ithappensinindia.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/Premier-RiO-1.jpg

The Rumor of Angels*

I brought you some blue whisky glasses. Really beautiful ones.
I realized it was absolutely out of place to say that at someone's funeral pyre, but that's what I blurted out. And whisky glasses are never blue.

The body was placed on the floor, covered in white cloth. The feet were jutting out, so I sat there and felt them. The same old white feet, only whiter. I ran my forefinger along her cracked heels and smiled. She was still there, and I couldn't tell if she were just sleeping, in coma, or dead. One of her toes had twitched a day before. That wasn't there any more. She was dead after all, then. It is the end. And very soon her ashes will fit into an urn that you could hold in your both hands. The strangeness of death, from so close, was lost on me. There were people all around. "They've all come to see you." And they were all there indeed. Cousins I hadn't met in a long time and probably wouldn't meet again. All of them.

I could overhear someone discussing me. About how cold and unfeeling I had become. But then death was always just another phase to me, like the period at the end of a sentence.

This time when I went to visit my cousin who looked after my comatose mother for over a month, I saw those glasses again. She had stacked them up in a glass cupboard, one after another, like sentinel on duty. There was one missing though.

"You brought me those."
"I know. That was to say thanks. Dunno really how to..."
"I know."

And we were quiet for a while. If she hadn't taken ma to her hospital, we would be bankrupt by now. And ma would still be dead.

I walked back from her Rail Vihar apartment to our house. The otherwise broad road was crowded with shops and people and garbage. There was a bus pushing its way through the crowd, the conductor calling out for passengers to Howrah. All the noise fused together after a while, like a viscous lump one could easily stash into a can and close shut, savor the void for a few seconds, and open it again, slowly allowing the fused lump of various noises to get back to their distinct shapes again. One of the shapes could well be the clink of the missing blue glass.

*A Rumor of Angels is a beautiful American film starring Vanessa Redgrave.

Toilet Rolls

Everyday I wish I could steal a roll of toilet paper from our office loo. Every time I crap in the office, I mean, which is almost every day.

Along with this strange urge there's also this desire to buy my dad a sex trip to Thailand. Is it wrong for him to enjoy a bj? Although I wonder the plight of the girl if he breaks into a lecture about why Bertrand Russell was not a Christian or why Max Mueller didn't get to become the Sanskrit HOD at Oxford because he was discriminated against for being a German. I can almost hear the conversation they will have:
"Sir, can I...?"

"...but then the Americans have always discriminated against nonreligious people. Bertrand Russell was almost selected for the Philosophy chair at NYU when one person objected to his selection on the grounds that he is an atheist."
"huh? Sir, but your son has paid me for..."
"That's why he hated Americans."
"okay, sir...can we..."
"...listen quietly, you insolent little puppy, listen to me first. So, that was way back in 1940s."
And then I can see how the "girl" in question falls asleep and starts snoring halfway through the monologue. So much for buying my dad a bj.

I also wish I could buy a host of things, right from a lazyboy to a used Land Rover Defender (used because Defenders are not made any more, please don't draw any conclusions about how cash-strapped even my imagination is). I wish I could get out of my jeep and shoot some people, or plain strangle them with my bare hands. I always end up smiling at all sorts of offenders...you go first, please...I insist (you bastard).

A house, a house...a garage. Every time I try to picture a house that I want, I end up dreaming of a huge garage with enough space to park ten cars and at least two hydrolifts. Paint cans, spray guns, dungarees, sticker machines, the complete works. You know, like kitty up your car at my garage and I will give it some attitude. Make it come to life. (Again, please don't look at my car and judge anything. A designer doesn't have to dress cool, okay?) Of course for this wish to come true I have to know a lot about cars to start with. I have started with zilch. Ask me how to change the oil and I will buy you a coffee at the nearest parlor instead.

Suddenly, my blog is full of stuff that I would rather do. Like that blog about lofty dreams and little ones, or the last blog about the Friendship Drive. Does it mean I am clamoring to come out? I guess I am, but this is just to bring back some sense to my restlessness: a few more years, a few more years and you will be free, you dog. And then you won't know what to do with your freedom. I already don't know, I suppose.

And then I saw some videos on youtube. Some standup comedians were being interviewed by Parkinson for BBC. Man, the Brits left us with half-baked knowledge of everything. They came here to rule, not for us to be able to emulate them. Have you heard Rowan Atkinson express himself? Have you? I mean, no matter how much I wish I could speak like one of them, I already feel like a latecomer. They taught us how to converse, not how to be articulate or impressive. Wish I could be a teenager again armed with that kind of English. Of course back in the 80s because I hate the youth of today. Their utter lack of excitement about anything, irreverence toward knowledge of any kind, lack of respect for history, make them very unattractive to me despite them being many notches better looking than my generation. Looks don't do it for you. Looks are not even good enough for stimulating a simulated orgasm.

I wish I could feel some kinda excitement, like YESSS, we're gonna do this. It's like I have jaundice, you know? And lost the appetite for life? But then, I don't wish I would die. I mean I know I would one day...eventually...you and I...but I don't wish to die at all. I love to be lazy and I love to be able to crib. I simply luurrrve watching movies. In a span of three hours I can watch Fist of Fury, Matrix Revolutions, and Aawara Pagal Diwaana by just juggling between channels and still enjoy all three. I got so hooked to Sydney Fife's life in the movie I Love You Man. Fucking amazing. That man has a jerk-off station. Can you believe it? And so many TVs. And he is bold, straightforward, and having fun. AND he is a mad fan of Rush. I am hooked to his philosophy of life and would recommend him for the philosophy chair at NYU I think. Not that they would listen to me, but wazza harm, he is fictitious anyway...is Sydney Fife.

I wish I had a 24-hour free hotline with Meghadoot da. That guy listened to me playing some notes over phone and told me what chords to use to make it sound even better. Meghadoot Chaudhuri has helped me discover the beauty of the seventh chord. The stirrings you feel within when from a normal 1-5-8-13 you move back to 1-5-8-11. How it can bring life to music. And Meghadoot da helped me discover the difference in my emotions by just changing one note.

Am buying a nice, heavy air pistol to shoot the dogs at night.

Isn't life wonderful?

(some images are from: http://thecreativeworkshop.com/

http://frmarkdwhite.wordpress.com/)

The Friendship Drive

The friendship drive is something I have always secretly desired all these years. It is about touching base with all my friends in India, old and new. It would be a drive all around India, starting from Bangalore.
The drive from Bangalore to Calcutta (2000 kms) will take me about 2.5 days. In Calcutta I will meet four people:

Arup: a partner in crime since 1990, Arup and I are often mistaken as brothers. I can't tell you what all we did together in our hostel room. Even today when we start exchanging notes on various matters of interest, time flies by unnoticed. I love this guy. If I were gay, he would have been my (rather unfaithful) partner.

Gargi: a chat mate turned soul mate whom I met in 1999 in the Kolkata chatroom of 123india and have a long association since. We are what they call "poles apart" in our nature, outlook, and worldview. She is suave, sophisticated, in a black business suit, and never utters anything untoward, while I am just the opposite. We complement each other and thus are the best of friends.

Gora: from bunking school to watch porn to ogling at all the girls at the univ (where Arup joined us to form the unholy trinity) Gora and I have a strange association. Found him after a gap of 15 years in 2008. I hate him with all my heart at times for all his untimely spilling of beans, but can't think of not giving him a bear hug every time I meet.

Bubunda: (Lazyani, the blogger) this is the longest association, of 31 years... we grew up together, me trying to idolize and emulate him and never succeeding. My first cricket and football captain, and also my first hero. Bubunda also has the distinction of being the first one to tell me about sex.

then I move on to Durgapur, where I meet:

Meghadoot da: again from the university, Meghadoot da filled the void left by Bubunda when I went to Banaras. a musician from his heart (and a master esraaj player), an avid listener of hindustani classical and jazz, meghadoot da epitomized the craziness hiding in all of us. We still have one-hour phone calls almost every week, often with him singing from the other end and discussing music. Right now he is in love with Aziza Mustafa Zadeh, the Azerbaijani pianist and jazz vocalist. I just hope he never stops falling in love because that will be the end of him.


The Kolkata to Durgapur drive is only about two hours, so I next go all the way to Banaras, some 500 kms from Durgapur. There I meet:

Banibrat: A junior at the Univ, Banibrat Mahanta was one guy who had a lot of potential in him. A quiet, good student, Bani is now a prof of English at BHU. Have to have tea at Lanka with him.

Prof Vanashree Tripathi: A lady who had more faith in me than I myself did. She instilled in me a lot of confidence and also was a great friend. It is another matter that as a young student I had a mild crush on her. It was more awe than a crush. Am sure she was so busy discussing Michel Foucault that she didn't even realize.


From Banaras, it would be a trip to Delhi, some 800 kms away. This will take me an entire day.

The Delhi list is long, so I will keep the descriptions short:

Manini Chatterjee: she is famous, might not have time to meet me. But I have to buy her a copy of Da Vinci Code, which she deliberately never read.

Manjari Rathi: My "saaala" colleague. She saalas me and I saala her. The most apolitical colleague ever, she has a special place in my heart. She disapproves of everything I do and dislikes everything I write, but am sure will be grinning from ear to ear when she sees me in Delhi.

Ritu Malhotra: I have a love-hate relation with this girl (now a mother of two) since 1998. Having joined together as Assistant Editors at OUP, Ritu and I were friends with clashing egos. We fought about everything, but used to ride together in the Delhi rains. We have fond memories at work. Am very fond of her even now, but have a suspicion it might be more for her striking beauty than anything else :-P. We will meet for the OUP lunch at Berco's.


Sourav Dutta: This neo-Nazi guy has been a buddy since 1996. He is the famous blogger velvetgunther and has a very eclectic taste in history, art, music, and literature. He is a fascist of the first order and hates Asians of all hues. I share this hatred and love him for it. He also drives a Merc.

Dilreen Kaur: A brief 2-year association with Dilreen was enough to remember her for life. Clearly the most beautiful girl I've ever worked with, Dilreen was funny, gullible, and very feminine. Found her again in 2009. We will have lunch at Berco's, CP.

Soma Goswami: She made me start smoking again at the age of 27, ten years after I had quit. She and her husband Gaurav are the best hosts I have ever seen. We share a hatred for one particular boss, but we can't talk about her now. If Soma and I get together, we will bitch about Dilreen, Ritu, Hari, Mithlesh, Abhijeet, Mr Bhowmik, and a few others. And also get very very drunk in the process. Soma is in the UK now and says she will come down for that lunch at Berco's CP.


Shikha Gupta: Missing since 1999, she is an integral part of our OUP memories. Many of us swooned over her. And she would often come to my desk to be able to breathe (she sat in the same room with the boss). She was fond of the lightning-struck tree in the backyard of the YMCA building. We have to find her out and bring her for that lunch at Berco's, CP.

Arindam: My ever-enthu bro-in-law, who is closer to me than to his cousin (Sayantani)

Udayan: He is some bigshot with Penguin Books, so I can't possibly write that he resembles someone from the Italian mafia. But his is a strange face with the coldest eyes and the warmest smile you can imagine. Another foodie, we used to heap chicken bones on a separate plate as Smriti Vohra looked on. He was also our steady supplier of Tintin, Asterix, and hindi movies. Apparently he now has a lab called Pluto, whom I must hug too.

From Delhi...now this is a stretch because already am worrying about how many leaves I have left still... I must make a trip to Kumaon and one to Ludhiana and Manali.

In Kumaon, I want to meet:

Vinay Badola: the owner of www.otterreserves.com, Vinay was the first man to initiate me into Royal Enfields. Sourav and I rode with Vinay and Revati to the Himachal in 2000. Forever smiling, this pahari from Dehradoon is what a true leader is made of. He might be available near the Kali river in Kumaon.


In Ludhiana:

Mampi: a new friend from blogland, mampi's humor, enthusiasm, and absolutely punjabi approach to everything in life is very refreshing. She is a bad cook, apparently, so I will have a lassi at her place and also meet her family...she can yap, yap, and yap... a perfect match for me. She is a professor of English with Punjab Univ, but we won't discuss Jane Austen for sure.

In Manali, it will be:

Rimli Borooah: Clearly the Gwyneth of India, or Mary Stuart Masterson. quiet, beautiful, serene like the landscape of Manali, she can also be like the sea, I heard. Although I first saw her in 1998, our friendship started after I left Delhi in 2001, over emails. A foodie and a great pal to drink with. She is a writer and I envy her that.


Delhi to Bombay is a great drive, Anirban tells me. He had done it once in his Fiat Adventure in two days. In Bombay:

Anirban: Kind of like my Arup of DK days. Can talk about almost anything. Well read, passionate about cars and a gizmo freak. We, however, restrict our conversations to cars, women, absynthe, and Irish cream. He might join me in this drive.

Amala: Sweetheart of a woman. She has worked with Resul Pookutty and has also recorded the sound for Aamir Khan's Ghajini. A woman in a man's domain (sound recording), Amala was the first one who inspired me to walk in to Penguin Books for an interview in April 1997. I owe her a couple of large whiskies on the rocks.

Titin: A chat mate turned chum. She calls herself the universal mother, and apparently her friends agree. Met her once when she came to Bangalore and we drank till 3 in the morning with James. Will come to James later. In Bombay, we plan to drink till 4 in the morning. She might join Anirban and me in this drive.

Alpa: She goes by various names: Estelle, Wild Cat Charms, and a whole lot more. Neurotic, hippy, poet, fairy tale romance, poet, cold, sexy, psychic, clairvoyant, poet, are some words you can associate with her at various points in time. She will take me to Marine Drive.

Harikrishnan Menon: I met him probably only thrice in my life. But his was the first Royal Enfield that I rode inside the YMCA compound in New Delhi. He left OUP a little before Ritu and I joined, but used to keep coming to check out the hottest women in Delhi. We met again in Bangalore (we had rabbit meat at Ponnuswamy) and this time we want to have Ridley turtle fry in front of the Greenpeace activists in Bombay.

Ujjal and Benu: Out of all the times I played Cupid, only this succeeded. Ujjal and I were in BHU together, and I met Benu later at DK. Both were single, I passed the email IDs, and the next thing I knew, Benu flew to Calcutta to meet him!! They are yet to buy me a pair of Levi's, which was Cupid's contract.


And then, the 1000 km run back to Bangalore will start, probably alone because by then Anirban and Titin would have been dropped back to Bombay. I might just make a slight detour to Goa to meet:

Brian Mendonca: a friend, a poet (his second anthology being published now), a guitarist...Brian cooks awesome pork and lives like a hermit. He recently left Delhi for Goa, so it will be a poetry reading session on the beach some evening with him. With port, fenny, and fish fry.

In Bangalore, at LoR, I will meet the following:

(cartoon courtesy James)

James: ten years and still going strong, James and I have been to San Francisco together. Need I say more? This bugger is a guitarist, cartoonist, adventurer, and now a fitness freak. Great company, anywhere, anytime.


Shuvo (whom I spend all my weekends with): My bro whom I met in 96, on the streets of Calcutta, often bumping into each other at the same interview venue. His sense of humor is unparalleled and he has the class to lace even a bawdy joke with British humor that makes it sound very sophisticated. He married Sayantani's sister and we never mix his whisky with my vodka.

Raja da and Khukudi: Bubunda's cuz, Rajada and I were playmates as children and later met in Banaras again. We have also been together in Delhi and now he has come to Bangalore. Their's is one place I can go to without a prior appointment and still expect a great meal. Both of them excel in their culinary skills and both can drink like tanks, Khukudi in a more unassuming, matter-of-fact manner.



And then, I will go to meet my biking group buddies, probably the next weekend, on our bikes.

Rocky/Pal, Love, Prateek, and Doc: This is a close biking group, with Rocky and Pallavi being the initiators. They got us all together. And Rocky and Pallavi are probably going to grow old with us in Bangalore. Rocky is to me here what Bubunda was to me when I was a child. Rocky also made me fall in love with Mahindra's slow and steady workhorse, the Bolero. He went and picked up a faster, crde version later. Pallavi is my stand-up comedy partner.

Prateek rode with us to the Himalayas and that's when I realized what a great soul he is. A quiet, firm guy of principles, Prateek has done epic solo rides. He has the dubious distinction of owning two Enfield 500s!!

Love and Tana are young and sweet, and very much in love. Love has tattoos all over and is boisterous. Tana can match him. And I love to compete whenever we meet. We literally talk nonstop.

Doc, while extracting my teeth, never speaks of bikes, and while riding, never speaks of my cavities. I want to grow up to be like him, a steady, solo rider. He has done Ladakh alone on his Eliminator.

And then, one day on Church Street:

Atanu: He is back in Bangalore after two years in Pune. We worked in four companies together: Apex, OUP, DK, and Oracle. At Oracle, we became buddies, and our early morning tea sessions discussing everything from George Bush to Sourav Ganguly are to die for. He has a sweet tooth and even sweeter children. I will meet Atanu at Blossom Book Store on Church Street. He will buy some LPs, and then we will walk to Empire International for some succulent kababs.

And finally, back home, I will narrate my experiences to my best friends ever:
Sayantani and Aaron.

Sayantani will sulk for not taking her along, and Aaron will want to go out on a bike ride with me right then, but I will explain to them why it was necessary for me to touch base with all the others that I love. Life is too short, so I had to go ahead and say hello to all the people who matter to me in my life.

Disclaimer: sisters, cousins, children, wives, dads, moms, etc. are out of this because this is about friends only.

Tights versus Pajamas

After the cycling helmet and the headlight, I naturally added cycling tights to my list. This met with vehement opposition from my wife, who felt it would be absolutely unnecessary to show the bulge around. Now that's one good way of reminding myself at this age that I am a man, I argued, but she wouldn't have any of it. She even cited an example of cycling shorts being banned in Utah for being obscene. Apparently, the Citizens for Decent Attire are trying to ban cycling shorts in Salt Lake City, Utah.

I was surprised to see this because in a country that hosts the World Naked Bike Ride, calling a pair of cycling tights indecent was taking things a bit too far. Undeterred by my wife's protests, I asked my bro (the anon who leaves cocky comments on my blog every now and then) to check out some cycling tights when he went to buy his tennis gear. He called saying there's one L, which he didn't think would fit me. According to him, my crotch would asphyxiate and die inside the L. Please don't get ideas as these tights are sold by the waist size and not any other size. Going by my waist size (or how it has become over the last couple of months), XL would be a safer bet, we both decided.

As children, most boys wanted to wear their briefs outside à la Superman. I was no exception. I spent numerous afternoons prancing around in front of our mirror dressed like that. My critics (mainly my dad and mom and later my wife) hold that this particular activity in front of the mirror for many years cost me my grades in school. I have always disagreed with them. You should ALWAYS disagree with someone who points out errors in you. After all, your life is too short to while away trying to conform to what others think is right. So I kept wearing my briefs outside, but never outdoors.

After having bought the bicycle I felt the time has come to live my childhood dream. If not briefs, at least through my cycling shorts. Beware Bangalore, SupAri has arrived. (this cartoon is courtesy James, who has always nurtured a clandestine desire to see me in the nude)


And so I finally went out in them one day, the bulge notwithstanding. Some people noticed, some didn't, some kids were bothered only about the "geared bike," and some others noticed only Aaron's Firefox with its headlights. The ultimate macho dad of Aaron was riding next to him, showing off his thighs and crotch, expecting all the moms in the neighborhood to swoon, when suddenly he was chased by a pack of hungry dogs who sensed something new in this attire. Whether the dogs chased my feminine legs or the bulge, I cannot tell, but riding away from them that day was my fastest run so far. It was so maddeningly fast, I can't even emulate it if you ask me to.

So now I don't wear them tights any more. I preserve whatever I have inside baggy shorts and ride next to the same dogs who don't even cock an ear when I ride by. Gone are the dreams of being Robin or Superman. I have settled to be a decent husband instead, fetching groceries on my bike like my dad used to many years back, wearing pajamas if possible.














Let the Ram Sene guys take over for all I care. At least I can send them a pack of wild pets if not pink panties.

(image from http://reviews.roadbikereview.com)
(for the MOST hilarious pic, check out http://www.funnycoolstuff.com/2006/09/18/why-bicycle-shorts-are-always-black/)

Stuck at the Y

E&Y E&Y and the Bay the Bay the Bay
the red red sedan
that she drove away
the french fries scattered on a plate

are images that won't walk out the door

get me more than Frost at this strange Y
get me a bench under a tree
tell me am I any richer today

or am I forever poor?

vestiges of my mind
neatly packed, to be taken away
are back in their appointed corners

never one less never one more

away didn't work yesterday,
a U-turn did
away works for her

as she goes away for sure.