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The Cupid Mafia

It's shaadi time! (Shaadi = Marriage in Hindi) No moron, not my shaadi. My nephew, a cousin sister and a friend tied the knot recently and guess what - I was there. Yes, me the never-attending-a-shaadi snob has actually started being part of celebrations of conjugal bliss.
And yeah, my nephew IS married...err... TWO of my nephews are married.

And considering India's unblemished and ever improving excited-hormone track record, I could very well be grand uncle before I turn 30. (UPDATE - I am!)

Note to self -
Now I know why Balika Vadhu (an Indian TV serial that deals with child marriage) doesn't come anywhere close to grabbing my attention. I see that kind of stuff all the time - live. OK I admit, I am stretching the truth a little here.

Now when a 27 year old jawan struts into a family shaadi, dressing well and looking the part is the last thing on his mind (Errr... my mind), if he has designs to escape the cupid mafia. I go as late as I possibly can, dress in the dullest possible clothes and make sure my stubble is at least 24 hours old. I can take the easier route out and not go at all, but hey - I'd go anywhere for free biryani and ice-cream! And of course these experiences make for great writing material.

So here's the drill - conversations with the cupid mafia almost always begin with the customary 'How're you doing?' or 'How's the work scene going on?' and move on to the less subtle 'Shaadi ke baare mein kya socha hai?' (What're your thoughts on marriage?)
Or if there's someone who doesn't know you, he'll head to the nearest common acquaintance and go in Rajasthani - 'Bhaaya, ki ka chora hai?' (Who's son is this brother?)

Note to reader -
To get the full impact of this line, imagine Michael Holding's (A Caribbean ex-cricketer with a drawl as thick as expired peanut butter) saying it complete with the drawl and baritone - "Bhayaaaaa, ki ka chora haaiiii?".

Thankfully, there's still enough understanding and tact present in the world in that the mafia will understand if you tell them marriage figures nowhere in your plans at the moment. Although they're going to pass out when you tell them you're 27.

Note to self -
A 100 years ago I would have been a grandfather at this age.

For the more persistent mafia, you can always make impossible demands of a bride to make them shudder, stutter and pass out once again. By the time they come to, you can always grab another one of those ice creams.

Note to reader -
Impossible demands do not equal dowry demands d***head!

So here's the unofficial mini-list of demands to ensure that your impending 'mangni' (engagement) does not happen (at least not any time soon) -

The girl must -
1 - Know national anthems of at least 5 countries.

2 - Know names of at least 5 heads of states.

3 - Must have less than 15.5% body fat.
Note to reader - Don't ask. Personal fetish.

4 - Have read atleast 5 of Shakespeare's works.
4.A. - Watching Vishal Bhardwaj's movies does not count.

End of list.

Note to reader - You expected more? Dude, this is not my full-time job.

You wouldn't have realized, but you can tell a lot about a girl by her range of answers.

1 - If she knows only the chinese, russian and american anthems - she's too badly hooked on to the olympics.
2 - If she only knows the Indian anthem - she probably goes a lot to the movies.
3 - If she gives you a mouthful on patriotism for daring to ask if she knows other country's anthems and ends the soliloquy with "Chain se sona hai to jag jaao" , she's had a fatal overdoes of brazen hindi news channels. Poor soul.

Note to self -
It's time to gorge on the third ice-cream.

Now that the cupid mafia has passed out sufficient times to realize that I am injurious to their health, it's time to turn my attention to the more fun aspects of a Rajasthani marriage.

We're still a little old fashioned and segregation of the sexes is always right up there on the menu. (Like that's gonna deter me.)
There's always some aunt I wanna catch up but spotting one burkha clad aunt among many others is not a task for the faint hearted. It's like stepping into a minefield. If I run into someone who's past puberty and not yet married, I'm going to have to run through my cupid mafia drill all over again. And even if I don't, I still have a zillion burkha'd aunties to get past before I reach my favourite aunt.

Note to self -
I don't need to play 'Call of Duty :: Black Ops'. I play it in person every time I go to a family wedding.

Going back to the cupid mafia, as religion teaches us everything in this world is made in pairs. So for every male cupid mafia I take out, there's always a female counterpart still out there in the wild. And she's always a step ahead of you. She'll covertly point out a burkha clad figure with just the eyes visible and quietly ask you -'Kaho toh baat chalaaoon?' (Whaddya think 'bout that one?). It's one of those situations when you want to scream out 'F*********k' and get the hell out of the place. But instead, I get a harsh lesson in 'what goes around comes around' - I shudder, stutter and pass out.

Note to self -
The protective body-cover, gloves and all, with only the eyes visible - I'm pretty certain the burkha was the inspiration for the robocop costume. (The French government has single handedly killed on screen vigilante justice by banning the burkha).

Having dodged shaadi-walahs, passed out in the process and played my share of black-ops, I head to wish the bride and the groom. There's a long queue to get on the stage. Growing impatient with every second I'm already thinking of ways to cut the queue and get ahead. I contemplate showing everyone my first class railway pass to get ahead of the line. But if I do that people are gonna take out more valuable passes - like the keys to their lexus or bmw.

Note to self -
I'm gonna try the railway pass trick. Someday.

Once on the stage, you realize that India is still shining. The bride has worn enough jewelery to give the king of bling Bappi Lahiri a complex. But maybe all the gold does serve a practical purpose. It's so damn heavy, the bride can't run away even if she wants to. And did I forget to mention the 25kg lehenga? (The dress of choice for most Indian brides)

Note to self -
1 - You can never remake 'Runaway Bride' in bollywood. Our wedding dresses are so heavy just don't lend themselves to make for a successful elope.
2 - The gold may have been borrowed against a tonne of garlic (Jab ghar mein hai lassun toh kis baat ki tension - You know that garlic prices are at an all time high don't you?).

By the time I've had my picture clicked with the bride and headed to the groom, the photographer has already started making him pose in embarrassing poses for the wedding album. The most common pose is the sideways Swades pose, also made popular by Lalit Modi during IPL sesons I and II. I'm embarrassed, but the groom is positively enjoying it. I think he's already been through so many sidey poses, he's just maxed out. It can't get any worse for him.

More customary pictures with the groom and his errand-boy-posse later, I realize I've had clicked enough photographs clicked on shaadis this season to create my own portfolio.

Note to reader -
The errand-boy-posse is the group of young male relatives or friends that always buzz around the groom in weddings. They covertly get him starters when he's hungry and do cigarette ka 'bandobast' for him.

I catch a cupid mafia in disguise speaking with the photographer, giving me a sly smile while she's at it. (I told you the female mafia is always a step ahead).
Knowing that I have to act fast if I don't want my photographs distributed in the weekly community newsletter, instinct kicks in. I grab the camera, rush to the exit, mount the grooms ghodi and rush to bandstand where the camera meets it's watery end.

Note to reader - Ghodi = Female horse. I've always wondered why Indian grooms mount a female horse and not a male one. After all you are getting married you know! What do you need a female horse for!

At the end of the day, everyones happy -
- I've destroyed the camera, my only material nemesis in the fight against the cupid mafia.
- The groom couldn't be happier - his embarrassing poses will never see the light of day.

Epilogue -
The cupid mafia still smiles. They've each grabbed me in their camera phones. Damn!

The Leaf Blower and the Witch

This morning a few colleagues from office and I were grabbing a quick smoke at the smoke station outside the office premises, while a leaf blower was doing his stuff blowing leaves with a leaf blower all over the place.

Note to self -
Why doesn't a leaf blower have a formal name for his profession? You call the massage dude /dudette a masseur / masseuse, why don't we call the leaf blower a blowsseur or blowsseuse?


The leaf blower was going about doing his job as he must usually but he had five desi voyeurs to deal with. Yeah we desis can be very disgusting when we decide to drop every other thought from our mind and concentrate all our attention on an honest man trying to make a living in the middle of the day. Takes me back to an occasion during my university days when a high speed motorbike whizzed past on the street with a guy and a gal riding on it. The bike was not a ducati, the guy was no hunk and the gal was no chick. It was a creaky yamaha rx 500, the guy had worn a netted banyan and had a mole on his face - probably a butcher from Chapel Road and the gal (the less said the better about her). The point is ten or so desi teens dropped their jaws and cranked up their necks to follow the bike with their gaze till the time it was visible. The panwalah, maalish walah, ear cleaning walah and every other walah followed suit. In a matter of minutes the entire nation was looking in the direction of the biker, so much mental telepathy caused the magnetic field over the country to go bonkers (The high tide talk is plain bull!). Apart from the 10 over sexed desi teens, no one had any idea what they were looking at.

Note to self -
1 - The guy on the bike was probably Rajnikanth in disguise. He probably subliminally hypnotized everyone to concentrate on the mole on his face. I have no other explanation of the continual mass hysteria over him.

2 - Talking of netted banyans: "Life mein aaraam ho toh ideas aate hain" (Punch line of Dollar underwear and banyan).

Back to the leaf blower. With 5 desis shamelessly starting him down I can only wonder what he was thinking at that point. Maybe he thought about blowing all the leaves on us and going 'Who the fuck you lookin' at?' Or maybe he'd aim the blower at us and blow our cigarettes away'. Bad ideas, both of them. If he carried out plan A, the five desis would have taken the rest of the day off citing unsolicited blowing. If he carried out plan B, he would learn the most swear words in a foreign language ever learnt by an American in a day.

Note to self -
This is not a place to reveal my excuses for taking days off work.

My mind wandered to why the leaf blowing thingie should not be outsourced to desis. In a second, rather less than a second, better in nanoseconds I knew why this would be a bad idea. It's got to do with our inherent nature -

1 - We'd blow more leaves on the parking lot than away from it; never underestimate the flow of emotion of a desi in a foreign land with a foreign object in his hand (ever seen us playing in snow for the first time?)

2 - We'd alter our resume to say we managed and operated a biohazard plant when all we did was blow. It's a habit that never goes, we love lying in black letters on white paper.

3 - The blower would be found in every desi home on weekends for blowing leaves that don't exist; borrowing stuff we don't need to never use is a genetic pastime. OK, I won't be so harsh, we'd probably mess our carpets with leaves on purpose just to blow them out.

4 - The blower would be used in desi weddings to shower flowers on everyone. Again a genetic habit, we love employing office stuff for personal use. A more aggressive baaraat would employ it to propel sutli bombs in the air while the saat pheras were in progress. An enterprising gujju would even probably paint it and rent it out on weddings and other occasions.

Coming back to reality, my mind wandered to less insane thoughts - how can the whole process be optimized? Blowing leaves from here to there might be fun, but it sure ain't pretty. Here's a list of probable solutions I propose -

1 - Scientists, G-8 countries and hollywood all seem to have a pretty good nexus with aliens. They could convince aliens to descend on earth and pull all the leaves up the spaceship. (Imagine a dhatura claiming bragging rights over all other trees stating- 'I was abducted by an alien spaceship').

Anyway, I propose the following ideas to seduce the aliens for this task -
a - Natasha Henstridge tapes from Species and Species II
b - Dennis Rodman. No tapes needed, one glance is all it will take.
c - Hrithik Roshan. His extra thumb could be used as a negotiating tool.
May be a bad idea in hindsight; don't want to give papa Roshan ideas
for more shitty stuff.

2 - The leaves could be transported to Lady Gaga for her next outfit. If she can wear a meat outfit, she can certainly wear leaves. Or knowing her, she would only wear 'a' leaf, or three. Best case four.
But we'll still let the idea stand. If the number of leaves in the outfit increases, we'll drop it.

3 - Hire Christine O'Donnell to clean up the mess. If she's a witch, she'll blow out the leaves with just her breath and fly off on the leaf blower. A secret camera can be attached to the leaf blower to give us an insight into what she really thinks about masturbation. It's a win-win situation. If she's a witch the leaves will go, if not we'll get more free prime-time entertainment.
Either way, she's not winning the election. On second thought she just might, it's Halloween time; peak witch-activity season.

If all plans fail, someone go find that broom Arnold Schwarzenegger used in his election campaign for the Gubernatorial election of California and put it to some use.

Return of the Rental

It's 6 am and I'm filling up the tank of a rental SUV that I drove down from Boston to Albany a couple of days ago. I've got to return it by 7 am to the rental guys and then head to the office. Did I mention that this was a Monday? And that the car was a replacement for a fucked up piece of brand new junk I drove to Boston? Like chocolate muffin covered with mousse topped of with a cherry. Only that the chocolate is me with a full bladder that felt seconds away from exploding, the mousse is a dried botch of latte lite I spilled on me an hour ago and the cherry is the hot rental dame that would zap me 20 minutes later at the rental place.

Now the cherry wasn't anywhere close to my thoughts until I met the rental dame . But a dame that groovy totally justifies savagely flicking away your thoughts to make place for a shiny cherry in them.

While filling up the SUV I had my now customary flash! 'The gas dispenser is male and the car is female.' Think about it - there's disrobing to uncover a dark hollow, careful insertion, pouring it in, the deeper it goes the less chances of a spill and whether it's your own or a rental, there's always a charge on your credit card.

Note to self -
1 - Since this was a flash with sexual connotation, Imma refer to it as a hot flash. (No offense ladies. Like I care a shit if you take any! No I'm not talking about you, I'm referring to ladies - the last one died a million years ago)
2 - Now I know what men say when they say in a weak and feeble tone - 'Bahut petrol peeti hai yaar!'

Back to the return of the rental. First a little background - the car I drove in the first leg of my journey gave up on me when as soon as I reached Boston. Long story short - bikers and joggers overtook me every way on the road and I had to haggle 4 freakin' hours to get a replacement.

Note to self -
1 - When bikers overtook me I realized what the English colonel would have felt when Bhuvan beat him with a last-ball six in Lagaan.
2 - Bhuvan is gay. He was always fully clothed when with Radha and the hot English lady (That's the lady I referred to in earlier note). But exposed every time he played cricket with the rest of the guys. (I will never watch cricket again - Fuck you Bhuvan!)
3 - Haggling over the phone for hours was just like home. Totally like the countless hours I've spent fighting with bank guys, telephone guys, electricity guys and the internet guys back home. (Zubaan pe sach dil mein India).


Back to the story. After the filling up I finally reach the rental place and the rental dame greets me. It's the third time I'm doing business with her. You know what they mean when they say 'Been great doing business with you'? That's right, you don't. I'm the only one who does.

Note to self
1 - Get up and fetch your wallet, it's got her business card.
2 - Just did it.
3 - She would have been a 'lady' if the car she gave me wasn't a piece of junk.

She then goes on to ask me how the car was and if I 'enjoyed' the internet radio in it. Yeah right! Like I'd have the time to 'enjoy' the internet radio with joggers overtaking me at every step. Maybe Sarah Palin would. That delusional hockey mom that does'nt drink tea but enjoys tea parties. I bet she'd go - 'You're overtaking me on your feet, but I've got internet radio. It's a symbol of job creation and God Bless Alaska... Russia too because we can see it from Alaska!'

Back to the dame. I go on to tell her how screwed up my trip was and how much hassle I had to go through to get a replacement. She goes on to shower so much sympathy on me it's like murder by saccharin. A minute more of her sweet talk and I would have been convinced that I was an orphan and she my guardian angel. Now I despise sympathy and sweet talk. Hate it. Fucken puke on it. If it were someone else I'd empty out my bladder on them, both figuratively and literally. Maybe that's how the phrase 'Don't piss me off' came into being. Or maybe that's how piss therapy was discovered. (Ok I'll pretend I didn't write that. I'm quite disgusting but p*** therapy is way out of my disgusting threshold. (See - I didn't even write p*** this time).

Note to self -
1 - After about 7 minutes of sweet talk, my anger was easing off and the p*** tsunami inside me aching to come out. (Maybe that's what they mean by hard shell with a soft inside).
2 - Next time I'm bloated with a full bladder I'm wearing a sign that says - 'Do not approach if package is bloated'.

Now here's where things start to get interesting. All the driving, filling up, p*** holding, sweet talk and sympathy was making me hallucinational (Just realized this is not a word). The same way I felt the first time I breathed in clean, non-polluted, unadulterated American air - I almost choked on it.

Note to self -
1 - Bombay is polluted. BIG TIME!

Back to the interesting part (No more digressions... At least I'll try). I know from earlier conversations that 'the dame' (thats what we'll call the rental babe from now) is a vegetarian and a PETBP (People for Ethical Treatment to Birds and Pigs) activist. And I was overcoming an overdose of this funky cell phone game where you put p***ed off birds in a slingshot to kill pigs that robbed the birds' eggs. The way I looked at it this game would be the perfect activity to groove on with the dame. It's like chicken empowerment - the chicken take matters into it's own hands to get even with the pigs that robbed it's eggs.

Note to self -
1 - The 'pigs' usage in the above sentence is an adjective, not a noun. Like calling a bastard a bastard.
2 - I am getting unusually abusive in this post.

So I go into this mini fantasy where I'm having a good time with the dame with the help of some chicken and pigs. (Not on the plate - I only eat halaal meat :) )
She's wearing this grey business suit (she always wears a grey business suit; next time there's a sale in Macy's Imma call her) and what does she do? She gets into a tirade about me not respecting pigs and birds and subconsciously wanting to harm them, manifesting itself in my addiction to the game.

Someone needs to teach my fantasy the law of averages. I am only one of millions that play this game and the dame is perhaps the only grey-suit-wearing-car-rental babe I dig. This is NOT supposed to happen!


Digression to reality - Somewhere between the bashing in the fantasy I come back to reality and tell her I'm not going to pay for the rental for the trouble I had to go through. She agrees. If only she were this affable in my fantasy.

Note to self - My fantasy has a life of it's own. Bitch!

Hoping for some redemption I go back into my fantasy. She's apparently rambled all the time I came back to reality to get my discount and I just caught her threatening me that she'd protest outside my place with the rest of her PETBP gang. I contemplate what to do next. That's right I contemplate in fantasies too. In a matter of seconds I hear footsteps rushing towards my apartment with a PETBP banner on the horizon. I shudder at the thought of what's in store for me - an afternoon in a chicken pen, an evening of forced pig-cuddling or maybe me tossed over the city in a giant size slingshot? I shudder once again and await my fate. 50 or so PETBP chicks (hot chicks) are marching towards me with venom in their eyes and grey suits on their bods. They stop right in front of my window and do what they do best - Strip off their clothes and pose nude in protest of the bird and pigs game. Journos all over start rolling the shutter bugs, I join in.

Poof! Ends the fantasy, I bid the dame goodbye and rush to the nearest restroom.

Note to reader - PETBP does not stand for People for Ethical Treatment to Birds and Pigs. It is a cabal of politicians still supporting BP after the oil spill (People for Empathetical Treatment to BP).

In vain

I fear saying what I feel aloud
What is said may be so
But that which is contemplated
Was never meant to be

When a coloured man rises to fight
His fellowmen see inspiration
Others, dissent
Was he just melancholy with God that the night is unaware, obscure

If I walk into a sunset
Would you feel pity
For my ambling steps, the dejected march
Or would you get on the other side and see a smile, the sun shining on my face

Will courage finally hold my hand
Or will I be like those countless heroes
That led revolutions because they couldn't lead their destiny
Those byronic villains that lived in vain.

The Godfather – A desi software engineer’s tale of woes

Amritlal Banarasiya looked at his face in the rearview mirror of his 1990 Toyota Camry. It looked different, mostly because he hadn't dyed his hair in more than a fortnight. He thought to himself - 'to get the lush night of my hair back, I must go to the Don. Only he can transform me from a graying knight to the dark knight again'. It wasn't that he couldn't order a box of hair die from the nearest pharmacy. It was that like most desis in the software industry, Banarasiya was a penny pincher and did not want to pay the extra quarter for the dye. 'I can get a bottle of masala milk for a quarter back in India', he thought. Salivating at the thought of the masala milk he took the turn that led to the driveway of the Godfathers apartment.

He knocked at the door and obediently waited for the door to open. It was opened by Dildar supariwala. Dildar was always at the Godfathers side. He was never one to work. Instead he spent all his time at work looking up cheap deals on electronics, clothes, coasters, socks and breakfast cereal for the Godfather on the Internet. The Godfather, in return, had all of his workload shifted on the shoulders of Rathi Lampani, his caporegime at offshore. The Godfather was at work on his laptop when Amrit entered the apartment. Everyone was expected to wait for him to finish his work when he was on his laptop. Dildar glanced from the corner of his eye at the Godfather. His face was tense. He instantly knew what the problem was. The client had written an email to the Don whose english, he could not comprehend. In fact Dildar was even sure that the Don did not even know what 'comprehend' meant. 'He's probably chatting with Lampani who is translating the clients email for him', he thought. After a few moments a smile came over the Godfathers face. (Not only had Rathi translated the email, he had also drafted a reply for the Don to send later that night).

The Godfather looked up at his uninvited guest. He knew what he was here for, and had already decided that Amrit wasn't going to get what he wanted without playing a little hardball. Finally after blindly sending out the email that Rocco had sent him to the client, the Don looked up at him. (Finally! Thought Amrit. 'I'm sure I whitened more just standing here')

The Don gave out a subdued belch, a result of the kachoris that his mother in law sent him every fortnight from Jamnagar. The belch nearly took Amrit with it and knocked him out. He somehow gather himself together and started his woeful tale - 'I believe in America. America had made my fortune (before I blew it out in the casino and came back to make it work all over again. I kept my hair in the American fashion. I conditioned it, dyed it and gelled it. But I never let go of my honour; I never stopped using the coconut oil I got from India. Yesterday I went to the pharmacy, and to my dismay the hair dye cost was up by 25 cents. 25 cents! I pleaded and begged for the salesman to sell it to me at the original price, but he wouldn't. Dejected I stepped towards the counter to buy a pack from the new stock at the new price. Just then my eye caught two men buying off the entire old stock at the old price! With an additional 2 p.c. off because they bought the whole stock. I pleaded with them to give me a piece too, but they just smiled at me! Smiled at me! I thought to myself - for the dye I must go to the Godfather.
The Don was happy, but his face betrayed no emotion. Or rather he kept his lips shut because he didn’t want to let out another belch and embarrass himself. Banarasiya, Banarasiya', he replied. What have I ever done for you to treat me so disrespectfully? You don't shop at the same stores as me, you don't have a haircut at the same mall as I do, don't spend time with me on the weekends?'
'That’s coz I stay 27 miles from here' replied Amritlal Banarasiya, (adding a 'You dimwit!' inside his head.
The Don lapsed into deep thought with a serious expression on this face. ('Ah what the fuck! He stays 27 miles away, what use is he to me?')
He turned to Dildar and said - 'Have two bottles of dye delivered to him. And make sure someone with black hair goes to deliver them, the graying ones always take off with the bottles and dye their own hair with it'.

2 - Dildar supariwala
Dildar supariwala was growing weary of the Don. By his earlier estimates, the Don would have been at onsite for not more than a year. He had however spent more than 2 years and there was no sign of him leaving. Dildar was a desperate man and was always looking for an opportunity to ascend as the new Don. He finally sensed one. The godfather used to lend out his vacuum cleaner every week to one team members' families in turn to clean up his home - free of cost. But Dildar knew that the Don never did anything free of cost, he was a man of principles. Only later would he realize that the Don would visit the apartment of the borrower that week to 'inspect' how clean the house was. While he was at it, he would eat a hearty meal at the borrowers home, as compensation for the vacuum. Here is where he sensed his opportunity - he suggested to Fareed (the backup project manager) that the free dinners be stopped. That the vacuum be given out free of cost and the borrowers be told that they should accept the day with the vacuum as a gift. 'Some day, and that day may never come, we shall call upon them to return this favour' he said to Fareed.

3 - Fareed
Fareed was as gullible a manager as they come; he was the backup project manager of the module. The only reason he was at onsite was because he took care of all organizational level activities for the Don, who had Fareed believe that this would move him up the hierarchy. Not that this was entirely untrue, but such was the genius of the Don - you never once suspected that it was his ass you were ultimately licking.

3 - Michael
Fareed brought this topic up at an opportune time with the Don - just after he received his overtime allowance (Extra money always made the Godfather happy). The Don however, was not impressed. 'I cannot let go of the weekly lunch', he thought. 'How can I let it go of it when the rest of the week I live on the free candy at the office reception?' At such moments of desperation, he always turned to Michael. Michael was his trusted lieutenant, the project manager. It took a lot of coaxing for him to get Michael onsite, as he was never interested in the rat race that everyone was in. However, for reasons which Michael himself did not quite understand, he came.
On a lazy Saturday afternoon, the Don took Michael out for (a free)lunch at the community aid center and brought him up to date with the vacuum crisis. 'How can we let the vacuum business die out Michael? It's part of the great American dream. I bought it from my boss for $50. Look how many meals I have enjoyed in exchange for the 50 bucks. It's Gods blessing, a heirloom, and a tradition. A tradition I cannot forego, one you must protect for me at any cost. Michael went into a mini fantasy where he plunged the vacuum into the Don’s ass. He cut his fantasy short thinking of the $25 bucks he would eventually have to pay up to him to repair the vacuum. Not that he minded paying the 25, but hated that he would have to hear the Don whine about the repair cost while having a rectal examination lying on his stomach at the makeshift 'hospital' of the downtown quack. He pulled himself together and told the Don the words he always told him in times of a crisis - 'It will be done'.

Michael however, had ambitions of his own. He sensed his opportunity in the Dons predicament. He always cringed at the Dons way of working and the coterie of yes men he had surrounded himself with. Not only did he decide to help the Don, but also pledged to play his own cards to ascend up the hierarchy as the new Don himself. The one piece of the puzzle that troubled him though was Dildar. He was certain he could take care of Fareed and that the Don would ultimately die choking himself on the free candy he enjoyed at the reception. But Dildar wouldn't be so easy- what if the other software families agreed with his designs for the vacuum? Going against the families was one thing he hoped he would never have to do. And with him at the horizon, it would be impossible for Michael to become the new Don.

4 - The Plan
Pushing all thoughts of Dildar supariwala aside for the moment, Micheal decided to get to work with the rest of his plan.

It was the 2nd Wednesday of the month, which was the day Michael had his calls with every team member. Technically speaking, the teams' grievances were discussed on this call - every team member was subliminally told that if they didn't do the work assigned to them, their grievances would increase. Michael decided to bring up Fareed's case while they were together at lunch at the local foot-long place. Since it was a public place, Fareed would be less likely to create a scene. Not because it was a public place, but because Fareed's brain would be too dumbstruck ogling at the firang babes to say anything.
'Fareed', started Michael, 'Let me get straight to the point. You tried to go against the project. Never go against the project. You tried to undermine the Don. I know he's an asshole, but he's the Don and we never go against him, no matter what. Why don't you take some time off and think about what you did. Go to Jersey on a vacation for a week, it's gonna do you good. And while you're at it, get me a stock of Paratha's from that Indian store there, NYC is too damn expensive.

With Fareed out of the picture, Michael turned his attention to the next phase of the plan.
The Don had put him in charge of all resource related meetings with the client. This was part of his job that Michael hated the most. 'I am a technical guy for Gods sake! This is not my job', he always screamed in his head. But within these sickening meeting invites and murky resource handling practices lay his redemption. And he had enough foresight to recognize that. At the next client meeting, he would put his plan into action.

5 - The Meeting
Michael was present for the meeting 5 minutes before the designated hour. He was never early for these meetings, more often than not he was the last one to come in. His job would be tough and he very well recognized that, after all the economic recession was still in full effect and the client was showing all signs of moving to less expensive vendors. After the mandatory formalities with the client, Michael began what would be, by his own honest admission the most pathetic soliloquy he ever indulged in -
'Dean', he started - 'I'm going to cut a long story short. I know that you're planning to move to cheaper vendors. I know that you're not completely satisfied with the way we're working. I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.
You want to cut costs, you want better performance, and you want more enthusiasm. I'm going to give it to you. Fareed's out - he's absconding since a week and we don't where he is. I'm taking him off the team, he's no good. He's growing fat and spoiling your chairs with his weight. Looking at this balding profile picture on the intranet site, the development team doesn't want him to test any of the codes they write. Whether they don't want him to tear any more of his hair out trying to understand the code, or they just don't like him -I don't know. But why take the risk? In his place, I'm going to give you two resources, one of them free. They'll be younger, flat-stomached, not balding and they're going work well too.'
So engrossed was Michael in this well rehearsed proposal that he didn't realize that the client was on another call on his almost invisible Bluetooth headset all this while. All the client said was -'Cut costs? Yeah go ahead and do that.' Michael was a relieved man. Not only because the client had agreed to his proposal in principle, but also because he was sure he would kill himself if he had to say what he just did all over again. After all, all he had talked about to anyone in the past week was his proposal - to his fiancé over the phone (who switched to writing love letters to him in pptx format hoping that he would mistake it for his proposal and open it), to the office receptionist (who only smiled at him, clenching her fists all the while ready to break his teeth if her patience ran out), he even put it up on his blog 37 times (rumour has it that this post inspired Karan Johar to make 'My name is Khan' where Khan says the words 'My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist' exactly 37 times).
Leaving the conference room, Michael turned to the client and uttered the words - 'And Barzini's a pimp'. 'Who's Barzini?', shot back the client? 'No one', Michael replied, 'I just like that line'.

Michael still had a problem, or rather two problems - From where would he get a free resource? How would he ever get rid of Dildar supariwala?


5 - Going to the Mattresses
To get rid of Dildar, Michael decided to go to the mattresses ('Going to the mattresses' is a phrase used in the IT industry. When the 'ergonomic' chairs of the offshore offices finally crack the backs of the ‘engineers’, they work from home on laptops lying flat on their stomachs on mattresses). As the offshore team went to the mattresses trying to find bugs in codes written in Dildar serious enough to eliminate him, Michael made a phone call to Ashu Nehra. Ashu Nehra was one of Michael’s friends from his offshore days, they would buy a single cigarette between the two and smoke it together and ..... that's about it, they only smoked together. Not because they were good friends, but because the offshore salary was only enough for them to share cigarettes. Nehra had left the project a couple of years ago to pursue an MBA. With the recession hitting in, Michael was sure Nehra would not have another offer letter in hand after his MBA, making this his best chance to swoop in and grab him. A little coaxing, the lure of onsite and an expression of a fake desire to smoke Army Cut cigarettes together was all it took for Nehra to say yes. 'He will bring with him a carton of Army Cut', thought Michael to himself. At $20 an hour multiplied 8 hours a day multiplied by 5 working days a week multiplied by 4 weeks a month multiplied by 12 months a year, these would be the most expensive cigarettes Michael would ever smoke - Ashu Nehra was the free resource.

Cut to Dildar. After weeks of being on the mattresses, the offshore team finally found codes written by him that printed the database passwords in the log files in full glory for everyone to see. Going by the audit rules, this password should never be visible to anyone apart from the onsite team and the 100 odd offshore members that would shout out the passwords every Friday night after binge drinking sessions at their preferred bars. But that was not what would nail the perpetual Don-in-waiting. The passwords all turned out to be phrases that were often used by the client. The client got pissed, Dildar got burned. Flying came Rathi Lampani from offshore to take his place. Michael knew this was not a turn of fortune. He chuckled at the countless times he subliminally hinted Supariwala to use the boss’s catchphrases as passwords. 'It would be easier to remember' Michal always told him.

6 - The new Don
Michael tried so hard to eliminate Fareed and Dildar that he forgot that the ultimate roadblock between him and the Dons chair was the Godfather himself. 'If things we were to go by the book, the Don would be dead by now' he thought to himself. But this tale wasn't going by the book and one day the Don came charging into Michael’s cabin and announced 'I'm off to do a one year MBA, so long suckers!'
'Ah what the fuck!' Michael thought, 'surely his final year business plan would be modeled around a creaky old vacuum cleaner, and this time someone would positively violate him with it's hose'.

With the dust settled on the matter, the vacuum was now up again for free use by the great software families. As Michael wrapped up the team grievances call (and added to the team’s grievances) for the first time as the new Don, he noticed Ashu Nehra chomping on a glazed bun he bought earlier from Dinky donuts. He looked up at Nehra and the kachoris that the Godfather gave him moments before he boarded the flight back home. The gooey chutni oozing out of the kachori made his stomach churn. He looked up at Nehra again and quietly said to him ‘Drop the bun, take the kachori’

The Search

There was once a warrior
With a heart of gold
That yearned for his beloved

Touching her hand
Holding her in embrace
Gave him hope for redemption
And forgiveness for his sins

When they walked hand in hand
The clouds would offer them shelter
From the sun that shone brighter
To protect them from the wind
That by their romance grew in fervour

But the warrior was called to war
And he had no choice
As no warrior does.

As the war reached its crescendo
And blood flew freer than rain
He came a broken man
His valour now trapped in folklore

As the hijr* grew longer
She wondered if the sun ever shone still
Would the elements once again
Quarrel for her attention?

She hoped to once again
Come to life in his arms
He hoped to once again
Live through her love.

When there was no more blood left to spill
The warrior returned, to her doorstep
'O woman', he asked 'I am looking for my beloved'
'She is the very embodiment of life, her beauty knows no bounds'

'O warrior', she questioned back 'I too search for my loved one'
'His valour knows no limits, his presence the reason for me'

'I know of no such man', the warrior said
'I wish for the strength you speak of'.
'Neither have I any sign of your beloved', she replied
'Is it possible a woman as that exists?'

They set off on their paths
Searching for that which was lost
Silently praying in their hearts
That the others search was not in vain.


*hijr - arabic word for separation