On the way to Delhi I find myself in the company of jaats, in fact a whole bunch of them. Now jaats are nice people but you don’t want to displease them because then they can be not-so-nice, at least thats what the general assumption is. This assumes more significance when they are wrestlers and
On the road, in Goa, found a few names of the same place. Agacim, Agassim, Agasim, Agacaim Two of them, on different walls of a Government building. Hopefully, I will never need to post a letter to anyone there.
The coach was not where it should have been. B1, B2, A1, A2. But not B3. Not a good thing. Specially when valuable time was spent (and lost, as it would turn out later) zeroing in on where one would expect B3 to be. And specially when buying water was overruled in the favor of
I see this guy, has this Johnny Depp kind of a beard and a physique that could make the strictest of gym goers wonder what could be wrong with their workout regimen. Only later do I realize, because of his continued conversations on the phone, that he is a Muslim. He is called Aslam. So
From the archives, this post originally written almost 3 years back, in February 2005, deserves a comeback. I am posting it as is, again. *** “Thats the James Bond Beach”, said my sister. “Thats the what bond beach?” I asked, my face giving a convincing, confused look not sure about what I just heard. “James
Today I came back to Delhi after 17 months. I had to. I think I owe this one to this place. No marriages to attend, no specific purpose per se; and yet I find myself in Delhi, spending a good half of my days off here. Since I was born here and since I have
I sometimes think, and these ‘sometimes’ are quite often, I am probably in the wrong profession. Or perhaps, I take my profession only seriously to an extent where it just qualifies to be “serious” enough. Kind of, on the edge of it all. Honestly, I am not okay with the idea that I spend 16