“Gopala…..Gopala…”

The women sitting in the next cabin continue to chant. Meera looks up from her book. It is titled, “Aunt Erma’s Cope book by Erma Bombeck”. She raises an eyebrow.

“When will they stop singing?”

I shake my head from side to side. I do not know either.

Arun comes back and flings his backpack on the seat.

“The charging point at A1 is going to stop functioning any moment. Those people use my own plug and I have to forfeit my turn to someone.”

I look around the cabin. There are eight people in various degrees of sleepiness at 9 30 in the night. Meera, Arun and I are on our way to Chennai for some work for the college. It is a regular third AC compartment. The AC is set to a moderate level and the noise levels are lower than the regular sleeper class compartments but it is there, nevertheless. While standing near the basin, I notice that the AC is full on in the nearby first-class AC compartment that is protected from peering eyes by rich brown curtains. And it is the only compartment with a functional charging point though we were promised one.

We are surrounded on both sides by a big group of people who are on a pilgrimage to Tirupathi. They seemed to have booked their tickets on a later date as they have two cabins to themselves, separated by our cabin right in the middle. So, during the whole journey, we are treated to bhajans, and huge containers of food being taken from one side to another while we try to subsist on the meagre fare provided by the Indian Railways.

“Do they believe in feeding hungry strangers?”, Arun asks me after a brave attempt to finish off the bread omelette that was given to us for breakfast. It is a 22 hour journey from Pune to Chennai and we were planning to subsist on the ‘Butter Cookies’ that Meera had got for the whole journey. I have never loved them before like that.

The group on the pilgrimage is sort of a spiritual commune for the middle aged. They all belong to the age group of forty and above, with the oldest among them being around sixty-five. During the afternoon, I hear one of the most interesting conversations. I was not exactly eavesdropping but an Indian passenger train is one of the last places to look for to share secrets.

There is a lady in a purple chudidhar sitting in one of the corner seats. There are many ladies surrounding her. She is in animated narration when I notice them and start to listen.

“So the mother-in-law broke open the door, and then she stopped and started screaming”, she pulls her tongue out and tilts her head as if her neck is broken, “As the daughter-in –law has hung herself.”

“Oh no….” goes one of the ladies sitting next to her.

“Since then, she has become a saint and begs on the roads.” She says with a knowing smile.
“Didi, I don’t know but I feel like someone is following me everywhere. It feels as if there is a presence haunting me at all times,” A woman in a green sari looks disturbed as she talks about it.

“Like what?” asks the woman who just narrated the story.

“Like there is someone who is behind me all the times.”

“Maybe it is an evil eye. Pray to the Almighty.”, volunteers one of the women.

“Maybe the Almighty is himself protecting you,” says the woman in the purple chudidhar, “Never ever be scared. Do you know, I once went into the Governor’s House without any prior permission. As my car approached the gate, the sentry stopped me and asked me whom I wanted to meet. I just said ‘Governor se milna hai’ fearlessly and he let me drive inside. All through the checking points, I repeated the same thing and the guards were scared my bravery that they just let me in without a word.”

I am finding this really hard to believe but the women are agog in admiration. The conversation then proceeds to the protagonists in television serials and grocery and my mind drifts away.

Arun, meanwhile, has a hard time charging his laptop. He is in the midst of watching ‘Prison Break’, a sort of a craze across B-Schools now where TV is a luxury and episodes of series like ‘Friends’ and ‘Prison Break’ are exchanged to humour the tired minds.

“I can’t believe that there is only one charging point in this whole train. And there is a guy over there charging his mobile for over an hour now.”

“Why don’t you ask him to give you a chance to charge your laptop?” I ask.

“I’ve tried and he says he is waiting for an urgent call.”

So he waits, getting up every now and then, to get a chance to charge his laptop. It is an Indian custom, I think, to wait. And so he waits for quite some time.

I am in the midst of a novel which has been an amazing read so far. Yet I seem to have developed an amazing talent to observe the happenings around me and read at the same time. Until a pillow lands on the top of my head from the upper berth. I politely give it back and continue to watch the proceedings. Real life is sure more interesting than fiction.

There were screams... somebody ran madly through the dark corridors of the hostel, someone had just fainted outside the academic block, the guys ran towards shops selling diluted water and the professors silently thanked the Good Lord. It was the end of Semester One.
Exaggeration is an art but it is true that Semester One is kind of like 'The Villain' in every MBA's story. Kind of like what Voldemort was t0 Harry Potter and Gabbar to Veeru and Jai. To stop stating the obvious, Semester One is where you definitely fall, get up again and fall again. By the time, you have identified that most of the batch is on the ground with you and you see that falling is a cumulative effect. But then the most important thing that you learn, as the professors would say, ‘It doesn’t matter how many times you fall. Just remember to get up every time.’ It sounds straight out of a celluloid inspirational dream but experience has taught us that the truth is often repeated.
Now, while the going is good and we finally take long breaths after about 5 months, some things about the first semester come haunting back.

The Yoga Gurus :
It is mandatory to do Yoga or gym in the morning even if you are Shilpa Shetty here. It does not matter if you slept at 6:55 am after completing all the assignments and the Yoga class is at 7:00 am. You just drag yourself to the meditation hall and do the only asana that was created for the benefit of the down-and-out MBA : The Shavasana. As we lie down and the hypnotic voice of the instructor drones in the background, you have slowly drifted to nirvana which ends promptly in 5 minutes. The next thing, you know all the yoga gurus are running out with one of their socks in their hands to have a bath.

Fast and Breakfast :
The first lecture is at 9 and it is 8:56 on the clock. Is it impossible to run to the Canteen and grab breakfast? Not really. As I run to the canteen thinking that if I could run any faster, I should be India’s next official entry to the marathon at the Olympics, I see that G is still ambling towards the canteen, glued to the phone. One of the principles in G’s life is ‘Breakfast comes before anything other than the person on the phone.’ She never misses breakfast. Even if the exam is at 9:00 am sharp, it is almost a law of nature that food is still travelling through G’s oesophagus at 8:59:59.
Most of the batch misses breakfast. The girls call it a ‘fast’ and the boys simply eat out of other’s plates during lunch.

Learning groups :
To facilitate the important process of learning, there are five other confused souls who are thrown in with you and you are officially christened “Group B12”. Every learning group is ideally constituted of six members but two in ours were forewarnes, I think, and they never landed on campus. Thus I was left with Arun, Alok and Amol. Now I had warned them I would publicly mention there names in my blog. But they crave publicity so shamelessly that they actually promised to give me a party, which of course, I think will happen when it is 3000AD.
Now the learning group sits together and is supposed to give intellectual and creative input every time there is a case discussion. Now a group that sits together thinks together or so says Sooraj Barjatya. Wrong. I remember one time we were discussing the HR case, ours was the most noisy group in the room. The case was on resolving issues among workers in a mine. Our typical conversation would be something like this:

Me: So what do you think the ideal solution should be?
Amol : I think that Ranbir is not as good as Rishi.
Alok: How can you…..??
Me: Yeah, can we please talk about the case? Alok…
Alok: I was about to say that Rishi himself was not as good as Raj Kapoor.
Arun: Guys, who is Rishi?
(For the uninitiated, Arun is a hot-sambar blooded Tamilian from down south whose vast hindi vocabulary includes ‘Kya re’ ‘Acha’ ‘Bhaiya pani chahiye’ and ends right there. He is very happy about it though. Amol is the last to enter the class and the first to leave. At parties, he ties the handkerchief to his head and does a good imitation of Mr.Bachchan. Alok finds both of them very funny.)
Me: How can you not know Rishi?
Arun : Do you know Muthuraman? Shame on you. You are a South Indian.
(The Professor has just passed us and clears her throat on the way. We return back to the case.)
Alok: Miners are people who do a lot of physical work. There is also a lot of mental pressure on them.
Amol: Think about the dark caves and the scary things down there.
Arun : Do you know there is statistical estimation that there are 5 angry bats per 25 caves.
(This is an absurd statistical calculation but great according to my proficiency in the subject. Arun is a whiz at Statistics and always sneaks in Statistics in his daily conversations that the canteen guys serve him with cotton plugs in their ears. Alok is a CA.)
There are two minutes left to discuss. More and more crazy diversions intrude but we do manage to ‘discuss’ the case and present it on time.

Technology Dooms or Doom the Technology :
There is a mobile alert system in the campus that keeps you on your toes. Normal needs and consequences go like this:
1. Need: Feel dirty and hence take a bath
Action: Take a bath
Consequence: Feel fresh and clean.
2. Need: Feel sleepy.
Action: Nap.
Consequence: Wake up and feel rested.
3. Need: Feel hungry
Action: Eat
Consequence: Feel Satiated
With the mobile alerts screaming ‘Batch meet in 0.05 minutes. Assemble immediately’, all the rules are changed.
1. Need: Feel dirty and hence take a bath
Action: Take a bath
Interruption: Batch meet in 5 minutes
Consequence: Batchmates sit two chairs away from you
2. Need: Feel sleepy.
Action: Nap.
Interruption: Batch meet in 2 minutes.
Consequence: Alterations between sleep and glare of the staff.
3. Need: Feel hungry
Action: Eat
Interruption: batch meet in a minute
Consequence: You wonder if wood is actually edible.

There are definitely good instances to this side of the story but another post will do justice to that. Semester One is past us and makes us feel like victorious bravehearts but three more of them are standing in the horizon and smirking at us….

Campus is buzzing with activity as usual. I think activity is one of the synonyms of a good B-School. At any given point of time, you have a schedule which says: Class in 5 minutes, XYZ Committee meeting in another 2 minutes, Case Study submission in 30 seconds beyond which you will never be allowed to submit even if you offer to bail out Lehmann Bros plus pending breakfast, lunch or dinner. You choose and you become what you choose.

The people around you do influence your choices. If I was S, my friend, I would have grabbed rice, bread or whatever could fit into my tiny hands, knocked over a 1000 people on my way, looked continuously petrified, munched the food on the way and yet made it to class. S has a good job history, something very unique. She is meticulous and very hard working which makes me wonder however how can someone so small have a brain with so much data. Yet S has lately been developing this theory that she is 'old' since she is older by a year or so. Typical conversations would include:

Us: Hey, let;s do this!

S: I am too old for this.

Us: We have to ask out people for a date for freshers.

S: It is not my age to do so.

Us: Okay, let's do that.

S: I told you I am old.

Us: Beep


G, on the other hand has only two goals in life.

Goal1: Talk to boyfriend before and after class

Goal 2: Talk to boyfriend between class.

In between, she studies and figures in the top 5 in class.

Incidentally, G is an example of the 'adored-customer' set whom all telecom companies would pay billions to capture. This market typically consists of individuals in the age group of 20-29, preferably doing an MBA. Since this clan is low on time and somewhat sufficient in funds, they usually buy 2 phones. One for the rest of the world. One for the chosen one. Phone number 1 is used only when phone number 2 is not operational. And since this clan is adept at talking discreetly on the phone, you are often wondering if any of the conversation is directed at you.
If you are a roommate, then typical morning conversations would be:

G: Hey! Good morning!
Me: Good morning to you too!
G: So you still won't speak to me!
Me: I am speaking with all the vocal capacity I have.
G: You are still angry with me!
Me: No, I forgive you for yelling at me for trampling on your toothbrush.
G: You will never understand.
Me: It's alright. I see no problem why....
G: Listen, tell you what, meet me on Sunday!

Now, since this conversation is getting absurd by the minute, I turn around to see that G is on the phone as usual. I turn whatever pink shade is possible at 7 in the morning and return to sleep.

Its been 89 days ever since I landed in this place called Hinjewadi in Pune. 89 days of 5 hours of sleep, 6 if the Gods smile at me. 89 days that have taught me what I know now, what I assumed I knew and what I never knew.

It's begun to sound like a leaf out of a cliched Bschool story now. But the fact is all BSchools tend to have the same gruelling schedule, barring some few blessed havens. A senior-junior meet, a fresher's party and numerous 'counselling' sessions with the seniors later, I can now say that the gruelling schedule is a part of Bschool life and it might actually teach you to handle situations in corporate life later. I want to laugh out loud now but this is what I would like to believe now.
Sometimes I think that before all Bschools in the country open, there must be some sort of a clan meet that is held among all BSchool administration and deciding authorities at some highly secretive place. A place where all the directors might meet, dressed in black, in eerie surroundings where they decide on the schedule for the year ahead.

Director 1: So, what is your schedule, mate?
Director 2: (tapping his fingers against the rim of a golden sword) : 18 subjects, 100 quizzes and 95% attendance
Director 1: Oh hoh! Looks like the competition has stopped competing with the best! The lambs that come to my abode will be subjected to 24 subjects, 120 quizzes and 95% attendance. Should keep them busy for the first year!
Director 2: (slowly opening his eyes) : Good to know that. But we have yet to plan for the second semester for the first year. What you heard was for the first semester!
And there was applause all around. The duel had been won.

It is funny how your imagination works overtime when you are loaded with work.

Then there are the 'surprise quizzes'. Something that will make you hate surprises for quite sometime. There is pandemonium in the class a day before the dreaded FCQ day. FCQ stands for Frequently Conducted Quizzes though more expletives are used to descibe the abbreviation now. There is a lot of nail-biting, pen scratching, underlining, rattofying and frantic memorising as a class of 20 to 25 year olds run about studying for the exam. Everyone is sure that the one subject that they have studied out of the 18 subjects is sure to come. Or atleast they pray so. Then one guy rushes in and stops just in front of the blackboard.
67 pair of eager and frantic eyes bore into him.
"Economics" he says and looks to the floor.
There is dead silence. Some might have even died if they didnt have the wonder tool called 'Pfaff'. 'Pfaff' in Bschool lingo is the amount of imagination you have multiplied by little knowledge you have of the subject. In short, it is a lot of story-telling when you have no clue what to write.
When the paper is distributed, all of us are silent for quite a while. Then there is a giggle somehwere. Followed by a chuckle. And before you know it, the whole class is laughing.
The exam official smirks, then shooes us into writing the exam.

There is a lot more I can write on this practically non-existent blog. But I heard someone say there is a quiz tomorrow....

No there is no new baba in the scene who serves hot piping vada pav with fried chillies with a flick of his hand. For those who are unaware, vada pav is the poor man's burger, a sort of fast food that possibly originated in Mumbai. It consists of a pav or salty bun and a potato cutlet served with chutney or sauce.



Okay, to stop digressing, mera number bschool mein finally lag gaya and I have joined one. And all thoughts of sitting in classrooms and typing in laptops aaram se were erased after we went for a programme called the outbound learning programme.



It took place in the outskirts of Pune and we climbed a hill called Sinhagad. If you have worked in the IT industry for quite a while, the only trekking you could have possibly done would have been from the first floor to the second floor. That is unless you are a fitness freak who goes on regular adventure outings.

Once we were at the base camp, we looked at the hill and thought that this one must be easy. It looked surmountable afterall. And then we began to walk. And walk. And walk. For some three hours. Our group leader kept saying we are half way through every five minutes. People fell, fussed and even tried to sleep on the rocks for a while but there was a lot of climbing to be done.

So enter our motivators. We were promised vada pav on reaching the top. So there were shouts of 'jai baba vada pav' and 'khayenge hum' to cheer us on as we huffed and puffed up the way. And so Jai baba vada pav kept us going as we finally reached the top. I dont think I have ever been more happier to see a vada pav and some tap water on reaching the top.

The way down was a bit easier. Though a lot more tricky. And we all looked almost the same after the trek. Brown, dishevelled and relieved.

The next day saw a lot of team building activities happen. There was a lot of naming of teams happening and one very enthusiastic team named themselves 'The yaks'. But unfortunately, the instructor read them out as 'yucks' and so 'yucks' they remained for the rest of the day. But the very sportive group were still happy with their new name.

The bus ride back to college was entertaining. A group of budding indian idols were all out to display their singing, seat tapping and histronic skills. So they sang a lot of filmy songs, lifebuoy jingle, the track of kyunki saas bhi kabhi bahu thi and a lot of other stuff. Thankfully, the college appeared around the corner just when the last bit of our eardrums and tonsils were melting away.

Its been quite a rollercoaster ride so far. A sign of things to come. Picture toh abhi baaki hai mere dost!

Trying something here

A jewelry house has chosen a fair skinned actress over a dusky one, thus sparking off a major debate over prejudice based on the color of one’s skin while the average Indian gasps at this grave injustice while buying the latest fairness cream from the kirana shop.

It is an age-old phenomenon. Things ‘lighter’ on the eye are always more dear to the heart. The stereotypes signify the same. The protagonists in myth are always fair or medium complexioned while the baddie usually gets to be dark and ugly. Somehow dark and ugly were made for each other. Ever heard of fair and lovely rakshasas? Or the glowing skins of the brave slaves. Fair skin was reserved for royalty. Well, in most of the cases.

We, as a country are obsessed with fairness. The amount spent by Indian women and Indian men (in hiding) on turmeric, whitening creams, fairness essences and anything, which says ‘glowing’ in any part of its slogan is humongous. If the same is contributed to the Infrastructure Development Fund, Mr. Chidambaram is going to be a happy man and you can take out your childhood bike parked in the pothole on the road which was going to be filled someday.

Coming back to the topic, even fiction reiterates the same and so do the movies. The ‘gaon ki gori’ is the ‘dil ki dhadkan’ of all the village dudes. So what did ‘Gaon ki sanwli’, ‘Gaon ki Kali’ and the likes do? They settled for arranged marriages, I guess.

Marriages, hmmm…. Read one of the matrimonial sections in a magazine and you would find ‘Wanted, fair-skinned, homely, blah blah’ in the brides’ section. The bridegrooms concentrates on ‘Wanted well-settled, regular income…’ conveniently missing out on the skin color of the guy. Of course, tall, dark and handsome is the dream version of a guy and if you get atleast the ‘dark’ adjective in a prospective bridegroom, you must be happy, I think.

Such grave injustice. So what do the dusky and dark skinned folks do? Well, going by recent ‘stately happenings’, we declare a war on the ‘fair-skinned’ people. We break some cars, throw some soft drink bottles in their houses (after drinking the beverage, of course) and shout slogans whenever we are bored.

Or we could have rewrite our lyrics like ‘Kaaliya, chura na mera jiya’, ‘Sanwle sanwle mukhde pe kaala kaala chashma; and the likes. Lug around bottles of tanners and bronzers and throw them at people who say ‘Try this, this will make you fair’. Say that dusky skin is in.

Of course, the ‘Gores’ have it bad too. Talk about sunburn, Holi color that shines on the face for a month, going pink when you blush, going red when you cry, going purple when you are bruised, going red again when the pimple shines, well, a lot of colors that don’t constitute fair. They don’t have it that easy afterall.

Jokes apart, the skin is after all, an organ. And a clean one is the one that signifies good health and prosperity, not one that is fair or dark. And melanin concentration does not make you special. Fair or dark, true ability is what will make you glow at the end of the day.

The world loves to laugh. Especially when the joke is on you.

There is a show on one of the Tamil channels for working folks to showcase their singing talent. Some of them are pretty good at it. And there is plenty of cheering done by the other folks whenever their teammate or officemate(?) does a la la la on the stage. And everytime I see that, my heart goes hmm... No love angles here but just some memories that stay back of a desperate attempt to sing.

It was one of those lag months when work was slow and office conversation became pretty boring. And out of the blue, came this mail from the 'official' band of the company. They were looking out for new talent and auditions were to be held in a week's time. And the best part was that anyone with a tongue, tonsils and a voice in between could audition. No formal training necessary. Skip the sa sa re re and the so fa la ti.

One hop skip and jump and I landed on my colleague's desk. She happened to be reading the mail at the time.

Me: Hey, This is so amazing! Lets go and bunk office...

She: Yeah...

Me: What Yeah?

She: What What Yeah? (We can be pathetic at times.)

Me: Your 'yeah' usually states that the subject is unwilling to perform the task assigned.

She: I don't know. I wouldn't want to make a fool of myself. Besides it's office, not college. We have to work with these people sometime. I don't want people laughing at me when I am troubleshooting websites.

Me: Thanks for the encouragement. But it will be a nice break from work. We can even see how the food is at the other office.

(In most companies, the food is often the deciding factor on its credibility. At least for us, it was.)

She: I think I will pass. Besides I don't think I sing that well.

I swallowed hard. The lady in front of me was the closest anyone can get to Shania or Shakira in my team. The only person who sounds like she is singing an english song when she is singing it. Most of us weren't so lucky. I thought I should also let this pass. But something came over me and soon I shot a reply back stating that they wait for the ultimate singing sensation to join them soon. Of course, I didn't put it that way. I just said I was in. Watching Indian Idol reruns ruins decision making ability.

One of the problems with IT offices is the cubicle system of seating. There is plenty of silence at times that the person in the third cubicle in the fourth row from you can hear you whispering agitatedly on the phone to your mother why you don't want Upma for dinner among other important issues.

Word soon spread like virusfire, no wildfire in IT. I don't know why singing abilities are taken so lightly. Especially mine. My loving team cheered me so much during the run-up to the auditions that I wanted to blow trumpets into their eardrums. Some samples of good cheer are given below.

I was rechristened 'Kuyil' for the week. 'Kuyil' is the Tamil word for Mynah. Whenever I was trying to impress, intimidate or simply act friendly around people outside the team, one of the team members would pop-up out of nowhere and go 'Kuyil' at the top of their voices. I ran to the nearest loo, cubicle or into the elevator.

Any act of intimidation, scaring people or terrorizing innocent subjects was outsourced to me at zero cost.

"Hey, the onsite manager is troubling me again. Can you sing during the next conference call? I want to show him what I can do to him..Gu hahahahaha!"

"The coffee machine is not working? Ask her to sing. It usually scares the machine to working back. Worked on my mouse."

"Lets have Bhoot bangla as the theme for the next get together. We can save money on the BG. Just ask her to sing."

But I wasn't about to be stressed so easily. I finally found one lady who was also willing to participate, forced her to participate and gloated over the fact that there was some company.
Until the last day...

Me: So let's show'em.... What are you singing?

She: I don't think I am singing.. They would want technically perfect modulation, a mersmerising voice and some classical music training atleast..

Me: Don't chicken out now...

She: Sorry. But I really don't think...

Me: It's ok! I will go alone. Besides I want to give it a try.

She: Good for you! So you've sung at competitions before? Have you trained?

(I think it is a good time to showoff whatever little vocal history I have.)

Me: Oh yeah, I went for Hindustani music classes for a week. And I got a participation certificate in kindergarten. I also sing regularly at home.

(Expect her to feel small)

So I guess you haven't had any classical training, huh? That's why you don't want to try?

She: Yeah...something like that. My Guru said it was not the right time for me to sing.

Me: Your Guru? As in Yoga Guru? He he

She: No my Carnatic music teacher. The one who has been teaching me for seventeen years?

I run off to my cubicle at top speed.

I did sing finally at the auditions. And I think I did ok. Because the audience stared at me after the performance for only five minutes before the customary clapping.

When I got back, questions and queries regarding my singing adventure were asked. I said that the panelists were very happy and had asked for an encore. I even tried to say that one of them offered me a song in a movie but I guess that was a bit over the top. I could say anything I wanted because no one had been to the auditions and the results would be mailed only to the participants.

I was blackmailed into singing at one of the official birthday gettogethers. I sang but not before going beet red or any colour my melanin levels would permit. But my team applauded. And very sincerely at that.

I was moved to tears. Such nice fellows!

Later, I heard that they had been very impatient to eat the chocolate truffle cake that beckoned them so invitingly. They would have been ready to cheer Gabbar singh singing 'Pyaar hua. ikraar hua'.

Sigh! So much for some exercise for the vocal chords. And one of the perils of working in a more-than-friendly team.

By the way, I heard auditions are on for the next Indian Idol. Hmm.....

Scene: A hot, smoky kitchen. Subject is vigorously stirring something in a vessel, lit atop a stove. The James Bond theme is playing in the background. Zoom into the vessel which shows a semi-solid substance, slowly turning black. Subject is frantically trying to get it off the pan.

The door bursts open and Bond stands in the most alluring, sleuth like pose, with a gun in one hand and another on the door.

Subject : Aah! Who are you?

James Bond: The name is Bond, James Bond.

Subject : Hey Bond? Can you taste these brinjals first?

And the world heard of Bond no more.

This is what would have happened had Bond flown down to Chennai this Monday. And to start with, let me tell you I am quite a passable cook. Nobody has ever died after eating whatever I make. And I have survived for days with what I cook.

And I love to cook. Not very elaborate cuisines but even simple roti, idli and dosa will suffice. But of late, I have discovered and suffered from a new phenomenon that should, probably, be called “Chef’s block”.

Anything that I cooked, stirred or fried suddenly didn’t taste so good to me. The family’s reactions were also not very encouraging. New ways were found to keep me ‘joyfully occupied’, read as two feet away from the pots and pans while there was buzzing activity in the kitchen.

I mention the matter to a friend while on a telephonic conversation. And I realize that the effort is futile as friend-in-question is a bachelor whose idea of cooking is spraying sauce and chilly flakes on readymade pizza. He says the spraying should be officially termed as cooking. Why? Cause no two sauce or chilly patterns ever in the history of the delicious pizza are the same and that makes all the difference in the taste. I am buying him cookbooks for his birthday. ‘The mysterious science of sauce pattens’ should be more interesting.

I remember one of the more philosophical conversations on cooking that I once had at office. Food on the terrace is very entertaining. Flying pappads, paper plates, aalu chips and splattered sauce have been the foundation for many a strong relationship. My friend, J had a very heavy heart when he mused on why Gulab Jamuns had not yet evolved to flying consistency. His ultimate fantasy would be Catherine Zeta Jones running frantically after a flying Gulab Jamun that found its way to J’s mouth ultimately. Jamun in the mouth and Jones at hand is J’s idea of nirvana.

Anways, coming back to the cooking, V announced that he had cooked on the weekend. The subtle remark had the other of us choking or in a state of shock. Of course, J recovered first. One cannot remain in shock when there are gulab jamuns waiting to be stolen from other plates.

Now V is the perfect stereotype for an IT bachelor. He works for 14 hours, 8 hours of which are spent at the coffee machine, elevator inside and outside the lunch area. The remaining are spent in his apartment calling for pizza or roti or whatever is available at the dead of the night and waiting for them to arrive in an edible state. J also belongs to the same category thoughr his kitchen is actually used for cooking, unlike V’s where microorganisms from a two month old slice of bread are planning the destruction of mankind. J even claims to cook fabulously. But I remember that his roommate ate outside and his pet cat finally divorced him and has taken shelter outside Saravana Bhavan.

V claimed that he had made ‘mind-blowing’ carrot sandwiches for breakfast. Carrot sandwiches? The cook in me stirred on hearing a potential new recipe.

Me: Seriously? How did you make it?

V: Oh you mix carrot pulp with chilli flakes and tomato sauce and spread them on bread.

Me: Blech!! Is it the new Dog food variant?

V: I knew you would say that. But trust me, it tasted heavenly.

Me: But why carrot pulp? Grated carrot makes more sense.

V: Oh that is because I was trying to make carrot juice initially and the damn mixer would not grind the carrots properly. So I made sandwiches.

Me: But it should…You must have had some patience.

V: Patience? I ran the Mixer for half an hour….Funny how the carrots seemed soft at first…

Me: Soft? Wait, when did you buy these carrots?

V: Mom got it for me…

Me: Your Mom left three weeks ago!

V: Yeah…I think it must have been because I didn’t cut the damn thing first. Anyways was too zonked to do that.

Me: Listen.

V: Yeah…

Me: Feed me those sandwiches the next time I ask you for a recipe.

V gets a call. It is his roommate who is using the latest swear words in the bachelor market for good use. We can only hear damn, carrot, Digene, Eno, water in the loo and Doctor punctuated with expletives. V never replies and gets back to lunch.

Somehow I am thinking I might be able to take cookery classes afterall!