1. Whenever I begin writing this post, the power goes off in the browsing centre at my college.
2. I don't have networking access on my desktop.
3. I'm too lazy.
4. Inspiration, a sustained one at that, is not easy coming - 'MY BATHROOM DIARIES' wouldn't really be appropriate.
5. I can only juggle words here and there. Don't expect me to provide funky links and stuff - to videos, fun sites, etc.
6. I've got better things to do!
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
House for Rent!
To Bokari and Mundu - for being foolish enough to resist the lethargic temptations of hostel-life.
When B. and M. finally revealed to me that they were indeed looking for a place to stay, I said a silent prayer for the bereaved souls of the remaining hostelites who had lost 2 eternal bakchod-addicts, accident-prone inexplicably fun mates. I told them that I'd be joining their house-hunt. They responded with a pathetically masked offhand, reluctant 'o.k.' - they were too desperate and relieved to have an old friend back to refuse. I took charge.
We re-examined the places they had sought out, near the second best Engineering College in the city. All had in common - 'To Let' posters and were distinguished by the locations of their toilets, something mundu seemed very particular about - he pleaded that he could not get the proper defecation feeling in some. Just in case you begin to doubt my involvement in the hectic affair, let me tell you that I made them pay for transportation and drinks.
The first - 1BHK - a single room had been raped to produce a 1BHK (Bedroom, Hall, Kitchen - with the toilet and bathroom, of course) - the rent was more than twice of a single room of the same dimensions.
The second - the place was midway between basement and ground level, dark and difficult to access. Pretty spacious, though.
The third - a series of single rooms - musty, unkempt, breathless - hardly appealing for someone's new home.
The fourth - the owner thought a language unsynchronization was enough to double the rent.
After we had exhausted most of the accomodations with 'To-Let' posters (primarily due to Mundu's obstinance in seeking an attached toilet), we decided to begin the door to door phase.
The entire search area was within a few hundred metres - but the search seemed endless....
A fat lady showed us single rooms - newly made, complete with almirahs and cots AND an indoor bathroom - which we ditched due to ventilation concerns. The room, at 2200 Rs. a month, was big enough for the 2 of them. Also, the fact that all 5 were empty hit some uncomfortable cord. Aunty was fat, sugary, sweet-talking and all but her merciless handling of her young daughter scared the adventures out of us.
Paying Guest was not on option - for the rent there, we could have a cool 1BHK, with full freedom (all pun intended).
Towards the end of the day, we finally got a dream offer - 1BHk, the standard rate of Rs. 2500/- rent and 20G deposit - and the rooms were larger than our eyes could take in. Actually, it was too good. We were not the only ones after it and
the owner wasn't committing to anyone. Our saviour - atleast for the 3 days that he mislead us - was the agent next door - diabetically sweet, persuasive, indulgent, understanding and offering the sky for sale. The owner was a Sub-Registrar, too
busy to handle the transaction himself. The occupants who had just left were batting for a female friend of theirs. The agent and his son took up our case for a month's rent as commission. After anarchy, false promises and endless waits for 3 days, we gave up.
They have finally settled in a 1BHK, spacious, slightly costlier, located opposite the musty single rooms and behind the linguistically impaired landlord. The price was negotiated at 2700 rent and 20G deposit - with much difficulty. We finally marched to his door, armed with our frustrated desperation and a translator in tow - the wretched organic heap of greed now wanted Rs. 3000. Apparently, a similar place in the neighbourhood had been rent for 3300 rent.
We staged a dramatic walkout in protest. That, along with Mundu's pathetic, accusing pleas, was enough to bring him round his bluff. We sealed the deal with a 500 Rs. note as token (which we're certain we saw him squander at a nearby bar) and assurances of abstinance from Galata (merrymaking noises), intoxication and the fairer vice that wasn't intended for losers like us anyway. The owner has indeed turned out to be a troublesome bastard.
As a treat, Bokari took me and Dude to a 6G-2BHK place - mindblowing......
ACT II - However, my house-hunting days were far from over.
Dude landed here a day before the college reopened, seemingly relaxed and unperturbed. It took just over half a dozen sites to light his cigarettes and stub them out in his now barren head. When Bokari and Mundu refused to take him in, well, let's just say he was disappointed.
The search for a single room began with the decision to keep off from agents. A couple of them are still after me....
The first was a garage - which the owner claimed to be a 1BHK. One normally doesn't associate dude with velocity and mechanical consistency.
We revisied the earlier options, just for curiousity sake.
The only possibility was the fat housewife with the newly built single rooms, which were now available for 2000 Rs. a month. Half an hour of Maths and mocking Dude's habits, we figured Dude wasn't rich enough to afford living outside at such a rent, specially because he was yet to pay my commission.
Not perturbed by her by-now-pulverised customers misery, she offered Dude a 1400 p.m. room - good enough - only the toilet was a stair away (actually, it was under the stair) - perhaps owners should give a more serious thought to the pressures of defecation.
Although we had found rooms for a couple of our batchmates and had been beaten to a third by a toenail, we underestimated the local fervour to rent their houses. This is where we exposed ourselves to a saddle-less ride.
Everyone there was an agent - from a 12 year old kid to a chaiwallah to a tailor to the bored housewife to toothless hags to their thrifty maids - everyone knew of some place for rent.
I smirked and ridiculed my way through thatched roofs, former cowsheds, leaking roofs, cracked walls and noisy localities as Dude refused to come to terms with his bad luck - if he had only come a few days before the start of the Semester...
Finally, I left him to his cigarettes and rudderless plans. I had enough for an article.
He recently told me that he had moved in with a notorious doper.
Apart from the fun, I now have places to sleep at - after midnight, i.e. (hostel gates close at 10:30). It's a good location - friendly student crowd, familiar tastes and faces within easy reach. Transportation's not a problem.
FINAL THOUGHTS -
Anyone and everyone is a broker in the PESIT vicinity. Trust none.
The 'free' student population is addicted to cheap thrills, learning a new meaning of independence everyday.
Real estate is a booming business. All you need is land near a big college, regular interactions with the local agents and a 'To-Let' poster. People build houses here only to rent them out - with floors topped upon every year - even though they restrict themselves to a single room in their ever burgeoning mansions.
House-hunting is an art - you need -
a. loyal, warm-hearted friends to help you get a roof over your head...
b. good communication skills - to badger every second person you see with a 'Room Khaali hain kya' question...
c. a watchful eye - to spot 'To-Let' ads, newly painted floors and greedy faces...
d. time - to waste, experiment and discover human nature...
e. emotional flexibilty - to handle rejection, deceit and the ever-changing demands of insatiable appetites...
f. negotiating skills, dramatic timing and an experienced translator...
g. LUCK!!!
HAPPY HOUSE HUNTING!!!! ---- WITH BEST WISHES, lohit.
When B. and M. finally revealed to me that they were indeed looking for a place to stay, I said a silent prayer for the bereaved souls of the remaining hostelites who had lost 2 eternal bakchod-addicts, accident-prone inexplicably fun mates. I told them that I'd be joining their house-hunt. They responded with a pathetically masked offhand, reluctant 'o.k.' - they were too desperate and relieved to have an old friend back to refuse. I took charge.
We re-examined the places they had sought out, near the second best Engineering College in the city. All had in common - 'To Let' posters and were distinguished by the locations of their toilets, something mundu seemed very particular about - he pleaded that he could not get the proper defecation feeling in some. Just in case you begin to doubt my involvement in the hectic affair, let me tell you that I made them pay for transportation and drinks.
The first - 1BHK - a single room had been raped to produce a 1BHK (Bedroom, Hall, Kitchen - with the toilet and bathroom, of course) - the rent was more than twice of a single room of the same dimensions.
The second - the place was midway between basement and ground level, dark and difficult to access. Pretty spacious, though.
The third - a series of single rooms - musty, unkempt, breathless - hardly appealing for someone's new home.
The fourth - the owner thought a language unsynchronization was enough to double the rent.
After we had exhausted most of the accomodations with 'To-Let' posters (primarily due to Mundu's obstinance in seeking an attached toilet), we decided to begin the door to door phase.
The entire search area was within a few hundred metres - but the search seemed endless....
A fat lady showed us single rooms - newly made, complete with almirahs and cots AND an indoor bathroom - which we ditched due to ventilation concerns. The room, at 2200 Rs. a month, was big enough for the 2 of them. Also, the fact that all 5 were empty hit some uncomfortable cord. Aunty was fat, sugary, sweet-talking and all but her merciless handling of her young daughter scared the adventures out of us.
Paying Guest was not on option - for the rent there, we could have a cool 1BHK, with full freedom (all pun intended).
Towards the end of the day, we finally got a dream offer - 1BHk, the standard rate of Rs. 2500/- rent and 20G deposit - and the rooms were larger than our eyes could take in. Actually, it was too good. We were not the only ones after it and
the owner wasn't committing to anyone. Our saviour - atleast for the 3 days that he mislead us - was the agent next door - diabetically sweet, persuasive, indulgent, understanding and offering the sky for sale. The owner was a Sub-Registrar, too
busy to handle the transaction himself. The occupants who had just left were batting for a female friend of theirs. The agent and his son took up our case for a month's rent as commission. After anarchy, false promises and endless waits for 3 days, we gave up.
They have finally settled in a 1BHK, spacious, slightly costlier, located opposite the musty single rooms and behind the linguistically impaired landlord. The price was negotiated at 2700 rent and 20G deposit - with much difficulty. We finally marched to his door, armed with our frustrated desperation and a translator in tow - the wretched organic heap of greed now wanted Rs. 3000. Apparently, a similar place in the neighbourhood had been rent for 3300 rent.
We staged a dramatic walkout in protest. That, along with Mundu's pathetic, accusing pleas, was enough to bring him round his bluff. We sealed the deal with a 500 Rs. note as token (which we're certain we saw him squander at a nearby bar) and assurances of abstinance from Galata (merrymaking noises), intoxication and the fairer vice that wasn't intended for losers like us anyway. The owner has indeed turned out to be a troublesome bastard.
As a treat, Bokari took me and Dude to a 6G-2BHK place - mindblowing......
ACT II - However, my house-hunting days were far from over.
Dude landed here a day before the college reopened, seemingly relaxed and unperturbed. It took just over half a dozen sites to light his cigarettes and stub them out in his now barren head. When Bokari and Mundu refused to take him in, well, let's just say he was disappointed.
The search for a single room began with the decision to keep off from agents. A couple of them are still after me....
The first was a garage - which the owner claimed to be a 1BHK. One normally doesn't associate dude with velocity and mechanical consistency.
We revisied the earlier options, just for curiousity sake.
The only possibility was the fat housewife with the newly built single rooms, which were now available for 2000 Rs. a month. Half an hour of Maths and mocking Dude's habits, we figured Dude wasn't rich enough to afford living outside at such a rent, specially because he was yet to pay my commission.
Not perturbed by her by-now-pulverised customers misery, she offered Dude a 1400 p.m. room - good enough - only the toilet was a stair away (actually, it was under the stair) - perhaps owners should give a more serious thought to the pressures of defecation.
Although we had found rooms for a couple of our batchmates and had been beaten to a third by a toenail, we underestimated the local fervour to rent their houses. This is where we exposed ourselves to a saddle-less ride.
Everyone there was an agent - from a 12 year old kid to a chaiwallah to a tailor to the bored housewife to toothless hags to their thrifty maids - everyone knew of some place for rent.
I smirked and ridiculed my way through thatched roofs, former cowsheds, leaking roofs, cracked walls and noisy localities as Dude refused to come to terms with his bad luck - if he had only come a few days before the start of the Semester...
Finally, I left him to his cigarettes and rudderless plans. I had enough for an article.
He recently told me that he had moved in with a notorious doper.
Apart from the fun, I now have places to sleep at - after midnight, i.e. (hostel gates close at 10:30). It's a good location - friendly student crowd, familiar tastes and faces within easy reach. Transportation's not a problem.
FINAL THOUGHTS -
Anyone and everyone is a broker in the PESIT vicinity. Trust none.
The 'free' student population is addicted to cheap thrills, learning a new meaning of independence everyday.
Real estate is a booming business. All you need is land near a big college, regular interactions with the local agents and a 'To-Let' poster. People build houses here only to rent them out - with floors topped upon every year - even though they restrict themselves to a single room in their ever burgeoning mansions.
House-hunting is an art - you need -
a. loyal, warm-hearted friends to help you get a roof over your head...
b. good communication skills - to badger every second person you see with a 'Room Khaali hain kya' question...
c. a watchful eye - to spot 'To-Let' ads, newly painted floors and greedy faces...
d. time - to waste, experiment and discover human nature...
e. emotional flexibilty - to handle rejection, deceit and the ever-changing demands of insatiable appetites...
f. negotiating skills, dramatic timing and an experienced translator...
g. LUCK!!!
HAPPY HOUSE HUNTING!!!! ---- WITH BEST WISHES, lohit.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
WATCH YOUR MONEY GROW – INVESTMENTS, BANKING AND 5 MONTHS AT HOME (SERIES I – OUTDOORS, PART 1)
8:46 PM 8/5/06
It gives me no pleasure to be writing this today - I've left the ending scenes of LOR 3 and a whole range of Saturday matinee to force my eyes onto a computer screen. Maybe it was my mother's persistent nagging that drove me to my room.
Ever since I told her that I was going to end up being a writer sooner or later, she's been trying to squash my literary dreams. I tried to shut her up with a compilation of my notes. She dismissed them as commonplace and uninteresting, insignificant takes on everyday life that didn't amount to much. I tell her that my daily life is more sensational than the weekly media throw-up.
I crash-landed at home some bleary day in March. As the self-enforced vacation now draws to a end, I must look back at this opportunity to connect with my cynically aesthetic side - those long hours spend loitering in the wet rain, the frequent indulgence to my creative, arty, crafty side, the constant attempts tot understand human nature.
Though my now-relieved parents will insist that I'm the greatest couch potato ever born, I do find time to complete the occasional chores they throw at me – I even find time to indulge my inexplicable, unpredictable, apparently unrewarding cravings – from teaching my maid’s children to bowling to a wall for hours to scribbling over unsuspecting sheets of naked paper. Here’s a thought….
My father’s been trying to force monetary terms and processes into my mind for a long time now. Initially, I was game for it – money’s a sufficient lure. I even ‘worked’ with my dad’s investment agent for a couple of days.
I could not, however, bring myself to return on the 3rd day. Maybe because the work was too easy – too boring – too much of Maths. Maybe because the female colleague that I’d been promised wasn’t too – well – you know – I mean – all right, she was damn ugly.
My ‘employer’ is a good man – he better be – for he’s an agent, a Dalal, who’s paid for handling other people’s money. He was willing to hire me – maybe too willing (he even offered me an a.c. cabin) – for his business requires men of trust and he saw no risk in recruiting a well-off 20 year old – aimless, rich and the son of a thrifty client. ‘Rakh lo!’ To be honest, I was tempted into the money business – all you have to do is keep track of the markets, keep a good relationship with your innocent, trusting clients who have neither the time nor the inclination to keep track of their money. It’s quite interesting, actually and above all, rewarding!
Did I just say ‘interesting’? I remember calling it boring some time back – well, it’s boring if you have to do it day after day – the same stocks and shares ‘rising’ and ‘falling’ – the only difference being the colour and direction of the arrows accompanying them. You can also invest – banks, Post-offices, Mutual funds, PFs, NSCs – lots of tax saving options and stuff – I don’t want to discuss them here – would be an unfair tribute to my former employer – who divides his day between supervising a lazy staff and visiting clients to collect orders, passbooks, signed forms, cheques, cash and stuff (anyway, I’ve been avoiding him ever since I ran out on a promising career in ‘telling others how to multiply their money’ – he appeared disappointed at my immature decision to rather pursue a B.E. – Dhut! Dhut!)
My father wasn’t too disappointed, though – he made sure I kept visiting banks.
There are 2 kinds of banks – big and small. Big = huge buildings, excess of furniture and employees, terms like ‘can I help you’, high tech machinery, central air-conditioning and space – lots of space. Nothing for me there – bast**ds charge you 85 Rs. for an account statement!
The smaller branches of some Govt. banks – now you have something there!
Case study --- the colour of money – tinged with brown.
Location - Bank of India, Ulyan branch.
Observation period – actually, I’ve been going there for years but it’s only for the 5-6 hours I’ve spent there this week that I’ve appreciated its presence in my trivial existence.
No army of smartly dressed security guards to open the door for you – the lone guard stands calmly in a corner, ready to answer any queries you have – he looks kindly at you, not suspecting the poor earthly souls who wander in.
To your – sorry, my left is the manager’s cabin where – um – where is he? Maybe that kind-looking fellow at the back – appears to be busy with a few prospective account holders and a heap of documents that require his signature. I don’t know him.
I doubt if anyone knows me here – and I’ve spent endless hours here – enjoyed most of it too.
I proceed to the 2 counters at the back of the room, further to the right – I make my familiar way past the crowd at the withdrawal counter with some difficulty. Everyone’s too busy to pay me any attention – something I don’t particularly enjoy - they are busy engaging the bank officer. I take my position in the small queue at the DEPOSIT counter. The Bengali officer behind the counter acknowledges my entry with a cool ‘hello’.
He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry – something I really don’t mind. As he proceeds to examine the currency in his receptive hands, I begin the day’s work…
People around me curse the officer under their breaths as I oblige any harrowed parents who turn up to deposit school fees – my friend (the Bengali?) takes his time to deposit the few hundred that they have to grudgingly offer.
It’s a Saturday – half a workday = double the impatience, double the frustration – now, you don’t want to mess with a Govt. officer! Yet, you also can’t stand in a queue (well, it’s supposed to be that) all day. Especially when the officer takes a few seconds to sip a cup of tea or stretch his limbs.
Meanwhile (as the officer enters into a quick chito-chat with the revered local priest – something about dates and ladoos, offerings and the decline in our religiousness – the cornered man of faith chooses to be diplomatic – “Ishwar sabka bhala kare…”. I asked him if he could tell his boss to give my application a push.) I take a moment to analyse the turbulent crowd.
It’s as varied and diverse as a Mumbai local train rush – only if it could be that united. I see teenagers, nervously clutching the forms in their hands and nearly crushing the bundled noted in their pockets. I try to offer them my help, as kind and as offhand as applicable.
There are older lads, apparently professionals – cheerful, knowledgeable and looking to engage the willing bankizen into conversation - all the time making their adept, shrewd way up the queue. They are the banker’s familiar delight – warm greetings are exchanged along with Mandi rates and the banker’s woes.
There are no girls here – no babes, no behenjis – nothing – justifying the lack of mathematics in their heads. The already frustrated opposite sex is left craving for those rare figures that make sense everywhere.
There are middle-aged women, though – largely unsure of their purpose here – probably preoccupied with preparations for arguments with their lazy husbands back home – who’ve shamelessly cited work as an excuse to put their tender halves to this madness. Not to mention missing re-runs of their favourite shows (it’s a Saturday, remember?)! All that when they can’t differentiate between a cheque-deposit form and a withdrawal slip (some of them can’t even sign with a steady hand!)!
There are also businessmen with their Current Accounts, eager to get back to their shops and with little time to consider their fellow bankizens – I ignore them.
As people around me begin to wriggle through with opportunistic dashes, indifferent shrugs and wails of desperate excuses, I allow myself to be pushed by some, convinced by some – some I pity, much to the resentment of the others behind me – and the others I either ignore or brush aside.
Sometimes, I join in the frustrations of the crowd, voicing their opinions; rarely do I let my spirits lose – I don’t take anyone to take me seriously – with my studious look, natural squeak and emotions too preoccupied to be provoked. I can be tough when I want to but I guess I’m too lazy to pick a fight. So I prefer to play dumb – and I’m pretty good at that.
It doesn’t work on my Bengali (sorry I’ve to subject him to that address but I don’t know his name yet) friend, though – for he takes about 15-20 min. to examine my 500s and 1000s. He doesn’t like the 1000s at all – when he’s done examining them through the light of a lamp, he proceeds to subject the Father of the nation to Ultraviolet Radiation! (I bet he has a bite or two on the sly). Only when the notes satisfy the Government’s genuineness specifications, the bank officer’s expectations and my perspiration(s, made unbearable by the fact that I hadn’t had a bath in – let’s just say ‘some time’) – are they cleared for deposit.
I leave Mr. B. with a smile and more notes to scrutinise.
The rest of the bank isn’t much – interesting, i.e. Some 3-4 officers, sharing 2 computers, a printer and staff to pass around. As they continue to offload files, customer complaints and responsibilities onto the nearest reluctant shoulder available, I leave the bank with a heavy sigh – there are still some DDs to make before I leave for Bangalore.
Someone tells me that the bank will now be open from 8 to 8 – before I can digest that, the clock signals noon with joined hands and I hurry back to my comfortable sofa and T.V. set – more on that another time.
Keep Blogging. Keep Loving. Keep Smiling.
- Lohit Gupta.
P.S. – It took me nearly 44.5 hours to transfer this from my head to my diary to my tedious screen to my blog. How long does it take you people?
8:46 PM 8/5/06
It gives me no pleasure to be writing this today - I've left the ending scenes of LOR 3 and a whole range of Saturday matinee to force my eyes onto a computer screen. Maybe it was my mother's persistent nagging that drove me to my room.
Ever since I told her that I was going to end up being a writer sooner or later, she's been trying to squash my literary dreams. I tried to shut her up with a compilation of my notes. She dismissed them as commonplace and uninteresting, insignificant takes on everyday life that didn't amount to much. I tell her that my daily life is more sensational than the weekly media throw-up.
I crash-landed at home some bleary day in March. As the self-enforced vacation now draws to a end, I must look back at this opportunity to connect with my cynically aesthetic side - those long hours spend loitering in the wet rain, the frequent indulgence to my creative, arty, crafty side, the constant attempts tot understand human nature.
Though my now-relieved parents will insist that I'm the greatest couch potato ever born, I do find time to complete the occasional chores they throw at me – I even find time to indulge my inexplicable, unpredictable, apparently unrewarding cravings – from teaching my maid’s children to bowling to a wall for hours to scribbling over unsuspecting sheets of naked paper. Here’s a thought….
My father’s been trying to force monetary terms and processes into my mind for a long time now. Initially, I was game for it – money’s a sufficient lure. I even ‘worked’ with my dad’s investment agent for a couple of days.
I could not, however, bring myself to return on the 3rd day. Maybe because the work was too easy – too boring – too much of Maths. Maybe because the female colleague that I’d been promised wasn’t too – well – you know – I mean – all right, she was damn ugly.
My ‘employer’ is a good man – he better be – for he’s an agent, a Dalal, who’s paid for handling other people’s money. He was willing to hire me – maybe too willing (he even offered me an a.c. cabin) – for his business requires men of trust and he saw no risk in recruiting a well-off 20 year old – aimless, rich and the son of a thrifty client. ‘Rakh lo!’ To be honest, I was tempted into the money business – all you have to do is keep track of the markets, keep a good relationship with your innocent, trusting clients who have neither the time nor the inclination to keep track of their money. It’s quite interesting, actually and above all, rewarding!
Did I just say ‘interesting’? I remember calling it boring some time back – well, it’s boring if you have to do it day after day – the same stocks and shares ‘rising’ and ‘falling’ – the only difference being the colour and direction of the arrows accompanying them. You can also invest – banks, Post-offices, Mutual funds, PFs, NSCs – lots of tax saving options and stuff – I don’t want to discuss them here – would be an unfair tribute to my former employer – who divides his day between supervising a lazy staff and visiting clients to collect orders, passbooks, signed forms, cheques, cash and stuff (anyway, I’ve been avoiding him ever since I ran out on a promising career in ‘telling others how to multiply their money’ – he appeared disappointed at my immature decision to rather pursue a B.E. – Dhut! Dhut!)
My father wasn’t too disappointed, though – he made sure I kept visiting banks.
There are 2 kinds of banks – big and small. Big = huge buildings, excess of furniture and employees, terms like ‘can I help you’, high tech machinery, central air-conditioning and space – lots of space. Nothing for me there – bast**ds charge you 85 Rs. for an account statement!
The smaller branches of some Govt. banks – now you have something there!
Case study --- the colour of money – tinged with brown.
Location - Bank of India, Ulyan branch.
Observation period – actually, I’ve been going there for years but it’s only for the 5-6 hours I’ve spent there this week that I’ve appreciated its presence in my trivial existence.
No army of smartly dressed security guards to open the door for you – the lone guard stands calmly in a corner, ready to answer any queries you have – he looks kindly at you, not suspecting the poor earthly souls who wander in.
To your – sorry, my left is the manager’s cabin where – um – where is he? Maybe that kind-looking fellow at the back – appears to be busy with a few prospective account holders and a heap of documents that require his signature. I don’t know him.
I doubt if anyone knows me here – and I’ve spent endless hours here – enjoyed most of it too.
I proceed to the 2 counters at the back of the room, further to the right – I make my familiar way past the crowd at the withdrawal counter with some difficulty. Everyone’s too busy to pay me any attention – something I don’t particularly enjoy - they are busy engaging the bank officer. I take my position in the small queue at the DEPOSIT counter. The Bengali officer behind the counter acknowledges my entry with a cool ‘hello’.
He doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry – something I really don’t mind. As he proceeds to examine the currency in his receptive hands, I begin the day’s work…
People around me curse the officer under their breaths as I oblige any harrowed parents who turn up to deposit school fees – my friend (the Bengali?) takes his time to deposit the few hundred that they have to grudgingly offer.
It’s a Saturday – half a workday = double the impatience, double the frustration – now, you don’t want to mess with a Govt. officer! Yet, you also can’t stand in a queue (well, it’s supposed to be that) all day. Especially when the officer takes a few seconds to sip a cup of tea or stretch his limbs.
Meanwhile (as the officer enters into a quick chito-chat with the revered local priest – something about dates and ladoos, offerings and the decline in our religiousness – the cornered man of faith chooses to be diplomatic – “Ishwar sabka bhala kare…”. I asked him if he could tell his boss to give my application a push.) I take a moment to analyse the turbulent crowd.
It’s as varied and diverse as a Mumbai local train rush – only if it could be that united. I see teenagers, nervously clutching the forms in their hands and nearly crushing the bundled noted in their pockets. I try to offer them my help, as kind and as offhand as applicable.
There are older lads, apparently professionals – cheerful, knowledgeable and looking to engage the willing bankizen into conversation - all the time making their adept, shrewd way up the queue. They are the banker’s familiar delight – warm greetings are exchanged along with Mandi rates and the banker’s woes.
There are no girls here – no babes, no behenjis – nothing – justifying the lack of mathematics in their heads. The already frustrated opposite sex is left craving for those rare figures that make sense everywhere.
There are middle-aged women, though – largely unsure of their purpose here – probably preoccupied with preparations for arguments with their lazy husbands back home – who’ve shamelessly cited work as an excuse to put their tender halves to this madness. Not to mention missing re-runs of their favourite shows (it’s a Saturday, remember?)! All that when they can’t differentiate between a cheque-deposit form and a withdrawal slip (some of them can’t even sign with a steady hand!)!
There are also businessmen with their Current Accounts, eager to get back to their shops and with little time to consider their fellow bankizens – I ignore them.
As people around me begin to wriggle through with opportunistic dashes, indifferent shrugs and wails of desperate excuses, I allow myself to be pushed by some, convinced by some – some I pity, much to the resentment of the others behind me – and the others I either ignore or brush aside.
Sometimes, I join in the frustrations of the crowd, voicing their opinions; rarely do I let my spirits lose – I don’t take anyone to take me seriously – with my studious look, natural squeak and emotions too preoccupied to be provoked. I can be tough when I want to but I guess I’m too lazy to pick a fight. So I prefer to play dumb – and I’m pretty good at that.
It doesn’t work on my Bengali (sorry I’ve to subject him to that address but I don’t know his name yet) friend, though – for he takes about 15-20 min. to examine my 500s and 1000s. He doesn’t like the 1000s at all – when he’s done examining them through the light of a lamp, he proceeds to subject the Father of the nation to Ultraviolet Radiation! (I bet he has a bite or two on the sly). Only when the notes satisfy the Government’s genuineness specifications, the bank officer’s expectations and my perspiration(s, made unbearable by the fact that I hadn’t had a bath in – let’s just say ‘some time’) – are they cleared for deposit.
I leave Mr. B. with a smile and more notes to scrutinise.
The rest of the bank isn’t much – interesting, i.e. Some 3-4 officers, sharing 2 computers, a printer and staff to pass around. As they continue to offload files, customer complaints and responsibilities onto the nearest reluctant shoulder available, I leave the bank with a heavy sigh – there are still some DDs to make before I leave for Bangalore.
Someone tells me that the bank will now be open from 8 to 8 – before I can digest that, the clock signals noon with joined hands and I hurry back to my comfortable sofa and T.V. set – more on that another time.
Keep Blogging. Keep Loving. Keep Smiling.
- Lohit Gupta.
P.S. – It took me nearly 44.5 hours to transfer this from my head to my diary to my tedious screen to my blog. How long does it take you people?
Sunday, July 23, 2006
MEDIA BASHING - Topic 1.2 - MUMBAI BLASTS - the 'spirit' of Mumbai
[ME - a 20-year-old Engineering student studying in Bangalore. Been to Mumbai for a week's visit. Feel passionate about it - the most welcoming place I've been to - nobody asks you who you are, where you come from - and local trains - you are a part of Mumbai as soon as you step into one - along with blows and elbows, hands are offered, smiles are exchanged, belongings like caps and bags are returned - and you won't even get to see the other person's face!]
Yes, it's wrong - a terrorist attack on innocent people who have little time to think about things other than keeping pace with Mumbai and working for a living.
However, in this media-bashing topic, I wish to focus on the media diverting the attention from the blasts, the Govt.'s failure to protect its citizens (again, a tremendous - but not impossible task) and the pain of the survivors.
It's very easy for the media - be it those stupid news channels I hate or my beloved, trusted, knowledge-source, India Today and magazines like it - to say that - the spirit of Mumbai is insuppressible, people returned to the trains, their livelihoods the day following the blasts - well, what else do you expect them to do - sit at home and say we're scared, curse the Govt. - whose going to feed them - the media? They have NO other option but to carry on with their daily lives.
If you want to talk about spirit, visit those people who have lost their people in the blasts [Thumbs Up to Star News for showing a related piece] - talk about their spirit - how cheerful, how optimistic are they after the blasts - yes, they'll recover in time - everyone does - but the focus is lost - on the urgency to prevent such attacks, on the need to attack the issue of terrorism, to be straight with Pakistan.
Personally, I want to see news confirming that the victims have indeed received their compensation from the Govt. I want to see public awareness drives - alerting commuters, I don't want to see mangled bogies and bodies over and over again - show me what happens after the crisis. Also, tell me how you - the media - has tried to help Mumbai, the blast victims - how many poor families have you supported - how many jobs, how many scholarships have you offered - how many authorities have you questioned?
Don't just tell me that Mumbai and India bounce back after such attacks - what do you want to imply - that we keep forgetting attacks after attacks?
The BRIGHT side - a feeling of unity induced in people. The fear gets distributed and hence, reduced - you will accompany your colleague back on to that cursed route to your workplace. Also, the media ensures that such attacks are not easily forgotten - but eventually, it's like a good ad which fails to work for it's product - you are taking the focus away from the need for the counterattack, the need to tell Pakistan to stop funding Terrorism (again, a controversial statement but the media's given me much to believe in this regard too - not that I doubt them - but Pakistanis are people too - people from our own ancestral times - who wants the bloodshed - these people must be identified and eliminated). Why doesn't the media use it's spying skills against our enemies?
MORE MEDIA BASHING TO COME. MEANWHILE, I'M OFF TO CHENNAI FOR A WEEK AS I GO VISIT ANOTHER DOCTOR.
- Lohit Gupta. (Sunday, July 23, 2006, 9:30:00 PM)
[ME - a 20-year-old Engineering student studying in Bangalore. Been to Mumbai for a week's visit. Feel passionate about it - the most welcoming place I've been to - nobody asks you who you are, where you come from - and local trains - you are a part of Mumbai as soon as you step into one - along with blows and elbows, hands are offered, smiles are exchanged, belongings like caps and bags are returned - and you won't even get to see the other person's face!]
Yes, it's wrong - a terrorist attack on innocent people who have little time to think about things other than keeping pace with Mumbai and working for a living.
However, in this media-bashing topic, I wish to focus on the media diverting the attention from the blasts, the Govt.'s failure to protect its citizens (again, a tremendous - but not impossible task) and the pain of the survivors.
It's very easy for the media - be it those stupid news channels I hate or my beloved, trusted, knowledge-source, India Today and magazines like it - to say that - the spirit of Mumbai is insuppressible, people returned to the trains, their livelihoods the day following the blasts - well, what else do you expect them to do - sit at home and say we're scared, curse the Govt. - whose going to feed them - the media? They have NO other option but to carry on with their daily lives.
If you want to talk about spirit, visit those people who have lost their people in the blasts [Thumbs Up to Star News for showing a related piece] - talk about their spirit - how cheerful, how optimistic are they after the blasts - yes, they'll recover in time - everyone does - but the focus is lost - on the urgency to prevent such attacks, on the need to attack the issue of terrorism, to be straight with Pakistan.
Personally, I want to see news confirming that the victims have indeed received their compensation from the Govt. I want to see public awareness drives - alerting commuters, I don't want to see mangled bogies and bodies over and over again - show me what happens after the crisis. Also, tell me how you - the media - has tried to help Mumbai, the blast victims - how many poor families have you supported - how many jobs, how many scholarships have you offered - how many authorities have you questioned?
Don't just tell me that Mumbai and India bounce back after such attacks - what do you want to imply - that we keep forgetting attacks after attacks?
The BRIGHT side - a feeling of unity induced in people. The fear gets distributed and hence, reduced - you will accompany your colleague back on to that cursed route to your workplace. Also, the media ensures that such attacks are not easily forgotten - but eventually, it's like a good ad which fails to work for it's product - you are taking the focus away from the need for the counterattack, the need to tell Pakistan to stop funding Terrorism (again, a controversial statement but the media's given me much to believe in this regard too - not that I doubt them - but Pakistanis are people too - people from our own ancestral times - who wants the bloodshed - these people must be identified and eliminated). Why doesn't the media use it's spying skills against our enemies?
MORE MEDIA BASHING TO COME. MEANWHILE, I'M OFF TO CHENNAI FOR A WEEK AS I GO VISIT ANOTHER DOCTOR.
- Lohit Gupta. (Sunday, July 23, 2006, 9:30:00 PM)
TOPIC 1: MEDIA IN INDIA - (sub topic 1.1 - Prince in pit)
- --- we see what it shows us, we hear what is speaks to us - we form our beliefs. Murders, rapes, blasts, accidents are nothing new - some are talked about for a few days - only if the media thinks they're juicy enough. The media has a big responsibility - T.V. channels, newspapers or magazines - whatever they say is addressed to millions. Are there no ethics in the face of competition and the race for T.R.P.s and subscriptions?
[ME - Who am I? - I believe it's very important for a posting to have a label - who's saying it- with what authority? I'm Lohit Gupta. I'm a 20-year-old Engineering Student studying in Bangalore. For the past 5 months, I've been at home, having to return to Jamshedpur after some 'health' issues. No, I'm not a psycho - not yet. As I was saying, all I've been doing at home is eating and watching T.V. Since there are some 15-20 news channels on my T.V., I really haven't been able to ignore them - 1 cheap news story - is magnified 15 times, repeated as many times - maybe the competition's a reason for the degradation of journalism - they're so desperate for recognition! I spend from 2-3 hours a day to 5-6 hours on print media and from 8-10 hours a day to none with my eyes struggling to keep pace with my channel zapping fingers which can't wait to switch to the next one.
Look, what I mean is, it's not enough to say - f**k the media - they can make a story out of anything, they're so da*n insensitive - journalists are people too - many of them our brothers and sisters, friends - they can't all be bad. So, what's wrong with the system? Where does the problem lie? What is the solution?]
TOPIC 1.1 - 5 year old trapped in a 60 feet Boring hole...
Well, not exactly the birthday gift Prince was looking for. It's been close to 48 hours now. Poor kid's been trapped inside a hole.
Close-circuit camera, Army rescue operations, distressed family members, all the leading news channels, prayers (apparently) from all over the nation - some channels claim to have made it international...
By the way - f**k ZEE NEWS - I'll quote (roughly) one of their earnest reporters - "To the right of where I'm standing, you can see that the army is engaged into a war - a 'Mahabharata' - to save the naive 5 year old 'Prince' - who's been in the 60 feet hole for 48 hours now ]Aaj Tak has a timer running[. The entire nation joins us in praying for him - your SMSes and E-Mails are reaching us every second."
My answer - up yours.
If it was not enough that the poor kid's down there, he has scores of useless, hungry media persons crowding around him - to add to his family's misery - wonder how long it is before they start asking them those questions - "How r u feeling now?" - "Did you ever think that he would come out?" - "
How many of these people have actually helped Prince? Other than adding to his misery and creating a commotion, gathering a crowd of curious onlookers (who, by the way, I don't blame at all), creating a problem for the police, have done nothing for the kid.
As for me, I know this - if I could've been near enough to help the kid, I would have been digging by now - or waiting in a corner to see if I could help the army men. As for praying for him - I don't even know him - how genuine can my prayer be? Not to sound inhuman but is he the first kid to have fallen down a hole? How many kids die in India every day - drowned, burnt or sacrificed - how many turn up on the T.V.? Just because they put up a close-circuit camera there - I have to watch a naked child stuck in a hole hour after hour? Aren't there other important stories? Have we forgotten the Mumbai Blast victims already?
As for ZEE NEWS, when they're not busy patting their thick-skinned backs for (as they claim) being the first on to the scene, they proudly repeat their announcement of a scholarship for Prince - why? Just because an entire nation watched him stuck in a hole for more than a day?
And what do people achieve with those stupid text messages to the media whose going to forget this 'Prince' before the month is over?
And if you're wondering why I'm so pissed off with the media - I like to keep myself updated with the news - and all that they've been showing since yesterday is the repeated footage of a naked kid in a hole, trying to tackle an insect, munching on a chocolate, taking a bite off a biscuit - I don't know this kid - I can't help him - I don't even know where Kurukshetra is. I'm tired of my fussy boycott of the day's news. Isn't there anything else happening in this world I live in? Whatever happened to ethical journalism? Do they have to make a story out of everything? Well, I'm not watching it - at least I'm trying not to. However, most of the nation seems to be watching it.
UPDATE - 8:37 PM 7/23/06. It's been a few minutes - they've finally got the kid out - after some 50 hours - hats off to the kid - hats off to the army and the other forces that performed the rescue operation - the kid's a celeb - at least for some time - wonder when people will start flocking to him for his blessings...
ZEE NEWS seems to have gone berserk - the presenter, some guy called 'Kiran Ajoria' - or something like that - is breathless as he repeats for the millionth time, 'Zee Nes ki muhim rang laayi' - Dharti-Putra Prince ka Punarjam' - uske Janamdin par - 'Zee News ki muhim...'
My mom's upset she missed the climax - when the boy was finally pulled out - we happened to be in the deserted market, buying a few vegetables and stuff. Sunday never saw the streets so empty. Thank ZEE NEWS for that. Even in the temple, I couldn't helping requesting the priest to pray for Prince on my behalf - I felt compelled to do so - the priests were happy with the offerings that had already come in - they were preparing themselves in anticipation for some more as people finally left their homes - we had already heard the buzz in the market - people were rejoicing. I was happy too - for the kid and also that I'd finally get to watch some real news.
Talking about focus – who left such a deep hole open there (apparently covered by a sack)? Let there be some punishment too.
There's another reason why I'm so miffed - I want to be a journalist some day... Now that I've seen all this, I feel compelled to turn my dream into reality - somebody's got to make a difference.
So, in a nutshell, I'm trying to sow the seeds of rebellion. Next time you see a T.V. crew busting into your home, your misery, slap them in the face, break their cameras and tell them to f**k off - if they can't help you, they'd better not reduce you to a story - one which, for all you know, millions may piss on eventually, after some journalist comes up with his own spiced-up version of your misery. It seems one can't even die in peace now.
There must be some POSITIVES to this nationwide broadcast - I've heard help's been sought from Holland - The Prime Minister's taken a personal interest in the matter - many viewers have offered solutions... However, I still can't figure out those 'Happy Birthday, Prince - don't worry, we are with you' messages - he doesn't need you - all he needs is to get out of that hole and get into his mother's lap. Leave him alone if you can't help him.
I repeat, I'm no saint. I've got my shortcoming too. However, at the unstoppable age of 20, I need some answers.
Help me.
- --- we see what it shows us, we hear what is speaks to us - we form our beliefs. Murders, rapes, blasts, accidents are nothing new - some are talked about for a few days - only if the media thinks they're juicy enough. The media has a big responsibility - T.V. channels, newspapers or magazines - whatever they say is addressed to millions. Are there no ethics in the face of competition and the race for T.R.P.s and subscriptions?
[ME - Who am I? - I believe it's very important for a posting to have a label - who's saying it- with what authority? I'm Lohit Gupta. I'm a 20-year-old Engineering Student studying in Bangalore. For the past 5 months, I've been at home, having to return to Jamshedpur after some 'health' issues. No, I'm not a psycho - not yet. As I was saying, all I've been doing at home is eating and watching T.V. Since there are some 15-20 news channels on my T.V., I really haven't been able to ignore them - 1 cheap news story - is magnified 15 times, repeated as many times - maybe the competition's a reason for the degradation of journalism - they're so desperate for recognition! I spend from 2-3 hours a day to 5-6 hours on print media and from 8-10 hours a day to none with my eyes struggling to keep pace with my channel zapping fingers which can't wait to switch to the next one.
Look, what I mean is, it's not enough to say - f**k the media - they can make a story out of anything, they're so da*n insensitive - journalists are people too - many of them our brothers and sisters, friends - they can't all be bad. So, what's wrong with the system? Where does the problem lie? What is the solution?]
TOPIC 1.1 - 5 year old trapped in a 60 feet Boring hole...
Well, not exactly the birthday gift Prince was looking for. It's been close to 48 hours now. Poor kid's been trapped inside a hole.
Close-circuit camera, Army rescue operations, distressed family members, all the leading news channels, prayers (apparently) from all over the nation - some channels claim to have made it international...
By the way - f**k ZEE NEWS - I'll quote (roughly) one of their earnest reporters - "To the right of where I'm standing, you can see that the army is engaged into a war - a 'Mahabharata' - to save the naive 5 year old 'Prince' - who's been in the 60 feet hole for 48 hours now ]Aaj Tak has a timer running[. The entire nation joins us in praying for him - your SMSes and E-Mails are reaching us every second."
My answer - up yours.
If it was not enough that the poor kid's down there, he has scores of useless, hungry media persons crowding around him - to add to his family's misery - wonder how long it is before they start asking them those questions - "How r u feeling now?" - "Did you ever think that he would come out?" - "
How many of these people have actually helped Prince? Other than adding to his misery and creating a commotion, gathering a crowd of curious onlookers (who, by the way, I don't blame at all), creating a problem for the police, have done nothing for the kid.
As for me, I know this - if I could've been near enough to help the kid, I would have been digging by now - or waiting in a corner to see if I could help the army men. As for praying for him - I don't even know him - how genuine can my prayer be? Not to sound inhuman but is he the first kid to have fallen down a hole? How many kids die in India every day - drowned, burnt or sacrificed - how many turn up on the T.V.? Just because they put up a close-circuit camera there - I have to watch a naked child stuck in a hole hour after hour? Aren't there other important stories? Have we forgotten the Mumbai Blast victims already?
As for ZEE NEWS, when they're not busy patting their thick-skinned backs for (as they claim) being the first on to the scene, they proudly repeat their announcement of a scholarship for Prince - why? Just because an entire nation watched him stuck in a hole for more than a day?
And what do people achieve with those stupid text messages to the media whose going to forget this 'Prince' before the month is over?
And if you're wondering why I'm so pissed off with the media - I like to keep myself updated with the news - and all that they've been showing since yesterday is the repeated footage of a naked kid in a hole, trying to tackle an insect, munching on a chocolate, taking a bite off a biscuit - I don't know this kid - I can't help him - I don't even know where Kurukshetra is. I'm tired of my fussy boycott of the day's news. Isn't there anything else happening in this world I live in? Whatever happened to ethical journalism? Do they have to make a story out of everything? Well, I'm not watching it - at least I'm trying not to. However, most of the nation seems to be watching it.
UPDATE - 8:37 PM 7/23/06. It's been a few minutes - they've finally got the kid out - after some 50 hours - hats off to the kid - hats off to the army and the other forces that performed the rescue operation - the kid's a celeb - at least for some time - wonder when people will start flocking to him for his blessings...
ZEE NEWS seems to have gone berserk - the presenter, some guy called 'Kiran Ajoria' - or something like that - is breathless as he repeats for the millionth time, 'Zee Nes ki muhim rang laayi' - Dharti-Putra Prince ka Punarjam' - uske Janamdin par - 'Zee News ki muhim...'
My mom's upset she missed the climax - when the boy was finally pulled out - we happened to be in the deserted market, buying a few vegetables and stuff. Sunday never saw the streets so empty. Thank ZEE NEWS for that. Even in the temple, I couldn't helping requesting the priest to pray for Prince on my behalf - I felt compelled to do so - the priests were happy with the offerings that had already come in - they were preparing themselves in anticipation for some more as people finally left their homes - we had already heard the buzz in the market - people were rejoicing. I was happy too - for the kid and also that I'd finally get to watch some real news.
Talking about focus – who left such a deep hole open there (apparently covered by a sack)? Let there be some punishment too.
There's another reason why I'm so miffed - I want to be a journalist some day... Now that I've seen all this, I feel compelled to turn my dream into reality - somebody's got to make a difference.
So, in a nutshell, I'm trying to sow the seeds of rebellion. Next time you see a T.V. crew busting into your home, your misery, slap them in the face, break their cameras and tell them to f**k off - if they can't help you, they'd better not reduce you to a story - one which, for all you know, millions may piss on eventually, after some journalist comes up with his own spiced-up version of your misery. It seems one can't even die in peace now.
There must be some POSITIVES to this nationwide broadcast - I've heard help's been sought from Holland - The Prime Minister's taken a personal interest in the matter - many viewers have offered solutions... However, I still can't figure out those 'Happy Birthday, Prince - don't worry, we are with you' messages - he doesn't need you - all he needs is to get out of that hole and get into his mother's lap. Leave him alone if you can't help him.
I repeat, I'm no saint. I've got my shortcoming too. However, at the unstoppable age of 20, I need some answers.
Help me.
5:09 PM 7/23/06
Hello and welcome to my first entry to my blog, 'MINDSPACE'.
Before I begin, I must put forward a short note describing what really I'm trying to do here. Am I trying to awake a sleeping nation, am I trying to create controversies that end up with record hits? Not really. For one, I don't even know what a blog is.
For some time now, I've considered myself to be a man of words. Besides, we all have views and opinions. I'm not always right. However, I'm often deeply passionate about certain issues that come across my path of youthful discovery. I've suffered long enough from the intense build-up inside my observant, eager mind - I believe that rather than sit at home and abuse the system, it's time we tried to change it - or at least gave a vent to our frustrations, our seismic brain activity. So speak out.
In simple words, I've put up with enough shit around me to stand up, remove the clot from my nose and scream - "flush the god d**n thing!"
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