Be a Selfish Learner to be a Better Writer

By Gaurav Parab

Image from Wikimedia Commons

An interesting thing happened at my workplace the other day. We have an online public forum where we post views, articles, poems and wise cracks. Being a new year and with all the resolution baggage it brings, I felt inspired enough to offer free sessions on discussions around the writing process.

Good boy Parab. Adjust your halo now.

No sooner had I asked for suggestions on what can be discussed, someone wrote back demanding my qualifications before I offered free sessions on the writing process. Now, while I realize that such responses don't deserve too much mind share, and this was but possibly a misfired attempt at trolling a well meaning initiative, with unnecessary references to my ego (I don't even know this guy) it did get me thinking.

Being older and wiser now with my mature paunch and reading glasses, I understood what such a thought process actually stands for. It signifies a uniquely Indian decision to learn based on the college diplomas that a teacher has collected in his life.  A writer is not a writer unless he is published. A singer is not necessarily someone who sings. She has to sing for the movies, or at least have performed a few gigs. Dear Sir, you are from IIM, no? An actor is no actor if he has not been on TV.

While my original post was about sharing thoughts on what we can possibly discuss, as opposed to 'teaching'; lets pretend for the sake of argument that it was about 'teaching' by my haughty self. Anything wrong with that? Lets look at that part.

While conceding that  technical things like flying or medicine need to be taught by qualified individuals who understand the science behind the act of flying and of healing as opposed to mere flying enthusiasts like say Superman, I believe that as far as the arts, leadership, or any skill linked with your heart, mind, or soul go -  you put yourself at a disadvantage if you only want a qualified instructor. You straight jacket your learning of the craft to an agenda drawn up by bureaucrats in dark places that sound like the Planning Commission. You are missing out on all the fun. You are running the risk of never encountering some truly unique perspectives.

No shame in discussing how to make a wheel by someone who has made a wheel before. No matter how out of shape, or how small - he can at least tell you how not to try making a wheel. No matter if he never worked at a Goodyear or Pirelli.

Why hesitate to ask for directions from one who has taken that road before? That person may not have reached the destination - but that insight backed with your own judgment might just help avoid the wrong detour or the longer route to success. Ramakant Achrekar once had a student who had no problems learning from someone with zero test runs, so why should anyone else.

My greatest writing teachers  have been people who have never been inside a classroom, or had their name embossed on a certificate on a wall.My mother and father, talented painters and writers in their own way taught me through their actions that it was ok to think different and wild. Bat crazy wild. The watchman in my society taught me patience and how I have to be at it one word at a time like he is at it one sleepless night at a time. Homer Simpson, widely believed to be a non living character, taught me how wonderful irrelevance is in connecting with your audience. Our regular cab driver, taught me to work harder when I felt I was working hard enough. The salesmen I worked with in a previous life told me how 'real' people interact. My many writer friends who don't run a blog, or have published a book never shy away from advising me for they know that in me they will always have a willing student. My dog Joko, who to the best of my knowledge went to no college - full time or otherwise, teaches me to live in the moment and focus on what is on my writing desk. (God, he can stare down a cat for hours without moving)

I can go on and on and still not scratch the surface of the large pool of  unqualified, yet effective teachers who continue to shape my world; in addition to the lessons from 'qualified' ones that together make me a better writer version of myself. I find questioning the qualification of someone who has offered to share his experiences to be an attitude we can all do away with.

On the bright side,the whole episode did gave me an opportunity to think about this flaw in our thoughts, and share my views on how important it is to not only give free lessons, but also take them.

Fortunately, a good proportion of people have the same value system and I am glad that we will be doing some well attended sessions at my workplace soon. Completely free. Heck, I may even throw in a viewpoint or two about why a writer needs an ego. But that's for another day.

So again, if you still have a chip on your shoulder, and want to learn cooking only from a Michelin star chef as opposed to your Mother who wrote no cooking books, or learn writing only from someone with Hachette,  Penguin, or Picador book contracts - then you might be missing out on some great lessons in life!

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Peace. Keep writing

Baba

By Gaurav Parab

Now,

That you are gone

I can only look

Across the room

To an empty chair

And a whisky glass

Which had Rum

Where you would sit

Watch TV

Watch sports

And we will shake our heads

About the government

Say something in your made up language

To the dog

Who would look up at you

Like I looked up at you

Reach out to the drawer

And that mouth organ you played

Baba, that mouth organ you played

And we would all go crazy

Slowly

And after a while

You would take that book about fathers and sons

And throw it out of the window

And I would pick up the book about Gods

And look at you

That’s what you were

A God

Now, that’s what you are

A God

In the sky

In your chair

Or wherever Gods go to

And I know

As I look at that chair

I am left without

Your words

Your presence

Your intelligence

Your love

Your sacrifices

Your strength

God, they made you strong

And I know

I am left with

Your words

Your presence

Your intelligence

Your love

Your sacrifices

Your strength

God, they made you strong

My Father's Music

As the family tries to come to grip with the sudden passing away of our rock, there are so many moments when his absence hits us like a cold hard block of concrete.

Like recently, when I had put on some music and a mouth organ started playing on the speaker system. The mind quickly went to evenings with my father, which usually involved Baba playing the mouth organ with his favorite child Joko joining him on every song. Sigh.

So as the music played, Joko, who like us, is trying to figure out my father's absence from our lives, rushed from the adjacent room to come and stand near the speaker. He slowly sat down. Joko then stared at the music system for what seemed like a lifetime. Then this beautiful thing, this dog child, this favorite boy of my father slowly twisted his head, like he does when he is thinking hard, and when the sheer complexity of life overwhelms him. Joko then closed his eyes. Like he had had enough. Like he was tired of thinking where his Baba went.

And then as the bit on the mouth organ trailed off, Joko sang for a few fleeting seconds. And I know, I just know, that as his voice took flight, it sailed into the heavens and reached where my dad would be sitting, a peg of Old Monk to his right, a mouth organ in his hand. Gray eyes looking down, half filled with light and half amused at Joko - a living thing made completely of heart, a living thing capable of howling so soulfully for the unknown.

To My Biggest, Most Silent, Most Brilliant Fan - Col Ullhas Parab

Like any men worth whatever true men are made of, my father and I would never directly praise each other for anything we did. Unknown to me, he kept on forwarding my blog posts and work to all his fauji friends and bored them like you can't believe it with outlandish predictions on things I would achieve in life.

And now as countless messages and anecdotes pour in, and old soldiers and friends come and tell me how absolutely magical he was at everything he did, be it being an officer, sportsman, voice of reason and a mind made of pure intellect, I can't help but tell everyone I know that he was the most brilliant man I have known.

He was, and will be the Ullhas Parab in Gaurav Ullhas Parab. He was, and he will always be what I am made of. Even if he will be a part of every single breath I will take for the rest of my days, I miss him. And so if there is an outside chance that the internet is available to whichever place the soul goes to, and if he is reading this in his baniyan and those large glasses that half covered his wise gray eyes - Baba, everything you said I would do in life will happen. Let there be no doubt.

PS- Like everyone else, Joko - your bumtan misses you. But the stupid dog is a survivor, like the rest of us and we will all be smiling like you used to smile again.

That Deep Shit Inside a Dog's Head

By Gaurav Parab, Join me on Facebook

If you have ever had a dog, then you know how it is. Those moments when he looks out of the window, or stops in the middle of the road to stare into the distance. And you are like, there must be some deep philosophical shit going on in that tiny little head.

Ever seen a dog pause while running at full steam, only to inexplicably look at a Sun Set? The fading light bouncing reluctantly off his brown eyes. And those strange times when the wild surges through his domesticated frame, making him break into the most soulful and haunting howls late at night? And you are like, there must be some deep philosophical shit going on in that tiny little head.

So here we were, my wife and I, on the bed talking about how life changes when you have a pet, and those Facebook forwards about the many lessons that dogs can teach humans without ever having a Facebook account, and how unselfish is the love they have for us, and how a lousy day changes when a dog hugs you and licks your mustache (that was me, not for my wife) and how humans are generally nasty.

Yes, we agreed. There must be some deep shit going on in those tiny little heads.

The thing with our dog Joko is that in the little planet that he has built in the aforementioned tiny head, he is my wife’s bodyguard. So, every time we speak for more than a minute, he is naturally concerned. Joko drops whatever he is doing (Except Masterchef Australia) and comes over to our room to check if my wife is alright, and if I am not being an asshole.

Here we were on the bed. Discussing the joy of having Joko in our lives. So, here came Joko, slowly at first, then rapidly like a drunk who has finally found the door to his home.  Joko staggered in, paused to look at me and my wife on the bed. And he sighed.

“You guys all right ?” he seemed to say. “Evidently you are”

Then he jumped on to the bed, looked down at us, tilted his head for a fraction of a second, and lay down with us. After licking our faces alternately, he was soon asleep and allowed us to continue our conversation.

“He must have had a bad dream” I said.

“How do you know” my wife said.

“He came over for assurance.  He licked us to thank us”

It was our turn to sigh. And my wife said that she wished there was a way to understand what goes on in Joko’s head. She quickly wiped an impulsive tear. Yes, I said. That is a question I would love to get answered before I die. Dogs, clearly are the noblest creatures in the world…and I wonder what goes on in those tiny little…

Then Joko farted and totally killed the moment.

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Phantom Sweet Cigarettes - The Best Time Machine Ever

By Gaurav Parab

Gaurav Parab is the author of Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora the quirkiest book you will read this year.

As children, we always believed that we would be kids forever. The timelessness of every single day floated lightly in the air, existence completely swinging between the playground and the classroom. We were fine, as long as we cleared those pesky maths exams and did not bust our heads open while tearing down the slopes on our BSA cycles. Elders were meant to take care of everything else. That was the deal life had handed to us.

Then adolescence peeked from around the corner, and a thought took shape that it might be brilliant to grow up. We needed to change and as we looked around, for the first time in our lives we noticed those cool older kids from out of town, mostly visiting cousins of friends. Some wore red bandannas. Some had a smug look on their face, encouraged by reckless fathers to ride those rickety Bajaj Chetaks. And some plain delightful badasses who smoked behind the badminton court; waiting for a younger kid to see them, so they could coolly throw the butt on the ground; and crush it under their Action shoes. Slowly. Deliberately. Far off look in their eyes. Like only crazy cats can do.

Cigarettes. We were told they were bad. Smoking gave you every disease ever given, and put you on a one way trip through the darkest, fiercest, most foul smelling hell that even Skeletor would not dare step into.

Was there an easy way to do this as a twelve year old?

Enter Phantom Sweet Cigarettes. My god, those beautiful Phantom Sweet Cigarettes. With that cool goggle wearing dude, with a beard that only God could have created. What was the matter with that stranger on the packet? Was there a jungle to be saved. Was he worried that he did not feed Devil in time? He was amazing.

Phantom. A sweet, almost nauseating ride that took you in your mind from being a scrawny, shy kid to a cool gangster who could get a blonde by his arm, if he only cared for it. Let it hang loosely on your lower lip, Parab. Yeah. Thats the way. 

Today, as not so young adults, with the shadow of middle age ominously growing longer every passing day; we do many things to try to be kids again. With ignorance no longer an ally, and realization of growing old strong and steady; some of these attempts to be honest are forced and well…clichéd. Expensive trips to ocean resorts to ‘let our hair down’, weekend sessions of cricket wearing fancy gear, gliding down early morning roads on our alloy Schwinn cycles, and playing Monopoly while being sloshed with expensive liquor.

These things may make life as grownups more enjoyable, but they can never truly make us fee like kids again.

Recently, I chanced upon them holy as god Phantom Sweet Cigarettes again, thanks to the missus who could never get over them (Maybe that is the secret to her almost inexhaustible childlike joy). Sure, every now and then I have come across sweets from our childhood. Those gorgeous Kismi Toffee bars, those heavenly Lactokings, the no-nonsense dollars, and the really timeless Melody Chocolates– but there is something unique about a Phantom Sweet Cigarette. There really is something about it. Sigh.

As I write this, I am a picture of contradiction, a glass of the finest Scotch in my left hand, a pack of Sweet Cigarette in my right. And sure like clockwork, after I flip open the pack and put one in my mouth - I am moved to moments and memories from far far ago. And a child long long dead, awakes.

When we were kids, Phantom made us feel like adults; brow knit and mouth puckered; thinking about big grown up problems. And today, as adults – it reminds us of what it was like to be a kid once. Taking on the wind on our BSA cycles, playing carefree with ghosts from our past, eating what only a mother can make, and living heaven all over again. All over again.

Phantom, you beauty. A time machine. That’s what you are.

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How I would like to Die

Gaurav Parab

I am one of those people who can't but stop thinking about death. How will it come. When will it happen. Who will be there. Once it starts rolling down such tracks, my mind is a rogue out of control freight train.

How will it be delivered? Will it be Nature, my own hands, someone else's, or a coming together of circumstances that will leave me in a strange place, with a strange thing, and perhaps alone with a stranger made completely from shadows and with murder in her eyes? And there are the visions. I am face down on a concrete road, with one good eye left - a crowd surrounds me, and dust takes flight every time I breathe till the point when I know my time has come.

Don't even get me started on life after death. The usual clichéd discussions we all end up having with friends over Beer, or with ourselves in those moments in our plastic cubicles, or while looking down from extraordinary mountains and across oceans so vast and so enormous that we are reduced to nothingness and one can't help but wonder, Where will I go after its all done?

Till now, like with jobs, when you only figure out one by one what you don't want to do with your life as opposed to what you want to become, I knew only of the ways I didn't want to go.

No drowning for me, thank you. I find being under a wave overwhelming and deeply unsettling. I just don't want to go out from being a central part of my own wide open universe, to being a fraction of a vast, angry ocean undecided if it wants to spit me out, or reduce the life inside of me to floating debris. Rocking gently over and under waves controlled by a disinterested moon is not for me.

Then there is disease. I guess no one of our generation wants to go out that way. The romantic charm of living a life long and living a life graceful never appealed to anyone of us, did it? Dying one day at a time, which I admit we anyways do, is not for me especially with disease and discomfort for company. All that Kurt Cobain BS about Burning Out, Than Fading Away that the hip guitar slinging friend in college talked about surprisingly still sticks in one's head long after the crazy haircuts and the ridiculous bandannas of our youth are lost and locked away in forgotten old trunks. No disease. Thanks again.

And then there is the death by one's own hands bit. I am working on a writing project where a man plans to kill himself, and so I felt the need to get into my hero's head to understand what it would feel like on that day. I took some days off work, went to a hotel, locked myself in and pretended. If I was to kill myself today, what would I do? Will I take longer than usual to brush my teeth? Will I switch on the hotel TV to experience the banality of it all, one last time? And so on. I sat there, like a cheap plastic laughing Buddha on that rented coir foam bed. And it came to me every now and then. For hours, it came in waves and it went away. 

It just does not make sense to kill oneself. You are going to die one day. The sheer chances of being born as a person, as opposed to say an Eel are rare. Very rare. You have just hit the cosmic jackpot. You got lucky. And you want to blow your freaking brains out for honor, fear, or whatever? 

So, as I was saying. I was only aware of the ways I did not want to go. Now, the other side. How I wanted to go! Can there be a positive spin to an otherwise largely avoidable event. There were no personal favorites on this, till a few days back.

A few days back it came to me. I had a painful backache, and my head was in the Wife’s lap, while she gently started to apply balm I could not help but cry out sharply. Our dog, Joko – who normally swears by his motto of Sure and Complete World Destruction – turned in our direction. A moment ago, he had been chewing off a towel for as he says “I don’t like the way the towel looks at me”

Joko, tilted his head, and looked at us for a few moments.  And when I howled again in pain, he gently let the towel go and gave me his complete and undivided attention. And this beast, with deep brown timeless eyes looked at me like he knew the ways of the world far better than anyone I have ever met. He got up, and in one smooth uninterrupted move was on the bed and lying next to me. And as I slowly turned my head, and my wife threw back her hands knowing the appetite he has for causing unintentional pain by pounding away his heavy paws in places that should not be pounded by heavy paws, Joko looked straight into my eyes for a few seconds, closed his own - and licked my face. And he started licking my bare back. Eyes closed, like he was saying with every stroke of his long tongue that things would be ok. The pain can be overcome. I love you, take care human beast Gaurav.

And he did not let go. He kept at it for minutes, and I felt a strange sense of relief come over me as the pain disappeared under the onslaught of love, saliva, and assorted things that he picks up from here and there. And then, his body tired – Joko slipped into deep sleep, his tongue half sticking out on my hand (Yes, he does that). I felt relaxed, and in that moment – my head on my wife’s lap, my dog softly snoring on my arm - I fell into a sort of space between being awake and being asleep.

And that’s when I knew. This is how I want to go away. Surrounded by those close to me, love gently stroking my hair, a loyal friend sleeping at my arm, possibly a few more looking down at me on a familiar bed on which sunlight drifts in and drifts out through undecided curtains. That’s a death everyone deserves. Surrounded by family and friends. That’s how I want to go. And maybe, if I am lucky and a good boy for the rest of my days; someone would break into a little sob just as life breaks out of me. And someone else may say that moments ago here was a good man, who would have made a joke about how he looks dead. And maybe, if it is handy and the moment demands a touch of drama- someone would loudly read out something written by me (And give me credit, and not pass it off as his own). And if everything is fine, perhaps a dog, with the wisdom of the ages in his heart, would look up into my dead still face and say take care human beast Gaurav.

Remember Me

By Gaurav Parab

For the rights I did, not the wrongs in my book.
For the roads I avoided, not the shortcuts I took.
Not for the scars marked across my skin,
Remember me for the man I could have been.

For the virtue unshown, not the sins I did
For what I had to show, not what I hid.
For the songs I wrote, not the words I said.
For the life that could have been when I turn dead.

For the shoulder I gave, not the backs I turned,
For the blows I took, not the ones I returned.
For my conscience, not for my mind unclean
Remember me for the man I could have been

The things I bought, not the ones I quickly sold
For what I did, not the stories that are told.
The thoughts inside, not the brilliant spin.
Remember me for the man I could have been.

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Jackrabbits and Elves - The making of true joy

Image Courtesy Wikipedia Commons

By Gaurav Parab

There is an odd little hill behind my apartment. It just sits there, muttering under its breath as drug dealers and young couples trek up its gentle slope every now and then. It is old, half burnt and grumpy. With bad breadth.

With its flat and long top, a few years back it was a nice place to practice that long disused golf swing or take walks to nowhere. But more recently, with the type of schedule I keep it makes more sense to go to a bar instead of a sorry excuse of a hill - if there is some time left for any going to be done. 

The other day, on an impulse, as I started back home from work I called up the Missus and asked her if she fancied taking a walk along the hill. I had no evening calls, and there is only so many Simpson reruns one can watch every evening before hitting the writing desk. The missus reluctantly agreed, she being from the Himalayas and the hill being a poor country cousin of a poor country cousin of some of the mountains she has spent her childhood in. To spread the general lameness of my idea, we even asked her sister to join in.

The sister in law agreed while furiously typing on her smartphone about what I imagine was the latest Yo Yo Honey Singh song. Song released. Makes no sense. It is catchy.

So we went. Completely equipped for our adventure. 

1. Water bottle to avoid being that person who gets dehydrated on a five minute trek. Check. 

2. Call placed to relatives to avoid being that person in 127 hours. Check
3. Cell phone charged to be that person who uploads pictures of any outdoor activity instantly. Check.

4. Old Spice Aftershave to feel sexy and thoughtful at the same time.

In the fourth minute of our five minute journey, close to the summit and low on oxygen - the most wonderful thing happened.

Jackrabbit ! Freaking Beautiful Jackrabbit.

From behind a boulder, a Jackrabbit bolted out and ran down the slope. In the middle of the a city! The whole act of peeking from behind a boulder and running down the slope was unbelievably rapid and primal like its life depended on avoiding a Software Marketing professional.

It was so unexpected and so sudden that for a moment we didn't know how one is supposed to react on seeing a Jackrabbit.

We laughed hard and laughed true. In an inexplicable, simple way. Genuine happiness.

It might as well have been a Elf, or something more magical than a mere hare. 

My point is that most of the joy that I have experienced, or most of the things that have shaped me have all been outcomes of simple impulses like walking up a long neglected hill. Every time I decide to put on my shoes and go out, instead of plonking down on my bed wonderful things happen.

Met my wife on an impulse. Made my strongest friends on impulses. Met people who continue to inspire me to answer my true calling as a writer on an impulse. Lovers, haters, party hoppers, thoughtful souls, dogs, cats, sharp witted, brilliantly dumb. Took up every single thing I cherish on impulse.

Never, ever had a plan. Goals, yes. But never a plan.

I am not wise, or old enough to write a list of lessons on life like those neatly designed Facebook posters. But if there is one thing I would like to pass on to you, through this impulsive and short blog post, it is that Joy happens when you take detours. Straight roads only take you to destinations. It is those poetic forks and back roads that take you to where you are supposed to be.

Joy happens when you walk up to a random person and say Hello. Joy happens when you move away from a Macro loaded Super Excel Sheet schedule and move to a bank sheet of paper. 

Joy , like a Hare from behind a boulder, cannot be planned.

Feel free to share how joy has come to you, when you least expected it to.
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Tehelka Could Happen to Your Sisters and ...your Brothers as well.

The Need for Balance in the Media and in our Lives

By Gaurav Parab

I know it is difficult with the pony tail and all that, but lets imagine for a minute that Tarun Tejpal is not guilty. Indulge me in this made up story of no longer than two  lines.

On an otherwise normal Sunday, Tehelka publishes a stunning sting operation against members of a political party. On Monday evening allegations of rape against Tejpal surface.  

What do you think would have happened next ? 

The media would have called it a bizarre conspiracy to discredit our good man Tejpal. The victim partied after the first encounter! HER DEFENSE STANDS EXPOSED, our favorite newsreader would have screamed waving photos of the victim clenched in his fist. Tejpal's political patrons would have commented that their opponents can stoop to any level against champions of truth and free speech. Suhel Seth would have come on the camera and giggled. Tejpal not guilty. Open and shut case. 

Point being, it's the narrative stupid. The narrative which ends up defining the media coverage of every event.

I work in the field of influencing people, and most news story are like your everyday road accident. The guy who screams first is the victim. The other guy, irrespective of what happened is the reason for the accident. Once you are second, you are always catching up. In the trial by media, the onus of proving the truth is on the person who has already been pronounced guilty.

Now, before you start spitting out froth from the side of your lips, and accuse me of suggesting that the victim in this case is only the victim because she screamed fire first - you are missing the point which is around media over-reach.

Why is balance important ?

Because real life is not entertainment. Because even the most holier than thou news readers are flesh and bones. Men and women with pasts. More dangerously, men and women with agendas. Just like Tejpal in his editor hat was.

The narrative is not only a function of timing, but also multiple wheels within wheels.

Take the Tejpal case as an example. What he is accused of doing is heinous, but in a nation where tragedies that claim thousands of lives stay on the front page no longer than a day - for some reason - this story continues to hog all print and television space for the last 10 days or so. What is the reason? Surely, hard boiled news editors can't be so angry and so indignant about this for so long ? What is fueling this feeding frenzy? Professional rivalries ? Corporate pressure ? The need to push other stories in the background ? Or the need to show that we are as brutal with our own, as we are with politicians.

Why is balance important ?

The way things stand, the perception of a few influential editors, sometimes right - sometimes flawed - is positioned as the society's viewpoint. And trouble starts to brew when even independent institutions look to the public to determine their own direction and speed. While why the media takes sides can be questioned, what is beyond doubt is that once it happens, we are told that the media's side is the right side. Die, you sense of balance, die.

Imagine how our nation will react if by a twist of fate or on the basis of new facts - Tejpal goes to trial and is acquitted. We will cry miscarriage of justice, ignoring the fact that justice is a function of an investigation and the due process of law.

Why is balance important ?

Because investigative journalism is reduced to leaks,whispers in cocktail parties, favors, and well timed calls over anonymous cell phone numbers. Everything is fair game to keep the 24 hour ticker continue ticking over. Even Tehelka, the so called champion of independent reporting, now stands accused to have killed a story on a particular lobby so as to extract sponsorship for its events.

And again, let me reiterate before you start parceling poisonous cobras to me that I am not defending Tejpal. As a thumb rule, I don't trust men with long hair and shifty eyes. My larger point is if we don't get our institutions in order, then only one in a million crimes will see justice being delivered. The media can't be everywhere. The media, to be more accurate, does not want to be everywhere.

In this particular case, it will not be the right tribute to the girl if Tejpal is punished because of the media coverage. Justice will be done if a conviction happens based on her brave behavior of risking a promising career and being steadfast in her demand for respect.

Why is balance important ?

What if the media gets it wrong. Let's be kind and say all the angels from the sky came down and joined our news channels to get things right 99 times out of a 100. But that one single instance, when they are wrong cannot be ignored. Punishing a non-guilty person is as bad, if not worse, as letting the guilty get away. And punishment by media is as severe as punishment by the law.

Today, reputations built over decades are destroyed in a single one minute segment of breaking news. Take the Supreme Court sexual harassment case. The judge in question was known to take on the corrupt in some of the most landmark cases of recent times. You, me, the media, know nothing about the merits of the case. We have no business to know what happened. He is guilty, or he is not will be determined only after investigation. But the tone and tenor used on news channels, where in newsreaders screamed that they hope this Supreme Court judge is taken to task has already done irreparable damage to the person's reputation. What if he is not guilty ? Will people still look at him the same way ?

Fact. Most women face sexual harassment at work. 

Fact: It is a horrifying crime as it gives a person a sense of almost primordial power over another human being.

Fact: Many men are sexual predators.

Fact: Not all men accused of sexual harassment are guilty

Fact: Not all women are victims.

A woman professional recently told me during a light hearted banter ( Not the Tehelka types ) that women at her workplace are joking about slapping charges against their boss if the work pressure gets too much. She is joking of course. I hope.

Point is the law cannot be told which side to take. Just like sexual harassment can happen with your wives and sisters, false charges can be slapped against your husbands and brothers. Not all the time, but that one time in a 100.

And there is as much hell to pay as a man as it is for women.

Where is the balance ?

This opinion piece is about the need for balance. So it is only fair to look at the other side and see what the media has done right, irrespective of its motives. This is a landmark case in many ways. But for the media, the victim, if she was lucky, would have only been hounded out of the organization. Don't we all know at least someone who has been stalked out of jobs and places, don't we ? The media over did it, but still well done. Because of this unrelenting coverage, corporate India now has to:-

1. Build mechanisms against sexual harassment in terms of actual people, and not escalation flowcharts on paper.

2. Take complaints of all types seriously. A word out of place is as inappropriate as a physical pass.

3. No person, in whatever position, is above reproach. Remember Tejpal was the top dog, and the courageous victim not only resisted his advances, but had the guts to fight out the sham of an apology

The angle the media should take, and it may not necessarily be as entertaining as alleged email exchanges is how this case will be a great test for the new anti rape law and will come to define norms of acceptable behavior. It could well be that deterrent to men in shiny suits who call criminal misconduct consensual encounters. Who knows the way this case pans out will define the life of every working woman in this country.

Jessica Lal, CWG, 2 G, Rathore - are some of the cases where some semblance of justice was delivered because of public scrutiny brought on by relentless media coverage. Because when it comes to powerful men and women, the only way justice is seemingly delivered in our country is by media throwing the rule book out of the window.

Is this why everyone is going after Tejpal as he is too big to stand ? If it is, it is for the wrong reason.

How much is enough, and now that the due process of law is underway, shouldn't the media step back? Personally, I will be fine and functional if I am not told about what Tejpal wore during his day at court or what he ate. There are many worthy new stories that have been unceremoniously dumped thanks to this scandal.

For example, did you notice that the Indian Space Research Organization pulled off a perfect sling shot maneuver to set an engineering marvel on the way to another planet. Millions of man ( and woman) hours into design, development and launch have come together to give the entire human race another shot at understanding the universe in which we live in. This, along with similar initiatives around the world, will define the lives of our future generations hundreds of years from now. 

I think this is important enough for a headline story. Shouldn't we be talking about this, instead of whether Tejpal smiled in the aircraft or how the insides of the lift in that hotel look like.

While we try to balance our views, I think we should also get that missing sense of perspective on what might be important in our lives.

Note:- Ignore the typos, spellos and what not. This opinion piece may be slightly incoherent but its what comes to mind every time a Tejpal Tej update comes up on the screen.

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Say I Love You, Everytime You Walk Through A Door

By Gaurav Parab

Image from Wikimedia Commons

This blog is about a lesson I gained when flying from Chandigarh to Mumbai after a short personal visit. Our aircraft was waiting on the tarmac for its cue to take off. Every now and then cries of “Paneer, I will miss you so much” and “Sector 17 rocks. Down with Andheri” punctured the strangely awkward silence that had enveloped the plane.

I say strangely, for a space full of North Indians is usually many wonderful things, but rarely is it quiet. It was almost as if everyone on the aircraft had some sort of premonition about the things to follow. I glanced across the aisle to my three college buddies.

1. The excitable South Indian returning to what South Indians call their native.
2. The Mumbai girl rolling her eyes about something that was so 2012. Whatever.
3. The Navi Mumbai guy fondly thinking of the Harbor Line.

I guess, if someone had looked at me to pass judgment, they would not have failed to notice the typical good looking Pune chap furiously figuring out ways to stereotype everyone on the plane.

But that’s not what the blog is about. My study of my friends was interrupted by the pilot announcing that he expects mildly wild weather on the way to…[Followed by a pause and sound of shuffling paper] …Mumbai.

The engines revved, the lights dimmed, and the pilot sighed. (This should have been our first warning). I looked up and found the air-hostess staring down the passenger section and shaking her head like Raakhee Majumdar every time she is told that  Amrish Puri has killed another of her sons.

And we were on our way. Well, almost.

Remember those Reader’s Digest special features on facing death and experiencing life changing moments? The person at the center of it all is taking his family and friends for granted. He is going about things in a carefree manner, usually whistling to show that he is carefree.

Bang. A chain saw comes loose. A beam unhinges. Boiling water tips over. A giant Ladoo rolls down the hill.

A voice in our hero’s head tells him that he took work too seriously. He is going to die soon. He should have listened to “If Tomorrow Never Comes” by Garth Brooks and Promiscuous Girl by Nelly Furtado more carefully. He laments about not telling his loved ones how much he loved them. A moment before impact, he writes that article for the magazine, goes to the post office, stops on the way for a smoke and then dies.

Back to the aircraft from Chandigarh to Mumbai. As it picked up pace, it started to move from side to side on the runway like it was trying hard to avoid something. Or as is the case on North Indian roads, hit something. Someone screamed at the back of the plane. I closed my eyes to find an image of Bane whispering. “Calm Down Doctor. Now is not the time for fear. That comes later.”

The runway refused to run out, the aircraft remained reluctant to take off, and the awkward silence from a moment ago was replaced by one that was completely eerie. The whole plane was now one single living thing. And it was shitting in its pants. I looked at my friends.

1.       The South Indian was chanting Rajnikant Rajnikant.

2.       The Navi Mumbaikar was muttering something about the next stop being CBD Belapur.

3.       The Mumbai girl was rolling her eyes. Jimmy Choo. Whatever.

The machine gave in and finally took off. This was reason enough for someone to scream. “Don’t worry” I heard someone else say, “We are in the air”

More reason to worry, the screamer replied.

No sooner were the words said, that we heard a long and hard grinding noise from the undercarriage. Normally, it signals the retraction of the wheels but that night the noise was different and prolonged. It was the sound that lasted for ever. It was the love child of Anu Malik and Himesh Reshmaiya crying out on having his bums forced over a cheese grater. Our plane moaned and bled, and beautiful unicorns and exotic butterflies died a painful death in some part of the universe.

“What is happening?” someone asked. “Lightening hit us” Someone replied. “No, we hit a bird”, another voice said.

And then the plane went down.

This is how it feels.

Shit.

People screamed, the South Indian jumped on his seat, Mumbai girl went vacant in her eyes, and I told myself that it was such a shame to have life end this way. I closed my eyes. I prayed. Think straight. Be practical. What would Liam Neeson do?

The plane corrected itself. Momentarily. Before hitting another air pocket. And people screamed like you will not believe it. The person in front of me pressed the button to call the air-hostess. Possibly for a glass of water? A packet of chips?

The air-hostess, strapped in her chair and facing us, looked hard at that man. It was the DGCA approved method of saying “F off”

The aircraft continued its struggle against gravity by going up and down alternately. I closed my eyes again and prayed to God to help me make it through tonight. I will be nice to everyone. I am so young and unbelievably beautiful to die this way.I opened my eyes, and to distract myself read the Flight Safety Manual for the first time in my life. 

One of my friends looked in my direction and screamed. “GP Is reading the safety manual! “

The plane erupted in an explosion of screams. “He is reading the safety manual”. Someone said “Look at the Wing. Look at the Wing” People climbed over one another to throw their faces at the windows.

“They are on fire”

“They are missing”

“They are of the wrong size for this plane”

"They are like my....The Left One is lower than the..."

The wings waved back at our faces. “Hello, what’s up?”

I continued to send mental I love You’s to everyone I had known. Quickly allowing myself to go through memories, faces, books, songs, events and experiences that in their own ways brought so much joy during my time on earth. I thought of my parents and how annoyingly tall my sister is. I thought of all the wonderful friends over the years. I thought of my wife. And how her eyes glitter when someone mentions the mountains that she comes from. I thought of all the stupid dogs with all those stupid wet noses. I thought of you, reading this.

On cue the weather cleared up. The frequent lightening we had seen receded in our wake. We made it to Mumbai safely. Another shot at life, I guess. If you want to be dramatic about things.

But it was scary when it happened. And if there is one thing, I would like everyone to take from this blog is the line between being a part of a list in a newspaper report, and reading one is not as thick as you believe it to be. I learned it on that flight. 

Every day you live is made of a thousand ways in which you don’t die. While our sense of mortality should not overwhelm us and freeze us up, it is also something not to be lightly ignored. YOU WILL DIE. I WILL DIE. Everyone who reads this will die. Even those who forward this blog to ten people in the next ten minutes will die.  You death will be serene, but you will die nevertheless.

I started by saying this blog is about a lesson I gained while flying from Chandigarh to Mumbai. It is actually a sum of two parts running in separate directions. The first one is for those who find it difficult to express their love, like I do.  While we can’t control the instruments of our death, what we can do is tell everyone how much we love them. Let me just say loud and clear, each one of you is awesome.

The second part is for those who find it difficult to read between the lines when dealing with people like us. And I know, there are many, who are not too good with saying those three words. But if you look closely enough, every time our type walks out of that door and looks back – we are saying I LOVE YOU. THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING ! 

There I said it. Now you should too. 

And Yes, one last thing before you die. Subscribe to my blog , Join me on Facebook and Follow Me On Twitter Ok ?

What Poster Did You have on your wall ?

By Gaurav Parab

I am writing this from an adult bedroom. Now before all of you get excited and start chanting Writer dude give me some. Writer dude give me some, what I mean is a room designed by adults for adults. A room where grown-ups stay. Breathe slowly.

There are trophies, books, and a hundred thousand remotes. The cupboard is all dark and mahogany and care has been taken to hide the wires that snake mysteriously, touch each other inappropriately and dive grandly into gadgets made in china, designed somewhere else.

This room has a lot, but it has nothing. Zero personality, no character. It is just walls, sandwiched between floor and roof. This room is the Manish Tiwari of rooms. Boring. Irritating. Stuffed with big words. It whispers insinuation and things come out of its nose.

Things were different back in the days, weren’t they? What happened to the frigging poster on the wall? Seriously, what happened to the poster?

When I was growing up, posters were the first signs of a child’s ownership of a place. A kid was becoming a man, and he was showing it through posters of random people on the wall. They were not there for hero-worship, or for signifying a great idea – they were just there. Each one stuck with poor quality cello tape that would fall off before the last strip was pasted. Each installation an act of two kids, one usually the elder sister who would hold it while the other admired it from a distance and nodded if it was put straight.

A poster was that little piece of defiance that began where the pile of Brilliant Tutorial books ended. It said here was a boy who would end up doing great things when he grew up.

Backstreet Boys.  Frigging Backstreet Boys.

(Stop judging me. It could have been Peter Andre. It could have been VENGAAABOYZZZ !)

Then there was a Madonna from the time when she did not sport Popeye arms. A picture of sheer impish beauty, life sized in a tantalizing gown with eyes that looked down at me as I slept and dreamt about having my own initials in the periodic table.

H He Li Be B C N GP

Sigh. Where did you go Madonna?

Year or two later, we moved out of the house leaving her behind and Dennis the Menace with random words of wisdom that never meant anything appeared. To show I am growing up all good and Maharashtrian, I even put up a Kalnirnaya Calendar and greeted everyone who entered my room with a short rendition of aamchi maati aamchi manasa.

 And then we moved.

When college came up, the plan was to dig out that one poster that would capture the inner most angst* (* Voted favorite word of all Bengali pseudo-intellectual teenagers) that I knew I was supposed to feel. Enter the most iconic act of creation ever.

Terminator 2. Arnie. Shot Gun. Big Bike. Goosebumps.

The most awesome thing in the whole world since that Contra game!  By its mere presence around me, I could talk to machines, hold my shit inside for three days, and look at women to get a heads up digital display of their vital stats inside my head. While Arnie S looked on, I slept through a thousand dreams of telling Jessica Alba* (She would be invented in the future) that I am a cybernetic organism, living tissue over endoskeleton. And I would pray that she would not run a spell check on my words.

The infinite awesomeness wasn’t its greatest gift. Its biggest contribution was it made me feel like a man. Like I imagine a picture of Aloe Vera makes a girl feel.  

The poster, like a machine defined by words like RPM and torque (feels week in his knees), erased the uncoolest images that had ever entered my mind.

Ajay Devgan, doing a leg split on two motorcycles --> Delete.

Kapil Dev speaking in English about the Rapidex English Speaking Course --> Delete

A friggin Apso dog dressed as a cricket umpire in Maine Pyaar Kiya --> Delete

Jeetinder playing badminton and singing ---> Delete

Abhishek Bachachan dressed as a gangster ----> Hell. Freaking Hard Delete.

And then I had to move places again. The poster got lost in transit. As I settled down into a new place, the first thing to do would be to look for that one image that would now define the new me. That one poster, which would make random women enter my room and ask – Who is this guy? We saw the poster from the street. Now we want to meet its owner.

And I would reply, with a far off look that says I have lived a life of pain, and hurt, and angst (which all mean the same thing but sound real cool in a sentence when used together) just like the man on the poster. 

Che Guevara. Pronounced differently every time.

Rebel like me. Myself, Parab. Gaurav Parab. My native, Pune.

And the women would tear their shirts off and they would scream that how could they resist the man who has a Che Guevara poster and plenty of angst inside of him.

“How can we resist you Senor?”

And I would shrug and do what had to be done.

But as I discovered, even the frigging vegetable vendor had the Che Guevara poster. Worse, he had it on his shirt. So that came off pretty soon.

And I moved on with my life. Got older, married the college sweetheart, disapproved when Arnie did the nanny and replaced the posters with paintings done by the missus.  But on days like today, when I sit inside an adult room staring at colorless walls and writing stories of people losing their minds to time and to greed, I can’t help but think about the time when everyone was a kid and everyone had a poster in his room.

Tell me about the poster you had in your room by writing to me at gauravparab@yahoo.com and , dropping  a line on facebook

How a Quiz Taught Me About Redemption

By Gaurav Parab


Redemption. Now that is a word that I always found to be fascinating and powerful. It is simple, and it rolls off the tongue nice and easy - but there is more to it. Behind every sentence where it is used, usually lies a story of failure and possible success. A word that captures heart break at the start somewhere, the birth of hope and hardwork in the middle, and then success.

Redemption. God I love the word. It has so many more layers than the bland and markety sounding comeback. A boomerang comesback. A heart of gold attempts redemption.

In sports journalism, it is one of the broad themes usually used to capture viewership. Baggio. John Daly. Murray and a countless others. In the entertainment industry, there are probably as many stories of redemption as there are of astounding success or miserable failure. Heck, even in our daily  mundane lives - it is a word that we should turn to everytime we guck things up. There is always the next time. Trust me, there is always a next time. We all can redeem ourselves.

Gucking stupid buzzer round in the Tata crucibles.

I have always been a reluctant quizzer. So, a few years ago when I decided to team up with Amneet, a dear friend and fantastic quizzer for the Tata Crucibles Campus Edition - I was looking at it only as an evening break from the drudgery of academic existance. Around an hour later, I found myself on the stage after an elimination round from a hundred odd teams of better prepared and more talented quizzers.

Strobe Light. Televsion crew. All that. This could be fun.

Half an hour later, with Amneet looking like a Sardar possessed in his search for the right answer ( Which...eh...He actually is) we won the damn thing. I looked at Amneet. Friend, can we go back to the hostel. Got to sleep.

Natually, the Tatas like to do things in style. So they took us to their nice little hotel in Bombay and asked us to have a good time at the National Finals. As i looked down at Apollo Bunder, a thought stuck me. Maybe...well maybe. I am good at this. Maybe, we should just win the damn thing and return home.

It did not happen because this country has a lot of people who are really really good at business quizzing. So in true dramatic Parab style, as we made our way  to Leopold -late in the evening - after getting our asses whipped - I turned to the Taj and whispered. I will be back next year.

"Are we not coming back after dinner ?" Amneet asked.

"Damn. Yes. We are. I will have to do the whole line again tomrrow morning."

A year went by. The Crucible circus was back in town. On an afternoon where it rained like you will not believe it - Amneet and I were back on the stage after the elimination rond. Strobe Lights. Television Crews. All that. Yawn.

And we won, and I looked at Amneet and said - "Redemption Time". Or maybe I just whispered it in my mind. So we were back in Bombay, dressed in our suits and into the Semi Final stage of the National Finals. We had been knocked out at this point last year, so naturally in true filmy style we were having none of that anymore. We stomped into the Finals. From around 2000 odd teams, down to the last eight. Redemption.

We got our asses whipped. Again. Back to Leopold and back to the routine. We really should prepare for these things I told Amneet. I have to redeem myself. Somehow. Next year.

Random Sentence: Have you seen Sonia Shenoy on Television ?

A couple of years went by. Things more mundane that quizzing surrounded our lives ( yes there are things more mundane than quizzes). I forgot about the promise I made to myself.

Till yesterday. Crucibles was back in town. There was no way me and my new partner Jay could make it to the stage round. Competition was way too strong. It had been way too long since either of us had done any serious quizzing. I was way to non-drunk to get anything out of my head.

Our name was called out. Back to the stage. Strobe Lights, television crew all that. Back to the Pune finals.

Redemption. Rubine Hurrican Carter was wrongly convicted for murder. Dylan sang that he could have been the champion of the world. After serving decades in prison, the World Boxing Council awarded him an honorary world championship belt.

I was way too eager, and the buzzer was way too tempting. In a mad frenzy of one wrong answer after the other, in spite of some great quizzing by my partner - I messed up the chance to make it to the national finals - where I could have ticked off the one little entry that is now imprinted across my mind. Win the Damn Thing. Go To Leopold. Have Beer. Smile silly at the sea.

But again. There is next year. Who knows. Life always gives you second chances. I have already had three. I am sure God will round it up to a nice four sometime in the future.

Keep the peace. Listen to good songs. Take your dog for long walks. If you know a publisher, tell him that an awesome manuscript by a very very short guy lies unpublilshed - not because it is not good - but because it is not sellable. Whatever that means.

More importanly, keep trying.
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What if God was on the Bus?

Image Courtesy Wikimedia Commons 

By Gaurav Parab

The daily grind starts around seven thirty. By that time I am dressed, done with my thoughts on being an anti-corruption nutcase, and all set to face another work day.  I complete one last check of my bag to see if I am carrying that little plastic covered chit that says that my work laptop belongs to the company and is not a bomb. Then I make my way down the slope to the bus stop. I exchange glances with the Calvin look alike kid. His sleeves are rolled up and his eyes say that he is going to be paying some serious attention in physics class today. So he can make thermo nuclear warheads to destroy everything that forces him to go to school. But for the oversized Milton bottle around his neck, we are identical. His school tie has already escaped the collar. My work tie never got there. We smile and smirk. I swear if he was older, we would start the Bavdhan chapter of Fight Club right on this gloomy road.

From the bus stop I wave to my wife who is standing in the balcony. She waves back. From the distance it is difficult to say, but I imagine she sighs. Like when one sighs on seeing an old dying dog on the road that you know might not make it till evening comes. She hates seeing me as the person I have become. Some money in the bank, yet untold stories in the heart. I wave back and breathe slowly. My heart pounds. I play a little game with myself. Which little part of me will die today? What she sees leave out of the door every morning does not completely come back. I am a meal on the table being gradually consumed. Some find me tasty, some are only in the game hoping that desert is better.

I look around the bus. Every seat has a mirror. They are called men and women. But everyone is me. All dressed up, fancy headphones, half opened eyes – dark churning thoughts being selfishly kept inside and warm fake smiles for everyone else. Another day at work. We go. One by one. A million course meal being consumed.

It takes about thirty minutes to work. Each ride is like being back in school on days when you forgot to do the homework. There are fifty thoughts in the bus who all want the earth to open up and swallow them. The silence increases as bus approaches destination. Bodies turn still. No one wants to get up and get into the buildings. No one wants to start those machines up. No one wants to login. Now that some unknown forces has moved us into the bus, dear lord please suspend all life in this moment. Somebody half gets up. I can read his face. He wants to tell the driver to keep going around in circles.

The same scene plays out across the street at other work places. My mind zooms away. The same scene plays out across the city. More zoom out. Across the nation. Around the world. Not everyone has to log in. Some have to dig. Some have to cut. Some have to smile. Mop, dry, open doors, draw, write, sell, buy, hedge, climb and drop. Maybe I am wrong. Well...everybody logs in. Everyone lives the day again and again. I instantly feel better in the pool of global misery. I even try the fancy butterfly stroke.

The bus stops. We all troop out. The security guard looks inside my bag and finds the chit. He looks at my laptop with interest. I can see it in his eyes. He is me. He wants something to give. Some mind to unravel. He wishes that the numbers on my laptop don’t match the numbers on the chit. Disappointed, he looks at my ID card. Everything is in order. I am who I am. Another body from the bus. He glances at the laptop. In that moment, for completely different reasons, we both wish it was a bomb. I walk away and almost mutter an apology for not making his day.

The day goes by. The Sun disappears to trouble other continents. I return through the gate. I smile at the guard. He shrugs. No excitement today. I am standing in the bus bay for the bus to come home. It is Mr. Stone again. The same driver is always doing the night shift. I have known him for years. Yet, he has never smiled or acknowledged my presence. He simply drives my remains home. Every day I smile at him. But he chooses to look through me like I am a sticker face on a glass door. I don’t exist in his world. I am a prop. The steering wheel, the brakes and the man who ages every day and smiles. No response.

I go to my seat. Even before I open the window, I know the creaking sound it will make. I almost want to start a conversation with the empty seat next to me. Heck, I shrug and dive right into a dialogue about the weather.

The ride back home is faster. God exists. The driver drops me at the same spot he has dropped me forever. As I get down I turn back, and like I have done a thousand times I say Thank You. I know what his reaction will be. He will not turn but continue looking through the windshield. No acknowledgement. No response. Once he is sure that I am clear of the bus he will put it in gear and drive on. He has done it for years.

I still say Thank You. I get down. I hear a voice from the bus. The driver says, Good night Sir.

I turn around. He nods his head.

I am the king of the world. This was not routine. This was a good day. My wife smiles as she opens the door. I surprise her by smiling back. I tell her about the driver acknowledging me and smiling back. We both agree it is a beautiful world before going to sleep. Peace at last.