My friend Sarang left a cool comment on conventional wisdom (simple living, high thinking). If I remember correctly, that’s one of the hallmarks of great people. 

 Well, I like high thinking as well… in fact, the higher I get, the better I think!

In case anyone out there is wondering why there’re no posts today, well, check out the ‘Vodka Fry’ link. It’s another The Bengali blog (this one’s on food and drink) and I will be posting at both places, so you’ll have more stuff to read (as if you wanted more). And pssst: do keep en eye on the links as well.

“Do something every day that you don’t want to do; this is the golden rule for acquiring the habit of doing your duty without pain.”

— Mark Twain

If there’s one subject I have been waiting to sink my keyboard into, it’s ‘contempt of court’. I have been reading up on the constitution and am beginning to wonder if that phrase is being used as a shield by the judiciary. It seems to me that the judiciary (or parts thereof) is striving to discourage (if not forbid) citizens and the media to question the moral and ethical judgment of the courts and their functioning. I will get my keyboard onto this as soon as I have disorganized my thoughts  and structured all the material I have.

Fly away my firefly, fly away from me
I will singe that wing
You touch me with
I will blind that light you be
Your passionate kiss makes me sing
Songs I don’t have, to sing
Your tender gaze fills me with
A hope so hopeless to dream
I smile when I see you come
Then memories cut in
I see a sight so lonesome tonight
Am even afraid to blink
Fly away my firefly, fly away from me
I shall kiss you a kiss
Of eternal bliss
So you may just fly free 

I am not young any more. And it’s not because of age, but because I don’t have enough stress to qualify me to be a young person. Apparently, the more stress you have, the more you are doing in life, and therefore the younger you are. Which, of course, is true if you think about the number of books children carry to school these days.

And to deal with all this stress, you have to have therapy. So I am thinking, maybe I should make therapy my calling. And if I can’t, it seems like a good medium-term career prospect anyway. After all, everybody seems to be an expert on some therapy or the other.

Take this girl I met the other day. She’s a college student, who decided I could do with some ‘Sahaja Yoga’.

“No thank you. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“But we live in times of extreme stress these days. You have to have some help to ease your tensions.”

“I don’t have any tensions.”

“You don’t even know you have tensions! This is more serious than I had thought. Maybe you should first start with a thorough check-up of your aura to tell you what’s wrong with you.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” I repeated.

“Then you can go in for a course of yoga meditation and follow it up with the Science of Natural Living course. That will cleanse you completely. And finally you should learn Reiki to heal yourself and others,” she nodded her head in satisfaction.

“I feel bitter already,” I told her seriously.

Feeling bitter is apparently the beginning to feeling better. Of course, in my case I have a long way to getting better. First I have to get confused about life and living. Then I have to start feeling bad and go to worse, so I can do all these courses and get better.

Isn’t it possible some of the ailments today might actually arise out of something other than stress? Whatever happened to words like ‘apprehension’ and ‘turmoil’ and ‘illness’? Whatever happened to phrases like ‘butterflies in your stomach’?

Guess I’ll hang up the keyboard for today – am totally stressed out with the uni-dimensional growth path that language and social intelligence seem to be taking.

  
Have you ever tried to travel in comfort on a railway seat which you stood in a line and reserved 60 days in advance?
It ain’t funny, I tell you. On one of my last trips to Delhi, I took a train – the Jhelum Express it was. I had a confirmed berth for the 28-hour journey (yep, that’s how long it used to take from Pune back then) and was looking forward to my best friend’s wedding. I even had the soundtrack of the movie by the same name to get me into the mood. But I shouldn’t have bothered – there was enough music on the train to keep me happy, delirious with joy even.
It was like being part of a real-life movie shoot – culture, paalitics, law and orderlessness, romance, bribery, black marketing, you name it – it was all there in those 28 lousy hours. By the time we reached Manmad, I had fought off three attempts on my seat and was hanging on to my luggage for dear life. Luckily it consisted of only a minute travel bag. But unluckily, its minute stature meant that I could not hold on to my top berth for the rest of the day. Every time a station came I had two problems. One, I had to think twice before stepping off for a cuppa / swig / munch / anything. Two, once the train left the station I had to resume glowering at anyone who eyed my top berth and seemed like lifting his/her luggage up.
Eventually I gave up. I lit up a cigarette in my best Clint Eastwood imitation and dragged on it the way I had seen John Trovolta do in Broken Arrow. Then, after a few puffs, I bared my fangs menacingly and growled (so all could hear) at my immediate neighbour, “Main upar ja raha hoon. Seat ko sambhal na.” My heavy beard must have convinced him I was as menacing as I looked.
I must have dozed off because next when I perceived the world, it had changed dramatically. I felt as if I had woken up as part of Steven Spielberg’s next horrifying classic. There were people everywhere I could see, and I couldn’t see anything out of the windows, because there apparently were no windows in the compartment. The balding middle-aged man who had earlier been bragging about how lucky he was to have one of those aisle seats, was now sharing it with four other men… and a bawling child. He looked a little ill. The aisle itself, all along the compartment, was littered with people of all sorts – middle aged, young, old, poor, well off, girl, boy, men, women, all types.
I peered down at my seat and the neighbor I had growled at looked at me defiantly  – he was sitting on the edge of his own seat with 100-odd kilos of a woman occupying both our seats and ignoring the rest of the world. One of the other guys who had a reserved seat got up to hang his jacket … and lost his seat.
I considered the situation. And I looked at my options. I wanted to reach my best friend’s wedding. And I wanted to reach it in one piece. His to-be-bride had not yet seen me and I wanted to make a good first impression. I went back to sleep.
I was better off on the return journey – I knew what was in store. I didn’t have any excuses though. My new sister-in-law had seen me and wasn’t too horrified. Though she must have hoped for better after the things she had heard from my friend. But that was the least of my problems. On the return trip, even before the Jhelum left New Delhi, my seat was under threat from students returning to Pune after their vacations. Uncouth hooligans. They had one confirmed berth between three of them and decided they ought to stick together. Which of course meant that the others who had stood in line to obtain a reserved seat shouldn’t have bothered – we all should just latch onto a train and choose a parking spot for our derrieres. Believe me, it saves a lot of headache, time and money.
At every other station, there were these sheepish looking, but determined criminals who insisted that they were travelling only till the next stop. “Ek hi ghante ki baat hai, bhaisahab,” Of course, considering the number of such ‘one hours’, all I could do was pray that Pune was nearer to Delhi than when I had left it. My other best friend who had come from Nagpur and has traveled all over the country, had told me that in Bihar things are worse – people actually travel on top of the trains and even cook their meals up there. Well, when in Bihar, I will cook my meals up there too. Just then, all I wanted was some peace and 72 people inside that train compartment. Though at any given time, my estimate was closer to 200.
Then there were those… those vendors. They had a captive market – none of us dared get up at the stations, so we had to take what they offered. And they knew it. I, of course, refused to play by their rules. Till three hours later when Agra came up. Then I grabbed for the first bread-cutlet  I saw – oil, butter paper and all. The little girl who swept the floor – and was paid for it – was followed by an older brother who also swept the floor and was paid for it. Then it was their uncle’s turn. This routine continued for the entire journey.
The cold drink guy was selling “Limca!” and gave the young girl sitting across a Coke. Another uniformed dude sold her shy admirer some chilly chips – at a premium of  Rs 3 per packet. He was followed by yet another guy who screamed “Bishleri” and handed the poor suitor some bottle of water to provide relief from the chilly chips. Rs 10, thank you. While I was so engrossed, a blind beggar came and stamped on my foot and immediately a little boy appeared, sheepishly asking, “Boot Polish?”
Lunch and dinner time were by far the best. An elderly gambler-type rasped in his guttural voice, “Khana. Khana Bolo Khana!”
The shy romeo mustered courage and squeaked “Khana!” The young girl giggled. The gambler-type glowered. I asked him about the price of khana. “Saadaa (normal) or special?” I shrugged. “Saada comes with saadaa rice, saaadaa daal, saadaa roti and saadaa curd – Rs 20,” he told me. And the special, I wondered. “The ‘peshul has ‘peshul rice (pulao), ‘peshul roti, ‘peshul curd and a shweet – Rs 35. There is another very ‘peshul khana, but it is for Rs 50.” I decided pass for the time being. After everyoine who had orderd was served, the gambler-type came around again. “Khana bolo, khana!” This time the special khana was priced at Rs 25 – more demand, less supply.
After half-an-hour when people had eaten as best they could in the spacious dining arrangements, the little girl reappeared to sweep the place and was paid for it. Well, at least they weren’t begging.
All of a sudden there was some commotion and out of the melee emerged our friendly neighbourhood a hand-clapping ardhnareshwars. “Aye bhai, behen ko paisa de, khushi se,” they said. To the women they went” “Aye behen, bhai ko paisa de khushi se!” a lot of shoving, pushing and cajoling later, they proceeded to the next compartment.
And the gambler-type returned, this time selling the left-over pulao for Rs 10 – packed in silver foil packets. Ingenious, I tell you. Why people go to IIMs, I can never understand. Anyway, by the time we saw Pune station,the rustic villager opposite was the proud owner of a comb, a car decoration piece, a knife, a Rs 20 watch and a bunch of old comics. The girl, fed up of her admirer’s lack of guts, got up and lugged her luggage all the way to the door. The boy remained in two minds as always. The 100-kilo aunty had given way to a 90 kilo weakling and the gambler-type was trying to peddle a last cuppa.
I was glad, of course, that I had reached Pune. What I wanted to know was why there were so many TCs looking busy doing nothing on the train, while I had to play musical chairs for my berth. The things I do for my best friend. That’s when I decided though: The next time one of my friends decides to get married, I am asking for a return air ticket.

 There’s a lot to be said about not knowing how to cook. Or better still, knowing how to cook and keeping that knowledge to yourself. Why? Well for starters, there’s this friend I have who recently got married. He happens to be a real dude in the kitchen … which was great while he was dating and stuff. But then his wife found out. And nowadays whenever I drop in to his house hoping for some home-cooked food, I find him running from fridge to cabinet, with masala dabbas. Yep, if you know how to cook, keep it to yourself.

In this regard, my maternal uncle (endearingly called Maamaa in Bengali and many other Indian languages) is a real smart man: He never learnt how to cook. But being the philanthropic gentleman that he is, he goes about inviting people over to his house for breakfast, lunch, dinner, evening snack, tea, after-dinner munch, mid-afternoon post-lunch-pre-tea chomp … whatever. As a result, my Maami (you guessed it, my maternal uncle’s wife) starts cooking from morning tea time. And she’s gotten into the habit of asking you very ten minutes: “Why don’t you eat something? I’ll make you a chicken roll.”

Twenty four hours in their house, and I go nuts.
My uncle looooves non-vegetarian food or rather the idea of it. And so every morning the fishmonger, the mutton-seller and the chicken-seller dutifully come to their house first.
Lunch is a small affair for them. Just one chicken curry, a fish curry, daal, one vegetable, rice, roti and pickle. How many people in the house? Three – Mama, Maami and my cousin. Geez!

“Hi, I am John, welcome to Tata Bye Bye Telecom Services. How can I help you?”

“My login ID is Ting Tong, T-I-N-G, T-O-N-G, Ting Tong. I’m calling because my broadband service is not working.”

“Certainly sir, could you tell me your login ID?”

“I just told you my login ID. It is Ting Tong.”

“Yes sir, Ching Tong.”

“TING Tong! TING TONG! Tee as in Ta-ta!”

“Oh, okay, could you spell it out for me?”

Now this has been the routine I have been following thrice a day for the past five days. My broadband connection has been on the blink and the only way I can get things going is to call up the call center. My service provider has this state-of-the-art call center that hires state-of-the-art morons to chew my brains as many times a day as I had want it chewed.

Usually, some guy with a fancy chewing gum accent, eats up three minutes trying to get my login ID. Then, they tell me what I have already told them – that my account is active, but the service isn’t working, and that their engineers were supposed to fix it in 24 hours … and that was 48 hours ago.

“The issue is open and we are working on it – we assure you that we will resolve it within 24 hours.”

“That’s what you told me yesterday and day before!”

“We understand sir…”

“No, you don’t you &#^!^!&&!(_~!”

“I must protest sir, please don’t raise your voice… otherwise I will hang up.”

Well, I had love to hang you up, that’s for sure.

On the fifth day, the conversation went like this (after the usual initial repartee):

“Let me talk to your supervisor.”

“I am sorry you can only talk to me.”
“Okay give me the name and number of your Area Manager.”

“I am sorry we don’t have that information.’

“Who can resolve my issues?”

“The engineer.”

“So let me talk to the engineer then.”

“Sorry you can’t sir. You can only talk to us.”

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do. Kindly disconnect my broadband connection. What is the procedure for that?”

“I will have to forward a complaint …”

“So do it. I am going to switch to another service provider.”
That apparently did the trick. Within an hour, I got a phone call from the marketing department, who not only understood my problem, but gave me their number in case of future problems. Then they gave me the cell-phone number of the Area Manager, who sent an engineer within 30 minutes to fix the problem.

And that was that.

Now why are companies hiding behind anonymous call centre operatives? They are taking our money and providing a product or service, which from time to time conks off. And while the call centre is a great idea for online/tele support for routine stuff, it sucks when it comes to solving real problems. Response times are terrible, and the consumer is left completely stranded up a creek without a paddle.

Whatever happened to the sales guy who sold you stuff, and gave you his number to sort out problems in case his back-end team couldn’t sort it out?

The world is turning into one big call center and I am not liking it one bit. And I am not liking it because it seems to me that in an effort to pursue volume business, companies are making a big compromise on quality of service.
Last night, Ruckus Patel (a close friend), was over for dinner and  he told me about the new DHL ad campaign … apparently it revolves around the fact their call centre works just fine.

Now there’s a good reason to send a courier … just to see if their call centre really works so fine that they built an ad campaign around it…