Writing on the wall

Times (New Roman) are not too good. A Century (Gothic) back cricket was played in the spirit of the game. The way they play it today is Comic (Sans).Gone is the rule Book(man old style). Enter emotional Impact. The Microsoft (Sans Serif) appeals have given way to persuasion of the umpires; at times threats.

Though there have been some past cricket greats who have Courier-ed the need to purify the game from the pavilion, few of the current crop have heeded.

Maybe the current cricketers cannot read the writing on the wall. How about changing the fonts, dear coaches?

My quote (you can quote me on that)

Do onto others what you do not want them to do and then run.
– Jamshed V Rajan

My Creative Thoughts

Somebody once said, “It’s a good idea to keep on good terms with everybody, especially with your wife, your banker, your stomach, and your conscience.” If that somebody had worked in a corporate, he would have added ‘colleagues’ to that long list.

Yesterday when my boss was chiding me for not being creative at work, I shot back an excuse. “I am working hard, hence cannot afford to be creative.”

After the words had left my beer-bloated lips, I realised I was on target. I really was working hard (Now, that is a lie) and being creative was something I could not afford.

Many in my office work hard. Sometimes also burning the proverbial mid-night oil. My hats off to them.

But a person is either hard working or he is creative. He cannot be both. And that is final. Creativity is the power to connect the seemingly unconnected, and it can not be afforded by somebody who is hardpressed to finish his work and be home by 7 p.m.

No…no…Pls. I do not intend to point out that my office’s Creative team is not working hard. Neither am I hinting that they are not creative! Smart workers, perhaps. 😉


Has your father ever chased you around the house to apply that dirty lather (that`s what one thought till one started shaving) on your cheeks? If the answer is no, you would probably not understand the romance involved.

My father was trying on my sisters, and me what he had already tried on my mother. I can imagine her running around the house, but I guess after a few years she got bored and stood still, and probably said: “Mister, how about you just apply the lather on my cheeks and buzz off. I have chores to do.”

As a result, we became our father`s victims. He chased us around every day in the morning and we ran helter-skelter. My sisters would even start crying. When we grew up a little we started noticing the naughty smile on our father`s face even he brushed the lather-laden shaving brush softly on our cheeks. He was a romantic for sure.

When in Grade Eleven, I started shaving and have tried copying my father to the tilt, except maybe for the washing-of-the-brush act.

Recently, when I was in Madurai, my hometown, I tried the trick on my sister. She is a grown up now and did not quite enjoy it. Or maybe, she would find it romantic when her hubby tricks her. As for me, this is all she had to say: “Do that to your wife when you are married!” Guess she is right.

Now, am looking for a romantic who would not mind me chasing her around the house with a shaving brush in my hand. Of course, I could later graduate to the kids. Did I hear you say, like father like son? Thanks.

My father once owned a bank

A series of blogs on my father, in the hope that he doesnot end up reading it. I am in luck: for my father the internet is as good as a fishing net …

I know it is hard to believe, but my father once owned a bank. Yes, a bank.

Name: Royal Ramawamy`s Bank
Account Holders: Three (My two sisters & I)
Max withdrawal possible in a day: Rupees Two
Headquarters: Our House (Incidentally named ‘Gun House`)
Timings: 24X7 Operations

My father was trying to inculcate in us the habit of saving money. He gave the three of us account books made of pages torn from our own school notebooks. He also ensured we had unique account numbers. Mine was JVR-1.

The three of us fell for the trick and spent close to four years of our life in penury. Eventually, better sense prevailed and we realized our father was not the ideal banking guy.

The money our relatives gave us when they visited and the money my father himself gifted us for we being nice made it to the bank the very same day. Later while doing Economics, I would understand the tactic as ‘plough-back policy` – give the money but ensure it comes back to you.

Over a period of time we amassed a fortune. But the suckers that we were, we did not realize the futility till one day my father announced our account books had expired. He said it was the bank clerk`s (…and that was my mother) fault for she had forgotten to inform the account holders that if one did not deposit money for over a week, the account would expire. He knew we would not revolt against our mother.

We never got back the money we saved, but we sure got new clothes. It was neither Diwali nor our Birthdays, so I guess my father did not usurp our money.

Besides, I am yet to tell my father that one reason why my account had eight hundred more than my sisters` was because I was doing my own `plough back` – hiking the fee structure in my school and depositing it in the bank. Now, who fooled whom?

Smoking, a virtue

Nobody has ever said good things about a smoker. Wonder why.

If I exchanged places with you, I am sure you would also look up to smokers. I know it is difficult to be in my shoes, especially since they are one size less and smell a lot, but still it is worth a try for all the good it would bring to your life.

Smoking gives me an excuse to not brush daily. What a waste of time, money and water. If God had wanted me to brush, I would have had bristle-like hair on my index finger. But I do not.

My Doc tells me I might have holes in my lungs. Amusing for somebody as knowledgeable as my Doc to say that and get upset over. After all, it is these holes that will help me by-pass blood and distribute Oxygen through out my body. They are more helpful as my Red Blood Corpuscles (RBCs) are anyways lethargic.

In fact, smoking helps me keep a tab on my fitness levels. I know when I am straining myself for I start panting. Pity all those who never know how many stairs they can climb. I can manage two flights.

The habit saves me money in ways more than one. When my colleagues are rushing to the food court for lunch, I just need a glass of water. Guess, it is lack of appetite, but I am not complaining if I can save Rs 30.

While on smoking, I have to tell you about this movie in which Anthony Hopkins is a cop who has decided to shoot a cowboy, played by Kevin Costner. The cop grants the cowboy his last wish…to which the latter says he wants to have his last smoke. At the mere mention of a smoke, the visibly upset cop ends up saying, “You know, smoking could kill you?”

OK…ok…I wrote the script. The climax needed a smoking gun…


Getting to know sex

No it will not deny it. I am a sex maniac. Infact, when I was seven years old, I fantasised relationships with Gitanjali Iyer, Rini Khanna and Usha Alberquqe – news readers of the Doordarshan era.

It is another thing that the three pretty ladies never knew that I existed.

After that it was the Surabhi girl Renuka Sahane – the ever smiling beauty who stole my heart. I even sent her a letter when I was in class nine. But, my guess is, Siddharth Kak never let her know that I admired her. Maybe, he was jealous.

Soon I was old enough to know the human anatomy. Now, my 10th standard science book had the outline of a man and a woman. Watching it gave me a kick. I still remember, looking at the two hollow outlines for hours on end.

My science teacher, Mrs Manorama was too shy to tell me how a kid was born. So she assured us that the kid was a result of the marriage. I believed her, but there was always this question, as to how the kid knew when the marriage was over.

Then, I was exposed to quite a few cute women who appeared on the cover of Hindi magazine Grihshoba. They were not seductive, but they were pretty enough to disturb my young mind. I still remember carrying around the cover pages in my school bag, till the time my younger sister exposed me and my mother stopped buying the magazine.

In the eleventh grade, it was Shobana Mani. A pretty girl who’s father worked in the Indian Railways. I was in love with her. Just that she didnot know. Then…or now.

Whenever, she stood close enough for me to latch on to a few atoms of the perfume she used, I would get a high. Was something wrong with me? Or was everybody experiencing the same emotions. I would never know, untill….

In grade twelve I lost my virginity, figuratively that is. On a weekend one of my classmate’s parents went to Tirupathi and he was going to make the most of it. He invited his closest of friends and I being the one who gave him tasty home-made chappatis during lunch breaks, was part of his inner circle.

He had already arranged for `The Cassette’ (CDs and DVDs were yet to come) and we were all excited.

When we landed at his house on the appointed day, the curtains were drawn, and there was loud music playing inside. Even as I parked my bicycle near his house, I had this feeling that I was being watched – and every pair of eye knew that I was walking in to watch a porn movie. But I couldnot afford to care.

Within minutes, I was watching the first blue film of my life. So were the 17 others in the room. Even today, when we meet Santosh’s parents, Mr & Mrs Subramaniam, we have special regards for them.

Only one grudge, my cousin who is seven years old says he likes FTV.

Meet The Parents

At 29, the least that is expected of me is agreeing to marriage. But see what happens after I agree…