She Walked On

pic - chasintheshade.blogspot.com 

She walks on – so what if her legs tremble – she walks on. She chews on an Orbit to take her mind away from disastrous destinations and instead focus on innovations of rolling a gum a 100 different ways in her mouth. Smoothen it with the tongue till it feels like a stretched out cling wrap. Destroy it by chewing on it till every ridge of your teeth has made its mark on it. Then repeat, repeat and repeat. Concentrate just on that, even if it makes you look more like a cow intent on digesting half the grass in its mouth itself. “Life will unfold anyway” – she tells herself – “whether I think about it or not. Orbits are great!” She closed her eyes and visualized her jaws shaping with every bite – shuddered at the picture of herself as a Moose lookalike. She walked on and chewed still.

There is a pitfall in being preoccupied. You reach your destination far sooner than expected – a boon if you like it. Read a book from Gurgaon to Delhi and you don’t even notice the traffic (of course do not hazard this if you are driving. Hiring a chauffeur is a pre-requisite.). If you are trying to memorize the roads, the journey takes double the time you were expecting it to. What’s worse – the amount of time you have to wait at a red light  makes you forget what you had learnt so far – and then you lose interest and read some more… But I digress.

She was there. Her reality faced her like a gnawing fear – she wondered why she was chewing bitter gourd for so long and spat out a white ball as if it were poison! After her bath, she had wet some tissue paper with which she stroked the bathroom floor gently. The shed hair from her head, that were doomed to live a life of banishment after their fall, clinged on to the paper hopefully. She had grinned at her efficiency and flicked the roll into the bin. Presently she thrust this sordid image of herself towards the exit sign in her brain and straightened herself. If you threw a dog into water it swims to survive – even if it never swam before. She knocked on the door, gritted her teeth and brought a sparkle in her eyes. This was it.

A man whose face read profound and impatient opened the door. His salt and pepper beard deliciously trimmed to suit the shape of his face. His round rimless glasses shone in the sunlight but the piercing blue eyes beat it and penetrated her very being.  He moved aside to let her in – a hint of a smile in his lips. She would be judged and tested. Her stoic attitude fortified her and she walked in with confidence. This was a man she would happily sacrifice her right arm to be with but today she felt hollow.

A world champion chess player was going to sit opposite her today – life separating them instead of a board. Today was the day she would be humiliated and cast aside by a man she longed for forever. Go away, she said – to the image of the cow chewing grass again.

The day rolled by. Many who believed rumors of the man inviting amateurs to his house to play got anxious. Was a 16 year old nobody going to beat the very epitome of a genius mind? Online bloggers had started anticipating a diversion in trend; people’s imagination started running wild; event management companies drafted entire proposals for a celebrity appearance from a 19 year old genius; Cereal companies called urgent meetings to draw a budget for her to endorse them – it was as if a tornado warning had been announced and people were hustling to prepare for it.

But she came out only the next day – arms intertwined with her father after a tearful reconciliation! A union after 16 years during which she was forbidden to meet the man who had left her mother precariously stranded because of another relationship.

pic- filipspagnoli.wordpress.com

She had struggled years together wanting to meet this man. She had dreamed of a meeting in which she demanded answers of a teary eyed loser. She had drawn pictures of herself with him - walking hand in hand in a park. She dreamt of winning the screaming match and leaving him feeling sorry for himself…. She had dreamt of winning him over with a hug and bringing him home to a hating ex-wife.

She noticed a filthy black soft ball on the side of the driveway where she had discarded her comforting friend the day earlier. She smiled at the waiting press and said “He beat me.”

Dad's Diary 15 - Himalayan Inebriation

India abounds in Himalayan resorts of various altitudes, shapes and sizes. They have different life styles. But a common enough signature that attracts attention is the high incidence of drinking alcoholic beverages.

One such resort boasted of a politician who reached the pinnacle of his career because of, and not in spite of, his inalienable inebriation. Dev was handsome, charismatic, and sported an attractive flourish of his own in whatever he did.

Dev refused to call himself a bachelor, and chose to maintain his status as 'unmarried.' To him, a bachelor conveyed the idea of one eligible for marriage which he avowedly was not. Again, unmarried should connote that he was married, though unofficially. He did not marry his live in partner so as not to pull her into the “minister today, jailbird tomorrow” kind of political vortex.   

He wanted those of the generation next to call him 'kaka,' and not 'mama,' though both the words mean 'uncle.' He refused to discuss the subtlety behind such an assertion.

One of his inner circle friends later decoded the relational nuances involved. A kaka is father's brother, and a mama is mother's brother. Conceptually, one can forge a fonder relationship with a sister-in-law even if it could spur off qualms of conscious; but for the sister it had to be an unmixed affection.

Photo - www.superstock.com

Throughout Dev's tumultuous sojourn from being a trade union leader to general secretary of a political party to a legislator for the state and finally, to a cabinet minister, the bottle was his constant companion. He had no compunction about making it a public affair.

The bottle came under the most intensive scanner during the run up to the last election he fought. The rival candidates filled up the campaign trail with damaging posters and paintings of a sozzled man sleeping in a gutter, and in many other similar poses.

Dev had a tough time controlling his volunteers from tearing off the posters. His instruction was to make sure that the defaming posters remained intact till the day of the polling. “Guard them with your life,” he pleaded. None knew what ace-strategy he had up his sleeves.

This threw the rival camp into utter confusion. Unable to fathom what was going on, they tried to retract. Now the defamed were hell bent on protecting the insulting posters, and the paster were equally desperate to remove them.

On the last day of campaign Dev approached the microphone with a leonine swagger, and greeted the massive congregation.

The gist of the relevant portion of his speech : 'Look around yourself; look at those posters; I have been defamed and insulted for drinking. But I will not apologize. We are the Himalayas; we have a distinct lifestyle of our own. Some overdo it, some don't. I was a heavy drinker when five years ago you reposed your faith in me. Now look at those posters again, and ask yourselves, have you not been defamed and insulted?

Photo - The Himalayan Beacon

Now here is my last appeal: let only the drinkers vote for me; teetotalers vote for the rival candidates.'

Dev won the election by a thumping majority polling the highest number of votes of his career. What better strategy could there be in a constituency where an overwhelming segment of the voters not only drank, but loved to drink?! 








BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Long Long Time Ago I was crowned

My Crown * 2

I am ashamed, no utterly guilt ridden, of not having acknowledged the jewels I carry with me as a blogger, gifted to me by some fantastically gifted bloggers themselves! Yes it was a long time ago that a traveler and a writer thought kindly enough of me to have sent generous awards my way – Jim and Sulekha crowned me Meme and Stylish Blogger respectively. I was suddenly respected in Blogosphere and people started taking notice of me.

It was time to act a little uppity, talk like I know things and pretend to have the power to judge but that did not happen – what happened instead was life. It took me by the hand and sent me on a whirlwind. I have finally managed to control the reins of this fierce force and am planning to take up all those planned actions now. Please forgive my delay Jim and Sulekha and do accept my heartfelt gratitude for the honor.

Below is the pleasurable responsibility that I should have undertaken long long time ago:

Jim this is for you:

7 Stylish Bloggers of my choosing.

1.     Tammy Bleck – I should ideally award Tammy as Funniest, the most uplifting, the most enjoyable and the most stylish blogger. But alas I am restricted by rules. If you are a blogger and haven’t read her – there is definitely something wrong with you. Common people hop on over to http://singlepast50.com/blog/ and have the most fantastic read over.

2.     Pandora Pokilos – She is as splendid a writer as can be. She in many ways makes me want to be like her. Utterly enjoyable read and a splendid cyber personality. Thanks Pandora for enriching my experience with http://peacefrompieces.blogspot.com

3.     Sonia Rumzi  - the more you read Sonia the more you want to read her. Again an inspirational writer and completely awe inspiring. I especially love her dialogue with Baba Rumcake – its a sheer joy to read her. She is at http://soniarumzi.com/

4.     Jessica Brant you do the most fantastic things with your blog. Bring knowledge to people, vent, give courage, encourage, inspire and keep us going. You are fabulous and although I wanted to do this for the longest time ever – You are a stylish blogger for me – You are fantastic. Dear Readers if you haven’t already been to Jessica’s blog she is at http://findingonesway.com. You will love to share her journey and that’s a promise!

5.     Basabdatta Dasgupta really has panache and the most interesting topics in her blog. I came across her recently and kept wondering why was it so recent? Why wasn’t I reading her all this while? Why doesn’t she write more often? She is a must visit at http://basabs.blogspot.com

6.     Mari Sterling Wilbur at http://mariscamera.blogspot.com will fill your senses with color, style and beauty. She has the capability of making an artist out of a horse and she will prove it to you in her blog. A must must visit and a definite follow.

7.     Sukanya Bora enthralls me. She is a classic writer and can make the simplest of incidents the most intriguing. A dream can become a intricately woven story that will make you ponder all day. For me she is a cherished treasure that I intend to keep in safekeeping. She is at http://sukanyabora.wordpress.com/

And now for the Meme Awards. I do have to answer the following questions as per procedure. I promise to make it quick

1. If you could go back in time to relive one moment, what would it be?

The day I won my first pitch for an account

2. If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?

Nothing

3. What movie or TV character do you think you resemble most in personality?

 Kristin Davis in Sex and the City

4. Which TV or movie character would you like to be?

Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean

  

5. If you could push one person in the whole world off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?

A surgeon whose careless mistake killed a friend

6. Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

Being Moody

7. Describe yourself in one word.

Unpredictable

8. Describe the person who named you in this MEME in one word.

 Enigmatic

9. Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.

I enjoy it

 

10. Name at least 3 people or more to send this MEME, and then inform them.

1.    Jim Brandano

2.    Anna L Walls

3.    Alejandro Guzman

To the Awardees -  if you are named here and have already been awarded these awards (and you find yourself gritting your teeth instead of smiling ear to ear) - please accept my apologies for repeating the honor. I do relieve you of the procedural responsibilities of being awarded if you do not want to take it up. I hope you will still love me : )

Dad's Diary 14 - Cane and Cannibal

In my early teens, I was once ensnared by a cane wielding cranky old man. He summed up my pedigree in an extremely unpleasant manner: “Here at last I get to see the illustrious son of an illustrious father who himself was the illustrious son of his illustrious father.”  

After over half an hour of one sided wordy attrition I gathered that my father was a thief at my age, and that my grand father even thought that his son amply exhibited cannibalistic tendencies after he and his group of friends had eaten up all the dogs and cats in the neighborhood. I made a feeble attempt to defend my father and suffered cane-nudges on the knees.

At last I resorted to my last line of defense: “Why don't you take it up with my father instead of me?”

“Simply because I don't want to get eaten up by a cannibal,” said Crank seriously, “and you have been stealthily looking at my grand daughter the whole of last week; that's almost stealing. I know you can't help it; runs amuck in the family.”

My father was not at home; he along with the rest of his old body building chums from his teens – Group of Six - were having a get together. I ran to the place, and insisted on an emergency meeting. I related the whole episode, and placed my thieving-cannibal-father right between the devil and the deep sea.

Pic from www.bestbuytoday.com

To my utter amazement, instead of bowing their heads in shame, all of them burst out laughing simultaneously. Still he owed me a cogent explanation. I was determined not to pass up this opportunity, a rare one at that, to pay him back with his own coins for the trouble he took in disciplining me.

My father agreed to make a clean breast of everything, but bound me down to a promise of not misbehaving with Crank. Here is what had happened:

Crank in those days was known as a crackpot. He had inherited the heavy cane along with an unmatched gullibility, and his favorite past time was chasing boys and cane-nudging them for no reason. Thoroughly irked, the Group of Six decided to retaliate.

They entered the kitchen through the back door opening out to the backyard, and decamped with the entire family's dinner. They also left an anonymous note saying, “Stop caning and avoid starvation.” Crank spotted my father who was the last to clamber up.

As a pre-emptive move my father confessed everything to my grand father, and escaped with a severe tongue lashing. Crank came to complain with the piece of evidence in the form of the warning letter. My grand father told him, “It is because of my strict discipline that you still have hands to carry your cane. He has strong teeth. Don't go anywhere near him; he is dangerous.” He mused for a while, and then added, “I wonder what has happened to all the missing pets.” Crank was suddenly in a hurry to get back home.

Grand father also informed my father, “Don't go anywhere near him (Crank). He is uncontrollable when he is really angry. And he is now vow-bound to murder you and your nefarious group.” They avoided each other for decades, and Crank unburdened all his resentment against my father on me.

The next day when he got me within his cane-range I stood my ground, raised my half clenched fists paw-like, pulled the facial muscles as far back as was possible and bared all my teeth. I could almost read his mind, “.... runs amuck in the family.”

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Dad's Diary 13 - Infernal Pizazz

He stood ramrod straight when he didn't have to speak. When he spoke his head seemed fitted on a loose neck. His favorite nod was sideways; his neck moving the head first right and then left. And he had an extra set of teeth in his lower jaw placed just behind the normal one.

His name was Pratap,. In school he terrorized the English language teacher who incidentally had been terrorizing the students for umpteen number of years.

The instruction was simple. Write a sentence using at least two new words that had not been discussed in the class. Pratap wrote, “The foolish old man lost some of his zing when he found the smarter student had great pizazz in sentence construction.” He underlined zing and pizazz as his two new words.

The teacher swallowed hard, but did not give up immediately. His red-inked note advised Pratap that pizazz should have four Zs, double Z occurring after each vowel. He was asked to write another sentence with the correct spelling. Pratap humbly said “OK Sir,” and his head nodded side-wise more than twice which betrayed him of being under great stress.

We apprehended an explosion of some sort the next day when we found Pratap standing ramrod straight outside the classroom to greet and escort the teacher inside. He peremptorily acknowledged Pratap's greetings, and stepped in.

Once inside the teacher and the student locked horns. The former quietly extended his hand which duly received the English notebook. The teacher nearly missed the header-word on the top of the relevant page. It read 'Confirmation' instead of 'Correction'.

The teacher's grim countenance bore ample testimony to his head having gone haywire. He kept his cool with great difficulty, and read on. It said : “The foolish old man has never heard of the thesaurus, and writes pizazz with four Zs, even though three Zs are also lexicographically acceptable, as if using an extra Z will add more dynamism to the word, as if spelling 'pilllar' with three Ls instead of two will make the pillar itself stronger.”

The teacher looked up from the page. If a rigid stare could cause violent death, Pratap would have dropped dead. He approached Pratap with an eloquent silence, but the latter could not hold back a last minute jibe : “Please don't lose your oomph, Sir.”

He caught Pratap by the shoulders, and said, “If the chattering of teeth in the ensuing freezing winter do not claim that extra set of ignoble teeth in your foul mouth, I will supply you with enough teeth breaking words next year to correct your infernal dental imbalance.”

There escaped a sound from the teacher's throat that could either be a chocked cry or a suppressed giggle. None in the class believed it to be either. Then a roar of laughter almost shook the classroom as the teacher took the lead, Pratap picked it up a fraction of a second later, and then all joined in. The school closed on winter vacation the very next day.

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Dad's Diary 12 - Himalayan Caprice

Darjeeling is one of those inscrutably inimitable Himalayan resorts that defies satisfactory description in its totality. Fond memories of these daunting hills of abundant greenery blossom like a hundred-petaled marigold of multi-color hues.

Old bungalows mostly in picturesque remote areas that were built by the colonial British rulers occupy a place of pride in its history. Electricity was not available for these bungalows then, and for many decades later  many such bungalows remained out of bounds for power companies to maintain the old ambiance.

One such bungalow is Lepcha Jagat.  A wooden bungalow with sloping corrugated iron roof right in the midst of a dense forest of oak, rhododendron, pines and other Himalayan flora, and no electricity.

Often obstinate rain accompanied by strong wind collecting sighs, whistles and drum beats from the hill slopes embrace the bungalow, wind swept foliage paste shifting shadows on every conceivable medium. Stand out in the veranda for a couple of minutes; with a cold chill running down the spine you may even regret that once you were chary about believing in the woes of a tap dancing ghost. But this one's not a ghost story.

In 1940s, a senior British official visited the Lepcha Jagat bungalow with his pregnant wife. They could not return home without experiencing a rare Himalayan view that the bungalow was famous for.

pic from - www.jkindiatrip.blogspot.com

On a clear day one could have a bird's eye-view of the then three Himalayan kingdoms of Nepal, Bhutan and Sikkim lying side by side on a huge idyllic expanse with the snow-capped Kanchendzonga, the highest mountain in India, and third highest in the world at 8,586 meters, dwarfing everything else. At night twinkling electricity bulbs in the kingdoms gave the appearance of the sky having come down on them. This was reason enough for the British couple to reserve the bungalow for three days.

It drizzled lightly when they arrived. By night fall fog invaded the bungalow and the surrounding forest, and then soared high and kissed the low hanging black canopy of cloud. One could not distinguish where the fog bank ended and cloud bank began. Hail storm reigned the next day. Open spaces went under a carpet of white stones. The third day was no better.

Tired and disappointed, the visitors decided to give up. The official asked for the voluminous guest book, and recorded his experience. With a heavy heart and a sigh he mentioned, “It's raining even as I am leaving.”

Pic from - http://www.mobwiki.com

The capricious Himalayan weather continued to bless some and curse others. Some bantered that the bungalow actually existed in a cloud castle, and there was nothing but rain - right, left and center. Many doubted whether it was the opposite of the fictional utopia called Shangril-La.

Much water had flown down the river Tista, two decades after India gained independence from the colonial rulers in 1947, a young foreigner went almost mad laughing in one of the worst spells of rain and hailstorm for several days at Lepcha Jagat. On his day of departure, he asked for the guest book. He marked out an earlier page by its number, and wrote, “Father, it's still raining.”   


BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

YOU ARE PREGNANT

It was one of those days when chores seem a pile of mountains - relentless and unforgiving. Since screaming was not an option either, I headed out to get some cigarettes. Little did I know what that trip had in store for me.

I drove to the store and parked my car on the closest space that was available. Somehow, soon after that, an eerie feeling dawned on me - A feeling of not only being watched but inspected through and through. Needless to say, that this was not doing any good to my already havocked senses. I got out – my furrowed brows met the day and with it a strange man with a set of totally crazed deep eyes.

pic from - callofduty.wikia.com

He looked at me and smiled knowingly. A whiff of filth passed through his parted lips. He had come way too close for a stranger. Alarmed I stepped back and tried to look warningly at him – but my face gave me away – I was petrified. His blood shot eyes pierced my very being. And all he said were three words before he turned around and went away – “You are pregnant”.

His retracing of steps flooded me with a sense of relief that I had never known before. A crazed man, talking gibberish and ruining my already ruined day. I pushed the thought at the back of my head and carried on with trembling legs towards Rite Aid. The urgency of a smoke even more now.

Once inside the store though – I just couldn’t get myself to feed my craving. The words of the man echoed in my ears till my head felt like it was going to explode. I bought a pregnancy test instead.  The 3 minutes in which it would decide my fate is worth the money and the hesitation. A “positive” or a “negative” would mean a subsequent no or yes for the smoke I intended to enjoy.

I used the Rite Aid washroom and then enjoyed my cigarette later. But I can never forget that man. There was way too much conviction in his voice. I cannot help but wonder whether he meant something else or whether the pregnant he meant was metaphorical. Funny how I never saw him after that day and had never seen him earlier in the neighborhood! Funny how everybody else around was sure they had never seen anyone like him before.

That day did something to me. I cannot put my finger on it – but that man was not lying – he was a messenger - only I could not decipher his message. Two days later – I was in the hospital donating blood for a new born who needed red blood cells. The doctor told me that my blood gave her new life.  That man’s face somehow haunted me all day that day….

Dad's Diary 11 - Ghostly accents : )

Darjeeling was built up by the British colonial rulers as a hill station for convalescing army men who could not be sent back home across the oceans. Very British bungalows were constructed in remote and hardly accessible areas to provide the officers peace and quiet.

 

Take for example the hamlet of Lava saying 'Hey' eloquently  to tourists traveling in between Kalimpong and the Dooars. There right in the midst of a sprawling hill expanse is a bungalow where two female ghosts, one Indian and the other British, lamented audibly at night in two different nasal accents.

The village headman had to make an on the spot investigation. He spent an uncomfortable night in the bungalow, and decided to return accompanied by the Indian counterpart of an exorcist. Equipped with a broomstick and a bucket of Mantra-fortified water, the exorcist could reduce the two nasal accents to one; the Indian female ghost apparently accepted the plea to look for new haunting ground under threats of hellish banishment.

Pic from www.ghosttheory.com

Here is what the exorcist had  to report: “The English lady, Jane, says she was killed by her husband so as to marry her sister. All she wants is an apology from the husband-sister duo before she can rest in peace. Both of them had escaped back home to England where they died in a car crash, but she could not locate them anywhere in her part of the world. So she is waiting for them to come to her.”

There was no way to get rid of her, the exorcist added, she hated haunting people but could not help weeping at times and practicing tap dance, which was her passion both in life and beyond. If people felt disturbed, it was their problem. The exorcist refused to exert any more pressure claiming that they had become friends. Even the headman's threat of taking action against the 'female ghost-corrupted exorcist' failed to yield any result.

Some spirited inducements loosened his tongue, and the village headman agreed to finish the tale: The exorcist received urgent telepathic summons one night from his ghost-friend to come right over to the bungalow. The bungalow was unusually calm – no sound of weeping or tap dance. Flickering candle lights and hushed conversations proved that one of the rooms was occupied.

The exorcist silently went up to the upper floor where she was waiting. She was furious. “The Indian bitch you got rid off is a lying bitch too,” she fumed. She was the one who informed her about the London car crash in which the husband-sister duo were supposed to have died. “The scoundrels” were alive, and right here occupying a room in the floor below.

The exorcist knew that a scorned woman was potentially dangerous; a scorned female ghost could be altogether fatal. He agreed to be a co-conspirator to help Jane avenge herself. The exorcist went out of the bungalow to make some preparations.

On his return he explained to the couple that all they needed to do was to say sorry touching the white boulder by the side of the road leading to the top of the hill. Perhaps this would also lessen the burden of guilt they were carrying on their shoulders. Moreover, he could transfer some of his special powers to Jane who would then be equipped to unleash her wrath in the most diabolical manner.

The couple approached the familiar white boulder with much trepidation. They sat on their haunches, bent forward and placed their palms on it. The exorcist who had earlier loosened the boulder now gave it a powerful push. The boulder was followed by two bodies over the precipice down into the deep gorge. That night Jane tap danced for the last time. But the lamentations still continued; this time two nasal tones, one male and one female, both in English accent were often heard.   

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Farewell Future

I am a traveler. The only thing that remains unhinged in my fate is change.  I get new houses full to the brim with hope, dreams, prayers and moments to cherish for life. Pregnant they are with my energy and an illusion of certainty - till a time comes when every last emotion and tear that weaved those dreams is vacuumed out and shipped to a new destination. Every move takes something away from me but future beckons. I came to the USA leaving buckets of tears at home and now it’s time to drain the last morsels of my existence in this land and bid goodbye. My home will be stepped down and stripped to just another empty house. And I will have to engage myself in a futile attempt again to erase my home address, phone number and SSN memorized and carved in my memory.

The more I dwell on these thoughts the more melancholic I feel. So instead - just like I try to cherish the life of a loved one who has left me forever – I will cherish my days here forever. I will cherish the hardships of my first year as a foreigner, the 2^nd year as a struggling writer, the next few years of some great friendships and fulfilled times and a whole lot of Manhattan, the 5^th year of creating life and giving birth to my little angel, the 6^th year of seeing some amazing success in becoming a consultant. These  years are in clear sight now – packed in boxes in just a few hours!

Img from www.edruscha.com

So dear America when I drive away - I will look at you with love. And when I drive past that hospital where my baby was born - I will etch it in my memory. Dunkin Donuts – bid you farewell and hug to the steaming hot cups of coffee that I would crave; Costco – a wholesale priced kiss to you, Shop Rite – I always loved our weekend meetings; Stew Leonard’s – oh Stew Leonard’s – I have no words to express how much I will miss you, Grand Central – there was never a moment I didn’t feel elevated when I treaded your floors. My office – hope to meet you soon again - stay with me please.

Words betray me when I look at the people who enriched my soul here. People I have learnt immense lessons from – whether through good or bad times. People who selflessly only gave and expected nothing in return – I am taking everything with me – returning richer beyond measure now with your memories and thoughts. I will ensure you and I meet again and that you give me a chance to give back. This is hence not the end – it’s not the beginning either – it’s our journey together.

I leave with a heavy heart but I have a sparkle in my eyes; my feet feel loaded but my steps are alight, I look at the road ahead but can’t help looking back. I always wanted to leave – but I leave a part of me with you. Some say America is the future – in that case Farewell Future.

Cogito Ergo Sum

Pic - www.graudinkarlvek.blogspot.com

I play poker, therefore I am. No limit Texas hold’em poker (or simply Hold’em) is widely acknowledged as the Cadillac of card games. Any player worth his salt will warn you that it takes 5 minutes to learn and a lifetime to master. The game has come a long way both in terms of perception and playing strategies making it the only card game with adrenaline power to be televised. Variations of the game were played in gritty saloons in the Wild West and steamboats on the Mississippi where you could get killed over a bad beat. Today it is the mainstays at casinos all over the world and consistently attracts the high rollers and thinking payers that don’t want to play the house. With the advent of the internet, it is played by thousands of people at any given time of the day, making millionaires of some or paupers of others, every second. The World Series of Poker Main event boasts of one of the largest payouts in any sport, $9MM to be exact in 2010. That’s was what Jonathan Duhamel, a 22 year old from Montreal won after he emerged at the top of more than 7300 entrants in the 2010 World Series.  

So what is this game all about? In short it is a game of making the right decision with imperfect information and has little to do with your cards or for that matter Luck. In many ways it is a game that closely resembles something we are all familiar with…. Life. As you go about your life the basic conscious objective is to make decisions in self-interest while being limited by resources. For the uninitiated here’s how the game is played- 2 cards are dealt face down to each player followed by exposing  5 community cards face up that are available to everyone to improve their hands. The objective is to make the best combination of 5 cards from a total of 7 available cards (2 dealt to the player and 5 for the community). The dangerous aspect of the game is the innocuous ‘no limit’ part-this means that there is no upper limit to the amount that one can wager at any point when the hand is being played out. This is the challenge that makes the game alluring and intriguing, for the money that can be won and more importantly, for being able to figure out how to consistently make the right decision without regard to the outcome – win or loss. Confused? If something has a 90% probability of happening then 10% of the time there will be an adverse outcome. That’s called a bad beat not a bad decision.

Pic - www.sodahead.com

In the 1976, David Sklansky,  a mathematician and alum of Wharton, wrote the definitive book on the application of game theory math to the game of poker. The book was by itself is worthy of a PhD. Unfortunately this book’s strengths are its very weaknesses. The math is overwhelming to the casual player making it a dense read. This was followed in 1978 by The Super System written by a then 46 year old professional gambler with no academic training who by then had more than 20 years of playing experience. These 2 books changed the face of poker by putting a structure around decision making thus letting the secret out. Doyle Brunson, the godfather of poker and the author of the Super System, is now 77 years old and still going strong at the poker tables, which says something about this game. But knowing the ingredients to the secret sauce was not enough as the games were still heavily dominated by professionals who knew how to put it all together. And then Moneymaker happened. In 2003 Chris Moneymaker, a then 28 year CPA from Tennessee  won the World Series of Poker beating a field of 800 players  to take home $2.5MM becoming the first amateur to win the Main Event. What was more astonishing at the time was that he did not pay the customary $10,000 entry fee but instead qualified through an online tournament for a few hundred dollars. This was a water shed moment… there was a demonstrable event that the math theory worked. The professional gambler no longer had the exclusive edge on the game. This lead to a snowball effect and within 3 years fields of more than 8000 players were vying for a payout for the #1 position in excess of  $10MM and.  

This is a social game where bluffing and banter are par for the course. Reading your opponent based on their exhibited actions and facial expressions are crucial. I use the same skills I have learnt at the poker table to any negotiations at work. I know not to believe someone making an assurance followed by a gulp and signs of nervousness. No wonder FBI agents have written books on how to read and extract poker tells through interrogation strategies.

For many of us the grind continues. Let me leave you with a bad beat story. Villian 1 is the first person to act and is short stacked. He pushes all-in pre flop (before the community cards are exposed). It is folded around to me in mid position and I look down at AA. I call the all-in for about 30% of my stack. The action fold around to the last to act – Villian 2. He goes all-in over the top now costing me another 25% of my stack. I naturally call. With 2 players all in, the villians reveal their card. Villian 1 holds 66 and Villian 2 holds KK. The 3 rd card is a 6 giving Villain 1 a clear lead with 3 of a kind. Then the 5^th card is a K giving Villian 2 the win. No wonder the outlaw Wild Bill Hickok was killed playing poker.

BY ARIJIT GHOSHAL

Dad's Diary 9 - Hitchhike

Red Road (http://members.virtualtourist.com)

 The Red Road in the heart of Kolkata, India, is one of those thoroughfares that restore some confidence in a home sick visitor from the western hemisphere. The wide six lane two-way road with a respectable divider in the middle affords motorists an opportunity to heave a sigh of relief after negotiating nerve shattering traffic snarls elsewhere in the vicinity.

The dimly lit concrete pavement on one side of the road wears a mesmerizing look in semi darkness after dusk. All kinds objects spring out and jump back with the lights thrown by speeding cars. The other side has a foot walk created by constant trampling of pedestrians.

The concrete pavement is a veritable lovers' lane. Across the road the side walk is a center for mobile facilities like prohibited drugs and damsels of dubious distinction. The car on the foot walk side slowed down ignoring the blaring honking behind him.

The man at the wheels looked intently at the figure picked up by the car headlight. She seemed to be just the type; lips sporting cautious inviting smile, eyes casting furtive glances. But one always had to make sure. There were often traps laid down behind delectable baits; lurking dangers could spring nasty surprises.

He kept the car rolling slowly ready to speed away as he unrolled the window. “You need a lift?” he asked, his eyes quickly scanning the area for any undesirable movement. “Yes, yes,” she said, suddenly anxious to get away from the area. She boarded, and the car picked up speed. “What's your name?” he asked. “Meera,” she said. “I am Bharat,” he added. Meera smiled.

Away from the din and bustle of Kolkata city deep in its northern suburb lived old Nimai in a dilapidated house. With an ailing wife, two daughters of marriageable age, and a teenager son, and with a paltry income, he was having the toughest time of his life.

There was no prospect for his son in that God forsaken village. The elder daughter, Sumitra, was a 'leave vacancy teacher' in a primary school. If any of the permanent teachers remained  absent, she would fill in for the day. His younger daughter, Aparna, undertook private tuitions before and after the college hours to support her educational expenses. The son was still studying in the local school. Any extra expense including buying medicines was a worrying factor.

A letter that his wife, Moyna, received this morning made him irritable. Her childhood friend who was based in London after a fairy tale marriage had arrived in India, and desired to meet them. What seemed to be aeons ago the two kids once hid themselves in the backyard with a blade. They incised their fingers to exchange blood to become blood sisters, and vowed to get their children married to each other. Somehow both believed that one would bear a son, and the other a daughter. The irony in the memory left Moyna rattled for a while. She shook her head to clear it.

The next day her friend, Rekha, arrived without notice. An embrace and pleasantries later the two friends sat down to exchange information. Rekha lost no time to remind her about the blood sisters' vows. Money was no problem, she could stand for the expenses on both the sides.

Nimai was informed and received the news with head bowed in shame and relief. Sumitra was called for. But she refused to marry; somebody had to stand by the family at this dour hour. Nobody gave any importance to Aparna's objections. She would have to remain ready when Rekha's son arrived to look up the bride-to-be that evening.

Hectic preparations for the honored guest was greatly hampered by repeated power cuts. The moon above and oil and gas lamps below made it possible to usher in the young man. Before long he was led into a room where the bride-to-be waited, all decked up.

Image from www.cgtantra.com

He tried to make out the face on which flickering oil lamps were playing havoc. She seemed to be beautiful, more beautiful than her elder sister sitting behind her. Power restored, the room was suddenly flooded by a fluorescent silver, almost startling everyone. Both jerked up their heads to steal a look but his look got locked behind her.

Meera! What was he that day on Red Road? Bharat, he remembered.

“Well?” demanded his mother. “I can't marry this girl,” he almost shouted, “she is too young for me. Could I meet her elder sister, please?”

They met in the backyard under the 'kool' berry tree. “What's your name?” he began; “Sumitra,” she replied, her voice betraying both desperation and defiance. “I am Bikash,” he said, and came down to brass tacks.

“Look at it this way; one day you needed a lift and I offered you one. Today I need a lift, a lift to a life of honor and dignity. If you give me this lift today, there will be no occasion to take or give lifts in future. Will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, and grabbed a 'kool' branch to steady her trembling feet. She looked up at Bikash, suddenly afraid that she would wake up, and her dream would turn into a nightmare. She smiled.

Letter to Jessica

Pic from
www.thelistproject.org 

Dear Jessica,

How is Thursday going for you? Mine is beautiful so far, as beautiful as a worthy gift can and should be. Thank you very much for this priceless day. Your gift to me could be just a bunch of letters that you call a "link for Thursday dedication" over at your website, but you have no idea what it comprises for me... Below is just the tip of a very very large iceberg:

1. It means a fluttering heart and moist eyes
2. It means a smile on my Dad's lips and maybe an extra drink in the evening to celebrate
3. It means an entire dinner time conversation in the family
4. It means telepathic hugs and kisses for you each time I remember how I felt the entire day today
5. It means for me Thursday is never going to be the same again
6. It means I have more confidence in myself
7. It means I have your "Thursday Dedication" to show for my credentials as a blogger
8. It means you will be the dominant character in my head for the next few weeks
9. It means a hole in my hubby's pocket - because I am so going to demand a celebration
10. It means my hubby will so not like you for doing this

Thank you so very much dear friend...

Hope to be in touch for the rest of my life.

Sincere Regards
Kriti Mukherjee

Get me that Champagne

I really don't want my blog to become the mouthpiece of my achievement or how cool I am but alas - there is no escaping it. Just when my head had stopped reeling with the celebration of being awarded "versatile blogger" by Sweepy I was told by Pandora Poikilos, author of the book "Excuse me, My Brains have stepped out" and the owner of the website http://peacefrompieces.blogspot.com/ that my Blog was chosen as "Blog of the week" on her website. In fact the news came to me as a comment by Pandora on my post Awarded and Awarding.  I read it about 50 times before it actually sunk in to my thick brain. Duh!!!!


These incidents, however, come with some scary thoughts. I am getting pretty spoiled with the attention. While the kind encouragement by my fellow bloggers and writers make me want to improve and do justice to their acknowledging me - I never want to become one who is offended by criticism. Lets be honest here - criticism is really annoying in a public forum but I want my humility to stay with me forever and take advice, as if it were a magic potion to quickly do better. Complacency can bring real quick downfall - I have had the misfortune to be witness to many such instances. Hence with every compliment I fortify myself for a healthy reprimand or a kind suggestion. Knitted Brows slowly get ironed out in the face of criticism when one looks at it that way.

Image from http://www.clipartof.com

Having said that - let me clarify - I am in seventh heaven now and if anyone wants to take me by my word and actually send me some whip lashing emails - then give me some time to enjoy the bliss and do it in a week or hopefully never. Right now I feel like I am walking the red carpet, like my perfume is making everyone around me dizzy, like the deep neckline of my black gown is the photographers delight, like my perfect underwear is making me super confident. Ahhh Blogosphere - get me that champagne will ya?

Awarded and Awarding

What a beautiful world this is - Blogoshere. I even get awarded in this - unlike in Earth!!! My cyber buddies think I deserve this - unlike in Earth. I am so much more loved - unlike in Earth.

Sweepy Jean - thank you from the bottom of my heart - I have more reason to believe in myself now! Sweepy gave me a Versatile Blogger award which made me a much happier human being and one with a few responsibilities too. Thanks to her you will now have be bored with 7 things about me and then be entertained by some awards bestowed to 7 other beautiful bloggers. So here is what makes me:

1. I am a marketing consultant. The kind who always overshoots her hours and efforts for free - more because it comes naturally to her than because she loves her clients.
2. I am a confused woman - who often wants something only to pout and think over it when I get it.
3. I am in absolute love with animals - of all kinds... But consider myself a hypocrite because I eat them too : (. I am hoping next life I am born a vegetarian so I never have to taste meat again.
4. I want to be famous for being a good person - a paradoxical situation. For mostly it is when one is cut throat, competitive and wise that she/he become rich and famous.
5. I love long interesting conversations and making friends.
6. I am still stuck in many areas of my past and often struggle to let it go - not that the past was bad or cruel - but it was just the past...
7. My family tops my priority list and I consider myself handicapped without them.

And now its time for the awards. Let me start by saying, I have way more than seven blogs that I frequent and love. But I am limited to the number and am restricted by rules by which (I am guessing) I can't award someone who has already been awarded in this category. Fortunately for me though I still have plenty to mention so here goes:

1. A creative mind - by Ishaan Bhattacharya - this because he is the youngest blogger I know and is really good with expressing himself. And oh is he versatile!!!
2. Doodles on the skies above - by Joyee Bhattacharya - another young girl taking on writing with a vengeance and filling her blog up with opinions and stories. She amazes me with he versatility.
3. Debbie - I just love her style and her humor - she is amazing.
4. Roy - His goodness is reflected in the variety of subjects he writes about. The link here is his first chapter to his blog novel.
5. Yoshay - Yoshay just amazes me with her absolutely stunning style and fantastic writing.
6. Sonia - Beautiful subjects fantastically woven in words
7. Charles - The bald one always makes my day with his posts - just love them...

Cannot leave here without mentioning Eva Manya, Chokher Bali, Priyasmita, Sukanya, John Mountain, Alpana Jaiswal, Lavina Melwani, E Nina Rothe, Ardith, Bronzi, Nirupam, Dede and .... - ok ok - I am ending this now. I have to ... Enjoy : )