The Great ERP Exam Mystery

During MBA, while I do not recall the semester, but at some point we had a course on Enterprise Resource Planning (ERP). If I am not mistaken, there were two course on ERP: "Enterprise Resource Planning I" and "Enterprise Resource Planning II". I think they were divided across two semesters. I had zero clue why we had to study ERP. Twenty-three years later, I still don't.

I was not the only one clueless about the course. In fact, the majority of the batch was equally clueless, and that prompted a special arrangement for the exam. It was turned into an 'open book' exam. Each of us was supposed to sit in front of computers, search for the right answers in the ERP library, and write them down on the answer sheet. 

That sounds simple and easy but, trust me, it was not. If I did not understand the questions, what chance did I have of finding the right answers?

A logistical issue came to my rescue. 

Since there were more students than the number of computers in the IT Lab, we were divided into groups. I think each group was assigned a different examination slot. Yet, it would still have taken a lot of time because ours was a big batch. So, to optimize further, it was decided that students in each group would be divided into pairs, with each pair having access to one computer. That meant that I would not die alone on the battlefield! 

I do not recall how the pairs were decided, but I got paired with Abhishek Mehta, one of the brightest students in our MBA batch. So, that meant I had the all-important responsibility of allowing Mehta to find the answers, confirm them with him, and then write them down on my answer sheet. But I was up for the challenge!

Next to us, my friends Vikas Khaitan and Pooja Wadhera were sitting. I had somehow done well in ERP I, and Khaitan had challenged me that he would outscore me in ERP II.

I was not nervous. I was confident....in Mehta's ability to find the answers. 

However, during the exam, Mehta kept getting confused. He would find something, sound confident, and just before we wrote it down, he would start having second thoughts. This went on for a while. Long enough for me to lose all confidence and start shitting bricks.

This did not go unnoticed by my dear friends sitting at the next computer. While I was busy controlling my heart attack, Khaitan and Pooja were giggling like schoolgirls. Every now and then, they would intentionally shout, "Mil gaya!" to announce that they have found another answer. Khaitan kept telling me that I would flunk! 

It was textbook sledging. The Australians would have been proud.

By the time they had filled 5-6 pages of the answer sheet, I had barely finished a single page! Apart from answers, their sheet was full of colorful diagrams and illustrations. In contrast, my sheet was mostly plain white. 

With only 60 minutes left, I decided to twist and break the neck of my pride and beg to them to share the answers. They laughed and said no. I continued to beg. 

With surgical precision, Khaitan waited until the moment when I had enough time to copy the answers but not enough time to copy the diagrams. And at that moment, he agreed to share the answers. 

I was absolutely fine with that. I was no longer looking to pass with distinction. I just wanted to pass.

I am a slow writer, but I tried to copy everything within the given time. In the end, I was relieved that I had written enough to ensure that I would probably not fail.

Two people were ecstatic. Pooja and, especially, Khaitan were celebrating in the parking lot. He was dancing and teasing me, saying that they would score more than me because of the diagrams and illustrations. Khaitan celebrated as if he had just won the ERP II equivalent of the World Cup.

I smiled and let it go. I was thankful.  

Few days later, the results were out. 

Khaitan and Pooja, who had identical answer sheets, scored around 60 out of 100. They were happy. But happiness is a relative term. 

They checked my score. I had got more than 80!

It was our Raju, Farhan and Rancho exam-results moment from 3 Idiots!

Khaitan was shocked. Pooja was surprised but was okay. I was surprised too...but pleasantly. 

It was, however, my duty, like a good friend, to tease them. I told them that maybe they had not understood the diagrams and had put the wrong ones in their answer sheets. Or maybe the examiner was offended by their gaudy artwork. Or maybe the examiner had gone by the overall impression of the students.

Khaitan blamed it on my good handwriting. 

To this day, I have no idea why I scored more than them. Maybe it was indeed my handwriting. Maybe the examiner appreciated minimalist answer sheets. Whatever the reason, it brought a smile then and still brings one now. 🙂 

"He Surely Does Not Drink"

I do not recall when this incident happened but it was easily at least 20 years ago. 

My parents were travelling by train. They had tickets in AC First Class. My father, back then a serving army officer, used to carry a bottle or two of alcohol on most of his trips so he could have a drink with friends or family at the destination.

On the same train, a cousin of mine and his wife (my Bhabhi) were also travelling. They were in a different class and compartment. However, when my cousin found out that my father - his maternal uncle or Mama - was travelling on the same train, he became excited because he knew that my father was likely to have something 'interesting' in his luggage.

AC First Class in Indian trains is comfortable and does not have too many passengers. It has either a cabin, which is a larger four-berth compartment designed for families or small groups, or a coupe, which is a private two-berth compartment for solo travelers or couples/duos. Once the journey started, my parents settled into their cabin.

After some time, my cousin and Bhabhi came over. The four of them started chatting. I am not sure if there were any other people in the cabin. 

After a while, my father offered him a drink. My father usually did not drink on trains because it is illegal and can make other passengers uncomfortable. The fact that he offered a drink makes me think there was probably no one else in the cabin. I could be wrong though.

After a few drinks, my cousin became a little high and started opening up about everyone in the family. The conversation drifted towards who among the younger generation drank. Most of the cousins were adults by then, and my father knew that everyone must be drinking. Still, it was not yet 'publicly  known information'. 

More than anyone else, my father wanted to know about me. 

One by one, my father started asking about everyone, and my cousin, in a 'happy state by now', was more than willing to answer. He told my father who drank what, how much each person drank, what each one did when drunk, funny anecdotes... every secret was coming out.

My father encouraged him, enjoyed the details, and laughed at the incidents. He asked about everyone except me.

Then, towards the end, my father made a statement.

"Vini nahi peeta hoga". (Vini surely does not drink). 

*Vini is my nickname. 

My father did not question. He just made a statement and showed pride. I do not think he actually believed it. It was a ploy to bring out an honest reaction.

My cousin, a few years older than me and generally a mature guy, saw the trap and said, "Yes, you are right. Vini does not drink." 

I wish!

So what did he do?

My cousin laughed mockingly at my father's statement and said:

"Vini nahi peeta hoga!!!??? Vini tanker hai...TANKER!!!" (Vini does not drink!!!??? He is a TANKER!!!)

* In slang, the term "tanker" refers to a heavy drinker or an alcoholic.

The next time I spoke to my father, he asked, 'Suney tum TANKER ho" (Heard that you are a tanker). I was taken aback!

Later my mother narrated the entire incident and I came to know how my cousin broke the bro code! 😠😡

At the Mercy of a Six-Year-Old

My wife suggested that I write this blog, which is about an episode that happened in late 2017. She had to leave for our hometown due to a family medical emergency and she left our daughter - Ananya - in my care. Or, to be more accurate, she left me at the mercy of our six-year-old daughter!

I prepared a list of tasks that I am supposed to do during my wife's absence. I had to ensure that Ananya got up on time, get her ready for school, take care of her breakfast and tiffin, drop her at the bus stop, pick her up in the evening, help her with her homework and studies, wash her clothes (not at the dhobi ghat; in the washing machine), manage dinner and ensure that she slept on time. In addition, I had to manage my meals and my regular office work. 

The list made me dizzy. I realized that my wife actually did some work and didn't just watch TV and chit-chat on the phone!

Like a true consultant, I divided the list into three categories - 'Must Do', 'Good To Do' and 'There Is No Way I Can Do That'. After categorizing the tasks, as the newly appointed leader of the house, I made three executive decisions.

First, I called the office and informed them that I would be working from home for the next few days. They agreed.

Second, I informed the teachers that Ananya would not be able to complete her homework assignments for the next few days. They agreed. I even told my wife that studies would remain optional. (As if they had been mandatory till then or since then.) She agreed.

Lastly, I made a distress call to my sister (who lived in the same city) for help. My place was around 25 km away from both her house and office, but she thankfully agreed to stay with us and commute daily.

The dizziness went away. 

Now, my sister was in charge of meals. I had to wake Ananya up, get her ready, drop her at the bus stop, pick her up in the afternoon and put her to bed at night. 

Easy Peasy, Lemon Squeezy!! 🍋

Now, I had my sister to help me. What could possibly go wrong? 

But the little devil had other plans.

From the moment my wife stepped out of the house, my daughter knew who was in charge. She knew that her father (and to a large extent, even her Bua (Aunt)) was clueless about most things, and she exploited that knowledge with remarkable efficiency.

She would get up when she wanted. She would take her own sweet time getting ready, while her helpless father panicked and kept looking at the watch anxiously. She would tell us that she was allowed to go to school with untied hair. She would tell us that she was allowed to wear coloured socks instead of the socks that were part of her uniform. She would stroll to the bus stop with the grace of a queen, while I carried her bag and water bottle like her coolie and panted for breath.

My sister once got up early to make noodles for her for tiffin, but Ananya told us that her teacher scolded students for bringing "unhealthy" food to school. She insisted on getting a meal coupon that she could use in the school cafeteria. We had a few coupons in our emergency stash, so I gave her one.

Upon returning, she told us that she had eaten pasta. 

So much for a healthy meal! 

The next day, my sister made chapati and bhindi (Okra), but some other excuse was given and another meal coupon was extorted.

Tying her hair was a big challenge. I had never done it. My sister never had long hair, so even she was not particularly good at it. Also, I think tying your own hair is much simpler than tying someone else's hair. And if that someone is a restless little monster, it is even more difficult. 

I remember that on one of the days, my sister tied Ananya's hair multiple times, and each time the outcome was rubbished by her client. Tired and anxious, my sister made one final attempt and asked me for my opinion. 

Both of them looked at me with hope. 

Ananya hoped that I would say it was very bad. My sister - helplessness written all over her face - hoped that I would approve it. 

I approved it, though it was her worst attempt of the day! 

My mother used to roll/twist her dupattas to store them, and honestly, Ananya's hair looked like a dupatta rolled way too many times! 

That day, her teacher asked Ananya who had tied her hair, and Ananya promptly replied, "My aunt. She does not know how to tie hair." 

Her teacher tied her hair again.

During the entire period my wife was away, our lives looked like scenes from the movie The Devil Wears Prada. Ananya was like a little Miranda Priestly, and my sister and I were like the two hapless personal assistants. Every day, after dropping her at the bus stop, both me and my sister used to feel that we have won a battle. Every day, after tying Ananya's hair and receiving a reluctant, disappointed approval, my sister would fall flat on the bed, relieved to have survived the ordeal.

Thankfully, my wife returned within a week, but not before Ananya decided to fall really sick on the penultimate day...just to make us look even worse!

800 Kilometres for a Dosa

One of the most eventful road trips of my life happened in 2005.

Me and some of my MBA batchmates were working together in a company in Bangalore and, along with another office colleague, we planned a weekend trip to Udupi, roughly 400 kilometres away. The group comprised five of us: Subhasish Sahoo, Biraja Sahu, Prachi Rastogi (all three are my batchmates and ex-colleagues) and Sunil Ghorpade. Subhasish, Biraja and Prachi were good friends. Sunil, at that point, was merely a colleague from another team. Today he is a good friend. Perhaps because we survived this trip together. Or perhaps because we shared a common tormenter.

I do not remember how this particular combination of people came together or who first suggested the trip. I was invited, and I joined. 

We were to travel in Sunil's black Tata Indica. Since he was the only one with a car, I suspect that was the primary qualification required for his inclusion in the group. (Sunil - if you read this, you must know that even if that is true, it was not my idea. It is not my style!)

The plan was to leave office on Friday, 7th October 2005, drive overnight and reach Udupi the next morning. However, like most road trips, the start was delayed. We were all supposed to meet at the flat shared by Subhasish and Biraja. If memory serves me right, it was Sunil who arrived late. Eventually, we started well past midnight, technically on 8th October. In hindsight, that delay may have been a blessing because we managed to avoid Bangalore's legendary traffic jams and cruise through the city.

Despite the hour, spirits were high. We were chatting, sharing funny incidents, someone was talking about food, someone was pissing Sunil and me off. So....essentially a typical road trip with friends!

Sunil was driving and I was sitting in front passenger seat. Subhasish, Prachi and Biraja were in the backseat.

Around 4:30 in the morning, we stopped briefly. It was to empty our bladders and refill it with beer. In reality, we were lost! 

We had arrived at a junction where two roads diverged and none of us knew which one to take. I think both roads eventually led to Udupi but, much like life choices, one was probably sensible and the other regrettable. We simply did not know which was which. 

After seeking advice, debating the matter at length and applying the collective wisdom of five sleep-deprived adults, we confidently chose....the wrong one.

The road we selected had streetlights while the other appeared dark. That must have been a major factor in our decision-making process. Unfortunately, about ten kilometres later, the streetlights disappeared, the road narrowed, the darkness deepened and the surroundings began to resemble the opening scenes of a low-budget 'Ramsay Brothers' horror film.

It was a perfect setting for someone (Hello...I am Someone!) to start talking about some spooky stories. 

As the song Hotel California began playing, I shared an urban legend I had once heard. According to the story, the song possessed satanic powers. There had supposedly been an incident in which hostel students in different buildings committed suicide after listening to it. The story claimed they jumped around the same time and that the song was subsequently banned by some radio stations. While the rest listened with growing curiosity, Prachi repeatedly protested and insisted that we stop discussing spooky stories in the middle of a dark, deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

The moment I finished narrating it, the car hit something and came to a violent stop.

The headlights went out.

Suddenly, five of us were sitting inside a dead car in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by complete darkness. For context, it was so dark that I could not see my own hands. Prachi suggested that I step out and look what happened. I ignored it like Sunil and I ignored most things that Prachi said on that trip.

Unfortunately, remaining inside the vehicle indefinitely was not a viable solution. We eventually stepped out and attempted to understand what had happened. We examined the car, exchanged theories and displayed varying degrees of confidence while possessing absolutely no knowledge.

After some time, a truck stopped. The driver took one look at the vehicle and announced that a rod connecting the front wheels had bent and needed repair or replacement. To this day, I do not understand how that would explain the headlights going out. I continue to blame Hotel California.

Somehow, we managed to get the vehicle moving and crawled to the next village, which was about an hour away. We asked around for a auto workshop, located a mechanic, woke him up, got the car repaired and then drove to another town to have the wheel alignment fixed. Despite our delayed departure, we had originally expected to reach Udupi by 7AM. We finally arrived sometime after 4PM.

We were tired and sleepy. The sight of the hotel was comforting. When we reached the hotel parking, I was desperately looking for a bed and pillow. And that is precisely when Sunil and I managed to lock the car with the key still in the ignition. Nobody was inside. All the doors were locked. All the windows were shut!

We stood there staring at it, hoping it was a bad dream. It wasn't. Though it was indeed a nightmare unfolding in broad daylight.

The hotel guard suggested a workshop about a hundred metres away. We went there with no hope whatsoever. The place looked as though it only repaired vehicles from the World War II era.

We explained the problem. "Easy job," they said. I remember being sarcastic about their (over) confidence.

Two men from the workshop accompanied us back to the hotel parking lot. One walked beside us. The other, who looked about our age, walked ahead carrying a flat metal strip roughly a foot and a half long. He had the swagger of Viv Richards walking out to bat. The confidence was impossible to miss. I was convinced reality was about to humble him.

Halfway there, he turned around and asked, "The vehicle does not have central locking, right?"

"It does," Sunil and I replied together.

He did not give much of a reaction and continued to walk ahead of us...but now a little slower. The spring in his stride had reduced. I thought... There....now his bubble has burst. I mentally congratulated myself on being right. 

He reached the vehicle before us and, by the time we caught up, the car was already open!!! 

Just like that!! No drama. No struggle. No suspense.

He and his companion then walked back to their workshop, refusing any payment. He was not doing it for money. He was simply a superhero helping two helpless men.  

The car was open, but Sunil's worries remained. "If it is this easy to open the lock, how safe is it to leave the car parked here?" he asked. At the time, I thought it was a ridiculous concern. I pointed out that, by that logic, he could never leave his car unattended anywhere. Years later, after buying my own vehicle, I understood exactly what he meant.

We finally rested...briefly. Very briefly.

Subhasish had no intention of wasting valuable sightseeing time on something as trivial as rest or sleep. He produced his Bible, Outlook Traveller Weekend Breaks from Bangalore, and announced that we needed to visit a temple and then proceed to Mitra Samaj restaurant to eat the famous 'Outlook Masala Dosa'. The dosa - a family size one - had been featured in Subhasish's Bible and the restaurant had renamed it to Outlook Masala Dosa. 

Subhasish was not asking or seeking opinions. Sunil and I looked at each other and then at Subhasish with hope that he would have some pity. He showed none.

I finally objected. There was no way I was visiting a beach town and beginning my sightseeing with a temple and a restaurant. We would go to the beach first. Thankfully, better sense prevailed and we reached the beach before sunset. We could not spend much time there because darkness was approaching, but we agreed to return early the next morning to watch the sunrise over the sea.

I cannot blame anyone else for that idea. It was entirely mine. I wanted a nice photograph of the sun rising over the horizon. Emerging out of the sea! 🌅

After the beach, we visited the temple, which was beautiful and pleasantly uncrowded. Then we finally had the legendary Outlook Masala Dosa along with lassi. On the way back to the hotel, I bought some alcohol because I suffer from a peculiar problem. When I am extremely tired, I struggle to sleep.

The alcohol did not help. Neither did the new and unfamiliar surroundings. Nor Sunil's frequent peeking from the window to check if the car was still there. As a result, I got the least sleep among all five of us. Yet, I was the one who woke everyone up before dawn. Anything for that photograph!

Nobody was pleased. But everyone came anyway.

We reached the beach while it was still dark. In fact, it was so early that the guards appeared suspicious of our intentions. Perhaps they thought we had come to have booze. Perhaps they thought we had come to commit suicide. Perhaps they thought we had come to kill Prachi. The third option was most probable.

We walked a little, found a spot on the sand and sat down to wait for the sunrise. Some of us chatted. Some yawned. Some briefly dozed off. All of us stared out towards the sea, patiently waiting for the sun to emerge....from the sea!!

We were so tired and sleep deprived that our brains were not functioning properly. After waiting for an eternity, someone noticed a shadow. A shadow??!!?? 🤔

Subhasish was standing behind us. His shadow was falling across where we sat.

And that was when it 'dawned' upon us!

Udupi is on the west coast of India. While we had been staring at the Arabian Sea waiting for the sun to rise from it, the sun had quietly risen behind us!!!  

The entire exercise had been pointless! We had sacrificed precious sleep, dragged ourselves out of bed before dawn, marched to the beach and waited patiently for a sunrise that was happening in the opposite direction.

There was a brief silence. Then came the blame game. Then came the embarrassment. And finally came the laughter. A lot of laughter.

Later, we had breakfast, and by the time we returned to the hotel, it was time to check out. After getting ready, we left for a boat ride to a nearby island before beginning the long drive back to Bangalore.

Looking back, the trip makes very little sense.

We drove more than 800 kilometres, slept for only a few hours, got lost, broke down in the middle of nowhere, frightened ourselves with ghost stories, locked ourselves out of the car, and returned home exhausted.

For what?

A temple visit. A lassi. An oversized dosa. And a sunrise that happened behind us!

But then, the best road trips are rarely about the destination. They are about getting lost on the way and having enough namooney (characters) in the car to make it memorable. After all, nobody remembers a trip because everything went according to plan.

Click for Video of Our Trip

The Real 'Darr' Was Outside the Theatre

Was listening to a song recently and got reminded of an incident from 1993.

Growing up, summer vacations more often than not meant one thing. A trip to Patna.

A large part of my extended family lived there. Several of my Buas and Phuphas, along with countless cousins. As a kid, I used to be incredibly excited about those trips. In fact, I used to be jealous that my cousins got to spend so much time together while I met them only during vacations. Summers in Patna meant large family gatherings, games, cricket, good food, ice creams, endless stories and complete freedom. Honestly, what else does a child need?

One thing that happened very often during those vacations was family movie outings. Not small groups. The entire clan. Sometimes twelve to fifteen people together or even more.

During that trip, the plan was to watch Darr, starring Sunny Deol, Shah Rukh Khan and Juhi Chawla. Even before its release, the movie had become hugely popular and was generating tremendous interest. Tickets were obviously difficult to get. So, like every large Indian family, responsibility was delegated to the younger boys.

One of my cousins was given the task of arranging tickets. I went along with him. Two of his friends joined us as well since they also wanted to watch the film with us. The four of us landed at the theatre early in the morning - probably around eight or eight thirty - because we wanted to beat the crowd and get tickets for a truckload of people.

We were expecting chaos. We had mentally prepared ourselves for pushing crowds, long queues, disappointment, maybe even failure. But to our surprise, the exact opposite happened. The ticket counter had just opened and within minutes we had all the tickets we needed. Just like that.

Mission accomplished! We found a phone booth and informed others that we have managed to get the tickets!

But then came a new problem. If my memory is not failing me, we were still around 90 minutes away from the start of the movie.

This was the early 1990s. There were practically no options to spend time that early in the morning. Most shops were still shut. Only a few eateries selling chai, samosa, jalebi and similar snacks were open. Going all the way back home and returning again for the movie felt unnecessarily exhausting. So we stood outside the theatre trying to figure out what to do.

That is when I noticed something strange.

My cousin and his two friends had started discussing something quietly among themselves. Every few seconds, they would look at me awkwardly and continue whispering. It was obvious that his friends were nudging him to ask me something, but he was unsure how I would react.

For context, I was almost fourteen years old and this cousin was around two years older than me. So he and his friends must have been around sixteen. We lived in different cities but studied in the same class, so our relationship was more like friends. Still, there was visible hesitation in the air.

Finally, I asked what was going on.

After some visible reluctance, he told me.

Before the morning show of Darr, the theatre was running an adult film in the early morning slot. And the three of them were discussing whether we should use the waiting time to go watch it. He asked me if I was okay with the idea.

A hundred thoughts ran through my head instantly.

Until that moment, I had never watched an adult movie in my life. I was not even 14. So naturally, I was nervous and deeply uncomfortable. But at the same time, like boys and men often do, I desperately did not want to appear inexperienced or scared in front of the others. Internally, I was absolutely shitting bricks. Externally, I tried my best to look calm and unfazed.

I agreed.

But not before raising what I thought was a very important concern.

Darr was supposed to start in around 75 minutes and knowing our family members, most of them would probably arrive only 60-80 minutes later. But what if, for once, they actually arrived early? They would notice that we were missing. Worse, they might see us walking out of the theatre.

That, ironically, was the real Darr. 

(For my non-Hindi speaking readers - and I would like to believe that people actually read this blog - Darr means Fear)

I raised this point partly because I genuinely feared getting caught and partly because I hoped it would make them abandon the plan altogether. To my relief, the point landed. They looked at each other and agreed that it was a valid concern. 

Unfortunately for me, they were not as Darr-pok as I was. (Darr-pok means coward)

The adult movie (I do not recall the name) had already started, so they quickly came up with what they believed was a foolproof plan. We would immediately buy tickets, go inside, watch the movie for no more than 45 minutes and come out well before our family members arrived.

I had to admit, it sounded logical. And with that, the plan was put into action.

We bought the tickets and entered the theatre. There were only a handful of people inside. We quietly went and sat in a corner. The movie had already been running for some time.

Technically, I was watching the movie. Mentally, however, I was sitting on a ticking time bomb.

Not because the movie itself was particularly scandalous. In fact, from what I remember, it was mostly terrible and had very few actual adult scenes. Whatever 'adult content' it had was mostly limited to occasional nudity rather than anything explicit. My cousin and his friends were giggling occasionally, not on the scenes but at the expressions of people sitting in that dark theatre - early in the morning!

Meanwhile, I was doing only one thing. Checking my watch every few minutes.

After around 25 minutes, I elbowed my cousin and whispered, “Should we leave?” 

He looked at his watch casually and replied, “There’s still a lot of time.”

Five minutes later, I asked again. Same response. This happened a few more times.

Finally, after spending about 40-45 minutes inside the theatre, my cousin agreed to leave. Maybe he got irritated with my constant questioning. Maybe even he had started getting nervous.

The moment he agreed, I practically sprang out of my seat. I led the group toward the exit like a man escaping a crime scene. My only objective was to get out quickly, reach a safe spot outside and ensure we did not get caught by any family member.

The exit opened into a narrow roofless alley beside the theatre which connected to the parking area in front.

I walked out first, almost charging through the alley. And then, in what felt like a perfectly scripted twist written by a sadistic Bollywood writer, I froze...

Around 15 steps away stood a man holding a large video camera on his shoulder. And he was recording people coming out of the theatre!!

For a second, my soul left my body.

Thankfully, this was one situation where none of us needed discussion, consensus or strategic planning. Without saying a word, all four of us instantly covered our faces and sprinted past the camera like fugitives escaping a police raid.

We did not stop running until we were at least a hundred metres away from the theatre.

Once we finally caught our breath, we looked at each other. Every single face was pale. The confident 'men' who had decided to watch the movie had vanished. Only four scared boys remained.

After waiting for some time, we cautiously walked back toward the theatre, but only after a large crowd had gathered outside. We quietly stood in one corner and noticed that the cameraman was still there and he was accompanied by a couple of others.

After asking around, we discovered who they were.

It was the crew of Ankhon Dekhi, one of the most respected investigative journalism programs on Doordarshan during the 1990s and early 2000s. Hosted by journalist Nalini Singh, the show was known for fearless reporting and social issue investigations across India.

And that day, they were shooting an episode about children falling into bad habits.

The real problem was this: my immediate and extended family never missed an episode of Ankhon Dekhi.

Eventually, the family members arrived and after some time we stopped thinking about the incident. Frankly, what else could we do? All of us watched and thoroughly enjoyed Darr.

That particular episode of Ankhon Dekhi was not aired immediately. It probably took a couple of weeks and by then we had already returned from Patna. Back then, we did not have cable TV (or dish TV) at home. Unlike today’s world of endless television channels and streaming platforms, back then Doordarshan was pretty much our only source of TV entertainment. Yet for the next several weeks, I kept inventing excuses to prevent my family from watching Ankhon Dekhi.

The day the episode finally aired, I do not think I watched it myself.

I found out later that the episode thankfully did not contain the blockbuster scene that could easily have converted my life into a full-fledged horror movie.

At the beginning, I mentioned that listening to a song reminded me of this incident. The song is Jaadu Teri Nazar from Darr. I love the song but even today, whenever I hear it playing somewhere, I instantly get transported back to that morning in Patna. 

Looking back now, it is funny how terrified we were. Four boys acting like fugitives after watching forty minutes of a terrible adult movie. But at fourteen, reputation, fear and imagination combine in strange ways. And for a few weeks in 1993, I genuinely believed my life could be destroyed by Ankhon Dekhi.

A Proud Bihari at Cellular Jail

Someone recently shared a photograph listing the political prisoners from Bihar who had been incarcerated in the historic Cellular Jail. The implied suggestion seemed to be that the relatively small list reflected Bihar’s limited contribution to India’s freedom movement.

The picture immediately took me back nearly twenty years. I had seen that very list before.

Back in 2006, right after my marriage, my wife and I travelled to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands for our honeymoon. I had dreams of a far more glamorous honeymoon destination, but budget had other plans. So, we settled for Andaman and Nicobar Islands and the plan was to visit Port Blair and the Havelock Islands. Havelock Island, home to the famous Radhanagar Beach, was rated among Asia’s best beaches by Time magazine in the early 2000s. Another reason I was fascinated by Havelock Island was a rather unusual one. Not many are aware that the waters around the islands are known to have saltwater crocodiles...and I love the first half of the movie Khoon Bhari Maang! Sadly, never got an opportunity! 

While in Port Blair, we visited beaches (not too many), nearby islands (for example the Viper Island),  enjoyed bike rides, admired sunsets, and took far too many photographs. But unlike most honeymoon itineraries, one place I was determined to visit was the historic Cellular Jail in Port Blair.

We first went to watch the Sound & Light Show in the Cellular Jail. It was enjoyable, though twenty years later I must admit I remember the Cellular Jail itself far more vividly than the show. We decided that we will visit the Cellular Jail again the next day in the morning and take a guided tour. 

Cellular Jail leaves a deep impression on you. Tiny prison cells, stories of unimaginable torture, hunger strikes, force-feeding, and the haunting realization that many of India’s bravest souls spent years there under brutal conditions.

During the tour, we climbed up the highest point of the jail. It was a dome-like watchtower overlooking different wings of the jail. It had large boards that displayed the names of prisoners, categorized state-wise. We began scanning for familiar names. Unfortunately, most of us know embarrassingly little about the people who actually fought for our freedom and thus we could find only few familiar names on those boards.

One thing stood out immediately though. The boards for Bengal and Punjab (especially Bengal) were overflowing with names.  

Unsurprisingly, the Bengali tourists around us looked visibly proud while reading through the long list of names from their state. They were also passing comments on fewer names on other boards.    

And then we reached the board for Bihar, my home state. My wife pointed that the board had surprisingly few names. Someone nearby laughingly remarked, “Looks like Bihar did not participate much in the freedom struggle.”

Now, as a proud Bihari, I felt duty-bound to respond.

So I replied loudly so that people nearby can listen, “To get your name on this board, you not only had to fight the British, you also had to get caught. The low number simply proves Biharis were smart enough not to get caught.”

There was silence. I think only my wife appreciated the response and smiled.

Of course, the remark was made entirely in good humor. I have the highest respect and regard for every freedom fighter who fought for India's independence, irrespective of their state, ethnicity, caste, creed, or language. Their sacrifices cannot and should not be measured region-wise. 

Still, I must admit, as a Bihari, the opportunity to respond with a sharp line in defense of Bihar was simply too good to waste. 

The Name Crisis

A couple of days back, I was chatting with my schoolmate Gandharv on WhatsApp. Gandharv and I studied together in Class 12th. To be precise, we attended class 12th together as neither of us studied!! Ours was a friendship built on bunking classes, mischief in school, shared academic irresponsibility and the continuous agony of our respective parents.

I have written about Gandharv earlier this year in my blog post titled, 'A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong.' He now lives in Dehradun with his family.

Back to the incident. Gandharv needed my suggestion on something and we were exchanging messages. In the middle of the conversation, I wanted to mention his daughter's name. Only trouble was that I could not remember her name!!

In my defence, I have met his wife and daughter only once. But this is not normal for me. I am usually pretty good with names. Yet my brain had suddenly transformed into a server from 1997. No matter how much I tried, I simply could not recall her name. And I felt awkward to ask him. What kind of question is this, "what is your daughter's name?" Friends should not be asking this question.

In desperation, I turned to my wife. Women are generally better at remembering such things. Birthdays, names, what someone wore in 2014, exact wording used during an argument six years ago… they remember everything.

So, with a lot of hope, I asked, “What is the name of Gandharv’s daughter’s?” But, like most times in my life when I seek useful assistance, she was of no help.

I did not know what to do. And then, my eyes fell upon my daughter!

Now this creature possesses a very unique talent. She can remember absolutely anything and everything, provided it has no connection whatsoever with academics. So I asked...again with a lot of hope..., “What is the name of Gandharv Uncle’s daughter?”

Without blinking. Without hesitation. Without even taking half a second. She confidently replied, “Pahal.”

The speed and certainty of the answer gave it unquestionable authority. This was not a guess. This was “I know EXACTLY what I am talking about” kind of confidence!

I felt immediate relief. My wife was stunned...because my daughter had met Gandharv and his family only once and that too in 2018...when she was seven years old! Naturally, my wife immediately switched to sarcasm mode (also her default mode): "So you are able to remember this but you cannot....blah blah blah blah blah"

Like always, I stopped listening. I was too busy feeling proud of my genetically gifted offspring.

I immediately typed my message to Gandharv and included his daughter’s name with full confidence. Message sent.

Then came Gandharv’s reply. “Yeh Pahal kaun hai bey?" ("Who is Pahal?”)

I froze. I stared at the message for a few seconds. Then I slowly turned toward my daughter.

“You gave me the WRONG name?!!”

My wife, who like always derives tremendous joy whenever I embarrass myself, had already started giggling uncontrollably. I was giving a dirty look to my daughter.

And then came her response. The greatest question ever asked in human history. With absolute nonchalance...

“Who is Gandharv Uncle?”

At that moment, it became clear to me. She has no clue. None whatsoever!

Mankind is making so much progress. Artificial Intelligence, quantum computing, reusable rockets, UPI payments… but all are pale in comparison to the confidence with which children can give completely wrong information.

I cursed myself for trusting this space cadet....and asked Gandharv,"what is your daughter's name?" 

Et Tu, Brute?

I recently ordered a grapefruit from one of the instant delivery apps . In the picture it looked bright, juicy, and extremely inviting. I also realized that I might never have actually tasted a grapefruit before. Since I love citrus fruits, I decided it was time to try one.

Within minutes, the fruit arrived.

I requested my wife to bring it to me because I was eager to try it immediately. She went to the kitchen with the fruit and returned a moment later with it neatly cut into smaller portions and arranged on a plate. 

She placed it in front of me and casually said, “It’s very tasty. sweet and refreshing.”

That made me suspicious.

You see, I have a long history of playing a particular trick on her. My wife absolutely hates sour food. If she ever asks me to taste an orange or a grape first she tries it, I will take a bite and - even if it is painfully sour - I would calmly say that it is very nice. She then takes a bite and immediately regrets trusting me. The expression that follows is priceless.

So when she told me this grapefruit was “sweet,” I was not entirely convinced.

At that exact moment, my daughter walked into the room. She saw the plate and said she wanted to try some. She took a small piece, popped it into her mouth, and instantly said, “Wow! This is really nice. Very sweet.”

That changed everything. I will ALWAYS doubt my wife. But my daughter, my little angel, my little bundle of innocence? NEVER

Feeling reassured, I picked up a large piece and confidently put the entire thing in my mouth.

The next few seconds were… unforgettable.

The fruit was extraordinarily sour. Not mildly sour. Not slightly sour. It was the kind of sour that makes your eyes close automatically, your teeth clench, and your entire face rearrange itself into a very dramatic expression.

When I finally recovered and opened my eyes, I looked at my wife.

Then at my daughter.

Both of them were laughing uncontrollably.

At that moment, I realized something historic had occurred. My daughter had joined forces with my wife. This was not just a prank. This was a carefully coordinated act of deception.

This incident should always be known as one of the greatest betrayals ever executed in the history of mankind.

I may have lost this round, but the citrus wars are far from over.

Cheating: Lessons from the Last Bench

Whenever my daughter has a test or exam, I wish her in a light-hearted way. I tell her, "do not cheat but if you must cheat, do not get caught"! 

Recently, on one such occasion, she asked me if I have ever cheated. Of course, being a responsible father, I lied and told her that I have never cheated. However, it reminded me of some of the funny incidents that have happened to me related to cheating in tests or exams.

During my MBA, we also had to study Information Technology - including C++ programming and UNIX. To this day, I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps the college wanted to prepare us for every possible career path. 

For the exam, I had studied hard but had understood very little. In a moment of desperation, I wrote one program on a small piece of paper and kept it in my pocket. I also wrote another program on the desk where I was to sit. I had no idea what would be asked in the exam. My objective was simple: if nothing else, I would at least know how to begin and end a program. Yes, I was that bad in the subject.

The exam began. I turned the question paper over. Two questions were exactly the programs I had in my pocket and on my desk. JACKPOT!!

As soon as I saw those questions, I got down to business and started writing the answers like a well-prepared student. My friends, Dilip Kriplani (sitting on my left) and Ritesh Kumar (sitting in front) were obviously struggling and were looking at everyone with an expression of hopelessness and defeat. And then they saw me…and were shocked!

Ritesh asked me if I know the answers and I nodded. With disbelief written all over his face, he started pestering me to share the answers. I asked him to wait. This continued for few minutes and Ritesh got restless. He turned and grabbed my foot and violently shook it.

The invigilator saw that.

She walked over and scolded him: “If you do not know the answers, you may leave. At least do not disturb this boy who is writing so diligently. You should learn from him.”

I gave Ritesh a 'cunning smile'. Ritesh clenched his teeth! After the invigilator left, Ritesh turned back again and said few 'polite' words in frustration. Dilip and I tried very hard not to laugh - and failed.

I completed the two programs and, using them as templates, even attempted a third one. It turned out to be correct!!

While this is a funny incident (at least in my mind), when I think of cheating, a different incident comes to my mind. An incident where, unlike the previous one, I was at the receiving end.

We were in the final semester of MBA. By the final semester, everyone starts to focus on placements rather than case studies, assignments, tests and exams. For me and my best friend - Vikas Khaitan - nothing had changed as we had stopped worrying about those trivial things much earlier than others.

There was a test coming up (I do not recall the subject) and, like always, we had not prepared at all. I must add that one key difference between Khaitan and me is that I would at least suggest that we should study. He never suggested these things and in fact would completely dismiss such suggestions. On this occasion as well, I suggested that we should at least make an effort to study for the test but Khaitan dismissed the idea immediately. 

However, he came up with a compelling proposal and plan: his roommate, Vikram Tewari - studious, sincere, and always prepared - would sit with us, and we would copy from him. As I said, the proposal was extremely compelling and 'somehow' I could not refuse it!! We told Vikram about the plan and - being a nice guy (or may be because we were very nice guys) -  he agreed.

On the day of the test, Khaitan declared the seating arrangement: he would sit in the middle, Vikram on his left, and I on his right. This meant I would be entirely dependent on Khaitan’s copying speed. I voiced my concern. It was duly ignored.

The test began.

Vikram raced away like a Formula 1 driver from his pole position. Till this time, Khaitan was still settling down and 'setting things up'. After few minutes, I leaned to check on Vikram, who by then had almost reached the end of the first page of his answer sheet. Then I looked at Khaitan and there he was....drawing borders – slowly and carefully - on his answer sheet. Page after page.

I felt a cold wave of panic.

At that very moment, Khaitan started writing. I was relieved. He wrote one sentence. Then he paused. He reached into his bag and pulled out a pink highlighter. He then proceeded to highlight the borders and the only sentence that he had copied so far!!

By this time, Vikram had completed one full page and was staring at Khaitan's answer sheet in disbelief. For the first time, I was not alone in my anxiety. 

That is how the entire test went. Vikram would complete a page and then wait. Khaitan would copy at a leisurely pace, decorate his answer sheet, and occasionally admire his own formatting. I tried my best not to shit bricks and not to slow Vikram down, but I had little control.  

That day, I learned an important lesson.

No, not that one should study before an exam.

I learned that if you are going to depend on someone else, choose your position carefully. From the next test onwards, I made sure I sat directly next to the studious person.

I Asked for an Image, Got an Experience

Creating images with AI can be both amusing and frustrating. While clear prompts are essential, even precise instructions do not always guarantee the desired outcome. In a recent attempt to generate an image using Gemini, I found the process unexpectedly cumbersome, frustrating but also hilarious! Below is my actual chat with Gemini, which illustrates the challenges I encountered during the image-generation process.

Me: Create an image of 2 friends running away from a shop with soft drinks bottles in hand. They are nervous. There is a scooter (lambretta) in the parking lot.Two male friends. One tall and one short. Running away from the shop. Each has a soft drinks bottles in hand.

Gemini: 

Me: Only one bottle each. Glass bottle.

Gemini:

Me: No. Each guy has only one bottle

Gemini:

Me: One guy is holding 2 bottles. Please remove one bottle

Gemini: 

Me: Now his hand is gone. Please fix that

Gemini:

Me: 😡😡😡 

A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong

Watching a reel earlier today reminded me of an incident from 1997. My friend Gandharv and I had just cleared our Class 12 examinations and were roaming around the city (Ranchi), collecting admission forms for CA and CS courses. It is considered a 'deadly' combination for commerce students and people who know me, him or both would be surprised that we were interested in those two courses. To be honest, we had zero understanding of these courses but were were looking to get details regarding them because (a) we were clueless (b) Parents had begun asking the inevitable question about what would we do next and above all (c) it was a legit excuse for getting some fuel money and pocket money from home and roam around the city!

We were travelling on my scooter - the legendary Vijay Super, the Indian cousin of the even more legendary Lambretta. We did collect the forms. In at least one office, the official we spoke to gave us a condescending, almost suspicious look, as though he had already concluded that inka koi future nahi hai aur yeh maa-baap ke paise barbaad karenge (they have no future and will only waste their parents’ money)!!

After spending a fair amount of time in the city, we decided to stop for refreshments. Since we were using my scooter and fuel, Gandharv offered to pay - a fair deal. In any case, I had exhausted both my fuel and pocket money; my pockets were empty.

We went to the GEL Church Complex in Ranchi, a well-known shopping complex and a popular hangout spot in those days. At one of the confectionery shops on the first floor, we ordered two soft drinks - possibly Thums Up or Pepsi. Bottles in hand, we stood in front of the shop, engrossed in conversation.

At some point, Gandharv started walking, and I followed, still talking. We walked about ten meters away, turned around, and came back to the shop. We repeated this once more. On the third occasion, we walked even farther, almost reaching the staircase. Everything was perfectly normal.

Suddenly, in one swift motion, Gandharv placed the empty bottle down and sprinted down the stairs. I had no idea what had happened or what prompted this sudden action - until I saw him gesturing frantically for me to run as well. It then dawned on me that Gandharv had not paid for the soft drinks and had just fled!!

I neither had the courage to face the situation nor the money to resolve it. By the time I could decide what to do, Gandharv had crossed the parking lot and was already crossing the road in front of the shopping complex. I ran - more accurately, I galloped. In my nervousness, I fumbled with my scooter keys and dropped them. Picking them up, retrieving the scooter, starting it, and riding away felt far too slow and unsafe, so I abandoned that plan and ran after Gandharv, who by then was about 150 meters ahead.

When I finally reached him, I shouted words that cannot be written here and told him that he should have at least warned me. I then threw the scooter keys at him and announced that he would now have to now retrieve the scooter - and bring it back safely. The consequences of my army father’s wrath would have been far worse than getting caught by the shopkeeper.

He had no choice but to reluctantly return to the shopping complex. In his nervousness, he pulled the fuel knob - something that was meant to be turned - with force. And poor Vijay Super’s fuel knob gave way and now there was no way the scooter would have started or at least gone the distance. So now he had to run back but this time - with the scooter.

He did manage to return safely. Perhaps the shopkeeper had not even noticed the two jokers running away without paying. 

It was a great relief.

There was only one problem - the broken fuel knob. Since Gandharv had broken it, he had to get it repaired - which, like an honest and true gentleman, he did. Ironically, the repair cost him more than the two soft drinks he had tried so hard not to pay for.