Which led me one day to referring to that other stupendous invention: Google.

I was no big whiz-kid those days (neither am I any serious whiz-kid now). Yet, my grandiose wish was to begin mastering this fabulous tool called MS-Excel. And true to being a man on a mission, we make great journeys with simple steps.

Step#1: Perhaps I should start with mastering the keyboard shortcuts. I mean, there is a kind of charm in blitzing your fingers across keys in true 'hacker-style' with an intelligent frown on your face while the rest of the world dragged their mouses, right? So the mission was to master computer shortcuts first. I was going to show some slow pokes how true artists worked.

Step#2: Plan in action! Google opens up with its now-familiar multicoloured logo set against the soothing white background. I quietly make my small-step-for-man-giant-leap-for-mankind. I type: "MSExcel shortcuts".

The machine angrily throws back a message in bold typeset against a flaming red background: "YOU HAVE TRIED TO ACCESS A WEBSITE THAT HAS CONTENT IN VIOLATION OF THE IT POLICY" and a threat that repeated offense would be reported to the appropriate authorities and appropriate action would be taken.

Huh? What the hell was this about? There should be some mistake. May be a search algorithm gone wrong. May be I should be more definite.

"How do I learn MSExcel shortcuts", my new message.

Much to my wonder, the machine reacts with the same angry message. Damn, what kind of policy am I violating here??? I'm prevented from learning MS-Excel???? Impossible, there must be something wrong here.

But two IT warnings in a span of three minutes are scary. I was in the internal audit team after all. And we were supposed to act like Caesar's wife at all times: above all suspicion. Repeated IT offences might not be tolerated. And two warnings in three minutes showed all the signs of an authority-defying repeated offender.

But hey, I was a learner, right? I was doing it to sharpen my skills, right?

On went a third indefatigable attempt. To show my finesse against an unknown and invisible malicious progamme, I determined to show-off my knowledge of Boolean search strings. Lay users didn't use Boolean search, they typed mere words. I was a cut above the rest, after all.

And therefore on went the words to the Google search bar: "MSExcel + shortcuts"

But the system was resolute as ever, steadfastly accusing me of violating the IT policy. There was something wrong here. My initial enthusiasm was considerably diluted. Oh hell, this was my very first job and I hadn't even completed two months in it, and I didn't want to mess with the "establishment". I didn't want to stake my reputation so early in my career. And that too, by accessing websites with questionable content that was in direct violation of the IT policy.

I gave up. May be office hours were not the best times to learn shortcuts. Hell, I was a banker, maybe I was expected to know this stuff beforehand. I marvelled at the wisdom with which the website-blocking-program was written by the powers-that-be. These IT guys think of everything, after all (my mom's an IT-girl, and I've seen the sheer magnitude of her thoughts while she composed programs - covering every possible scenario, no matter however remote). I got back to my usual work - unflashily dragging my mouse across cells and making the mundane clicks, while I should've been blazing with the keyboard instead.

That day passed by, and the episode was rustled away to a nondescript corner of the mind.

But life is a merry game. It gives you flashes of brilliant insight when you least expect them. It was much long after, on one unremarkable and ordinary evening that the mystery behind the IT policy violation hit me. It had nothing to do with genius, after all.

In all my searches, I had used the words "MSExcel". Now computers are dumb machines, right? The program read the "SEX" in my search-string MSExcel, and decided for itself that I was an IT Policy violator.

And there ends a short tale.

"Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. and Computers are from Hades."

Anonymous

"And I try, oh my God do I try

I try all the time, in this institution

And I pray, oh my God do I pray

I pray every single day, for a revolution

And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed

Just to get it all out, what's in my head

And I am feeling a little peculiar

And so I wake in the morning and I step outside

And I take a deep breath and I get real high

And I scream at the top of my lungs

WHAT'S GOING ON?

And I say, hey (hey-hey-hey)

Hey (hey-hey-hey)

I said hey, what's going on?"

- "What's Up?"

4 Non Blondes

(I think this song explains precisely how I felt on the day of the alleged IT Policy violation)

Mom looks back at the 1980s and says that those were the best days for us. And I tell her - hey mom, these are the best days for us, two successful children, a relaxed retired life, good health... this would be a life that many long to live.

But I know what she means. The 80s were very different times. Us living in a lovely Cochin suburb, great friends who were just a shout away, frequent get-togethers, family outings, cousins, uncles, aunts.. I look back at my childhood with a sense of wonder, fully aware that the comfort of today would never equal the comfort of the 80s.

Those were the times when cars still were novel things on the road. With only a handful of cars in vogue then, having a car was something great, something proud and something you definitely boasted about in school.

We got our first car during the 80s. I still remember it, a shiny white Premier Padmini (registration number? yup, remember that too - KEF 4167).

Driving schools weren't what they are now. If you had a car, then the driving instructor would come home, take you out for a daily spin in your car, make absolutely sure that you indeed had a good hang of driving, and then he would get your licence issued. Father's driving instructor was a chap called Vijayan.

On public holidays, all of us family would bundle ourselves into the car, ready for long a drive. With father and Vijayan uncle in front (Vijayan uncle making father do all the usual stuff that driving instructors made students do: driving slow, driving very slow, changing gears, speeding up, stopping on a slope, driving in traffic, and all that jazz) and mom & us kids in the back, we did a lot many long-drives in the car.

Those days, Sundays used to be sacred. Why? Because newspapers had a large comics page. And there was Mickey Mouse on TV in the morning, Mahabharata in the mid-morning, a regional movie in the afternoon, and then came the magic time at 5:00. Why? Because that was when the rest of the world simply faded away into a black hole and there was only Doordarshan where a beautiful voice announced: Rasna prasthuth kartha hai, Spiderman...

Spiderman was awesome! Swinging from skyscraper to skyscraper in a dashing red & blue outfit bashing up the bad-guys, he was the tops.

Spiderman, Spiderman!

Does whatever a spider can!

Spins a web, any size

Catches thieves, just like flies!

Look out! Here comes the Spiderman!!

That was how the show opened. On our way back home from school, we would sing the Spiderman song in the school bus arguing over who got the lyrics right.

Anyways, I'll cut a long story short.

Vijayan uncle came home that Sunday morning as usual. We sat and joked for a while (it was a mighty cool thing for a nine-year old kid to joke with a grown-up). I told him about school, about games, about our neighbour's dog that hated me. All of us had our breakfast, and we left in our car on yet another long drive. Cruising on the city roads, bouncing over the village roads, stopping for tea/ snacks or an occasional rest-room break. I do not remember much of that trip except that we had driven to Trichur and had visited the Peechi dam there (still remember the steep water flow). And at sometime around 3:00, we decided to start for home.

A drive from Trichur to Cochin is really long, especially for a student driver. You were on a national highway after all (NH #47), and with one's entire family sitting in the car, father must've had his own private share of worries whenever a speeding truck passed by, kicking up hot dust in its wake. But for me sitting in the backseat, there was only one thought: will we reach home in time for Spiderman?

Oh sure, Vijayan uncle smiled from the front seat. It is a short drive, we would be reaching home pretty soon.

Okay, I was assured for a while. We would reach home in time for Spiderman. Vijayan uncle is a man who knows these roads like the back of his hand.

Minutes ticked by and there was no sign of the familiar roads which indicated that home was close-by.

- Amma, what time is it?

- Four ten.

- Are we there yet? Are we close to home?

- Oh, we're getting there soon. Wow, look at that big shop! Look at all those things they have got inside. Look, look, that is such a big burly guard..

- Amma, will I get to see Spiderman?

- Oh sure! Why not? We're travelling in a car after all, and we're driving real fast. Look at that big church! Just look how big it is...

Mom was giving me confusing signals. Was there something daal-mei-kaala here? Would we be reaching home in time for Spiderman? I was not so sure.

- Papa, where are we?

- Hmmm? We are in the car... (father gave pretty accurate answers)

- No, not that. Where exactly are we?

- We're exactly in the car - you're in the back-seat and I'm in the front seat. Ha ha ha..

- No, no, not that! What place have we reached?

- We're at Aluva. Aluva is one of the major districts in Cochin. You know, a little far from here is a place called Kaladi where there is a famous Shankaracharya temple...

But I wasn't interested in details. There was something wrong here. Would I catch the Spiderman show that day? I sure hoped so. I wanted to. Badly. Very badly. I hadn't missed a single Spiderman episode before. I didn't want this to be the first one. I tossed in prayers at all the places of worship that passed us by. Oh God, please... Spiderman...

"I'm praying to God so that we reach home soon so that I could see Spiderman", I told Mom conscientiously. Mom was the one who taught me to pray, she maintained that nothing was impossible through prayer (still does). I was reaching out directly to God, the most powerful superhero in the universe.

But God chose to keep a masterful silence. There was silence in the car, there was silence from God, there was silence everywhere. There was so much silence that I could hear the hum of the tires as they rolled on the road.

My panic grows. I'm on the verge of tears. For some reason, there is this unknown certainty that is fast establishing itself within me - I was going to miss my Spiderman that day. What do I do? Say a hundred Hail Marys? Or sing all the hymns that they taught us at school? May be I'll stop eating chocolates for a week, or a month, or a year. If only we would reach home quick! There was Spiderman on the TV at five.

I ask mom point blank: "Amma, will I be able to watch Spiderman today?"

Mom pauses slightly, as if organising her thoughts. Then she looks at me and says, "sure, just think of it. You like Spiderman so much. Do you think Spiderman would want you to miss his show today? Of course he'll wait for you."

Nervous jubilation within me. We drive in silence for a while. Of course Spiderman would wait for me. After all, it was my mother who said that to me, right? She's a wise lady. Wow, my superhero was going to wait for me. Spiderman, after all. Defender of the good. That was why he was a super-hero. But somewhere again, a nervous pang of doubt.

- You're sure we'll reach in time for Spiderman?

- Sure, what's even the doubt about that?

I caught my father looking at me in the rear-view mirror. Drive papa, drive! I sure didn't want to keep Spiderman waiting.

The clock moved fast but distance moved slow.

- Vijayan uncle, what time is it?

- Hmmm. It is around four-fifty right now.

- Can you take over from Papa and drive the car any faster?

- Ummmm...

Vijayan uncle gets busy looking at something outside the window and does not give me any reply.

I must've chewed my parents' brains that day asking them what time it was or where we'd reached.

And finally we were home. Our wrought iron gates swung inside as the car passed, but I was out like a shot. I unlocked the door and switched on the TV. Spiderman was my hero, Spiderman was going to wait until I came to see him that day. The great Spiderman. My Spiderman.

Sure enough, I could hear the theme song already (those days, we had a Nikki Tasha television set, and the sound came on a few seconds before the image loaded up). In the chill of the night, at the scene of the crime.. Like a streak of light, he arrives just in time! Spider man, Spiderman. Friendly neighbourhood Spiderman. Mom was right! Spiderman kept his word! My hero! My hero!

And then, the image loaded up.

Words would fail me if I attempt to describe the scene. The image was of a Spiderman-web against a splendid night-view of the city as the back-drop, and the credits being displayed one after the other. In other words, the closing sequence.

We were late! Spiderman show was over! Quiet mayhem in my mind.

But I'd prayed so much.. But mom had said that Spiderman would wait.. But Spiderman was my hero.. But we had travelled so fast.. A million different 'buts' flashed across my mind. I did the only thing that seemed appropriate then - I open my mouth and bawled. I bawled for a long time, sitting in front of the television set staring stupidly at it. Bawled while having the evening milk & cookies, bawled while packing my school bag for the next day, bawled while having bath.

And somewhere later in the night, amidst hot tears, the ridiculousness of the situation quietly unfolded in my mind. After all, the cartoon was beamed by Doordarshan, how could they probably delay the serial for one kid living in a Cochin suburb? I was stupid to have believed it. And mother and father, telling me make-believe stories just to keep me placated. Another round of bawling. That night I must have cried as if some loved one had passed away.

A lot of time has passed since that incident. But the memory still remains, with a bittersweet tinge that only childhood memories can provide. This is an incident that I often recollect, and try to analyse with a coldness only age brings with itself. A stupid nine year old kid, wishing hard to see his favorite cartoon. I guess in those days, few things meant so much as catching up on one's favorite cartoon on TV (as compared to the million odds and ends that we continuously juggle as we fill in multiple roles at work).

Something within me broke that day. Something sacred, something precious, something that a little nine year old never thought could break. Looking back, I wonder what it was that really made me upset the most - the fact that my parents had made up a cock-and-bull story about Spiderman waiting for me to come home, or the fact that I believed in them and expected him to be there. Whatever it was, I still haven't really understood it. I guess for a comic-crazy nine year old, it was something like a first lesson that life was not always hunky-dory. That hopes could be dashed. That heroes would disappoint. That life did not always have the hero flying into the sunset while a majestic THE END floated on the screen.

For some reason, ever since, I haven't seen a single Spiderman cartoon.

"With great powers comes great responsibility."

- Uncle Ben to Peter Parker, "Spiderman #1 (film)"

"Is he strong?

Listen bud, he's got radioactive blood!

Can he swing from a thread?

Take a look, overhead!

Hey there! There goes the Spiderman.."

- Excerpt from the Spiderman Theme Song

(with lines like that, I guess it was small wonder that us nine-year olds adored him)

Pushpa Saxena. Age 23, 5'5 in height, slender built, fair, attractive.

I know a lot about Pushpa Saxena. Like her address, for example (#3003, 3rd Floor, Olympian Heights, Napean Sea Road, Mumbai). Or her cell number, both Vodafone as well as Airtel. Or her email address.

I really know a lot about Pushpa Saxena.

In fact, I think I know a lot more about Pushpa Saxena than her own parents. A lot many details. Her weekly schedule, for that matter: gymnasium, swimming, beauty salon, college, pubs and the rest. Or the fact that she has spent more than fifty thousand rupees to be a regular Sunday client at one of the upmarket spas in town. Or the address of the designer from whom she gets all her party clothes stitched. Or her usual shopping haunt for t-shirts, and the like. That she prefers to stop by at Tiger Lodge every Friday for a drink before she reaches home. Or that her favorite hair stylist's name is Megan. Or the names and addresses of everyone in her friends' circle.

I even know things about her that she does not know.

Like the fact that her friend Riddhima bitches about her behind her back to the rest of her friends.

Riddhima, Riddhima Sharma. Riddhima is Pushpa's best friend. They grew up together attending the same school as well as college, calling each other "Pushpie" & "Ridds". Riddhima is an aspiring model, now planning to break into television. Perhaps the biggest stumbling block in Riddhima's career is Riddhima herself. Oh, the girl is a study in self-defeat. Despite of frequent assurances to the contrary by all and sundry, Riddhima firmly believes that she's got a misshapen nose, much like her mother's. Riddhima is of mixed blood Punjabi mother and a U.P. father. She gets so self-conscious in front of the camera that it takes quite a while to get her ready for the 'glam' look. She's being noticed lately thanks to a photo campaign that she'd done for one of the clothing brands. And for that, she owes full thanks to Rahul.

Rahul, Rahul Sharma. Rahul is Riddhima's first-cousin. He runs a successful studio at Lokhandwala, where he does portfolio shoots for aspiring models. Rahul's made quite a name for himself in fact, he's just about to land a calendar project with one of the leading ladies of Bollywood. Rahul is a charming fellow, and unknown to Rahul, Pushpa fancies him a lot. That is Pushpa's little secret. So far, she has only told Riddhima about it.

Unknown to everyone, Rahul's got a little secret of his own. He's gay. I was with Rahul and another friend for one of those New Year parties downtown. And trust me, the things that those two were doing to each other at the parking lot would've put a porno movie maker to shame. At one point, I even had to ask them to keep their grunts low to avoid attention.

Parmeet is another one of Pushpa's friends. She's got a crush on Rahul too. I've heard her say it to Riddhima. Something Riddhima has dutifully kept away from Pushpa.

All of them like to crash at Andrew's Lonavla bungalow frequently. Andrew is a true Goan, always happy-go-lucky and perennially on the lookout for a girlfriend. The girls don't really like him much they find him a bit of a brat, actually. But no one sings or plays the guitar the way Andrew does, and he's good on the dance floor as well. Often, he is the life of the group.

Andrew hates Siddharth. Siddharth Meswani, the last member in the friends' circle. They call him Sid. Siddharth lives alone in a duplex close to Worli. He is pretty moneyed his family runs a shipping business or something. Siddharth has got a secret that he's kept from the most of the group that once he was nearly arrested for illegal possession of drugs.

It was at one of the weekends at Andrew's Lonavla house. Andrew and Siddharth were putting together a surprise party for the rest of the gang and there was an unexpected knock on the door. Five burly men, from the police. Apparently Siddharth had been on the police radar for quite some time, and this was a crackdown. Siddharth was caught red-handed with 4.5 grams of cocaine in his jeans pocket. It took all of Andrew's contacts in the police to have the matter dropped. And also, a hefty bribe of Rs. 85,000, all in crisp notes. I delivered the cash myself.

Siddharth has paid him back the cash, and pleaded that the matter not be mentioned to his family or any of the others in the group. And Andrew being Andrew, he has kept shut about it. But he hasn't quite forgiven Siddharth for all the trouble that he caused on that day. Riddhima once had a crush on Siddharth, but now she's pretty much cool about him. I wonder if Andrew had anything to do about it.

And that's the friendship group all six of them. Each with their own stories, their own secrets. And I guess I am the only person who knows so much about each of them, the common thread interweaving the gang of six. And guess what, none of them even know that I know so much about them. Which is just as well, after all what good is all this knowledge to me? I'm just a driver. I drive Ms. Pushpa and her friends around whenever she needs me. And listen to all their conversations in the back seat.

THE END

Indian Express was the newspaper of choice those days for the English speaking public in Kerala. Malayala Manorama was the leading vernacular daily. We used to receive Indian Express at our place, while our neighbour received Malayala Manorama. (I am told) both papers had similar views on capitalism (pro-) and socialism (anti-), but for seven year olds who never understood why grown-ups spent such a long time in the morning reading sheaves of papers with small lettering, the real treasure lay buried in one of the pages within. Malayala Manorama ran a daily strip of Mandrake The Magician - two, or at best three panels of action spread across an area of 4x3 inches at best, it would take at least 3-months to finish a proper story arc. Yet it would be followed with unimaginable relish on a daily basis, Mandrake's adventures being excitedly discussed on the school bus and probable strategies on how he would work his way out of an adversity.

On Sundays, Indian Express was THE newspaper to have. Why? Because the Sunday edition ran Mandrake in colour, along with Spiderman, Bringing Up Father, and a number of other cartoon strips. Papa was the designated reader for Mandrake - our vocabularies hadn't matured enough to comprehend words like "hypnosis" yet, so comics were always read out and explained to us - and in his booming voice, he breathed life into Mandrake, Lothar and all the other villains in a manner few could. Once Mandrake was done, it was the turn to have Spiderman read to us. Mom was the designated reader for Spiderman. Looking back, those simple days of childhood seem like heaven.

Speaking of Sundays, another three word-sentence should be mentioned. One that served as precursor for events that would give nightmares for for many a pirate/ convict/ dictator - "Old Jungle Saying". Another childhood hero, and words would never be enough to describe that exciting phenomenon: The Guardian of The Eastern Desert, The Nemesis of Pirates, The Man Who Cannot Die, The Ghost Who Walks, The Phantom. "The Phantom Moves Faster Than Lightning: Old Jungle Saying". Or, "Never Point a Gun at The Phantom: Old Jungle Saying". Jungle sayings about Phantom's fists (like iron), or about Phantom's strength (equal to twenty tigers). Jungle sayings galore.

The Malayala Manorama on Sunday ran an immense quarter page of Phantom in vernacular (I've read Diamond Comics in Hindi - 'The Ghost Who Walks' was translated as "Chaltaa Phirtaa Preth", and the Malayalam translation was an equally campy one, but hell - those words had sacred value in those days, no one dared question them). Phantom, Diana, Kit & Heloise, Guran, Hero & Devil, and an unending stream of nerve racking adventure. I recall coming across The Illustrated Weekly (the name was quite hard to pronounce for my seven year old tongue), and the only reason I still recall the magazine was because it too ran a large spread of Phantom.

But why am I saying all this? Because while surfing the net reading up on irrelevant trivia, I came across a startling piece of news: Lee Falk, the creator of both these comics passed away in 1999. Lee Falk, a phenomenon that could produce magic without any hypnotic gesture or serve up delectable Old Jungle Sayings that coloured many a childhood story had passed away nearly a decade ago and I had no knowledge of it?

For some reason, it saddens me.

"Life is pleasant, death is peaceful. It is the transition that is troublesome."

"I met a girl who sang the blues, and I asked her for some happy news

She just smiled and turned away

I went down to the sacred store, where I heard the music years before

And the man there said the music wouldn't play

And in the streets the children screamed, the lovers cried and the poets dreamed

And not a word was spoken, the church bells all were broken

And three men I admired most, the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost

They took the last train for the coast."

"Ms. American Pie"

Don Mclean

Once upon a time I had an animal crush on Sheetal Mafatlal.

Those were her pre-marriage days, when I was in college and she was still Sheetal Bhagat, the page 3 socialite with a dazzling smile and really lovely legs. Her photograph would regularly be splashed across the society pages of the newspaper I used to read those days - attending some high socialite evening or giving her views on the latest Prada launch, or saying how much she loved the new Manish Malhotra ensemble that she was wearing, or some other equally intellectual item like that. And my teenage mind was smitten by her charms. Then came the news of her wedding plans with Atulya Mafatlal - the initial rumours, the are-they-aren't-they phase, the "we're just good friends" routine, and finally the grand wedding.

And I still had an animal crush on Sheetal Mafatlal.

Atulya was a new name to me - Atulya, one for whom there is no equal. It sounded like a name that I would want to choose for my son. Page 3 photos where Sheetal Mafatlal stood with her shapely legs now had the added company of Atulya Mafatlal.

Know thy enemy is a good rule to go with, so I started reading up on the Mafatlal group, the family history, family fortunes, news tidbits, and what not. What I read didn't impress me much those days. Perhaps Atulya wasn't so atulya after all?

But who was I to judge? Those were the testosterone filled days. Atulya was secondary, Sheetal Mafatlal was all that mattered. Oh, I still had an animal crush on Sheetal Mafatlal.

And then I landed my first job. Responsibilities, long days, short nights, accountability & answerability, and a host of other things that I picked up along the way. Sheetal Mafatlal lingered somewhere in the back of the mind, there were more pressing matters to be dealt with first. Especially when there was a very mean boss to report to who had no control over decibel levels or blood pressure. Not to mention some big time insecurity matched with an unbelievable egomania.

Then came some more news. All was not well at the Mafatlal House perhaps? Where there was a will, there was a way - a way that led to some big time conflicts and bad-blood, especially when the will in question did not divide the family wealth in a manner that was agreeable with all parties. News of ill treatment of the matriarch by Sheetal & Atulya Mafatlal, police cases, counter police cases, interviews, strong words, and juicy news reports of big time conflicts within the family, all became staple items in the newspaper. I even remember Atulya's brother's sexuality being questioned - was he a man or a woman or something else? What kind of organ change operation was it that he had done? After much tom-tomming on that particular topic, news reports suddenly went enigmatically vague.

I was getting out of my Sheetal Mafatlal phase, but boy - she still had lovely legs.

Things died down for a while. And Sheetal Mafatlal slowly crept away from page 3. Oh, she had a real beautiful younger sister called Poonam Bhagat whose parties were apparently super great as well, but hey, life moves on beyond page 3 girls and parties, doesn't it?

And just last month, I randomly caught a news item - further trouble at the Mafatlal house, the matriarch herself has asked for police protection. Apparently the Mafatlal home has been invisibly cordoned into separate areas for each warring faction of the family, and these boundaries were fiercely protected by each faction - any attempts to cross these invisible lines (even by the matriarch) was met with physical force. More dirty linen in the public. Sound bytes from each side blaming the other of foul play. Sheetal & Atulya harass the mom, says the brother. The brother threatened them and their children, say Sheetal & Atulya. Why drag the children into this when they are not even here and are studying in the States, says the brother. Photographs of the Mafatlal home, an old photograph of the brother (I guess all those journalists who had questions on his sexuality have now been answered satisfactorily, because they don't seem to talk about that in the papers any more), and of course, a smiling photograph of Sheetal Mafatlal.

Now I look at her photograph and unknowingly think to myself - once I had an animal crush on this woman? Whoa.

(Also has me thinking - the quality of journalism we have these days...)

"Come gather round people wherever you roam

And admit that the waters around you have grown

And accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth saving

Then you'd better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a changing."

- "The times, they are a-changing"

Bob Dylan

Like the nutritionists keep saying, breakfast is the most important meal for man - a meal that is supposed to provide him with the most essential energy to see him through the rest of the day. What was that old school saying? 'Breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and dine like a pauper'. Something like that.

Now when you have the most important meal of the day, one must treat it with some respect, right? As appealing visually as it is to the taste buds, breakfasts should be served with élan, a panache, with a flourish that would want the rest of the house to be eagerly asking for more. Whatever the contents of breakfast might be, a spic & span dining table neatly arranged with food items- starting with light warm milk may be, progressing to toasts & butter, lots of fruits cut into little pieces and put up in white bowls, juices... at least a couple of them, omlettes, may be a couple of dosas, all washed down with lovely Assameese tea. Aaah, such heaven...

Oh wait.. that's the ideal situation. The actual situation is more like mom yelling from the kitchen "breakfast is ready, come have it", and the rest of us sleepily getting out of our rooms to the kitchen, dragging our plates, whining about there being no idlis but only dosas today, or how we've been having idlis for three weeks in a row, or how I hate the 'appams' now because they made me have lots of it when I was a kid ("Appam for breakfast today?? God, there goes the rest of the day! I hate this stuff!! Mommmm!!!"), or something or the other. TV is switched on, channels flipped from Cartoon Network to Nat Geo to Discovery to History Channel to Surya TV. Newspapers are lazily glanced through, and by the time Mom scurries with tea cups as we finish, the most important meal is finished as if it was yesterday's junk food that was otherwise going waste.

Food must be visually appealing ("that's why we tigers like our food fast and running" - Hobbes, from 'Calvin & Hobbes'). Food must be tasted by the senses long before it hits the mouth - the sights, the smell, the ambience, you get the picture? But well, when will a university level MSc. Statistics rank holder ever comprehend that? Mom ought to be watching some good shows - like that one called 'The Great Chef' on AXN. Probably then she would realise how to cook a good breakfast for discerning taste buds.

Mom's out in Kerala for a few days. If Mom's cooking was the pits, then Dad's cooking was absolute Hades-level (Dad's another university level MSc rank holder). And if I'm made to have tasteless matter that seems questionably suspended between solid/ liquid state, I'm going to puke. May be it is time I taught them how breakfast ought to be cooked. A master cook at work. A master cook dishing out a power breakfast that would have them wanting for more. Love and dedication to the work at hand, that's the way things ought to be done.

A good beginning is half the work done. A trip to Big Bazaar the previous night, to pick up that toast maker that I saw the other day. Bread, butter ready. Tomatoes & cucumber bought afresh from the grocer first thing in the morning. Capsicum & onions, ready. The kitchen is not a room, it is a place of creation. Stand back as a master cook takes over the show.

I-Pod is switched on. Song for the moment? "Flying Without Wings". That's how my breakfast's going to be. Top class.

Tomatoes. Aah, these red little things, they ought to be sliced into the thinnest of flakes.. only so much that would give the taster just a hint of tomato in the toasted sandwich. Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut. Beautiful. Twenty four thin slices of tomato. Cucumber next. Ummm... cucumber? Cucumbers are a staple part of the sandwich when the neighbourhood sandwichwalla makes it, but how good does it really taste? Okay, rather think of that some other time. Slice, slice, slice, slice. Cucumber beautifully sliced. Onion. Skin it first. Wow, I think all of us are like onions. Layers and layers under each of us that we discover as we go along in life. And when we reach to the core, the very essence of being, will there be something left to us or would there be nothing - as in the case of this onion? Oh hell, philosophy later. Cooking now. Cutting onions make one's eyes water. Damn.

Queen sings "Radio Gaga" in my ears. Capsicum to be cut. Hmmmm.. capsicum provides spice to the sandwich. But let me think, do people want spice in their breakfast in mornings? Now that's a thought. Oh well, this is the first time for me. Might as well stick to the norm. Cut, cut, cut.. DAMN!! That was my finger! A trickle of blood oozes out. Wash the wound, it is not too deep. Ouch! Water stings when it hits the wound! So hold it in a way that water would run over it. Yeah that's the way it should be. Oh cool, see.. nothing to it.

Back to cutting capsicum. A bit of capsicum slush hits my wound again making it burn like hell. I curse as I listen to Elton John singing "Your Song". Occupational hazard. We all learn.

Where's the toast maker? Hmmm... now how does the sandwichwalla do it? Let me think for a moment. Okay, he spreads butter on the walls of the toast maker. Where's the butter gone? Okay, in the fridge. I'm in a slicing-mood, I slice the butter into thin slices and dab it on the sides of the toastmaker. Bread slices are arranged (against a white plate.. the cook should get some colour stimulation too). Tomatoes first, cucumber later, capsicum follows, and onion slices last. Oh no wait.. tomatoes give a hint of sweet, cucumber is largely tasteless, capsicum & onion add spice. Should that be the order that I should follow? Or should it be the spicy capsicum & onion interspersed with tomatoes & cucumber? Ummm... well.. oh great, this is quite a confusion. Grunts from the living room remind me of hungry mouths that I have to feed. Oh hell, they'll probably not realise what goes into their mouths. The arrangement stays the way it is for now. Ronan Keating sings "If tomorrow never comes" on the I-Pod, reminding me that I don't have much time for these finer nuances.

Stove's on. The toastmaker is loaded. And here goes the first launch! Hurray!

The Corrs sing "So Young". By the time they reach the second iteration, the toastmaker's smoking. Okay, so I'll turn it over. I peek at the contents within, just like the sandwichwalla does it. Wow, a delicious looking golden brown. This was just as I wanted it. Top class.

U2 sings "Walk On", a song that takes me back through time. The song reminds me of grit, of determination, of never looking back no matter how bad the situation is. ("I know it aches/ And your heart it breaks/ And you can only take so much/ But walk on.../ You gotta leave it behind...") DAMN! More smoke from the toastmaker. I think the toast has been over done on one side. Oh, perfidy! This one didn;t come out the way I wanted it to. I'll have to make another one. Grunts from the living room again. I'm doing it, I'm doing it! Wait a while, won't you?

Ouch! I scald my hands against the toastmaker. The next sandwich is loaded. "Better Man" by Robbie Williams plays. Another song that transports me through time. But I'm alert. The golden brown of this piece is more or less same on both sides. And we have success! A masterpiece of a sandwich! I dump it on the plate. The next one is loaded up.

It is hot. And a bit smoky. The exhaust fan is turned on, and I look at how the white smoke from the toastmaker is sucked up by the fan. It makes an interesting piece to gaze at on an idle morning. A fluffy cylindrical cloud that pulsates and sways, curling upwards and then being swept away by the rotating blades of the exhaust fan... like a little dinghy being sucked by maelstrom in the Norwegian coast. DAMN!! The toast! The next piece is not golden brown, it is earth brown. Sheesh, I was hoping to populate my table with toastpieces of uniform colour. Too many colours confuse the mind. The next piece goes into the toastmaker. Only three pieces made yet? A hungry critic comes into the kitchen to enquire. And I'm standing there - feeling hassled with the ingredients, feeling confused about the ideal time a toast should stay on the stove, the white smoke, my cut finger... I yell - "If you don't go away, I'll have YOU for breakfast, understand??? The food critic scurries away.

Sandwich number four. U2 sings "Beautiful Day". I really hope it is. I turn up the volume. Next time I'm going to get an electronic toastmaker. With these manual ones, there's not tellling how long they should be on the stove. Sandwich number five, six, seven and eight. Different colours, and slightly different shapes as I cut them up into four pieces. I can't afford to waste time on details like that any more. I have mouths to feed. A lawyer friend calls up to ask a doubt. I tell him I'm at church and I can't talk and he's disturbing my prayers. He hangs up quickly. Commandment #1 of the ten commandments rings in my head - "Thou shalt not use the name of thy God in vain". Okay, okay.. I'm trying to feed people over here alright?? And it's getting to my nerves! I think of that incident where Jesus Christ feeds the milling crowd once with just five loaves of bread and fish. Would he have faced what I'm facing? No time for specifics. I've got cooking to do.

Sandwiches nine, ten and eleven. My in-born quality checker gives up and shuts shop. People will just have to do with what they're served. Sandwiches twelve, thirteen and fourteen. My patience gives up. Three people can easily have fourteen sandwiches between them, can't they? A tired master cook stops cooking.

Cleaning up is as important a step as is cooking. When the person leaves the kitchen, it should remain as spotless as it did when he first entered it. A master cook must be like the ninja, not giving evidence of his presence. Invisible and unseen, his fame growing solely on the basis of the taste of his creations.

Tea is put to brew. Cooking is a thankless job. One tries so hard to make the best of things for the others, but none of that effort is ever recognised. Like my sandwich number six for instance, it is the most perfect sandwich in the whole lot, but no one is going to realise it. A tinge of sadness crosses my heart. Tea is brewed, and now for arranging the breakfast in a visually tantalizing manner.

Pieces of toast are arranged in a diamond pattern around the bowl that I've filled up with sweet & sour tomato ketchup. Against the white of the plate, the red does look good. The browns of the toast and the red of the ketchup, wish I had something green to sprinkle around as well. But hell, there are hungry hogs in the living room they'll probably eat anything. Even burnt rubber. And I'm a bit hungry too. Tea is served in glass cups & saucers, going well with the white plate with brown toasts.

And my grip slips splattering the contents of the plate onto the kitchen platform. I grit my teeth and curse. I take the other two plates and walk on to the living room. Folks are reading newspapers, a bit cross at being served breakfast at a time which is a shade later than the usual. No one even sees the colour combination that the master cook has served up - white plates and brown toast with golden tea. Sandwich number six is now as indifferent as sandwich number three. No one notices the look on the master cook's face. And that gets me thinking, how many times have I noticed the look on mom's face as she serves us breakfast? Even I don't look at sandwich number six now. They can eat it up, or throw it to the dogs. I don't care anymore. Cooking for the family is a thankless job. All cooks are so unappreciated in life.

I retire to my room, feeling a bit defeated at my efforts at serving up a master breakfast, and also thinking of how wasted all one's efforts feel, unless they're appreciated by others.

I have a piece of toast. "Not bad, but the butter had been dabbed a bit too much on this one while cooking. The salt of the butter hits your tongue first before the sweet of the tomato or the spice of capsicum", an inner food critic gives some sound byte. Oh beat it and just eat it, I tell him.

Three more days for mom to come back from Kerala. May be we'll have good breakfasts then.

Cooking is such a thankless job.

"If you got arrested for kindness, would there be enough evidence to convict you for it?"

- ((I forget where I heard it from))

"No matter what they tell us, no matter what they do

No matter what they teach us, what we believe is true

No matter what they call us, however they attack

No matter where they take us, we'll find our own way back

I can't deny what I believe, I can't be what I'm not

I know I'll love forever, I know no matter what..."

- "No Matter What"

Boyzone

Sporadic gunfire - even little children know how to handle guns adroitly these days. A series of explosions go off somewhere to our right and we steer away from that corner, don't want to go with the car to those areas. Water from our dwindling water supply spills over wastefully as a bomb explodes somewhere close by. It must've exploded much sooner than expected, because there are people looking at the area with their mouths open, light fear playing on their faces. A rocket slithers across the air in front of us, any closer and it would've exploded in the car itself.

Far into the horizon, the sky is still smoky - will remain so for the rest of the night. The explosions continue, the end of each one triggering off the start of another...

Me reporting from the war-front? Nope, I'm driving around Bombay suburbs as we celebrate Diwali in full form.

(((Duh, whatever happened to the noise-free Diwali we kept talking about? Double duh. Why? Because despite shuddering every time a loud fire cracker went off somewhere close by, deep down in a far away corner, I kind of smiled with glee. Happy Diwali, i-Landers!!!!)))

"Phattaaack!"

The title of this post. Something that a road side romeo yelled while throwing a fire cracker up into the skies above. It exploded on its way down, somewhere at a distance of about one feet above his left ear.

"Deepavali.. manaaye suhaani

Meri Sai ke haathon mei jaadu ka paani."

- Dunno the lyrics of this one completely yet, but it is a song from a Sai Baba film a little girl sings and dances to this innocently catchy song. Heard it sometime while growing up.

The book was marvelous, describing in vivid detail Armstrong's brush with testicular cancer, his exit from world cycling, his loss of endorsement contracts, the long and traumatic road to recovery, and his miraculous comeback. The book showed the man behind the bike, unabashedly talking about the intimate details that revolve around testicular cancer, his fights with his own body, the shared trauma of a family, the support from the two main ladies in his life - his mother and in an equally prominent role, his wife Kristina ('Kik'), on how he was blessed to have such a mother and a wife. Perhaps what grabs you about the book most is that it is all about survival. The book speaks volumes about survival, on battling the odds head-on, on how one can shatter the shackles that fetter one down provided one hangs in there long enough.

The world moves on. Newspapers later reported Armstrong's divorce from his wife (and the mother of his three children). Newspapers reported his subsequent link-up with singer Sheryl Crow. Newspapers reported his break up with Sheryl Crow when she was going through her own battles with breast cancer as Armstrong somehow couldn't take the pressures of dealing with it. Newspapers reported his later link-up with fashion designer Tory Burch, and their subsequent split.

And just the other day, I caught a news item saying that Armstrong was caught making out with one of the Olsen twins. The paper was a tabloid, and went on to describe in vivid detail all that they were doing while seated at some city hotel in the United States, quoting salacious inputs from onlookers.

Somehow the news item disturbed me beyond what I thought it would. Somehow, to me it was not a random news clip about some celebrity being caught with his pants down. To me it was something more, something that kind of filled me with distasteful bile.

To me it read something like the fall of a hero.

Well...

((My copy of the "It's Not About The Bike" book has been a fiercely guarded one, almost like a personal diary. The second installment "Every Second Counts" is home too, without a single jotting on it, not even the date. I think when we hero-worship someone, we have this tendency to elevate them to some thou-shalt-do-no-wrong pedestal (or, to sound more local, the 'Sachin-shall-always-hit-every-ball-for-a-six' pedestal), feeling deeply disappointed when they digress from the pedestal that we place them on. Somewhere I guess, we overlook that tiny tidbit that deep down, once the hero mantle has been cast aside, they're simple human beings too. Human beings who go through life with the same level of doubt, questions, insecurities and faults as any of us.))

"With great powers come great responsibility."

"I can't stand to fly, I'm not that naïve,

I'm just out to find, the better part of me

I'm more than a bird, I'm more than a plane

More than some pretty face beside a train

It's not easy to be me.

Wish that I could cry, fall upon my knees

Find a way to lie, about a home I'll never see