Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Only the Truth (Singha: A Jolly Good Mofo - Part 1)


    After writing my entrance test for WGSHA, Manipal (For Bachelors of Hotel Administration), I was waiting in the verandah for the Group Discussion to commence. Room in the which the GD was to be held was closed for lunch. While waiting, I peeped in through the glass door: It was a small dark room. A guy, dressed as a waiter, came and opened the door. I went in the room. The room stank stale from the ancient carpet laid. Cushioned chairs, with thin metal legs, were kept in a semi-circle. Some eight of us, pimply faced milk-bread kids, were directed to take the chairs.
    All of my fellow candidates in the room were in formals: Ties and Tie pins and Polished Black Shoes; one or two even had jacket and all. I was in a brown half-shirt and a light brown trousers and casual shoes. I took the corner most chair on the left. There was a chair right in-front of the semi-circle, at its focal point. A bright light shone down on that chair.
    A man in a brown suite walked in and stood behind the chair; his hands resting on the chair’s metal frame. He was wearing dark-brown leather shoes, the long pointed ones. He had a little bit of beer ponch. He wore a red tie, without any tie pin. His face square. Clean shave. Full white hair. Eyes Red. He looked like a World War 2 Veteran with his white moustache, long and straight and thick moustache. Like blades of a RAF propeller planes. We all stood up, more out of sight than out of habit. He raised his arm and ruddered his palm, signalling us to be seated. We obeyed. He just stood there breathing from his belly. I had never seen any one carry a suit with so comfortably.
    The brown suite broke the silence his presence had built, ‘MY NAME IS DALIP SINGHA. AND I DON’T LIKE BEING BORED,’ his voice husky, borderline volcanic; like his throat was bruised by either a lot of smoking or a lot of shouting, or both. ‘SO WHAT YOU WANT TO DISCUSS?’
    Now, liberty is something a GD "appearer" never expects. All candidates started staring at one another. One “enthu cutlet” suggested, “Women Reservation”. “Development in Rural V/s Urban India,” said another. I said, “Good and bad effects of Movies on youth.”
    ‘BULLSHIT! THIS IS ALL BEING DONE TO DEATH. SURPRISE ME.’
    No one spoke.
    ‘Yaar... Kya ho raha hai aaj kaal duniya meain?’ Mr. Singha asked.
    No one spoke.
    ‘YAAR, GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.’
    No one spoke.
    ‘ALL RIGHT, LETS DISCUSS U.S WAR ON IRAQ, SHALL WE?’
    One fat IIT aspirant – in India you can always tell an IIT aspirant when you see one – started, ‘Sir, I think it is completely justified. What U.S is doing is completely justified. They want world peace. In the end everyone wants peace,’ The mugged up blah blah blah continued. The fat “IIT” looked at everyone else, nodding for assurance, one face at a time.
    Then I started. I was told, if one has to score high in a GD it’s important that something, anything, is blabbered out early on. I was not completely aware what the hell I was going on in Iraq-2003. I had overheard about the Iraq-war-something, but only a little bit and there. I said, ‘I agree,’ pointing at the IIT looking guy, ‘I think he is right, the invasion is justif–’
    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE. I WANT YOU TO SPEAK AGAINST HIM.’
    Unsurprisingly, I was dumb struck. A girl (only lady in the lot) tried chirping in. Mr. Singha ruddered his palm at her. She went silent. The red eyes looked at me. The beer-belly breathing in and out proudly. I couldn’t come up with anything. I mumbled in order to distract myself from peeing my pants. ‘Sir... sir... sir...’
    ‘I. DON’T. WANT.YOU TO AGREE!’
    I took a deep breath. My tongue continued to be tied: My schooling wasn’t exactly convent;  my chaddi-friends were sons of soil, and our mother or grand-mother only knew their mother-tongue, which is not English. I clenched my fist. ‘Sir,’ I said, hyper-ventilating, ‘America is wrong. They want oil. Rest is wrong. United Nation’s hands are tied. Because America has money, U.N say nothing. America is showing Power. IRAQ can take them themselves care.’ I crashed my back on the back rest.
    The girl chirped again, ‘Sir, I think the gentleman on my left is right.’
    I sprang back to attention. Never in my life was I called A Gentleman. And now I was a Gentleman on her left. And I was Right. I was a Right Gentlemen on her left.
I fell in love with that girl. She was my Pam Anderson though she looked completely opposite. I saw Me and Her having a life together, where I was her Gentleman and she was My Lady; A farm house, with White Picket Fence; Bunch of Kids on bikes; Our little girl playing in the sand; Two German Shepards – Jack and Jill and everything.
    ‘I DON’T WANT YOU TO AGREE WITH ANYONE. I WANT NO ONE TO AGREE WITH ANYONE.’
    That girl never looked at me again, and there went my white picket fence and kids and Jack and Jill. I was pain old boy again: not a Gentlemen.
    The GD got over GD and Written test was the first stage. Result came: I passed the first stage, next was Panel Interview. There was more waiting amongst shiny shoes and tie-pines. My turn came and I went in one of the three panels. All the interviewers were old farts; they all wore blue or grey or black suites, and were all seated. Their eyes dull, lifeless. They asked me some philosophical stuff. I answered more philosophical stuff After all, I was a small town boy, we are big on Philosophy.
    Last round was a Personal Interview. It was with General Sarda. He had a big cabin, infact, a big office. He looked like a distilled version of Mr. Singha. He was seated, but one could make out he was tall: his knees came up to his chest. He asked me to speak on Hotesy for a minute. I spoke for two.
   
    Later, after a couple of weeks, the final results were out. I got made: I was in the best hotel management country – apparently.

   The first day of college was all about paying fees and filling forms. In the corridor, I was Mr. Singha; and that was the first time I saw him walk. He moved like a Lion, a hungry loin. The Swagger: slow and study, like a beast calculating every step. Eyes red, tunnelled, occasionally looking up. Calm and Composed, he moved. Slow. Everyone stood still and made way as he passed by. He spoke to no one, always kept his head down. Some people wished him, he wished them back: looked up for a second, stopped, kept walking.

    It was during the orientation ceremony that he introduced himself, ‘I AM DALIP SINGHA.’ That's it: No designation, no qualification, nothing. We all knew who he was – The Vice fucking Principle of the of most glamorous college in the country. During the ceremony, all faculty member were to perform a five minute gig: Song or Dance or anything. Most of them told a joke, or sang hindi songs; I don’t remember much. But Mr. Singha went all Bob Dylan on the stage with “Blowin’ in the wind” with with hand gestures and all, but he had a bad voice for singing   My God Bad, My god Husky. But he sang, and sang with rhythm and melody. One hand holding the mic, the other, painting a picture in the air.
   
    When seniors joined us, two weeks later, they told us: ‘When it comes to Mr. Singha’s, stay the fuck out of his way. He is a crazy fucker. And will come and hit you if tick him of a least bit.’
    No one in my batch got hit.
   
    First two years of college were bad. First year was a one long culture shock if Manipal is a “forward” place, then WGSHA is a thrust that keeps it forward , plus, I sucked at studies. I couldn’t understand what was being taught. The medium of instruction was only English, and it was all high-falutin to me. I feared academics and kept running away from it. And, closer the exams got, more helpless became, with the final academic paralysis manifesting itself as I wrote the papers. I just couldn’t express what I knew: I couldn’t find words – and I knew very less. Maybe because I had science in my class 12 and was used to writing technical stuff in bullet points; the Objective type answering was alien to me. I broke my head to get average marks. Also, to add insult to by Academic injuries, the Hotel Management Colleges have a lot of vanity attached to it: Projects and Assignment and stuff, and that meant giving Presentation and stuff in front of the whole fucking class. There wasn’t an excuse I exhausted to avoid classroom dais. I was terrified of the monster called the ‘White Board’ and its ugly cousin, ‘The projector’.
   
    In third year, Mr. Singha had a subject: Dynamics of Human Resource – formerly, Applied Behavioural Science. Simply put: Introduction to Organisational Behaviour. But for the minds of only 19 years, it was anything but simple, and we had had been hearing as to how difficult the subject was to pass and how merciless its teacher was when it came to the evaluation of papers.  
    First Class, and Mr. Singha goes, ‘WHAT IS OF IMPORTANCE IN A WORK PLACE FOR IT RUN SMOOTHLY?’
    No one spoke.
    ‘IF YOU DON’T RESPOND, YOU GUYS ARE NO DIFFERENT THAN THE FURNITURE YOU ARE SEATING ON.’
    We gave some stupid answers.
    ‘IT’S COMMUNICATION. NOW, WHAT IS EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION?’
    Some more stupid answers followed. One of my friend said, ‘Complexity of Words.’
    Mr. Singha started laughing. ‘LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, AND THIS WAS TOLD TO ME BY MY PROFESSOR, A BRILLIANT MAN,’
    All ears went Sharp like Jerry – of the Tom & Jerry’s.
    ‘SIMPLICITY... IS THE ULTIMATE FORM OF SOPHISTICATION. SIMPLICITY. IS. THE. ULTIMATE. FORM. OF. SOPHISTICATION.’
    He went on to explain what it meant in a few simple words. We all understood or at least we nodded like we did.
    All of his lectures were interactive, made us think about ourselves. 
    For the first time, I did not doze off to sleep in my Air-Conditioned Classroom Initially, I used to get sleepy out of habit, but during Mr. Singha’s class I did not so much as yawn: I was afraid he would shoot me if I did.
   
    I wrote the first "quarters" (sessional exam) and passed border line. I was good at his subject, I understood it; but didn't manage to get marks. Story of my life, I cursed. I wanted to improve, I knew I wanted guidance, but had always felt ashamed to go a professor and ask for pointers - smart phones and laptops, and God Google had not caught up on life full throttle to go online and check everything up - plus, I always thought, profs will dip my dignity like a biscuit during their pretty little tea time and have an educated laugh over it; but Mr. Singha didn't move in a pack. And with the year already three months old, time was running out. And, regardless of teachers' degree of willingness to genuinely help, I had calculated: I will only approach them once - that was maximum number I could pump-out from within myself to hold my faith. So I decided to seek help from the man himself, Mr. Singha. I had one shot, So What the Hell, I thought. I gathered all my boota and went to Singha sir's cabin - It was just like the Principal’s cabin, but no one went there unless called in. Till the last moment I was having second thought on approaching him - I used to think the Mr. Singha has a dungeon under his office where he stuffs and displays the heads of annoying students. I took a deep breath as I reached Mr. Singha’s secretary’s table. She gave me very warm smile; a very nice lady, she is. ‘SEND HIM.’ A scream came thought the glass partition. Had it not been for the window blinds segregating his office space and that of the secretary madam’s, I would have never found the optimal “blankness” to zone-out and ponder on the moment for a moment: Mr. Singha had once told us, “On the other side of fear is freedom.” ‘SEND HIM!’. I gulped some more air. The good lady smiled again and nodded her eyes in assurance. It was time to roll the dice: I knocked.
    Mr. Singha offered me a visitor’s chair. I looked around, there was no other door in the room, you know, for dungeon or something. I felt OK. He was reading something, he finished with it, closed the book and asked, Yes, tell me. I told him my dukha bhari Kahaani. He heard it out without interrupting, even with a nod. When I was done, he placed his hands behind his head,  pushed back on the chair’s back rest and stretched himself out while letting out a yawn. He came forward - eyes red - and said, Abe Yaar... He gave me pointers.
    I followed them.
    Mr. Singha used to conduct extra classes, in the college, after college hours for students who couldn’t pass DHR. He asked me attend those. He knew his subject was a motherfucker, and that some students needed more inputs. I had passed – with fuke, I guess – so I attended the extra classes, with all optimism and rainbows and sunshine. And I felt good, not because I was the only “pass”; and neither I was taken as a condescending pedant, but because there, in the evening classes, no one was a “convent background” or a “vernacular background”. All the confidant kids had passed, the ones who did not, were no longer had their supply of confidence in that class. Therefore, in the absence of over-confidant kids the concepts of insecurity ceases to exist; just like, the concept of light without darkness. Everyone was comfortable being their ownself. We were new born’s: open to everything, uninhibited to learn, un-bothered about the ways of the world, naked. No topper or sixer (Sixer is a student who has failed in all subjects). We were all Failures, We were all Equals, There was no judgement in anyone’s eye; only empathy for one another. We all asked doubts fearlessly, without being concerned as to how silly the question might be, or, how incorrect the syntax of the question could have been. It’s only amongst the down-and-outs, one gets to recognise, and cut the bullshit, and work towards things that matter – in this case, learing.
   
    In next quarters, I passed with a decent margin. I understood concepts more clearly and my performance in other subject improved. For the first time in my life I knew what I was reading. I could hear it in my head.
   Third year came to an end. It was the last class. Mr. Singha came and sat amongst us, on the bench, and gave some gyan on life and everything. None of the Professor had done that. He was the first one to come down and sit amongst us. For other professors – I felt – we were a nuisance, a chore, a "good-for-nothing". But Singha sir came down and sat with us. Eye-to-Eye Shoulder-to-Shoulder.
He told us, ‘You know you are living it right when people don’t come and suck up to you. All sycophants can recognize a man with integrity. And Everyone, deep down, hates that man. Mostly because, people don’t have any in them. Go on, have a life. Have all the success. Be a big man. And if you happen to bump into me sometime, and if you forget to call me “Sir” or “Mr. Singha”. I will shoot you in the head, twice.’
    We all nodded.
   
    After our batch, the next batch came in, the 19th "Course". Mr. Singha taught them for about 4 months. Then the 19th course ran out of luck: Mr. Singha got admitted for slip disc. 
   Students were rejoicing.
   
   I went and met him. Heavy weights,attached to his legs, suspended down. Our job placements had started, he knew. He joked about here and there. He said, ‘You know the other day....’ He told me a very graphic joke about placements. I laughed, my eyes went moist. Mr. Singha kept laughing. He was soon discharged, may be after a day or two.
    In about a week's time, he had a paralysis stroke and was hospitalised. He had to immediately under go a major brain surgery. Coincidently, I was hospitalised a day before, in the same hospital – there is only one major hospital in Manipal, Kasturba Medical. There was nothing serious with me, the hot NRI post-grad-docs at Kasturba had kept me under observation. Thank God they do that – Else, one has to be back in the WGSHA hostel at O’2200 hours – the principal was a Retrd Maj. Gen, don’t ask.
    When I got the news, I was strolling around the hospital in the night. I went and saw him. He was in ICU, just out of surgery. He was silent. Unconscious. Quarter of his head was missing. There were tubes and wires coming out his nose and mouth and from his arms. His head was covered in gauge. For the first time I had seen Mr. Singha quite. I thought he was playing a prank or something and that any moment we will get up, pull out all the tubes and say ‘Got you. Ha!’
    I stood there for a minute, he didn’t wake up. I knocked on the glass door. He didn’t respond. The nurse gave me dirty looks. I went back to my room, and stood next to the window as I waited for the toilet to get vacant – the student room is on sharing basis. My college was visible under the moon light.

    I got discharged the next day. In college, not many students spoke about Mr. Singha’s health; and those did, spoke bad about him, cheerfully. “That Bastard Met his Fate.” “Nice happened.” “Let's see how he flaunts his style now.” “I bet he can’t really womanise now, can he?” Some of them were my classmates and some were juniors.
    I knew, Mr. Singha had never done any wrong to them - if any one did any good or bad the word spreads in a residential college, and I had heard nothing about him. He is a good man. I don’t know if he Womanised or not because not a single lady thought so, or complained or commented. Yes, he has style and Hell Yes, he has panache. But it isn’t hallow. There is enough and more substance to support that gait, that lion’s swagger.
   
    A while ago when I quoted him on my FB status, some people commented negatively on it. There was a time when even I was jealous of Mr. Singha, but that was before I got to know him. Once, in the course of the conversation, a beautiful lady in my class said, “Singha ki to baat hi alaag hai, Yaar.
    People who speak ill of him might have had a bad experience with Mr. Singha, so did I, and on many occasions. Initially, in “failures’” class, he constantly dismissed all answers as “BULLSHIT”. Even in my answer sheets he wrote “B.S!!” in big red capitals and “THIS IS NON NONSENSICAL!!!” “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY???” “STOP WASTING MY TIME!!!” I took a minute to reflect, got in his shoes, and checked. He was right, rather accurate.
    But whatever the reason, no matter how harsh and raw he came across as, no one should celebrate a person’s misfortune and wish for his death. Singha is a state idiots can’t even imagine to realize. May be that’s why they curse him: It’s either out of their insecurity or maybe that’s the maximum numb-nuts can do for the sake of excitement with their other-wise empty lives.
   
    After he discontinued teaching, a junior asked me, ‘Who was Singha? How was he? Thank God we didn’t have that asshole.’
    I told him, ‘Singha was the Return on Investment that your parents have done so generously for your education here at WGSHA, you dumb fuck.’
    Mr. Singha is NOT a life guru or a preacher or any of that pseudo-psychological faggoty charade. He is just a man who lives his life on his own terms. A walking id. He speaks his mind and always tells the truth. He loves his family a lot. And unlike his haters, is unafraid and unapologetic about his existence. There is nothing wrong in that. I guess some people never get the point, the point he was trying to make. Not by his words but by his behaviour: Be yourself, otherwise there is no point.
   
    Even after college I go visit him every year at his home in Gurgoan. During my visit, he got me drunk in the middle of the afternoon!
    He can’t walk the way he used to and now carries a stick, but walks on his own. He can’t speak the way he could, but laughs out louder than ever before.
    I was about take his leave. He said, painting a picture in the air, ‘You know the other day...’

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Molten river surrenders


Natures Mysteries go on...

There a butterfly flaps a little too hard,
and here a storm gathers up.
Somethings Happen.

Beyond Vision
Beyond Reason
Logic Failed Miserably.
Nothing to deduce.


A Man can never understand
things that are happening around,
Stampede that goes on inside.
A Man - Hunter, Warrior, Man.


Rock solid.
Untouchable.
Dominant.
Cold.


Natures Mysteries go on and on...
There a butterfly flaps a little too hard,
and here a storm gathers up.
There a Woman Smiles...

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Grandmas Rock

These are some Top Reasons - 

  1. Gives you money – Now I don't know from where they get it from. But Grandmas seem to have an endless supply of Cash. 
    When you are going outstation. You go and touch her feet and Kaching! there is cash. And new, stiff, clean notes. Big ones. Many of them. And will never forget to tell you: “Don't eat outside.”
  2. Understands Cricket – Arguably, Grandma is the only lady in the house who understands crickets – thought not fully. For her Sachin Tendulkar is the only cricketer. And Sachin is the Captain, and he is the only one playing. Grandma are very choosy about players like that. They only watch till Sachin is playing. And ones he gets out, they go back to whatever is it that are doing that is mostly praying.
    They usually can't see what the score is. So when you tell her that Sachin scored only 49. She says, "India going to lose." And Baam! India Loses. Her predictions are better than a dozen Sidhus, combined.

  3. Is the best Cook – Grandma can walk in with her stick in any restaurant, or in any cookery competition, or any master chef and kick some serious chef ass. No kidding. She doesn't need any recepie books. I have seen Grandas work. The discipline and cleanliness with which they handle kicthen, is like watching them conduct an orchestra. Its art. I know how it is like to be in kitchen, in that hot and humid environment.

  4. Has Imperial Manners – Grandpas go farting around the town, but not Grandmas. I guess decades of being a lady instils a certain degree of royalty in a human being.

  5. Has a lot of Gold – The bling Grandmas have is bar none. I mean, if they decide to wear even one tenth of their jewellery; so high will be the infi complex for rappers like Young Jezus and Lil Kim, that those nuts will dare not step out of their cribs, literally.

  6. Sleeps like any angel – If you are sneaking out or sneaking in, Grandmas are so fast asleep that they won't wake up in the middle of the night; unlike Grandpas, who are mostly in the bathroom, busy farting.
    But mind you, Grandmas might sense your partying, with their life-long experience, but out of sheer love for you will never mention it. That's divine.

  7. Shields when People Scold – She is one person in the house who can protect you from the everybody's wrath   Dad, Grandad, Mom, Mali, Kamwali; it doesn't matter. Her word is the last word. Her bias for you is your last bastion. Her love is love.

  8. Spiritual / Religious – Now we don't really understand religions or rituals. We just sometimes follow them. And everytime we do, it bores the hell out. But looking at Grandmas' devotion, the way she unconditionally believes in things that are beyond the lines of our reason makes us wonder, that if not anything, there is someone of something up there (or down there) and that Karama is a bitch and so you better get you shit together.

  9. Funny as hell – now this is very objective and case specific point. but a very prominent one. The other day my grandma was going out of station. When she was about to leave, I touched her feet. And Kaching! And then, when she reached my relatives. They had skype with them, So my Grandma was got online. She saw me on the monitor and did Namaste. She thought I was some famous personality and that I was on National Television.

  10. They take you back to a nice place – No one takes you back to your childhood the way these funny angels do. Be it their love laced food; or their voice; or when they give you money; or when they give you jewellery to wear on occasions and put a tikka on your big fore head. The best is when they ask about your well being over the phone and give their blessing when you touch their feet everytime you say hello.

Monday, March 14, 2011

A Good Idea - Expensive Hotel Management Degree, bro.


I did a Four Year Hotel Management Course from Welcomgroup Graduate School of Hotel Management. WGSHA from now on. WGSHA comes in Manipal University, Manipal.


Before I get to the points, a little bit about Manipal University and WGSHA - My alma mater. I owe it man.
This WGSHA is supposedly the best HM college in this Sub-Contimental Country of ours.


And Manipal University is also well known and all. Its actually kinda big-deal. MU is so well to do and so busy with teaching that they feel compelled to spread their MotherTerasaness through TV commercials. And their commercials air on all good channels during prime time. Also, they have very well made commercials which exceed past the 20 second mark. The commercials are not like the ones you see on News Channels - Those have low production value and very less air time. See what makes it all the more interesting is that MU is a Deemed University. That means it doesn't rely much on our generous government for funds. And in return the Government rewards this gesture by giving the university all the autonomy in the world. Which basically means it can do whatever it likes. The University Management has full control over syllabus. Full Control over fee structure. Full control, period. MU has the toughest entrance exams, the best campuses, best infra and obviously heaviest fees and hence the most spoiled crowd. See, but to get through to MU college is not like rolling the famous Manipal weed. You have to have good scores. Especially in tech subjects like Physics, Maths, Bio or Computer Science depending whether one is applying for Engineering or Medical Science. There is also a MBA course, which comes in India's Top 10 or 15 or 100. So I am sure even those applicants are doomed to study.


But if you are applying for a HM course. You are the luckiest of luckiest, boss. Because not only you were born in a well to do family that gave you the balls to fill the application. But you have applied for a degree program who's eligibility criteria is that an applicant must have 50% and above percentage is class 12. And to make matters more better, 50% and above in any stream will do - Science, Commerce, Arts, Home Science, Partying, Dads Black Money Blowing. You name it; They take it. Because lets face it. Once recruited, the HM student will absorbed in the service industry. Service Industry is an industry of smiles and sorries and Thank Yous and Up Yours. Oh Sorry Thats Government Industry. Anyway, Service industry is as old as the time itself. It has been into existence long before HM graduates graced it with their learned  presence. Its is not like NASA where they launch rockets and shit. NASA is new and we its just a phase. It will pass. Anyone can launch a dog on moon. You don't need rocket science for that. You don't need precision. You need some weed. Right? Right! And where else can you get the best stuff but in Manipal. So when this part is also well taken care of,  everything else falls in to place. (Sorry, must have added this weed stuff to the Best of List furnished earlier. Was too busy sending that dog up in space.)




So if someone asks, here are the Top 10 reasons why Hotel Management is the best course in the world, evar.


  1. No Serious Syllabus - Now you can't really TEACH common sense, can you? That would look really Stupid.
  2. Lessons on Proper Grooming - Where else, just tell me, which other course, I mean which. other. course. goes in so much detail to teach you grooming. Stuff like Shaving and polishing shoes and shit. Thats huge bro. And tying your hair neatly. Fuck. Two words - Priceless. Just Priceless.
  3. Lessons on Proper Etiquettes - Three Words - Fucking Priceless. I mean hve u bloody knon ne1 care u bout so mach 2 teach u wht fucking class is. Hell yeah. XOXOX.
  4. Aclholcol and Smoquing is faart of da Syllabus - Rest of the humanity learns to get wasted on their own. HM Grads have a very methodical approach to it. We learn that precision fundas to get humanity smashed. Precision man. Precision. Who's laughing now huh you NASA bitches.
  5. Introduction to a wide array of secondary Subjects - Accounts, Finance, HR, Marketing, Statistics, French, Computers English. It was just an introduction so can't really say much. But Computers and English Man. Thats some serious shit man. Some seriously deep shit man.
  6. Four Type of Uniforms - Kitchen, Service, House Keeping, Front Office. If not varsity but vanity is your thing. Then your thing is gonna be up all right.
  7. Access to various kinds of knives - Have you ever like got like three knives between yo fingers and pretended to be Wolverine. Well guess what, HM grads pretend the shit out of it for Four Fucking Years. Got it Punk.
  8. On the Job Training and Outdoors - Which other degree lets you get some hands-on experience on setting up the tables and chairs. And on Lifting beer crates into the chiller. Thats some real golden opporch mofo. One time we pilfered so much beer that I forgot we pilfered so much beer. We were like professionals at it. Professionals man. Pros. \yKwiM/
  9. Industrial Training - It was like Six Months of Vacation bro. Just you need to go and Sign in. Just a normal shift bro. No serious work and stuff. Complete Chillax. Just Store Pick-up for Banquet Kitchen. Cleaning the walk-in freezer. Oh BTW this walk in thing is like the coolest thing you'll ever see. Its like this big ass room, thats been made into a freezer. A Room. A freezer. Combined. How cool is that. A room... Made into a freezer. Thats the fact. Thats the shit. I am telling you. And just need to clean it here and there. That too like just 5 days a week. And it will be like at 3 in night, dude. Hotel will be all dead bro by then. All dead. No on in the restaurant. Its like you own the place. You own it man. You fucking own it. And like signing out is what? like just 15 hours. And on Sundays you can see all these celebrities. So you will like not even miss having weekly off. One time I saw Enrique. High five man. Up here.
  10. And at last, and You know how they say Not The Least. Thats called cliché bro. FYI. You'll learn what it means over time, Its for all grown ups and shit. The most important thing you will ever learn. You know, and this is da reason to do Hotel Management Course. Its coz they teach you Presentation. You know, to make shit up - Like this.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Firewall the BS.


Dads have a tendency of listening to the entire world – right from their friends, colleagues, trees, birds, everyone but their own children. And the seriousness with which this 'advice seeking' happens is directly proportional to non-requirement of advice.

Case in point: the BSNL Internet connection – 4Mpbs; Unlimited Download Offer, simply put – full Power Boss.

For someone who is used to paying Rs. 400 as monthly telephone bill (still thinking its excessive). Getting a bill of Rs. 900 for internet (and phone c, combined) is like renting out Taj Mahal, when you can be happy in a One Room Chawl Kitchen. To add fuel to this stone-age fire is the constant influx of people who keep meeting our dads and keep nodding their heads in approval of whatever the opinion may be.
     'Do we actually need Internet, Mr. Kiss-ass?'
     'No Sir. Absolutely No Sir. We were better off living under a Rock, Sir.'
     'Do kids benefit from Technology?'
     'No Sir. Absolutely No, Sir. They are better off hanging by the trees and picking out hair flea off of each other for lunch, sir.'

So this nosy neighbor Mr. Kiss-ass, who happens to work in BSNL, wants to come across as an wise ass, as a Consigliere (Which jobless doesn't). In my absence, he comes and offers a solution which entails switching to Rs. 500 connection which has 2 Mpbs but a download/surfing limit of 1.5 GB. Consequently I am asked to get a "Second Opinion" on this apocalyptic suggestion from Mr. Kiss ass,  and I am send to his house for my brain storming.

   'Hello Mr. Kiss-ass Sir, with long God tika. I have come get you off my back.'
   'Please come in. Please come in. As I was telling your dad, you don't need unlimited connection. 1.5 GB is enough.'
   'Sir, my last month usage was 17 GB.'
   '17 GB?!! What do you do of 17 GB.'
   'I download all devotional song and Bhajans and all God Videos. I surf a lot Godtube.'
   'What Gods do you like?'
   'All Gods, sir. See I am a very religious person. I love all gods. No one in particular, Sir. See, I cannot be partial to one God you see. We are mortals, Sir. We are men. We don't have the right to choose, to decide what Gods to worship, What type of connection to take, But now that you are insisting - I am major follower of YamRaj, and not just on Twitter, Sir. We share a lot of things in common. He is also on my Facebook friend list. And keeping in touch with long distance friends takes a lot of net usage.'
   'So you think you will exceed 1.5 GB.'
   'Yes sir. I swear on your beautiful wifes jewelery that I will. And once I exceed 1.5 GB your generous BSNL will charges Rs. 20 per MB for Surfing/Download. So guessing by my ongoing usage my bill will come up to Rs. 5000. Then my dad will sell my kidney, then I have to come and take your kidney to replace my kidney. But I don't have proper training in handling knives and I have forgotten to rip peoples organs just by using my bear hands. So I am basically helpless here. I don't know anything except for your house address.'
   'I think you are right, young man. I should mind my own fucking business. And leave you guys the fuck alone.'
   'Sir, Truer words were never been spoken. Thank you, sir. It was nice meeting you,  Sir. RESPECT.'

We all know that nothing in the world is free or easy and convenient. When it was made very clear that that taking a limited Internet connection is like getting all decked up in gold knowing there is day-light robbery going on round the corner. May be then it was apparent to my Mr. Kiss-ass that sense of existence of the youth is not all shit-for-brains; May be there is a little bit spinning going on behind the hazy eyes.

All advising old farts means well and etc. But boss, you can only do one of two things: Gather time to care about things you actually don't want, Or gather courage to make your own mistakes.

Every generation has a different school of thought, agreed and all. We think the previous generations are bunch of stuck up retards and the they think we are fad following monkeys who cannot distinguish between elbow and an natural human orifice. These days, thankfully, experiencing such pure and basic forms of generation gap has become a rarity. But if and when one does, it is best to get a view from other person's perspective. May be, you may find something valuable, something that was blind-missed by our inexperience. And even if you don't, just remember what the elder have always told. 'Ignorance is a freaking Bliss.'

Monday, March 7, 2011

Roar Louder, Woman.

Belgaum is a small place. A typical tier two city. No great shakes. People are fine. System is laid back. And a lot of hosue wifes are out searching for the next hip thing. Very normal.

In a peaceful place like Belgaum when some event that is remotely considerate is held, creates a lot of buzz. Case in point – Women's Day's Celebration's per party. The best day to do so is on a Sunday. Working women can also attend and working husbands can get some alone time with the other misuses – Cricket. These days the other lady is looking hot. Decked up with glitzy and provocative world cup and everything. So this considerate event was held at a near by event lawns,  mostly rented for high end marriage celebration for fancy people to blow up their black money in the form of all-nigh-long-fireworks.

Usually I don't miss these 'events' even if I have to pay for the entry. Where else can you find so many women, wondering about in the commercial garden of Eden - trying to get in touch with the Eves inside them. But this happened to be a 'Women Only' event. “So Nazi-feminist” I could say. But I didn't. I guess people who have a big hard-on for feminism should refrain from committing such mortal sins. So I kept my mouth shut and my ass away from jumping the fence.

I don't think there was any entry fee and such. Plus the Venue was close by. My Mom and Sister did part-take. Usually they don't. But when Women's Day is on a Horizon. No invitation is Trivial.

Once they were back. Their observation where pretty much what one could guess. There was Some Singing and Dancing Area. Some Food Stalls. Make-up and Accessories Centers. You get the Idea. Every lady  was being free and high on being herself. The spirit of Ya-Ya Sisterhood; enjoying some away-time from the hungry, lustful and judgmental eyes of the darker kind (Men - Not generalizing here Bro, Not you. Some Men.)

But what caught my curiosity was the mention for Fat Diagnostic Center in the Happy Girly Land.
I knew what was coming. For those who don't. This is how it is goes -  The ladies present in at the Womens' Happy Event were having a nice time. You know Sipping on some chocolate shake, munching on some Cadbury's Temptations, But every beautiful soul there was suddenly made conscious of their existence by this mean, evil, Fat Diagnostic Center. All it does is, take a happy lady make her stand on the most dreaded instrument –  the Weighing Scale. Then take her height reading, then her waist reading and in doing so take her happiness away. Permanently.

Then that devil gives the poor soul an record of how miserable her life is, liposuccionally. There is actually a column where a women writes her actual age, and after all the analysis, the sadistic creature writes the age her body is living/experiencing. i.e how old her body has become, which is usually more than 7-12 years than the real age.

Now you may wonder why would somebody do that, what joy can anyone draw out your suffering.  What kind of a person would go to such great lengths to turn your perfect sense of self-esteem (and self-weight) upside down? The answer exactly what you think it is. THE WEIGHT MANAGENET GURUS. Selling their weight management Product.
It's no secret that Women are very innocent when it comes to their personal stuff. And the world has been  exploiting this vulnerability of theirs to get the most profit. These co(<-&uking, good-for-nothing weight management imbeciles of human beings ensure you are convinced about your body being fat full beyond repair and the only way you can have some sort of existence is if  you push their saw-dusty product down your throat and starve your self  to insanity.

I saw the fat chart given to my perfectly healthy mother and sister. (Mom also got a 70% discount on the fat check up because she is of a certain age. Yappie! W.T.Holy.F!) It had profit written all over it.
The slim devil had so cunningly put in the numbers and so successfully manipulated his way in convincing that the perfect health is a Myth. The trick deployed is very simple. Every health chart has three basic columns.

1. Particulars – Height, Age, BMI etc.
2. Ideal Measurements/Readings.
3. Measurement/Readings of the Poor Soul.       


No. 1 and No.3 are truths. And the second is what these Shaana Gurus adjust to make you feel miserable.

The question here is not how we get fooled or are led to believe these less than perfect things about us. The Bigger questions is why do we allow it to. May be our need for Drama in our Life. (But as Singha would Say: "Wow Kaahni Phir Kabhi")

If you are a Lady reading this - Don't believe everything a slim trim nosy bitch sales girl tells you about your Weight and Figure. She is just doing her job, It's temporary for her, but the remarks you will receive might not be so. If you think you are beautiful. You are. I you think you are Fat. You most definitely are. Deal with it, but in a humane way. Think for your self and research on healthy and quality methods to reduce weight. Most efficient stuff is very inexpensive. Don't starve and keep yourself away from chocotale. Chocotale is a necessity. I hear ya Sista. Loose if you have to. Get all Nicky Bakshi on your ass. Go Hot and Sexy for your self, but not for the World, not for some Idiot who refuses to see you. But for Your own freaking Self. And have a Rocking Women Day. Not a guilt free one. Because there is no guilt in the first place to be Guilt-free. Also, just by the fact that you are a woman, You are Beautiful. It's your entitlement. Your freaking Right. Don't let any dick tell you Different.

And if you are Guy who thinks that Flat abs on a girl is hot. Get your head out of your Media whooped ass. Go a little Grown-Up and Scientific. You will find out that being well rounded is not only Nice for a women but also extremely critical for her fulfilling existence. I am not talking on the lines of Silk Smita's MRF tires  & thighs or anything. Just a little ladyly. If it gets you hard, think about it as 'More to Love'.
Because in the end, more than the Angels need us. We need them.