Mind Blogs 1.0

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MIND BLOGS 1.0

Three Bangalore writers go offtrack and find themselves
CHRISTINA DANIELS
NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN & ZAHID H JAVALI
MIND BLOGS 1.0
Three Bangalore writers go offtrack
and find themselves
Christina Daniels
Nirmala Govindarajan
& Zahid H Javali
NON-FICTION
Published by Write Wing Media
294, 15th B Main, 19th Cross, Sector 3
HSR Layout, Bangalore 560 102
www.writewing.in
Copyright ©
Christina Daniels, Nirmala Govindarajan
Zahid H Javali
All rights reserved
MIND BLOGS 1.0

ISBN 978-81-910903-1-4
Designed by
Print 2 Last Solutions
Printed at
Brilliant Printers Pvt. Ltd.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without the prior permission
of the copyright owners.
Zahid H Javali
For Abbajaan and Ammijaan who mean the world to me
Christina Daniels
For Manoj who has always told me to follow my heart
Remembering Jeeves & Jaya Paati, Dad
Paatima & Thathappa
For Mom, Pupul and Peter Colaco
4 Mind Blogs 1.0
MIND BLOGS 1.0
Christina Daniels
& Zahid H Javali
Mind Blogs 1.0 5
PROBLOG
Sights & Sounds

BY PREM KOSHY
O VER THE past 60
Pic: Vivek Mathew

years, the walls of
Koshy’s have listened to
millions of stories
narrated to one another
— from great-great
grandfathers to great-
great grandsons. They
have encompassed all
religious, social, national,
ethnic boundaries and
backgrounds. Many a
book on different
subjects has been born at Koshy’s. But, this is a special
book of brilliant stories, wri=en by the angels who
visit here. It’s a sharing of their life’s experiences for
all of us.
Christina pens li=le anecdotes of memories and
relationships with teachers, friends, family and the
state of infrastructure in our country. This reminds
us that we need to be in harmony with our fellow
6 Mind Blogs 1.0
beings and yet stay connected with our inner being.

We need to be internally referenced, she says, and not
just externally, as modern life would demand.
Zahid… the bakra, the before-after-man, evokes
the adventure, the mystery, the excitement that
surrounds our daily lives. I’m sure many a girl in red
he spo=ed at Koshy’s must have triggered his flights
of fantasy, or reality, to keep the reader guessing, and
turning the pages faster than they usually would!
Nimmi’s (Nirmala) eloquence and poignant
simplicity bring out those tiny things that make life so
interesting — a journey on her scooter, her
relationship with her grandpa, the people she meets
on the train, the li=le girl next door, the deity she
brings home and other gems that want to be read,
over and again.
And time to turn to our next page, as in…
surprise, and a cute story to go with every cup of
coffee!
The author is a theatre person, environmentalist, musician,

yoga master & restaurateur
Mind Blogs 1.0 7
What ’S INSIDe???
To Be A Writer by CHRISTINA DANIELS ............................................9
Seeking Eye Balls by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ........................12
Guest Blog by MANJARI RANASARIA ................................................15
The Girl In Red by ZAHID H JAVALI ..................................................17
A Lot Happens Over Coffee by ZAHID H JAVALI ............................20
Wrung By Bollywood by ZAHID H JAVALI ......................................23
My Reality Show by ZAHID H JAVALI ..............................................26
Who Is The Celebrity? by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ................31
Working Child by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ............................34
Discovering A New Deity by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ........37
Smi=en By A Ki=en by ZAHID H JAVALI ..........................................40
Interview Blues by CHRISTINA DANIELS ........................................43
Executive Moments by CHRISTINA DANIELS ................................48
What I’ve Learned by ZAHID H JAVALI ............................................51
The Before-After Man by ZAHID H JAVALI ......................................54
The Tigress Of Panchgani by CHRISTINA DANIELS........................57
How To Heal Your Life by ZAHID H JAVALI ....................................62
Which Colour Do You Choose? by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN 65
Buying A Groom by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ........................67
Here Come The Impressionists by ZAHID H JAVALI ......................70
The Amalgamation by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..................................74
The Small Wonder by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ......................75
Luv Ya Guys by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ................................78
Mum Is 60 by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..................................................82
Every Woman by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..........................................85
Escapades On L5598 by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ..................89
A Swimmingly Good Time by ZAHID H JAVALI ............................92
The Story With A Hole by ZAHID H JAVALI ....................................95
Whose Fault Is It Anyway? by CHRISTINA DANIELS ....................97
Insiders All Out. Outsiders In? by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN 99
8 Mind Blogs 1.0
A City Brought To Her Knees by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..............103

Give Me Heaven by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ......................106
City Of Dreams by CHRISTINA DANIELS ......................................108
Sunshine In The City by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ................109
The Love Calculator by ZAHID H JAVALI ........................................111
Meeting Shah Rukh Khan by ZAHID H JAVALI ..............................113
Discovering Serendipity by ZAHID H JAVALI ................................117
Tolerance by CHRISTINA DANIELS ................................................120
Suspicion by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ....................................122
So, Help Me God by CHRISTINA DANIELS ....................................124
Of Riot And Camaraderie by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ......128
Saffronisation Of Indian Television by ZAHID H JAVALI ............130
Sir Mark Tully by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ..........................133
If It Weren’t For Horns, Life Wouldn’t Be Worth It
by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ......................................................137
This Is No Irish Joke by ZAHID H JAVALI ........................................140
Nu=y Trouble In The Backyard
Smoke, And Life Goes Up In Flames
Being Alone by CHRISTINA DANIELS ............................................151
Memories, Time And Distance by CHRISTINA DANIELS ............153
Love by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..........................................................155
Bangalore’s Very Own Shahjahan by ZAHID H JAVALI ................156
Earlobe Watching by ZAHID H JAVALI ............................................159
Seeing Red On Valentine’s by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ......162
I Suppose I Don’t... by NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN ..................165
Mirror-Man’s Epiblog by MANOHAR PRABHU ..............................166
Now It Can Be Told by PETER COLACO..............................................168
Write Your Own Mind Blog ..................................................................171
Mind Blogs 1.0 9
to Be a Writer
BY CHRISTINA DANIELS
S OMETIMES, IT is a privilege and a curse to

be a writer.
You work for hours, days, months, years —
sculpting, sculpting. You delve deep into your spirit
— not always to find experiences, but definitely to
draw out and then draw for an audience the laughter
and the pain of life.
While doing this, you need to pay a=ention to
your choice of expression. The a=empt is to use often
quoted, worn out words in novel ways.
And of course, the tale must not be too short or
too long.
10 Mind Blogs 1.0
So the writer sets out on one endeavour after

another. Again and again and again.
But, will the writer be successful? Well, who is to
say?
And yet, the writer crafts a tale. It is the need of
an idea to express itself. Success — if it comes — is
purely incidental.
Mind Blogs 1.0 11
rough
e Looking Glass
An excerpt from Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Luckily for Alice, the li=le magic bo=le had

now had its full effect, and she grew no larger: still
it was very uncomfortable, and, as there seemed
to be no sort of chance of her ever ge=ing out of
the room again, no wonder she felt unhappy.
‘It was much pleasanter at home,’ thought poor
Alice, ‘when one wasn’t always growing larger
and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and
rabbits. I almost wish I hadn’t gone down that
rabbit-hole — and yet — and yet — it’s rather
curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder
what can have happened to me! When I used to
read fairy-tales, I fancied that kind of thing never
happened, and now here I am in the middle of
one! There ought to be a book wri=en about me,
that there ought! And when I grow up, I’ll write
one - but I’m grown up now,’ she added in a
sorrowful tone; ‘at least there’s no room to grow
up any more here.’
‘But then,’ thought Alice, ‘shall I never get any
older than I am now? That’ll be a comfort, one way
— never to be an old woman — but then — always
to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn’t like that!’
12 Mind Blogs 1.0
Seeking eye Balls…

BY NIRMALA GOVINDARAJAN
A
“
N D Y O U are Eye Balls,” purred li=le
Ashvin, eyes wide, unblinking and very clear that
this was the appropriate title for his aunt. Laughter
sliced the morning air in the master bedroom at
home, now alive with the intelligent banter of two
boys — one four and the other seven.
“My Kutlu Twinkle Eyes,” I crooned to Ashvin,
before the four-year-old mastermind christened me
Eye Balls in return. Cousin Priya left home to visit her
in-laws with my two nephews Rishi and Ashvin, late
Monday morning. As I rode behind the not-so-smoky
Mind Blogs 1.0 13
trail of the brand new Ikon that transported them, I

turned heavenwards to thank the almighty for five
big blessings… all showered upon me over one
weekend!
Whoever conjured the saying that it never rains
but pours, must’ve had quite a few experiences of
god’s raining magic wand.
Such magic was implicit in Samara’s sunshine
smile on Saturday evening. She shot this most
welcome smile for her mother’s best friend from class
3… a million dollar flash of ten or twelve teeth — just
for me! Then, the li=le angel ran into my arms for a
few more than three seconds before sprinting off to
the jungle gym by the pool.
Samara had, after a long wait, just met her mama’s
mischievous friend, Brenda later told me. Barely
recovering from the warmth that only a six-year-old
as innocent as Samara can shower upon a stranger, I
hugged Brenda before turning around to see who
had u=ered a gentle hello. Brenda’s eight-year-old
Bianca grinned ever so shyly, dazzling the evening
air with a soothing flicker of her eyelids. We greeted
each other just like we were old friends of class 3.
While Bianca got busy with her watermelon juice,
Brenda and I got on the time machine ride back to
1985 when the third dimension of our triumvirate,
Margie walked in. As I turned to greet her, my eyes
caught a li=le brown head bobbing from behind my
friend of 25 years. All of three, Margie’s son Joshua
made himself comfortable on the plastic moulded
chair, before gaining the air of Einstein to tell me
how, the structure by the blue billboard was a
14 Mind Blogs 1.0
transformer. Alright, I said, what does it do? “It keeps

the switches on,” he droned! Six eye balls rolled —
Margie’s, Brenda’s and mine.
As a tribute to all the fantasies these li=le
magicians are set to take us through, lets get the
eyeballs rolling. As Stuthi, friend Catherine’s four-
year-old niece with the IQ of a 400-year-old saint once
said: “But Nimmi aunty, it’s said in the project (I
guess she was alluding to the Bible) that everybody
must sare (share) everything with everyone!”
Mind Blogs 1.0 15
horns that create sound

Bukkehorn
Natural t)
h orn rumen horn
Horn section Train
e
t
(ins
on
orn
h
H Horn (acoustic
ap
)
eg
Alto horn
m
Swedish cowhorn
or
Air hor
orn lo
n,
Blowing horn H udspeaker
or
llh
r
Bu
ofa
n
Sh ghorn Veh Dungchen Alphorn
Fo icle
horn
GUEST BLOG
horn, Not OK, Please!

BY MANJARI RANASARIA
I S T R I V E to be a happy driver, which is

difficult in Bangalore traffic. But, I mostly succeed. I
generally have a smile, a nod of understanding or
thumbs up for fellow drivers depending on the
situation. But I just cannot tolerate people who honk
unnecessarily and incessantly.
So I have come up with some bumper stickers,
which I plan to print and stick on my car.
16 Mind Blogs 1.0
For those who think that

excessive honking will make
me jump signals, change
lanes or violate traffic rules.
For those who think

honking will make cars
develop wings and fly over
30 other cars to clear the
signal as soon as it turns
green.
For those who think

honking is a musical form.
The author is a blogger and works with an MNC.

Mind Blogs 1.0 17
Uma Thurman’s Stalker

Sentenced to 3 Years’ Probation
and Treatment
The New York Times, June 3, 2008 years’ probation for stalking the
at 1654 hrs IST actress Uma Thurman. He was
ordered to undergo psychiatric
NEW YORK: Jack Jordan, once treatment. The sentence greatly
a promising youth who became relieved Mr. Jordan, who had
a drifter and has been diagnosed told the judge that he was
with mental illnesses, was “terrified of being incarcerated
sentenced on Monday to three again.”
e Girl In Red
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
I HAVE always been a sucker for all things red.

In school, it used to be that red tiffin box my
classmate opened every afternoon to find a pastry
inside. I wonder why his mother chose pastry over
low-calorie food for lunch.
But that’s besides the point.
In college, it was that red top the girl at the next
desk in class wore. Why she chose to wear red every
Saturday was beyond me.
That’s besides the point.
Out of college and in the job market, it was that
red Ferrari driven by the guy next door. That the car
18 Mind Blogs 1.0
belonged to his father is besides the point.

Today was no different. It was red that drew my
a=ention again. That it was a red Esteem is besides
the point. It was the label stuck behind the car that
begged for an encore. “Women are more rational
than men. And you are behind one of them,” it said.
I was won over.
But first, a confession: If it’s not all things red that
fascinate me, its a=itude. And this one swept me with
its rational tide, creating yet another urge: To get to
know the woman behind the wisdom on the bumper
sticker.
I stepped on the gas to catch a glimpse of her.
I imagined her to be dressed in a sheer red top and
skin-tight black jeans the colour of her eyes (black,
because I can’t imagine red eyes). I imagined her to be
a beauty I would fall drop dead in love with, even
before I lowered my eyes.
My eyes met. It was with the cop’s. He had
flagged me down because I had jumped the signal in
the hope of catching up with the ‘girl in red’.
“Going to an emergency press conference,” I
thrust my press card under his nose.
“Sorry, sir?” the cop said apologetically and let me
go.
But the damage was done. The Esteem had sped
away and was nowhere in sight.
Death is a great leveller. So is traffic.
No ma=er how fast you navigate the roads, you
are bound to get stuck at one of the traffic junctions.
Some theory that, but it worked for me all the time.
Whenever a rowdy rider crossed the speed limit and
Mind Blogs 1.0 19
left me far behind, I would wonder why he was in

such a hurry to meet that ‘someone up there’, only to
find the rider stranded right here on Mother Earth at
the next traffic signal.
I thought the same ‘levelling’ virtue could work
for me again. Maybe, just maybe, she would get stuck
at one of the traffic signals, and I would meet her eye
to eye.
The signal glowed red. I stopped. The Esteem was
nowhere in sight. In front was an autorickshaw
whose bumper sticker proclaimed: “My boss is a
Jewish carpenter.” Before I got the connection, the
auto spu=ered to life, leaving behind a cloud of
carbon dioxide and a coughing, cursing me.
I spo=ed a red Esteem at the next signal.
But my chase was far from over. The bumper
sticker squealed: “Marriage is slow poison.”
Just when I was thanking my ‘single-ready-to-
mingle’ status, I caught a glimpse of yet another red
Esteem.
It was finally The One. The ‘rational’ label stuck
behind endorsed it.
I managed to sidle up to the car… only to find my
imagination losing altitude and landing with a
t…h…u…d.
In the driver’s seat was a man.
20 Mind Blogs 1.0
a Lot happens Over Coffee

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
T H E R E A R E no names in this story. The

characters in it are a kurta-clad reporter, a very
beautiful model in spaghe=i straps and low rise jeans.
And, not to forget, a waiter. There is a small chorus of
friends who spend some time talking at the next
table, and stand up as the reporter and the girl in
spaghe=i straps walk past them to occupy the chairs
at the far end of a cafe on Cunningham Road.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, the reporter and
the girl stand and wait for the waiter. He arrived.
Late. “Some cafe mocha, please,” said the girl, her
Mind Blogs 1.0 21
cleavage in ample evidence. “She is beautiful, after

all,” thought the reporter. He had been sent on so
many assignments in which beautiful girls figured,
and so few of them had turned out to be beautiful. If
they were efficient in one aspect, they were deficient
in another.
“I am from The Star,” the reporter commenced.
He had a very strong feeling that if he stopped
talking for a moment, the girl might lose interest,
quickly.
“So, why do you think Bangalore is truly one of
the best cities to live in?” asked the reporter.
“For one, it’s easy to find a job and do business
here,” the girl offered immediately. She was a top-
notch interior designer earning enough per month to
keep her going for six more.
“Did you know that Bangalore has been rated the
sixth best city to live in by a news magazine?” the
reporter continued.
“No, I hardly have the time to read. I am either
working or travelling and sometimes doing both,”
she replied.
The reporter went on. “Well, according to the
survey of 55 cities in India, Bangalore ranked second
in jobs and health, and third in weather and safety.”
“I agree with it completely. I love Bangalore for
all these reasons. They’ve figured it out all right,” she
said.
“I’m sorry to have done all the talking,” said the
reporter, sipping on fresh lime soda. “Or rather
pu=ing words into your mouth.”
The girl smiled and left. Looking at her fading
22 Mind Blogs 1.0
silhoue=e, the waiter whispered to the reporter, “She

is hot, isn’t she?”
The reporter had thought she was beautiful. But
didn’t she know what she was doing when she got
into those spaghe=i straps and low rise jeans. His
eyes were ba=ling gravity all this while to stay on
course. And he was successful, much of the time. But
he was not proud of it.
Mind Blogs 1.0 23
Wrung By Bollywood
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
What happens to a nice Bangalore lad (it was not

Bengaluru yet) at a talent show in Bombay (it was not
Mumbai yet)? He is picked on by the Bombay TV
chaps who are only out to get him. The underlying
message: whatever you do on stage, make sure you
pepper your performance with generous doses of
Bollywood or else, no one has the patience.
The judges wait like hungry vultures waiting to
swoop down on the kill. Boom. The hammer thwacks
the bigger-than-life-sized gong – and your show is
over. I’m talking about the watered down version of
24 Mind Blogs 1.0
‘The Gong Show’ on American television that

appeared on India’s Sony TV back in the 90s.
Welcome to the world of censorship – Bollywood
ishtyle.
I had unsuspectingly gone to the sweaty studios
of Bombay to recite poetry. One of the organisers at
the studios came up to me and confided: “Make it
funny if you want to stay in the show.” I suddenly
realised that it was no genteel poetry reading – it was
a free-for-all performer bashing experience. The
judges doing the honours included advertising
professional Piyush Pandey and actresses Mandira
Bedi and Mahima Chaudhury.
The first participant, a li=le girl, confidently
stepped out on stage and began a Hindustani
classical piece. She barely got through the first alaap,
before one of the judges banged the gong and the
li=le girl cried her way off stage.
The next participant was lucky. He delivered a
touching rendition of Jab dil hi toot gaya. The judges
unanimously approved his imitation of the famous
Sehgal’s quivering voice. And he was in the safe zone.
Then came a ventriloquist. He threw his voice left,
right and centre. The audience gasped, waved and
clapped. But he couldn’t sustain the judges’ interest.
And he went back to his hometown – Obscurity.
He was followed by an Amitabh impersonator.
The judges loved him. But the next wasn’t that lucky.
He had come all prepared to sing. But the organisers
had too many singers. He could do something else or
whistle, they suggested. So he did. He whistled a
tune from an old Hindi song and got to the last note.
Mind Blogs 1.0 25
Then came a smart chap who knew what it meant

to curry favour with the judges. It was an impromptu
skit about love-at-first-sight. And he cleverly picked
one of the judges (Mahima) as his love interest. The
trick worked. She even forgot her job for the moment.
And no one stopped her.
Then came my turn. I had come prepared to recite
a poem on Indian politics. Taking a deep breath, I
took centrestage. When the crowd saw my sky-blue
safari suit, they gasped – then whistled approvingly.
I knew what I had to do. So I drew inspiration from
above. No, not that far. A li=le closer to earth. I
invoked the most infamous screen villain, Amrish
Puri. And delivered my poem – as he would.
The audience and judges sat glued to their seats.
Mercifully.
The show finally ended and the results were in.
The Amitabh-clone came in second and the Sehgal-
clone topped. Well, what did you expect?
Somebody asked me what was the best part of the
whole experience. My answer was immediate: “My
trip back to Bangalore, of course!”
26 Mind Blogs 1.0
Elesh wins Rakhi Sawant’s hand

in TV ‘Swayamwar’
PTI, 2 August 2009 at 1115 hrs IST her life partner. Parujanwala
was among the top three
NEW DELHI: India’s finalists who waited anxiously
controversial item girl Rakhi to be 30-year-old Rakhi’s
Sawant on Sunday night chose suitor. After many ups and
NRI businessman from downs, Elesh was the winner.
Canada, Elesh Parujanwala, as
My Reality Show
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
T H E T I M E was 3.40 pm. It was a Thursday,

that day of the week when we fell over ourselves to
send our weekly tabloid to the printing press.
And my cellphone rang. It was a call for help.
“I am right outside your office. The front tyres of
my car are wobbly. Could you help?” my friend
pleaded.
I obliged, asked my colleague for a phone number
that could come handy if there was a car breakdown.
The sun was peeping from behind a cloud, and I
sauntered out to meet my friend on Resthouse
Mind Blogs 1.0 27
Crescent Road.
Wearing a white top and faded blue jeans, she was
looking purrfect. But then, the problem was not with
her — it was with the car.
“The tyres are wobbly. Can you do something
with the toolkit?” she pleaded.
“I am a stranger to cars, but there might be
someone who can,” I told her, and went back to the
office to bring along a colleague’s driver to play the
good Samaritan.
By then, the sun had done his vanishing act and it
began to drizzle. I fished out my green, waterproof
cap and got out of the office to find her holding an
umbrella.
The driver got to work immediately: He inspected
the rear wheels, tightened the bolts and took the car
on a test drive.
“It’s perfect, no problem,” he declared.
And then, it happened.
“I need to go to Manipal Hospital. My mother is
waiting for me and she doesn’t have a cellphone. So,
I can’t inform her. And I can’t drive this car. I am out
of breath, Zahid… is there a chemist nearby? I am
asthmatic, and it gets worse when I panic,” she
explained.
She took me by surprise. For a second, I
speculated whether she was pulling a fast one. And
then, she cut in, “Zahid, I am seriously out of breath.
I might collapse any time. Please hold me.”
I did so and asked her to sit inside her car.
“No, I can’t. I am claustrophobic. I have to be
outside,” she said.
28 Mind Blogs 1.0
I asked her to sit on the footpath instead, but she

walked back and forth and didn’t stop worrying.
“I can’t. I am just not feeling right. Bring me an
inhaler… and just in case I fall unconscious,
remember Zahid, it’s only Electrol or Glucose for me.
And don’t go anywhere Zahid… I really don’t know
what to do,” she whined.
I held her.
“My hands are going numb, rub them Zahid,” she
continued.
I did. But that didn’t help either. She was back at
her breathless best. The driver went inside the office
to fetch an inhaler from someone. In under a minute,
he was back with a glass of water, with my colleague
close behind, armed with pills and the inhaler.
I handed her the glass. But she was as frantic as
ever. Just then, her phone rang. She picked it up
almost instantly, as if she had been waiting for the
call.
“No Papaji, my friend is here, you don’t need to
come rushing. If something happens, he’s there for
me,” she explained.
My colleague asked her to take the pill, and
played the perfect counsellor. “I am asthmatic and I
know what it feels like during panic a=acks,” he said,
adding, “Stop ge=ing panicky and you will feel good.
Now take this pill.”
She said she couldn’t, because she was allergic
to it.
“What are you allergic to?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, and got more panicky. The
cellphone rang again.
Mind Blogs 1.0 29
“Don’t worry, we have your uncle’s number. Does

he know your medical history?” my colleague asked.
My friend got even more panicky.
“Don’t worry, we have vehicles and people on
standby, so there’s no need to panic... just calm
down,” my colleague continued calming her.
Her cellphone rang again.
My colleague picked up the phone this time. The
phone went dead.
She broke into laughter.
A gang of youngsters surrounded us.
“You are on camera,” she told us, and pointed to
the SUV ahead. The door shu=er opened and we
spo=ed a camera right in front of us. One of the crew
members asked us to say ‘cheese’. Another member
came from behind, and planted a cap on my head. It
said, MTV Bakra.
PS: Not sure, if reality shows are so great if you are the
bakra!
30 Mind Blogs 1.0
a Midsummer Night’s Dream

An excerpt from the popular Shakespearean play
ACT II - SCENE I. A wood near Athens.
Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and PUCK
Fairy
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
And bootless make the breathless housewife
churn...
PUCK
Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon and make him smile
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab,
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob
And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and
laugh...
Mind Blogs 1.0 31
Who Is e Celebrity?
P A R T I A L A M N E S I A , selective perception,
state of fugue… can’t quite place a finger on the
problem. But I first realised there was trouble when I
was twelve.
On a bright Sunday afternoon, friend S, all of nine
and I ten, strolled through the Jayanagar shopping
complex. We ra=led on until a Maruti 800, driven by
a familiar face wearing a friendly smile spu=ered to
life. “Hey that’s Anand Nag ya… actually no, I think
it’s Shankar Nag ya… no, Ananth Nag ya,” I ra=led
on, with S nodding her head vehemently back and
32 Mind Blogs 1.0
forth. Suddenly, the friendly smile with a handsome

head shot out of the window and grinned, “Shankar
Nag ya and this is my wife Arundhati.”
Delighted, we skipped home and told all that we
had met Shankar Nag. As the years passed, I was to
be at nose distance from stars. That too, at the
commonest places.
As I trudged home one misty December morn,
juggling three packs of Wills Gold Flakes like an inept
circus artist, off flew one packet and landed beside a
neat pair of white keds. I grabbed the pack and
quickly glanced up at a dignified, charismatic face. I
smiled a guilty smile even as the now familiar face
broke into an ‘I know’ kind of grin. As I trudged
along, it suddenly dawned that the face belonged to
actor/writer Girish Karnad. I couldn’t stop cursing
myself for being caught with three packs of Wills at
the tender age of 15. It really didn’t ma=er that the
cigs were for dad.
But to me, Romeo (Romy) ma=ered. I stood at my
neighbour’s gate and flirted with their brown-
skinned Dachshund. As I stroked Romy’s brown
head, a well-groomed man hovered over me. Since
we were ‘ages’ apart, I continued to flirt with my
canine pal. The man smiled at me. I smiled back. He
looked familiar… perhaps a face from my past life, I
thought. Or, maybe not.... The quandary lasted until
a passer-by rushed up to him and thrust a piece of
paper yelling “autograph sir”. Peering over his
shoulder, I read the words “Best of Luck,
Vishnuvardhan” forming a neat pa=ern on the paper.
“Oh gosh! So you are my friend’s star uncle,” I cried.
Mind Blogs 1.0 33
And I cried out again at the passport office. Si=ing

with friend D, waiting to have her ECNR stamped, I
suddenly saw a mirror image of a distant cousin. As
I ranted on about the resemblance, the entire hall fell
silent. “You idiot, it’s Anil Kumble,” clarified D.
Well, there was more to come. More recently, in
my avatar as a scribe I was all set to talk to members
of the Indian cricket team. And who should I shrug
off as a bunch of handsome dudes?
Saurav Ganguly, Salil Ankola, Mohammad Kaif,
Zaheer Khan… And of course, my assignment
remained undone!
34 Mind Blogs 1.0
Infosys suspends staffer for

torturing child
Times of India, 9 January 2010 Chakraborty till police
at 0251 hrs IST investigation against him is
completed. He is accused of
BANGALORE: Infosys torturing 15-year-old Lakshmi
walked the talk on ethics and who worked as a domestic help
integrity on Friday when it in his HSR Layout apartment.
suspended its employee Pallab
Working Child
T WA S close to the end of a working day.

I
Weary shoppers slowly filtered out of the shopping
complex. Shopkeepers held the shu=ers half open,
hoping for some last-minute customers. A tight
slapping sound, followed by a torrent of harsh words
invaded the placid atmosphere.
I instantly turned to face a pe=y shop owner. He
held the collar of an eight-year-old and let his rough
hands come bearing down on the child’s face, once
again. “Yake hoditha iddira? (Why are you hi=ing
him?),” I enquired. “Kelsa madalla avanu, yello
Mind Blogs 1.0 35
nodkondu ata jasthi agide (He is distracted and

playful.),” the shop owner replied.
I looked around for support. Some people got on
with their jobs; others looked on from a distance. “Ee
magu nimmage yenu aga beku? (What is your
relationship with this child?),” I asked. “Illi kelsa
madthane (He works here),” he replied.
Still a=empting to hold my temper, I informed the
shopkeeper that it was against the law to employ
children and harass them.
“Shut up,” he yelled.
“I could lodge a complaint against you,” I yelled
back.
A traffic policeman lurked in the background. I
explained the case to him. The policeman justified the
shopkeeper’s behaviour saying that these children
land up from small towns. “They are poor and these
shopkeepers help out by employing them,” he said.
The cop also felt that it didn’t ma=er if they got a
thrashing or two.
The discussion was pointless. Deciding to think
about the situation calmly, I returned home. I have
a=empted to help street children in the past. There
are many remedies to the problem of child labour,
but the loopholes are innumerable. One such instance
was when a boy in a parking lot, wide-eyed and
earnest, clamoured to clean my bike so he could get
paid for it. I bought him food instead and talked to
him about his home, education and family. I had
heard about non-government organisations that
would take on children, educate and empower them
to become professionals. On my part, I could
36 Mind Blogs 1.0
contribute money and time. I needed to speak to the

boy’s family and we agreed to meet at the same
parking lot the following day. When I did go back,
there was no sign of the boy.
Almost every darshini in Bangalore employs child
labourers. My friends and I were at a darshini having
chaat the other day. I placed an empty glass on the
table; a li=le boy whisked it away to clean it. Another
boy wiped the footprints.
“How old are these children?” I asked the
manager. “They are all over 15. We give them place to
stay, clean uniforms and food,” replied the manager
in one breath. I could vouch that none of these
children were a day older than 12. A few children
were able to confirm the fact. “If you are so concerned
about the children, why don’t you send them to
school at least during the day,” I asked the manager.
“They are not interested, madam,” he replied.
Should one blame the manager who thinks he’s
helping these children? Is the disciplinarian
shopkeeper to be blamed? Or, should one blame the
children who often contribute money to large
families? Is there something I can do to prevent
financially empowered children from developing a
distaste towards education?
For a start, I have stopped visiting shops, darshinis
and other establishments that employ child labour.
Mind Blogs 1.0 37
Yeddyurappa visits TN temples

for rain in Karnataka
DNA, June 22, 2009 at 2305 hrs IST more rains in Karnataka. On
Monday he visited the Sun
CHENNAI: Karnataka Temple at Tirunallar, 300 km
chief minister BS Yeddyurappa from here, and prayed to Lord
is propitiating gods in Tamil Saneesvara. From there, he
Nadu for better ties between the proceeded to the Nataraja
two states. He is praying for temple in Chidambaram.
Discovering a New Deity

T H E C O N C E P T of Kula Devatha or family

god is ancient. Most of my religious relatives are
quite unaware of the origins of this concept. Amma
has an interesting theory though: “People living in
various towns and villages adopted the local temple
god as their Kula Devatha,” she revealed. Fair
enough, I thought and got around to creating a new,
unique Kula Devatha.
The origin of my Kula Devatha dates back to
Sunday, January 27, 2000. I sat on my thinking chair
at home, pondering over the idea. In fact, the seed of
38 Mind Blogs 1.0
the idea was a scene with a Kula Devatha in a Tamil

movie that Paati (grandma) was watching a few days
earlier. In front of me sat one of my favourite
terraco=a collections, a black elephant from
Madanapalli. I’d been contemplating the idea of
adding a touch of colour to it for months now. So, out
came my painter’s kit, gold and orange Fevycryl,
paintbrushes and a pallet. Cut glasses and Fevicol
complemented the collection to enhance it with a
royal touch.
Two hours later, a bedecked, royal, resplendent
elephant stood before me. Heavenly and divine are
the other two adjectives that led me to believe I had
created the would-be Kula Devatha.
Now came the difficult part. I needed to get on
with convincing everybody that the Kula Devatha of
the 21st century had arrived. Here I was, painter
doubling up as marketing guru. Dad was my first
target. After much cajoling, he bowed before the lord
(by this time named Jumbo by eight-year-old
Ranjini), mainly to get rid of me and retire for the
night. With the first devotee to Jumbo’s credit, my
confidence rose considerably.
Superstitious grandma was the next to bow. By
this time, I thought Jumbo began to look more
powerful. This aspect, coupled with final exams
brought in a few tenth and twelfth standard student
devotees from the neighbourhood. Of course, their
faith was purely conditional. Cousin Sindhu rushed
up every morning to fall at Jumbo’s feet before
writing her pre-final papers. “But Sindhu, is it
working for you,” I asked. “Yes ya, except for the first
Mind Blogs 1.0 39
paper, I didn’t pray that day,” she conceded.

Sindhu’s extraordinary performance invited another
devotee, her classmate Sagarika. In case Sagarika
couldn’t bow to Jumbo personally in the mornings,
Sindhu prayed on her behalf. So, with Sindhu and
Sagarika advertising the product, the next to visit
Jumbo was Shivangi. The result: Shivangi was really
happy with her performance in the ICSE exams. And
of course, now there’s Ranjini who promises to pray
to Jumbo when her final exams are on.
Jumbo requires his share of devotees. So, along
the way, I have taken the liberty of extending the
concept of Kula Devatha from family god to
neighbourhood god. As far as devotees are
concerned, there is no dearth of them as long as
humans have desires. Philosophical as I might sound,
experimental as my experience might be, this is
probably how devotees have evolved through the
ages.
40 Mind Blogs 1.0
Smitten By a Kitten
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
IT HAPPENED one night. The way dreams do.

A cute li=le ki=en was tiptoeing behind us when we
were on one of our walks. Her innocent and cherubic
face got us smi=en, and she landed in our household.
Establishing an entente cordiale with the ki=en was
easy. And she came to be called Minnu.
When anyone came to our door, she would peer
from under the curtain with a look of curiosity. If it
was a stranger, she would dart beneath the sofa. If
not, she would come rushing to one of us. Similarly,
during Diwali, loud firecrackers kept her indoors. On
Mind Blogs 1.0 41
a day when there was good sunshine, she would go

to the balcony and indulge, seemingly without
respite, in licking herself clean. Watching her engage
in the cleanliness act repeatedly never tired us.
At times she would walk up to us with a horse-
like gait, hop on to our laps, make herself
comfortable, roll her body over, and take a nap. If we
happened to disturb her by lifting her head or
shifting our position, she would jump on to the sofa
and continue her sleep.
What was most remarkable was her toilet
discipline. In the beginning, she used to urinate all
over. So we decided to impart some toilet training.
As soon as she started scraping the floor, one of us
would dash off with her to the bathroom. After a few
days, Minnu went to the toilet of her own accord and
did it with aplomb. This endeared her to us even
more.
When it came to eating, especially non-vegetarian
food, Minnu would appear on the scene from
nowhere. She did not seem to bother about the kind
of food we served. Her taste was thankfully wide-
ranging from godi mudde (with vegetable oil), rice
(plus milk), roti, chocolate and ice cream to mixture.
When father came home late from work, Minnu
would go up to him, put his toe in her mouth and nip
it gently to convey her message of affection and the
fact that he was long due. Similarly, at breakfast time,
she would dart off to my father’s room and keep
‘meowing’ until he came down for breakfast. She was
to all of us a ‘blithe spirit’, akin to Shelley’s Skylark.
When the anniversary of her stay with us was
42 Mind Blogs 1.0
nearing, we decided that it should be celebrated.

However, it was not to be. One night, Minnu didn’t
turn up. My mom said that a dog might have bi=en
her or she must have fallen into a drain. We waited.
And waited. The days became weeks. And the weeks,
months.
Those whom the gods love, indeed die young.
Mind Blogs 1.0 43
Slowdown, pink slips, salary cuts:

a year that redrew biz rules
PTI, Dec 31, 2009 at 0655 hrs IST dominated by zero appraisals
and reduced growth prospects.
PUNE: Global slowdown The second half saw the market
became a household term and showing early signs of
words like pink slips, salary recovery; salary cuts were
cuts and recruitment freeze reversed, though full-fledged
dominated the corporate world appraisals may have to wait till
in 2009. For those who held on the end of the fiscal.
to their jobs, it was a year
Interview Blues
I F YOU work in the IT industry, it’s a place of

opportunity, jobs aplenty and uncertainty. You will
experience at least five important job changes and
triple the number of interviews during the course of
your professional career. You will also, in all
likelihood, meet all my eight protagonists at some
part of your journey, as you take part in interviews
galore to find that illusionary perfect job.
I’d be surprised if you have not met him or

I, ME, MYSELF
44 Mind Blogs 1.0
her as yet. This kind of employer will make you

stand on your head to just reach the venue of
your interview, and won’t bother if you have to
lose your current job, just a=empting to get
there. At the end of the interview, you may or
may not get the job, and you won’t hear from the
interviewer again if you haven’t. If you do get
the job, you will probably be expected to join
tomorrow, without the slightest concern for
your current employer. You will also probably
discover that your offer le=er has multiple
intricate clauses that make it impossible for you
to leave your new job if you have to.
I should know. I’ve worked for a company
that expected me to join it in 20 days, but had a
three-month notice period when it came to its
own employees.
This kind of an employer will ask a writer,

THE IDIOT!
“How do you write?” Another version of the

same question is looking at the different
domains you’ve worked in and asking, “How
do you understand these different domains?” It
would not occur to the person that writing and
understanding are abilities. They can only be
tested by the manner in which it is done, not by
verbose answers.
This kind of interviewer will not accept you
saying, “I write like how I breathe (even if it’s
true).” So, don’t try it, and don’t lose your cool.
Patiently explain as you would to a six-year-old.
Mind Blogs 1.0 45
THE ‘MAKE-UP-YOUR-MIND-
This type of employer will decide on your

FOR-YOU’ TYPE
behalf that you are too creative or too

experienced for the role on offer.
If you have changed too many jobs, he or she
will decide on your behalf that you won’t stick
on to your next company as well.
There’s nothing much you can do with this
creature, except to forget about the interview
and proceed with the next one.
PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE ME FEEL
You find these guys at other places besides

IMPORTANT
the interviewer’s chair. They are distinguished

by their ability to ask you shockingly irrelevant
questions just to demonstrate their vast
knowledge.
Another variant of this type is the kind who
takes pleasure in tearing you apart just to prove
one’s own great intellectual prowess.
With this type, it helps to cringe a lot. Also,
massage his/her ego until it swells. Of course,
you also need to remember that you need to
have the energy to keep doing it as long as you
want to hold the job.
This kind will spend the interview session

I PAY, SO I THROW MY WEIGHT AROUND
looking away from you with disinterest, rather

than at you. You will also spend the rest of the
46 Mind Blogs 1.0
interview fending off questions coated with

skepticism.
You need to ask yourself a question — is this
the kind of atmosphere you would like to come
to for even one month of your working life?
This employer will give you every hint that

THE FLIRT
implies you have the job. But once you go back

home, you will never hear from the company
again.
With this type of employer, you have a

THE OPEN MIND
conversation. You share ideas and you disagree.

But, instead of fending off skepticism, you find
that you are having a discussion.
As you leave the room, you know that you’ve
met a person who you’ve enjoyed talking to. You
may not get the job, but it doesn’t really ma=er.
You feel empowered.
Here’s an open mind, who takes the process

THE PROFESSIONAL
a step further. He or she gives you feedback on

your answers at the end of the interview. The
Professional also ensures that you get an
acceptance or rejection le=er at the end of it. This
particular breed is at the higher end of the
evolutionary chain and extremely rare to find.
Being the cynic that I am, I find that it pays to
go prepared to meet the Idiot and pray for all the
Mind Blogs 1.0 47
patience that I can summon. Who knows... You

just maybe surprised with a Professional at the
other end.
48 Mind Blogs 1.0
Satyam serves pink slips to 150

staff in Hyderabad
Financial Express, Sep 10, 2008 Satyam Computer Services too
at 2349 hrs IST is understood to be pruning its
workforce. The company has
MUMBAI: Close on the given pink slips to about 150
heels of Wipro’s plans to slash experienced employees who
1,000 people from its payrolls, were on the bench from the
and give counselling to another Hyderabad centre.
2,000 ‘under performers’,
executive Moments
T H I S WA S scribbled one morning at a hectic

recruitment drive at a five-star hotel in one of India’s many
IT cities…
Brown panelled walls.

It was the soft brown of gentle forests.
Expanses do=ed — happy painted red flowers
framed in glass boxes.
Tributes to modern art.
In the background, a gold-rimmed table set off by
elegant gray chairs.
Mind Blogs 1.0 49
Laid against a white lampshade.

The carpeted expanse seemed to spread for miles.
The green neon sign announced the exit.
And not too far away, the happy yellow banner of
a company logo.
The Executives sat behind their desks with
nameplates.
Men dressed in black and white made their
entrance and exit.
They served coffee and tea very resentfully.
The Executives put them in their place.
Meanwhile, carefully dressed men (and an
occasional woman) filled out forms in a hurry.
They were ushered in to meet the Executives,
seated behind nameplates.
They sought their place in the Executive coterie.
The air-conditioner droned endlessly.
50 Mind Blogs 1.0
Depression offers lessons for

financial crisis
AP, October 4, 2008 at 1201 hrs IST lesson. This time, America has
been through it before, and
CALIFORNIA: Experts there’s a guide, at least for
say today’s crisis isn’t as grim mistakes to be avoided as the
as the Great Depression, but nation’s leaders try to prevent
there are lessons to be learned. another catastrophe.
They are the stories we heard Economists have spent
from our grandparents, the decades dissecting the Great
pictures we studied in history Depression. Their findings
books, bread lines stretching demonstrate the crippling
around street corners, effect fear has on economic
shantytowns sheltering the decisions, the tremendous cost
unemployed, small-town banks of not acting quickly and the
with darkened windows. risk of damaging the larger
Today’s financial crisis is economy in efforts to make
hardly that grim, though it does individuals pay for financially
share some similarities with the irresponsible investments.
economic collapse of the 1930s Today economists partly
both were preceded by a blame the Fed for the
housing boom, a long period of Depression because it raised
cheap credit and a falling stock interest rates even as the
market. But those same economy was slowing in the
similarities may offer some late 1920s. Then when banks
reassurance. began to fail, it took a hands-
What was then economic off approach.
calamity is today a history
Mind Blogs 1.0 51
What I’ve Learned

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
W H AT I ’V E Learned is one of the most

popular columns in Esquire magazine. Once, they
asked readers to send their two cents of wisdom
gathered over the years. And this is what I sent to
Esquire.
1. Honesty is indeed the best policy. And just
when you think it’s not working, go ahead
anyway. Backtracking can be more
harmful.
2. It’s be=er to be sorry than safe. This
translates into taking risks whenever,
52 Mind Blogs 1.0
wherever and not feeling shy of saying

sorry when you screw up.
3. Sometimes, it pays to listen to your
ego. But most times, it’s the cause of things
only going downhill. And there’s
no such thing as a balancing act. Either you
are in it or out of it.
4. Judging people by how they dress can turn
out to be downright wrong. But it’s good to
judge people this way, too. It takes all
kinds of judgements to sum up an
individual. You could start with his fashion
quotient.
5. You could make a fashion statement by
not following it; no one will call you a rebel
except the fashion designer whose rules
you blatantly violated. So go ahead, live
your freedom to `be’.
6. Never go behind what women want.
Eventually, everything will be to their
heart’s content and nothing to your liking!
7. Phone etique=e is good to an extent.
Thereafter, what ma=ers is how much you
pretend to be interested in the conversation.
If your pretence is up to the mark, you
don’t need any etique=e.
8. You may not believe in clichés even if being
in the `right place at the right time’ worked
for you.
9. Luck is no lady unless you manage to
inherit millions from your grandmom.
10. It’s be=er to think you can read peoples’
Mind Blogs 1.0 53
minds. This will boost your self-confidence

and egg you on to breaking the ice with
people who were indeed hard to crack.
11. Maturity is to know when to be immature.
It’s true and it works, even if it seems like a
clever li=le cliché.
12. Never turn down anybody. Just stop
responding to their calls, emails, SMS-es.
54 Mind Blogs 1.0
Lohan’s lips get a makeover?

PTI, August 19, 2009 at 2233 hrs IST star made quite an impression at
the ‘Inglourious Basterds’
LONDON: In a bid to get premiere in New York as she
her career back on track, sparked rumours she’s had a ‘lip
Hollywood actress Lindsay job’ with a plumper smile than
Lohan has reportedly gone for a usual, the Sun online reported.
‘lip job’. The ‘Freaky Friday’
e Before-after Man
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
IWAS invited to meet someone. A very special

name. Someone who had undergone a makeover.
Not that I didn’t know him from before.
My earliest recollection of him goes back to his
school days in Davanagere, an industrial town in
north Karnataka. He must have been seven-years-old
or less. Once, he missed the tempo that took him to
school because his teacher had punished him for not
doing his homework. It was common news at the
time that school children were being kidnapped for
ransom.
Mind Blogs 1.0 55
Thinking about the possible repercussions, he

started crying on the road. But no one took any
notice. He made his way past the road in front of his
school and went looking for a house (and a
household) that would find him his home. After
going past several houses, he chose one with a garden
in front — he loved all things green.
He was lucky.
The woman of the house was all help and he
could remember his father’s name and where he
worked. It so happened that she was the wife of the
sugar factory chairman where his father worked.
Ge=ing him on the line was easy. He was
eventually back home, safe.
The next time, when he was travelling by the same
school tempo, the vehicle stopped because it had
heated up and there was smoke billowing out of the
engine. Having seen several films where the sign of
smoke meant the vehicle would blow up, his first
instinct was to rush out of the vehicle, and he did.
When nothing happened, he would quietly go back
in and wonder why the vehicle didn’t blow up. The
tempo was too old and this happened quite regularly.
Whenever it coughed, he was out of the door praying
to god that all should be well. And god answered his
prayers every time. The vehicle would spu=er back
to life and he’d be on his way to school.
Not to be left behind, he was also Adam-teased.
The thing is, he was shy of girls and never looked in
their direction when he entered class. The girls
noticed this shyness about him and ragged him
endlessly. They would snatch his bag and pass it
56 Mind Blogs 1.0
around until it came back to him all rumpled and

dishevelled. All he could do was curse himself
silently and pray to god that be=er sense prevailed
on the girls. Thankfully, his prayers were soon
answered and he wasn’t ragged ever after. Neither
by the girls, nor the boys. Not in school. Not even in
college.
Today, after years of school, college and work
experience, he was invited for a makeover and he was
game.
The first thing the image expert told him was a
revelation: “Yours is a heart-shaped face.” All his life,
his mother had said, his face was square. The expert
didn’t stop at that. She told him that the shirt he was
wearing was sartorially deficit because his body was
rectangular and went well with a vertically-lined
shirt.
Now was makeover time. Upon her suggestion,
he ended up wearing a Wendell Rodrick’s co=on
kurta, a pair of leather flip flops and linen pants made
in-house.
Looking at the mirror, he asked me, “Which one’s
be=er? The ‘before’ avatar or the ‘after’?”
I was undecided. And still am.
That before-after man is no one else, but yours
truly.
Mind Blogs 1.0 57
Strike, violence across India on

Teachers’ Day
PTI, 5 September 2009 went on a hunger strike and
at 0831 hrs IST teachers in Lucknow and
Ranchi hit the streets
NEW DELHI: As the demanding better wages
country marked the Teachers’ suffering police lathi charge in
Day on Saturday, faculty the capital of Uttar Pradesh.
members of prestigious IITs
e tigress Of Panchgani
S H E WA S of a harmless nondescript stubby

frame, which disguised a ferocious snarl that could
split your heart in two. It was not for nothing that she
was known as the Tigress of Panchgani. I also knew
her as my principal, Miss Inayat.
This tigress had been heading Kimmins High
School in Panchgani for as long as most Kimminites
in my generation could remember. Kimmins is where
I spent eight years of my life, the school of my
growing years.
The outlines of her face are still clear. A face that
58 Mind Blogs 1.0
was never seen without spectacles, and hair always

worn gray and short. Was it her smallish sturdy
figure that gave her the appearance of a bulldog-ish
tiger? Then perhaps it was her ferocious tenacity that
would not be stopped, intimidating even the bravest
of hearts.
My first memory of fear was inspired by the
sentence, “Miss Inayat is coming.” Miraculously, a
buzzing classroom took on the tones of hushed
silence and unruly girls fell into a queue. We listened
with special dread for the characteristic thud that her
heels made against our wooden steps at the time of
‘mark reading’. Our idea of ultimate misery was a
trip to Miss Inayat’s office for an admonishment
brought on by some act of wrongdoing.
One incident after another only increased the
special dread that only she managed to invoke.
It was Miss Inayat who inspected our dormitories
and presided over all school functions. If we did not
meet her high standards, a fall from grace was
guaranteed.
Each morning, Miss Inayat presided over morning
assembly, as rows of senior girls sat straight in their
seats, slightly afraid to sneeze. After all, only Miss
Inayat had the power to fell even the mighty senior
girls with a powerful flick of her cane.
Fridays were the most dreaded days in a
schoolgirl’s life. It was her chosen day to chastise
those who had been awarded order marks (negative
points in layman’s terminology) at this very public
forum.
Among the many dark powers that Miss Inayat
Mind Blogs 1.0 59
wielded was the terrifying word called ‘suspension’.

And where the crime was grievous, but not extreme
enough to demand suspension, she caned you or
forced a spoonful of terrible tasting kuneel (epsom
salt) down your throat. As it happened, I had
experienced both.
A visit to Miss Inayat’s office was usually
preceded by a sleepless night of great mental turmoil.
The visit itself was made in multiple layers of socks,
worn to reduce the impact of a potential caning.
In adult life, I traced my wariness of all figures of
authority back to this period. I only overcame this to
a certain extent in college, when my favourite
lecturers were also my lifelong friends.
So, when a friend messaged to say that Miss
Inayat had died a year ago, the first feeling I
acknowledged was shock. She too, was mortal. Then,
I was surprised at the complete sadness.
Strangely enough, I was not alone in my
experience. Mails came pouring in from Kimminites
across the globe. All spoke of her with gratitude and
a sprinkling of affection. None claimed that Miss
Inayat was a noble teacher. But, there were many
tributes to her passion for Kimmins High School.
Young women, once scared schoolgirls, spoke
with admiration for the high standards she had
always set. They remembered that she had ensured
her school was the best that it could be. In doing this,
she encouraged us to be the best we could be.
Later generations claimed that after she retired,
the school no longer had the same high standards
that she had enforced.
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Miss Inayat had her prejudices, and as in

everything, she pursued these with passion. Her
favourites were always treated as a breed apart. But,
woe betide those who fell into her disfavour. While I
was never a favourite, I found that I was not without
gratitude.
It was in Kimmins that I found my identity and
came to believe in it. So, in later life, the rest of the
world could never shake me.
It’s true that it’s not always your friends or those
you love that change your life. Thank you, Kimmins.
Thank you, Miss Inayat. I’m not sure if you intended
it, but I owe a lot to you.
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On Self-Knowledge
An excerpt from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran
Y OUR HEARTS know in silence the secrets

of the days and the nights.
But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart’s
knowledge.
You would know in words that which you have
always known in thought.
You would touch with your fingers the naked
body of your dreams.
And it is well you should.
The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs
rise and run murmuring to the sea;
And the treasure of your infinite depths would
be revealed to your eyes.
But let there be no scales to weigh your
unknown treasure;
And seek not the depths of your knowledge with
staff or sounding line.
For self is a sea boundless and measureless.
Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I
have found a truth.”
Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.” Say
rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.”
For the soul walks upon all paths.
The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it
grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself like a lotus of countless
petals.
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how to heal Your Life

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
L IFE IS about living… and not just existing. But

most of us are so drawn to the exigencies of life that
we forget to live and just exist. ‘Time is short, and we
are not keeping up with it’, is the common refrain.
But wait. Take a deep breath. And you will realise
that you can control your life, heal yourself and
live longer. And you don’t have to read a Deepak
Chopra or a Be=y Shine book for it.
Here are a few simple tips that could get you
singing and dancing all your life. And if you think
along these lines, you can add many to these and
Mind Blogs 1.0 63
make that your Bible for life.

1. Go to sleep blessing everyone — friends,
enemies, strangers.
2. Be happy with what you have. Our future
is what we make of our present. If we are
unhappy in our present, we will be
unhappy in our future. This is because our
present state determines our future state.
So be happy with everything you have
right now; and you will be happy forever.
3. Don’t cling to your past and form
relationships based on that. It will severely
impair your mental faculties and you
will develop a biased view of life. And this
isn’t good, both in the long and short term.
4. Learn to forgive and forget. It’s difficult,
but it isn’t impossible either. And
remember, if you don’t forgive, you get
hurt more than the other person does.
Having a selective memory when it
concerns hurtful feelings is the best
insulation against the vicissitudes of life.
5. Be self-reliant — emotionally, physically
and financially. The moment you become
dependent on someone or something, you
are on your way to hell. What if that
something goes away from your life? Will
you be destroyed? Now you wouldn’t be in
that state if you were not that a=ached to
that person, place or thing.
6. What goes around comes around. What
you sow is what you reap. Nowadays, you
64 Mind Blogs 1.0
don’t have to wait another lifetime to see

the repercussions of your act. God has
become impatient. He’s doing justice right
here, right now. So watch your moves. Be
tolerant. Be humane. Be honest. And
importantly, be fair to one and all — caste,
gender, ethnicity no bar.
7. Treat others the way you want to be
treated, and you will always find yourself
happy and sated.
8. Have your ‘alone time’. This practice is
sacred and your life-giving source. Indulge
in activities that bring you solace. Warm
your heart. Soothe your soul. It could be
anything from going on long treks,
indulging in photography, solo travel, long
drives, morning walks, hobby clubs and
golf links to charitable organisations… the
list is endless.
9. Celebrate happiness every moment of your
life — and, you will never live to regret it.
What we are is how we perceive ourselves.
Our future is in our hands. And our
primary priority? To be happy and
all-smiles!
Mind Blogs 1.0 65
Genelia endorses fairness cream

Indo Asian News Service, face of a fairness cream brand.
January 29, 2010 at 1239 hrs IST She will now endorse Garnier’s
new product Garnier Light, said
NEW DELHI: Bollywood a press release from the firm.
actress Genelia D’Souza, who Actresses like Aishwarya Rai
shot to fame with ‘Jaane Tu... and Bipasha Basu have spoken
Ya Jaane Na’, has joined against fairness creams as they
Deepika Padukone and Sonam feel it generates discrimination.
Kapoor in signing up as the
Which Colour
Do You Choose?
BH AVA N I ’S M O T H E R is worried. Her

grandson of three months is ten shades darker than
she is. He is at least 20 shades fairer than his grandpa.
“How sad. How is he ever going to face the
world,” she sighs. “What’s colour got to do with it?”
I think, as her eyes cloud and she raises her head
heavenwards.
Dark clouds looming heaven downwards, wheat
complexioned cousin S chokes on her words as she
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narrates her tryst with discrimination. Her paternal

aunt, a well placed entity in a media company, has
expressed her soft corner for her fairer nieces. “K is
fair and beautiful, D is even be=er; she is so fair and
so pre=y. They are my favourite nieces, you pale in
comparison,” confirms her Aunt V.
Colleague R too, is rather taken in by the new girl
who has joined the publication. “She is so fair and so
hot,” he confides to colleague C.
But all’s not fair in our country. Paati has a grouse:
“Isn’t my Spanish grand-daughter-in-law T, too
fair?”
Mind Blogs 1.0 67
The Tyranny of custom

Hindustan Times, May 12, 2010 (75), who did not read beyond
at 0001 hrs IST matriculation level, is a battle-
hardened Jat. But they have
CHANDIGARH: Naveen become famous supporters of
Jindal (40), Congress MP from self-styled khap (clan)
Kurukshetra, is a US-educated panchayats by backing their
billionaire politician. Indian demand to amend the Hindu
National Lok Dal (INLD) Marriage Act 1955, to ban
President and former chief marriages among people of the
minister Om Prakash Chautala same gotra and village.
Buying a Groom
D I A B E T I C D A D (I’m referring to my own

dad, not a newfound rock band) developed a craving
for potato bondas last Sunday. So, with a huge,
imploring smile he said, “Nimmi, haven’t I bought
you so many things — nice clothes, a bike and if you
wish, I’ll buy you a nice husband too. Now, please
buy me a plate of potato bondas.”
“Buy me a husband?” I exclaimed. “Well, don’t
you know that your mother bought me and that my
grandfather bought expensive husbands for his four
68 Mind Blogs 1.0
daughters?” he asked.
Paati was a 13 year-old bride in 1938. Diamond ear
and nose rings, gold ornaments, silver vessels and
household items constituted her dowry. And all the
wedding expenses were borne by the bride’s family.
Paati feels this arrangement made perfect sense. “My
father made a small investment to ensure that my
husband spent unselfishly on my well-being,” she
clarified. She gave up her home and went to live with
her husband. And Paati’s dowry was passed on to her
daughters. “That was generations ago. Surely,
modern, educated women would never believe in
buying husbands for themselves,” I said to myself.
Cousin Sheila, marketing manager with an
international hotel chain got married to a software
professional last month. She’s 24, educated and needs
no financial support from her husband. But all the
wedding expenses were borne by her dad, Uncle C.
“Why does the groom’s family need to contribute
when my parents can well afford to,” she exclaimed,
when I questioned her about it. Jewellery, an
expensive wedding ceremony, and an excellent
education gave Sheila her visa to the US – indeed!
For years now, Hema’s parents have been
searching for a suitable boy for her. She has met over
25 prospective grooms. When boy and girl made it
past the initial barrier of matching horoscopes, the
prospective groom often expressed the desire to learn
how much Hema earned. “This is unfair. I want
equality. The guy I marry doesn’t need to know how
much I earn. My parents will pay for the wedding
after all,” lamented Hema, an engineer.
Mind Blogs 1.0 69
Pooja, a human resources executive is in the

marriage market. “Whoever I marry will have to bear
half the wedding expenses. But, I am not opposed to
qui=ing my current job and moving to where my
future husband lives. I’ll start afresh there,” she
confirmed.
So much for freedom, education, equality,
independence… Paati, I figure was clear about what
she wanted. She invested in a husband and owned an
entire household!
70 Mind Blogs 1.0
Cheating Munnabhai style

Tribune News Service, July 2, 2008 Bollywood blockbuster
at 2000 hrs IST ‘Munnabhai MBBS’, an NRI
MBBS student of GMCH-32
CHANDIGARH: Local attempted a more sophisticated
MBBS students have gone the version and used a hi-tech
Munna Bhai way. Taking a cue watch to copy in the exam but
from reel life where actor was caught. He was released
Sanjay Dutt uses an improvised later after a warning. The
device for cheating in his exams were conducted by
medical exams in the Panjab University.
here Come
e Impressionists
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
TRUSTING, NAÏVE, gullible, impressionable.

These qualities define who we really are. Not just the
13-year-old whose face is breaking into warts and all.
Not just the 15-year-old who will blindly shop for
anything endorsed by the rich and famous. Even
impressionable adults ranging from OJ Simpson to
South Dakota Congressman Bill Janklow have been
negatively influenced by what they’ve seen on the big
screen (particularly, the car chases in films).
Mind Blogs 1.0 71
If a young working professional is absorbing

everything being said by a Jack Welch, it is true of
people in the middle and senior management levels
as well. If you find a bunch of senior pros at a CEO
enclave watching industry captains deliberating on
the future of business, they are doing nothing but
digesting, assimilating and chewing upon everything
that’s being said and debated about. Not only that.
All this becomes the foundation of their working
codes — the data from which they will judge the
present and shape the future.
In fact, Eminem goes farther than any of his critics
in portraying his music as responsible for real-world
mayhem. His hit single Stan, for instance, talks of an
impressionable Eminem fan who descends into a
booze-and-pill-induced murder-suicide. His story is
told through a series of le=ers to his idol. Responding
to Stan’s le=ers, when Eminem enters the narrative
towards the end of the song, he explains that listeners
shouldn’t take it to heart when he raps about
harming others or himself, and that violent,
destructive actions like Stan’s ‘make him sick’.
Nobel laureate VS Naipaul is not spared too. In
his book, Literary Occasions, he credits a large part
of his learning to Hollywood films of the 1950s and
subtly advocates Hollywood to the rest of the
impressionable world.
Not that the US of A is insulated. Self-help books
are a rage among Americans and they are nothing but
a sort of spiritual jacuzzi. Couched in the jargon of
white-coated Mr Know-it-alls and ladled throughout
with statistical precision, Americans (and through
72 Mind Blogs 1.0
them, the rest of the world) are being conditioned to

behave and react to every situation in a certain way.
Or take yourself. You watch a film and keenly
look up the film reviews in Ro=enTomatoes.com or
The New Yorker and find yourself nodding your
head in agreement with everything the reviewers
argue about. Not that you are faking it. It’s just that
they have so tweaked your sensibilities with their
high literary standing that you have no leg to stand
upon; and therefore prefer to lean on them and tut-tut
your approval.
Is this sort of conditioning dulling our cerebral
cortices? The question might be hanging in the air but
there is a sense that individuals ultimately can’t be
trusted to their own devices. We are too easily duped,
too gullible, too dumb. We live in an increasingly
visual age, consumers, not of life, but of
representations of life; of movies, videos and
commercials; of media events and re-enactments.
This, to put it bluntly, makes us vulnerable and
dangerously so, impressionable, age no bar. With
nearly 50 per cent of us functionally illiterate and 90
per cent of us listing television as our primary source
of news, we’re ripe for the picking. Or the
manipulating, as the case may be.
So what’s the alternative, especially in a semi-free
society? The signposts clearly indicate less choice,
less information, less individualism. So why do we
shy away from marching to our own beat? Sadly,
those who don’t want to follow the herd are never
heard. Those who do are branded mavericks in a
negative sort of way. When they fail, they are
Mind Blogs 1.0 73
guillotined at the altar of individualism. When they

succeed, eyebrows are raised; some institutes may
even award them for their out-of-the-box thinking —
but most are just happy branding them as mavericks
and distancing themselves from them. Who wants to
be a maverick in an impressionable world? It’s
convenient to be impressionable and part of the
crowd rather than risk being called a maverick and
be lonely at the bo=om. There’s less risk involved.
And there are no eyebrows raised.
But should that be a blueprint for life? T.h.i.n.k
again.
74 Mind Blogs 1.0
e amalgamation
A S A child, I remember
My uncle was angry.
My mother beat me.
My teacher healed my wounds.
My grandmother loved me.
My friend inspired me.
I, an adult…
I am angry.
I destroy.
I care.
I love.
I inspire.
I, an adult.
An amalgamation of the child.
Mind Blogs 1.0 75
Money-smart kids start early

The Times of India, May 14, 2010 money-smart simply by
at 1200 hrs IST watching what their parents do.
It is seen that children with
NEW DELHI: An increa- parents in a financial plan
sing number of parents are understand the basics of money
seeing the collateral benefit of management and are able to put
working with a financial their money life in order than
planner: Their kids are getting those with parents who blunder
e Small Wonder
I T WA S the 13th of November. Dipti peered

through the railings of the banister and yelled,
“Nimmi akka, what party is there ya tomorrow?”
“I’ll tell you about it, but what are you planning
for Children’s Day, Dipti?” I asked her. “My mummy
is going to make payasa with godambi, drakshi ya,” she
replied, un-flu=ered. “Oh wonderful, will you give
me some?” I asked.
“No ya, the Children’s Day god will get angry; he
is Jherulal ya, he needs lots of payasa,” said Dipti
convincingly.
As you might have already guessed, she had just
missed a few alphabets from Jawaharlal Nehru’s
name.
76 Mind Blogs 1.0
Dipti sounds all of 40 and sometimes 400 at four.

She loves talking, and has overcome the biggest
barrier — language. So she ra=les off in Telugu,
Kannada, English and Gujarati and has made it her
business to understand and be understood by
everyone on our street.
Dipti likes to think that anyone between the ages
of one and one hundred is her friend. So, she goes to
Poornima kaki at two in the afternoon and yells in
Gujarati, “Kaki, darwaza khol, nahi tho thala band kar
doon,” (Open the door or should I bolt it from the
outside). Poornima kaki gives up her siesta for fear of
being locked indoors. In return, she gets to listen to
Dipti’s entertaining stories.
Be it at two in the afternoon or nine in the
morning, Dipti has something important to say.
Being her neighbour, I wish her as she leaves for
school.
One morning, she said, “Once upon a time Spo=y
dog and Blacky dog had come to your house no ya
Nimmi akka?” swinging from side to side in her blue
and white striped uniform, waiting for me to update
her about our other neighbour’s four-month-old
puppies.
As she got caught up with the details of the story,
her mom whisked her away to school even as Dipti
kept yelling in Telugu, “Ir andi mummy, vosthanu,”
(Wait mummy, I’m coming).
At school, Dipti speaks more than her teachers or
friends do. At home, she plays the teacher and
consents to be student only when her friends threaten
to stop the game. If her friends are not home, Dipti
Mind Blogs 1.0 77
tells their mothers: “Aunty, nanu kitchen alle irthini.

Nivu kelsa madtha iri, nanu paathre thogondu aadthini,”
(Aunty, I’ll play with the utensils while you cook).
Although Dipti loves sounding grown up, she is
barely three feet above the ground. Her eyes light up
at anything that is said to her. As for her chubby
cheeks, one can’t resist pinching, kissing and biting
them. Even as I pick her up to cuddle, Dipti makes it
a point to have the last word, “Nimmi akka, you can
kiss me ya, but please don’t bite my cheeks!”
PS: Dipti is now 14, but still has the baby-face I so love to
bite!
78 Mind Blogs 1.0
Growing old... alone

Hindu, July 13, 2003 at 2100 hrs IST and insecurity compound their
problems. The three main
MUMBAI: Elderly people requirements of old people
in India face an uncertain today are social, health and
future. In Mumbai alone, there financial security. The senior
were 192 crimes in 2002... a citizens’ need for social
large number resulting in death. security has only risen with the
Decreasing incomes, loneliness times.
Luv Ya Guys
L A R G E W I D E -Open eyes, deep with the

colours of over 60 years on earth, stare into my face.
Uncle P isn’t actually looking at me. He stares at life
gone by; his eyes mist up with loneliness; physical
weakness tells him he must move on — perhaps to
an old age home. He is glad to see me that night.
“Many days, I wake up in the morning and don’t
speak to a soul until my dearly adopted children —
either you or S, turn up to visit me in the evening,” he
says, concealing a choke waiting to escape. I have no
words to offer. Advice is not solicited. How would I
Mind Blogs 1.0 79
know, I am not 63.

Sixty-three may seem too young in today’s
context. I agree. There are sprightly, retired parents,
uncles, aunts, acquaintances, friends, politicians and
social workers who live each day like three-year-olds
who have just learnt to run, discovered to leap, fallen
and then risen.
Uncle M, friend S’s pa at 65-plus prances about
very much like a sprightly three-year-old. The same
zest for life manifests in his elation at having
motivated and won a case over the government to
save park land meant for citizens in his locality. He
comes to our publishing house to talk about this
achievement. It’s lunch time, and so, we have a
simple meal of rice, dal and subzi in our canteen. After
spending a hearty hour together, he rises to leave. A
tiny tear hangs around the corner of his right eye. “It
felt just like having K and S around, we should do
this more often,” he says, thinking fondly of his two
daughters, one living in the UK and the other in
Delhi. I wish I have the time to visit him more often.
This morning, V, my piano teacher P’s 75-year-old
sister wears a sunshine smile and flowered hair-band
upon her newly trimmed hair. Differently-abled, she
wears the same enthusiasm as a girl in her pre-teens
waiting to sweep the lad of her dreams off his feet.
She wants me to buy her satin cloth to sew
bridesmaid handkerchiefs. “I’ve finally found a store
that sells the material,” I tell her, promising to bring
back some next Tuesday. Sixty-five-year old P’s eyes
light up with gratitude – road rage and increasing
traffic don’t leave her feeling stable enough to go
80 Mind Blogs 1.0
shopping on her two-wheeler any more. I hug them

both goodbye after my music lesson. They are
waiting to see me next Tuesday.
Two weeks ago, the toothless paati resting under
the neem tree outside a village temple in Mayavaram,
Tamil Nadu, wants food. There isn’t any. So I give her
some money. “Don’t you have any children, paati,” I
ask her. “Yes I do,” she replies with the heartiest
toothless smile I’ve seen. “What are their names?” I
question. “I haven’t named any of them,” she grins.
“What’s your name then?” I ask. “I too, have no
name,” she replies. I am totally won over, I grab her
small frame into my arms and she plants a kiss upon
my cheek. Her eyes sparkle, she doesn’t want to let
go but gently unclasps her grasp around my waist
and says, “Come back to visit me, my children are no
longer here.” My eyes cloud with a fresh stream of
tears. Her toothless smile continues to fill my soul
with warmth.
Three years ago, I hold dad’s hand for two
continuous days while he lies in coma upon a
hospital bed. On day three, he loosens his clasp,
making it clear he’s le=ing go. He’s gone.
Last night, Uncle P asks me to leave him alone.
“This 10 sq ft by 10 sq ft space is mine. Go away and
carry on with your chores,” he says. What he’s said to
me a few months ago rings in my ear: “As we hit 60,
we know we are on the other side of life. Going to an
old age home is a possibility, but having youngsters
like you visit us; talk to us is what keeps us going.
Otherwise, we oldies have no breath of fresh life to
offer each other; we are all in the same boat.” So I
Mind Blogs 1.0 81
hover around.
I write this note to those very special people
who’ve added an irreversible touch of warmth to my
life. Love ya guys…
I’m confident you’ve done the same for your
parents, they’ve let you unselfishly out into the
world; they’re pleased with your progress. And…
they may not say it… they yearn for your smile, your
loving touch….
I just can’t wait to get home to give mama a big
bear hug.
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Indomitable mum Neelam Katara:

A profile in courage
Hindustan Times, May 29, 2008 Yadav was the logical
at 1630 hrs IST conclusion of the six-year fight
for her murdered son. The
NEW DELHI: She took the accused were the son and
combined might of politics and nephew of a politician whose
money head on, and won. For name spelt terror in western UP.
56-year-old Neelam Katara, the But Neelam refused to be
conviction of Vikas and Vishal scared.
Mum Is 60
M Y MUM turned 60 a couple of days ago, and

we had a get-together for her close friends of the last
three decades. After I had said ‘goodbye’ to the last
guest, I spent some time thinking about the 31 years
over which Mariam has also been my mother.
It’s true that my mother has not been the ideal
mother. It’s also true that I have hardly been the
perfect daughter. I doubt if we will ever have a
completely functional mother-daughter equation. But
today, I’d like to take the time to celebrate all the
things that my mother did right.
Mind Blogs 1.0 83
I did not know it as a child, but my mother was a

single parent. It is to her credit that I never
experienced the thought that my home lacked
anything. My mother always managed to make me
feel superior to all the kids that I knew.
My earliest memories are of the variety of
influences that my mother brought into my life. I am
told that even when I was still in her womb, she read
the newspaper aloud to me everyday. This I do not
remember. But, I do remember the picture books, the
toys and stories. Later, there are clearer memories of
visits to many parks, museums and cinemas.
She gave me my love of books, and later nurtured
it. When I look at the collection of books that I
collected as a child (and still keep in my bookshelf),
it never ceases to amaze me. My mother earned about
Rs 800 a month in the 80s. Yet, I was the only girl in
class who owned all of the series on Secret Seven,
Five Find Outers, Famous Five, Malory Towers and
St Clares. As if this were not enough, these were only
part of the books in my collection. I still wonder how
my mother managed to do that...
I saw some of the best movies of my growing
years with her. She also introduced me to theatre.
Incidentally, this is a role that she continues to play.
My mother always ensured that I had a privileged
education. Her conversations with me always dealt
with the world around me. It is also said that by the
time I was three, I was telling people that Morarji
Desai was the Prime Minister of India and that he
believed in urine therapy. Of course, I have no
recollection of this. But, later as a teenager, I do
84 Mind Blogs 1.0
recollect that my mother nurtured my love for the

humanities.
While most kids of my generation had their
parents breathing down their necks to create the
doctors and engineers of the future, my mother let
me want to be a writer.
She never told me that I had to be fair to be
beautiful, and neither was I moulded into a
housewife from my earliest years.
My mother is among the most independent, free-
spirited women I know. She was also wise enough to
raise me in the same mould.
She was my mother. But, she never forgot that she
was also Mariam. This was the greatest service that
she did to both of us.
Mind Blogs 1.0 85
every Woman
T HE OTHER day, a friend of mine created an

ode to her women of substance. One thought led to
another and I soon realised that there were many of
them in my life too.
The lady who was wife to one husband,

There was…
mother to seven children and grandmother to

many more. Even when the money ran out, she
always kept an impeccable home. In later life,
when Parkinson’s had rendered her a bedridden
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invalid, she remained as the gracious mighty

oak to whom her offspring could return to find
their roots.
The lady who sailed away on her own to a

There was…
foreign country on a scholarship to study

literature. She was beautiful, intelligent, 29 and
still single. In the 1960s, this was unthinkable.
The lady who chose to live her life on her

There was…
own terms, whether it was to pierce her nose

when it was still taboo, light a cigare=e in public
or love the men of her choice. She accepted the
pain of her choices, and as she grew older she
always spoke with courage and openness about
her mistakes.
The lady who looked back at 60 years of her

There was also…
life and said, “I have no regrets.”
The girls from orthodox conservative

Then, there were…
families who dared to find their own way and

grew into the most unorthodox thinkers I have
met.
The girls who did not change themselves so
that they could belong in high school.
The girls who always knew they were equal
to the boys.
Mind Blogs 1.0 87
The girls with dreams in their eyes, who

dared to chase them across countries and
continents.
The women who dared to love truly and

There were…
passionately, each in their own fashion.

The women who knew that it was okay to be
single, and who would marry only for love.
The women who loved, and did not wait for
their man to pop the question.
The women who loved, but saw the wisdom
in le=ing go.
The women who loved, were hurt, and still
dared to love again.
The women who travelled across continents
for love, and still dared to turn back when they
knew they had been mistaken.
The women who gave it all up for love, and
the ones that didn’t.
The women who did not shirk responsibility.

There were…
The women who got down into ditches or

took on ranting opposition to protect the weak.
Those who looked after their parents,
educated their siblings, got their sisters married
and played single mother.
The women who confidently led teams.

There were…
Some of them even handled departments.

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The women who donned multiple hats –

efficient professional, dependable wife and
caring mother.
The women who did not wait for the rich
husband to buy a house, travel or simply make
money.
The women who threw up successful careers,
and went to follow their calling.
The women of conscience who never lost a
sense of gratefulness to life. They always wanted
to ‘give back’ to the world around them.
They are in every woman. They are my
women of substance.
Mind Blogs 1.0 89
Drunk woman rams car into

police jeep, bike; 2 killed
in Mumbai
PTI, January 30, 2010 inspector and the biker dead
at 0510 hrs IST and four constables seriously
injured early Saturday
MUMBAI: A woman morning. A local court
driving allegedly under the remanded Nooria Haveliwala
influence of alcohol rammed (27), arrested for drunk driving,
her car into a police jeep and a to police custody till
bike, leaving an assistant sub- February 5.
escapades On L 5598
P U L L I N G T H E zipper of my faded red

windcheater to a choking tightness, I gaped at the
mechanic who had deftly separated the tube from the
punctured tyre. My dear Kinetic, KA O5 L5598, had
decided to wobble dangerously at 10 pm, Friday last.
Returning from work, it took me seven kilometres
and half the distance home to realise that the back
tyre of my bike was punctured.
Call it serendipity, for, people at the petrol bunk I
stopped at in Wilson Garden, directed me to a
conspicuous lorry tyre repair shop. Thanks to the bad
90 Mind Blogs 1.0
men in the movies, even as the mechanic went about

his business, as did the other employees in the shop,
I hid my toes under my already long skirt even as I
had hidden my full-sleeved shirt under my
windcheater earlier. Ten minutes later, a by-now
relaxed, confident journalist, I rode straight into the
petrol bunk, tyre fixed, phone in ear, Mom blasting
my head off for being caught in the middle of the
night on a wobbly bike. “Why on earth aren’t you
selling it?” she stormed.
After having slept over her query, I knew, even as
bright morning sunshine brushed my face, that L
5598 and I are inseparable. Dad, even as I remember
him today on his third birthday away from Planet
Earth, gifted me L 5598 in 1994. Black and powerful,
it was a dream come true after my Hero Puch had
split wide open with all those heavyweight friends
I’d ridden back and forth. L 5598, on the contrary has
withstood the test of carrying six people at a time, all
the way from Jayanagar to MG Road.
A weekend out meant a trip on Nimmi’s bike for
all the children on our street. So, li=le Amitu and
Pupul stood in front, while big girls Sindhu, Shivi
and Sagu rode pillion. And our li=le brigade zipped
at 60 kmph all the way to Corner House on Residency
Road for chocolate chip ice creams. Now li=le did I
know that Aunt Revathi and Paati secretly wished to
be part of this merry brigade. So, one evening,
escaping from dad’s watchful gaze, Aunt Revathi,
clad in salwar and Paati in her crisp nine-yard sari,
deftly got atop L 5598, each with legs on either side
before se=ling behind me. Barely able to stifle our
Mind Blogs 1.0 91
outrageous giggles, we created a furore enough for

Dad to peep out of the window, only to see his mom
and sister, ride into the sunset behind his notorious
daughter…
As expected, all hell broke loose when we
returned. But L 5598 has gone on to accompany me
on many more outrageous escapades that have
added immense flavours of fun to my life. So, sorry
Mom, L 5598 stays. Thank you Dad, wherever you
are, for all my escapades with L 5598.
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a Swimmingly
Good time
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
IT’S M O N S O O N time. A daunting time for

two-wheeler guys like me. A heavy downpour the
previous night leaves its testimony in the form of wet
islands – small and large all over the road. The
challenge is as clear as fresh rainfall.
First the Tata Sierra. I was trying hard to avoid the
islands by criss-crossing all over the road. I felt like a
circus stuntman. Or a teenage clown. Down came the
Safari in a dramatic swoosh. I swerved to my left and
Mind Blogs 1.0 93
came to a screeching halt just short of the Atlantic

Ocean. The Safari grazed past me. I felt the strafing.
But I was spared. My pristine white trousers still bore
the sparkle my mother had struggled over. Crease
and cuff still intact. One down, how many to go?
I approached the next street. In my rear-view
mirror, flashed a Maruti 800 travelling at the speed
of light. I looked to my left and then to my right. My
eyes were now at the back of my head — a full 180
degrees. Rear-view mirrors are good for disciplined
drivers, not for rash ones.
I accelerated. I was trying to side step the potholes
and reach drier, higher ground before the Maruti
could come in. Saved by the cross! The cross road on
my right. I swerved into the cross and let the Maruti
speed past. Phew! He disappeared as fast as he came.
I persevered. It was ge=ing late for work and my
boss does not appreciate excuses. I was on to a
waterlogged road. And fate in the form of the
Bangalore City Corporation struck.
Crash! Bang! Boom! @$%#
“Oh, hell! A pothole,” I cursed in my head after
the string of unprintable epithets. Couldn’t I have
avoided it? After all, I knew the road like the back of
my two-wheeler — or the back of all the polluting
vehicles I am forced to stop behind.
I checked my shirt sleeves and my trouser cuffs.
My boss hates messy employees. I was safe. And
clean. And on time. I breathed a big sigh of relief. And
pulled into the parking space outside my office.
Splash..sh..sh!
I looked down on the soggy mess that was once a
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pure and unsullied Zahid. And looked up to see the

vanishing tail lights of a courier van, making sure that
his package arrived on someone’s desk. Clean, dry
and on time.
Ah, well!
Mind Blogs 1.0 95
The Trouble With India

PTI, March 19, 2007 at 0310 hrs IST Route 101, Hosur Road is
worse. This potholed, four-lane
BANGALORE: When stretch of gritty pavement, the
foreigners say Bangalore is primary access to Electronics
India’s version of Silicon City, is pure chaos. Cars, trucks,
Valley, the high-tech office park buses, motorcycles, taxis,
called Electronics City is what rickshaws and cows jostle for
they’re often thinking of. But every inch of the roadway as
however much Californians horns blare and brakes squeal.
might hate traffic-clogged
e Story With a hole

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
“
A K E A picture with our heads peeping out
T
of a pothole,” suggested the editor, si=ing in his air-
conditioned office on MG Road.
He was willing to go to the streets, only because
he was doing a series of public service campaigns in
the press to educate Bangaloreans about civic sense.
That about summed up the issue.
“Know of any pothole close to your office?” I
asked him.
He laughed. “I know of a pothole close to your
office… it’s gaping enough to accommodate two
96 Mind Blogs 1.0
people,” he intoned.
I was suitably fine with the arrangement. But, out
I stepped on Church Street and realised the road was
brimming with freshly-tarred confidence and no
potholes in sight.
I cruised on Resthouse Road, Residency Road,
Brigade Road and MG Road, but there wasn’t one
good pothole to talk about.
“Bad luck,” I apprised the editor when I met him.
“That pothole is filled.”
“But how?” he asked.
“Probably because the mayor had recently
decided to keep his oath to rid the city of potholes,”
I said, ma=er-of-factly.
“Oh, really now?” asked the slightly embarrassed
think tank of the newspaper.
“I have another idea. There’s this road sign
saying, ‘Caution. Pothole ahead.’ Why not take a
picture of us against the road sign?”
“Good idea,” I trilled.
But first, I thought a recce would do us a world of
good and avoid future embarrassment.
Out I stepped on Old Madras Road and reached
the designated spot.
Just when I had almost given up on the search, I
located the road sign. But before I could say, all’s well
that end’s well, I squeaked, “Where’s the pothole?”
The mayor had done his job, and robbed me of
mine.
Mind Blogs 1.0 97
Five dead, several injured

in Delhi Metro flyover collapse
PTI, July 12, 2009 at 0800 hrs IST official said. The accident took
place at around 5 a.m. at the
NEW DELHI: An under Metro construction site at
construction bridge of the Delhi Zamroodpur near Amar
Metro collapsed in south Delhi Colony. Many are still trapped
early Sunday, killing 5 people under the debris, a Delhi Metro
and injuring at least 20 people, Rail Corporation (DMRC)
many of them critically, an official said.
Whose Fault Is It
anyway?
I WAS told a flyover had collapsed in Delhi.

Early reports confirmed two dead and 20 injured,
With casualty numbers expected to escalate further.
The reporter immediately asked, “Who is
responsible?”
The minister passed the buck.
His colleagues instinctively dodged the buck.
Statements were made on television.
Compensation packages were announced.
98 Mind Blogs 1.0
A commi=ee was set up to probe the incident.

The guilty were named.
The cause was unnamed.
Public memory forgot.
Then, a year later, another flyover collapsed...
Mind Blogs 1.0 99
Sasken staff fired for

anti-Kannada poem
CIOL, Tuesday, March 04, 2008 distributing a derogatory poem
at 1730 hrs IST on Kannada inside the office.
All the three offices of Sasken
BANGALORE: Sasken in the city were shut down on
Communication Technologies Monday as members of
Ltd has sacked an employee (a Karnataka Rakshana Vedike
Canadian national) for (KRV) attacked one of its
allegedly writing and offices at Electronic City.
Insiders all Out.

Outsiders In?
HE AV Y D R O P L E T S of smog-laden rain
pelted my helmet’s visor, screaming oblivion. The
security guard at our parking lot refused to make
way for my bike. I yelled, calling him inhuman. He
retorted, saying, “We don’t have raincoats like you
guys,” pointing towards the row of bikes owned by
executives working out of the building.
Is it my fault that he doesn’t have a raincoat?
Perhaps it is. I earn thrice or four or maybe five times
100 Mind Blogs 1.0
more than he does. And raincoats don’t come cheap

these days.
We now own a house in JP Nagar, 8th Phase.
Ge=ing home includes a long commute on
Bannergha=a Road and, a promised traffic jam right
through. Perhaps that’s our curse.
Perhaps not. I have a home to go to, a room to call
my own and a patch of green that brightens my day
despite soaring realty rates. And it doesn’t ma=er
then that large, smoked glass buildings with multi-
national offices bear down at my dated bike even as
I crawl, snail-like, revving and polluting the once
tranquil road to Bannergha=a National Park. Doesn’t
ma=er that the cop, who perhaps earns half my salary
has just enough to make ends meet. Like many
government employees, it’s no fault of his that he
aspires to make a buck or two from the owners of
splendidly polished cars that often transport one or
two people, while occupying large portions of the
road. And he doesn’t even have a room to call his
own, to rest his polluted lungs, clogged with litres of
fume and smoke pumped into the atmosphere,
invading the spirit of the bird and bee and many a
Bangalorean, including me.
My family now owns a home, in an area that was
once considered the outskirts of Bangalore. Thanks
to the purchasing power of 20-plus nothings, who
believe in investing in a home of their own, before
they have learnt that car pools could save the cop
from asthma and a smile or greeting could win his
heart. And we are talking about the same cop who
might stand at the junction, clearing the metallic
Mind Blogs 1.0 101
mess, infused with spurious fumes, if only he were

able to breathe.
Twenty years ago, we travelled by bus. There were
buses and there were roads that bus drivers took to
reach us to our destinations. Bangalore then was
perhaps in her second round of pregnancy, glowing
in her new-found motherhood, making life
comfortable for her older one and waiting earnestly
for the life within her. We welcomed our IT giants
with open arms. Twelve years ago, we dreamt of
being experts in labour law.
Ten years ago, we watched the cosmopolitan
influx filter in. Eight years ago, we opened doors to
designer and branded stores because our
cosmopolitan mix could afford it. Good old Bata took
a back seat, but still survives because that’s what the
bus driver, the cop, the security guard, the waiter, the
school girl and the average Bangalorean can afford.
Also, Bangaloreans preferred lounging out at Koshy’s
or at the splendid Victoria Hotel, on whose remains
stands a mall. Mr Mota simply couldn’t afford to
maintain prime land on which Victoria saw many a
generation bask in coffee, fresh from the plantations
of Coorg and Nilgiris and a musician or two
serenading you whilst you sipped on your wine. The
cosmopolitan, hard working generation that’s
stacking up money for all those good things it can
buy needs to party hard, by night.
Sunshine is for losers and people who can’t afford
raincoats. Our security guard has a second-hand
raincoat now. We have coffee together. We realise
that cosmopolitan as our city gets, we love our Bata
102 Mind Blogs 1.0
shoes, by-two coffee, summer rains and traffic

junctions. We care for the cosmopolitan mix. Our
hearts bleed for those traffic jam ups, but after all,
we’ve got to let the mud and stone-loaded lorry get to
those construction sites by night. You see, they
transport raw material to building sites that are to be
homes for millions of cosmopolitan residents.
What’s the government doing? We are a
democratic nation – aren’t we? We voted them, didn’t
we? Does the constitution say that ‘outsiders’ aren’t
supposed to vote? Or that ‘outsiders’ aren’t supposed
to contest elections? Or that ‘outsiders’ aren’t
permi=ed to get off their cars and help clear traffic
jam ups, just like we do when there is a crisis? Come
on now, Bangalore is doing all it can to accommodate
‘outsiders’. Bear with her, she is in her eighth
pregnancy and has seven children clamouring for her
a=ention. But, she still believes in that new life inside
her — You!
Give her a chance; she too, has morning sickness.
Mind Blogs 1.0 103
Kidnap drama paralyses

Bangalore
BBC, August 1, 2000 at 1322 hrs IST neighbouring state of Tamil
Nadu on Sunday by India’s
BANGALORE: The city most wanted fugitive,
has shut down for the second Veerappan. He is wanted by the
day running as fans of film idol police in connection with more
Rajkumar continue angry than 100 murders. A criminal
protests over his abduction. who has been on the run for
Rajkumar was kidnapped from over a decade and counting.
his farmhouse in the
a City Brought to
her Knees
RA J K U M A R D I E D today. The office closed

early because there was news of tension in the city.
But, when I left the office at six, while the streets were
emptier than usual and shops and establishments on
the entire Vivek Nagar Main Road had their shu=ers
down, there were no untoward incidents on the way.
I thought of the last time when veteran Kannada
film icon Dr Rajkumar’s kidnapping brought the city
to a standstill. It was just another afternoon at work
104 Mind Blogs 1.0
when CJ told me over MSN Messenger that

Veerappan had kidnapped Dr Rajkumar. She was on
MG Road and the trouble was all around her. But, I
kept working.
By lunch time, the office had closed for the day.
As office and home were at the two other ends of
the world, SB suggested I spend the night at her
place. In any case, I didn’t have petrol, and most
petrol bunks in the city had closed down. So, it made
sense, and that’s what I did.
It was only the next day that I realised what a wise
decision that had been.
Whether you were on MG Road, in Malleswaram,
Kammanahalli or Yelahanka — there were mobs on
the street, and they were forcing everyone on vehicles
to get out or get off and walk.
PC walked all the way from her office in
Yelahanka to her home in Banaswadi — a good 25
km. With buses being stoned and autos refusing to
run, she found that she was safest on foot.
On the way, she saw hooligans running amok on
MG Road. At Kammanahalli, motorists were being
pulled off bikes, and tyres were being burnt on the
road.
At Malleswaram, SB’s uncle’s car had the glass
smashed.
Elsewhere, near Yelahanka, MC almost got pulled
off her bike by a bunch of rowdies, who were not
willing to spare even a woman on a two-wheeler.
By night, the city had spent itself out. You could
feel that even indoors. But, the anger smouldered on
— sometimes in the form of half-charred tyres, still
Mind Blogs 1.0 105
burning on the road.

The next day, the newspapers told us that
Diamond District had been stoned. In those days,
Diamond District was still a relatively new glass
building, and the scars more evident. But, other
buildings were a=acked as well.
There was an uneasy stillness on the road. But
slowly, people stirred out of their houses. First,
hesitantly investigating, and then in hordes.
As always, the spirit of the city had survived.
Of course, the day did not have a profound effect
on everybody. ML, TM and BS used the day off to
catch an unscheduled boy’s day out, with a drink at
the Hosur Road cemetery.
But, for me, it was a day that I would not forget. It
was the first time that I watched my city brought
down to her knees, and it upset me deeply.
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Ragging at City college, 8 hurt

DH News Service, September 18, The trouble started at around 10
2008 at 1530 hrs IST pm in Vivekananda Institute of
Technology located at
BANGALORE: The rag- Kumbalgod near Talghattapura.
ging menace resurfaced at a Timely intervention by the
City college hostel, triggering a Talghattapura police saved
clash between north Indian and further injury to students and
local students that left at least damage to college property.
eight injured on Tuesday night.
Give Me heaven
N ORTH, SOUTH, east, west. Ragging turned

ugly in a city hostel the other day, thanks to regional
disparity. How promptly the human mind
stereotypes.
Hindu, Christian, Muslim, Parsee. Orissa is rife
with killings on the pretext of religion. Mangalore
follows suit. We have forgo=en to live and let live.
Rice, wheat, fish, mu=on. Ban the sale of meat on
holy occasions, they say. All food is source of life.
Your meat is not my poison.
Tall, short, dark, fair. Beauty is measured skin
Mind Blogs 1.0 107
deep. It takes a believing soul to discover the ocean of

beauty within the human frame.
I, me, myself. There is an ongoing contention that
no one else is important. Open your eyes, look
around, there’s the gift of life in bounty. Learn from
your selfless mother.
Heaven, earth. Death separates the two.
Let the twain meet. Why not make heaven on Earth?
108 Mind Blogs 1.0
At Mumbai’s construction sites,

labour is cheap, lives cheaper
Indian Express, December 9, 1998 They don’t even speak the local
at 1100 hrs IST language. And they die easily.
The death of 14 construction
MUMBAI: Construction workers in the scaffolding
workers come cheap. They accident at Sterling Apartments,
subsist on daily wages of Rs 50 Peddar Road, on Thursday was
to Rs 70. And don’t demand followed by another worker’s
compensation for injuries or death on Saturday at Marine
death. In most cases, they can’t. Drive.
City Of Dreams
UTSIDE,
O
The sea glistened against the black tarred road.
The trains roared by.
A city of great distances,
Travelled to work,
And returned.
In the great tumult,
As a city rose, heaved and subsided,
A construction worker set up a shack.
Even as he toiled to raise another structure,
A structure of gigantic concrete in the
City of Dreams.
Mind Blogs 1.0 109
Sunshine In e City
T HE LAZY afternoon sunlight seeps through

the lilting arbour on Kasturba Road Cross. The rays
linger through translucent leaves before permeating
my skin. This warmth dazzles me to a sigh. Nature’s
beauty is beyond human comprehension.
My resting brains bask in the gentleness of these
modest rays. My legs do the walking, while my head
slowly rises to sink in the glory of the world around.
My Bangalore shines resplendently in
surreptitious hues of red, abundant in the
Bougainvillea creeper nestled upon the stone wall.
Brick red lures my eyes to the handsome
110 Mind Blogs 1.0
Vishveshwariah Museum that stands in its cascading

glory. Tomato red glimmers through the salwar
kameez of the girl, asleep on the bench in the
sheltered bus stand.
My city knows how to wear its grays as it does its
reds. Solid gray stones that line the footpath reflect
the sun’s mellow beams. Bluish grey arches of the
HDFC Bank punctuate my thoughts with musical
intonations.
In the Garden City, grays give way to an ensemble
of jade green Peepal leaves. Dark green Gulmohar
stems jig to the touch of the sun. Blades of grass
refract the artistry of an hour before twilight.
A yellow Reva brushes past. There goes the sun, I
think.
Back at my office desk after a long walk, I bow
down to the almighty for this regal day…
Mind Blogs 1.0 111
Gadgets to express your love!

The Times of India, April 11, 2008 look at these uber-cool and fun-
at 1502 hrs IST packed love-gadgets that are all
set to give a hi-tech yet naughty
MUMBAI: Flowers are twist to your love tale. From a
common, chocolates just miss pink iPod Nano to a red Palm
that thought and teddies don’t Treo. Not to mention, heart-
charm any more! Is there shaped USB drives, naughty girl
something hotter out there for cufflinks, Kissing Love Tester
Valentine’s? Yes, there is. Take a and Proximity T-shirts.
e Love Calculator
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
W H E N I am unsure, when I need to decide,

when I need to read someone’s mind, I consult Dr
Love. Nah, it’s no shrink out to rip me off in my hour
of need.
It’s a Windows 95 freeware that throws up
startling facts about interpersonal relationships and
it’s all in percentages. I might not take it at face value,
but it does provide enough mirth to brighten my
mood.
When I first downloaded the software, I thought
some testing was in order (the idea is to give two full
112 Mind Blogs 1.0
names of people or places or things, and it will throw

up the love percentage).
The love quotient of Iraq and USA stood at 1 per
cent. Di=o with India and Pakistan. Not bad, I
thought, and moved on to Iran and Iraq. 0 per cent,
declared Dr Love, and went on to conclude that it was
di=o with Iraq and Kuwait.
Right off the bat, I thought some generic things
might make things more believable. I played coffee
and tea against each other and realised they shared a
good rapport (71 per cent), though beer and vodka
bonded the best (91 per cent).
Not surprisingly, cellphones and landlines didn’t
like each other (22 per cent) and neither did war and
peace (26 per cent), nor Karnataka and Tamil Nadu
(10 per cent).
Convinced, I asked Dr Love about Romeo and
Juliet and he said, 98 per cent (congrats,
Shakespeare). And the one that scored off each other
was love and lust with 98 per cent.
It was now my time to be the guinea pig. Between
Zahid H Javali and Zahid H Javali, I scored 86 per
cent (I do love myself but by what percentage, I knew
only now).
My love for Bangalore (97 per cent) was higher
than my hometown (Dharwad scored 43 per cent),
which was true indeed.
Moving on, I sought to know my personal
equation with Allah.
“63 per cent,” pointed Dr Love, clinically.
I typed God.”74 per cent.”
Mind Blogs 1.0 113
Bomb blast at Shah Rukh concert,

2 killed
PTI, December 12, 2004 The two dead in the blast were
at 1208 hrs IST Sri Lankan fans — a 30-year-
old woman and a 22-year old
COLOMBO: Two persons man. A number of children were
were killed and 15 injured when among the wounded in the
a bomb exploded at the fag end explosion which ripped through
of a concert by Bollywood Shah Rukh Khan’s mega
superstar Shah Rukh Khan. But concert at Colombo’s former
the actor was, however, safe. Race Course open air stadium.
Meeting Shah Rukh Khan

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
P R I O R T O 2004, remembering dreams had

become a long-forgo=en art for me. Either I was
having dreamless nights or my dreams were so
inconsequential that they never rose to the conscious
level and nudged me into remembrance.
Just when I resigned myself to more dreamless
nights, reigning Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh
Khan came along. No, not in person but we met up
when I drifted into the land of nod. This time though,
I remembered the dream clearly because I was
confronting Khan on a certain issue.
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“Why aren’t you protected?” I asked him.

Khan snapped his fingers. Two bodyguards
wearing pale blue shirts appeared from behind me
and inspected the area, their backs to Khan and me.
That’s what I remembered of my dream.
I mentioned this to Tarun Cherian, the then
creative director of an advertising agency who was
also a reiki master and spiritual guide. Without much
ado, he placed before me three possible
interpretations:
One: Khan’s life could well be under threat.
Two: Khan might be feeling threatened by
competition from newcomers; or he might be going
through bouts of low self-esteem because some
consider Aamir to be a far be=er actor.
Three: Khan could well be me feeling threatened
about something like the meditation workshop I was
to take up with Cherian a few days later. But I was
protected, if the dream was to be believed.
The ball was in my court. I was to accept one of
the options that best suited the situation. I thought
option three might be most accurate. Here I was
trying to take up a two-day meditation workshop a
few days later to ‘expand my soul’ and didn’t know
what it meant or what I was ge=ing into. But curiosity
was what got me into journalism and curiosity was
what got me into saying ‘yes’ to the workshop. Since
the dream said I was protected, I went ahead.
The workshop went along swimmingly and I was
anything but threatened —I was rejuvenated beyond
my expectations.
On Sunday, Khan was all over the TV channels.
Mind Blogs 1.0 115
At least two persons were killed and 15 injured when

a bomb exploded at the fag end of his concert in Sri
Lanka on Saturday, December 11, 2004. But the actor
was safe. Reports said the bomb had ripped through
the Rs 10,000 stands just as the Bollywood superstar
ended his three-hour concert. It was held despite
protests by Buddhist monks who said the music
show coincided with the first death anniversary of a
popular monk.
What does all this mean? That, sometimes,
dreams should be taken seriously.
PS: A few months later, Shah Rukh appeared in my dreams

yet again, saying he is being threatened by the underworld.
Not taking the dream lightly, I alerted SRK’s secretary who
asked me to email him directly. Though SRK didn’t reply,
two weeks later, I read in the papers that a top Bollywood
star was being threatened by the Chhota Rajan gang and
was given police protection.
116 Mind Blogs 1.0
Far-off healing
Los Angeles Times, May 02, 2005 into the woman’s groin to
at 1100 hrs IST enable researchers to measure
how fast she heals.
SAN FRANCISCO: Many The woman is a patient in
Americans pray for the health an extraordinary government-
of loved ones; others turn to funded study that is seeking to
shamans or reiki. Now science determine whether prayer has
is putting these practices to the the power to heal patients from
test. afar — a field known as ‘distant
On an operating table at a healing’. While that term is
medical center in San probably unfamiliar to most
Francisco, a breast cancer Americans, the idea of turning
patient is undergoing to prayers in their homes,
reconstructive surgery after a hospitals and houses of worship
mastectomy. But this will be no is not. In recent years, medicine
ordinary surgery. Three has increasingly shown an
thousand miles away, a interest in investigating the
shamanic healer has been sent effect of prayer and spirituality
the woman’s name, a photo and on health. A survey of 31,000
details about the surgery. adults released last year by the
For each of the next eight national Centers for Disease
days, the healer will pray 20 Control and Prevention found
minutes for the cancer patient’s that 43% of U.S. adults prayed
recovery, without the woman’s for their own health, while 24%
knowledge. A surgeon has had others pray for their health.
inserted two small fabric tubes
Mind Blogs 1.0 117
Discovering Serendipity
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
F OR YEARS, I used to pity people who were

into self-help books (which meant most of America).
Until Be=y Shine happened.
There I was, browsing for more than an hour, at
Sankars Book Stall when my eye picked out Shine’s
book, Mind Magic. Maybe it was the jacket blurb.
Maybe it was my age — I had just turned 30. Maybe
it’s a bit of all this, but the fact is, it was a fortunate
accident.
The next few days stretched my mind. Shine says
that we are energy beings first. Without the energy
118 Mind Blogs 1.0
counterpart of our physical body, we would not be

here at this moment. But stress causes energy
blockages in the physical system, causing distress
and disease. The underlying reasoning: Don’t
underestimate the power of your mind. If it can
create an atom bomb, it can also create great art. It
makes waves — of love, compassion and under-
standing — and it heals.
Shine was a medium (she died four years ago).
She not only existed in this dimension, she could also
interact with `dead’ people in the next dimension, so
she could pass on their messages to loved ones telling
them not to grieve. They came to her to prove they
had survived ‘death’ and were happy in their new
world.
The healing powers of the mind drew me more
than anything else. I wanted to heal and be healed,
physically and soulfully. I have tried healing my
father’s dislocated knee — though it’s yet to be healed
completely, the pain has receded to some extent.
Now he heals himself. The process is simple:
Visualise your palm as a magnet that takes away
negative energies. Then place your palm on the place
of pain for a while and move it away, taking with it
all the negative energy that was embedded within the
body. It’s a process that demands faith.
If it’s about healing people living away from you,
you could still work the magic through visualisation.
You could send loving thoughts to the person even
without that person’s knowledge. And the best way
to heal yourself is to go to bed blessing your friends,
enemies and strangers.
Mind Blogs 1.0 119
As Be=y Shine puts it, to be happy, one can never

afford to lose the child within. A child is innocent, has
faith and allows things to happen. We are all born
with this talent, and it takes the child within to find
and nurture it.
120 Mind Blogs 1.0
EC Notice for Varun Gandhi

Hate Speech
Outlook, March 16, 2009 inflammatory remarks with
at 1853 hrs IST communal overtones, which
saw the Election Commission
NEW DELHI: Varun slap a notice against the young
Gandhi, a BJP candidate in the scion of the estranged Gandhi
Lok Sabha elections, is in the family, who was also ticked off
eye of a storm for making by his own party.
tolerance
WE REMEMBER the Mahatma not because of

what he said,
but what he did.
Tolerance is not you standing on a mountain,
banging your chest,
and proclaiming to the world, “I am tolerant.”
That is aggressive arrogance.
Tolerance is lived in our lives everyday.
How tolerant will I be today?
Mind Blogs 1.0 121
II
Are you conscious of having to tolerate?

Then, it is no longer tolerance.
Now, you are only tolerating.
III
My friend asked, “What is tolerance?”

I said, “To respectfully give unto others the space to
just be, without nudging them into becoming what
you want them to be.”
IV
I say that my tolerance has reached its limits.

But isn’t my tolerance, with inscribed limits,
another word for intolerance?
122 Mind Blogs 1.0
Serial blasts shock Bangalore

Deccan Herald July 25, 2008 the city, however, failed to
at 1400 hrs IST dampen the spirits of the city
which chose to carry on its
BANGALORE: A series of business as usual. Two people
low-intensity blasts rocked were killed and five injured in
southern and central parts of the blasts, the first of which
Bangalore, momentarily took place around 1.30 p.m.
stopping the city on its tracks Seven blasts were reported in a
on Friday afternoon. The eight span of one hour, and the eighth
blasts, aimed to disturb peace in occurred around 5 p.m.
Suspicion
C L A D I N a white co=on shirt, a lanky man

moves the dividing stones on the two-way flyover.
Instinctively, I veer my bike away from him,
watching out for tell-tale signs of a crudely made
bomb.
Suspicion has clouded my mind, brimming over
with unproven and probable causes of the serial
blasts in Bangalore.
Preceding my encounter with the man in white
was a 20-something chap waiting to cross the one-
way side of Double Road leading to Richmond Circle.
Mind Blogs 1.0 123
A mobile held close to his lips, cynical expression in

his eyes, caused me to cast him a dual glance. “Has he
planted a bomb someplace here? Is his mobile but a
slimy weapon waiting to trigger a blast? Where was
the bomb?” I continued to surmise.
It could be hidden among the spider lilies do=ing
the separator, or it could well have been in the truck
that passed by. Or, could it have been in the drain
beside the bus stop where I’d dropped Mom off this
morning?
Panic catapults suspicion. My mind is rife with
images of men garbed in white, strategising the next
blow up. I’ve been watching too much news, reading
too much between the lines, unmasking every
burkha-clad face, delving too deep into every
forehead smeared with vertical tilaks and scrutinising
the lilting eyes of every bearded man. But then, even
the security guard had tightened his grip on the cane
last evening as two white-garbed, bearded men
entered our office building.
Suspicion is epidemic. I am, but one particle that
floats towards the nucleus of self-destruction.
Clarity beckons. Life is god’s magic. I realise that
I am just another being, no different from the man in
white, the boy with a mobile, the lady in burkha, the
tilak-smeared man and the bearded, white-garbed
men.
Suspicion precedes belief. I believe.
124 Mind Blogs 1.0
Christian woman burnt to death by

rampaging VHP mobs
Indian Express, August 26, 2008 and set ablaze in other parts of
at 0111 hrs IST the state by mobs led by Vishwa
Hindu Parishad activists,
BHUBANESWAR: A 24- enforcing a bandh to protest the
year-old Christian woman killing of their leader
working as an orphanage Lakshmanananda Saraswati and
caretaker was burnt to death in four followers in a suspected
Bargarh in western Orissa today Maoist attack.
while churches were attacked
So, help Me God

AS A child, a teenager and a young adult, I

never thought much about being a Christian in India.
I only thought about being an Indian and
passionately about being a Bangalorean. I thought so
li=le about being Christian that my Orkut and
Facebook religious profiles proclaimed to the world
that I was ‘spiritual, not religious’.
But in the recent past, I have wondered if I should
change my religious profile to ‘Christian’. If for
nothing else, then to state my solidarity with those in
Orissa forced to hide in the jungles for the only crime
Mind Blogs 1.0 125
of being ‘Christian’.
Was I in some way turning my back on my basic
identity when I said that I was ‘spiritual, not
religious’?
But, when I thought more about it, I began to feel
that troubled times demand that we hold on more
closely to the beliefs that ma=er. If my faith is that I
am ‘spiritual, not religious’, then I should cling
deeper to my faith. Anything less would be denial of
my identity.
After all, in the final analysis, it is not about how
others see me. It is about how I see myself.
It’s true that the values I learnt as a child in church
have set the foundation for the person that I am.
Whilst living out the many sermons that I heard here,
I first experienced the wisdom of forgiveness and
satisfaction with my lot. It was in church I learned
that the first of 10 commandments was ‘thou shall not
kill’. Here also I first heard of faith, hope and love —
and that the greatest was love.
There were also many other simple truths that
abounded here. Do not lie (or bribe). Be a good
citizen. Marriage is a decision, not a feeling. Your
word is everything. Hard work pays in the end.
No rocket science in any of that, and many of
these are universal religious values. But, in my case,
I learnt these in church, and I will always be grateful
for that.
So then, why am I ‘spiritual, not religious’?
I am spiritual because I believe that the wonder
that is life can only be a miracle, an act of a superior
being — even if it be through a process of evolution
126 Mind Blogs 1.0
over the ages. My life and those of others around me

is guided by a force that is ‘greater than I’.
But yet, I am not religious because I find I cannot
accept any religious book in totality. I question too
much. I cannot accept any one book as being ‘the
way’.
When I was younger, I could claim that being
‘spiritual, not religious’ was a state that I had evolved
into. In today’s world, it is a conscious choice and a
decision that I must make everyday.
So, help me god.
Mind Blogs 1.0 127
Mumbai marks anniversary of

26/11 with prayers
Mint, November 26, 2009 private memorial service for
at 2355 hrs IST staff in the evening. Candles
were lit outside the Trident-
MUMBAI: One year on Oberoi hotels and a black
from the deadly militant attacks marble plaque unveiled in
in Mumbai, the city tribute to the 35 victims who
remembered its dead in solemn died there.
prayers and candlelit vigils. At At the city’s main railway
the attack sites, a steady stream station, the Chhatrapati Shivaji
of mourners mixed with Terminus (CST), a blood
curious visitors and locals. The donation session was organized
Leopold Cafe, one of the instead of a high-profile
targets, was packed with commemoration. CST was the
tourists. Staff, who lost two scene of the bloodiest episode
colleagues, wore black of the attacks, with 52 dead.
armbands over their red polo Nariman House, until last
shirts; commemorative mugs year a little-known Jewish
were on sale. cultural and religious centre,
At the Taj Palace hotel and staged a memorial service. Six
Tower, where 31 people were people died there, including the
killed, bosses said they wanted rabbi who ran it and his
to treat the first anniversary like pregnant wife.
any other working day, with a
128 Mind Blogs 1.0
Bangalore East burns again

The Times of India, January 22, 2007 vehicles, while a 11-year-old boy
at 1245 hrs IST died and five sustained bullet
injuries in police firing. Curfew
BANGALORE: In a bitter has been clamped on
sequel to the riots on Friday, Bharatinagar, T G Halli, K G
localities in Bangalore East Halli, Commercial Street, Frazer
witnessed another round of mob Town and all areas coming under
fury on Sunday as miscreants Ulsoor police station limits till
attacked shops and torched 7 am on Monday.
Of Riot and Camaraderie

FRIEND M’S SMS stirred curiosity — “There

are rumours of a communal riot in the city, is it true?”
After SMS-ing a colleague, I called M to fill him on
the details. “A beheaded pig was found in a mosque
in Bangalore’s RT Nagar area, triggering a rift
between the Hindu and Muslim communities,” I told
him.
As the wheels of Lalbagh Express hugged
glistening tracks in the late noon sunshine, Mrs
Sayeeda Khatoon’s eyes raised a questioning look.
We’d been fellow passengers for two hours now. The
Mind Blogs 1.0 129
heat of Chennai had passed on to allow the cool

breeze from fields near Jolarpet Junction. Burkha-clad
and comfortable in this climatic transition, Sayeeda
seemed concerned. “Where do you need to go in
Bangalore,” I asked. “Sultanpalya,” she said. “Oh,
that’s where the riots are,” I said, as an afterthought,
“But do you have relatives in other parts of
Bangalore? It’s be=er you avoid Sultanpalya.”
“Yes, my husband’s sister lives in BTM Layout.
This is the first time I’m going home to Bangalore to
visit family after I was married off last year. My sister
and parents have been waiting to see me,” explained
Sayeeda.
“Oh! Let’s be in touch with my office then. If the
situation is be=er by the time we arrive, you could go
home to Sultanpalya after all,” I replied. Sayeeda
smiled. Her husband smiled too. Jessica and her
daughter Sharon si=ing in the row ahead, turned
around to gather information about the aftermath of
the riot in Bangalore.
We bantered on. No caste, nor religion nor
geographical origin divided us. We were one in the
face of adversity.
As the train pulled into Bangalore Cantonment,
our parting wishes were sealed with an unsigned
agreement — No ma=er who beheaded the pig, or
who started the riot, strangers from different
religious communities do part as friends.
130 Mind Blogs 1.0
Govt trying to saffronise DD, AIR

The Hindu, February 5, 1999 Girija Vyas, said that the
at 1600 hrs IST Vajpayee regime was using
government-controlled media
NEW DELHI: The for propaganda of the BJP and
Congress (I) today accused the affiliated organisations which
BJP-Ied Govern-ment of trying were damaging the secular
to saffronise Doordarshan and fabric of the country.
AIR. Party spokesperson, Ms.
Saffronisation
Of Indian television
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
EK TA K A P O O R and her counterparts like

Dheeraj Kumar and Aruna Irani seem to be intent on
saffronising television. Pick any soap on Sony, Star
Plus or Zee, and you will see some pooja or the other
being telecast into drawing rooms across the country.
Agreed, it’s a Hindu-dominated country and such
rituals are part and parcel of the lives of the majority,
but the frequency of such rituals has gone beyond
tolerance levels. Remember, this is on national
television and therefore needs to be tailored to every
Mind Blogs 1.0 131
other religion in the country. What’s more, much of

the customs and rituals shown in these serials are
predominantly north Indian and find no resonance
in south India. The TV channels seem to be happy
overdoing one religion and ignoring the rest. If this
isn’t a sign of national disintegration, what is?
There is more to this. When the odd serial does
have a storyline involving members of other
communities, it’s only by name. There are no rituals
being shown, no pilgrimages being captured on film
and no recitations of their sacred texts. Why these
double standards? Why can’t an equal emphasis be
given to all the other religions and showcase their
customs and rituals as well? And by this, I don’t just
mean Muslims (Sunnis and Shias) and Christians
(Catholics and Protestants), but also the Jains,
Sindhis, Lingayats, Vokkaligas, Brahmins, Vaishyas,
Shudras — each have their uniqueness, be it in the
way they conduct marriages or the way they eat and
dress. If the media is a mirror of society, then why is
the mirror not functioning like one? Why can’t we
show what is real and leave the interpretation to the
viewers? There are numerous cases of inter-religious
marriages of the famous and the not-so-famous kind.
And like everything else in this world, some work,
some don’t. Reality today is that there is more of an
integration of cultures than ever before, and barring
the fundamentalists, several others are co-existing in
a multi-religious environment. Why isn’t this being
reflected on the small screen? Why is there bias not
only towards non-Hindus, but also towards different
regions, creeds and colours? Why can’t a real India
132 Mind Blogs 1.0
be shown on national television?

Films are worse off. They represent the minorities
only to reinforce stereotypes. A Muslim crops up if
it’s to do with terrorism, a Sikh is in the picture to
convey colour and variety and a Parsi couple figures
if it’s to give a comical touch. This is particularly
predominant in films, language no bar.
Thankfully, our regional TV channels are much
more rooted in their portrayals. If there’s a pooja, it’s
rare and it’s only because the script demands it.
What’s more, they use non-Hindus to take their story
forward. There isn’t any perceived religious bias.
And even if there is, it isn’t so in-your-face like the
Ekta Kapoor serials. Will she and her ilk drop their
regional bias and become truly national and stop
furthering the RSS agenda? We are here to live and
let live. Not kill.
Mind Blogs 1.0 133
Sir Mark tully

M Y 12.5 x 9.5 cm diary is heavy with truth

about India. “Only politicians give advice, not
journalists,” said Sir Mark Tully, when I asked
whether he had a message for readers.
1985: Prestigious Order of the British Empire;
1992: Padma Shree; 2002: Knighted by the Queen of
England and 2005: Padma Bhushan. A 40-minute
tête-à-tête with Sir Mark Tully leaves no doubt in my
mind that these accolades have meaning, after all.
The justification: He knows India inside out. Not
from the perspective of a Britisher, not from the eyes
134 Mind Blogs 1.0
of a capitalist or communist. “Some people call me

an incurable secularist, but the truth is, I am not,” he
says. His, is the perspective of a true journalist.
“As journalists, we have the tendency to think that
only bad news is worth writing about. With the
English language having become the medium of
choice in India, we tend to underestimate and often
taunt people who are not sophisticated, like Laloo for
not turning out to be a good CM. He was mocked by
the same media which later said he was a wonderful
railway minister!” explained Tully.
In fact, we as Indians are quick to judge; especially
when it entails the actions of a celebrity. As Tully
pointed out, “When former deputy PM Devi Lal
announced waiver of loans for all farmers, he was
booed. When the suave, English-speaking
Chidambaram did so for a much larger scale of
farmers, it was taken positively.”
I set out to meet a man of substance and found the
meaning of India. Take the way our country is
handling terrorism. “It’s a global problem which no
country in the world has really learnt to cope with.
My suggestions to alleviate it are modernisation of
the police force, abstaining from discriminating, so it
doesn’t result in the harassment of any particular
community and examining its causes. Justice delayed
is justice denied,” explained Tully.
If modern-day media is merging blacks and
whites into shades of gray, the police imagine the
only citizens in the land to be money-churning
politicians. Tully’s assignment in Chikmagalur paints
India at its political worst. “I was in Chikmagalur to
Mind Blogs 1.0 135
film Mrs Gandhi on her campaign trail. George

Fernandes was making a speech and I was shocked to
see the police throwing stones at the crowd to create
a riot. They then fired at the press and my
cameraman was shot,” said the septuagenarian
journalist who chooses to stay in India. Why not? He
sees colour through shades of gray.
And we have our very own government to thank
for its efficient railways. Tully took me through one of
his colourful trips: “I a=ended a wedding at St. Marks
Cathedral in Bangalore. I had an important role to
play in the wedding and needed to travel by train
from Patna, change three times over to get here. The
first stop was at Mugulsarai, then Varanasi and last,
Itasi. The first disaster was at Mugalsarai. We missed
the connecting train and the station master said
another would come along in half an hour. It did. On
the way from Varanasi to Itasi, I got up in the middle
of the night, looked at my watch and found that we
were running two hours late. I eventually fell asleep
and when we reached Itasi, we were dot on time. I
made it to the wedding!” Like a true Indian, Sir Mark
Tully never lets go of an opportunity to travel by
Indian rail.
Sir Mark Tully: No advice here, just the complex
truth about India.
136 Mind Blogs 1.0
Public can complain

against noise pollution
The Times of India, Aug 9, 2002, for communication within, like
1024 hrs IST auditorium, conference rooms,
community halls and banquet
BANGALORE: Noise- halls.
makers, beware! The public has No person shall use or
been informed that any person operate in or upon any premises
troubled by noise pollution of any loudspeaker or other
any kind, loud music or apparatus for amplifying any
industrial noise, can now musical or other sound at such
register complaints over phone pitch or volume as to be audible
or in writing with the beyond 50 feet from such
jurisdictional police station. premises.
Immediate action will be No person shall use or
initiated against the offenders. operate in any open space
Under the provisions of the loudspeaker or other sound at
Karnataka Police Act, 1963, and such a pitch or volume as to be
the Environment (Protection) audible beyond 200 feet from
Act, 1986, loudspeakers and the place at which the musical
public address systems have to or other sound is produced or
be used under the following reproduced.
conditions: Special permissions
A loudspeaker or a public obtained also have strings
address system shall not be used attached. According to the Act,
except after obtaining a written the noise level should be kept at
permission from the authority. the bare minimum and the
A loudspeaker or a public timings should be observed in
address system shall not be used order to avoid the infringement
at night (between 10 pm and 6 of the rights of other people in
am) except in closed premises the neighbourhood.
Mind Blogs 1.0 137
If It Weren’t For horns,

Life Wouldn’t Be Worth It
S O M E T I M E L A S T year, Harvard, a friend

from Los Angeles came to Bangalore on a visit. We
went around the city on my Kinetic Honda. While
Harvard appreciated my skilful riding, he was
slightly appalled at the way I used the horn.
“If you honked like that in the US, you would be
fined,” said Harvard, sounding half-irritated and
half-amused. “No sane person would risk riding
hornless in India, Harvard,” I said, simultaneously
sounding it in order to avoid a pregnant cow on
138 Mind Blogs 1.0
Richmond Road.
Harvard’s observation was soon put to the test. A
resident of Jayanagar, I set out to work one fine
Tuesday to Frazer Town in east Bangalore. I kicked
my bike with a dead ba=ery about 20 times before it
spu=ered to life. Then, wiped the dusty visor of my
helmet with my gloved hands, accelerated, and
arrived at the main road in no time. Along came a bus
followed by a thick trail of smoke. I blinked, barely
able to see through my once again dusty visor. I
accelerated. A one-eyed, spo=ed mongrel
materialised in front of me, right out of nowhere. So
I honked. There was no sound. I tried again. I gripped
both the clutches and jammed them to the handles.
The dog trudged along, completely unaware of his
near-brush with death.
Great. A dead ba=ery, a dead horn and an almost
dead dog! But I was ge=ing late and dead horn or not,
I had to be at work by 10 am.
As I rode on, I adopted a mixture of determination
and aggression in my style of riding. So, I made it to
MG Road in record time, barring a few minor
mishaps like stepping on the foot of a fellow Kinetic
Honda rider and missing the rear wheel of a brick-
laden lorry by a mere half inch. Considering the mute
state of my horn, I hoped god would forgive my
rashness.
The green light came on. Impatient as I was, I
inched forward, hoping the auto ahead would move
faster. My hopes died even as they were being born.
The auto driver got off and wheeled his vehicle to the
side. It was clearly a case of no fuel. The driver turned
Mind Blogs 1.0 139
around and grinned, of course infuriating me.

Obviously, my facial expressions suggested that I had
all the time in the world. If only the horn came alive,
he would know my true colours. Speaking of colours,
the signal turned red again.
The speedometer indicated 60 kmph. The wind
forced my oversized helmet backwards, almost
pulling my head along. I thought I saw a vegetable
cart two hundred yards ahead. There was the Home
Guards Office to the left and Ulsoor Lake to the right.
I swerved a li=le to the right in order to overtake the
cart.
A whiz of green appeared like a flash, even as I
overtook the cart and swerved to the left, again. I
jammed the brakes, just missing the bike in front and
paused to regain my breath. The vegetable vendor
overtook me.
It was 50 seconds to 10 am when I unlatched the
wooden gate at my office. As I trudged up the green
path, I couldn’t help but wonder whether friend
Harvard might have enjoyed that hornless ride. One
might just end up behind bars if one didn’t honk in
India!
140 Mind Blogs 1.0
Virtually Yours: A chat room

love story
Hindustan Times, February 13, 2009 Despite coming from different
at 1102 hrs hrs IST countries and meeting in an
Internet chat room 12 years ago
MUMBAI: He was a — and despite American
guitarist with a Mumbai rock Kathleen Ferrara being 20 years
band. She was a dinosaur tour older than her Indian partner
guide in a New York museum. Akshay Singh Jamwal, they are
They met in a science fiction living together in an extended
chat room. And Cupid struck. family in Juhu, in Mumbai.
is Is No Irish Joke

BY ZAHID H JAVALI
IN V E R T I N G T H E argument until the truth

falls out of its pockets. That is what I found myself
doing the other day, when my brother reported that
he cha=ed with an Irish youngster who claimed he
could read peoples’ minds.
I didn’t believe it at first. But when my brother
gave me instances of how the Irishman uncannily
predicted everything that my brother was and
wasn’t, I decided to check on Mr Know-It-All and see
if there was a story in it after all.
I logged on to Yahoo! Messenger and added him
Mind Blogs 1.0 141
as a friend.
The next day, he was online, and we got talking. I
didn’t hint at his mind-reading skills. But he knew
who I was, and he said it in so many words.
“You aren’t American, are you?” he asked. I had
used an American name as my chat id. “And your
name starts with Z and you are a journalist with a
tabloid in Asia.”
Suspicion had flown out the window, but what
came next chilled me to the marrow. “You know, I
am a professional assassin. I have killed a dozen
people until now. But I don’t hate anybody like
terrorists do. I just do it for the money. Would you
still like to be my friend?”
“Sure, life is a game, let’s play it,” I said and
continued: “So how much money do you have?”
“About 500 thousand pounds in the bank and
about 300 million in my hotel room.”
He didn’t stop at that. He told me how he killed a
guy who was making out with his girlfriend, and
how he read his mind, and killed him.
“Dead men can’t talk, and I am a free man,” he
said.
When probed on how he mastered the art of
mind-reading and whether the way I answered his
questions had anything to do with it, he said: “I can
hear things, like people talking to me… I don’t know
who… it’s like your conscience.”
“What are the voices telling you right now?” I
asked.
“That you are a good guy, hard working, and
always in a bit of a hurry.”
142 Mind Blogs 1.0
“Do the voices say that you and I will be friends

for a long time?”
“We will never meet,” he said, “Our roads don’t
cross. We will be Internet buddies.”
Then I asked him if he would know when I would
die or be=er still, when he would die.
“I will be dead when I am 25 in a police shootout,”
he said, point-blank, “I still have two years.”
I was stunned. The silence was eerie, with just the
sound of my fingers stabbing the keyboard.
“But if you can read minds then surely you know
how to avoid it,” I said. “If you know the police will
kill you that day, you can escape.”
His answer put an end to that, when he said, “I
don’t know which day or where.”
Inverting the argument until the truth falls out of
its pockets is all fine, but I don’t know if this Mr
Know-It-All can qualify for Ripley’s Believe It Or
Not. For all you know, he could be adept at reading
peoples’ minds, but might be a social isolate playing
out his real-life fantasies online. Or even worse, he
could be a genuine professional assassin. One never
knows. But yes, fact can be stranger than fiction.
Mind Blogs 1.0 143
Serendipity
Pronunciation: (sɛrənˈdpt) Origin:
1974: Coined by Horace
noun Walpole, suggested by The Three
The occurrence and development Princes of Serendip, the title of a
of events by chance in a happy or fairy tale in which the heroes
beneficial way: a fortunate stroke ‘were always making discoveries,
of serendipity by accidents and sagacity, of
things they were not in quest of’.
(Source: Oxford dictionary)
Nutty trouble
In e Backyard
AN A P P L E enlightened Newton. It took a

medium sized, half-ro=en coconut to shake me out of
my wits.
We stood in a backyard full of coconut trees that
fateful Sunday in September. Peter, Sham, Abhi,
Bharath, Deepu, Pupul, nine-month-old Akhil and I
enjoyed the partial sunlight streaming in through the
coconut leaves. It almost felt like Goa, but for the
missing sea.
144 Mind Blogs 1.0
Suddenly, my head felt like ten bricks had been

emptied on it. Akhil wailed simultaneously. My
tongue was wet with fresh blood.
Abhi stood in front of me with a half-ro=en
coconut. “Idhe nimma tale mele bithu (This fell on your
head),” he explained. “Oh my God, I’m dying, or
worse still, I’m going mad,” I mu=ered to myself.
But Akhil, off whose head the coconut had
bounced, was smiling by now! We handed him over
to his mother Viji an hour later. “The two of you are
really lucky. Coconuts are very auspicious,” she
smiled.
But my head still throbbed. Mother wasn’t
convinced about Viji’s theory. “See Dr Baliga,” she
said. Dr Baliga examined my head, carefully checking
for soft spots. He shone a pen torch into my eyes,
fastened a half smile upon his lips and asked: “Is the
coconut unhurt, my girl?”
Now that it was confirmed that I wasn’t going
insane, he explained, “It is a myth that coconuts don’t
fall on our heads. I’ve known patients who’ve
suffered multiple fractures as a result.”
It’s not just one gruesome coconut story I’ve
heard. There was Mrs B’s sister who sat in the portico
of her house, when two coconuts from her
neighbour’s tree fell on her head, driving her insane.
A 19-year-old walked home from her tuition class one
evening when a coconut loosened itself from the tree
above, crushing her skull. Others I know have had
narrow escapes like Mr PC. A dried coconut leaf
brushed his shoulder, narrowly missing his head.
Coconuts are also known for their notoriety in
Mind Blogs 1.0 145
damaging po=ed plants, denting fenders, breaking

window panes and ripping electrical wires.
Enough, I’ve decided. I’ve started a campaign
against coconut trees in residential areas by sending
coconut-plucking men regularly to neighbouring
houses.
You see… one coconut has shaken my wits and
rearranged them to act in the best interests of other
wits in peril!
146 Mind Blogs 1.0
Smoking ban from Thursday

Indian Express October 1, 2008 with the ban on smoking in
at 1443 hrs IST public places coming into
effect. The ban, the
NEW DELHI: Smokers implementation of which is
beware! Hotels, restaurants, effective from Mahatma
pubs, offices and even the Gandhi’s birth anniversary, will
international airport would be cover even hookah bars and
out of bounds for lighting up the pubs as well as private offices
rolled tobacco from Thursday and public places like bus stops.
Smoke, and Life

Goes Up In Flames
I T O O K to smoking when I was just three-

months-old. Dad was a chain smoker.
Ours was a joint family then. I was Grandpa
Jeeves’ pet. His other passion, as a retired man, was to
smoke cigare=es. He was great fun and I spent most
of my waking hours with him.
So, I inhaled the smoke without actually placing a
cigare=e between my lips.
I went to nursery school in a cycle rickshaw.
Mind Blogs 1.0 147
Perumal, the rickshaw man believed that a child must

first learn to respect his or her parents. As his thin but
strong legs applied pressure on the pedals, he sang,
Matha, Pitha, Guru, Daivam, for us. He repeated this
strain over and over again until he almost swallowed
his Ganesh Bidi, each time he puffed on it.
Dad had an active social life and so we partied
often. Most men and some women puffed on
cigare=es and cigars. Until I was ten, I strongly
believed that if a man didn’t smoke, he wasn’t a man
at all.
When I was eight, Dad was transferred to
Bangalore from Madras and we shifted base. The first
few years taught me that one didn’t have to smoke to
be manly. Talks and workshops in school, educated
me about the adverse effects of smoking. I had just
planned to educate Jeeves about the ills of smoking,
when we received news that he was dead. I was nine
then. Mom explained that it was the killer disease
cancer, that had taken him away from us. That was
the beginning. I dreaded cancer and hated cigare=es
for life.
Ours was an all-girls’ convent school. None of the
girls I knew in school smoked. But I did meet several
girls and boys at parties who had taken to the habit
when they were still in high school. I decided they
had to be informed about the ill-effects of smoking.
But fear of losing friends was greater than the urge
to tell them. What worried me then was a selfish
concern — I couldn’t imagine myself ending up with
cancer, the dreadful demon that perpetually haunted
me.
148 Mind Blogs 1.0
During my pre-university years, I spent more time

with smokers and thereby inhaled more. Around this
time, an uncle fell prey to cancer and died. Whilst he
bade goodbye to me forever, I cringed at the sight of
his body blackened by medication. He was also a
chain smoker.
It really hits home when it happens to someone
dear to you. What was I waiting for? I needed to start
somewhere, and so I spoke to Dad, but in vain. As far
as my friends were and still are concerned, telling
them not to smoke, I discovered, was the easiest way
to strain my relationship with them. I gave up when
I sensed this happening.
During my BA days, boys and teachers alike
puffed outside the college premises together. Young
love blossomed every second day and girls spent
most of their time in college worried about their
boyfriends, convincing them not to smoke and
threatening to `ditch’ them. But the boys smoked on
the sly.
I spent six months at a college in Pune doing my
Masters in Economics. The pressure to perform was
high and many boys and girls in the hostel thought
that smoking would sharpen their senses and keep
them awake and ticking, 24 hours a day. But all that
happened was that many non-smokers ended up
with headaches and asthma. And the smokers spent
more time hiding from the warden than with their
books.
I was back home after having given up my course
half-way through. The reason, Dad’s memory cells
slowly started weakening due to blood clots in his
Mind Blogs 1.0 149
brain. The cause, according to the doctors, was

excessive smoking. He had to give it up, though it
was a marathon task for someone who had started
smoking at 12 years of age.
At work, I regard my boss with great respect. In
fact, he is more a foster father to me. He smokes a
cigare=e or two in my presence and I don’t know
how many more when I am not around. Though I
express my disapproval, old habits are tough to
discard.
Just the other day, a friend told me that she started
smoking a few years ago and wasn’t able to give it
up. Talented photographer and friend R regarded the
cigare=e as integral to his thinking process. However,
Dad is dead. So is good friend R, who developed an
incurable tumour.
Am I ever going to be able to inspire anyone to
give up smoking? Past experience does not prove
promising. But I’ll try hard until my dying day. Who
knows when the ‘dragon’ might consume me. After
all, I’ve been smoking for over 30 years.
150 Mind Blogs 1.0
turn! turn! turn!

A song by BYRDS. Words-adapted from The Bible, book
of Ecclesiastes. Music-Pete Seeger
To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)

There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones
together
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from
embracing
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late
Mind Blogs 1.0 151
Being alone
I GUESS the truth is that in life one is always

alone.
You are born.
Then you have siblings.
You make friends.
You have a peer group.
You fall in love.
You fall out of love.
You have colleagues.
You meet people with similar interests.
You fall in love again.
152 Mind Blogs 1.0
You marry.
You have children.
Possibly grandchildren.
You grow old.
But, in all of that, you are always alone.
The only person responsible for yourself is `you’.
You need to care for yourself, before someone else
can.
You need to make yourself happy, before anyone
else will.
Only then can your soul be at peace or even
experience genuine togetherness.
Mind Blogs 1.0 153
Memories, time
and Distance
A FRIEND e-mailed to say that he was ‘tying

the knot’. As I read his mail, there was a lingering
sense of loss.
I thought of school. I don’t do that often these
days.
I saw again the beginnings of many dreams and
the struggle for excellence.
Friends’ names resurfaced, and then once more
slipped into oblivion. M, beautiful M. RA — my
woman of substance. AS — discerning spirit. AN —
154 Mind Blogs 1.0
ever intuitive. RS — my dearest friend. Where are

they all?
More frightening was the self-doubt.
Am I the person that I had dreamt I would be?
Had I achieved all that we passionately discussed,
till the early hours of the morning?
Had my mouth grown into a sullen pucker of
embi=ered discontent?
Had I grown old?
I thought of my friend who I have watched grow
from a boy into a man, albeit from a distance. There
hardly remained any traces of the boy who had been
my great friend.
I thought of our special bond that had slowly
disintegrated over the last decade. Bit by bit.
If we had to still be friends, it had to be a new
beginning every time. There was no occasion for that
and it was never important enough.
Time and distance.
I am happy about my life. It would be true to say
that while I have not achieved great success, I have
never been so content. I am also proud of my friend’s
achievements and I am happy for all that he has
found. But, there is also that lingering sadness for all
that we have irretrievably lost.
Mind Blogs 1.0 155
Acid attack on law student

The Hindu, October 22, 2008 marriage proposal, on Tuesday.
at 1530 hrs IST The victim, Karthika, a final
year LLB student of Bishop
BANGALORE: A 22-year- Cottons Women’s Law College
old law student suffered burns here, suffered 20 per cent burns
after being attacked with acid in the attack that took place in
allegedly by her childhood the Holy Trinity Church
friend, after she spurned his compound near MG Road.
Love
IS AN end in itself.
Steadfast.
Satisfying, Satiating.
Not self seeking.
Never fuelled by underlying other motives.
But the fluid echo of life’s expression of itself.
Love is silence.
Love is noise.
It breathes deeply.
Laughs easily.
Lives completely.
It is to life,
As life is to love.
156 Mind Blogs 1.0
Bangalore’s
Very Own Shahjahan?
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
FO R I T I employee Muniyappa (51),

Gowramma was more than a wife. She was the
motivating force and, as he said tearfully, “The
goddess who transformed me from a wayward
alcoholic to a responsible family man. I swore by her
love.”
And as if to test his love for her, Gowramma had
once jokingly asked him, “How will you show your
love for me after I am dead?”
Mind Blogs 1.0 157
“I’ll build the Taj Mahal in your memory,” he had

said fiercely to her then.
Someone up there seemed to like the idea. Only
months later, 27-year-old Gowramma died tragically
in a motorbike accident.
Life lost all meaning for Muniyappa. He stopped
going to work and became a man afflicted by the loss
of his beloved. But when old memories rushed to
swamp him, he recalled his promise to build a Taj. It
became his only mission in life.
Although he came from a poor family,
Muniyappa wasn’t daunted in the least. Like a man
possessed, he applied for voluntary retirement from
ITI. Armed with gratuity, provident fund and other
benefits which added up to about Rs 2 lakhs, he set
out to prove his dedication.
Muniyappa decided to build the Taj Mahal on a
40×40 plot in the graveyard near his house in
Rammoorthy Nagar on the outskirts of Bangalore.
On the advice of his engineer friend L Jayakumar,
he appointed Karpuswamy of Vellore for the job.
Work started in due earnest in 1992, only six months
after his wife’s death.
But the Moghul-esque enterprise was not without
hurdles.
“At first, the authorities objected to the building of
the tomb. Then I asked for their permission. When
there was no answer, I began to build the memorial
regardless, because I knew that once it was built, no
one could demolish it. There is a law that protects
these kinds of monuments,” he explained.
Apparently, the authorities did not come in his way
158 Mind Blogs 1.0
and he carried on monument-building.

But soon, Muniyappa realised that Rs 2 lakhs was
nowhere near enough to complete the task. Unfazed,
Muniyappa turned to real estate, where he thought
he could make some money. With sheer grit and
determination, he succeeded in selling some houses
and earned enough to complete the job.
His dream became a reality after six years of
unrelenting pursuit on January 14, 1998.
Not to lose sight of his goal, Muniyappa had not
shaved in all those years. “The beard reminded me of
the promise I had to keep to my beloved,” he said to
me. Only when the Taj finally took a bow on
Vijayanapura Grounds, did he shave off his beard.
“My Mahal may not be as big as the real Taj
Mahal, but my love is definitely greater than
Shahjahan’s,” proclaimed Muniyappa, who went on
to invest another Rs 4-5 lakhs to make his Taj Mahal
picture perfect: a milky-white fence, entrance door, a
rose garden and a musical fountain.
But there was one thing, Muniyappa was very
certain about. His wife’s continuing presence. “To
me, she is still alive. Even now, I hear her call out to
me when I’m at home. One day, I will be re-united
with her,” he said, wistfully.
PS: Fact is indeed stranger than fiction. When this writer

called his home six months later, his second wife picked up
the phone. She happens to be the sister of his first wife! He
is no Shahjahan.
Mind Blogs 1.0 159
earlobe Watching
BY ZAHID H JAVALI
S H E S M E L L E D like rain after a night of

thunderstorms. But my friend had other ideas.
“It’s easy to cheat the nose,” he countered,
thumbing the lighter into flame. “If I say it smells like
a rose, you will smell the same even if it’s not.” It was
his way of telling me not to get too gung- ho over the
girl at the next table.
I didn’t budge. Si=ing at a 45-degree angle from
her, if she were to look at me, she would have to turn
to me. “How do I get her to look,” I wondered.
“Your body language tells me that you want her
160 Mind Blogs 1.0
a=ention,” my friend said. At last, he seemed to come

around to my view of things.
“Stare at the earlobe nearest to you,” he
suggested, in all seriousness.
“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked. “Think of a
be=er way to make me look foolish,” I added.
“I’m serious,” he said, “Just try it. If it doesn’t
work, I will pay for your lunch.”
I blinked. Reconsidered. Blinked again. Accepted.
I stared at her earlobe, something I can say in all
honesty I’ve never done in my life. Earlobes have
never a=racted me, though the other day when a girl
turned up with her ears as big as the mascot of MAD
magazine (and this was a top model endorsing
national brands on TV), I did notice. There is face-
reading, tea leaves-reading, palm-reading… but
earlobes? Now this was new, but I was game.
Since she was seated three chairs away from me, I
couldn’t precisely ‘read’ her earlobe, but I could stare
at it with reasonable precision.
It hadn’t even been 30 seconds when our eyes met.
Now I must admit, I have never met an eye for an eye,
especially if it’s from a girl who is still a stranger to
me. It’s happened to me on MG Road, Brigade Road
and even on Church Street and Resthouse Crescent
Road. Whenever my eyes met that of a girl’s and she
continued staring at me, I was the first to lower my
eyes and drop the only communication mode
available for interaction with complete strangers.
Maybe I am essentially shy, maybe it’s out of
respect for the woman, maybe it’s the fear of being
ridiculed, but the fact remains that my eyes do bow
Mind Blogs 1.0 161
down under pressure from a female gaze. They just

can’t take it.
The old order didn’t change this time either. My
eyes dropped the stare, but my friend had won the
bet.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“It’s a proven fact, not mumbo-jumbo,” he
offered.
“What’s that?”
“Every one of us has an energy field around us,”
he began, “People call it aura. What happens when
someone else intrudes on your space? You look the
intruder in the eye and that’s what happened here.
You were intruding into her space and she had to
turn to you and remove the intrusion.”
“And what if you like the intrusion?” I asked.
“You don’t drop your stare, you smile,” he said.
“What if she doesn’t smile back?” I queried.
“Drop the stare, pronto,” he replied.
“And what if she smiles back?” I questioned again.
“Drop the stare anyway and move on to the girl at
the next table,” he explained.
“But why?” I asked.
“That’s the rule of the game. It’s earlobe-watching
and it’s supposed to be harmless. That way, you keep
trouble out of it,” he said.
So now, I know why my eyes drop to the ground
sooner than you can say Commitment.
162 Mind Blogs 1.0
‘Pink chaddi’ campaign draws

over 34,000 members
The Times of India, 14 February and women have joined the
2009 at 0428 hrs IST campaign against an
unsuspecting Pramod Muthalik,
NEW DELHI: The `Pink the Sri Ram Sene chief who
Chaddi’ underwear campaign claimed responsibility for
has attracted 34,032 members attacking women in a
and counting. Barely a few Mangalore pub earlier this year.
hours to go before V-Day, men
Seeing Red On
Valentine’s
“ A A A H G R R E H H H H … No, not me too!” I

yelled zipping up my green jacket in frenzy. Only a
couple of minutes earlier, the cloth merchant heard
my snigger at his preferential display of bright red
chiffons. Only a minute earlier, he had cast an
appraising look at my — yes, red shirt.
It struck at about noon in the guise of an SMS
message — “Happy Valentine’s Day” — from good
friend Melodramatic M. “It’s alright I guess, M is the
Mind Blogs 1.0 163
apt instrument to escalate Cupid to fame at least once

a year,” I consoled myself even as I shot a wish in
return. Chagrined at falling for the Valentine wishing
bait, I made a mighty resolution to abstain from such
mindless imitation of what originated as the
Lupercalian festival in Rome.
Bangalore, the partaker of all ceremonies, the
cosmopolitan king, might have even put a chance
Roman from Caesar’s time at ease. In the heart of
town, red were the heart-shaped balloons, red
clothes, red lips of women, red décor of the lingerie
stores. How my heart bled at this literal painting of
the town red… Pairs walked hand in hand. Each
flaunted a red rose or a bunch of the same, clutched
gifts and brandished cards. And I wondered how
much money the international card chains and gift
stores made… and how li=le the crippled man at the
traffic signal had to eat.
By then, I was also hungry for those roasted
peanuts off the cart. I gorged on them and gaped at
the red sea on the narrow backstreet. My two-
wheeler spu=ered to life and I held out a fiver, gently
calling out to the peanut man, “Ree” (equivalent of
‘sir’ in Kannada). No response. I called again, “Ree,
duddu thogolli (Sir, take the money).” Still no response.
Then it came to me in a flash and I murmured,
“Valentine,” adding a soft, “Duddu (Money).” He
swivelled with sparkling eyes, arms outstretched for
his fiver! Beep went my mobile phone again. Fate had
its own game to play. Stoic C had been traumatised
by the Valentine bug too, and had decided to share
her misery with her good friends. How could I defy
164 Mind Blogs 1.0
fate? I wished her back. “This is going to be my last

Valentine wish for the day,” I said to myself, sternly.
But I ended up wishing another friend. So sorry D.
Sorry MR. And sorry A to Z, of course excluding all
those I wished in-between.
Mind Blogs 1.0 165
I Suppose I Don’t…
I SUPPOSE…
Black is black
And white is a shade too many
I suppose…
Green is gentle
And red is a flash of energy
I suppose…
Blue is still
And pink may please too many
I suppose…
Black is pink
Red is white
And blue and green are the sea
I suppose…
There is harmony
In shades I cannot see
I suppose, perhaps I don’t….
166 Mind Blogs 1.0
MIRROR-MAN’S EPIBLOG
e Writer’s Quest
BY MANOHAR PRABHU
I L O O K E D for me
Pic: Vivek Mathew
in the vast blue sky,

behind the changing,
swirling clouds.
I hunted for myself in
the depths of the great
ocean, in the inky
blackness of the deepest
waters.
I searched for my
shadow in the crowds.
I tried to spot my
face in the eyes of
another, reflected in dark brown pools of feeling.
I listened to hear my voice in the sound of the rain.
I read all the books in all the libraries
to try and find an accurate description of me.
At last, I looked into my own mind.
Beyond my mind I found my heart.
Mind Blogs 1.0 167
I looked deeper.
Beyond my heart I found my soul.
There I came face to face with myself in a mirror -
Who was this man with my face, my nose, my jaw,
my eyes?
Did I see evil or did I see good in that visage?
Did he smile at me kindly or mockingly?
Was I this face or the light that made it visible or
the watcher who observed?
Was I the artist or the image, the canvas or the
paint?
Suddenly I knew:
This was all a dream
And the Dreamer had no face
To call His own.
The author is an entrepreneur and writer of Light Songs

168 Mind Blogs 1.0
THE LAST WORD
Now It Can Be told!

BY PETER COLACO
T
H E G A N G of Three
Pic: Harmit Singh
who have been recently

observed around a table in
Koshy’s, evening after
evening… (in concentrated
silence, with an occasional
Mexican Wave of giggles
passing through the group). They were not just our
usual happy, Koshy’s regulars, drinking tea for
timepass…
They were 'bloggers', surreptitiously pioneering a
new Art Form (a Weblog site collated in a handy
print-form for easy access).
It’s MIND BOGGLING, isn’t it? The hard version
copy of an essentially 'virtual' literary form, now in
cold hard print… No downloading code, no
passwords…. It’s appropriately called MIND
BLOGS. And, Bangalore style, it is a 'one-by-three'
production.
Enjoy!
The author is former faculty member of advertising at IIMB;

documentary filmmaker and author of Peter Colaco's Bangalore
Mind Blogs 1.0 171
Write Your Mind Blog...
Done writing your blog post? Now post it online at

http://mindblogs1.wordpress.com. e best submission
will be published in the next edition of Mind Blogs.
Pic: Gita K Vaidyanathan
e grasshopper finishes his supper. Senior jour-
nalist Zahid h JaVali catches him in action,
through his shutterbug, his mind’s eye. e
grasshopper doesn’t know this. e world sees it,
and falls in love with the grasshopper’s supper.
Zahid is not a foodie, he loves to tell his story in a
way you can digest it. he’s a meticulous guy, with a
zany zest for story-telling.
e fly continues to sit on the wall. author of novel

Ginger Soda lemon Pop, ChriStina
danielS has observed him, noting his every
move, storing descriptions in her mind. e fly has
no clue he’s of such great interest to a writer. e
reader gently follows the fly, and wonders about its
place in the world. Christina is not into flies; but
she takes a trip in to this fly's soul, and then, inspires you to go on that
journey. She’s a go-getter, in a gentle, artistic way.
e butterfly is romancing the jasmine bud. Senior

journalist nirmala GoVindaraJan has flit-
ted with him, from rose and lily to jasmine, basking
in the rendezvous. e butterfly relaxes in the af-
termath of the journey. e human race catches a
whiff of rose essence, spray of jasmine, and, a fan-
tasy ride to the nether world. nirmala doesn’t know
the butterfly is, in reality, a moth; she believes in wonder. She rides life like
a 350 cc bike, and, suggests you hop on — vroom.
Sunshine, rain, bombs, bridges, mothers, friends, bikes,
distances — sorrow, joy, hope, love, celebration — cheap
thrills, poignant observations and an intense desire to
make this world a better place, bind these pieces by three
writers of diverse, yet conjoined personality. Laugh, cry,
reach out…and savour those small, many times unnoticed
moments through the experiences of these writers. Mind
Blogs 1.0 — a collection of heartfelt ramblings from
Bangalore.
Pioneering a new art form (blog to book). And,

Bangalore style, it's a 'one-by-three' production
— Peter Colaco, author, filmmaker
ISBN 978-81-910903-1-4
9 788191 090314
A Write Wing Media book Cover & back page photographs

Non Fiction by Zahid H Javali
www.writewing.in Cover design by Chandru N

Mind Blogs 1.0

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M ritin ill

MIND BLOGS 1.0

MIND BLOGS 1.0

No part of this publication may be reproduced,

MIND BLOGS 1.0

Sights & Sounds

O VER THE past 60

Pic: Vivek Mathew

beings and yet stay connected with our inner being.

The author is a theatre person, environmentalist, musician,

A City Brought To Her Knees by CHRISTINA DANIELS ..............103

S OMETIMES, IT is a privilege and a curse to

So the writer sets out on one endeavour after

Luckily for Alice, the li=le magic bo=le had

Seeking eye Balls…

trail of the brand new Ikon that transported them, I

transformer. Alright, I said, what does it do? “It keeps

horns that create sound

horn, Not OK, Please!

I S T R I V E to be a happy driver, which is

For those who think that

For those who think

For those who think

The author is a blogger and works with an MNC.

Uma Thurman’s Stalker

I HAVE always been a sucker for all things red.

belonged to his father is besides the point.

left me far behind, I would wonder why he was in

a Lot happens Over Coﬀee

T H E R E A R E no names in this story. The

cleavage in ample evidence. “She is beautiful, after

silhoue=e, the waiter whispered to the reporter, “She

What happens to a nice Bangalore lad (it was not

‘The Gong Show’ on American television that

Then came a smart chap who knew what it meant

Elesh wins Rakhi Sawant’s hand

T H E T I M E was 3.40 pm. It was a Thursday,

I asked her to sit on the footpath instead, but she

“Don’t worry, we have your uncle’s number. Does

a Midsummer Night’s Dream

forth. Suddenly, the friendly smile with a handsome

And I cried out again at the passport oﬃce. Si=ing

Infosys suspends staffer for

T WA S close to the end of a working day.

nodkondu ata jasthi agide (He is distracted and

contribute money and time. I needed to speak to the

Yeddyurappa visits TN temples

Discovering a New Deity

T H E C O N C E P T of Kula Devatha or family

the idea was a scene with a Kula Devatha in a Tamil

paper, I didn’t pray that day,” she conceded.

IT HAPPENED one night. The way dreams do.

a day when there was good sunshine, she would go

nearing, we decided that it should be celebrated.

Slowdown, pink slips, salary cuts:

I F YOU work in the IT industry, it’s a place of

I’d be surprised if you have not met him or

her as yet. This kind of employer will make you

This kind of an employer will ask a writer,

“How do you write?” Another version of the

This type of employer will decide on your

behalf that you are too creative or too

PLEASE, PLEASE MAKE ME FEEL

You ﬁnd these guys at other places besides