This appeared in one of my healthcare blogs a few weeks back.

Jeremy Harris is a stock broker in the Wall Street. His asian counterpart, Sharad Sinha slogs it out on the Bombay Stock Exchange. Incredibly enough, Bombay Stock Exchange continues to be Bombay Stock Exchange, or BSE for short. No amount of posturing by radical elements in the west Indian state of Maharashtra has been able to get the name changed to MSE, or Mumbai Stock Exchange.

Jeremy Harris had the shock of his life when the stocks he had bet on plummeted like ninepins in the great collapse of 2008-09. Sharad Sinha, too, was no better off. He had gambled without caring to put stop losses in place, so when stocks tumbled, he had no place to hide. Very soon, both Jeremy and Sharad were licking their hideous wounds in private, grumbling about how cruel it was for providence to have hurt them in such a terrible way.

Jeremy tried to drown his sorrow in Moran’s Bar (not morons’ bar!) at Washington Street, while Sharad sought refuge in the warm and friendly ambience of Leopold at Colaba Causeway. Then they had sleepless nights too, whiling away hours pondering over what had gone wrong. Their diets went awry, too many binges of beer on inadequately filled stomachs, and often oily snacks to complement the alcohol. The stress was overwhelming, and soon splitting headaches were added to the agony. Jeremy popped in a few aspirins every now and then, while Sharad swallowed ‘combiflam’ and ‘ibucomb’ purchased over the counter from chemist shops by the dozen to keep the headache at bay. When they returned to their respective homes, Jeremy quarreled with his girlfriend Sarah, and Sharad had fights with his wife Karuna over trivial issues. It was at this point of time that GERD crept into the lives of Jeremy and Sharad, and made life hellish for them.

One night, when Jeremy had just manage to catch a wink of fitful sleep after hours of agonising wait, a large glob of acid, slime and bile got past Jeremy’s lower esophageal sphincter (the valve which keeps the acid from entering the foodpipe) and swam all the way up to his mouth and nose, almost choking him for an instant and awakening him in a violent spasm of cough. Jeremy got up in an instant and rushed to the loo, groggy eyed and all, and vomited. It was round one to GERD. The same night, Sharad complained of tearing pain at the pit of his stomach, the intensity of which was enough for him to summon an ambulance from the nearby hospital and rush to the ICU, fearing a heart attack. It turned out to be GERD, and Sharad was discharged the next morning after an endoscopy, with sufficient advice to keep his lousy food habits in check.

Both Jeremy and Sharad now realised that they had to mend their ways to keep them from falling victims to acid reflux. Sarah made sure Jeremy got up early in the morning and went for a jog, while Karuna placed Sharad under a holy oath which forbade him from touching alcohol. Tides turned, and Jeremy and Sharad gradually inched back into profit territory. Regular exercise, abstinence from alcohol and a relaxed atmosphere, both at work and at home, worked wonders. As of now, Jeremy and Sharad live a GERD free life. Both are campaigners for healthy living practices, and do their bit to educate their colleagues about acid reflux and the ways to avoid it.

Sarah and Karuna had never been happier before. Both Jeremy and Sharad have great domestic (read sex) lives. But those who are yet uncomfortable with the name Bombay Stock Exchange continue to suffer from heartburn.

Anyone who would like to make a movie on this? Free comedians available!

Shinde dropped me right in front of Marina Mansion at the junction of S V Patel Marg and Marine drive, close to the staircase leading upto the footbridge. Across the road, on my right, lay Chowpatty, a vivid expanse of golden yellow sand, gloriously bathed in bright arc lights. It was 8.40 pm. I felt a bit of pity for Shinde, who, when I last saw him, was desperately fighting off a stubborn challenge by two stout Parsi ladies insisting on a lift. Poor chap. May his wife allow him to rest in peace (and in one piece) once he reaches home!

Slowly ascending the steps of the footbridge, I marvelled at the resplendent architecture of the buildings lining the Marine Drive. Though Marina Mansion seemed unremarkable in comparison to the other buildings, the rather dull appearance only belied the strategic importance of the three storeyed structure, which, I could bet, allowed one of the best views of the entire Chowpatty beach. I wondered if film and TV crews had already infested the block, premium space being such scarce in Mumbai! Opposite the Marina Mansion, stood Fulchand Niwas, home to a few well known restaurants in the Girgaum – Chowpatty area. I stood for a while on the footbridge, looking up at the imposing western façade of the Gothic structure, and reflected whether the visage bore any resemblance to the bow of the Titanic. Below, the Marine drive was a gush of molten gold, as thousands of vehicles streaked under the footbridge, their headlamps lighting up the promenade and spilling beyond.

Those who have seen the expansive coastlines of peninsular India and have been to the beaches in Goa, Kerala, Chennai, Andhra or Karnataka will agree that Chowpatty is a rather minuscule beach, perhaps a little more than half a kilometre across. But for Mumbai’s 20 million dreams, Chowpatty is an iconic symbol of emancipation, a liberation from the mundane, a deeply coveted indulgence after long and tedious hours of droning existence. It was nearly 9.00 pm, and quite dark beyond the arc lights. Straight ahead, the horizon was a blur in black, punctuated by a few obscure blushes of light coming from freighters docked in the distant sea. On the left, the Queen’s Necklace was like a dazzling apparition. Closer, and to the right, the waves slowly lapped on the sand, their dull white, phosphorescent linings breaking upon Chowpatty in a riot of fluorescent colours as Malabar Hill delicately tossed its extravagant radiance at the sea below.

I stood there, transfixed in awe, as I absorbed the tranquillity in muted silence. Many minutes may have passed, when my reverie was suddenly broken by squeals of little children chasing each other excitedly. I diverted my attention to the people around. There were many couples on the beach, some squatted on the sand and talking animatedly, while a few others taking a quiet, leisurely stroll, arms lovingly held across each other. Then there were entire families, stretched out in various degrees of leisurely recline. The army of vendors, though cropped short on account of it being a weekday, was still formidable enough to attract your undivided attention. They were selling glow-in-the-dark yoyos and parachutes, plastic toys, roasted corn, balloons, and even rides for children atop small beach bikes. I spotted a couple of photographers too. An icecream trolley passed by, selling flavoured ice candies for Rs. 5/- a piece. There was a picture painted on its side, rather a face with the tongue sticking out. After careful appraisal, I could identify that it was Govinda, though he looked pitifully emaciated. The icecreamwallah had finally identified his woes and decided to put him on a much needed diet!

To be continued.

8 pm is a time which holds different connotations for different people. For housewives in general, it is the time to finish off kitchen chores and dig in front of the TV for a dose or two of the soaps. For kids, its time to wind up the nonsense, stow away the toys under the bed and settle down with homework. Men, who are lucky enough to reach home early, would find solace in either a cup of tea or a shot of spirit, depending on how their preferences have evolved with their promotions. For lovers, it’s the time to surrender their souls to each other (with an eye on the infinitely more desirable ‘physical’ surrender which would follow in due course!).

For me, that particular August evening, it was time for a touchdown at Chowpatty.

Having dumped the books in a heap on my bed, I showered, changed into casuals, slipped on a pair of sandals and hopped out onto the street, looking for a taxi to take me to Chowpatty. August Kranti Marg was buzzing with the commotion generated by a frenzied scamper of pedestrians returning from work, with cars and taxis honking madly for a right of passage. All my efforts to hail a cab seemed futile, as taxi after taxi dashed past without even caring to look at my gesticulations. Nah, the strategy was not working. I remembered having seen a few taxis standing in front of the August Kranti Park gate in the morning. Now where was that? I had to ask someone. Okay, there was a small cubicle selling toffees and trinkets. I fished out a two rupee coin from my pocket and asked for Mango Bite. Five Mango Bites for two rupees! Great deal. I asked him about the taxi stand. Over there. He gave me elaborate details. I started walking in the direction he gave. Took out a Mango Bite from the pocket, unwrapped the sticky yellow pellet and popped it in my mouth. I love Mango Bite. I may have devoured two thousand Mango Bites in my life already. Awww! This one seemed extraordinarily gooey! Appeared to be more of a mango-chew! Now wait. I had not yet thrown the wrapper away. I peered in the light of the street neon.

It was a Mangoo Bite. Man + goo + bite. Hell. The taste in my mouth changed from sweet to sour to bitter, and finally settled for something which was strongly disagreeable.

Presently, I saw a taxi, with a bold ‘Shinde’ in red adorning the hind screen. That cheered me up. It was already 8.15. I approached Mr. Shinde with considerable hope. He was chewing lazily on a mouthful of paan and counting his cash when I interrupted him.

“Chowpatty chaloge?”

“Hmmm?”

“Chowpat
ty?”

“Hmm..? Unhu!”

Now that was a serious setback. Here was a taxi in black and yellow. But things were already looking bleak and hollow for me.

“Kyon nahi chaloge?”

Shinde raised an eyebrow. A little bead of red appeared at the corner of his lips. Turning away from me, he shot out a mouthful of spittle, wiped his jaw with the back of his hand and went back to counting his earnings. I stood there expecting an answer.

“Time up.”

“Arre toh Chowpatty kaun sa door hai? 10 minute ka rasta hai”, I persisted.

“Bola naa, time up ho gaya. Apun ko ghar jaane ka hai.”

I strongly brushed aside the image of a hapless Dilip Kumar running around here and there and howling “Arre bhai…arre bhai” in the middle of the road searching for a taxi. On the contrary, I was increasingly feeling like Mithun Chakraborty, and even considered screaming once “Aaaaaayyye ssaaala”.

Nothing.

“Toh theek hai. Mereko rasta bata do. Main paidal chala jayega.”

Shinde’s eyes popped out. I was pestering him no end.

“Kya bhaisaab. Doosra taxi le lo na.”

“Idhar doosra teesra kuchh nahi hai.”

Shinde surrendered. Spitting out the remainder of his paan, he turned the meter down and with a shake of his head, jerked the rear door open. I jumped inside.

“Saala apun ko roz late ho jata hai…..bibi kehti hai 9 baje tak ghar waapas aa jana..apun ka ghar Dadar ke paas hai…roz saade dus gyarah bajta hai.....”

Again that rush of salty air. Distinctly cooler though. The assault on Chowpatty was on.

To be continued.

At 6.00 pm I was out on the streets again. This time I took a detour off Kemps Corner from under the Peddar Road flyover towards right and sauntered along the prestigious N S P Marg, a busy thoroughfare in the shadows of the picturesque Padam Hill and gently snaking around its foothills. I was thrilled to find out that the Kemps Corner flyover was the first flyover to be built in Mumbai, that too way back in 1965. It was a humbling feeling to be standing beneath a few hundred tonnes of steel and 330 metres of proud history.

N S Patkar Marg (earlier Hughes Road) probably symbolises whatever there is to a staggeringly opulent lifestyle. Ironically, it might appear to be in utmost conflict to the very principles which a devoted socialist like Nyaymurti Sitaram Patkar probably stood for all his life! Come to think of wealth, sex and fast cars, NSP Marg has everything. It houses the world famous diamond grading and gem testing laboratories of the Gemmological Institute of India and the office of IASECT (Indian Association of Sex Educators, Counsellors and Therapists with the legendary daddy of all sex gurus Dr. Prakash Kothari at its helm). But the hottest of the addresses is probably the neat little bundle of expensive German steel, the Porsche dealership.

At the Porsche India Centre, across a thick sheet of glass, a dazzling Cayenne Turbo worth nearly $200000 rested proudly with a topless sleek red Boxter lying seductively by its side, each one a breathtaking spectacle by itself. I gawked at the sight for a minute or two, gulped a couple of times, picked up my jaw from the road and moved on in search of Mohammad Bhai Mansion, a place more in line with the immediate goals in my life. I was looking for Crossword, the outlet in Kemps Corner being one of the largest bookstores in India. I soon realised that I had overshot my target, so I had to retrace my steps, allowing myself a lustful second look at the obscenely luxuriant oberklassewagens.

It was almost 6.30 when I entered Crossword. What seemed like a decent looking bookstore from the outside turned out to be a huge cavernous vestibule lined by row upon row of books, with only narrow passages in between where you couldn’t pass without substantial rubbing of assorted body parts (with those of others, of course). There were books everywhere; books on the left and books on the right, books in front and books behind, books on the walls and books on the floor, and some even suspended from the ceiling! Then there was an entire floor (the upper one) dedicated to CDs, VCDs, DVDs, gifts and what not, with a nice little eatery tucked away in the corner selling croissants and doughnuts to fat little kids and their dads. It was my impression that the moms, in general, were watching their weight. Women in Mumbai are pretty health conscious (or pretty and health conscious)…aren’t they? Anyway, after taking a quick look around, I settled among the fiction titles and did not notice how the next one hour flew by.

When I came out of crossword, it was 7.30 pm by my watch. I had purchased Chowringhee by Shankar (on which book Aparna Sen based her movie 36, Chowinghee Lane), The Five People You Meet In Heaven by Mitch Albom (a New York Times bestseller for 95 weeks and, according to Wiki, the bestselling first time novel ever written), Prey by Michael Crichton and Dogs of War by Frederick Forsyth (which he based on his real life experience, having partially financed an unsuccessful coup d'état against Equatorial Guinea on behalf of the Igbo people of Africa). All these books were meant to be little gifts for a few of my old acquaintances in Mumbai and around. The packets were quite a handful, but they never bothered me. I love books and do not mind carrying them for a while.

Kemps Corner was flooded as if it were day, lit up by the incandescence of a thousand neons along the Peddar Road and the August Kranti Marg. I walked back downhill to my hotel, munching the quintessential vada pao bought for Rs. 7/- from a roadside vendor having a sizeable clientele.

The day was far from over.

To be continued.

Mumbai!

Goodness gracious! Look at it his way… I had practically whiled away 35 years of my life, doing nothing except longing wishfully to soak up the gargantuan metropolis into my veins! So when I finally touched down at Santacruz and hailed a taxi to take me to Kemps Corner, I knew my inexorable wait was finally over. As the taxi exited Vile Parle and shot through the arterial Western Express Highway at breakneck speeds, Mumbai’s shimmering spectacle leisurely stretched out before my excited eyes. The unmistakable salty air that rushed in and ruffled whatever was left of my hairline wasn’t any different from that of any other coastal city, only that the towering sun kissed skyline at the horizon played up an aura of a vast, and infinitely imposing habitation of 20 million dreams.

Raju, my cab driver, sensed I was new to Mumbai. How, I couldn’t fathom. Though he didn’t prove himself to be an articulate fellow, he nevertheless made it a point to mention the landmarks he crossed. That was how I came to know that the Race Course, where Mumbai’s glitterati rubbed shoulders with the equally humungous stallions, abutted Mahalaxmi and that Dadar housed the famous Shivaji Park, Tendulkar’s alma mater. I, on my part, marvelled at Raju’s phenomenal driving ability, my perception of which went on wavering between what appeared to be ‘thrilling’ most of the times to downright ‘hair-raising’ on a few occasions. After some breathtaking manoeuvring, which involved squeezing through traffic between BEST buses, skinning a few other taxis on the way and petrifying about three dozen pedestrians and two dozen dogs, he dropped me at my destination in a little over 40 minutes. As I proceeded to pay him, he demanded a tip of twenty rupees over and above the legitimate fare, a demand that I politely declined. He sulked, dumped my luggage in the middle of the road, and drove off in a huff, though this profoundly uncharitable act hardly seemed to affect me. Streets in Kemps Corner are not even 20 feet across!

I had taken enough pains to book a single room in advance, yet, to my dismay, I discovered that the hotel where I had checked in had its hands full, with only a large double room vacant. After some clever, diplomatic and animated dialogue, a settlement was reached which was agreeable to both parties. I checked into the double room (the manager was intent upon calling it a ‘soot’) without having to pay a dime extra. I had threatened to walk out and go to the other hotel across the road!

After a quick shower, and then after an even quicker bite, I ambled off on foot to look for Om Chambers, my destination for the afternoon. As the narrow streets snaked upwards towards Cumballa Hill, I was struck with the magnificence of the place. Everything about Kemps Corner had a touch of natural splendour to it. The dense foliage lining the arched flyover scattered the sunshine into a million sparkling rays that bounced off the surrounding skyscrapers, lending the place an unparalleled radiance. The shops in the alleys were all small, nothing like those enormous showrooms which you would readily and unhesitatingly associate with Mumbai. Yet they were bustling with activity. As I passed a small bakery, a strong aroma of freshly baked cookies knocked me out. The result was an unscheduled halt and an addition of a few hundred careless calories to my corpulent system in the form of a grilled chicken sandwich and chocolate pastry, both of which tasted absolutely divine. Outside, I could see a few pedestrians, lazily crisscrossing the intersections, while a lone traffic constable was keeping an eye on the traffic. I reached my destination before long, and soon lost myself in a maze of endoscopes and other state of the art surgical gadgetry, the principle purpose of my visit to Mumbai.

To be continued.

To
Mouthshut.com Administration

Sir (or Madam?)
I have been a registered member of Mouthshut.com for more than two years now. What began as a thrilling and tempestuous relationship has, with time, petered out into a more sedate association, tempered by a cluster of factors beyond my, or rather anybody’s, control. It was with a feeling of absolute consternation, almost bordering on alarm, that I silently watched the halting attempts of your team to sneak its way into the messy realms of social networking. The elevated platform of consumer opinion was conveniently dismantled, albeit under the ruse of evolution. To promote networking, you needed incentives, and then someone amongst you hit upon this brilliant idea to introduce virtual gifts which could be traded for points earned by a variety of obtuse methods. The initial success was overwhelming. But then, amongst all this backslapping and reverie, the cavalier attitude of your team has allowed things to go a bit too far. I will explain how.

"The Indian National Flag represents the hopes and aspirations of the people of India. It is the symbol of our national pride.”

(http://india.g
ov.in/outerwin.htm?id=http://ww
w.mha.gov.in/pdfs/flagcodeofind
ia.pdf)

Not very long ago, your team chose to expand the virtual gifts list, including among other things, a motif of The Indian National Flag. Your team arbitrarily fixed the ‘value’ of the ‘Indian Flag’ at 100 points, meaning thereby, a member could acquire or gift the ‘Indian Flag’ in exchange for 100 points which would be deducted from his or her accumulated points. This can be interpreted as a ‘trade’ wherein Mouthshut.com may be seen as ‘using’ the ‘Indian Flag’ to modify member response(s) in a way that eventually serves to augment profits for the website. Legal experts may offer a better and a more incisive interpretation of whether your team has exploited the ‘Indian Flag’ for commercial gains, and whether you have violated any law in doing so. I, however, can only state that it is unlawful to use The Indian Flag for commercial purposes in violation of the Emblem and Names (Prevention of Improper Use) Act, 1950.

“The Emblems and Names (Prevention of Improper Use) Act, 1950.
Section 3: No person shall use, or continue to use, for the purpose of any trade, business, calling or profession, or in the title of any patent, or in any trade mark of design, any name or emblem specified in the Schedule or any colourable imitation thereof without the previous permission of the Central Government or of such officer of Government as may be authorised in this behalf by the Central Government.NOTE: The Indian National Flag has been specified as an emblem in the Schedule to the Act.”
(http://india.gov.in/
outerwin.htm?id=http://www.mha.
gov.in/pdfs/flagcodeofindia.pdf
)

Contd. in Part II

To

Mouthshut.com Administration

Contd. form Part I

Now, let’s turn our attention to an even more sensitive issue. Some brilliant technical expert of your team structured your ‘gifts’ page in such a way that each time the page is accessed, the gifts appear to be arranged in an unpredictable, random order. Obviously, this has led to an explosive increase in the number of page views, but has also culminated in a horrible and unfortunate situation with regrettable consequences. The actions of your team has led to the motif of ‘The Indian Flag’ being placed at the bottom of the page and often next to articles like toilet paper, chappals, shoes, kick and cigarettes among others on the Mouthshut webpage. (See attached photographs). This is an insult to the pride and honour of The Indian National Flag. I strongly feel that your team has shown inexcusable negligence in upholding the sanctity of The Tricolour.

“THE PREVENTION OF INSULTS TO NATIONAL HONOUR ACT, 1971

ACT NO. 69 OF 1971 [23rd December, 1971.]

An Act to prevent insults to national honour. This Act may be called the Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971. It extends to the whole of India. Insult to Indian National Flag and Constitution of India. Whoever in any public place or in any other place within public view burns, mutilates, defaces, defiles, disfigures, destroys, tramples upon or otherwise brings into contempt (whether by words, either spoken or written, or by acts) the Indian National Flag or the Constitution of India or any part thereof, shall be punished with imprisonment for a term which may extend to three years, or with fine, or with both. Explanation 1.-Comments expressing disapprobation or criticism of the Constitution or of the Indian National Flag or of any measures of the Government with a view to obtain an amendment of the Constitution of India or an alteration of the Indian National Flag by lawful means do not constitute an offence under this section. Explanation 2.-The expression "Indian National Flag" includes any picture, painting, drawing or photograph, or other visible re- presentation of the Indian National Flag, or of any part or parts thereof, made of any substance or represented on any substance.”

I am saddened and disillusioned. The National Flag is not only a symbol of India’s pride and honour; it is the testimony to generations of valiant struggle that has earned us our independence. We do not need to wax eloquent on how we should show respect to The National Flag; our smallest actions should convey the idea. This show of frivolity and irreverence on the part of your team speaks volumes of how little we care for our National Honour.

I have nothing more to say. I do not care if you respond to this or not. Justifications and explanations are irrelevant.

Yours sincerely

Sudipto

Now I can sell my purana scooter, mobile, steam iron, mosquito repellant, khali botal, sole-less shoes, chhed wala socks, ghisa hua razor and practically all other junk stuff online....:)

Monoo and I have made up. Monoo has resolved not to support spamming in any form. Says the 'Sentimental Spammer Award' by FE shall be his last award in spamming. I too shall stay away from creative spamming. So tonight we'll be having a grand party. We three (Monoo, FE and yours truly) shall Fcook Chocolate Fcake and have it with plenty of Diet Fcoke. Everyone is invited. After all, 'F' is not a bad word anymore..;)

Detractors.....please stay away.

Cheers

Warning: The following post is dark, vague, abusive, way too below the belt, full of bad words and not appropriate for infants, 11 year olds, morons in the age group of 18 – 20 (or thereabouts), illogical nth degree e-relatives (e-baap, e-bhai, e-bahin, e-beta etc.) and all of those pompous self appointed apostles of righteousness who find the word ‘naked’ traumatisingly offensive. If such people read further, they stand the risk of getting
their precious egos inexorably tormented in the days to come.

THE STORY SO FAR…..

‘Someone’ called me ‘Fcuker’ the last weekend.

‘Everyone’ noticed.

‘Anyone’ could have objected.

Just ‘No one’ had the guts.

Come on, I too didn’t feel particularly measly becaz I have always known ‘someone’ as a good fren of mine (some spiritual words like becaz and fren have been picked up from recently posted gargatuan philosophies). Yes, ‘someone’ was a rosy dude, or so I have assumed, perhaps erroneously. Now, since frenship is supposed to be all about flaunting your bona fide colours and being true to your naked ideals, I took the comment to be reflective of ‘someone’s’ overwhelming desire of being immortalised as a loyal buddy. Don’t they say in English “a fren in nude is a fren in dyed (wool)”? Moreover, as everyone will vouch for it; ‘someone’ is widely believed to be an exceedingly polite, good natured and well mannered altruist with an overwhelming penchant for renouncing worldly possessions at the drop of a hat. Perhaps he was in a hurry this time, otherwise he’d have certainly asked for a polite permission “Excuse me Sirji, can I call you a Fcuker?”

To be brutally honest, I liked the whole idea. The word ‘Fcuker’ is not at all a bad word as it appears to be. See, everyone’s read the post, but hardly anyone’s objected! The more I pondered the more I realised that perhaps this business of being called a Fcuker was the best thing that has happened to me ever since I joined Mouthshut. This ethereal revelation cleansed my guts, dissolved my soul and moistened my eyes (shut up, it was not rain!). Fcuker se mera sir ooncha ho gaya!I mean, isn’t this fantastic? Fcuker is simply about the feeling of legitimate pride! All those who are someone’s bumchums must be feeling terribly proud of him.

We shall continue this discussion. For now I have professional commitments to abide by.

‘Someone’ just cannot call me a Fcuker and walk away unscathed. Some lines must never be crossed. All those who have abated the cover up shall now face the music. Today is Judgement Day. And I am prepared to waltz with the Gods of Annihilation in the Circle of Death.

‘No One’…are you with me?