The eye of the upholder

The scantily-clad squads of 'cheerleaders' during the recent India-Australia T20 cricket match here have come under police scanner with deputy chief minister R R Patil announcing that he would review video tapes to see if the group indulged in obscene behaviour. Such is the dedication of this custodian of our straight-jacketed life, that he appeared quite enthusiastic about sitting through hours of footage of mini-skirted, halter-necked girls. In fact, several late evening meetings discussing Mumbai's abysmal garbage situation have been postponed to accommodate this immediate gleam in the eye of the this upholder of our ethical life. Instead, a special pool-side 70 mm screening, "to catch every amoral morsel", has been arranged. To get opinions across the board, many close aides and ministers keeping a close watch on the hemline of society's moral fabric have also been invited.

But, being a firm believer in the old saying that one must hate the sin and not the sinner, our morally munificent leader has invited the cheerleaders for a private session to show them the error of their ways. "In fact," Mr. Patil said, "this will give these young women an opportunity to illustrate finer ethical and/or artistic points in their act that can only be appreciated live. In flesh, so to speak." Asked about the possibility of an on-the-spot inspection at a neighboring cricket ground, Mr. Patil responded that "I was not present at the match but we will go through the tapes before taking any action on the issue", Patil, who also holds the Home portfolio, said at Mantralaya."Anyway, stadiums nowadays are far too big for a detailed and close inspection, and yes I have tried field glasses, but it is not the same. Also, the cricket and spectators distract my righteous eye. All those cheers for wickets and sixes! "

Stationed

Plop!

It is a conspiracy. I am telling you, it is a conspiracy. The station's crowded, dusty and just plain dirty. But, there are spots. And, what's more, right underneath the fans. You hear that, the fans. These babies are sparse enough, and the temperature humid enough. Then, why?

So, you think maybe the World is full of people who just didn't get what Sherlock said about having an eye for detail, and plant yourself flat-footed spank underneath the whirling blades.
And give a dumb World the supercilious eye. Only to hear a dreaded off-key, wet and jarring note.

Plop!

Damn you, Pigeons!

I guess I came, I saw, but did not observe.

But why, in these acres of space, and network of girders, did these Pigeons line their arses up right on top of the fans?

I tell you, it IS a conspiracy. I call it the Pigeon A-Hole Principle.

You didn't get that, did you?

Katrina

Sorry, long summer, longer autumn ahead, and, probably, a frigid winter. Meanwhile, one of the best jokes I have heard in a long time. If you ain't laughin', you ain't.

Baby

28 June 2007. Nine months here, nearer to the balckboard than ever. I am now officially a new born babe. A lamb.

Time for somebody to start changing my nappies. And suckle me when I cry. Yeah!

Panic

My 200th, so to reward you for lasting so long (with me), I shall tell the truth for a change.
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He can't be mixing that.

He is mixing that.
He is mixing yellow Amul butter and milk, calling it delicious, and guzzling it.

I can panic on that, but, shit, it is too early in the morning, and, hey, it is just food.

It is not that kind of a day.

The emails says
"Enclosed herewith please find a photo of a prime suspect of terrorist
activities going on in Kanpur area. As per the intelligence inputs as well
as our close observation this man is mentally OK, but he is well trained
to act like a mad man. For past 3 weeks he is loitering near our main gate
only"

I can panic, but, shit, it is damn hot out, and, hey, an air-conditioned room is next only to Varanasi to get blown upstairs.

It is not that kind of a day.

Boy, this big black of a bag sure looks like a big bomb. Are those cops a-watchin' me? The hand-held Sundarkand is probably saving me. Is that politically incorrect? I can panic. But, shit, that judgement doesn't matter, and, hey, every day is that kind of a judgement day.

That Muslim guy is sure nice to ask a Sundarkand toter to look after his tote. A secular moment. A moment to preserve. A moment to die for. Hey, you think there is a bomb in his bag? I can panic. And, shit, I see no reason not to, but, hey, no real reason either.

It is not that kind of a day.

It is that guy. I am telling you it is that guy. That guy whose picture was in the e-mail. He is not begging. Just looking around. Taking it all in. Probably drawing mental pictures of where to plant the bombs. On trains. I am telling cops, dropping hints of teaching Newton at a University to not sound like a sock-kicking idiot short on shorts and brains, and they do react. Try to get that near-terrorist out of the station, "Go plant your bombs in the markets, you scum!", but he is not moving and the cops are gaining interest in that juice stall. He is just looking at me. Flatly, directly, unblinkingly. Memorizing. Will my flat be rubble by the time I get back? I should have that camera to my office. I can really panic now. But, shit, Que Sera Sera and all that Hindu jazz, and, hey, the train is here.

It is not that kind of day.

The special announcement is going on about a misplaced foreign-looking suitcase. I am trying to keep my balance and save myself from contacting "things" on the suspiciouslywet four sq. ft. of a moving toilet. I have my priorities. I can't keep track of every damn suitcase bomber out there.

Have I just endangered eleven bogies of my brothers and sisters by not panicking?

I can panic on that, but, shit,

there is that fat mid-30's bob-cut mama chewing gum and concentrating through the Delhi Public School's handbook. Page by page. Interspersing accented, but penetrating, calls. Her child's love is proof enough that blood ties penetrate even the most unappetizing hides. No, the girl opened her trap to let out vacuous Convented English. "He doesn't really like her. And my cumulative score didn't get me into DPS, R K Puram, but that school's very political, and DPS Mathura Road is much more academically serious, No?" . She deserves her mom. Her mom, a bomb.

From the rear, the Surd's cell phone is rattling my ear, every minute minute, matched only by his neighbour's fog horn on the cell-phone act. The pink officer in front is officiating, hinting about SDO's helping her at stations. The guy in front, all taken in, is trying to entertain her little girl. Instead of chucking the shrieking brat out of the window. I will take that suitcase,

and, hey, I can live happily not having saved this lot's asses.

It is not that kind of a day.

But if that bob-cut mama turns one more page, just one more page, one little laminated leaf of the Delhi Public School's handbook, I-AM-GOING-TO-PUNCH-A-HOLE-THROUGH-THIS-SCREEN.

I am panicking now. And it is that kind of a day.
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Notes:
Sundarkand: A massively holy Hindu book.
Delhi Public School: A.k.a, DPS, is a famous chain of day cum boarding school. In Delhi they infest the R K Puram and Mathura Road localities. I had the extreme misfortune of going to the R K Puram dung heap. Very snooty, nasty place.

The Lyon's peck

The last time I was in Lyon...

Did that go down smooth, creamed with nonchalance?

... I was very hungry.

I was at this workshop, and the food was mostly meat creamed with cheese. The French tend to think that vegetrianism is some unknown sub-tropical disease. They keep a safe distance. The waiters being french, spoke french, and nodded sagely when confirming that the duck is purely vegetarian. You can well imagine that I was fast losing weight. And food.

It is then that she rode up in shining armour and high heels. Speaking french with a belgian lilt she quickly got the garcon to deliver veggies (that were without feathers and exo-skeleton), got me non-alcoholic grape juice so that I could look the wine-drinkers in the eye (approximately, the wine, you know, gets the drinker cross-eyed pretty fast), and, wait for it, she even laughed at mine jokes.

Quite something, huh? I was on to a good thing, huh?

So, when on departure day, when one goes around gladhanding and promising to follow up research, I finally took leave from her, her saying that we must kiss, seemed to be the logical conclusion to a torrid affair. Right?

As torrid as a storm in a test-tube.

Of course, she meant that she wanted to indulge in that silly false-hope-raising French exercise of lightly brushing each other's cheeks. So near, and yet so far.

All for the best though, that cheek had hair to put my three-day beard to shame.

Classic formula: White skin + blonde hair = can't see the damn things until close contact.

I leave you with some of my favourite shots of Lyon, a question about King Louis (Walt Disney wasn't so far off, it seems), a vacant but tantalising lookin' viola gal, a crazy rockgal, a hot but tepid painter, an over-the-hill rocker. 'NJoy.

All about cricket

A while ago in the sand-beached cricketing extravaganza in the West Indies, both the Indian and the Pakistani cricket teams were shipped back post haste. Two of the more entertaining comments I read somewhere.
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On Pakistan's defeat to Ireland, and subsequent chucking from the World Cup:

"We will ask for his [Ashraf's] resignation in the meeting which is due to take place before March 28," Senator Mohammad Enver Baig, a member of the senate standing committee on culture, sports, youth affairs and tourism told AFP. "You lost miserably to a country like Ireland. There is nothing to compensate and the chairman must resign and go back to the United States.

Which makes sense, because to the average Pakistani the USA is Evil Inc. (arnate/corporated). So what better punishment than to banish him to Jehannum*. The fact that the average Pakistani's application for VISA got turned down, should not in any way weaken his case about USA's evil character. He just wanted to open a corner shop making bombs on the side. It is not that he is into relegious cleansing full time, you know. Only when he is at a loose end. And, right now, the Pakistani cricket team is at the losing end. Spectators, beware.

On Sehwag's less than spectaular performance against Bangladesh:

...lets pray that sehwag dies of a hit from an asteroid...

Asteroids. Boy! The speaker is not leaving anything to chance. Including himself, and most of the human race. Well, at least, then not winning the World cup will be the least of our worries. The ones who survive that is.