No ice cream till I'm single

What has one's relationship status got to do with having ice cream? A lot, if you are Hemant Gairola.

In the summer of 1999, when I was an 11-year-old, half-pant-wearing idealistic boy, I decided I won't have ice cream. That was after my father showed me news reports that gelatin (stuff made of animals' bones, tail, ligaments etc, which makes ice cream sticky) was among other bizarre items ice cream is made up of. "No more ice cream," I decided. The strong-willed boy that I was, I abstained. Ek baar maine commitment de diya, phir to main khud ki bhi nahi sunta.

A couple of weeks later, we went to a relative's lavish wedding reception. My father, sitting next to a relative, called me and asked me to explain why one should not have ice cream. After explaining, I went to join my cousins, my discourse leaving the relative introspectively nodding. After about 10 minutes, my father called me again. This time, he wanted me to bring a helping of ice cream for him. I was like, "Whoa! What about walking the talk!" It was a lavish reception and they had that multi-layered ice cream. I never—not on that day, not on any day—felt tempted or that I was missing out on something awesome.

A couple of years down the line, companies started making gelatin-free or vegetarian ice cream. I could have resumed having it, but nah. I made a vow that I shall get back to ice cream only after I find true love in life. I went on an indefinite ice-cream fast, which would end only after my demand was met. And it would end with me having ice cream from the hands of my lover. A brahma-pratigya was made. And I stuck to it. I must have been 13-14 then. Even at that age I had this die-hard romantic in me, who pre-planned celebration of the grand occasion of falling in love.

A couple of years after I made that vow, school got over. The girl I had fallen in love with called me "bhaiyya". Graduation got over, then post-graduation. I remained the prince of bromance but pauper at romance. Got a job, started making money, but had no one to splurge it on. Yeah, all these years, I did make quite a few sisters. Sisters. Even 11 years after I made that vow, I was an eligible bachelor and, thus, not eligible to have ice cream.

Fed up with not being fed ice cream
Then one fine day in the summer of 2010, a friend called me from the UK and asked me to attend wedding reception of his close friend in Bangalore, and take gifts, on his behalf. That was it; I told him I would break my no-ice-cream-till-single vow at the reception. Enough, man! I realised there's no point in abstaining from the taste of ice cream just because girls don't have a taste for me. That's mighty stupid. Finally, I conceded I had been stupid for 11 years. And, on Thursday, June 24, 2010, I wolfed down two (or three) slices of vanilla ice cream at that wedding reception with the vengeance of a jilted lover. Would have taken more ice cream at the party if it were not for the suspicious glances of the guy serving it. Ah, I had waited 11 long years for this moment.

By the age of 22-and-a-half, I had spent/wasted half of my life without ice cream only because... It's the greatest irony of my life: I'm a die-hard romantic yet romantically challenged; so loving yet so loveless. And that's why I was ice creamless for half of my life. Well, had I not broken the vow, I wouldn't have been able to have ice cream even now.

“All you need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt.

” 

—Charles M Schulz

First anniversary of my dardnaak accident

What happened exactly a year ago turned me into Iron Man. I met with an accident and broke my collar bone. Since the operation, I have a metal plate with six screws on my left shoulder. The plate's and screws' contour is clearly visible on my shoulder and I've flaunted it to almost all of my friends in Bangalore. They gasp in awe.

The accident was my worst, as it happened just a week before Bryan Adams' Greatest Hits concert, for which I had bought ticket by shelling out Rs3,500. My two teeth chipped off; I haven't got them filled yet. The accident was so bad that all the parts of my bike, except engine, had to be changed. Had to spend Rs28,000 on repairing the bike but the insurance company will reimburse only half the amount. Can't forget how my favourite pair of shoes was torn in the accident. After I recovered, I bought another pair of the same design. But this pair got stolen from outside my door. Ah, the sad story of my life...

Another downside of the accident was that I was restricted to my room during the spring season, my favourite time of the year. Couldn't go to Cubbon Park to see how trees become denuded and then lush green in a matter of days. And how can I forget that I had to discontinue gym. It was a Saturday night and on the coming Monday, my trainer was about to increase my dose of bodybuilding supplement. Yeah, I had paid about Rs4,000 for bodybuilding supplement. Had paid Rs10,000 for the gym's annual fees, btw. Had been sweating it out for three-four months and the result was... Oh, man, I had lovely biceps. Now, I'm back to the malnourished-pickpocket look.

It was at a crossing that I had met with the accident. I clearly remember, just before approaching the crossing, I was telling the guy on the pillion: "Man, this crossing is dangerous." And the next thing I remember was that I woke up in a hospital. It's alrite, it's great, actually. Now I have a story to tell. For soldiers, scars are badges of honour.

I don't have much to say today. Actually, I want to write about how the accident kept me away from my bike for so long and blah. That will be a long post, will do it some other day. It will be about how I learnt bike (it was through accidents only). That will be later.

It was after finishing work on the night of February 5 that I had met with the accident. Move the clock a year ahead; that brings us to today. I had promised the pillion rider (his right leg was fractured and he had taken four months off work) that on the anniversary of our accident, I'd take him home on my bike. I should go now. I wonder if he'd come. About a week ago too I offered him drop but he, and all other colleagues who live near my place, made some excuse and shied away. Let me try to persuade him today. (And I laugh a devilish laugh...)

My dream girls, please spare me

When we were in class 12, my friend—who, like me, was in one-sided puppy love for the first time—once told me how he could not wait to go to sleep at night. Reason: His sweetheart used to visit him in his dreams. While in real life the girl used to call him "bhaiyya" (this is what happens when you're in love with a school junior), I suppose she was all lovey-dovey in the dream.

I was not as fortunate as my friend. Yes, my girl too made guest appearances in my dreams a couple of times but... Na, I shouldn't say "my girl". I could never muster the courage to go and speak to her. And when I did, she, too, like my friend's crush, called me "bhaiyya". Anyway, when my friend told me about thisbhaiyya-to-sainyaa transition in the dream, I saw a ray of hope. Thought at least in dreams I'd be able to tell her how beautiful I think her eyes are. And wanted to ask what colour they are. I think black, but not sure.

From the time she found out I'm smitten by her, her father used to take her to and from the school on his motorcycle. I suspect he's an Amrish Puri-esque dad. Why else, I demand to know, did he accompany his daughter even in my dreams? Why?! Should I call it a dream or a nightmare? She came in my dreams only a couple of times, but on both the occasions she was flanked by her dad. The dreams were like real life. In the first, she was sitting behind Mugambo on his motorcycle, staring at me with her big, beautiful eyes. There was distance between us, literally and figuratively. The second dream was similar, except that this time she and the angry old man were walking. I could never tell whether she was staring lovingly or angrily.

That was infatuation and I was 16 then. Even four years later, when I was truly, madly, deeply in love—one-sided love—it was the same story. She did come in my dreams a few times and they were strikingly similar to the real life: she'd look askance at me if not staring right through me, sending those cold vibes. A couple of years after snubbing me in my dreams too, she again appeared in a dream, ignoring me as always and doing Tai Chi in my neighbour's house!

Point to be noted, these girls have been snubbing me even in dreams, my dreams. Insult. Tch tch...

Nightmare in Bangalore
By the way, that's not the worst. It's a girl I don't know who insulted me the most in a dream. That disgust-inducing dream... Oh, man. In that dream, I was merrily walking near my room Basavanagudi. A girl who was about 12-13 years old approached me. I vividly remember what she looked like. I'm about 6-feet tall but she was about four inches taller than me! And she had a moustache typical to a young boy. Her moustache was more conspicuous than her height or the eyesore-pink dress. This girl came to me and said with contempt, "Aapko chaddi sukhana nahi aata." (Meaning: "You don't know how to dry an underwear.")

What the hell! This freaked me out, and offended me, even though that was a dream. C'mon, chaddi? What did she mean when she said that? I remember that girl so vividly that I can identify her if she happens to walk by me any day, even without moustache. The next time I go to Brigade Road, MG Road to loiter, I'll be watching out for this weird girl. I'll stop her and seek an explanation. NO! If we indeed happen to cross path, I'll just hide. What if she, in the real life, comes to me and says, with contempt: "Aapko chaddi sukhana nahi aata." What if that happens!

“I stopped looking for a dreamgirl; I just wanted one that wasn't a nightmare.”—Charles Bukowski

24 going on 16

This day, in 1987, about 2.30 am, I was born in a Dehradun hospital. When my father went home after my birth, my grandmother asked, "Kya hua?" (meaning: "Is it a boy or a girl?") My father replied, "Hemant hua." I was born in Hemant ritu, the coldest, err... the chilliest, season. And thus the name.

After the sun rose, my sister—who was then one-and-a-half year old—came to the hospital to see me. The hospital-wali sister asked my sister: "Bhaiyya kaisa laga?" And my sister replied with "Pintu". That was the name of the beloved dog we had then. The nurse asked my sister again if she liked her brother, to which she said "****". My father found it cute and **** became my nickname, which I banned before I became a teen. Within 12 hours of my arrival on the planet, I had got two names.

Ummm... This blogpost is likely to be disjointed because I'm in a state of shock. You'd be shocked if the entire Australian  team gets dismissed for 24 runs. Isn't it? I'm shocked 'cuz I turn 24 today. Twenty-four years... When did all this happen? I feel I'm 16, forever a schoolboy. I'm the same, my Utopian beliefs and ideals intact. Still don't smoke, don't drink, don't watch porn. Uh oh! Topic change.

Ok, so what am I gonna do today? The best thing: gonna switch off my mobile phone, show up for work and pray for an 'uneventful' birthday. People celebrate their birthdays, I observe mine. 25/12 is my 9/11 and 26/11. Well, last year, I did go out with my two school friends, did bird-watching on Brigade Road, ate cheez-burst pizza and watched Tees Maar Khan (they liked just Sheela Ki Jawani, I loved the whole film). Yeah, I had fun, but that was just as fun as any other day with friends. Nothing special. I've heard people say how they feel oh-so-special on their birthdays. It must feel really special to feel special... Some day.

Anyway, I hate being at either end of "happy birthday". What? I don't even remember being born. Everybody was born. What's the distinction in being born? Why greet me for that? If you congratulate me for a good headline or a story well edited, that makes sense. But "Happy birthday! Hehehe... Thank you!" I don't get it. I  explained this to a  friend a couple of years ago, since then she doesn't call me on birthdays; and then calls a few days after December 25 to explain why she did not call. Hahahaha...

Another reason I hate birthdays is unmet expectations. When I was a nanha-munna bachcha and used to have birthday party for kids of my street, it was so disappointing to see everyone bring sets of sketchpens as gift. Or an envelope saying "Best wishes" with Rs 21 in it. So unimaginative. I already had sketchpens and money was no use to me then. I stopped having birthday party after class 2.

Talking of gifts, I don't remember how old I was when this happened, but I must not have been more than eight or nine years old. I woke up on the morning of December 25 to see a packet of Melody toffees next to my pillow. I was superhappy; Santa brought it for me. I proclaimed this to my neighbour bhaiyya. Matter of factly, he said my parents had kept it. I was not convinced. By now, I've wised up and know Santa isn't there. I still believe in angels, though.

Talking of Santa, it reminds me how my birthday used to start when I was a kid. A Christian family used to live opposite our house and when the clock used to strike 12, a jeep used to come to their house, with merrymakers, Santa Claus and cake. Every year, I used to peep from my window to see all that. It's been so many years, I've been wanting to go to a church on Christmas, to see what all happens. Want to see Christmas tree, wanna hear Chrishmas carols. Next year, maybe. 

As for now, I hope the Reebok showrooms still have that wonderful denim jacket on discount. That'd be my birthday gift to me. No, actually it's just an excuse to buy that jacket. Still in doubt, should I buy it or not?

P.S. Santa, I haven't given up on you.

God turns "impossible" into "i m possible"

There are times we find ourselves stuck. There seems to be no way out; no solution in sight. The problem starts looking more like a fact, something that has to be put up with instead of something that can be solved. Often, there, indeed, is no solution. We give up, abandon hope.

But you know what? When we say "There, indeed, is no solution", it actually means that our limited mind, which is used and trained to be logical and practical, cannot come up with a solution. To say, as a matter of fact, there is no solution is incorrect. Yes, there may not be a way out. But where there is no way, a way will be made. Only if you seek the services of the ultimate problem-solver. God.

Come to think of it. If, for you to live in, God could create the universe—countless galaxies, stars and planets—can he not create a solution to your problem? Do you think any problem is too big for Him? Do you think there's anything bigger than God, the infinite?

The saree that never ended, Thank God

Who came to Draupadi's rescue when Duryodhan was trying to disrobe her? Such a tragedy it was! The daughter of the King of Panchaal, her modesty at stake in the full view of the Kauravas' courtiers even as her husbands could do nothing but watch helplessly. She clutched on to her saree with her hands. Her tormentor's hands were stronger. She held on to her garment with her teeth. Nothing helped. All the human effort on her part went in vain. Then she prayed for help to Lord Krishna, who considered her as a sister. And you know what happened next.

Or, haven't you heard about Meera, Lord Krishna's ardent devotee? She was given a bowl of poison. She consumed it, but by grace of the almighty, the poison turned harmless. Laws of our world say this is impossible. But who created this world and the laws? You think it's a big deal for Him to tweak a rule or make an exception for his children? 

He couldn't die. Oops... God killed him
Surely, you must have heard the story of Hiranyakashipu, the raakshas who practiced severe austerities to earn  a boon from Lord Brahma. Pleased by Hiranyakashipu's dedication and discipline, one day Lord Brahma appeared in front of him, to grant him a boon. Hiranyakashipu asked the Lord to make him immortal. This being against the rule of the nature, Lord Brahma told him to ask for something else. And Hiranyakashipu said:
Grant me that I not die:
- by any human being, animal or weapon
- at the hands of any entity, living or non-living
- at the hands of any demigod or demon
- of old age or disease
- within any residence or outside any residence
- during the daytime or night
- neither on the ground nor on the sky.

Knowing full well that his death is practically impossible he started attack on the devatas. Yes, the devatas too knew he cannot be killed, which logically makes him invincible. But had they concluded thus and accepted this 'fact', they would have lost the battle against him, the problem. What did they do? They went to Lord Vishnu, asking him to end their woes. And what did Lord Vishnu do? He killed Hiranyakashipu. But how? He had such a boon that made it impossible for him to die, right? Wrong. Nothing is impossible for God.

His Narasimha incarnation killed Hiranyakashipu while maintaining all the conditions of the boon Lord Brahma had granted to the demon. "He came upon Hiranyakashipu at twilight (when it was neither day nor night) on the threshold of a courtyard (neither indoors nor out), and put the demon on his thighs (neither earth nor space). Using his sharp fingernails (neither animate nor inanimate) as weapons, he disemboweled and killed the demon." (Quoted text from Wikipedia)

Mythology is replete with such incidents where practically and logically impossible things happened when The Supreme One intervened. God is neither practical nor logical; he is just loving. Where there is no solution, a solution will be made. He does everything effortlessly. So, ask.

Seek and you will find
You must have heard/read these words from the Bible: "Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For every one who asks, receives. He who seeks, finds. To him who knocks, it is opened. If a son asks for bread from any father among you, will he give him a stone? If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!"

Do you think all this is rhetoric? That such things, if they ever actually happened, happened only in the past and that God doesn't show up these days? That miracles don't happen anymore? To this, I'll say, isn't a baby a miracle! Think of it: a sperm cell meets an egg and in nine months you have a living creature—flesh, blood and bones, and a heart, a mind, a soul—breathing, feeling, thinking. It's from a tiny seed that a giant tree originates. A caterpillar turns into a pupa and then into a butterfly. If you just stop taking life for granted and think, everything is a miracle.

A line in a bhajan goes like this: Log kehte hain bhagwaan aate nahi, woh to kehta hai tum to bulaate nahi. I was astounded when I first heard it. We say He doesn't come; He says you don't call!

Purpose defeated, not I
Well, I had started writing this post (about a week ago) and wrote the previous one with a desire that a particular friend comes across them and sees hope, gains faith and doesn't give up on his/her highest ideals of love and life. My purpose is defeated by now.

I have been the side-hero of many a failed love story, tried more than my best to help but could not make a dent. In any of those love stories, had it been me in place of the person who gave up, I believe the tale would have ended on the note of "And they lived euphorically ever after..." I've always wished that my words inspire and lift others. And I've always failed. My message was never understood/believed. I've not given up yet, on this trying to help others thing. Gandhiji had said, "My life is my message." And, my life will be my message. While my words never made an impact, the story of my life will. Try talking about faith and hope, and you can see a "whatever" forming in people's mind. I'll achieve the highest ideals of love and life and then people will say, "Yeah, he was right."

Have you seen Bruce Almighty? Towards the end of the movie, Morgan Freeman, playing God, tells Jim Carrey: "You want to see a miracle, son? Be a miracle." The unforgettable line is now my mission.

Troubled by a recurrent dream. Why?

In class 12, I had failed in four out of five subjects in the first pre-board exam, which was held less than three months before the boards. Had scored 88 in English and about half of it in four other subjects taken together. Failed in two or three subjects in the second pre-board and in physics in the third pre-board. A week before the board exams, we had to collect our admit card from the principal. He withheld my admit card. As I had failed in physics in all the three pre-boards, the principal said he'd give me the admit card only after I get "clearance" from the physics teacher that I can pass in the board exam.

I went to the physics teacher, he said he'd hold a test of one-hour duration that would have questions from first three units. About half a dozen defaulters like me appeared for that test. And I failed in that too. That was less than 72 hours before the first board exam—physics.

Of course, there's no way the principal could deny me the admit card. I gave the exam and passed it, all the subjects, to bewilderment and joyous disbelief of my parents, teachers and peers alike.

The haunting

Now, this forms the premise of my recurring nightmare. In the dream, I'm in class 12, the board exams is just a couple of months away and I don't know a zilch. And there're so many problems, in the two books of maths; big, thick books of physics, chemistry; the entire coding and theory of two computer programmes. I don't know a thing. In the dream, I am jittery all the time, wondering how will I—if, at all—pass the exam.

An uphill task is approaching. Accomplishing it is highly improbable. Failing it will have disastrous consequences. I'm very nervous, very anxious, very afraid, very distressed. I have that sinking feeling. Sinking as deep as the core of the earth.

This dream feels so real, so scary that it wakes me up. I get up with my heart still pounding. I look around, realise I'm a post-graduate now, have a decent job. That I passed the board exam. Phew! It takes me some time to gather myself and say, "Ok, relax. That was past."

An omen?
The dream has become more frequent. And more scary. And every time it wakes me up, I'm asking myself if it is an omen. Are Gods/my spiritual guides trying to send some message? As in, time is running out, boy, act fast or face the consequences. What's this dream about?

Taking a cue from the incidence of the concurrence of its recurrence with the apparent evidence of absence of my emotional prudence, I think I've got its essence. When my alliance with friends ends, owing to the prevalence of turbulence, it disheartens me to great lengths. Enters disturbance, leaving no semblance of balance and my heart twists and bends. When I have no audience to my questions, the magnificence of the friend's passive belligerence tends to kill the existence of my effervescence. When pretense replaces innocence, goodbye means good-riddance, the malignance of the distance and other's reluctance to make amends sends me into tense moments.

Gone is fragrance, prevails pungence, but I hope you dance as I wake up to the brilliance of acceptance. Also, as I glance at this instance of my forbiddance 'cuz appearance of my sentiments suggests overbearance, well, s/he misunderstands. Good sense recommends avoiding reminiscence. And I've learnt the lessons, hence the blogpost ends. Meanwhile, I pray for guidance, and another chance.

“This has got to be a nightmare; I haven't woken up yet.

”  

—Curtis Sliwa

The rockstar who dresses up like a watchman

This is my premature opinion on the movie. I've watched it twice but am still baffled. Is the story:
(a) flashback-turned-chronological narrative?
(b) told chronologically?
(c) simply a victim of bad editing?
Is it just me or do you too think that the movie is caught in a time warp? 

There's more confusion. Towards the end, we are told the heroine is in coma. We don't know whether she recovered, stayed in coma or died. The film ends just like that. Maybe the filmmakers chose this ending to leave scope for a sequel. In part 1, Ranbir doesn't get the girl, is thus distraught and takes to music. The sequel can start with the girl recovering from coma. In part 2, Ranbir gets the girl, marries her, is thus distraught and takes to music. Hahahaha... I should switch to script-writing from journalism.

Oh, the movie offended the journalist in me. Ranbir thrashes, screams at mediapersons every time they surround him. Journalists, too, have been portrayed as pests who just care for gossip-story, having no regards for anybody's privacy. And then an editor tells a reporter to shun her ego and be shameless, just get a story. GRRR!

Well, the movie is like New Zealand cricket team. There are sparks of brilliance but fails to impress as a whole. There are many scenes that make you giggle. However, there's no touching scene. When a... Wait! By "touching" I mean "moving", emotionally touching, not physical touching. Phew! Gotta be careful. Yeah, there was just one scene that I found touching. That's when the girl asks the hero: "Can you hug me?"

Ranbir is good, indeed. But why has Jordan, the rockstar, been dressed up like Bahadur, the watchman? The heroine, no doubt she's beautiful and I'll indeed follow her if I spot her on Brigade Road but I didn't feel that pull I get when I see Bipasha or Kareena. Supporting cast is good. I want to know more about the girl who played the heroine's younger sister. What's her phone number?

Bore music
The music is such a letdown. Yet again, AR Rehman failed to impress. Not even one hummable tune. Of all the songs in the movie, I liked the sound of just four words altogether. Barring those four words—Sadda haq, aitthe rakh—and the preceding guitar riff, everything else disappointed me. And roping in Mohit Chauhan to be the voice of a rockstar is like casting Rakhi Sawant as a beauty queen. I like Dooba Dooba but Chauhanji as rockstar? No no.

The first time I had gone to watch the movie, I was greatly disappointed. Moreover, the ticket (first day show) cost me Rs 320. Add Rs 90 as auto fare. Ideally, it should have taken no more than Rs 60-70 but the auto driver had tampered the meter. I didn't complain, just didn't want to miss the movie. And that is why I skipped lunch. So there I was, sitting in the AC-freezed cinema hall; hungry, cold, poorer by Rs 410, suffering ads such as "Vicco Turmeric, nahi cosmetic, yeh hai Vicco turmeric ayurvedic cream." And no beautiful girls sitting around me.

My experience was better the second time. A friend bought the ticket and by now, I had abandoned all expectations. So there was no scope for disappointment. Also, I realised that the pest-journalists are actually paparazzi. Real journalism is as different from paparazzi as bharatnatyam is from break dance.

So, how many stars should I give to Rockstar? Hmmm... I'll give one rock and one star. That's enough.

Ra.One is just an expensive Shaktimaan

As a child, I never watched Shaktimaan or Captain Vyom. I used to mock my friends for liking shows as puerile as these. But now, having watched Ra.On, I'm in the same category as them. Actually, I watched the movie twice. I liked it. I'm guilty as charged. Sorry, Shaktimaan.

No, I'm not super impressed by the movie. It certainly didn't live up to the hype. There was no edge-of-the-seat moment (barring when Kareena dominated the frames. Whoa! She's looking AMAZING). In fact, the movie starts on an uber-underwhelming note, giving an impression that it's a bachchon ki picture. And Shah Rukh's portrayal of a goofy south Indian is simply disappointing, even appalling. In fact, when the character died in the first half, I was like, "Thank God yeh mar gaya. Bahut bore kar raha tha." Although the real Shah Rukh in the movie is a big let down, the virtual Shah Rukh, the superhero, is entertaining. Somewhat.

What's in a name? A lot
Ah, but wait. We all know Ra.One is the villain and the name is a play on Raavan, the bad guy whom Lord Ram killed. I knew Shah Rukh's character in the movie is called G.One. Until I watched the movie, I was bemused: What kind of unpronounceable or meaningless name (G dot One?) is that. In fact, it first seemed like a roll number. Upon watching the movie, I was bewildered. He was named G.One because it's an abbreviation of "Good one" and sounds like jeevan, matlab life. C'mon! A hero called Jeevan? Is it 2011 or 1911?

Too much hype was given to Akon's song, Chhammak Challo. What's the use? I didn't understand even a sentence. The only thing about the song that kept me engaged was Kareena, who was looking smokin' hot in red. But disappointment reached a new low just after the end of the song as we learnt that the Kareena we were drooling upon was actually the evil Ra.One, who had transmogrified into the lady just before the song started. I felt like puking. I was salivating upon (yuck yuck yuck) an evil, video-game character who is male and not too long ago has gouged out somebody's eye! Ugh...

Dumb, annoying robot

And G.One (Jeevan, whatever) is a robot or machine something, supposed to obey orders. During the climax, he is being instructed not to attack Ra.One but just dodge him. "Ok," he says and then rushes towards the villain with a closed fist and gets thrashed. The bewildered child guiding him asks, "Kya kar rahe ho?", to which he answers, "Pit raha hoon."

Is this supposed to be funny? I call it plain dumb. I was like, what kind of jerk head is this robot, which agrees to a command, does exactly the opposite and then acts innocent. Another disenchanting aspect of the climax is the way Ra.One dies. Remember what were Gulshan Grover's last words in Mohra (Akshay Kumar-starrer that had the song "Tu cheez badi hai mast-mast" )? "Dirty mind." That's the way a villain dies. Ra.One—a supposed supervillain—died in most disgraceful manner, howling like a drunkard who's being slippered by his wife.  "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa... Ooooooooooooo... Aaaaaaaaaaa..." Shame shame.

...I still like the movie
Wait wait wait... I had started writing this post with an intention to hail the movie, 'cuz I liked it. If whatever I've written thus far seems negative, see, that's not the case. I liked the movie, though not too much but liked it. Oh yes, I particularly liked the scene just after the opening sequence, featuring three sahelees of Bruce Lee—Iski Lee, Uski Lee, Sabki Lee. Hahahaha... 

It might not be a gripping movie but my respect for SRK has just increased. Yes, increased. He worked so hard to promote it. He believes in it so much. That unwavering, childlike faith. He's like, "Screw what people say, I'll do what I believe in." That's a rare trait. Well done, King Khan. I'm not being sarcastic. When criticism gets to you, remember that no one kicks a dead dog.

Who dreams of a bitch? I do :-/

I had a bizarre dream last night. As the title says, I was hugging a bitch in the dream. By bitch, I mean a real bitch, not a mean, female homo sapien. She had brown fur and was of Indian breed, the kind you'd find on a street in India's middle-class localities. The location was the street where I'm living in Bangalore. I was sitting next to the bitch, my arms around her neck (I know, it's weird).

Ummm... "the bitch", "the bitch" doesn't sound decent. Let's call her Julie (in memory of my late pet, Julie. If I assign any Indian name to the bitch, you may think I've some enmity towards a girl with that name. Anyway, the dream-wali Julie looked a bit like my real Julie. They both had four legs, snake-like tail, two eyes and a wet nose).

Yeah, so I had my arms around Julie's neck, we were sitting on a pavement, lost in conversation. I wasn't speaking in bow-wows, she was speaking in Hindi. I don't remember what exactly we were talking about, just that I was a bit down and sharing it with her, just as I share with friends. Julie impressed me with her wise words; she was analysing the situation—I don't remember what it was—and I was listening, absorbing, nodding. She was comforting me, and I was glad, grateful that she was there for me.

Let's analyse it
That's all. I don't remember anything else. Now, what is the point of this dream, if any?
1. Sigmund Freud says dreams are the royal road to subconscious. Our subconscious is where all our suppressed desires, feelings and impulses are stored. If Freud is right—many scientists say he isn't—then... I mean... What do I find on my royal road to subconscious? A bitch. What's my suppressed desire? To be heard and understood by a bitch. C'mon, a bitch? 
There are other possible interpretations:
2. In real life, I need not keep distance from a girl just because she seems to be a bitch. She may be sweet and understanding, after all. (Hmmm... I need to think about it.)
3. Beware of girls who sweet-talk you. She's a bitch! (Nah, this can't be. Of all my former female friends—all were so sweet until the snub-act—only one's been a bitch. I've no hard feelings for the rest.)
4. I'm willing to settle for a bitch. (Eww... No! the bitch in dream was not a bitchy bitch. Maybe she was the bitch incarnation of my dreamgirl? What am I saying!)    
5. I covet a bitch. Two-legged. (Well, which guy doesn't!)

Whoa! Take a break, Hemant Gairola. This is taking self-analysis to dangerous levels. I pity myself. With open eyes, I dream of a beauty. With eyes closed, I dream of a bitch! Tragic. And what is worse is that this is not my weirdest dream. I'm wallowing in self-pity after writing all this and thus will end here. With a sigh.

“Dreaming permits each and everyone of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives.” —William Dement

My first job is now my former job

And my first job comes to an abrupt end. A beautiful chapter comes to a fugly end. I'm gonna miss that place like, dunno what to say, gonna miss it to so much. For past year and a half, I had no aim other than becoming a better sub-editor. Tried my best to give headlines with a zing, sometimes succeeded too. The Economist stylebook was my Bible. Used to read it, re-read and then re-read it again. I wanted to be flawless, perfect. Used to go through the book of idioms, phrases and allusions so affectionately as if it was a collection of the love letters from my girlfriend.

I have no girlfriend. For the past year and a half, work was my only love. Just how much I loved working! Used to come to work even on my weekly offs, voluntarily. Past year during monsoon, used to end up getting drenched almost every other day while coming to office but still worked full shift, cheerfully, shivering under the fan, only because I absolutely loved my work. Didn't take any casual leave, ever. And until my road accident five months ago, took just two sick leaves altogether, that too when I was sick as a dog.

Talking of accident, that too happened because I chose work over family. My cousin was getting married in my hometown. I hadn't been to home for one and a half years. I had asked for leave, once. Didn't ask twice because there was severe shortage of people in my department. I got my flight tickets cancelled and chose to stay back, for sake of work. And it's during this period that I met with an road accident, while returning from work :-|

I didn't mind being underpaid and overworked (Rs 13,500 a month in a city like Bangalore, give me a break!). Just because I loved my work. But sooner or later, every lover in a one-sided love one day wakes up to reality. Even after increment, my salary is less than that of freshers! Whoa, can't take it, dude.

However, one bitter episode can't make me bitter. Nothing can, in fact. I had loads of fun working here. No other newspaper office, I presume, has such a work atmosphere where employees have so much fun. I'm attached to this job, to 'my' computer, to my colleagues, to my 'Press' pass, to that office. Maybe that's why I turned down all those job offers that came my way during my tenure with the company.

It was my first job. First job, man! Do you realise how special it is! To me it is as special as my first love, first zero in physics, first bike and first accident (minor). I absolutely loved my work. I loved the people I worked with. Feels sad to leave.

But know what? A job that you love but doesn't pay well is like being attracted to a shemale: it seems nice, but fails you at the most crucial spot. Likewise, a job that pays well but doesn't excite you is like an ugly lady you'd date just because she's rich. I choose neither. That is why I, yesterday, walked out of my under-paying job. And that is why I, just a week ago, turned down the job offer from the world's biggest news agency — established in 1799, mind you — even though it was offering me more than twice of what I was getting from my then-current job. (No disrespect intended to the company whose offer I turned down. Utmost disrespect intended to the decision makers of the company I quit.)

I have quit the company. Of course, they will get a new sub-editor, who will sit on 'my' system, will replace me. But know what? I am irreplaceable. I cannot be replaced. No one else can be like Hemant Gairola.

Before ending, I want to tell my friends in reporting department that whenever I got to edit a byline story of any of you, I always strived to edit it as nicely as possible, make it look as good as I could. However, there must have been times when my editing might have disappointed you. I apologise for that. My friends on desk (well, there's hardly anyone left on desk now), I'm gonna miss you all a lot. Missing you already :( Love you guys a lot. I'll give you all free front-row passes of my concerts when I become rock star.

Ah, dunno how to end this piece I'm writing. As a sub-editor I've always taken pride in keeping text as short as possible. But it's alrite. I've left my first job (actually I haven't left, didn't want to leave, the job has left me), I'm a bit senti and need to tell all of it. But it's ok. You guys must be having stories to file, to edit and finish pages on time. All the very best to all of you. Lots of love...

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“Choose a job you love and you will never have to work a day in your life.”
— Confucius

I meditate, she becomes Dalai Lama

It's a dream I saw around a couple of weeks ago, when I was in Goa. In the dream, I was in Balco (the township in Chhattisgarh where I lived for the first 17 years of my life), in our bungalow quarter that has a big lawn. And what do I see on the lawn of the quarter with whom we share our left boundary wall? The girl whom I love was doing Tai Chi there!

She was standing with her feet shoulder-width apart. Slowwwly stretching to her left. Verrryyy slowly. Then stretching to her right in the same slowww manner. I noticed it when I was going out of my house — in the dream — for some work. I return after a couple of hours and she was still there, doing Tai Chi! I didn't go and speak to her, fearing  her "I'm busy". Don't know if she even noticed me.

There must have been more to this dream but I remembered only this much when I woke up. Ok, went to my meditation camp then. (I had gone to Goa to attend a spiritual camp.) After returning that evening, I told my friend — had gone to Goa with a school-time friend — about the dream. First he gave me a blank look. Then, in all seriousness, he said, "It's been just a few days that you started these meditations and she's now doing Tai Chi in your dreams. Looks like if you keep meditating then after a month she'll come in your dreams as Dalai Lama!"

Hahaha... That insightful observation left both of us in splits. I found it funny that's why thought should mention it here on my blog. I wonder how Sigmund Freud would have interpreted this dream, she doing Tai Chi for two hours! Hahaha... But she looked beautiful, as always. And just loved that nonchalant look on her face when she was doing, well, Tai Chi!

"Last night I dreamed I ate a 10-pound marshmallow. When I woke up, the pillow was gone." — Tommy Cooper