Rainy Days

A couple of weeks ago, Delhi (and Gurgaon) was reeling at 42 Celcius. A few duststorms later, the temperature had been reversed to 24.

A while ago, the skies darkened and the rains have come down almost as though the monsoons have arrived. The only problem is that this part of India doesn't really get any rain so the folks here aren't quite sure what they should do with Mummy Nature's bounty. The roads are flooded within a few minutes, cycles and scooters have been abandoned as riders scurry for cover, women on their way to work in autos have been drenched to the bone and are wondering which parts of their otherwise well-covered anatomy are now visible to the unashamedly- staring Jat...

On rare Monday mornings like this, there are only a few things one should indulge in.

Get hold of some brinjal and besan, add a few chillies and some salt; heat up lots of mustard oil and fry enough pakoras to keep you going for the next few hours. Combo this with piping hot masala chai and you have the perfect nibble-sip-nibble rhythm in place.

If that's too much to do, just toast some bread, spread dollops of butter that'll melt through and drip on to your cold fingers... the chai, though, has to be there.

I could spend hours watching the leaves get bathed and turn from dusty brown to glistening green as fat drops come down by the litre; Kishore Kumar would play in the background and I'd do nothing but daydream... nothing, though, will quite make up for the warmth I could get from curling up to someone who's either too far away or too distant to care.

The winds will blow the clouds away and, finally, the traffic jams will ease up enough to let office-goers get to work. The morning will get swallowed by the madness of another Monday and the rain won't quite return. Even if it does, it won't be the same. There is an unforgettable smell of parched earth that floats up when the first showers hit the ground... the second shower will never do the same.

So, for the sake of the sinful stomach, let me too get down to work.

Rain, rain, go away; come again another day!

India Fogged?

On Monday morning, The Times of India says India Poised…

I say, it’s India Fogged.

Delhi is covered by a thick blanket of fog that crept in on New Year’s eve. And Delhi-ites are covered under blankets with their foggy minds hung-over from innumerable glasses nursed all night long.

The India Poised campaign says there are two Indias; I say, there are three.

Apart from the ones straining at the leash and being the leash, there’s another India that doesn’t even know what is going on. So fogged out they are.

There's the Mukesh Ambani India, the Anil Ambani India and the poor Rest of India who will finally be swallowed by one of the Brothers A.

There are beached-whale like airplanes sitting on tarmacs, poised to take off but unable to because runways are fogged.

There are parents discovering lost children in skeletal instalments in a Noida house where they’ve been butchered.

There are openers in the Indian cricket team who can’t score any runs against the South Africans.

Malls in Gurgaon are poised to earn rentals from shopowners whose establishments were sealed in Delhi. And rumour has it that the local Congress government is poised to lose the elections because they’ve earned the wrath of these traders – as well as hefty commissions from mall-owners.

DTH operators are poised to replace cable-operators (an industry is being buried even as I blog this) and their snake-like cables crisscrossing lampposts.

The Metro is poised to cut through MG Road in Delhi – where will the trees go, I ask no one in particular?

And Shah Rukh Khan is poised too… to imitate Amitabh yet again as a quizmaster. Perhaps he’ll do a Hindustan Poised campaign for Hindustan Times now as well.

So we are poised all right. The question is, for how long can we remain poised and not quite take off?

The fog is finally lifting and the sun is making its way through the clouds. India too shall rise – if you don’t believe me, listen to AB again (and let’s see Shah Rukh imitating that baritone – ha!)

Cheers!

Goaaaaaaaaaaal!

Every Sunday, a motley crowd gathers at the Shri Ram School campus in Aravali, Gurgaon, to encourage their sons to dribble, head and kick. And, most of all, to win. It is, after all, a competitive world that's getting more competitive by the day, isn't it?

At this school football league match being played between children of class 1 (average age: 7.5 years), it is evident that the parents on the sidelines have a larger stake than the footballers themselves.

While it's great fun to watch every one of the four-feet-something boys fight it out, what's even funnier is their forty-fast-approaching fathers yelling themselves hoarse from the sidelines. Strangely, things always seem easier from the sidelines. And instead of revelling in the sheer joy of watching the whole team (goalkeeper included) crowding around the ball, forgetting carefully-tutored positions and leaving defences wide open, here's a bunch of dads (mostly) trying to be coaches. Or perhaps trying yet again to get their sons to be what they couldn't.

It's what a student of Shakespeare would call tragicomedy.

While the matches themselves are played in all seriousness, what's worth staying on for is the post-match analysis by the school's football coach - the only one really qualified to comment on the match. There was something he said at last Sunday's match that stuck - and it was addressed to the parents: "Let the game be the teacher".

Everyone heard him. But I'm not sure how many listened.