What's in a Re-name?

What's in a name? Much more than the good old bard thought, apparently. Considering the substantial furore caused due to the renaming spree that most cities in our country have had to endure ever since Bombay became Mumbai and Madras was rechristened Chennai, states, cities and towns are competing against each other with a never-before-seen vengeance to out-do each other and have the most number of renamings possible. After all, it was at the tax-payer's expense, and it wasn't like those that proposed the change of name had to make changes on the signboards of establishments, and corresponding changes on company letterheads and all that jazz.

The considerable overhaul that was a byproduct of the renaming process was lost on those that wanted to undertake it, and had that been the case, I am sure the honourable renaming overlords would've been happier with a Bangalore or a Trivandrum, vis-a-vis a Bengaluru or a Thiruvananthapuram.

The small-scale local renaming, such as those that affected Connaught Place and Connaught Circus, with the proposal to rename them after Rajiv and Indira, are the ones that would affect a smaller section of the population, but would cause a substantial amount of mental torture to the poor postman, who was faced with the unenviable task of delivering letters to a Connaught Place one day, and to a Rajiv Chowk on the very next. In the absence of unnecessary training that the poor soul would have to attend in order to get refamiliarized with an already familiar area, his life would've been that much more easier.

Now, as witnessed over the past few days, most cities in Karnataka are to undergo the renaming process, under the pretext of 'restoration of the old-glory' that these cities once had, prior to our country's subjugation to the British Raj. Bangalore becomes Bengaluru, while Mysore is soon to be Mysooru and so on and so forth. Enough has been said in the newspapers about it for me to complicate matters by being redundant.

The very fact that pretty much everyone among the local population refers to these cities by their local names, rather than the anglicised ones, while at the same time, those who are not from the state would refer to the city name by the version familiar to them, regardless of the official name-status conferred upon the place is something that our authorities have been blind to. An exercise in futility, but one they seem to want to go through with, at any cost, regardless.

In my humble opinion, it makes a lot of sense, however to have one road in each city, preferably the arterial road in case of smaller towns, or one of the main roads in case of big cities, to be named after Gandhiji. As a person who has spearheaded our freedom movement, he definitely deserves to be remembered appropriately. It is pitiable though, that these roads named after him are relegated to the short-form reference, and nobody is seen referring to the road as 'Mahatma Gandhi' road, and is instead caught saying 'M.G Road'. Of course, it is easier and more convenient to follow the latter course, rather than expend energy on the use of precious extra syllables that are necessary when mouthing the choicest of invectives when on the road to abuse fellow motorists or to the poor hapless waiter at a restaurant who didn't get your order on time. Although it is unwise to see intent behind other people's honest mistakes, it more often than not ends up being the case.

The renaming spree has swept-over individuals as well. Honestly, renaming is not the exact word for it, respelling is the more apt term that needs to be applied here, if such a word exists. I have probably ranted about it in a previous post, but the extra vowels in a person's name for good luck is the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my entire life, stupider than Linda Goodman's astrology fundaes.

Finally there is something stupider than trying to type-classify people into twelve broad categories based on the time of their birth, and say that if you're a person born under the Aries sign, you will have a receeding hairline or a distended belly when you're 36 years old and all that horseshit. That something stupider is what makes a Sunil into a Suniel and a Ritesh into a Riteish. It would probably be sweet to do something like this for the sake of being 'cool' or fashionable, or for a really arbit reason like 'just because'. But an attempt to rationalize stupidity and make it legitimate just makes these God-forsaken people the object of more ridicule.

Mercifully, when I studied in school, there was no such bullshit, or I would've lost more marks than I did for not having spelt Shooobhaa Dheee or Jaaayyyaalllaallithhaaa correctly, and would've had to repeat classes, while all the retards who would bend over in supplication to the changing new spelling order, the sheep, would go about being rich and married and successful, while I would be the exact opposite. Looks like I managed to delay the inevitable by about eight or nine years, and that was all the delaying that was humanely possible.

One of the main roads in Mysore city, that is just adjacent to the sub-urban bus stand, is to undergo a renaming, if the activists that propose it would have their way. Ever since the road came into existence, it has been referred to as Irwin road, after the British viceroy of the late 20's and early 30s. The road is to be named after Bhagat Singh, and will be referred to as Bhagat Singh road. I personally endorse this, and I think its a brilliant idea. I just hope people don't end up calling it the 'B.S Road', once the proposed renaming goes through.

You know, B.S, like in male-cow effluents. You don't? Ahh, nevermind!

Confessions of a Social Misfit - part 1

What do a Teenage Drama Queen, a Dangerous Mind, a Window Cleaner, devout Roman Catholics and now I, have in common?

Well, the answer, my friend, is not blowing in the wind, but is staring at you in the face in the title of this post. These 'Confessions of A Social Misfit' series, when not entirely autobiographical (and not entirely un-autobiographical either), represents my analysis of the Murphy's laws as applicable to social situations, where even if something can't go wrong, it will.

Considering the million gaffes that I have committed, or I have witnessed, or I have imagined someone (mostly myself) commit, this is possibly a thriving blog on its own, though considering how scant the content on this current blog has been, it makes a lot of sense for me, as someone who is making vain attempts at maintaining this blog, to see how I can go about scrounging content in the best possible manner.

So, in the first installment, let me delve on the possible messy situations that you can find yourself in when you go to a restaurant/pub/hotel/coffee shop with friends. By friends, I don't mean the ones that you are really close to, the ones you'd trust your life with, but the ones that would possibly come under the tier 2 or tier 3 bracket of pals that you'd have.

Note: Tier 2 / Tier 3 are the ones that display strong possibility of being really close friends, but due to circumstances haven't really graduated to that level just yet. The reasons for that usually are that they haven't been friends for an extended duration like those in Tier 1 or that the frequency of being able to meet them in order for them to graduate to the next level is low, or the possibility that the don't give out Tier 1 vibes (or worse, they don't want me in their Tier 1, for you have to be on the same tier for them as they are for you).

The general conversations could range across various topics, but the bone of contention would come through when the time comes to settle the bill. Assuming that you are someone who flits from group to group, without constantly being in one (social ineptitude being the prime reason for not qualifying), you would be the odd one out, the one who has to conform to the group's rules and regulations.

If the group has met up for an occasion such as a treat, then the odds of being invited are low, because they wouldn't want to pay for you. So lets assume that you actually have to pay for what you ate. The group dynamics would dictate how you would have to resort to shelling out money when the bill arrived.

If it is an elite place, separate cheques can be asked for. But then again, this wouldn't be the kind of place I would visit, considering my social standing. Separate cheques would be the safest way out, but I guess that rarely would happen.

Hence, there are two possible ways in which the group would split the cheque - one would be where the total sum that each person pays would be divided by the number of people in the group, to sort of even things out. It is a good arrangement if everyone's appetites and food/drink tastes are on par, but poses considerable dilemma if you're either a teetotaler or a vegetarian, in which case its not a good idea to go with a group that has a majority that comprises of neither category. This stems from the assumption that you are in a place where booze and non-vegeratian food are relatively more expensive.

The other way in which the group would split the cheque, is to make each person pay according to what has been consumed by them. Its a process that is tedious and cumbersome, but the trade-off associated here is the satisfaction derived out of not having made others pay more/less than their due and the second situation is better to be at, rather than the first.

But a real jackass would try and enforce situation 2 in a group that is accustomed to situation 1, or vice versa, causing him to be the subject of blank stares or at the receiving end of nasty, but inaudible comments.

Hence, there is a requirement for people to exercise utmost caution while hanging out with tier 2 or tier 3 friends, lest the shit hits the fan.

Tier 1 friends are the kinds with whom such complications seldom arise, but in the event that they are not around to hang out with, hanging out alone is the best option, specially while visiting a food place.

A good book, coupled with an iPod (if music at the hotel/restaurant sucks) and some sumptuous food should just about hit the spot. Thats how my idle evenings end up being. I've had very limited Tier 2 and Tier 3 experiences, and I am counting my blessings for that.

Who needs company?

Some men are islands sometimes.

Seasons change, and so did this Blog

This will be a short post, I've written enough in the previous one. Its just to let you know, O four dear faithful readers, that the layout has changed. Like you haven't already noticed.

But just so you know.

Apparently, the brightness makes my blog 'chirpier' and easier to read, in an opinion which is entirely my own, specially if you like this layout better. Do drop in more comments now, and link this blog up to wherever you choose to. Be my guest.

Two posts in a single day! Wonders shall never cease!

Baby you can ride my Bike

(Substantially long and self-indulging. You have been warned. Please do read it, though, right till the end. Its one of my favourite posts)

Yesterday, the 8th of August marked the day on which I got my bicycle, eleven years ago, in 1996. The very thought of my lovely bike rusting away, unwanted and not used for almost the best part of four years has prompted me to write this 'tribute' post of sorts.

What follows might be classified as a series of revelations, which in a different time and a different place might've made me undergo a reasonable amount of teasing and possible humiliation, but I've now come to a place where I don't really give a rodent's behind anymore.

I remember the 4th of July, 1996 as clearly as can be. It was the third day since school had re-opened, and our school had, back in those times, adopted this new style of curriculum wherein, a fortnight after our final exams, we would have class for a month, to start us off on the next year's syllabus following which we'd get a summer vacation where we'd be loaded with assignments.

It was quite an unusual system, something I would hate at this point in time, for my portfolio has been reasonably diversified. However, back then, with the appetite to study and read and learn being so enormous, it seemed like this sort of system would definitely augur well for those that wanted to make the most of it.

So class 9 began around April 96 for a month, soon after I turned 13 and closed again for two months of summer vacation and reopened on July 2nd. Two days of school passed by without a hitch, and then we're back to where I began three paragraphs before.

I was late for class, because the city-bus that I used to travel to school was unusually crowded that day, and I was forced to board the next bus. Consequently, I missed out on attending the school assembly and entered class directly in the first hour.

What I saw, or rather who I saw when I entered class that day, is crystal clear in my mind. She was the new girl in school, here because her Dad was transferred to Mysore. She was beautiful, with her short hair, her cute face, her gentle and soft voice and everything else about her which had me riveted to the spot near the door for about three seconds, soon after which I proceeded to enter class.

It wasn't just me that was enamoured by the new entrant, I am certain one third of the guys in class were too. The next two classes were spent alternatively in throwing furtive glances at the afore mentioned cute person, and praying fervently for her to be in the same classes as mine, in those instances where there was a possibility of the class being split for different reasons.

It turned out, again, due to a simple twist of fate, that she was in English Course A as well as in the Hindi section, both of which were my choices too, and I was pretty darn glad that she had made the same choices as me.

The first crush I had was on another classmate, way back in class 2, after which I migrated to having crushes on school seniors and pretty teachers, in primary section, doing things that were considered 'cute' in an attempt to clamour for their attention and their time.

However, from class 6 to 8, there was nobody who had me so preoccupied, specially in school, in the manner in which this person was able to attract my attention. It was my first crush since I had entered my teens, and it felt good to have someone as the object of your affections, albeit in a secretive manner.

It is at this point that I need to mention how this entire crush thing was a one-way street. She was so much out of my league (back then) that despite being eternally optimistic, I knew that I never ever did stand a chance. Even if she knew that I really liked her, and that I would do anything including write all her lab records, and her assignments, and take all the punishments that she was supposed to be handed out, there was no chance in hell that something would come out of it.

Not that I was a Quasimodo to her Esmeralda, however. I still don't know what I would've had to do to be in that league where she'd more than take notice of me, and I guess that was part of what made things so much more interesting.

I had previously mentioned as to how I would take the city bus to school and back, not having learnt to cycle, just yet. My sister, on the other hand, had already learnt how to ride it, and was lucky enough to have even managed to own one, and was riding it to school.

It was quite embarrassing back then for me, considering it was a matter of honour, and there were people in my class riding around on bikes and I still was an uncoordinated klutz. I had made previous attempts to learn it, but then just gave up after losing balance, always having had the fear of falling off stuck deeply in the back of my head.

The incident that galvanized me towards learning to ride it is worth mentioning, just like every other insignificant part of my life. We had a lesson in Hindi, in class 9, which was supposed to be humorous, with the protagonist learning to cycle in his late 40s and always failing miserably. The teacher, who I detested for reasons that might just end up constituting another blogpost, did the usual unnecessary histrionics that were her hallmark, and tried 'teaching' us the lesson.

At the very end, she asked us to write out an essay on 'How I Learnt to Ride the bicycle', and then, much to my dismay, went around asking everyone as to whether or not they'd knew how to ride one. When my turn came to answer, some other smart mouth replied in the negative, even before I could uncharacteristically mumble something and get away with it, and to add insult to injury, also said that my sister knew how to ride one, and used to come to school on it.

There were sniggers all around, as I felt humiliated and partly ashamed, but I tried not letting that affect me. The only thing that really stung was how the object of my affections had also joined in the giggle-party.

My thoughts were in a tizzy, for I was trying to console myself that she was laughing, just to fit in with the rest, though my mind knew better. It was that same day that I decided that matters had been delayed far too long, and that it was now a 'do or die' situation.

To cut a long story short, thereafter, my sister's bicycle suffered substantially as I went about learning the ropes and falling quite a bit in the process. But the sheer joy of having mastered the blessed thing was unparalled, and I had this huge grin plastered on my face which was as a direct consequence of having sound balance.

Once my folks purchased the bike for me, I did have some early problems related to how I would be able to get on the seat and get off it, considering the fact that it was slightly higher off the ground than the cycle I had learnt to ride first, but all in all, this was one of the best things to have happened to me.

In the evenings after class, I would make quite a big deal about taking my cycle out of the stand, and cycling past the place where she'd sit, waiting for return transport back home, and make small talk on occasion, and then ride away with a big grin on my face, putting a mental tally mark against the total number of times she and I had had a 'conversation'.

A conversation could even be a 'Hi', from either of us, and judging by the Bambi eyes that I would have made when she was in the vicinity, I am certain she knew that I had fallen for her.

Class 9 came, and class 9 went by, and after the final exams, we found out that her Dad had yet another transfer, and that they would be leaving to another city. I was sad, no doubt, and at the very end of it all recall saying 'goodbye, all the best for you board exams. Do well in class X', or something as dorky.

That was the end of that. I haven't said her name, for I don't want to cause her further embarrassment. I think I did enough of it eleven years ago.

I never felt more Kevin Arnold-ish in my life than I did that day, as I walked away, thinking of how I wish things turned out differently, hoping that she'd stay and not go, and that I'd get repeated chances to make a fool out of myself, as I went about in my attempts to woo her.

Now I know it was a crush, but back then, it seemed like it was the end of the world as I knew it. But it never is, and life goes on, until its time to say the final goodbye.

Life, eleven years down the line, as it turns out, seems so much different, so very 'adult', with greater expectations, more challenges, and loftier ambitions of a practical kind and equally saddening moments of anguish, disappointment and loss, all of which are taken in stride. It is the small moments that we've encountered that end up teaching you so much, making one handle what comes up with supposedly consummate ease.

Dripping sentimentally with gooey nostalgia, I can say for sure that I will never forget what happened in most parts of my life, this one being high on the list of special memories to cherish.

Back in the summer of 96, those were the best days of my life.

EDIT: Pretty much every day is. Regardless.

(The title is supposed to be sung along the lines of a Beatles song that sounds pretty similar)