Being on Twitter is like finding a table in a college canteen. It's been a while since I was in one. It may be different now. But I doubt it very much. Feel free to visualise your own memory. +
The college canteen is a no frills place. A large hall with tables with chairs around them. Ceiling fans ineffectual against heat and flies. A self service area. A counter for tokens. +
Students in their habitual gangs. Of course there are the loners. And the lovers. And the occasional cool professor, happy to hang out with the kids. +
Sometimes you walk in alone, in search of a table to join. Alone by circumstance, not choice. Because of a delayed experiment in the lab, an overdue library book you never read to be returned, some random bureaucracy like showing your July fee receipt to someone. Whatever. +
So you navigate your way across the hall with your cup of tea and samosas. You wave to someone. Nod at another. Ignore someone who's trying to catch your eye. Say congrats to someone for some achievement. You say it like you mean it. You don't. +
There's the nerdy group. Front to mid benchers. 90% attendance. That too without proxy. Have proper notes. Actually use library cards for reference books. Discussing mid term portions. And Pran Nath and Agarwal Question 7, Chapter 2. +
Then there are the lords of the last bench. Here after unbunkable pracs. Hence in full strength. Noisy as hell. Lots of laughter. Occupying way more space than they need. Planning the next (insert banned activity) session. +
The lefties. Discussing the next edition of the magazine nobody reads. And drafting a petition protesting something. +
The bullies. Led by the Big Brawn, surrounded by his spoons. Somehow, they get served at the table. And get off-menu items. They are discussing UP politics. Way more complex than Maxwell's equations. They are allowed to smoke. Or rather not disallowed. +
The lit cul music theatre gang. Passionately planning a festival that will attract loser teams from loser colleges because there are already so many other popular festivals. +
The geeks are at a table. There are some words of a known language in between all the other words they speak. They look a little crazy. They are actually a little crazy. +
The bridge gang. They need a bath. They haven't changed clothes for days. They haven't slept in ages. They are discussing how they should have bid at last night's game. +
Your tea and samosas are getting cold. You decide you'll just sit quietly somewhere and try to not look like a loner. Someone passes by and asks 'What's happening?'
ANTHE
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Fear the worst, the new CEO said, pronouncing both the r's. He spoke with an accent that did not try to mask his roots. He wore an ill fitting jacket and a poorly knotted tie. On his way up to the top tech job in the world, he didn't make any fashion pit stops. +
His face loomed on the giant screen in the auditorium. And on thousands of smaller screens watched live by minions around the globe. His annual speech had become an international media event. Bits of it would trend for weeks on social media. +
The myth of the elusive man, embellished by bits of apocrypha, would go viral. WhatsApp groups would buzz with fervent forwards. Till his sound bytes would be replaced by clips of the latest red carpet sensation, embellished by bits of fabric. +
There was something ineffably graceful about her. Him. Them. I don't know what her preferred pronoun was. Or if she even knew there is some such thing. I'll just use she/her. Because that feels right to me. +
She was almost always there at the SV Road signal when I drove to work. A quiet, dignified presence. There was always a hint of a smile on her powdered face. Just a subtle widening of her brightly lipsticked mouth. But genuine enough to travel to her eyes. Making them look kind.+
Even when she was a few cars away, I felt the tenderness of her expression. Maybe it had something to do with the laws of reflection. Light bounces off differently from a painted surface. She probably used a cheap foundation cream and even cheaper compact. +
I watch people. And study their habits. Like that guy at the next table who taps his cup twice after mixing sugar. Not once, not thrice. Always twice. That Dell kid who gets into his chair from the left and out from the right. +
That woman with the pink iPhone who picks all her calls after three rings. The guy who takes a picture of every coffee he has. The doorman who wipes the handle after every customer walks in. Covid habits die hard. +
Yes, I'm at a coffee shop. Not the famous one. But the nicer one with better food, better coffee, better chairs. But weaker wifi and smaller loo. I come here every Wednesday. At the same time, and follow the same routine. +
Here's a bunch of random pictures. Will try to run a thread through them. And try to hold your attention with trivia, wordplay, and banter while doing so. +
Most of you may have recognised three of the four images. And some geniuses, all four. The logo of Rolling Stones, a Phantom comic, Sacha Baron Cohen, and the toughie - the root of a mandrake plant. Aah! Many of you have probably got the basic connection. +
Lee Falk. The cool dude who created Phantom and Mandrake. He was a writer, director, producer, and cartoonist. He directed over a hundred plays featuring actors including Marlon Brando, Paul Newman, Charlton Heston, Ethel Waters, and Chico Marx. (All wikipedia gyan, not mine.) +
Today is a good day to tell you the story of how my 85 year old grandmother helped us win the IPL. I will not tell you which edition it was. I am sworn to secrecy. +
I was on the bench the entire season. I didn't play a single match. I fielded as a substitute, for a couple of overs in our tenth game. I took a catch and saved 7, maybe 8, runs. I didn't get picked at the auctions ever again. But it was my paati who helped us lift the trophy.+
I should probably go back to where this story starts. My childhood. I was a habitual liar. And a really good one. My amma and appa could never spot my fibs. And I got away with a lot of stuff. +
Everybody hated the old bastard. That he was wheelchair-bound made no difference. He was a cantankerous, foul mouthed, ill tempered, misshapen bundle of vitriol. +
When he was found dead, slumped over his lap, held back only by the belt of his wheelchair, there was a collective unreleased sigh of relief. Even from his own family.+
He used to sit all day in front of his ground floor flat, in the little patch of garden that he usurped from the society. He had an unkind word for everyone - from the watchman to the drivers to the kids who played in the yard to the delivery boys.+