Desicritics Author: Chaitanya S

Missing InSomnia

Chaitanya S — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 11:14:20 EST

“We are having a blast at the Taj tonight…remember to bring your camera along…it is going to be an all nighter”.

As I sat glued to CNN, I realized what words like “Taj”, “tonight”, “blast”, “camera” and “all night” meant to me. As I sat through the night watching the footage, the brain screamed of fatigue but the eyes remained wide. My roommate passed by at 5:00 am and sniggered, “Still up? Are you suffering from insomnia tonight?”. “No. InSomnia is suffering tonight”.

I knew InSomnia had shut down a year or so ago. But all my best memories (only memories?) of the Taj revolved round that night club. We’d make it a point to party there whenever possible. For us living in the suburbs, the 30 minute drive to reach our destination was more than worth the effort. The slow moving traffic gave us an opportunity to actually “talk” and catch up with each others' lives. The moment we’d cross Worli, the traffic would give way and the road was there for the taking. Marine Drive, was where I’d roll down the windows. The cool sea breeze hitting our faces added to the thrill of going to party. The screams of “put the windows up, you idiot, it’s ruining our hair” couldn’t dampen our ecstasy.

On 26/11, the absence of cars round the Taj was an antithesis to my experience. I recollect the plush automobiles snaking round the grand building. I remember being caught up in that long queue for valet parking on every occasion. On such occasions, comments from my beloved backseat drivers ranged from, “this is taking us longer than our drive” to “I told you to leave early, numbskull”.

I’ve frequented all the best nightclubs in Mumbai city. Anyone would tend to do that if they’d party at least twice at week. But InSomnia always had an X factor to it which I could never actually put my finger on. Maybe it was the architectural splendor of the Taj on entry. Or maybe it was the element of mystery I felt as I approached the club for the first time. It was through a narrow corridor which was flanked by designer stores on either side. All the shops were closed by the time we’d go to the club, but it was my secret ambition to shop there someday. I no longer nurse that ambition, but you tend to have crazy aspirations when you are younger. I remember entering the darkness of the club down a flight of stairs and immersing myself into the loud music and flashing lights.

Back then, the only shots inside were either at the bar or through my camera. The blasts were our youthful emotions exploding on the dance floor. Every ounce of fatigue which had accumulated due to the 60 hour work week went up in smoke. We made sure to uphold Mumbai’s reputation as “the city which never sleeps”.

On the way home, I remember the “nakabanis” or roadblocks at which I’d stop at. Police would speak in their stern but polite Marathi and screen the car. Far from being a nuisance, it would be reiterate the fact that I was safe in my beloved city. The police were just making sure that we citizens drove home safely.

I will always feel safe in Mumbai. It is my home. I know I am being protected. Fear will not give me sleepless nights. Now even InSomnia can’t give me sleepless nights in Mumbai. I really do miss InSomnia.

Fiction: Dreading Ugly Girls

Chaitanya S — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 13:22:46 EDT

The sun beat down harshly, immediately distorting the contour of my expression. With crinkled eyelids I stared blankly at the buildings below as a whiff of smoke escaped my tanned pursed lips. I paced around slowly. The brain was ticking and the lungs were puffing. The terrace of my office building was an ideal place for my “brainstorming breaks”. Creative ideas blended with a dash of black coffee and a hint of smoke made a magic potion. The potion on which I believed my modeling agency thrived on. Minutes would turn to hours at times; thinking of the next fashion show or the next magazine shoot. Faces of fashion photographers, choreographers, designers, stylists and models would emerge through the smoke and spin in my head like a jackpot machine. The risks and benefits of every combination would be calculated in my head. Suddenly there would be a glimpse of light in my clouded mind and I’d run down to break the plan of action to my team.

My mind was focused on a print shoot for a ladies denim commercial for the Middle East. I had already zeroed in on the photographer. The only bone of contention was which young ladies to select. They had to look beautiful, nothing else, simply gorgeous. Tall, slim, good features, nice long hair and fair. The industry demanded fair girls for print shoots. Dusky girls with average features were useless for this. They were good enough for the ramp if they were tall and slim enough. But even they were taken grudgingly. I was an integral part of a shallow world. But that shallow world paid for the comfortable lifestyle which I led. Changing the world or people’s perception wasn’t my concern. My mind shifted to the numerous aspiring models that came to me for work. I didn’t give two hoots to their “talents”. If they did not fit the “conventional” look, I offered them tea; chit chatted, took their photographs and assured them that someone from my office would get in touch soon. I didn’t have the heart to say, “You are no good. Your looks will never work. Please go back home and do something else.” The pictures were immediately confined to the welcoming bosom of my trash can.I still wasn’t part of the shallow world though. After every such meeting, I needed a fag to get over the uneasiness. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me. The hope and trust which I strangled, the moment the pictures touched the bin.Then slowly I turned cold. I assimilated myself in that world. My job was to sell dreams. I started living in a dream myself. My smile became my mask. I became a parody of myself. I started disliking people who were not good looking. I felt they were coming to office and wasting my time. The same time which I could dedicate to “deserving” people. At times I made it a point to tell them that. Mostly I did it in a politically correct manner. Sometimes I was blunt. But I didn’t care. I had a business to run and salaries to pay.Gradually the sight of bad features, bad hair, bad dressing started making me uneasy. My soul turned shallow, then dry and finally I could feel it die. I know it died because I felt empty. It lay buried somewhere in the four walls of my agency. I never quite realized the subtle transition of my soul into arrogance. The only thing that remained of my previous self was my “carton of 20”. The hopeful eyes still haunted me though. But I knew a drag was all it took to cloud those thoughts away.Outside the office, I was myself again. Maybe that’s why I always liked going to the terrace to think. The fresh sea breeze felt liberating. It allowed me to think in peace without being disturbed. My soul felt alive again. It was the only place where I could be at ease with my “oral companion”.

A trickle of sweat ran down my neck and made me wince. Another drag before I shifted base to the cooler confines under the parapet on which the water tank rested. It was when I moved there that I realized that I was not alone on the terrace that evening.

My soot stained lips broke into a genuine smile on seeing her pudgy dusky features. However, the hint of coldness in my heart screamed, “For that skin tone, at least use a hint of bronzer to liven it up”. Her hair was tied neatly in a tight pony tail, a far cry from the cute step cuts which were in vogue. Her simple denims and tee did not make any attempt to hide her ample frame. In my office, a girl looking like that would have been spurned. I disliked bulky people. I just felt they were too lazy to exercise. “I hate people who abused their bodies”, I would tell my near and dear ones even as an extra layer of soot collected over my lungs. “How many times have I said no wearing sneakers on flared denims”, my heart wailed. She was a stark contrast to the girls who visited my agency and those who worked there. But that day she did not flash her pearly whites on seeing me.She worked in the office next doors. We would often meet in the corridor or elevator and exchange pleasantries. Then we started having brief conversations since the car park where I kept my car and her bus stop were in the same direction. She was a well read girl and we would discuss books for that brief period. She was sharp with her words and fluent in Hindi and English. She could think on the spot and had a ready wit. I called her a walking talking lexicon. These qualities helped her become an accomplished telemarketer. At the end of every month, she would proudly tell me that she had over achieved her targets. I always appreciated and related more to self made people.

She never quite knew why her boss never sent her out for client calls. Such marketing offered higher financial rewards and better networking opportunities to further ones career. She definitely had the capabilities of pulling it off. I expressed my curiosity to her boss once when I bumped into him in the elevator. He smirked and patted my shoulder. “We sell high end perfumes, son. I don’t want to scare my clients. He gave a chuckle. You know what she looks like! And her dressing, she needs some tips from your staff!” We had reached the landing to our office as he completed his sentence. My soul always disappeared on that floor. I smirked and chuckled harder than him. I was amused by my own stupidity.

I walked up to her. My grin was genuine and my mind was clear of the modeling world. “Hey. And how are we doing today? Good girls shouldn’t be sitting in “shady” places all by themselves”. I ruffled her hair playfully and sat down on the cement flooring next to her. She gave me a blank look; her eyes were of a crimson hue. She’d always been cheerful whenever I’d met her. This was something I wasn’t used to.

She sniffled and looked me in the eye. “Got another drag?” I crossed my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah I do. I didn’t know you smoke. I don’t think you should.” She eased my companion out of my fingers and took a deep puff. Her eyes burned with a sanguine radiance as the smoke hissed out of her lips over my face. Then she coughed and tears ran down her dark cheeks. Immediately taking the stub out of her hand, I extinguished it on the floor. I put my arm round her comfortingly and smiled lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m here for you. Let those tears flow and it’ll make you feel better.” My shoulder got wet as tears flowed on it. I sat still, not knowing how to react. I needed to think. To think I needed a quick drag.

I stroked her hair comfortingly while my brain raced. “Maybe she’s had a fight with her boyfriend”, I said to myself. Immediately a voice from within smirked, “Do you really think she will have a boyfriend. I mean look at her. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on this planet”. “Love is blind”, I countered. “Of course it is. Else ugly people would never be loved.” I quickly pulled out a cigarette and popped it between my lips. With slightly shaking hands, I flicked open my Zippo and readily inhaled the soothing draft of air. It had a magical effect and squabble within me ceased immediately.

She moved her face off my shoulder. I gazed into her pink orbs and smiled lightly. I could see pain, hurt, confusion and embarrassment all rolled in one look. I handed her my cigarette. That was the only cure which I could vouch for and the only one which was at hand. “Thanks”, she muttered coldly before closing her eyes and taking a drag. A tear rolled down the side of her eye as I lit a cigarette for myself.

Weeping girls made me panic. Most of the girls I knew could open a faucet within themselves at the drop of a hat. They could use those tears as a weapon to attack you or as a shield to defend their actions. Either way men had no chance of fighting back. Reasoning was always futile; I had learnt the hard way.

I glanced at her. The nicotine in her blood stream seemed to have a calming effect on her. Balancing the cigarette in my lips I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her. I took her hand gently in mine and took a drag before speaking in a low voice, “Hey, thank God you don’t wear any makeup, these tear stains would have definitely ruined your pretty face”.

“Pretty ! Pretty ! You think this face is pretty !”, she exploded. She hadn’t released the smoke before screaming and her words were drowned in a bought of heavy coughing. She jerked her hand out of mine and gave me a hard look. “You bloody well know I’m not pretty. And it’s no secret either. I’m ugly, goddamit and you would be the first person to notice that”. My eyes widened and I took a couple of quick fags to calm down. What she said wasn’t completely untrue. It wasn’t what she said that shocked me, but the way in which she said it.

“Who the hell told you that? Of course you are pretty”, I spoke calmly. “You’ve got a wonderful personality and you are a good person and it shows on your face……In your body language. Trust me, I’m your friend.” I smiled lightly as I watch her aggression subsiding.

“Then why the fuck do guys reject me for marriage on the basis of my looks?” she mutter meekly. For that I had no answer. I did not even know her family was out looking for prospective suitors. Marriage was an alien concept to me and it hardly ever crossed my mind.

“Every time I meet someone, the reply the very next day is the same. NO. My parents are too embarrassed to tell me, but I’m not stupid. I understand. My parents drop subtle hints, asking me to lose weight. I can do it for health reasons, but why should I change myself for someone else?” Tears started bulging under her eyes again and I quickly gestured towards the handkerchief.

“I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I know it’s my looks. But how can I help it if I was born this way? I have dreams too; I want to have a family. I want to have kids. But everywhere I go, I get a look and I know what it means. Guys want fair, slim girls. Why is dark considered ugly in this country?”

I listened quietly. I had never imagined girls could face such problems. Why an independent and intelligent young lady being reduced to tears because of a frivolous thing like marriage was beyond me. But again it was a question of priorities. She wanted a family and kids of her own, and I respected her priorities.

“I wanted some good photographs, remember? I’d come to you and you said you’d get back to me regarding that. You never did. I wanted them for a marriage website and I’d heard you bragging about making people look prettier than they were”. I cringed. I remembered that meeting and how I had reacted. I always felt shooting someone ugly was an insult to my skill and my camera. I was an artist and I chose whom I wanted to shoot. Despite being avarice, I’d rather give a monetary loan to somebody than shoot pictures of a person with average looks. “You know how busy I’ve been”, I muttered timidly.

I managed a smile and took her hand again. “Forget the photographs for now. You don’t need all that. You are an amazing girl and that’s what’s important. You don’t look ugly. You’ve got lovely features; you just need to smile and show off your pearly white teeth to accentuate them. And there is nothing that a nice haircut can’t fix. We just need to change your dressing slightly and you’ll be physically all ready to have guys drooling when you walk. And don’t feel as if I’m changing you, you’ll still be yourself. I’m just suggesting some minor tweaks. And don’t feel you are doing it for a stranger; just think you are doing it for me”.

“Once that is taken care of, you’ve got everything a guy would want in a girl. You are intelligent. You can talk on varied subjects. And have I told you I love your sense of humor? You are the only one who makes me laugh so much after a long day at work. And your poems are some of the best which I’ve heard in ages. And you have a way with words which is very flattering. I love the way you speak sweetly over the phone with your clients”. She had tossed the cigarette aside and was gazing at me and listening intently as I spoke about her. I highlighted all her positives and it took a while since she really was talented. I mentioned how good she was around people and how she made everyone comfortable in her presence. We continued to talk for almost an hour after that. She smiled and finally she was laughing again.

I glanced at my watch. I had a client to meet in office downstairs and even she had been away from her desk for a while. As the sun started setting in the sea across our building, the sky was filled with a crimson hue. It was the same hue which was visible in her eyes an hour ago. As the day was coming closer to its conclusion, so was our conversation. We got up and took the stairs down to our office floor. I was repeating all her qualities to drive them in her brain and boost her confidence. She was smiling and she seemed to be in high spirits again. I could see the joy in her eyes, something which I hadn’t seen for ages. I tossed the cigarette aside. I could feel good without it.

Just one more flight of stairs down and we would have reached our destination. Words were flowing consistently through my lips. “So anyone who says no to you isn’t worth your time because you are precious. And you know….Any guy who marries you will be the luckiest guy in this whole world….And…” “She grabbed my hand and turned me to face her. Her hope filled gaze was locked in mine. She spoke in a low expectant voice, “Will you marry me?”

My soul always disappeared on that floor. I turned cold. My job was to sell dreams. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me forever. “No”, I said coldly.

The hopeful eyes still haunt me. Even a drag isn't enough now to cloud those thoughts away.

Marriage Mania

Chaitanya S — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 03:04:14 EDT

"Some people claim that marriage interferes with romance. There's no doubt about it. Anytime you have a romance, your wife is bound to interfere" - Groucho Marx.

Exactly my point!

Lately my friends and acquaintances (of either gender) have been slowly but surely succumbing to the marketing wiles of these mushrooming matrimonial sites, social/ parental / peer pressures and sell by date college romances (not exactly in that order).

Yet, bravely I stood with a trusted few, guarding the haloed frontiers of bachelorhood. Grieving (at times sniggering at) the vanquished.

So while my "online albums" (on those dime for a dozen social networking sites) bore photographs of philandering boys on the beaches of Goa, "their" albums had beautiful wedding and honeymoon snaps.

I wish to clarify that I do not detest marriage. It is as sacred an institution as there can be (so I've read). But for everything in life, there is a certain age (always exception to the rule). Else 8 year olds would be driving just because they love fast cars. You need to be matured enough to peep through the veil of initial thrill and recognize the hazards that lie ahead.

Plus, marriage is akin to bungee jumping or sky diving. You sign a consent form before you actually take the plunge. Unfortunately if you enjoy the thrill of taking the deep plunge, let's just say you can't go sky diving in the immediate future when it comes to marriage. However much you wish to. (That's 10/10 for morals and 11/10 for commitment).

Finally when my impatience hit the roof on account of my friends' "suicidal" tendencies, I sent a mass email to all the vanquished. It had a simple question. "Life is to be enjoyed when you are young and free. So for God's sake, WHY ?"

I got varied responses mostly from the US, Bangalore, Pune and some from Mumbai. The tone of the response depended on the person's emotional proximity to me, their gender and their reasons to take the plunge.

The honest ones (exclusively males) were pretty forthright with their reply. Something on the lines of Joseph Barth saying, "Marriage is our last, best chance to grow up". I totally agree. Next time please do something macho in your teens so you won't have to take such drastic steps.

The ones who had arranged marriages quoted something on the lines of Tom Mullen's, "Marriages blossom when we love the ones we marry". As an antithesis to this, I just remembered Samuel Johnson's saying, "Marriage is the triumph of hope over experience". Amen!

My creative friends from the Oscar Wilde school of thought responded as the great man would have. "Marriage is the triumph of imagination over intelligence". No wonder we get along so well on most counts.

But my favorite, coming from my really close bosom buddies (of either gender) was on the lines of "now at least we get laid each night". "With the same partner", was my sardonic remark. "Not always" was their surreptitious reply. Case rested. Meet you in hell.

I took one last juvenile dig at my "hit list" (excluding my haloed bosom buddies of course). One last email was posted and it simply pleaded, "GET A LIFE!"

One unanimous response from them "GET A WIFE!"

Understanding Myself in the US

Chaitanya S — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 02:35:39 EDT

The past year in the US have made me believe I’m God. And by God, I’m not talking about my divine experiences of floating in air or walking on water by the grace of the Holy Spirit called Smirnoff. That’s a different story and hard to pen down since all my friends have a different take on that.

The cause of this godly sensation is because I have read in the Bible that 'You shall not put God to the test’. Well paying heed to the Holy book, my university did not test me with a single exam this semester. My belief in my divine abilities were confirmed when my friend heard about the situation in my school and commented in a tone of reverence, “You are in heaven, dude”. Duh, of course, you mere mortal, where else does God reside anyway!

This conversation took my mind to one of my favorite songs “stairway to heaven”. All I want to say is that if you want to take the stairway to a university in heaven like mine, I’d recommend you slog your ass off under the supervision of a “verny” devil in hell called Mumbai University for 4 years and bear the scourge called Mechanical engineering. Toss in another 3 years of working in the city and you’ve won the devil’s sympathy to be granted parole in heaven for 2 years.

“I never knew my first time would be this good”, I said as I handed the pretty blond girl some bills. She gave a smile and said “Come again” before handing me my denims, belt and shoes. I gave her one more look as I walked out of the door feeling rejuvenated. After almost 5 months of self control I needed this. The urge to resist temptation is too great for a single young man to bear. I’d made a promise to my soul before coming here that I would not indulge myself in such acts. But some pleasures come at a price and every person has to pay a price for that. For someone in a distant land, such prices are usually paid either in cash or card.

I’m not ashamed to say my friend had recommended the place to me. He said it was where students usually went to seek “solace”. As I entered and looked around, I knew it would be addictive. Everything about the place was enticing. “Retail therapy never killed anyone”, I smirked as I came out swinging my shopping bags.

I was chatting with my friend the other day and she proclaimed something on the lines of “dancing is more of a mental skill than a physical one”. Now before I contest this statement, let me clarify that I suffer from a syndrome called “dancing dyslexia”. I just cannot read the steps which are being taught. I shamelessly admit that have I fractured my ankle while learning to dance. And it wasn't even break dancing (pun intended). It was jive. The only person who showed no hint of sympathy was my dance partner. To her the “accident” was a blessing in disguise as she had already suffered sore toes because of my flat footed stomping. Also, she almost had her arm ripped off a couple of times and narrowly missed crashing into a pillar when I spun her round.

But before I dwell too much in the dark ages of my youth, back to the mental aspect of dancing. Well I believe if dancing is such a mental activity, Einstein would have been an award winning choreographer. Also, Shakira would have made an amazing physics professor. Not that you’ll ever hear a whimper of a complaint for the latter. Some purists may argue that Shakira lacks the communication skills and knowledge required to teach the subject. Such purists have definitely not attended lectures in Mumbai University then.

I’ve been here for quite a while now and have been picking up some local terminologies. Americans have a habit of saying “I’m good” akin to our “No, thank you”. For example if you are asked by a host “do you want another drink and pastry”, the polite thing to do is smile sweetly and say is “I’m good”. I know I don’t do that for such invitations, but it’s just an example.

Now in my native country, the new age national language is “Hinglish”. Whilst conversing in it, at times you have no idea whether you are conversing in English or Hindi. So saying “I’m good”, if not interpreted correctly, gets a look of scorn from the conservatives, quaking in the boots by the conformists and a whoop of joy from members of the Indian Gay Society (or whatever it’s called).

Had a kind Indian lady ask me the other day, “so beta, do you want me to help you find a nice Indian bride after your graduation”. Instinctively I gave a sweet smile and replied seconds before I saw palpitations for the first time in life, “thanks auntyji, I’m good”.

"Scoring" in the United States

Chaitanya S — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 01:07:55 EDT

The Indian economy is on an upward growth path and showing a tremendous growth at 9%. My girth is doing exactly the same, though I feel my growth rate is much more. Talk of being a true representative of your country on foreign soil!

What can represent Indian more than a game of cricket? I finally played a match last month. I was looking forward to having a dream debut and leaving an impact on the game. I had this personal ambition of seeing a 50 next to my name on the score card. I got the game off to a rollicking start and reached 40 in the 3 overs in which I was in action. Suddenly the captain gestured me to stop and let someone else take over. He made it pretty clear to me that the 50 looks better next to my name while batting, not bowling! Whatever! I clearly remember hearing commentators saying “A half century is a half century in any form of cricket”. Shooting down aspirations of budding sportsmen is such an Indian trait. The captain thus displayed his "Indianness"!

I was chatting with a friend and he asked me “So have you scored in the US as yet?” I was a bit ashamed of my batting performance, but being an honest soul, I said, “Yeah it was pretty tough, but I managed 5”. Knowing every honest bone in my body, he gave me a phone call within 30 seconds of me sending the message in. “So how were they? Americans or Indians? How did you manage so quickly? Damn, 5 chicks in 3 months is rocking! Wish I’d studied there!” Maybe this is the communication gap between virtual teams that the professor warned us about in class. No wonder most people say that MBA education is mostly based on real life situations.

Back to the point, I did not have the heart to act like my captain and curtail someone’s excitement. But after a few seconds of listening to a running commentary of his own exploits, I let the bubble burst and told him I meant cricket. Suddenly I was flooded with comments of how busy he was, how late in the night it was for him and how he really had to hang up.

Statistics show that 80,000 Indian students come to the US annually. I am dead sure that when these 80,000 cross the psychological barrier of making the first long distance call to their friends, the first question they are faced with is the one which faced me. Friends back in India don’t give two hoots about whether you are pursuing an MS, an MBA or a janitor’s diploma.

Hard as it may seem since I’m a “pakka Mumbaikar”, I’d rather be a Dravid than a Tendulkar on foreign shores (figuratively speaking, of course). That will equip me with the perfect technique to “score” consistently in alien conditions rather than just “plundering” on home soil. Now I’ve realized what they mean by accomplishments in India not being appreciated as compared to foreign ones.

Since I’m on the topic of sports, I have to mention my experience in a bowling alley. Now my bowling in the alley isn’t as accomplished as that on a cricket pitch. So by the time we were half way through the game, the screen displaying scores appeared like a chart of noughts and crosses. I had most of the noughts because of innumerable gutter balls and my friends had the crosses because of perfect strikes. One of them asked me “Bet you’ll never manage 3 straight crosses?” Well I could have shown him a few sheets with my name and lots of crosses under that. Too bad Mumbai University does not return our engineering answer sheets. But the score sheet surely evoked nostalgia of my engineering tests, with the crosses, and the zeros right next to them.

But things aren’t all that bleak in my life. I think I’ve finally learned to cook now and my roomies have heaved a sigh of relief. Well I don’t blame them. If the cook doesn’t eat his own food, it surely does provide food for thought to the others. Well I’m proud to state my cooking has reached a stage where I can satiate my own taste buds without going green in the face.

I was chatting with one of my friends yesterday and she asked me,”You’ve been there for almost 3 months, what was the most difficult thing you found fitting into?” I read it and I bit my lower lip with regret. That question hit me where it really hurt. An honest answer was typed back. “My denims”.

My Initial Days In The US

Chaitanya S — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 01:50:58 EDT

I've been in the US for almost 50 days now and I have gained a lot each and every day. This country makes you realize your potential to grow and I have been taking advantage of it. As I look back to the day I arrived here, I truly feel I have changed and grown as a person.

But more about my weight later.

One of the first things that struck me was the kindness of the people here on campus. When I went for a routine medical check up, the kind lady at the reception asked me sweetly, "Are you an athlete?". I looked down at my perfectly portly frame and gave her the sweetest smile I've ever given anyone. "I'm not an athlete. But thanks for the compliment", I replied.

Out here, people have a fascination for drinks. No wonder I have been able to integrate myself so well. Though I haven't touched a drop of alcohol since leaving my homeland, I have not lost my empathy towards fellow drinkers. Once a drinker, always a drinker is my credo. When I accompanied a group of friends to a pub, we were asked for age identification at the entrance. Out here you need to be above 21 to even enter a pub. Trust me, when you are 26 and in the "matured" bracket, you take such questions as compliments.

When questioned on which degree I obtained in India, I am tempted to say B.E (Mech) + MS (Electronics) + Phd (Maths). With the number of times I've taken the Electronics and Maths exams during engineering, I think I'll be eligible for a masters and a post doc in those subjects respectively.

I think Americans have started identifying sacred places where one has to remove his shoes before entering. Though how airports and the ferry to the Statue of Liberty qualify as holy places, I am still trying to figure out. But I overheard someone standing in line to the ferry, pointing in our direction and saying, "it's because of them". I think he was talking about the integration of Indian culture in American society on the lines of yoga and meditation.

Back to my weight again and I've started applying my MBA principles to try and reduce it. I've compared my body to an industry, which is over staffed and needs trimming down to make it more efficient. I've read somewhere that trimming starts from the top. Some shedding has to be done pronto. My body is following the same pattern and the MBA has caused my hair to start shedding already. Maybe a bit of intelligence as well, but that's something I don't want to dwell upon.

I was playing racket ball the other day and it's a great stress buster. The game requires precision of timing and anticipation of speed to hit the ball well. The constant bouncing of the ball off the walls while smashing it back and forth was like a "Eureka" moment. Thankfully I didn't celebrate the moment like Archimedes. The cold evening air was not highly conducive to run naked in.

I took cue from some of my Ph.d friends here. Then, using my own experience and feedback from friends back in India, I engaged in some complex calculations to came up with a theory. It's called the "Rebound Theory".

It's a method which helps us realize the best time to approach a girl after she has broken up. Usually guys approach a girl when she has broken up and they have to hear "I'm not ready yet". That is so disappointing for them. By applying my theory, we can calculate the best time.

"For every 6 months of a relationship, rebounding will start after 30 days. The subsequent calculations can be done by direct proportion by splitting the time into years, months or days". For example, if a girl has been in a relationship for 2 years, she'll take 120 days to "move on". So approach her after 120 days.

All those who do not understand my theory do not deserve to try it. Those who do, try it out, it really works !

All the best !

P.S It doesn't work on guys !!!!!!