How to improve English Vocabulary easily?

Instead of remembering English words and their meaning, if the usage of the words is understood and remembered, the
word power improves significantly.

So, whenever a new word is learnt from anywhere, it is best to write down the whole sentence to understand its usage
and context.

Below are few examples of such sentences.

- Despite all the link-up rumours, Amrita Rao is insistent - she has never had a boyfriend.
- I don?t want a relationship just for the heck of it
- These movies earned her calls from directors but she refused the offers in lieu of studies
- If you are going out on a date and someone makes a pass at you, would you want your guy to fight with that man?
- Slowly and steadily, I’ll make my way to being the number one heroine,” she answers.
- "As we get closer to execution, we are investing significant resources to better understand the nuances of the market
and closely studying the existing supply chain infrastructure
- According to the book, due out in August, men are more apt to zone out in a meeting since their brains are designed
to enter a "rest state" more easily than women. In that same meeting, women may run off topic before returning to the
task at hand because they're born multi-taskers.
- I was dumbfounded. In my job, I have seen many women in heart rending distress -- abandoned abroad by husbands
with fake or fraudulent marriages, others battered and so badly traumatised that they have to be repatriated, and other
variants of cruelty, deceit and worse.
- There can be -- and there usually are -- other complications in my painted profile
- They too are lonely in America and frictions may get compounded.
- The boy himself may be a social nerd or a religious zealot and the independent minded girl may feel hopelessly
stifled.
- The girl may want to work, but the boy is content with a cook
- It is the law of nature and statistics that certain percentage of all marriages are bound to be problematic. The high
expectations and low returns in these cases only accentuate them.
- To fast forward this sad story, a time comes when the girl returns to India. She is frustrated and embittered, but there
is serious loss of face, as well. Here comes a twist, which brings us back to Shankar's story.
- we have the law in India under which if a girl or her family claims that they are harassed with dowry demands, before
or after marriage, it becomes a cognisable offence.
- The objective of the law is to give protection to weak and vulnerable women by invoking the fear of this law as a
deterrent.
- Another lesson -- not to rush into marriages with visiting NRIs, not to marry in a hurry to repent in leisure.
- Diving in for the genitals too soon usually isn't the best idea. A woman needs to be properly aroused before any
below-the-belt action feels good.

tr.v. har·nessed, har·ness·ing, har·ness·es

1.
a. To put a harness on (a draft animal).
b. To fasten by the use of a harness.
2. To bring under control and direct the force of: If you can harness your energy, you will accomplish a great deal.
to control something in order to make use of it: learning to harness the power of your own mind [Old French harneis
baggage]
Idiom:
in harness
On duty or at work.

Everybody in the world is looking for a soulmate, darling...you sound young, don't worry you'll eventually meet him. As
for your client, that's a rather sticky situation, isn't it? You need to pick up on small signs to find out if he feels the same
-- has he ever asked you to lunch or dinner or even coffee? Does he flirt even a little with you? If so, he's interested and
maybe you should meet him outside of the office and pursue this. If things are strictly professional from his side, I would
suggest you don't pursue it at all, it could put your career in jeopardy
In fact I think I dont have guts.
The more you think about impressing women, the less you will impress them! Women like men who don't put on an act,
who treat them as friends. If they feel like you're trying to hit on them, they will back away, they like men who don't make
them feel uncomfortable. So just be yourself around women, treat them like you would your male friends and everything
will work out.

Whatever her reasons, her final answer is no. You need to accept that gracefully and move on.

You can overcome this by using your willpower. The guy is married now, you need to move on. So rather than remaining
stuck in this rut, start meeting other guys and strive to forget about him. When you meet someone else you're attracted
to, you'll know you're over him

Where does your husband figure in all this? Don't you love him?
-

Don’t go back on your words.

If u fail to live upto ur words, I will sue you.
Ur ideas seem alright, but I suspect if it will not fall flat.

retort 1
Verb related words: rejoin, riposte, come back, repay, return
1. to reply quickly, wittily, or angrily
2. to use (an argument) against its originator
Noun relates wrds: comeback, rejoinder, riposte, replication, counter, return
1. a sharp, angry, or witty reply
2. an argument used against its originator

what one should do to keep the spark alive all the time?
The boy should ensure tat he is doing something so as to make the girl feel that she is loved very much and should do
something so that the girl’s respect towards the boy remains intact. That is the boy should maintain this own dignity
all the time and respect his partner’s feelings.

Don’t twist your lips.

When women are depicted in the ads in the way they are, do you think that is derogatory or demeaning.
Contemporary dress up.
Amplifying the issue/ women

Silly ad.

Objectivity.

My joke is rubbing on her.

I feel repulsive to those kind of things/thoughts.
Pls don’t discuss that per se.

Substance nahin hai.

People are more interested at skin-shows rather than looking ta athe content of the ads.
Ads are getting blatant.
They are objectifying women.
My stand point/view point is……….
Mushy-mushy feeling….
Boys are more objective in work than emotionally attached.
It is a perspective based issue.
He reacted very unreasonably./ unreasonable reaction.

I am kicked off..
Blow up money in those trivial matters.
My aversion towards girls developed when…
Why r u feeling so fresh less.
it was incumbent on the part of the government to seek a vote of confidence in the Lok Sabha in a week's time, Advani
said giving a lecture on 'Transparency and Accountability in Governance,' in New Delhi.

The Left parties have withdrawn their support to the Congress-led UPA government due to irreconcilable differences
over the Indo-US nuclear cooperation deal.

Adj. 1. trite - repeated too often; overfamiliar through overuse; "bromidic sermons"; "his remarks were trite and
commonplace"; "hackneyed phrases"; "a stock answer"; "repeating threadbare jokes"; "parroting some timeworn
axiom"; "the trite metaphor `hard as nails'"
banal, hackneyed, old-hat, stock, threadbare, timeworn, tired, well-worn, shopworn, commonplace
unoriginal - not original; not being or productive of something fresh and unusual; "the manuscript contained unoriginal
emendations"; "his life had been unoriginal, conforming completely to the given pattern"- Gwethalyn Graham
"I owe them a wife and a baby! It might sound trite but I owe them everything,"

Do you spend too much time hooked to the computer or the television till the wee hours, compromising on your sleep?
Beware -- apart from leaving you red-eyed, weary and dozing off in the middle of an office meeting…….
As our lives get busier and we try to cram more and more activities into our already-packed schedules, we sacrifice our
sleeping hours,
Apart from the fact that lack of sleep has a dire effect on general wellbeing and health, creativity and mental alertness,
people who are unable to sleep properly at night tend to be weary most of the time and lack the ability to
concentrate.

Housewife Kunika Malhotra, 32, complains that she has problems coping with minor hassles, gets irritated easily and
cannot tolerate noise. Kunika has been trying to juggle her husband's late working hours and her children's early
morning school preparations for some time now and can barely squeeze in five hours of sleep every night.

"I always think that I will catch up on my sleep over the weekend, but that has never happened," she says

My body clock was all erratic

I was in my first year at the University of Mumbai in 1993. Like most unattached men my age, I was on the lookout for
that special 'someone' and had zeroed in on one particular girl. She was a classmate and a good friend, but I had never
been able to muster the courage to ask her out.

When I finally did, she said yes. I decided to take her to a fast food joint that had been highly recommended by a close
friend. He said that though he had not been there for a while, it was where his love had blossomed.

The entrance to the restaurant was being renovated, but a sign said the place was open for business. Unusually for a
fast food joint, a doorkeeper stood at the entrance.

We settled in our seats and placed our order. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, it hit me that we were the only
customers there. Besides, the place was designed in a peculiar way and included a small dance floor in one corner.

Suddenly, a lady dressed in a bright sari appeared out of nowhere and politely asked me, "Would you like to see a
dance?" I felt as though I had been hit by the Rajdhani Express. Realisation finally dawned -- this was a dance bar!

My date, who had been calm though this whole episode, displayed exemplary presence of mind. She feigned illness.
We got our order packed and practically ran out.

Today, my date is married to someone else. And I am still searching for that special 'someone.'

'Sir, we understand your situation'

My brother was losing business with each passing moment, but the only response we could get from the 24-hour
customer care service centre of a telecom giant was, "Sir, we understand your situation..."

He had two corporate phone connections with them and despite paying the bill (they guarantee reconnection with three
hours), the connections had not been restored. As the hours passed, my brother -- who conducted much of his business
through the phone -- made his sixth call to the customer care department. He tried to make them understand he had lost
a lot of business because his phone lines were down.

Pat came the reply, "Sir, we understand your situation..." My brother lost his temper, "Boss, you have been trying to
understand my situation since morning. What I need is a solution. NOW."

This continued until late into the night. Out of desperation, he restarted his phone system. After this, whenever he tried
to make a call, he would get the message, "This facility is not available on your phone." Frustrated, he wound up for the
day.

But his desperate measure worked. The next morning, his phone rang at work. "Sir, we understand your problem…" I
greeted him, as we both burst out laughing.

I was on a short vacation to India. My four-year-old niece GG (short for G Gomathi) decided to join her mom and me on
a visit to the nearby grocery store. She was laughing and giggling until we reached the store. Suddenly, she started
crying --she wanted us to buy her banana chips.

Since there were lots of snacks at home, my sister-in-law refused to yield. I cuddled GG. "Look at that little baby," I told
her, pointing to a young boy. "He is so much smaller than you and he is smiling."

GG was adamant. We finished buying our groceries as she continued to sob away. On our way home, she suddenly
became her usual cheerful self. Surprised, I asked her, "What happened to your tears?"

"Chittappa [Uncle]," she smiled sweetly, "when you need something, you must keep crying until they yield. We are far
from the store now; there is no way I am going to get the banana chips. So what is the point in crying?"

Dr M Sathya Prasad, Toledo, Ohio

A helping handIt was a pleasant January afternoon in Bikaner. I was rushing to a nearby shop with an urgent list from
my mom -- we were expecting guests -- when I saw a cow groaning. I was worried about the way she looked and
wanted to call a vet, but my mother's angry face came to mind. I rushed with the shopping and raced back home,
promising myself I would call the vet later.

The visitors arrived and, in attending to them, I completely forgot about calling the vet.

Around 8 o'clock that night, the bell rang. It was our widowed neighbour, whom we called Amma. She wanted a blanket
and seemed to be in a hurry. My mother was worried and, after a while, asked me to check if she was okay.

It is very cold outside. I wrapped a shawl over my sweater and, torch in hand, went to look for Amma. Her house was
locked. I finally found her on the road, sitting beside the cow I had seen earlier. She had covered the poor creature --
which was now making a faint sound -- with the blanket.

Carrying a big book in her feeble hands and wearing heavy glasses, Amma was reciting the Gita for the dying cow, so
she would escape the cycle of rebirth and attain mukti (as per Hindu belief).

When I tried to talk to her, she gave me stern look and put a pale finger on her lips. I could not bear to stand there much
longer. I put my shawl over Amma's shoulders and returned home.

Sushma Vyas, Singapore

It's all about brains

Our biology teacher had the habit of beginning each class with a brief introduction to the lesson of the day.

We were studying human physiology and, over the week, she had completed the digestive, respiratory and circulation
systems. All of us thought the next lecture would be on the reproduction system.
"Today," she began one fine morning, "we are going to learn about a system you people have but don't use. Do you
know what it is?" I was about to answer, "The reproduction system," when she continued, "The nervous system. Your
brain is part of the nervous system, but you are not using it to study."

You can imagine how relieved I was that I had not opened my mouth!

K Arulmurugan, Coimbatore

A traveller's tale

I was heading back to IIT, Madras, after spending the holidays at my home in Vizianagaram, Andhra Pradesh. I
disembarked from the Ratnachal Express at Vijayawada. After a short break -- that included a meal at Hotel Kandhari
and a stroll on the 'Prakasam Barrage' constructed over the River Krishna -- I headed back to the station to catch a train
to Chennai

After checking out the timetable, I decided on the Circar Express that was ready for departure. The general
compartment was jam-packed and I tried in vain to get hold of a reserved berth.

As I walked towards the end of the platform in despair, I was surprised to find the last compartment relatively empty. I
threw in my backpack, settled in and began my favourite travel hobby -- watching the chaos on the platform. Several
minutes passed. The platform emptied.

A sudden suspicion crossed my mind.

I leaned out of the door and realised mine was the only compartment on the platform. The rest of the train had begun
moving towards its destination a while ago. I burst into laughter. Later, I realised the bogie I got into was a connecting
coach to Tirumala Express which was scheduled to arrive much later!

March 26, 2004 14:24 IST

"Geez, what a boring match," said Bhargav. Ruchira seemed inclined to agree. With this kind of encouragement from
my pals, I was beginning to yawn through the India-Pakistan final in Lahore the day before yesterday.

Yeah, India was winning, lekin kya sukha match chal raha tha yaar(the match was boring). Quiet celebrations had
sprouted, until Shoaib Malik and Moin Khan started skinning Zaheer's over. Suddenly, everyone stared nervously at the
big screen at Café Mocha. India won, nonetheless. We didn't wait for the presentation; all we wanted to do was to reach
Shivaji Park ASAP!

The park promised some celebration; I had heard stories about the time when Pakistan lost a match to India in the
World Cup. True to promise, this too turned out to be an unbelievable night. Almost 2,000 people were there, hands in
the air, dancing together. At least 1,000 more people were milling around, watching and smiling.

There were kids, pretty girls, mothers and grandmothers, fathers and to-be-fathers, chanting "Indiaaaaa India." Boys in
sweat-stained singlets were either running around with the Tricolour in their hands, or zooming on bikes screaming
India's glory.

There were cameramen representing various news channels, and their helpers who were trying to get away from the
exploding firecrackers.

In all that hungama (chaos), one poster caught my eye. 'Hara Haara (They lost),' it said. You see, there used to be an
explicit anti-Pakistan aggressiveness in celebrating India's victory. This time, all I saw was this subtle poster. It's dying, I
thought to myself, and perhaps it will vanish entirely one day, this hatred that is ingrained in our hearts.

Rohan Sonalkar, Mumbai

'It happens all the time'

A month after I graduated in 1992, I was to fly out of Mumbai to the US with a cousin; we were joining the same
university.

We were taking an early morning flight and stretched out comfortably on a clean portion of the floor as we waited for the
boarding announcement.

A Caucasian man and his teenage son were also waiting to catch their flight. I was almost asleep when I saw the
teenager walk sleepily into the ladies' washroom. Suddenly, I was wide awake, horrified at the boy's error.

I shook his father awake and told him his son had entered the wrong washroom.

The father smiled sleepily. "It's my daughter," he said. "It happens all the time," he added comfortingly.

Harish Badhe, Hyderabad

I don't walk the streets any more

Walking has my favourite form of exercise even before I came to the US. Recently, though, I began a new job in the Bay
Area. Since then, my daily walk and I have become strangers.

I live in a residential neighbourhood, not too far from San Jose. One day, I returned home early. It was 7 pm and already
dark, but I could not resist the temptation of going for a walk.

I was enjoying the lovely spring evening when a car, with four teenagers, slowed down near me. At first, I thought they
wanted directions. That was before they started throwing things at me. I instinctively protected my face until they
zoomed away.

When my mind began to function again, I quickly returned home and thanked God I was not hurt. Since then, I have
never gone for a walk alone.

This incident continues to haunt me. Every time I step out of the now, I think about people like us who come here for a
better life. And wonder: Wasn't life much better back home in India?

Sharath Bajjuri, San Jose

Bachao!

"You promised to go shopping with us today." The girls, it was clear, were in no mood to compromise.

I conned a pal into joining us before we set out for the Bombay Bazaar. The shop was flooded with saris. While one of
the girls made a beeline for every yard of green-hued material she could see, the other could not make up her mind as
to which grey-coloured sari she'd like to pick up.

My pal began to wish he had bought a carrom board along. Time pass tho ho jaata! Meanwhile, I SMSed 'Bachao!' to
my other friends and prayed someone will be kind enough to rescue us.

Suddenly, a miracle occurred! The girls had finally made their choice. Just as we began entertaining thoughts of
freedom, they said, "Now let's go to that shop."

The agony finally ended at 9:30 pm, but only because the shopkeepers finally downed their shutters.
My mom called me the next day and I shared my sad story with her. "Consider yourself lucky," she smiled. "In a few
years, you'll be shopping with your wife. And you'll have to get used to a new dialogue, 'Ajee sunte ho… paise de do
[Please pay for this]!' Till then, enjoy your training!'

Everyone in the bus was looking at me spitefully, their eyes accusing me of abandoning the child's mother three years
ago after a romp in the hay.

It was 9 am on a Sunday. I was on a bus. I wasn't really awake, thanks to Saturday night's party, at the end of which I
had found myself on the Serangoon Road bus stop at 3 am. I had stumbled into the first bus that came along. Luckily for
me, it was headed straight home. I had also managed to survive the treacherous 17-second walk from the bus-stop to
my apartment without falling down, puking, or getting run over by a speeding cycle.

Waitaminute. What am I doing in a bus again? Oh yeah, I'm going to the gym. Disorientation is a bummer, especially on
Sunday mornings. Why am I going to the gym with such a hangover? The workout will definitely kill the nice buzz in my
head.

As I waited to alight, a Chinese two-year-old, straddling his mother's hip, stared at me with his beady eyes. I flashed my
best 'I'm-hungover-can't-play-eyes-with-you' smile. Then he woke me up.

'Papa!'

All I heard for the next few seconds was the kid giggling with uncontrolled excitement at seeing his father for the first
time. Everyone in the bus was looking at me spitefully, their eyes accusing me of abandoning his mother three years
ago after a romp in the hay. 'You infidel, your sins [and your family] have caught up with you!' they seemed to say.

My hangover vanished. I burst out laughing. The woman turned to look at me, embarrassed. Much to her horror, her son
pointed a finger at me, threw his head back and declared even louder this time, 'Papaaaaaaaaaaaa!' The bus-stop
came to her rescue. I managed to ruffle my supposed son's hair before he was whisked away by my supposed wife.

To be honest, I had been in Singapore for just a year and had never ever met the lady. But she was, I must admit, pretty
cute.

Nishant Goyal, Mumbai

Just for laughs

Driving on highways can be very boring, especially when you are returning after a short holiday. On a recent drive back
from Shirdi, I spotted this signboard:

'Drive carefully. Someone is wetting for you at home.'

We laughed all the way to Mumbai.

Aninda Shome, Mumbai

Waiting but not watching

It was the 'historic' one-day international between India and Pakistan. Sachin Tendulkar waved his wicket goodbye in the
first ball that I watched. The second one I saw had Rahul Dravid jump about in sheer frustration and walk all the way
back to the pavilion. Inzamam-ul Haq hit the third ball I watched for a huge six.

I thought it safer to leave home before my paranoid father locked me up in the bathroom or something. Which is how I
came to be at the Gateway of India with a couple of friends when we heard a roar followed by a general euphoric yell
that confirmed India had won. Everyone was wearing their broadest grin. A band started playing the victory beat.
Later in the evening, we saw a couple of bikers race past us carrying the Tricolour; and the pride on their faces is etched
in my memory. The crowd at a local pub had an impromptu chant going, 'Indiaaa, Indiaaaaa…' clap clap clap… We
joined in. The win had raised everybody's spirit.

As superstitious as it sounds, I shall not watch the final match on Wednesday; I am not risking the happiness of so many
people. Does anyone out there care to sponsor my ticket to Antarctica?

Uma Iyer, Mumbai

Two sacks of junks

The last thing one wants to hear at 4.30 am is a prolonged argument over how much one should be paid for carrying
two huge sacks of junk.

A man alighted from a suburban train at Mahim station with two sacks, each more than seven feet long! At that unearthly
hour, all he could get was one drunken porter to carry his stuff to the junkyard about 200 meters away. For more than 20
minutes, they haggled over the price to be paid for transporting the sacks.

The porter first insisted the sacks were too huge to carry. The passenger lifted one, placed it on his own head, and
proved him wrong.

Then came the porter's fee. The haggling kept getting hotter, with foul language aplenty.

When the porter nearly relented, the passenger refused to let him carry the stuff. He was confident of getting someone
else to do the needful.

Then came the bouncer. The porter said, 'Okay, okay, don't pay me Rs 10! You will anyway end up paying that amount
to the local cop as bribe!'

March 10, 2004 13:26 IST

Our love was just blooming when my boyfriend (now my husband) suggested I buy a cell phone; he didn't want to have
to talk to 10 different people in my office and three different people at home before he finally got to talk to me.

I promptly got one. Just as promptly, I made an agreement with my friend. Whenever I'm on the phone, she has to drive
my two-wheeler otherwise we could end up spending the night wherever I stopped the vehicle.

One evening, the phone rang just as we were stepping out of a fancy store. My friend went to the parking lot to retrieve
my vehicle. I continued sharing sweet nothings with my boyfriend without realising I had actually walked quite a distance
from the store. In my preoccupied state, I sat behind another lady driver and confidently said, "Okay, start." The lady
was shocked; she was sure I was up to no good.

My mouth fell open when I saw someone else dressed in the same colour as my friend on a red two-wheeler similar to
my own.

My friend was shaking with laughter. Later, she shared what had happened with everyone she knew in our small town.
As you might guess, it is a story I have still to live down.

Laxmi Narayanan, Boston

Made in China

This happened last week, just a few days before the festival of Holi.
Shailesh, my husband, was in the market. Besides fruits, vegetables and the other stuff that is usually available in
Indian markets, there were piles of colour, packets of balloons and pichkaris of every hue, shape and size.

Shailesh was particularly impressed with a new kind of pichkari that seemed to have been introduced this year. It was
big and had many outlets through which the water could spray out when the pichkari's handle was depressed.

He stopped at a stall so he could check one out at closer range.

The shopkeeper seemed rather pleased at Shailesh's choice. In order to make sure he closed the sale, he smiled
encouragingly at Shailesh and said, "Excellent stuff, saab. Nothing to worry. Made in China."

Rupali Shailesh Nimkar, Mumbai

Ooo… ooo… ouch!

The pain in his lower back had made Manesh miserable. He was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling like a zombie
when I dropped in to visit.

Alex, from Manesh's office, one of those 'know it all' types who invariably got his own way, was there as well. He was in
his fifties and unimpressed by Manesh's woes. Instead, he began boasting of his prowess in getting rid of aches and
pains. Manesh was impressed and asked Alex to help him too.

So Alex asked Manesh to stand straight and place his hands on his waist. Then, standing with his back to Manesh, he
slipped his hands below his arms and bent, lifting Manesh high over his back and giving his entire body a stretch.

"There, that does it. You should be fine by morning," he said authoritatively.

When I called Manesh the next day, his wife answered the phone. She sounded tearful. "Manesh is in hospital. He has
been put on traction. His back problem has worsened. He has been advised complete bed rest for a week."

I was puzzled, "But he seemed fine yesterday!"

"He was fine," she replied. "But thanks to that friend of his who visited us yesterday, he has now landed in hospital!"

Ivan DeSouza, Dubai

India shining?

My wife's sister Aditi who has settled in Kenya, recently arrived in India with her little son, Harsh. During her stay, she
planned to shave his head for the first time. We Maharashtrians have a small ceremony to celebrate this event. Since
my wife's family is from Aurangabad, it was decided this ceremony would be held there.

My mother-in-law, Aditi and Harsh travelled ahead of us to make the arrangements. We were to travel on the night of
February 21 with my father-in-law. Booking the tickets was a pleasant experience. All I had to do was log on to the site,
book the tickets and make the payment. The tickets were delivered to my doorstep.

My father-in-law was supposed to board the train from Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, formerly Victoria Terminus. We
were to join him at Thane. We took a rickshaw to the bus depot. There was a huge crowd waiting for the bus, so we
decided to take an autorickshaw.

On our way, we got a call from my father-in-law. He asked us not to board the train at Thane! Till then, we were oblivious
about what was happening in the city. It seems the BSP had held a rally in Mumbai. After the rally, its supporters had
gathered at CST and were heading home. Their numbers were huge and they had, in all probability, not bothered to buy
tickets before boarding the reserved compartments.

My father-in-law, who had been through a similar experience before, said there was no point in arguing with these 'party
workers.' The railway police or ticket collectors would not come to our rescue. It would be more sensible to travel by
bus.
We returned to Borivli. Unfortunately, the last bus for Aurangabad had already left. It was important for my wife to be at
the ceremony, since she was Aditi's only sister. We took a train to Dadar, where we finally got on to a rickety bus at
11.30 pm for what would be a horrible journey.

My tired three-year-old son, Rohan, nodded sleepily. I felt like a fool -- though I had reserved seats on the train, we were
travelling uncomfortably in an ancient bus. We talk about India becoming a developed country by 2020. I would love to
know if the politicians who set these targets have also set a target to make India a 'civilized' country as well!

Home > News > Diary

The highlight of a recent technology conference was a 'fashion show' where the CEOs of top IT companies would walk
the ramp. Cocktails and mocktails of every hue were available at the well stocked bar, but whisky on the rocks seemed
the popular poison.

Soon the 'fashion show' started and CEOs dressed as Mahatma Gandhi, Swami Vivekananda and even Lord Shiva and
Parvati started emerging from the shadows onto the stage.

In all this excitement, those looking to pick up a drink were told the bar was shut for 20 minutes. Once the show was
over, thirsty executives were told the reason. "Devi devataiyen aur mahapurush aa rahe the na. Toh unke saamne bar
khula rakhna theek baat nahin hai [It wouldn't have been right to keep the bar open when Gods, goddesses and great
men were on their way]!"
Priya Ganapati, Mumbai
Anklet tales
My daughter had just returned home from school. She seemed very tired. I couldn't really blame her; she had a heavy
schoolbag to lug all the way and back though she was only in the third standard.

My wife, who was helping her remove her shoes, was most upset when she discovered one of Pooja's silver anklets
was missing. She berated her, but Pooja was not particularly bothered.
My wife then informed me that I was going to have to search for the anklet since Pooja's school was in our village itself.
Wanting to escape, or at least reduce the time spent on what seemed like a pretty arduous task, I turned to my
daughter.
"Sweetheart," I asked her with a kindly smile, "where did you lose your anklet?"
She looked at me and smiled sweetly. "Daddy," she said, "if I knew where I had lost my anklet, I would have picked it up
myself and brought it home."
A Ganesh Nadar, Panickanadarkudieruppu, Tamil Nadu
Hand milk?
All of us lay tremendous store by marketing surveys, but an insider's view of how they are conducted will make many of
us blanch.

Over conversation looseners, an acquaintance recently revealed that, in his youth, he would earn pocket money by
working for market research agencies. These agencies offered two kinds of jobs -- data collection and data tabulation.
The payment was Rs 10 a day, not a bad amount 20 years ago.
After hitting the pavements in the summer heat and being put off by families who did not want to share personal
information, our man devised a short cut. He would stand outside a house, get a 'feel for it' as he put it, look at the
nameplate, the vehicles in the compound, try to peer into the window to intuit the number of family members, income
level, etc.
Weeks later, he was actually given the task of tabulating the data he had so 'diligently' collected.
But, he said, it was not all drear for market surveyors. Once, while doing a survey for a milk product company, this friend
ran into a woman who made up for her lack of English with vivid gesticulation. Everything went well, till he asked her
what milk the family used. Gesturing as if she was milking a cow, she said helpfully, "Hand milk?"
Joseph Isa, Mumbai
Playing truant
My aunt, with whom I was staying in Delhi one January, had set me a 9 pm deadline that I thought was preposterous.
One night, I convinced her I would be safe if I dressed up as a young Sardar boy, hooded jacket and all.
The temperature outside was nine degrees Celsius but my cousins and I were least bothered. Two guys were walking
ahead of us, smoking beedis. That was enough to start us off.
"Oye yaar," I asked my cousins in my best Punjabi puttar accent, "tere naal koi cigarette-shigarrete hogee [Hey dude,
got any cigarettes]?"

"Nahi yaar, ghar bhool aaya [Nope, I forgot them at home]," replied one.

"Kya yaar," I said, "thand mein mar jayenge. Woh dekh samnewale ladke kya masti se sutte laga rahe hain [Shucks,
man, we'll die in this cold. Look at those two chaps ahead smoking so happily]."
We laughed uproariously until I realised my feminine giggles could reveal my identity.
We then stopped for some chaat. As I was gulping the golgappas, my hood slipped. It was clear I was no Sardar boy. In
true Delhi tradition, a couple of guys began warbling a Hindi film song to tease me. My brothers stepped in. A glimpse of
their bulging biceps and the wannabe eve-teasers melted into the fog. Literally.

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It began with an innocent brochure about the Corbett National Park. I showed it to a colleague who began leafing
through it with my nine-year-old daughter looking over his shoulder. Soon, both were engrossed -- he in describing the
animals; she in listening to him.

My daughter was fascinated with the brochure and took it to my husband's office later in the day. He suggested she look
up some of the animals it mentioned on the Internet. He opened the Google seach engine for her and returned to his
cabin.
When he returned, my daughter was staring at the screen in horrified shock! She saw her father, turned crimson,
covered the screen with both hands and begged him not to look.
My husband was confused, but left the cabin. When he checked the screen later, he understood the reason for her
strange behaviour.
Instead of Asian elephant, the animal she was interested in, my daughter had keyed in 'Asin Elephent.' Instead of the
pachyderms she was expecting, the search engine had thrown up pornographic images of 'elephent' sized breasts.
Zelda Pande, Mumbai
Woof! Woof!
It happens with unfailing regularity. I get out of my building, turn left, then right, then left again and there he is, waiting for
me.
The moment he spots me, his ears cock and he stands. I try to ignore him, but I hear a faint growl. As long as I am
running in his direction, everything is fine. The second I pass him, he thinks I am fleeing. He tries to chase me down. I,
of course, pick up speed. He is sure I am a thief trying to escape. Since he has designated himself unofficial policeman
of the area, he runs faster too. Finally, I have no choice but to face the problem head on. I stop, turn around, walk
towards him and raise my arm. He tucks his tail between his legs and flees.
By then, the street dogs on the remaining stretch of the road are awake. This entire process is repeated again and
again, every day.
One day, matters got out of hand. A dog nearly feasted on a chunk of my calf muscle. My back was towards him (or was
it her?) so he thought I was running away. I had my earphones on and no idea the dog was barking and running straight
towards me. Thankfully, when you have evaded enough of these vigilantes, you develop a sixth sense. I suddenly
turned and the dog stopped, barely two metres away.
Now I run with a stick in my hand.
Salil Kumar, Mumbai
The moving stairs

They stood there giggling, their heads demurely covered, looking and sounding more like bashful teenagers than the 40
odd year olds they actually were. Then, one of the ladies took a hesitant step forward. But, as her foot touched the
moving escalator, she gave a small shriek and hurriedly stepped back.
They had obviously never used one before. From their conversation, it was clear this their first visit to a Mumbai
shopping mall and they were overwhelmed. The moving stairs, in particular, took their breath away.
Another lady decided to try, but she too couldn't sum up the courage to take the first daring step.
A third lady entered the fray. Hoisting her sari above her ankles to display a thick pair of traditional anklets, she stepped
onto the escalator. And stumbled. The others watched in terror. But she regained her balance and, within seconds, was
on the mall's first floor.
The others watched her victorious climb wide-eyed. But, despite her urgings, they just didn't have the courage to
emulate her. Finally, an impatient woman security guard took each lady firmly by the arm, pushed her onto the escalator
and watched her giggle her way to the top.
S Gayatri, Mumbai
Chugging home
Taking a local train in Mumbai means an inevitable battle with those who prefer to travel standing on the footboard. This
penchant of theirs has nothing to do with how crowded or empty the compartment is.
In their bid to climb in, some people can be very persuasive. Like this man who said: "Andar jao bhai, aage bado. Aage
badoge to hi ladkiyan tumhare peeche aayengi [Go on, get inside. It is only if you go ahead (in life) that women will
pursue you].
Take this scene from another jam-packed local train. A passenger got a call on his cell phone. Miraculously, he even
managed to take the call. From the conversation, it was clear he was talking to his wife. And sounding progressively
irritated by the minute.
No one really paid attention until, at one point, he yelled into the phone. "Nahi, pura khali hai [No, it's totally empty]." He
was obviously referring to the overcrowded train.
"Kal hi mere baap ne kharida tha naa [My father bought it just yesterday]," he continued.
Wifey got the point. End of conversation.

Home > News > Diary

February 23, 2004 17:31 IST

One of our most demanding editors looked up her list and sent me to do a story on young models in Mumbai. After
fixing a time with one of the hot male models in the circuit, I waited for him to show up at a hangout near my home.
The hunk walked in -- loose linen drawstring pants, ultra cool shirt -- got his cup of coffee and put two of his
photographs on the table.
The pictures did not do him justice. He was blonde and long-haired; in the photographs, his hair was short and brown.
"Don't you have new pictures?" came my opening line. No hello, no how are you; I needed the photographs first.
He looked aghast. As if he would pass out on his coffee.
"What?" he asked nervously.
"I want some new pictures," I repeated and took another sip of my coffee.
He came closer, lowered his head and blurted: "Nude pictures? You want nude pictures??"
"No! Not nude pictures, I want RECENT pictures of you," I said, quite horrified. The dude had obviously misheard me.
If not for the coffee, I was ready to pass out.
Archana Masih, Mumbai
Thank God for St Valentine
I fall into the chair and nearly throw my bags on the floor. I've been shopping for two hours and I'm tired. It's a beautiful
day. Joyous laughter fills the air. I look around. Everybody looks happy. After all, it is Valentine's Day.
I am sitting in the food court at the mall. The delicious smell of chicken wafts through the air. My stomach rumbles; it
sounds like thunder. I am sure the family of six enjoying their meal at the next table can hear it. They look so content
that I almost envy them.
My stomach rumbles again and I turn my attention to the Japanese restaurant. I am almost tempted to try the free
samples being offered. Standing in the long queue of customers waiting to place their order is a tall and well-built young
man. He is dark-skinned, has lovely almond shaped eyes and a perfect nose.
As he picks up the tray and turns around, he catches my stare and winks. My heart skips a beat as he places the tray
on my table and kisses my cheek. I give him a weak smile and start attacking the food but not before I silently thank St
Valentine. This is the first time in eight years that my husband has come shopping with me.
Megana Hemanth, Tempe, Arizona

The tangerine-coloured dress

It was an uncomfortably hot day and the only thing on my mind was a salary hike as I negotiated the roads of Chennai
on my way to work.
At the signal, a beautiful girl stopped her car next to my motorbike. She was wearing a well-fitted tangerine-coloured
dress. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
Suddenly, she turned and looked at me. Our eyes locked. At that moment, all I wanted was her phone number. Maybe I
could give her my e-mail address and my Yahoo chat id and my chat handle and...
The light turned green. She raced ahead and I was left gasping in the middle of the road. I tried to catch up with her only
to be flagged down for speeding. As a result, I was late for office by more than an hour. To add to my misery, my boss
was already in his seat, beckoning at me.
I dashed to his cabin and heard him yelling at someone over his mobile phone. Then he said, "Meet our new colleague,
she is joining our team." A sweet voice behind me said hello.
I turned around see a beautiful girl in tangerine-coloured dress smiling at me. "Haven't we met before?" she asked after
a pause. "Aren't you the guy in the black bike with a twisted handle bar and a message over your helmet, 'All men are
from Mars...'"
Vijay Durai, Chennai
Can you run?
It all started as a challenge. 'Can you run?' I asked myself. That set the tone for the journey. I decided to do the Dream
Run -- all of seven kilometres -- at the Mumbai marathon.
I had only six days to practise. During those six days, I ran every morning. Sometimes, I ran in the evenings as well. My
calves protested. As did my ankles and feet. My back kept telling me I had bitten off more than I could chew.
But I had already told everyone I was running. I could not back out now. I kept practising.
D-Day arrived. I reached the venue a good hour before the race began. The atmosphere was something else -- the
festivity, the smiles, the cheering -- as people of all shapes, sizes, ages and backgrounds crowded each other for space.
A big group of my colleagues and friends were running. They were as unsure as I was about being able to complete the
marathon, but were just as determined to give it a shot.
One hour, two minutes, 22 seconds later, I had done it. I had finished the Dream Run. More important, the thought of
giving up had not crossed my mind at any point.
The ad for the marathon had read, '7 km. 21 km. 42 km. How long a story will you tell your grandchildren?' My story
lasted seven kilometres. Long after Mumbai would have seen many marathons, I will tell my grandchildren I participated
in the first one. And I finished it.

Home > News > Diary

March 12, 2004 09:42 IST

Consider being saddled with a name like that!

I was, and I am a south Indian Malayali man.
My parents lived in the UAE. Since the medical facilities there were not too good in the seventies, my mother returned
home for her delivery. When it was time for my naming ceremony, dad sent mom a letter, 'Call him Goldie.'
My poor mother was appalled, but there was nothing much she could do in the matter. Even her tears did not win the
day. My paternal grandfather insisted his son's diktat be followed and I was christened Goldie.
I spent the first 12 years of my life in the UAE and they were fairly peaceful. When I returned to India, however, you can
imagine the flood of teasing I unknowingly walked into. Miserably, I asked my father why he wanted to subject me to so
much torture. He tried to explain how rare and unique the name Goldie was, but I was just not convinced.
The following incident was the final straw. I was making a sales call on a client at his home. After getting his order and
completing my work, I was about to leave when my client suddenly shouts, "Goldie, sit!"
I was stunned. How did he know my name when my visiting card just read Govind Haridas?
"Goldie, SIT!" came the command again.
I instinctively sat on the sofa next to the door. It was only then I realised my client was talking to his dog. With a
sheepish grin, I raced out of the place. God, I really wanted to strangle my father!
Recently, I changed my name. I don't want my son to someday ask me, "Papa, why is your name Goldie?"
Govind Haridas, Chennai
A ride to remember
At least one story about each family member becomes part of the family lore. My brother has a particularly amusing one
to
his credit.
This incident took place in 1979, when he was in the first grade.
Apparently, he came home one day and told mom his school had taken his class on a short airplane ride. Obviously, no
one believed him but mom and my uncle start asking questions just to humour him.
Looking at the confidence with which he was answering them, my uncle actually began taking him seriously.
My brother described his ride. He said the airhostesses gave them chocolates at the beginning of the journey, that
everything looked very small from above -- people looked like ants and buildings looked like toys.
My brother had never been on a plane before. His answers were so realistic that my parents and my uncle decided he
wasn't lying.
Now, they wanted to know more about his experience.
"Was the plane bigger than a bus?"
"Yes."
"Was it bigger than a train?"
"Yes Amma, it was soooooo big and huge!"
My uncle asked him, "Did all your friends and classmates come along with you?"
"Yes mama, everyone came. But since the plane was small and we were so many, some of them couldn't get a seat and
had to stand throughout the journey!"
Chinmayi Bhavanishankar, USA
Kandivili to Kalbadevi
It's 9.15 am. I yank my dupatta diagonally and clench the strap of my handbag tightly. I keep my other hand free. In
short, it's the 'ready-for-the-local-train' drill. Barely seconds later, I am inside; pushing and jostling to get some leg-
space.
I wasn't always this fast, though.
When I first came to Mumbai, I couldn't tell one station from another. I used to stick to my friends for fear of getting lost.
One day, the dreaded moment arrived. None of my friends were free and I had to visit another suburb for some personal
work. I braced myself, bought a ticket and soon was standing on the platform.
Seeing the train arrive from a distance reminded me of my college days when seeing the examiner approach with the
exam papers would cause a thousand butterflies to perform Bharata Natyam in my poor stomach. The train came. And
went.
I was left on the platform, gaping. This is what happened -- while everyone else was pushing and jostling, I had been
politely waiting my 'turn.' Only after one or two experiences did I realise that politeness and getting into the train do not
go hand in hand.
The next lesson I learnt was how not to lose your handbag in 10 seconds. If you don't clutch your handbag tightly while
climbing in, you'll soon find it journeying without you. More, though, on another day.
Mamta Murthy, Mumbai
The circus is back!
There's a brand new circus troupe in town. This one goes by the name of Empire Circus. People are flocking to see
elephants ride mini-bicycles backward, clowns ride horses and trapeze artistes contort their bodies every which way.
But the times have changed. When I went to the circus, a regular ticket would cost Rs 2.50. The most expensive ticket
then cost Rs 20. Today, the red-lettered ticket window reads: Rs 25, Rs 50, Rs 75, Rs 100. Expensive!
Meanwhile, I'm stuck in traffic. Normally, it just takes me 10 minutes to get home from work. Now, I'm been stuck mid-
highway, for 15. And I'm nowhere near home yet.
"Arre, circus choot gaya na madam. Aaj kal circus ka bhoot chal raha hai. Kya karenge log cinema dekh ke? Yeh
picture-victure se sab log thak gaye hain. Abhi circus mein mazaa hai [The circus show has just ended. These days,
everyone's flocking to see it. Everyone's bored of watching films]."

Home > News > Diary

Just as Vaikom Mohammad Basheer's grandfather had an elephant, my great uncle -- on my father's side, twice
removed -- had a dog. It was a German Shepherd, or as the Mallus like to call it, an Alsatian -- a status symbol. When
dog and man went for evening walks in that railway colony in Tamil Nadu, the neighbours nodded in approval.

When the summer vacations arrived, Great Uncle packed his family off to Kerala. But his son would not budge without
the dog. So Caesar went along.

Those were the days of the steam locomotive and the old gent used his pelf to great advantage. He secured a place for
Caesar in the luggage van. It was a special privilege for, at every stop, the grumpy mutt would be checked on, watered
and, at specific stops, fed. All paid for.

Morning broke and the swaying green paddies of Kerala loomed into view. The soot-stained brigade got off at Palakkad.
Great Uncle's son was eager to rub noses with the dog.

His enthusiasm turned to horror when the attendant opened the cage. In place of the shaggy, calf-sized Alsatian was a
mangy, snappy mongrel. At a watering stop in the middle of the night, the attendant had opened the cage to water the
dog. Caesar, seizing his chance, had bounded away into the night. When the train whistled twice and got ready to leave,
the attendant panicked and picked up the first dog he saw on the platform.
Somewhere in the Tamil Nadu hinterland that day, an Alsatian roamed free.
 Bijoy Venugopal, Mumbai
A passion for homework
"Did you know the 'B' division's teacher gave her class 14 questions on the lesson? Our class had only four. It's just not
fair," cribbed Deepa.
Both of us have a child studying in Class II, division C of a reputed Mumbai school. Deepa discovered this injustice after
the second term examinations and indignantly pointed out that our kids were at a competitive disadvantage. One of the
questions asked in the recent test was among those the other section had practised in their class. The teacher who
taught our kids had, according to her, erred.
Had the teacher really committed a mistake by not burdening her class of seven year olds with as much written work? I
think not. Children are usually taught to learn an answer by rote. But, by not having a preview to the question, they were
encouraged to compose an answer. Children like to try new things. The novelty of a different question appeals to all of
us. I believe the students in my child's class were really at an advantage. They had not been forced into the 'memorise
and vomit' syndrome. They were encouraged to think and write.
Are children handicapped by an aggressive parent whose competitive streak discourages creativity at the altar of
marks? Or is it the education system that focuses on exams and grades more than learning? The debate is endless.
Yesterday, I found Deepa sitting on the school steps copying down all the homework from a 'B' section student!
Arti Swaroop, Mumbai
Vroom! Vroom!
Do you remember your first day learning how to drive a two-wheeler?
Mine was about two years ago. I was planning to apply for a driving license for four-wheelers and two-wheelers in three
months time.
I enrolled myself in a driving school to learn how to drive a car. My lessons went well except for the fact that I could
never remember there was something called the 'brake' that was used to stop the car.
Meanwhile, my father had taken the onus of teaching me to ride the scooter. It was not easy, particularly since I had
never even ridden a bicycle. Besides, I would wonder with irritating periodicity why my scooter had no reverse gear;
after all, cars had one.
Finally, I was able to drive the scooter on a large ground. Trying to drive on the road, though, was a nightmare.
Whenever I saw a truck in the rear view mirror, I felt a giant was trying to catch hold of me. I used to stop each time and
let the giant pass before I resumed my ride.
It's taken me two years to drive the scooter with confidence. But I still hope someone will consider making one with a
reverse gear.
Fathima Sagar, Coimbatore
The travails of Time
I happened to glance at my watch as I entered the office one Monday morning. I stopped in shock. It was just 9 am. For
once, I was on time! I signed the attendance register with a flourish and happily wished the security guy a good
morning. He looked at his watch seriously and replied, "Good afternoon, sir."
My watch had played a scurvy trick on me; it had stayed put at 9 am without letting me know.
I slunk quietly towards my desk and reset my watch according the time shown on my computer. I was deep in work
when my phone rang. It was a pal, asking me if I wanted to join him for lunch. I glanced at my watch. Lunch at 11!? "It's
1 o'clock," my pal brought me down to earth with a thud. My watch had played yet another trick on me.
When it comes to leaving the office every evening, I am the model of punctuality -- I step out at 5.45 pm sharp. As I was
walking along the road, a guy looked at my watch and asked, "What is the time?"
I looked at him, embarrassed, and replied, "I don't know."
He stared at me. You didn't have to be a mind-reader to know what he was thinking.
As soon as he was out of sight, I kept my watch in my pocket. A little while later, a guy smoking a beedi began to ask,
"Time..." Then he looked at my wrist. No watch. He stared at the way I was dressed. He looked at my wrist again. You
don't have to be a mind-reader...
I immediately walked into the nearest Titan showroom and got the battery changed on my watch. When I walked the
streets again, I was ready for any Chennai-ite, beedi smoking or otherwise, who wanted to know the time. But no one
seemed interested any more.

Home > News > Diary

March 16, 2004 12:10 IST

Any stray kitten or puppy is an object of adoration for my daughter and she often brings one home. While she feeds it,
her eyes sparkle, her face glows with joy. Only after hours of cajoling does she part with it, eyes brimming with tears.
That's how we met Daler Mehndi for the first time.
One evening she picked up a mangy kitten that was making doleful sounds. Reedy of frame, it had an odd black-and-
ochre colour scheme and its fur existed in splotches. It resembled a tattered doll. But, once fed, the little thing started
bounding around, exploring things. This circus went on for a while. We decided not let it out into the cold darkness.
One night led to another and another and another. We just couldn't rob our little girl of her joy. The kitten stayed.
We named him Daler Mehndi. Because of his cute antics -- and his name -- he became quite famous in the
neighbourhood and brought much delight to my daughter.
But some joys are short-lived. One day Daler Mehndi just went away.
A month or so after coming into our lives, he fell ill. We took him to the vet, who gave him a shot and some pill that was
to be mixed with the kitten's milk. We did as told and force-fed the kitty. Daler didn't like it one bit. He thrashed about the
house making funny noises and then simply staged a walkout. No forwarding address, not even a goodbye.
My daughter still looks out him. As do her friends and the neighbours.
By the way, we named him Daler Mehndi because he had this typical way of rubbing himself against your leg. It went
'Rub, rub, rub …'
Shishir Bhate, Mumbai
Mottai thatha
My daughter, Pavitra, is two years old.

Every evening, after I returned home from work, I would sit with her and we'd go through her word and picture books.
Pavitra took to these sessions like a fish to water. In no time, she knew all the pictures and words in her books.
I was beginning to run out of new words to teach her through books, so I took to showing her things in our surroundings
like trees, leaves, cars, men, women, girls, boys, etc. We had great fun identifying these new words.
What I did not realise was that, along the way, I was teaching her way too much about bald people as well.
One day, my husband's close friend paid us a visit. He was nearly bald, though he did have a fringe of grey hair. Much
to our embarrassment, Pavitra promptly christened him 'Mottai (bald) thatha (grandfather).'
Uma Ramesh, Bangalore
Once bitten…
A few days ago, my husband and I were returning home after spending the weekend with my in-laws in Panvel near
Mumbai. We were driving on the Mankhurd highway when a pedestrian suddenly shouted something at us. We could
not understand what he was saying, so we continued homewards.

As we slowed down for a red light, another pedestrian shouted at us. That got us worried. We pulled over. As we tried to
understand what was wrong, a man came over and said he had seen sparks flying off the car's bonnet. Now, we were
really worried. For starters, the place we had stopped at was alien to us. There were no buildings or shops nearby, just
oil factories. At 8 pm on a Sunday evening, it was virtually deserted except for the speeding cars on the highway.
The guy said he was a mechanic. He opened the car's bonnet and showed us the faulty part in the engine. Miraculously,
he had a replacement in his pocket. He said it would cost us Rs 2,000, which he swore was the retail price. We felt
cornered, but didn't have too much of a choice. We paid him.
The next day, our fears were realised. We had been conned. There was nothing wrong with our car's engine. And the
replacement for the 'faulty' gadget cost only Rs 300.
Cut to the present. The scene changes to the Western Express highway. The time is 1 pm. My husband is driving home
when, again, two pedestrians shout to get his attention. He pulls over. A third person tells him the car's bonnet was
giving out sparks...
Ronjita Kulkarni, Mumbai
Tourist friendly Pokhra

A couple of years ago, three of us had gone to Nepal. Another friend joined us in Kathmandu. But the capital of Nepal
turned out to be a tame affair. We were told Pokhra was the place to be.

Turned out, they were right.

One night, two of my friends were reluctant to wind up after drinks and dinner. They checked out the bars and discos till
they downed their shutters. The disappointed duo bought some alcohol for the journey back to the hotel, then found
they had run out of cigarettes.

It was around 2.30 am. No shops were open. Alcohol had temporarily dulled their ability to reason so they were
determined to find some cigarettes. To their misfortune, they were stopped by a couple of cops. They were reeking of
liquor and were sure the cops would advise them to return to the hotel immediately.

My friends came clean. And events took a totally unexpected turn.

The cops walked up to a closed shop and banged the door. When the owner made his sleepy appearance, the cops
identified themselves and insisted the tourists be given the best brand of cigarettes. My friends, who were by now totally
bewildered, paid up and thanked the cops and the shop owner before making their merry way home.

Home > News > Diary

Very reluctantly, I had to part with my favourite red BMW coupe. I still have my silver Jaguar though. But, then, it is a
different feeling owning two cars.
So what if they are remote-controlled, run on rechargeable batteries, are at least 100 times smaller than the real thing
and I am on the right side of 30? What does age have to do with toy cars anyway?
Being in a pressure cooker work environment does crazy things to your mind and you do crazier things to de-stress
yourself. I bought the two cars at precisely such a moment.
My wife, who plays my conscience keeper, convinced me to give one to my two-year-old niece.
Just then, a little man with horns whispered into my ear. "It is such fun owning two cars," he said, eyes glinting. "You can
pit one against the other and race to your heart's content. When you are angry, you can bang both."
One week extended into two, which extended into a month. Then, my niece landed up at home. After dilly-dallying for
almost an hour, I was forced to vroom my cars out of their hiding places. Gleefully, she picked up the red one.
The little man with horns reappeared. "Tell her you will give it to her tomorrow," he whispered. Just then my niece turned
around with the most angelic, dimpled smile I have ever seen and said, "Thank you."
Sharing does have its joys.
R Swaminathan, Mumbai
'Feel my grip'

He was over 80 years old. He had never been hefty, but now he simply disappeared under the sheets. Once a strong-
willed, masterful man, he was now cadaverously thin, toothless, partly blind, barely conscious and hovered on the edge
of senility.
My father knelt by his bed, "Hello uncle."
In a rare moment of lucidity, my grandfather managed to focus. "Aaah... Who is it?"
"It's me, Sudhir."
"Sudhir... how are you?"
"I am fine."
"How is your wife?"
"She is fine. How are you?"
"I am fine... see?" He struggled to pull his hand from under the bedcovers and angled it in the arm-wrestling stance.
"Feel my grip."
"Eh?"
"Feel my grip. See how strong it is."
It was mom's turn. She was flabbergasted when my grandfather extended his hand; it was the first time he had done so
in the 36 years she had been his daughter-in-law. They shook hands. My grandfather's hand closed over hers in a
strong grip, startling her tremendously.
"Feel my grip."
When it was my turn, he asked about my health and when I was getting married. Then, he offered his hand.
"Feel my grip."
His hand was old and shrunken, but his grasp was amazingly strong. He seemed to be using it to hold on to life.
A few days later, we got a call. My grandfather had passed away. Time had won after all.
Ketan Joshi, Mumbai
A religion called cricket
The light from the screen cast an eerie glow in the otherwise dark room. Now and then, the silence of the night was
pierced
by a shout of joy or a cry of anguish. The smiles on our faces waxed or waned depending on the changing numbers
before us.
No, we weren't a bunch of weirdos in the middle of some crazy ritual; we were a microcosm among the millions of
fanatics of a religion called cricket and, at two in the night, we were watching its God in action. Sachin Tendulkar was
back in form in the last Test against the Australians.
To tell the truth, we weren't even 'watching' the match. Sitting in a land where cricket is still the insect in the garden -- we
could not afford a Dish network -- we were following the live scores and commentary on the Internet.
Am I crazy? Maybe. Maybe not.
With a dad who woke me in the middle of the night to ensure I didn't miss Sachin annihilating the South Africans and
cousins who wouldn't let me get up because they believed India scored more runs when I was sitting, it is no wonder I
will give up sleep to see Anil Kumble spin out the Australians.
Cricket to me symbolises our eternal optimism despite repeated failures, our passion to win despite the laidback
national attitude, the ability to break the invisible walls dividing society and, more than anything, a great diversion from
our mundane, problem-ridden lives.
Go India, I will always root for you.
Deepa Sundararajan, Chicago
A masterful con job

I hate taking out the car on holidays. When I tell you I live in Mumbai, I'm sure you'll understand why.
Two Sundays ago, however, I agreed to drive my family to meet my in-laws. The traffic, even by regular Mumbai
standards, was terrible. After intermittent crawls, interspersed with long pauses, it was nearly our turn at the signal.
There were just four or five vehicles before me, so I was sure I would get through.
Just as the light turned green, a pedestrian came between my car and the truck ahead. Then, he acted like he was
stuck. My nerves were already frayed battling the traffic. I yelled at him. He yelled back. Impatient drivers honked
around us. I gave up and decided to move on.
It was nearing 9 pm and we still had an hour's drive ahead of us. I asked my wife to call her parents and let them know
we were on our way. That's when we realised the mobile phone, which I had kept on the dashboard, was missing. We
promptly parked the car and subjected it to a thorough, if fruitless, search.
I remembered the argument at the signal. It had been a masterful con job -- one man distracted the passengers while
the other stole whatever valuables he could.

Home > News > Diary

My husband Sandeep is the paranoid kind. In fact, one of his favourite reads is Only The Paranoid Survive by Andrew
S Grove.
Sandeep is paranoid about his work, about his tennis classes in the morning, about the fact that he does not have
enough time to read these days, about how much and what he eats, about the maid not coming to work regularly…
What he is most paranoid about, however, his latest passion -- his brand new car.
We work in the same office. Once we reach work, Sandeep parks his car in front of the main gate so he can keep a
watch on it from our office's large windows. He then covers the car gently, securely tying in stray corners, before we
finally make it to the first floor where we work.
Every half hour, you will spot Sandeep at the window, checking if the car's cover is still secure, checking out the people
standing near the car, checking to see if, horror of horrors, someone has managed to scratch the paint… He'll even
make frequent trips downstairs to make sure his baby is comfortable and safe.
I don't mind all that. What I do mind is Sandeep making me do all this as well. Every hour or so, he'll ask me to go and
check if the car is safe. Then, he'll get paranoid about the fact that I have to cross the road to do so.
Yesterday, a strong breeze decided to play with the car's cover. Before the watchman could warn Sandeep that his car
was exposed to the elements, someone had managed to scratch its gleaming paint.
Sandeep now stands at the window at 15 minute intervals and goes downstairs every half an hour for a closer look at
his precious car.
Devyani Chandwadkar, Mumbai
A flighty imagination

Our exams were on and we were sure we would be asked to write an essay on a football match in our Hindi literature
paper. All of us prepared religiously for the essay.
Much to our shock, we were instead asked to write an essay on our first journey in an aeroplane. No one even
attempted to answer that question. We were from rural India and none of us ever travelled by plane. In fact, we had only
watched an occasional airplane winging its way across the sky.
After the paper, the entire discussion centred around this unexpected question.
Amaresh, however, looked quite pleased with himself.
Why are you so happy, we asked him, did you manage to answer all the questions?
"Yes," he replied happily.
We were stunned.
Amaresh explained, "I began describing my first journey from Patna to Delhi. I said we had just taken off from Patna
when the pilot announced they were facing technical problems and had to land in a nearby field. A football match was
taking place there. Then I described the match. By the time the match was over, the technician had fixed the technical
problems and we took off for Delhi on my first air trip."
Amazing presence of mind, that!
Avijit Kumar, Bishnugarh, Hazaribagh
An email opener

In our home, we have placed a little tray near the door where letters that come by courier are deposited; more mail
comes by courier than through the postman these days.
My elder daughter, who is nine, has started a stamp collection. But its growth, thanks to the courier business, is
depressingly sluggish. My four year old has never seen an inland postcard and has only once or twice seen a postcard
or an inland letter. For both my daughters, mail means e-mail.
The other day, my younger child was sitting on my desk sorting through the pens and pencils and she fished out a letter
opener. She looked at it with some reverence and told me, " Mama, I am going to use this to open my e-mails."
Zelda Pande, Mumbai
Monday morning blues

It was a normal Monday morning... at least, as normal as Monday mornings can possibly be. I got out of the house in
time to catch the lift before it halted on every floor other than ours. I was determined to make it to work on time.
Just then, the electricity decided to play hookey. And I found myself stuck between the seventh and the sixth floor. Both
the liftman and the housekeeping man turned to look at me with a you-are-a-woman-so-why-aren't-you-panicking-yet
look.
I hate disappointing people, so I grimaced a little, looked at my watch and muttered, "I'm going to miss my train." I guess
that was not panicky enough; they seemed rather disappointed.
I was armed with a novel and a bottle of water, so I settled into a corner and prepared to while away the hours. The
liftman punched a number of buttons while the housekeeper banged the door and tried various other ways to get it
open. Though this didn't get them anywhere, it did keep them occupied.

A while later, the door finally opened. We had to jump a foot to the floor below before we went our separate ways.

We had been stuck in the lift for seven whole minutes; just enough for me to miss my regular train and the one after that
as well.

Mondays are bad. Plain. Normal. Bad.

Long hair is for girls, dude

January 17, 2005

It wasn't my fault; I was paid to do it. Grow my hair way below my shoulders, that is. Paid to grow it long so I could wear
make-up, don a pair of silver-tinted glasses and gyrate on stage for the amusement of little children (a whole other
story). The rest of Mumbai, however, seemed to think it was incredibly funny.

First came the stares. From all quarters. At bus-stops. On the street. At department stores. From men, women,
schoolchildren, cleaning maids, municipal workers, some of my aunts, pretty women, ugly men, men who thought
they were funny, boys on motorbikes, and a whole lot of others. They simply had to stare.

The bold ones would comment: 'Kidhar chal rahi hai?', 'Aati hai kya?', 'Hai hai' (all roughly translated into: I'm barely
literate. I was born desperate. Would you go out with me? Would you? Would you?) They assumed I was female
because, let's face it, when you have a 21-inch waist and hair that almost reaches down to it (I did), most people
under the sun would assume you weren't exactly Sylvester Stallone [Images] in a wig.

When they did turn to look, my excuse for a French beard would catch them off guard ('Saala, aadmi hai'). It took me a
while, but I managed to get thick-skinned enough to ignore it. The groping in trains was another thing; that took me
months to handle.
I remember once stepping out of a swimming pool, where I was, well, swimming, with a female cousin. Me: slim, tall,
with long, straight black hair. She: short, fat, with hair cropped close to her forehead. Most men sitting around
almost fell into the pool that morning. The thought of a topless woman walking around 5 feet away from them was
too much to handle. When they finally figured I was male (no breasts, idiot), the disappointment was acute. Again,
that morning, an aunt I had never met thought I was my uncle's daughter, assuming my cousin was my father's son.
Sigh.

It was a confusing time. I knew I was male, of course, but here I was, for six years, with access to what a woman on the
streets of Mumbai felt. I came away more than a little scarred by the experience. I couldn't understand how, for
every waking day of their lives, women of all ages could walk down the street, get to work, go shopping and get
back home, all while being at the mercy of the kind of men that stared, leered, sneered or groped me.

I came away with a tremendous sense of respect for the kind of strength it takes to live your life in the face of such
blatant hostility (sexual advances can, after all, take on overtones of hostility in an environment of overwhelming
repression). I also came away with a lot of anger, at the people who assumed it was their god-given right to behave
the way they did.

I remember chanting every morning, at school, with thousands across the country, the national pledge: ' India is my
country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters of brothers...' Remember?

I'd like to have most of the brothers of my sisters castrated.

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

Home > News > Diary

Sooraj Ratnakumar | October 07, 2004 08:27 IST

Do you ever realize that you never take the initiative to write to me?" emailed my second cousin. It was only then that I
came to grips with the reality of this modern convenience called email.
In the days of yore – that is, less than 10 years ago – we used to write letters. I can remember my grandmother writing
letters to her sister. She used to sit and write laboriously in Tamil because she wrote only on rare occasions and her
control over the involuntary jerks of her hand was not perfect. She used to write long letters filled with affection and
emotion, and ended by loudly proclaiming her lingering doubts of whether the hour's labour would be proportionately
rewarded by the unreliable postal system. It never failed to amuse me to watch her write so passionately, and like all
grandsons I used to tease her.
On one of those occasions, annoyed by my teasing, my grandmother considered it appropriate to enlighten me of the
more illiterate ways of living, which to this day are prevalent in rural places. She narrated the tale of a friend who was
not as fortunate as her to have enjoyed schooling, which, then, used to be a luxury for girls. Her friend, according to her,
would visit her not very often. But when she did visit, my grandmother knew that she had come for a letter to be written.
They both would sit and gossip, and invariably she would ask Grandma if she could spare a few moments to write to her
eldest brother who was on his death-bed, or her once-a-neighbour who had been blessed with a new grand-daughter.
Two generations. Indeed it is a gap too big to bridge considering all the technological advancements that have been
transformed from luxuries to necessities in life. Yet, it is not uncommon to see in Bollywood movies a mother asking the
postman with unabashed enthusiasm to read the letter that her long-lost doctor-son has written from the city. No, I am
not writing this to address the issue of illiteracy, which is far more serious than the topic at hand, and is being attended
to in haste and in indifference by supposedly responsible organizations.
If my opening sentence did not make it clear, I proclaim now, I am writing this to make you write to your second cousin
who thinks you don't think of her unless her email knocks at your inbox.
The past generation used to – and still does – take a lot of effort to write letters or make their friends write for them, and
to read or make postmen read for them. Why, many a youth would agree that they get excited when they see their
fathers handing over covers saying, "Beta, you've got a letter." I also have many a friend sitting before the computer
moaning, "Nobody writes to me these days."
Why then do we not show the same enthusiasm in taking the initiative to write? I will leave that question for you to think
over and analyze, for lack of time is not a satisfactory answer.
Anyway, times have changed. Now the keyboard replaces the pen, and email has made letters redundant. Still, has the
situation changed?
Last week, when we struck upon the topic of emails, my friend confessed that he only replies and never once writes
afresh. I nodded. I truly understood and empathized with him for I had developed that habit too. If email had died
between the two of us, the only other decent means of communication would be the telephone. But then on the phone
you have no control over the length and content of the discussion, leave alone the propriety in terms of time, location,
and actions of your friend.
Even now I am baffled by the speed, accuracy, and efficiency of the email, not to mention the disuse of sticky and
relatively expensive stamps. No more leaky pens, no more blotches on paper, no more licking covers, no more
accumulating stamps, no more walking to the post office in the rain. Just the click of a button and you can rest assured
that your message has gone to the right person unless you get an instantaneous reply from the daemon. What more
can you ask for, other than voicemail, which already exists!
Such comfort and luxury. But to what end? There are still many like me who are lazy to the bone. Of late, my laziness
had gone to the extent of just reading emails and even procrastinating writing replies. But one day I resolved. I resolved
to at least reply to the emails as and when I read them. And I have kept up my resolution. That is, unless some
overenthusiastic friend replies to my replies with such haste that it is annoying to keep writing to the same person over
and over again on the same day.
One day I should also resolve to start 'composing' emails instead of merely 'replying'.
Consider the number of emails in your inbox and the number of persons who have emailed you. Pick your top ten
buddies from them. Remember that all of these friends would treasure a short personal email that originates from you in
a way incomparable to a 'thanks-for-reminding-me-of-you' reply. Now, would you wait for the next email from them so
that you can press the 'reply' button and write? Or would you rather press the 'compose' button right now and start
typing away?

Home > News > Diary

August 02, 2004 13:55 IST

I was returning to the US after a month-long vacation in India. Since my visa had expired and I was on 'parole,' I was
asked to wait in a 'secondary' customs room for further examination of my papers.
I found a seat next to a good-looking woman who seemed to be in her late thirties.
After a while, a Virgin Atlantic customer service agent walked in and, in a strong British accent, announced, "Are there
any Virgins in this room?" What he obviously meant was, 'Are there any Virgin Atlantic passengers in this room?"
For a moment, though, everyone was taken aback.
Except for the lady sitting next to me. She nonchalantly raised her hand.
It was only when she heard the chuckles around her that she realised something was amiss. She went red with
embarrassment but still managed a smile.
Thyagarajan Vasudevan, Mountain View, California
Karan Johar's double take

My two-year-old niece dotes on me, her athya (aunt).

She also likes humming along with the songs playing on television. Mahi ve from Kal Ho Naa Ho is a particular
favourite. Every time it plays, she joins in at the top of her voice.
But since we speak Marathi at home and she hasn't really been exposed to Hindi, she doesn't get some of the words
right. So when the lyrics go Soni, soni, aaja mahi ve, she coolly croons along, "Soni, Soni, athya majhi re [Athya belongs
to me]."
Needless to say, I'm thrilled and shamelessly prompt her to sing her favourite song on all social occasions.
Swapna Pikale, Mumbai
Spice-wise in America

Each year, hundreds of Indian students come to the United States for higher studies. Very recently, I happened to go to
the airport to receive one of them.
As his plane was three hours late, and he had not eaten, we stopped at a gas station for a snack. He decided on Dorito
chips.

On the way, we had told this guy a few things about American food and culture. Taking a cue from that, he opted for
'extra spicy' nacho chips. He took his first bite... and almost trashed the entire packet. Clearly, the chips were not spicy
enough.
He will realise, over time, that America hypes 'spice'. In reality, everything is bland here.
Vivek Raut, Atlanta
The history of Hisar

My friend Ram and I were in a nostalgic mood. We were missing India and our respective hometowns in the hustle and
bustle of Tokyo.

He had much to tell me about his city, Thiruvananthapuram. I come to a small town called Hisar in Haryana. After
stumbling over a few paltry details, I decided it was time to find out more about its history.
So I plugged in my laptop and searched for Hisar through the Google search engine. To my delight, a variety of links
popped up. I clicked on one offering a travel guide to Hisar, which I thought would have a lot of information about my
small quiet town.
I began reading the information out to my friend. He seemed most interested until, suddenly, he got up to look at the
laptop's screen and gave a shout of laughter.
I was most offended, especially since he could not seem to stop laughing.
After a while, I took another look at the piece on Roman architecture, etc, I was reading out to him. And discovered that,
while I was indeed reading about Hisar, this particular one happened to be somewhere in Bulgaria!
Vibhor Singh, Japan
Illustrations: Dominic Xavier

Home > News > Diary

June 11, 2004 12:42 IST

It was my favourite place in the whole college. In fact, it would be fair to say I spent more time in the canteen than in the
classroom.
We usually occupied the corner seat, which gave us a 'bird's eye view', particularly of every girl who entered the place.
Which was not to say we had the courage to strike up a conversation.
Until the day SHE walked in. I thought she was gorgeous and wanted to take a closer look. I walked around her table a
couple of time and was thrilled when she finally looked into my eyes and smiled.
Then, she called me over.
This was definitely my lucky day.
"A plate of idli please," she told me sweetly, before continuing her conversation with her friends.
My world shattered. Trying to keep my composure, I passed on her order to a waiter before returning to my friends.
Now that I think about it, she wasn't all that beautiful! And no, it's not a case of sour grapes!
Amritraj Thankurz, UK
My daughter, my mom

My daughter Anarghya -- we call her Anagi -- is just two years old.

We had recently joined my husband in Japan and would feel bored once he left for work. So, sometimes, we'd play a
game where we reversed roles -- she would become my mom and I would become her daughter.
As her 'daughter', I'd ask many questions. As my 'mom', she'd reply.
One day, while we were playing this game, I asked her what she would do if her 'daughter' became restless or kept
crying. Would she shout at me? Would she hit me?
No, she said, she would cajole me out of my bad mood.
I was stunned at this unexpected answer; as an adult, I still couldn't think from her perspective.
I have no doubt now that my daughter is my 'mom'.
Jayanthi Udupa, Bangalore
Papa is no more

I lost my father recently. His death came a shock, particularly since he was perfectly healthy.
My mother would wail, "The Gods became jealous of our happy existence." What she says may sound illogical, but I am
beginning to believe it is true. I have never come across a couple like my parents. They understood and grew with each
other.
Despite our occasional spat, he was a good father. My friends thought so too. I still cannot come to terms with his death
-- after all, I spent just 31 years with him. My mother only got to share 34 years of his life.
Sometimes, I feel Papa was not ready to go; if he was, he would not have had tears in eyes during his final moments.
I get this dream about him. We are travelling by train. The tracks are flooded because of heavy rain and the passengers
are asked to get down. We drag our heavy luggage off the train.
This strenuous activity gives Papa a pain in his chest. He had a similar pain when he had to cremate our grandmother.
We panic and pray he is not having another heart attack.
Papa comforts us saying it is only gastric pain.
At which point, I wake up sweating. I heave a sigh of relief -- it was only a dream. But the pain is real. Papa is no more.
Nainthara Vallattuthundathil, Chennai
The art of ragging

This happened during the beginning of my second year in college.

It was our turn to subject the freshers to something we had faced in our first year -- ragging.
Our only hurdle -- the college had just banned it. In fact, if a bunch of seniors were found in public with a group of
juniors, they would immediately be punished.
As a result, we were forced to limit our 'interaction' with our juniors to the hostel and, believe me, we did not miss a
single opportunity.
Once, I stormed into the room of a junior only to find her missing. Instead, a bunch of girls were sitting there, chattering
merrily. Her classmates, I presumed, as I haughtily demanded, "Where's Soumya?"
Silence.
After a while, one of them responded indifferently, "We don't know."
"Don't you know you are talking to a senior?" I raged. "Don't you know respect? You know what we seniors can do, don't
you?"
My angry outburst was greeted by amusement. "Do you know who we are?" one of the girls asked in turn.
"Priyamvada's classmates", she continued. "Now who do you think should learn the basics of the art of respect?"

Blushing, I apologised profusely and left the place in a hurry.

Priyamvada was the hostel head and the girls with whom I had tried to act smart were her (day scholar) classmates
who, for some reason, had collected in my junior's room. I still die of embarrassment when I think of how they must have
laughed while narrating the incident to Priyamvada.
Gita Ganapati, Pune
Illustrations: Uttam Ghosh

The Singapore prime minister, who earns more than the American President has set a precedent by taking a salary cut.