Perfect is untraceable

The disciple asked the guru, teacher, who is in your opinion the most spiritual guru?

And the guru replied, the good air.

Why so, asked the disciple.

Because he is in such deep communion with his creator, that he is invisible.

The student asked the professor, teacher, who is in your opinion the greatest writer?

And the professor replied, Anonymous.

Why so, asked the student.

Because he exchanged his identity for the right to publish life's greatest lessons.

The novice asked the maestro, teacher, who is in your opinion the most talented musician?

And the maestro replied, Silence

Why so, asked the novice.

Because he plays notes you cannot hear.

That insatiable hole

I've come to believe that each of us is born with a hole at the very centre of our being. As we grow older, we become more and more aware of it. And with that awareness comes fear, and in our fear, we try filling that hole, hoping to satisfy the void with things material.

We throw cartons of cigarettes, and cases of beer, and tons of sand from exotic beaches, and double promotions, and medals, and trophies, and spring and fall and winter collections, and gems and stones and precious bones, and shiny gadgets and botox dreams and four-wheeled metal beauties, and guns and glory, and glitz and glamour, and a room full of lovers, and a house full of money, and poolside caviar, and frequent flyer miles, and scuba gear, and parachutes and bungee cords, and engagement rings and eternity bands, and degrees and diplomas and PhD's, and art and literature and science, and philosophy and religion, and yoga mats and marble saints and arms-length charity, and every conceivable obsession into the hole, and yet we aren't able to fill it.

And if the hole were able to speak, it would simply say: show me love.

I Shall

I am not interested in being excellent. I am not interested in doing what’s expected. I am not interested in going the distance. I am not interested in being the best there is. There is no such thing. Best is relative. Marginally better. And someday when Best is taking a nap, Better will come along and steal his trousers.

I don’t want to be a giant. Giants cannot hide. Giants cannot whisper. Giants don’t tread cautiously. A giant can save the day. But that’s not everyday.

I am not interested in legend. Legends don’t tell their stories. They live on, though they wish they’d be dead. A legend can save the day. But that’s not everyday.

I don’t want to be what Influence wants me to be.

I just want to be. I want to feel. And sometimes I don’t. I want to find my quicksand and float in it. And I don’t need help. I can do this on my own. This can only be done once, so it has to be done right. The points don’t matter. There is no scorecard. There is no balance sheet. There are no forms to fill, and no affidavits to write. I just need to find my rhythm. Part of me is there already; it was born with the rhythm. It was born with the rhythm. This is my head speaking; he’s looking for my heart. For the day he finds it and the twain shall meet, that day I shall be born.

And then, Influence will have no pull on me.

And if at all I’d like to be known, I’d like to be known for having been myself.

An island city is born

A long time ago, the Kingdom of Portugal sacrificed seven islands to the Queendom of Stiffuppahlipp at the altar of holy matrimony. When Princess Catherine got married, the seven islands were her dowry. Or trousseau, depending on whom you’re writing this story for. The Stiffuppahlippsters, in great industrious spirit, took it upon themselves to join the seven muddy isles with the help of dirt and some fevikwik.

~~~

Now enough of the fairy tales, here's the sweaty truth.

Not that far long ago, in an age of gods, goddesses and rampant cosmic orgies, a competition was held. It was a competition designed solely to decide the suitor to the great Princess Deianira, of a fairness yet un-beheld. Such fairness had she, that suitors from all four corners of Flat Earth had come to audition for the role of Husband and Chief Orgy Artist. After a long set of tasks and examinations of Conscience and Manly Mettle, two finalists faced each other in the final round: mud slinging.

Achelous, the famous Prince of Rivers won the right to start the contest. He opened proceedings by poking fun at Hercules' recent humiliation at the hands of Zeus, his father and Grand Taskmaster. Hercules responded by calling Achelous a shaggy, grey-haired old fart who was so old, he couldn't even bend down to pick up a hint. This did not go down well with Achelous, who responded by calling Hercules an impotent son of a mortal. Hercules, a man of Herculean Patience, would not take this insult lying down. He was a man-god, for crying out loud. How dare this prince of things that flow insult him like this? No, he would not take this lying down. He stood up, with a large Clump of Mayhem in his right fist.

Achelous had it, you could tell. Here was Hercules, fresh off the shoot of his latest movie, Hercules’ Twelve Tasks, having achieved what no other man could have achieved: a twelve-pack set of abs. And he gets his case taken by the offspring of incestuous nymphomatic love. No, this would not go down well with the man-mountain. He breathed a sense of immediate purpose into the Clump of Mayhem, and it found itself being flung across the vast expanse that separated both god-warriors, the Bay of Omorfia. Before Achelous could grasp the meaning of the term mudslinging, it hit him in the face.

Then on, from Colio to Mayhem, and from Mayhem to Little Colio, the battle raged. From the Muds of Mazagone to the Isle of Bom Baia, the mudslinging continued. From Parella to Worlee, the gods warred. When they weren't shooting mud missiles into the bay between them, they were building up little mud fortresses and digging trenches. And the two of them fought on, with Hercules getting an edge, only to lose it to again to Achelous. Then Achelous would take the lead, only to lose it again to Hercules. They were evenly matched until lunch, when both decided to wave the white flag of peace. They resumed after a quick round of Bombay Duck and Coconut Curry, with Hercules rapidly gaining ground over his opponent. By the end of day's play, fate had decided that Hercules and Princess Deianira would be brought together in holy matrimony, and so would Bombay's far-flung islands, with mud, sweat, and a lot of tears, mostly shed by Princess Deianira.

And that, my dear friends, is the real story of how the island city was born.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

A to Z of brand recall

Alfa Romeo recalls all models with faulty Pirelli tyres, 2010.

BMW recalls the famous 5-series and 3-series for non-deploying airbags, 2008.

The X6 for the same reason the following year.

The Gran Turismo and the 7-series were recalled for non-compliance with Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards, 2010.

Chevrolet recalls the Captiva for faulty suspension, 2010.

The Cruze for defects in its fuel supply pipes the same year.

And the Cobalt for faulty power steering at almost the same time. 

Daewoo recalls its Korean cars due to "manufacturing defects", 2010.

Eternally, especially grateful there isn't a car manufacturer under "E".

Fiat recalls the Grande Punto for faulty steering, 2010.

Ford recalls its SUVs for faulty front seat recliners, 2010.

GM recalls a batch of heavy duty vans for high risk of engine fire, 2010.

Honda recalls Odyssey and Element models for faulty brake pedals, 2010.

Hyundai recalls Sonata's 2011 model for faulty door latches while it's still 2010.

Isuzu recalls its trucks for natural gas fuel leak, 2010.


Jaguar recalls the XF for faulty seatbelts, 2009.

Kia haven't run into any troubles yet.

Lexus recalls the GX 460 for faulty suspension, 2010.

Maruti Suzuki recalls the A-star for a leaky fuel-tank valve, 2010.

Mazda recalls Mazda 3 for a faulty oil hose, 2010.

Nissan recalls Titan, Armada, Quest and Infiniti QX56 for faulty brake pedals, 2010.

Opel's woes are nothing to worry about, 2010.


Porsche recalls Panamera for faulty seat belts, 2010.

Pontiac recalls G5 and Pursuit for defective power steering, 2010.


"Q" must stand for quality or something. 

Renault recalls Scenic and Kangoo for steering problems, 2009.

Subaru recalls Tribeca for faulty door window assembly, 2008.

Toyota recalls the Landcruiser for bad suspension in 2010.

The Prius got there a year earlier, with its faulty floor mats, and gas pedals on auto-drive.

The Corolla's faulty steering was the reason they were recalled in 2010. And every year since 2003, except 2008. But that year they were probably busy screwing up the Prius.

Ultra cool, that car manufacturers gave "U" a skip too. Might have been numerologically unlucky for them, who knows.

Volkswagen recalls Novo Gol, Novo Voyage for insufficiently greased bearings, 2010.

Volvo recalls S80, xc70 and xc60 for a flaw in software leading to engine failure, 2010.

W, X, Y and Z couldn't be happier about their being exempt from this brand recall exercise.

One for the road

   
  
Met this annoying woman from Mumbai that didn't know any English. She wanted to know where I was from and where I was going and why I did not like Bombay. She hated Pune. 

Anyway, fuck that.

She was getting bored in the waiting-room and asked how come I wasn't. So I told her I didn't get bored, and besides, I would fill in my spare time either by reading or writing. So she said that yes, she had noticed me scribbling, and did I do any serious writing. I pulled out a copy of a rather amateur story I'd written. She saw that it was in English and asked me to give her the gist of it in Hindi. It was a feat that far outdid the original achievement of having written the work. But I was prouder of myself after it. She remarked that people like me would find it easy to write because we haven't struggled in life. We're full of dandy thoughts, the typical gardener's offspring. And we don't have much to do otherwise, anyway. My defense was interrupted by a call. It was Ateek. At least that's what he'd said his name was. We headed out for lunch with his friend Arif, 3 of us on my bike with all my belongings. Hogged, they paid. Clicked some pictures on the way back. Returned, then sat around the bike. 
The bike was supposed to be packed by the railway staff, and sent via train to Delhi the next morning. I was to leave by the 6:15 pm train, post some advice I received from an old man that morning that I should abandon my cross-country exercise on the bike and head to Delhi by train instead. It was easy to convince me, considering the scene of the event was by the side of a dusty road where I'd just had a toss, thanks to a wheelie-popping tractor that my skidding bike couldn't avoid. And I wasn't sure about the shape my bike was in. I later discovered the gear shift was bent -- not a big deal, but then, what next. So we headed to station, Ateek [dark-skinned youth randomly selected by old man from the crowd of gawking locals] carrying heavy haversack, me trying to find the gear shift.
So like I was saying, we waited by the bike. Then the agent who was in charge of packing called Ateek aside and asked him why he was hanging around with me. He wanted to know if Ateek thought there was any money to be made. Then Ateek and Arif moved off, to get the jerry-can to empty the tank of fuel. They never came back. I called Ateek on the number he'd given me, but the kid who picked up said he'd never heard the name. I called up the other number he'd called from, but that turned out to be a public booth.
Why am I even here? I was on my way to Delhi by bike because I missed my train. My journey took me from Pune to Ahmednagar to Aurangabad to Bhusaval to Muktainagar and then across the MP border into Ichchapur where I spent the night in a bus before crashing into a tractor 20 kms away at 9 the next morning.
And the crash is why I'm sitting here waiting at this station for a train that's going to be 13 hours late. Yes, thirteen. The unlucky number. Unlucky for some. So I'm sitting in a waiting-room as I write this, smelling of petrol. Why petrol? Because I had to empty the tank before they could pack the bike up. 5 litres [or so] I extracted, and emptied into a jerry-can. I would have had less if the lout who'd tried stealing my petrol as I slept last night had been successful. The jerry-can full of petrol I gave back to the guy who had let me have it. This did not go down well with the railway staff, even though I lied and said I sold it for 200 bucks. They said I could have gotten a better deal. Well, I couldn't. I'm in a tier-III town, I have a haversack and a laptop bag and a helmet to lug around, and I've had to carry them on every trip to the ATM, of which I've made at least a dozen. Why? To see if my money had arrived. If it didn't, I would have been forced to leave my bike behind in Burhanpur, at a parking lot that Ateek said would be safe, because he would be there. But he isn't now, and I suppose that's because the bike isn't going to be there either. It's going to be on its way to Delhi tomorrow morning, and I will check on it after work, the day after. Work, naukri. The reason I'm off to Delhi in the first place. I called up Naved, the director at Shop to explain that my train would now be delayed by 13 hours. He said that's alright, no pressing urgency, relax and come. That's exactly what I'm going to do. I have my camera, Ernest Hemingway, and my pen and paper. So far. The end. 

Nothing perfect ever rolled off an assembly line

Mother Earth may have had her diamonds for ever, but a Harry Winston only once in her lifetime. My words here will genuflect for those of the man himself. A mark of awe for the one who alone could have understood the darkness from which each of these gems shone to light.


Far too much makes perfect sense.
Far too little makes none.


As the world around you becomes mass-produced into monotony, we ask you to remember this.


Nothing perfect ever rolled off an assembly line.


Perfectly symmetrical, yes, and perfectly attractive. But nothing perfect.


Perfect is breathtaking.
Perfect is inimitable.


Perfect comes from staying awake until 2 a.m., deciding whether to tilt a stone one-hundredth of an inch this way or that. 


Perfect is not rational.
Perfect is tempestuous. 
Perfect hurts.


Your brain doesn't know perfect. Nor your eye.
The only part of you that knows perfect is the painful way your heart beats in its presence. That part was born knowing perfect.


What will you own that's perfect?
What impossibly beautiful thing waits to become yours?


Find it.
Make it yours.
Bring it out.


Because when you do, your perfection will make the world's heart hurt. 

Marrow Escape [March 22, 2005]

Okay, I'm not going to name any names here, since this disturbing trend which has raised its ugly head, has done the same [raised its head, is what it done] in my house. My own fraternity. It was days ago that my eyes and ears were unfortunate witness to this scene, but it's taken time for me to restore the system enough to be able to write an account of this horrible audio-visuo threat from Hell. Bone smacking.
Thanks to bird phlew, Mom bought mutton. Nice mutton. I hogged. Hogged half a goat. Everything went well, until a certain sibling decided to make Paayas for dinner that night. Before i knew what that smell was, the lid of the cooker was flamboyantly uncovered, and the dish was upon us all.
Sour Wars II: Attack of the Bones.
I stood there, looking at the bones, feeling much like Ezekiel must have felt when our Good Lord took him to the Valley of the Dry Bones, in the very enriching 37th Chapter of Ezekiel.
For those of you who don't know what are Paayas, God bless your Virgin Soul. They are goats' bones which we boil and treat with garam masala et. al., and then later ingest. So legendary is this dish, that none other than Shiamak Davar himself sang the song reminiscent of "Strangers in the Night".
"Paaya....a...a..s in the night...
And Saaliboti
Cooking in the night...
Romaali roti...
Paaya....a...a..sss in the night......"


I swear, i was in the room when he crooned that bony spoof of a classic. And 9-yr-old ass that i was, i didn't grasp the funny bone of it all... But he had his clansmen in splits on the floor!
Now... This sibling insisited that the paayas had been lovingly cooked [for self, i suspect] and plastered with masala etc., and also emphasized that the Paayas were on the whole very strengthening. Ah then, i looked at my plate with its edible contents in one gathering, and the Paaya outcasts in the other corner. Seven bones, i was served! The sibling then gesticulated to me the exact [also, favoured] style of stripping these things of the last of their dignities.
STEP 1 - Hold the bone by the joint, and take it towards an open mouth as that of a mouth awaiting lollipop. Close the mouth over as much bone-acre as is possible. Get a grip and suck. Then repeat. This is "just the taste".
STEP 2 - After ensuring [under close inspection] that the Paaya is devoid of any masala, hold the bone in the right hand, and with jerking movements, strike the base of your palm against your other hand. This dislodges the contents. If any of you reading this part are in love with marrow in any form, i suggest reading 'Chicken Marrow Soup for the Diseased Soul' or 'Chicken Goop for the Marrow Bowl'. They're both available under the same publishing house. Paaya Publications, Marrow Avenue, or its branch at Boulevard of Broken Bones, whichever is closer to you. Now... Sibling dearest demonstrated in the first-person, the ideal way of extracting the paaya's manna. I've mentioned Route A. Here's Route B. Hold the Paaya in front of your face. Now put the damned toy in your mouth and suck [noisily!!] like a teething infant in a frenzy. That should undo it. Demarrowlising.
STEP 3 - If you're nauseous already [i don't blame you], this is thankfully, the last step. Flogging of the dead horse. Always a pleasure. Putting it into context, STEP 3 is termed 'Chewing of the dead bones'. Each of the bones is broken down to sizeable bone-tions with the molars [SNAP!! TIMMMBERRRR!!!] so that they can be sucked like cinnamon bark. This i believe, is every bone-hunter's Bony of Bonies. They meditate as they go through the grind.
While every cell in my body quivered INCONSOLABLY.


I've got a little list of 'If you wanna be bosom pals, you'd dare not...'
This one's right up there at Number Two. If my wife ever does Step 1 through 3, I'll give her a week's notice and tell her to live with her mum. I swear. And when i swear, i swear on every cell of mine that quivered like a multitude of belly dancers doing the Harvest Dance.


Mutton-shmutton! Fine, have your bone and meat it too, but leave SOMETHING for the dogs!!!
"Hayyy!! Teacher!!! Leave them bones alone!!
All in all it's just a-nother frickin' appall!!!"


{ And Ezekiel thought he'd seen it all! }