The Master

Knowledge is a important constituent for the recipe of Success. Hence or otherwise, a man should always be on the quest of Knowledge. A pertinent thing should be noted in the beginning itself, that one is entitled to hold his own views about any topic and individual perception - unquestionably - is relative to his own version of interpretation of Knowledge he has acquired. An individual is too naive to comprehend the vastness of Knowledge. Inasmuch, the associated meaning. A frivolous mind just needs the trivial trickling oozing from a sagacious mind to associate a meaning to his life. The former mind can't posses an intelligent insight. Such an insight comes as a derivative of extensive Knowledge, possessed by the latter mind. The wring of the elaborate scribbling is none but one: A man needs a Master.

I am fortunate. I have discovered the One. Perhaps, it's a blaspheme to to put it that way. Let me rephrase. The Chosen One picked me from the dirt and embraced. The touch of the Master - the Midas touch, literally - has transformed me. I have had lived my life as an animal. Now, post-embracing-act, I find myself elevated to the human clan.

Master is a an abundant source of knowledge. He knows everything about everything. Whenever, I have any doubt - on any topic, of any severity and at any hour of the clock - Master answers it with His placid smile and austere wordings that are his ™. Master believes in Simple Living and No Thinking. Arguably, it's perfectly fine on His part since He needn't put an effort to think. Thoughts are the by-product of His respiration. Simplicity is His key virtue. Let it be any weather, He keeps it to (thread) bare basics when it comes to the apparels. He works for the betterment of the humanity. However, as He is very practical - unlike the much (in)famous bearded (and preposterous) sages of the valley - He earns his own morsel by putting a gruesome effort throughout the day inside the quarry. He mines knowledge. Master is selfless. He distributes those minerals, in-valuable things for Him, to the lazy morons like me for free. He has infinite capacity. He listens to my senseless propositions, misdemeanours, pesky questions, et al with patience. He has answer for everything. Right from how to use the Press to, how to impress the Boss. Once I asked Him about how to cook, He quipped, 'Taste is a function of the perceptibility of your (rudimentary) braincells. Savour whatever comes as the output. Respect the effort. Rejoice the creativity.' Another day, I had asked Him why He wears perforated vests and torn jackets. He had replied, 'Clothes are to be worn for the darned social acceptance. God has gifted you with the skin. Why worry for a duplicate cover? Be content with whatever you have. Respect the pristine primates.' Then one day about the need of bathing he had shared his wisdom, 'What is bathing? Wasting Water. Ruining your skin. You do good only to the petty FMCG cos who sell you poison in the namesake of soap, for inordinate sum of money telling you that it has milk and honey. If it has those thing then better eat it! People don't even get water for quenching their thirst. And you waste it over your body? Unfair! Purify yourself from inside. Thoughts should be sacrosanct. Devoid of malice. Full of love. Love for Knowledge.'

Master is very loving. His scolding is like a cuddle to his disciples. He doesn't care about money. He spends money like anything, when it comes to material happiness demanded by his petty apostles. He takes them for the (child) films, eateries and ilk. I am happy like a child at the candy store, when I am with Master. He buys happiness to me. A fatherly figure. Without Master, I feel alone. Abandoned. Orphaned. I admire my Master beyond the purview of any measuring scales ever fabricated.

There was a time when I used to be disgruntled. Think negative. Loose temper. Kick anyone's buttocks for no apparent reason. I was a perfect bad boy. Despised and Disowned. Master owned me then, and hence. His touch of perfection mellowed me down. Now, I am happy. I don't think. Pamper (loathsome) kids. And, lick Master's inexhaustible mind. He is the Source of Joy. On a lighter note, Master finds me His source of joy. Perhaps, my jester-like deeds and stupid queries amuse Him. Talking of time, Master keeps giving me, time and again, advice on many area I am novice at. He gives me tips on stocks and shares, investment, literary stuffs, good articles, his unbiased views on multitude of topics ranging from Polity to Poultry and at times - very rarely - how to conquer a pretty being.

Lately, I have become worried for Master. Master is still unmarried. I have insisted to Him umpteen times though, that He has reached the apt age. I tried to convince Him that He is now mature, ripe, full bloomed. He must act. Procreativity is, after all, a function of pro-activity. Time and tide wait for none. Master, however, sneered at my colourful plea congnising my hideous motive of ticking Him off my way. I am his disciple, however. He has given lot for the betterment of society, and above all, to me. I must care for Him. He must get settled in His life. What if that cost me to be left brefet of His - as of yet undivided - Love. I must learn to walk alone. His spirit - in principle - shall always be with me. I know.

Get Married, Master.

The Evil is Good

Since long a pseudo-monologue has been pestering me. Who is better off? The poor but good people or the prosperous but evil? The comparison, notably, is not only on the monetary parameter. Interestingly enough, it is on all possible parameters you can ever think of. They say, money is root of all evils. Let it be. Had it not been, the money I mean, how would you have bought men? On barter? In that case, present day Marxism would have flourished like anything. One Rightist for a dozen of Leftist!

That digression notwithstanding, let me share my thesis. I am not religious man, per se. Neither is my work.

It has been an year since I had stumbled upon this question. Earlier I broomed it with a view that I was too naive to ponder upon it. Later, however, I took it just like I took engineering! My premise itself was biased. I assumed that the evil is better. The reason is simple. Look anywhere on the time line. Right from ancient to current days, the statement holds true. Yes, it's empirical. The thesis is. Feelings can't be quantified as of date. Isn't it? So, the empirical evidence confirms the fact that the so called evil fellas were the ones who were better off. They were prosperous, lived in mansions, had beautiful women, enjoyed all material pleasures (Can anyone please tell me a non-materialistic one? Please stave off the spiritual one beforehand), had servants/slaves for prole jobs, controlled big businesses, some were landlords or even kings, were wicked (by default!) and were hence burden on humanity. The last two traits are necessary evils, available ubiquitously.

Let's start from Mr. Ram. First of all, I still can't believe such a human could exist. He was really funny, you see. He was mighty, suave, adorable, learned, well-groomed and had terrific reasoning capabilities. Accepted. What was the achievement of life? Relinquishing the throne to younger kin? Wandering in jungles with ladij? Searching the stolen (or lost?) ladij with supernatural powerpuffed monkeys and bears? Or Killing a out-and-out talented man with the help of the tip-off by the latter's disgusting disgruntled younger kin? Asking the ladij to prove virginity or vacating the palace for some petty washer man, who remarked - a rather embarrassing one - about the ladij? What? Compare the slain fellow once. Conquered heaven, had a gorgeous wife, lived in palace (made of gold with a sea facade, you see), had a chartered aeroplane, true worshipper of God, a great ruler who controlled a substantial trade and commerce, had the beautous ladij as a serene view in the commensurately beautiful park for a good period of time and as a cheese topping on the pizza, the veteran was sent straight direct to heaven (for uninterrupted continual of facilities he had been enjoying on earth) by none else but the incarnation of God himself! A life worth lived. What else would you ask for?

Let's come a tad closer to present. Duryodhan. Again, well-groomed, prosperous, mighty, ambitious, shrewd. Enjoyed the life and throne to the full. In the end? The big fellow handed him a ticket for the heaven by killing him. Mr. Krishna got a bit confused I think. The big fellow was never that smart that he could outsmart Duryodhan, the then king of land and a noted connoisseur of the weapon the big fellow used to crack him down illegally. If you notice in both cases, the martyr has been victimised because of some or other unlawful act. Agreed, that Duryodhan took aide of biased dices to show the fundu-five way out. But then who slained Jarasandgh? Wasn't it the dear God himself who got the assassination job done from the big fellow, with His prowess and his power? Unfair! The good thing is, Duryodhan got to heaven. Compare the fundu-five. Talented, well-groomed and blah-blah, helped by the God himself. Achievement? Wandered in scary jungles in most part of the life? Shared one women, the one who made them victim of Duryodhan's wrath? Lost kingdom two times in casino (guess why we don't have Casinos nowadays)? Throned with the help of the crutches of God who himself had to move his kingdom a thousand kilometres westwards, for he was tired fighting? What?

Even closer. Samrat Ashok. Ditched by father and kins for throne even when he was the one who conquered the entire land, save the last few traces, this man was a true legend. We know him as a great king who accepted Buddhism. Why? The Kalinga war moved him (from violence). Hah! What a joke. Once you have the entire land in your hand, whom you are going to fight with? Right hand with the Left? He was no stupid. And mind you, History is written by the winners. He had won. He wrote it. We know him as a peace loving emperor who did a great job for social cause. Yes, he did. That was his job. But he was no peace lover or piegon freak. He was a brutal and ruthless conqueror who made his own way through all odds.

Akbar. Even bigger joke: Akbar was benign ruler and a saviour of mankind in the peninsula. Because we can't accept that our then kings were so eunuch-like that they couldn't stop the invasions from the Mongols, we accept that the erstwhile barbarians suddenly transmogrified to benign ones. Touch of the Indian soil, perhaps. British. They came on the poop and showed us that our rulers are boob. They were properous. They are still. Americans. They make Saddams and Osamas for oil, and then eliminate them for more oil. They were prosperous. They are. Our politicians. They make us fight for education, job and existence in the name of caste, creed, race and religion. They are prosperous. They don't even die! These are illustrations as to how evil men manage to record themselves as the saviour of mankind in history.

So why are you still the good boy on the block? Adduce galore you have. Be the bad boys. You will enjoy the life not only here but even the afterlife.

The Weekend

Weekends, especially Saturdays, are lazy days. After gruesome (!) weekdays of laborious (!) work schedule, Saturday always offers a pleasant morning, irrespective of the perennial despicable weather in the part of country I have chosen to make career. Like other evolutionary primates, I also tend to wake past the dawn. The Sun anyway is always on time for the duty. Being on leave, I prefer to let it earn its bread by burning itself and in the course of the process, my room-mate burns himself (I mean to say, the extra fat he acquires overnight, courtesy me, as a consequence of consuming a generous quantity of ghee over the protein rich - and ghastly tasteless - food) preparing the breakfast for us. Although it is not fixed, yet I prefer anything other than the horrible Maggie. How on earth can any living being eat those loathsome assortment of tasteless strings without any garnishing, is beyond the capabilities of comprehension for my poor dimwitted cerebrum. That digression notwithstanding, I survive with whatever he slips in for my consumption.

Last Saturday as he was not there, I had to personally look after the entire aforementioned proceedings. To my horror, the maid arrived before time and was very happy keeping the bell button depressed till the moment she could adore my face. Unwillingly I had to part off from my bed and let her in. For the umpteenth time she enquired about when my room-mate was returning. I wonder whether she is interested in the work or him! He is not that hapless, to be frank. She finished her job pronto, nevertheless making me hop from on place to other for the namesake of dusting, and departed. In the meanwhile, the newspaper and the milk pouch had been delivered. Still yawning, I picked the articles and provided them with their respective places of residence. As I had anyway been woken up, I avoided the sin of sagging back again in the bed. Ergo, I indulged myself in the newspaper. Lately, I have realized that newspapers can more aptly be rechristened as tabloids. Hindi newspapers have religiously maintained their forbidden status for the sensible citizens. A few English ones, self proclaimed as the throat and tongue of the nation, who had an erstwhile reputation of being diligent in putting words have now taken hypocrisy as their vision, mission and value. I perused through the 68 odd pages, 24 of which were classifieds (ironical usage of the print media for advertisement), 12 had full length portraits of dare-to-wear owlets, another 8 of the international news of absolutely no pertinence to my humble and benign existence and the rest 24 about the national news which, lest the dates of the calendar has to change, is notoriously the same. The entire activity took about 20 minutes. I suddenly felt a sense of achievement, being updated of the most current happenings of the world.

As I had to stew my own morsel, I rose from the bed again. Put the tea in the tea-jar and summoned all my energies to think about what to prepare to dispense with the upheaval at both the floor of my anatomy. After a long solitudinal brainstorming, I settled for Rave-Ka-Shira. Another ten minutes of hard work and I was again in my bed munching the moreish dish for the tongue, along with old editions of the ET, for skull. That's the only newspaper I am seduced to. It carries news; simply. With the mind and matter put to gratification and the Sun already passed over the head, I indulged into a siesta. Lately, I have discovered I have become rather indulgent. I now indulge in even in the least possible thing I had never even bothered to dream of. For example, nowadays I iron my clothes! When I enjoyed the lavishness of home, I regarded this to be a blasphemous, sordid or for that reason a squalid job.

Never mind that. Post-siesta, I found the clock lackadaisically hanging on at 17:30. As it was my duty to get up, for the sake of the crushed bedsheets and pressed mattresses, I did. Yawning all along the wall of my apartment, I filled the tea-jar again. While the tea was boiling, I put the milk container back on the gas. Milk, I tell you, is a entailing substance. It needs refrigeration, to save it from 'splitting'. Also, it needs to be boiled, again so that the darned thing doesn't split. Can't we make the holy animal, this is derivative of which, eat something gluey so that one can stave off the split hairs of boiling it time and again? I read somewhere about a group of Scandinavian vets who tweaked with the genes of the holy animal so that it can pour out 4 times the normal (now, what is that?) quantity of the fluid. I wonder whether these musketeers of anthropology have any concern for my recommendation. The tea was ready. I gulped it, few biscuits to savour with and couched in the bed again. It creaked. It was a signal perhaps, that I must let it enjoy the freedom too.

Taking the cue, I changed, and put my foot out. There was no particular place to go. I hence decided to indulge (again !) into a mindless stroll. The daily routine doesn't allow me to look at the edifices encroaching the barren spread all around my apartments. The stroll gave me ample opportunities to appreciate the engineering wizardry. I must say, people have invested sumptuously. Some villas truly justify their pompous names viz. the Castle. This one is built in an area of over 10,000 sq feet. The peripheral brickwork is a dozen feet tall, ornated with dreadful spikes and complimented with commensurate main entrance door. I was impressed, honestly. Karan Johar is not all insane. Such villas do exist. And yes of course, their were some other greener things, there that did attract my attention. Their attention, as always, was already been 'taken'. This is one more thing that makes me realize how godforsaken I am. The self realisation also led me to the ultimate reality of life: the ones of my age have either already been taken or about to be, those who are elder find me as a cute kid and the younger ones, the smarter race of course, have already chosen the better for them. As a consequence of this introspection (I honestly thank my management training for making me so comfortable with the use of this word, a courtesy daily hearing), enlightenment has struck upon me to be modest and accept solitude as the only solace rather than to strike up something with somebody. The loner, the better.

Tired and exasperated, I unlocked the home. I cooked myself a gourd (not because I am a gourmand, but only that was available) and rotis. Swallowed some water and collapsed in the bed, pronto. The day had been really tiring. Deep thought process (this is another word, I duly thank for) depletes the mind of the precious fluids that must be repleted by a cosy sleep amount to no less than third of a day. Following this precious advice from the doctor, I culminated my happening day.

This was Saturday, indeed. Sunday, of course, I spare for rest, exclusively.

HOMGKGWAGL

Read a novel recently. The novel had a unusually long name viz. How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life. Now, a disclaimer, before I proceed: Avert those thoughts. Ya those that brushed off your mind just after reading that name. It's not a Sidney Sheldon stuff. It's clean work, written in original style. No PG required.

The story is about a NRI girl whose NRI parents dream her to achieve Harvard and groom her so that she starts dreaming their dream. A typical Indian family upbringing scenario, where parents decide what the child is destined to become, let alone the fact whether the child has either the capacity or inclination for the purportedly envisioned career. To avoid such a thing from happening, her parents meticulously chalk out a roadmap that will guide her right from infancy to their dream fancy. The child abides by it and reaches the juncture where she is interviewed at the Harvard. Contrary to her expectations, the interviewer asks her two very simple & straight questions over the usual academic ones, viz. what does she does for fun and who are her friends. In the advent of such sudden detour by the interviewer, the girl - Opal Mehta - ends up making a mess. The interviewer however consoles her and recommends concentrating on these banal appearing yet difficulty posing questions, for the simple reason that the Harvard needed all rounders and not nerds. How she gets over with it, or can she ever get over with it, is all the book about. Apropos, to taste a real life she must get kissed, loose the robotic routine by letting the mind got wild and embrace a normal life.

No rocket science involved. No philosophy engrossed. The language is simple. The writing style heavily bears a contemporary hue. Let it be the remarks on farcical flag-bearers of Indian culture abroad, the use of mild slang or the exaggerated and hysterical hauteur patronised by proles in US (which unfortunately, is considered haute by the upper crest Indians), all has been outlined crisply. What appealed me the most was the witty manner in which the message was conveyed. The message is incidentally very simple: live a life of your choice. Choose the obvious. Don't obviate the obvious for something oblivious. That never means that you should not have any aim in life. You should. But in the process of achieving it, don't forget that He has gifted you with a beautiful world to live in. Live it. Be a part of it. One should feel exalted after achieving the summit, not alone. Friends, fun and formulae are equally important.

The author, Kaavya Vishwanathan is incidently a pursuing Harvard student herself. This is her first novel, a parable instead. A good refresher. Kudos.

Don - The Chase Begins Again

Go, watch the DON. The old one was really pathetic if you want to go into a comparison. Neither it had a pace, nor a convincing story (by far the most illogical one I have ever seen, except, of course, the Karan Johar ones), nor a high octane content that should testify something which can be categorised as a action film. If you still want to compare, Mr. Khan was much mean, more evil looking and well, as usual, dressed beyond perfection. Ms. Chopra didn't hyperact like Ms. Aman. Chases, signifying the name, were way better. Locations, hah! were there any in that dilapidated flick? Action sequences were good and expected to be. I specially liked the dropout sequence from the flight. If Mr. Schwarzenegger can do it in Eraser, why not the meanest drug dealer? Dialogue delivery, where most of the people detest Mr. Khan over Mr. Bacchan, were executed off well, in fact, very well. And, the character literally proved each word uttered. Oh yes, the one and the famous, 'Don ko pakadna muskil hi nahi....Namumkin bhi hai'. The two films are incomparable. The period was different. Still if you want to be happy cribbing that the old one was better, let me tell you one little secret. The old flick was on Vijay. This one is on, Don.
The plot has been much upgraded. Not only in scale and texture but in logic. I couldn't find any apparent illogical thing in the entire story. Compare the old one. OMG! That was truly hilarious. Don is right hand of a drug dealer in Malaysia. He goes for a deal in India, which turns out to be a fake. Police after Don. The Chase Begins. He is caught (unfortunately). The police agent rope in a look-alike, in anonymity of police. Sends him back to work. He goes there and collects the CD of contacts. Gives it back to the agent. Then in a mix up, the agent dies. Now, how to prove the identity of the look-alike? The Chase Beings again. This all and much more just packed in meagre three hours of time. Lots of cars. Lots of guns. Lots of bullets ricochetting all around. Fast changing places and plots. Appreciable editing skills, I must say. Great stunts. Good use of technology (No rope walk this time!). Noteworthy muscle use. Good!

The twists are great. A real earth shattering stuff, from the point of view of the average Indian cinema goer, who acclaims Mr. Badjatya's films are great (puke!). You will enjoy the shocks and sudden revelations. You will feel, you amissed hearing a dialogue or that what you just saw must have been an illusion. Isn't it the surprises and out of the box we expect from the movies? Luckily, the flick offers it, and in a convincing and sweeping manner. Another great piece of work from the director, who incidentally, is my favourite. Mr. Khan, whom I am ardent fan of, was, as I had said always, just Wow! He has been experimenting a lot lately. An Army Major in MHN, a pragmatic geek in Swades (another all time favourite), frustrated hubby in KANK (puke again!), and now a mean and clean drug mafia who eliminates his adversaries ruthlessly in cold blood. A substantial variety, unarguably.

Yes there were few points that I regret. Ya! you are absolutely correct. The two songs that were plucked and planted, as is. Kareena was horrible. The paanwala number was unnecessary and untimed. Mr. Khan, undoubtedly, danced like a teen with umpteen jumps. Impressive. The older one, perhaps, was better here. Besides these misdemeanours, the movie is really enjoyable. The music is tantalising or even titillating! (My WMP has lost the play count.) I liked the fcninternational mix and the don revisited the most. The Aaj ki raat hummable. The title song was worth watching.
Apropos, great movie. Still reading? Heck! Go, watch the best thing yet offered this year.

The Quest for Gas

Last evening, while getting fresh, the cell rang. A friend had called up to intimate that he has got the gas (LPG) connection. He was jubiliant. That, however, made me nervous. Even after two complete days of possession of new house, I was still connectionless. Reviving my management training take-home tips, I brushed aside the nervousness and replaced it - just like that - with enthusiasm. Fueled by the enthusiasm, I kicked my bike and set off in the quest for the gas agency.

It is noteworthy that the friend was talking of a temporary gas connection. The permanent one demands an assortment of documents, just to prove that I am Indian, I live on this part of earth called Noaydaaa and that a photograph took 5 years back and scribbed over ruthlessly by some paan-eater (read man-eater) goarmaent babu is still the same me. Oh Sorry! I am being negative. Bad habits, you see, don't go so easily. One must never speak negative. Oh! I mean, always speak positive (Or, not speak truth?).

Anyways, with my steed ready at my service, as always, I lurked into those murky and meanderish lanes of the city, which a sensible individual would be the last one to do. Circumstances, you see, make inevitable, evident. After searching a few such lanes, finally I met the prospect vendor. The negotiations began. Needless to say, it was more of an argumentative haggle than a humble bargain. Anyways, the deal settled for 400 bucks with 200 bucks refund when we give back the cylinder and the regulator. Expensive it seems, but experience of ICH since last one year has been so unforgiving that I trusted my untested hands for making my repast than to dine again at ICH.

The gas was mine.

Then I headed towards the mall. Following the golden advice of my Master, "Brand name is the minimal guarantee of genuiness" I entered the branded Daily Shop. At the billing counter, I dumped the fry pan and deep fry pan (kadhai). The shop was offering the kadhai free with the fry pan. In effect, for 205 bucks, I was getting both equipments (or utencils? Whichever is the correct nomenclature. What the heck!) Till the clerk made the bill, I was already in the fast lane, dreaming about me as the chef. Aha! what a magnificient sight it was. "Ejqujmee Saar!", the clerk quipped and forwarded the bill.

Honestly, my jaw dropped at least 2 inches when I looked into the scrip. First I glanced, then gazed, then inspected, then introspected and finally, growled. It was a bill for Rs.750, only. I demanded explaination. They demanded source of my action. I quoted the tag, hovering above the rack from which I had picked the duo. They responded, the scheme had ended quite a while ago. Feeling befooled, I shook my head in that moment of disillusionment. I was about to say, "OK, take whatever you want." And then suddenly something happened.

The clergy started apologising. I was thoroughly bemused. I had been too smart in assuming that the Indian lookalikes of these western retail chain shall be equally perfect in the upkeep of the store. Hence, I had picked up the stock just by looking at the tag, without even podering about consulting the attendant standing nearby. Now here was I standing with a bill slip of Rs.750 and these people in clergy started apologising. I guess, they deciphered my obvious bewilderment. So, the lead out there took me in the corner and confided in a low voice, "Boss! Yeh...Humse jo gaflat ho gayi hai, uske liye maaf kijia. Aap ye dono saman le jaiye...Khushi se...par...", he survilied the viscinity cautiously and lower his voice even more and continued, "...par...bahar yeh mat bataiyega ki humare yahan aisa ghapla hua tha. Pleej Saab. Hain? Thiik Saab? Thaenku!"

I was fused. My mind was point blank. The lead was offering me a Rs.550 discount for no apparent reason and just asking me to keep mum for no apparent mistake of his team. All this was just too much. I don't remember what I replied to him. I guess, I was way too confused. The last thing I remember is that I was carrying a rather heavy bag with some metal dangliling inside.

Later when I sat over the matter, back at home, I guffawed (literally). Hah! I had made money.

After coming out of the shock, I made a sumptous Omellet of 4 eggs and baked 4 bread slices. Mind you, it was way more tastier than the ICH one. Towards the end of the day, I was content. Both because I has the Gas to fuel my appetite and also, because I found a second promising way to make money, without putting any effort. The first one is obviously, sitting in the office.

The Shift

Husshhh! After much procastrination, I shifted to the new abode. Big it is. Spacious it is. Bright and Well-Ventilated it is. The old residence seems more like an adobe commensurate to the newer abode.

The process started a couple of weeks before. I started the hunt for a desparate owner who could rent his space to me. Luckily, my erstwhile boss made a few quick calls and arranged a meeting with a desparado. The meeting went fine. He handedover the keys for my perusal of the space. I did peruse, along with my recently discovered Master. Master appreciated my selection. Agog, I called the owner. The deal clicked.

Next what? Set up the house. What makes the flat a house was a dauting question. Parents never let me feel the heat of such questions. Burnt and Burdened, I strolled in the mall. Then I called my Master for guidance. Master, as always, gave an unambiguous solution. Following His advice I entered the Big Bazaar. Shopped till I dropped, comprising everthing from pin to pan and string to stove. The teller handed over a bill of Rs.4097. My heart thumped. 20% of the salary gone, just like that? Dhatt Tere Ki. Anyways, I loaded the purchase in the rickshaw and flew back to house.

In the evening, I went to the local market to buy other ancillaries. Bucket, containers, mugs, mattersses, mats, doormats, broom, bread, butter, knives, spoons, plates...OMG! It was a costly affair. Both on the pocket as well as the poor head.

This saturday, I decided to finally relocate to the house. So, begin with the packing of my stuff. The suitcases got full. The handbags got full. Still, my luggage kept peeking out of the wardrobe. God knows from where I got that much stuff. This way or that, it had to be packed. So, I converted a few polypags into new handbags. At the end of the tiring exercise of packing, I found a total of 18 something of pacakages. One each of shoes, books, magzines, house accesories, snacks and fast food, et cetra. It took a full quarter of an hour to bring the whole stuff down at the reception. Following that, I hailed a rickshaw. After loading the entire stuff, the rickshaw driver once gazed at me; top to bottom and then at the luggage. Then I think, he gasped, which I safely obliviated. Raising my nose a tad upwards, I kicked the bike and issued a fiat to the driver to follow my steed.

After stuffing the house, I started putting things in place. The kitchen was the first one to get dressed up. Then was my supposititious bedroom and the wardrobe. The last one was the washroom. As the rooms got dressed up, the bags started loosing weight. The equation at the end of the tiresome endeavour was, empty bags = set house = exhausted me. Being a forced optimist though (courtsey one year management training), I rephrased the last part of the equation as elated me.

Elated or Exhausted, the body needs food. So, next was the hunt for the Roti. I had Kapada on me and Makaan was there in place. Hungry and haunted, I dropped inside an Itailian Food Provider; Pizza Hut. Had a munch on a Steamed Mushroom Pasta and Hot Veggie Lover Pan Pizza and along with the gulps of Appy Fizz. What a sumptutous way to celebrate House Warming. Hah!

Tired but content I returned to the house. The boozy eyes searched for the supposed bed of doubled-up matresses. Sporting a big yawn, I collapsed into the bed and khhrrr....

Lets see, when the house becomes a home.

Musings

Mumbai

Being a part of the city - though spordiacally only - I feel attached to it. She is fast, furious and yes, cooperative. While reading the post blast bomidic analysis, I became aware of the hefty contribution the city makes to the kitty of the Center. In its return, however, she only gets a big thumbs down. The city, arguably, has the highest population density in the country. Demographics of the city do not limit to the Maharashtrians and the Gujrathis but includes people from all parts of the country and all strata of society. She is feeding them all. But then there is a limit to her potential. Those who are left hungry, snatch the piece from the fortunate one. The lackadiascal attempts of other states' clergy, towards development (read job creation and inturn, increasing per capita income) has contributed a lot to the overcrowding of Mumbai. No visible growth encourages the citizens to look for other places, to earn the day's bread - if not more, just once a day. Metros being the obvious choice, pay the penalty. It's not just Mumbai that suffers rather, all metros have the same story to tell. Mumbai being the erstwhile commercial hub, pays the higher fraction.

Carrying such a huge crowd to their offices and back home is a daunting task. While Mumbai Suburban locals have always been a target of despise from the non-Mumbaikars, for the perrinial Dhakka-Mukki and people being stuffed in like vegetables, et al. To speak truth, however, there is no other effective alternative to locals. It takes two hours to reach Noida from Gurgaon; cities that are hardly 80Kms apart, during the business hours (the free dose of propah Hariyanvi dialect is complementary). For a commensurate amount of expenditure in the local, you can travel from Borivali to Churchgate within an hour. Mind you, both are much farther apart. The fact that local is Mumbai's lifeline, is nothing less than truth. If you blow it - and it's god damn easy to blow it - it will sure affect the common man. Next day, if the same mob boards the same coach, there is nothing to wonder and applaud about the spirit, for it has nothing to do with the any spirit. There is just no other alternative to it!

So, please stop that bravado of the Spirit of Mumbai. If you want to do something, then follow the fellow Mumbaikar: Mind your own business. They didn't stick to TV - jaws open - watching videos of fellow passengers. They went office, to work. Follow that, rather than lighting the candles. About bombing the hell out of Pakistan, forget it. Our figher planes are destined to fall on our own towns, rather than bombing.

Water

Rainy season is my second love. First is winter. The water cycle of nature is really amusing. Ocean > Evaporation > Clouds >Air Currents (for cloud movement) > Condensation > Rain > Percolation > Lakes, River & Esturies > back to Ocean. Wonderful, isn't it?

Even more wonderful is the percentage allocation of water-

77% - ice glaciers & polar caps,

10% - oceans,

10% - water table,

3% - rivers, lakes and ponds (potable).

Use the last variety, carefully!

Exercise

The figure consciousness bug finally caught me. One fine morning while I was brushing teeth, my torso visible on the mirror showed a tad fat on the belly. I flushed clean the mouth and stared at it. It was really visible. A small little pretty tummy!

What next, was the obvious question that rocked my head. Now that's something really serious because a belly at 22 means pot-belly at 44 and may be, a pit fall at 66. Agasht of this forevision, I instantaneously made my mind to workout. No excuses, nothing. Just exercise.

10 waist turns, 10 waist bends, 20 cross waist bends, 10 chair pushups and thump! It was really exaustive. Pushing the fatigue away, I finished ablutions and started the walk to the bus-stop.

The day went fine. In evening, I started feeling a bit dizzy. I attributed it to the ICH food. A perrinial excuse that always works! The night was eventless, as always.

Next morning, I reiterated the workout. Agog of the achievement, I reached the stop. The journey was adventurous, undoubtably. Office is going on fine. Just a small problem: I am unable to bend, anymore. Ouch!

Corporate

Why? Why did I go to the movie? At times, believing in gut feeling makes you run into troubles. I had made it habit to consciously avoid Hindi Cinema. Yet, this time, I defied my conscious. Boo-Hoo! What a movie!

Review comments about the film like 'Eye Opener', 'Unleashing Reality and Truth' are truly funny. My take: Not Even worth a Bottle Opener.

Frankly speaking, I would like to quote one of my co-sufferer, about the essence of the film: Young damsels are whore, the older variety are pimp and all men lecher. What the hell! I reckon, the movie wanted to paint the picture that doing business means only two things- earning profit unethically (only) and molesting the fairer colleagues!

What else? Corporate Espionage. Very well. It rocks. It's done everywhere. Even in schools, for the petty science projects. But that's for taking a cue of their future plans so that you get a lead. No one on the earth just steals the idea that blatantly. She copied (Oh Gawd! their was a Flash animation running on the screen to show the meagre copy) not only the plan but also placed order to the same vendors the rivals had done! Didn't her Management School teach her even that?

There is more to it. A VP is elbowed out, just like that. A big Window, Nudged, and that's it! Oh God!

Yes, political clout and corruption exists. It's an essential part of democracy. Unavoidable. In fact, that's the reason why an erstwhile Fuel Pump Vendor rose to be the Business Mogul of Indian Private Sector. It has been depicted well. Kudos for that.

Only positive thing I noticed was SGi group CEO's stand: When Profiteering becomes Obsession, I'm not in. That's like a seasoned and shrewd businessman. Thinking long-term by agreeing to digest immediate setback. It's always better to take sabbatical than allowing sabotaging the image and consequently, career. Appreciable.

Corporate Life is no Red Carpet. It's taxing, relentless and unforgiving. It doesn't have space for emotions. Ethics are compromised for profits and advantages. I agree. However, there is a limit to it. Had it been the movie way, none of the industrialised nations would have witness the growth. Corporate Prowess exists. I can say that from my personal experience. Rest Assured, especially, the greenhorn MBA gards.

Statutory Warning: The view Expressed are personal, hence, Baised and Judgemental.

Rambahaddur

"Shaab Chai!". The day at office begins with this welcome salutation. Rambahaddur, our tea-boy, thus serves the beverage, calling for my attention. Mind you, he makes it well. Albiet, after year long experience of ICH brand tea - one, that has a world unique aroma of Sambhar and the flavor of Rassam blended in it - every tea satifies my taste buds.

Quite quiet, Rambahaddur is a humble chap. Speaks only when he serves the beverage or when you prod him explictily otherwise. According to my boss, he classifies into the category of "The Silent Worker" (Why do all Management Cadre people need to coin a term for every day life?). Diligent in his work, he knows what to do and when to do it.

Rambahaddur works as a utility personnel in my organization. In day time, he is with us in the office, serving us beverages, soups, breakfasts and food. In the evening, he cooks food at the Recreation facility in the township. While we work for eight hours a day, in AC chambers, this chap woks for more than half of the day, mostly, in front of the stove. At the end of the day, when we all, the executive staff of the company, feel exhausted after long working hours of sitting job, this man greets us with a pervasive grin. Honestly, I derive an inspiration from this being. After enduring such a hardship if he can afford to smile, why on earth can't I? Always troubled with mundane issues like Taxes, Promotions, Career Goals, and what not, it seems we have lost the purpose of life. Rambahaddur, on the contrary, simply remembers it. He just smiles and that wipes off all the weariness of the daunting tasks he is engaged with.

Once I asked him, where he belongs to. "Shaab, Nepal Se.", he replied with his usual grin. Then it suddenly struck me that he calls me 'Shaab' over the desi 'Saab'. I mumbelled a Tut, acknowledging my ignorance. Then came the de reguire of the formal questionare, "Where in Nepal?", "I know Pashupatinath shrine. I went there, as tourist. Did you?", et cetra. He answered them all, rather shyly, with his grin gradually muating to a simper. Following that, I asked him how often he visits home? The reply was rather astounding.

This chap, who is hardly 22 or so, said that he has not been to his abode since last three and half years. Still, he could manage to flaunt a radiant, joyous face. I was bowled, undoubtably. I mused, 'Look at yourself, you moron! You start feeling anxiety and what not, in just a couple of weeks if you are seperated from the family. Do you stand to his heart?' The answer was an emphatic, No.

May be I am more qualified than Rambahaddur, but he is stronger, more determined and happier. I guess, he believes in personifying the name. Kudos to him. :)

The Office

Office. I consulted the dictionary, to look up the meaning. I boasted: A place of business where professional or clerical duties are performed. Such a humble definition. I like these Oxford people. they take everything in the straight sense and put it that way. However, in the real world scenario, the definitions broaden a bit. And over a period of time, they evolve. Just as Deprecate (To disapprove of strongly) evolved from the Latin deprecari (to avert by prayer). Nevermind that.

I joined office in August last year. The real office work began in April, per se. Thanks to the training programme we were engrossed industriously in the Year Long Executive Training with arduous perseverance in our efforts. The boss, a Sardarji incidentally, mused over my appointment under him. When I produced my appointment letter, he welcomed me lackadaisically. I, of course, waived off the thing without hesitation, assuming his last night hangover.

I was assigned a back breaker task. It took me a whole week to culminate the task successfully. Everyday, I used to bend my back, right from the start of the day to the end, to meet the deadline. Honestly, it was a treasurable experience. I had made a PowerPoint Presentation on VPNs.

Next, I was summoned. Boss patted. I elated. Agog of my achievement, I partied.

Meanwhile, I spied on the activities of the upper echelons of my department. The person sitting to the left in my neighbourhood was a Smarty. Dressed up well - officer like - and sported a shiny leather briefcase. His profile was equally dashing. He was doing research. The topic was, Solar Energy. With his proven track record on the test tracks of the company, he was entrusted with an ancillary research too. This one was on Ash Utilization. I was impressed. You see, doing research is itself a abstruse task. Doing two - in parallel - is herculean. Moreover, look at the diversity exuded by the man. One area touches the sky the other, lies beneath the ground. The former is another name for clean, perpetual and futuristic energy resource. The laggard latter symbolises murky, unsolicited, primitive and archaic thing, every Power Utility is struggling hard to get rid of. Hats off.

To the right of my seat, there was another fine fellow. I came to grasp - and following that, gasp - albiet later, that he too was a researcher. He was researching on a issue, very common to the Power Engineers. Unfortunately, he found me scratching my head when he announced it. It was Carbon Sequestration. For next half an hour or so, he narrated me about the subject assuming me as a cognoscenti. Withstanding my training, I fooled my conscious and mutated my expressions, to defy the feelings of incomprehension lying just skin deep. Or either, he fooled me that he has understood my ineptitude. This way or that, we parted off with a hearty smiles on either faces.

On fine day, boss demanded me. I promptly appeared. He asked for a briefing. First I thought he was addressing to his invisible but ingenious secretary. Later, I discovered, it was intended to me. I would come to know later that the moron secretary had eloped, without giving notice. With a sudden feeling of cold, I stared at boss. He sported the perennial smile beneath his bushy moustache. I sweated. Then managed to smile back and began. I began with the two phenomenal researchers, I had rendezvous with. Then I told him about the department. While I was about to move to the yet another imaginative script, boss raised his hand with his huge Punjabi palm wide open and facing me. Even though we were three feets apart, I felt as if he banged it on my nose. Finally he spoke. "See me next week", he said. As I turned - with a sigh of relief (and a unsuppressable feeling of being dehydrated of energy)- he added, "be better informed of your own job, by then". I nodded, instinctively.

While I walked through the corridor, I struggled with my memory, frenetically scratching my head to recall when he assigned me a job.

A Simpleton's Query

I am a bit dumb. Please explain me the answer for my query.

It's almost 60 years to us, since we got independence. Around 56 years since we are officially a sovereign country with an Assortmented Constitution. Quotas for Socially backward classes were introduced in the country using this Constitution, for a period of 10 years. Facts. Authentic ones.

One more. A generation is assumed be of 25 years. Time changes environment, perceptions and attitudes. A new generation is evolved.

Afer giving academic and economic benefits, for the namesake of social benefits, for over half a century (40 complete years of extension), we are still proposing increment in reservations.

Two generations have evolved. Third is evolving. Each one was giving ascribed to these benefits.

I want to ask, Why after giving job to a Reserved Candidate, who earns commensurate to that of an Normal one, his descendants are being given the benifits?

You once raised them to a level, equable to the Normals. Why then the forthcoming generation of that Reserved one, now be given the benefit? Is it not unfair? The Normal one earns same as the Reserved? His children survive their lives, out of the salary exactly equal to that of the Reserved one.

Then why the continuum?

The Da Vinci Code

Slow. I cerebrate, this is the most apt word to ascribe with the movie. Novel was seemingly fast paced. Nevertheless, the ambience was good. Mr. Howard did do a justice to the novel by executing it exactly as it is. Not much of digression. Ofcourse, the movie was labelled as adaptation, which allowed him to change the plot. Luckily, he managed to successfully avoid it. (I reckon, he didn't had the previledge to see the Indian adaptations of novels beau ideal being, The Guide and silver screen potrayals of legends like Mangal Pandey, Ashoka, et al).

The novel is fundamentally about a quest. A quest for searching the Truth. Being a fiction novel, the Truth is undoubtably defined at the prerogative of the author. The good thing is, Mr. Brown could provide palatable justifications to all of the premises he has made. Might be, he took them (or the idea of it, as he has won the legal litigation) from the Holy Grail.

Central Idea of the moive: Jesus Christ was mortal. He led a normal human life, affecting millions of contemporary people. He was, undoubtably, more than just an human. However, not on the account of his birth or pedigree, but his deeds. Pagan ruler Constatine; looking at the growing number of Christ followers three centuries after his death as threat to his empire; converted the Sun-Worshippings pagans follwers to members of a cult christened as Christianity, after Christ. Jesus Christ became God, from the Son of God. Conscequently, all the stints of his life that potrayed him as human needed an eraser, for the Church, to both survive, and retain power on the populace. Thus began the process of systematically erasing such information.

A pertinent question, what is so great, that it needs to be erased from the records and memory of the people to uplift the reputation of an already famous man. As said earlier, Jesus lived a normal human life. He had a family, Mary Magdalene and ... a daughter from her.

Church defamed Her so that she can't be associated with Him. However, a group of people who coined their group as Proiry of Sion, took a pledge to save the sacred feminine. Pregnant Mary was moved to a safe place, while Christ was being crusified. The daughter too survived and thus, the bloodline of the sacred couple. It's the womb of the sacred faminine that's the Holy Grail: a cup (or more apt a container) which held the seed of Christ to spawn his pedigree.

Church wants to destroy this truth. The Priory has the responsibility to save it. The Priory has been led by great people in history viz. Sir Issac Newton, Picasso and Leonardo Da Vinci. Sophie's Grand peire - the curator - is a member of Priory.

The curator has sensed that his secret identity of Grand Master of the Priory has been somehow exposed. However he fails to survive the murder. Before dying, he casts a web of codes and puzzles for his granddaughter, in and around the well known paintings of Da Vinci, to guide her to his murderer and more importantly, the cause behind it. To assist her, he ascribes Langdon's.

The quests begins.

Mind you, it is really fascinating to see the striking things in the frescos. (See the adjoing image) Lots of artifacts, lots of cerebremation on it, lots of puzzles, lots of codes. It's all so interesting. Da Vinci was cognoscenti of frescos. Dan Brown has nevertheless, done a lot of homework on the paintings to bring out the striking features.

The chase goes on. How they decode all the codes, is the film. See it. You will like it. Now you have the key for the code.

Mind Over Matter

A graduate from an inland premier education institute walked away with an atronomical salary package. The news made headline. Most awed, many grudged, while a few despised. Is counting trailing zeros in the salary package, the only criterion of judging the brilliance of a being? Is this the value of mind; Just a few green leaves?

The society is witnessing a trend. Unfortunately, a negative trend. Definition of being a careerist has narrowed down to one, who is successful raking tons of money. A student no longer aspires for a premier institute because his academic thirst will be quencehed. The institute assure a hefty pay package job in an MNC. That is the only thing that matters. A miniscule percentage of graduates opt for higher education. Of those who do, not many have inclination for research. To make the agony even more miserable, the same student - who strived hard to graduate from that premeier institute - opines with grimace, 'Uh! PG from this place? No way! It doesn't carry any worth. It's OK upto graduation. But PG, Oh Please! I can't risk my career with a PG from this crap. I need a tag from US, to highlight my resume.'

Why are we not able to cultivate a feeling of respect for our educational farmlands? No doubt, there are alumini from such premier institute who still respect, their erstwhile abode. They not only flaunt their institute, but also fund many of its researches, labs and facilities. Kudos to them. However, they are the persons who made into these institute on their own. They didn't use the cruches of pervasively mushrooming Coaching Classes. And mind you, that counts. Dropping out for a year, exclusively for studies to get into a premier institute, has become a fad. Those who get in; through their hardwork, consistent and determined efforts concentrated at their aspiration, it's a dream cme true. For those, who can not, coaching classes are always there. I have personally seen students taking two; even three years of drop, only to be successfully subsumed in a sub-premier institute. All this for one good reason. A lable from the premier institute, and your life becomes easy henceforth. Good job and loads of money. Simple as that.

Raking huge money is not bad. Having the potential and underutilising it, undoubtably, is a sin. But using a premier institute as a platform for all this is opportunism. Sounds ugly. Isn't it? No one cares.

Why one should?

We never taught them, to question, why and for what they are studying.

Should we?

Singapore

Travelling has been another regular part of my yearly routine. Travelling different parts of the country, is fun. Beholding the vivid colors of nature, culture and treasure (of that kind) is an experience of its own kind. When it comes to a phoren visit, it deserves to be classified as an eye candy.

Singapore is beauteously ravishing. I, however, recristened it as Shingnnapoor; spoonerism intended . Break-free roads, shiny cars, pedestrian pathways with lush green tropical flora in the backdrop, buildings that defy gravity and demands redefinition of word beautiful, robust public transport, disciplined people and lots of light. I love the place.

The moment we landed the Singapore International Airport, better known as Changi airport, it gave us a feeling that we have ventured into a new world. Thanks to the Chaos Unlimited, proudly sported at the eternal IGI. The luggage handling was hassle free. There were escalators - both, horizontal and vertical - for faster movement of passengers. It saves time! There was no Thulla to (mis)guide us. These people prefer signboards. Water was available free much to our ashtonishment. Emmigration was hassle free. The Officer greeted with smile and a 'Welcome'. Processed our papers and thanked. The poor fellas at IGI find it all so unnecessary and boring. One amongst them asked the motto of travel with an attitude of Why-the-hell-are-you-travelling. It was much later that I understood why he donned so. It was rather simple. He had to work for getting paid.

Drop it. We moved out of the airport. The luxury bus took us to hotel. The ride was majestic. Countless flyovers and underpasses, zillions of twinkling lights - of cars, street, buildings and of course, malls, shops and restaurants. It is a visual delight to see this city nation at night. Hotel was great. It was in front of the well known Mustafa Mall. We had a shower and then went for the first Indian supper on a phoren land. Mind you, it was tasty.

The next morning, we went for sight seeing. The India Memorial, various legislative and administrative monuments, President house, a parks, Indian temples, downtown Singapore and lots more. It may sound a bit hectic but honestly, it wasn't. The bus was cozy and AC. Roads were pot-hole-less. The kept us efficient. The beauty of the nation is that people are disciplined. Smoking is common. But none, mind you, none trikles the ash on the road. The tarmac is so clean that you can very well lie down for a siesta. Obviously, it won't be that soft as the bed. Moreover, people follow rules. A red signal mean stop. Green means Go. Amber means slow down. The last one confused you right? Unfortunately, Amber doesn't mean Go Faster, in this part of the world. The pedestrians help. If you ever get lost on the street, usually the signboards don't allow you that, people help.

To be continued...

Quotes on Quotas

The Union Cabinet Minister, Mr. Arjun Singh, has finally confirmed my suspicion. I was scekeptial whether my friends would agree to me or not. Now, after the latest Quota fiasco, I reckon, everyone would agree that Mr. Singh heads Hopeless and Reckless Department.

It has been around six decades since we have been indepedent. Indepedent Thinking, unfortunately, has not evovled in the minds of the politicians. It seems as if their minds are so slaved to the reins of power, that they can't even afford to be labelled as Representatives. They want - or rather demand - to be lauded as Politicions. A breed of individuals, who are blinded by the clout.

The essential purpose of bringing Democracy in this land of Raja-Maharajas and Riyasats was to subside with the anomaly of absolute power being enjoyed by a ruler and distribute it to the common man. As this would consequent into a chaos; every individual defining rules to his convinience and need; the decision making power was limited to a group of individuals who would effectively represent the entire subject of the state.

Being Alone

Always in the childhood, the Civics teacher reiterated, year over year, the definition of a Human Being, viz. A Social Animal. We recited, mugged and forgot it. I reckon, the teacher was right, atleast in this case.

I joined NTPC Limited on August 8, 2005. My first venture outside my home. Never had a dearth of love and affection from the family and the friends. Everyone caressed. I, however, never looked over my shoulder, to see who all are in the backdrop to assure I was happy. Then came the bolt from blue; NTPC. I had to pack my bags and get going. The initial happiness of being selected in such a giant seemed miniscule in front of Aai's face. She was not happy leaving me out of her brood. I could see that. Explicitly she didn't say it, didn't express it. It just got expressed; from the wet corner of her eyes.

I joined. Honestly, for the first time I felt alone; stranded in the midst of people who cared about one thing- themselves. It was a scorching welcome. I had expected just a warm one. The HR need not be blamed. The culprit was within me. I was desparate in the quest of someone, who would parent me. I knew very well that I have to stride alone, still the mind was adamant. Mind; a lethal weapon.

As the time moved sluggishly, I made new relations at a commensurate speed. I don't know whether I was reluctant or the others. Nevertheless, I started feeling safer. The network grew. Hostelmates became Colleagues. Then tranformed from Colleagues to Friends. Some even mutated from Friends to Buddies. It took nine months for all this to happen.

Nine months; interesting coincidence. A women wombs a baby for this period, after consummating. On the day when the baby ventures into the world, she bears the labor pains. An epoch, witnessing painful ending of a sacrosanct relationship and at the same time, dawn of a new relationship revered as, Mother. Similarly, at the culmination of our nine months training, when all the buddies left away, it pained me.

I felt alone.

The best part is, the other relationship must have begun.

I am discovering it.

Overload

Overload is a fiction novel by Arthur Hailey. He is known for portraying a comprehensive image of the domain, on which the novel is based. In fact, the reader can get an free Induction Tutorial about the domain, while enjoying the novel.

Overload is about Power Industry in America. The period is set at 1970s. The basic theme is that the protagonist, who is the top level management of a Premier Power giant, envisages a major Power Crunch in the coming years. He proposes a explosive plan for expansion by erecting new Power plants of diverse types viz. the traditional Coal based, Gas based, Hydro and a venture in the upcoming Nuclear sector.

However, there are few who are opposition to this expansion. A subset of these are environmentalist who are opposing for the usual and typical craziest environmental reasons. Another subset is of those who want to bring down the company for personal rivalry, under the fictitious slogan of misuse of public money.

How the protagonist wades through all this is the story of Overload. However, there is one thing that etched me a lot. Haiely has had maintained a reputation of being a quality novelist, who talks no-nonsense. In Overload, somehow I found him out of sync. The portrayal of the protagonist as the one boozed with sex was unnecessary. The fact that he messed up in maintaining Work-Life balance could have been well depicted otherwise.

Nevertheless, the novel was successful in showing the scenario of Power industry. Being a part of the industry, it was a delight to read the technical part of it. Also, it was interesting to note that bureaucracy is a plaguing development in the most developed country of the world. It was worth to note how clout helps in subverting decisions for those who have it and those who suffer the plight, in lack of it.

Overall, Overload was a great novel. As always, a reader's paradise from Haiely, with a slight hiccup of sex overdo. Never mind that.