How to File RTI Applications

If the application is related to a state govt, you need to file it in the respective department. Anything related to central govt can be filed in GPO.
Procedure:
1. Approach the nominated information officer in the department.
2. Get the RTI form (if any) from the officer.
3. Normally the form asks five simple questions including - info requested, period for which info is requested, your name, your address & reason for requesting the information(not mandatory).
4. In case the department doesn't have any application form, submit the request on a plain paper with the above 5 information.
5. Along with the application, submit a "postal pay order" of Rs. 20. (Karnataka govt has reduced this further to Rs. 10; not sure about A.P.)
6. Take a copy of the application and have it attested by the information officer - with date of submission on it.
You should get appropriate info within a month, else you can raise the issue to Chief information commissioner.
Watch this space for all the details on Right to Information Act (RTI).

Turning Off that Beep in Dell D620 Laptops

You are in a library. Silence all around and people engrossed in books or feeling each other up. You installed this cool new software and need to reboot. So you power down and then power up. If you have a Dell 620, you might be clasping your hands against your ears in anticipation of that loud beep. And ear phones too? You are probably looking at 15 days before you go deaf.

So here's how you can disable that beep:
1. Open Computer Management and click Device Manger.
2. From the Console menu select View > Show Hidden Devices. You can only see this option once you have selected Device Manager.
3. A new item appears in the Device Manager Panel: Non-Plug and Play Drivers.
4. Expand the menu, find Beep and right click.
5. Select Disable.

Go back to living a normal life!

STC 2007

They said it would be an hour and a half flight from Hyderabad. The plane bunked to the left and then to the right until we could see tiny spots of green masses rising out of the sea. As the plane lost further altitude and the clouds cleared, the tiny green masses morphed into small islands dotting the Goa coastline. Some of these islands had beautiful white sand beaches while the others had ragged stone edges. Either way, the view was spectacular.

From the plane, the view of the coastline was divine. Green cliffs with grey houses, long dark tug boats and cargo carriers, small fishing boats, and the blue sea. I wished we would continue circling the airport, but the plane had already begun its descent towards the runway. The blurry golden-green paddy fields rushed up on us as we lost height. The plane now ran parallel to the paddy fields.

Huts, rusting tin barricades, construction sites ran along the plane and then the thud followed by the screeching of burning rubber against the tarmac and the sound of the air resistant flaps opening. I felt as if the plane would fall apart and fling me out of its torn body, but that did not happen. Instead the plane ran for several meters, the flaps held against the wind creating a deafening sound as if a demon’s belly had been ripped open and then the silence, almost therapeutic. We were in Goa for the 9th annual STC conference.

As we walked from the plane to the arrival lounge, I could not help but notice that the mood around had changed. It felt happy and gay. Gloomy faces lit up and crying babies smiled. As we stepped into the air-conditioned area, I saw on my right, a village woman squatting on the floor selling fish. I was aghast. How could the authorities allow village women to sell fish within the airport area? But my dismay turned to amusement as I realized that the squatting women selling fish was made of clay and placed at the strategic location to welcome tourists. Goa had me intoxicated, already!

We walked further into the airport, turned a right, then a left, climbed down a flight of stairs into what looked like the lobby of a midsize hotel – the airport’s luggage carousel area. The belt hadn’t started moving yet and then suddenly as if on a cue at our arrival, the carousel groaned and rolled lazily spitting out luggage – quite grudgingly.

And so we waited. First on the left leg, then on the right. Cursed. Cursed some more until I saw my dark green travel weary Samsonite roll towards us. We collected our luggage and walked out the EXIT door into a horde of unshaven, tired looking but grinning chauffeurs from various hotels in Goa. No one grinned specially at us or waved a meaty hand, no twinkle of recognition. I did not see my name on any of the placards displayed. There was no welcome committee, no chauffeur in white, no mid segment AC car waiting! The travel desk had messed up again!

Hotel Mandovi, the hotel we were booked into for our Goa stay has a Tempo traveler, referred to as the “Coach”, to ferry guests to and from the airport once everyday. Although the travel desk had warned me before that Hotel Mondovi provides no car for airport pickup, the Coach was surely a let down. No air conditioning and very cramped.

We were the last passengers to be picked up from the airport and the bus was already filled to its full capacity, but for two cramped seats at the back. We had to share space with a huge suitcase and couple of travelers bag. But we were in Goa and the scenery outside compensated for the discomfort of the rear seat. Pinky and I settled down for the long ride to the hotel. Travelling time from Hyderabad to Goa – a little over 45 minutes. Travelling time from Dabolim airport to Hotel Mandovi – 1 hour 30 minutes. Somewhere in between, Pinky started to feel giddy and I thought she might actually puke. Thank God, she held herself.

After we reached the hotel, we checked in and one look at the deluxe suite washed away all our angst against the “Coach”. For Rs. 6500 a night, we had 1000 sq feet of carpet area all to ourselves. The suite was divided into three sections – bedroom, a sitting area, and living room to entertain guests. We just went wow!

By the time we settled in, it was dark. I was very eager to meet Dude, my very good friend from Delhi, his wife and the kid. I have been hearing about them for years now and just couldn’t wait to meet them. I called up Dude and arranged to hook up with them at Cidade de Goa, the resort where Dude was staying. Cidade was also the venue of the 9th annual STC conference.

We hired an OMNI van, one of the several four wheelers that run as taxis in Goa. The driver called himself Joaquim and I heard that as Jamiroquai – the Grammy Award-winning English funk / soul / disco band. So Joaquim finally drove us to Cidade de Goa near Dona Paula. We drove along the river Mandovi for a while and then we could see the beaches of Miramar for a good part of the ride. The view was like mint tea after a long tiring walk.

The first thing I felt about Cidade de Goa was the breeze and the smell of sea. The lobby was well coordinated and the color of the flooring and the white of the ceiling were bathed in a dull lighting creating an intoxicated atmosphere. Everyone seemed to be in the throes of an unseen ecstasy as they walked, talked, laughed, checked-in, checked-out, or simply lounged around.

As we waited for Dude, I already started seeing familiar faces I know from past STC conferences, ex-colleagues, and friends. One thing that calls me from within to attend the STC conferences is the opportunity to meet old friends and colleagues, Dude being one among them. It’s always a pleasure to meet these people and spend time with them.

Well, I am not too sure if I ever “network” or even understand the real meaning of networking or if networking would ever help me land a job should I be looking for one.

FUCK! This is getting too long and winding. Kibitz time…………..

And yes, before I sign off for the day, I met this “auntie” type at STC. I had been reminiscing to Dude how we got Jamiroquai for 700 bucks from Mandovi to Cidade and had him wait on us for five hours. Dude agreed that it wasn't a bad deal and told the same to the auntie who was whining (read showing off) about how she spent 10K just on cabs. Pat comes the reply from the auntie, “Was it an AC or non AC cab?” I told her it was an OMNI, as non-AC as they can get. “Oh, that’s why you got it for 700. I can never imagine a non-AC cab in Goa”. Go jump, bitch!

*Auntie wears glasses, had a big bindi for her small forehead and she acts like she owns half of the company, wherever she works*. Me thinks, the word Bitch was coined just for her. Perfecto!

Black Thunder

Last May two of my friends, my wife, and I decided to visit Ooty. So when one of us suggested that we “do” the Black Thunder, I mentally settled myself to a wet experience in one of the water parks around Ooty. The Tamil aunty next door prefers Ooticamoond.

So after spending the previous evening drinking beer, we woke up with a nasty hangover and decided to drive down the hills to Black Thunder, 250 km away from the spooky hotel we were staying in.

The drive was eventless but for the driver who seemed to sport quite a funky beard and an eloquent pair of shades. He was dressed all in white, a complete contrast to the dirty, old, and rickety Ambassador he drove. So after enduring a number of the crafty curves and ornamental driving maneuvers we finally rolled the final stretch to Black Thunder.

Our friend in white, the driver, decided to talk business and briskly announced that he wanted us back to the car within an hour and a half. I looked at him blinked and almost nodded when my friend pointed out that it would take us just that much time just to dress down for the watery rides. So my friend haggled with the driver for an extended window of time, I screamed, my wife admonished, and my other friend suggested we hurry up.

As we were entering the pink dome like structure, which also served as the gate to the park, I wondered why the place looked so empty from outside and why the other visitors – a short portly aunty, her thin little dark daughter, and her frowning husband – were dressed in clothing that best suited a visit to the temple rather than a water park. We paid for our expensive tickets - which I thought could have been better spent on a T-Shirt or an evening out with friends - sighed and walked into Black Thunder.

No sooner had we crossed the gate, a huge surge of black, half naked, and dripping mass of a family came towards us and zoomed towards the Men Only and Ladies Only dressing rooms – in the same order. For the next three hours we spent in the park I could see little but black and the vision remained with me long after we left the park.

And what a sight it was! A mother of two young daughters tried to cover their dripping wet T-Shirts with one long piece of towel jumping between them, in front of them, and behind them. For the people with the right kind of taste, the mother herself was quite a sight to watch with her wet Sari pulled tight right across her backside.

And more mothers – tall skinny ones, dark short and wet ones, tall board and dry ones – and one with a rose on her hair, the other with a bunch of jasmine. Following in close proximity to the mothers were their children – twins, not-so-twins, crying, smiling, rose running, frowning and all kind of siblings were in magnanimous display.

Then there were the cool dudes. Some of them with big flowery designs on their flairs, plastic sun glasses and ill fitting shorts that did little to hide their loud bellies or their hairy dark legs.

Quite a company we were in!

After a round of sign language and several gestures, which included an up-yours, I finally managed to get a key to the locker room. We dumped our regular clothes and got into T-Shirts with Black Thunder embossed on the back and tight low quality shorts bought from the utility stores within the park.

Thus dressed to get wet, we snaked our way to the first ride – that was the only ride we rode that day. We had to queue to get into the ride called the Lazy river and I am not sure if its by co-incidence that all fat portly people including me preferred that ride. As we were standing for our chance into the water, I couldn’t help but notice some very peculiar sights that I am sure I will not be blessed to watch anywhere else in the world.

To ensure that her modesty was not tarnished, I saw this lady get into the Lazy river ride in her burkha. But poor she. As soon as she jumped into the air-filled tube, she slipped and fell into the water, her burkha and whatever beneath it riding way up her thighs. Ladies scorned, men sighed, some choked and I looked at my wife and smiled.

And then the loving dad. The guy got into the water, managed to sit still on an air-filled tube and on him sat his child. Along with the child, he had a pair of shoes in his hand, a feeding bottle, a napkin, a small bag carrying spare nappies around his neck – he was Walmart-Kids-Section in all its glory.

The ride around the Lazy river was full of activity actually, I kept falling off the tube, my wife’s tube wouldn’t budge from the starting point, and one my friend walked most of the river than ride through it.

Then there were the river Romeos. They kept trying to reach close to all female lazy riders, hit them accidentally, laugh or scream per their current testosterone levels. Finally, after lot of nudges, a few pushes from fellow riders and lot of knockings from my wife, I reached the finishing line of the lazy river, so did my friends, and my wife. Were we glad!

A Quick Smoke

It was exactly 20 years before, that one rainy afternoon in the school playground amongst his few close buddies, Joel dragged on his first cigarette. Though he coughed, cursed, and almost threw away the cigarette, something in the bitterness of the smoke made him hold on to the cigarette and take his second drag, followed by the third, and the fourth until his head began to spin and he passed it on to another eager hand.

And as Joel progressed in his biological years, he embraced smoking with a spiritual rigor. He smoked to keep calm, to get tense, after dinner, after fights, after sex, and before breakfast. Joel also itched to paint. For reasons unknown, one midnight after he watched a cigarette stick burn away into a cylindrical column of ash, he decided to quit smoking. The following morning he also quit his job, brought a warehouse and started to paint. And in this warehouse, stroke by stoke he gave life to a simple idea on an oil canvas – a young woman sitting by the riverside with her head on her knees.

For years Joel could think of nothing but paintings; those rich, lush colorful pieces of creativity framed and hanged on numerous museums, bedrooms, art houses, and toilets. Joel always wanted to paint. But to him, it seemed that the whole world had conspired to prevent him from doing just that. When he was young and would spend hours with his drawing sheets, his mother would snatch them away and place Logo building blocks in front of him so that he uses his brains in doing something constructive.

His father didn’t help either. He wanted Joel to be the star batsman of his building apartment – a dream that his father could never fulfill. As soon as he was home from office, Mr. Mukherjee would ask Joel to dress up for the match. Joel would be dressed in a pair of brown shorts, white shirt, canvas shoes, and a cap. Next, an old bat and ball would be placed in Joel’s hand. Thus armed and dressed, Joel would proceed for the local cricket match played in his building. Joel hated this entire errand and would see a large canvas with beautiful paintings as he waited for the ball. Disaster always stuck on the first ball. He was always out with the preciseness of the moms calling out to their children from various windows on various floors to finish the game at 6:00 pm.

Like the renaissance painter, Joel grew a beard, ate only to refill his lost energy, slept when his eyes could hold no more, and painted. He mixed mediums, created dyes by dissolving pigments into binders, and deftly etched lines into the canvas. And one day he was done. He got off his stool, walked to a distance and watched with satisfaction and critic at his creation. It was exactly at that moment that the old familiar urge to smoke stimulated his tired brain once again – a quick smoke.

In midst of his paints, spirits, and fumes, he lit a cigarette. As the match stuck the prosperous, a ball of fire engulfed the air and exploded into a burning ball of raging flame. Joel choked on his breath, the oxygen in his lungs sucked out, and his vision blurred to nothingness.

Later in the day, when the firefighters had come and gone and the flames brought under control, someone observed that if it were not for the tragic accident, the gutted warehouse with its watery floor and sense of loss would have made an excellent theme for a grim painting.

The Call

The other day I received a phone call and was asked to report at a swanky address in Banjara Hills. She must be around 38 years old and had dark cycles under the eyes. She told me she was not interested in doing “it” but just wanted to talk. Now why the fuck would someone pay to talk? What are shrinks for? As if I care as long as I am being paid.

She was tall; a little wrinkled from the years and had this very intellectual look about her. She wore glasses, very sweet looking, not the type of woman to use the services of a male escort. She was more like your housewife next-door, rich, but not sophisticated and I mean it in a good way.

She told me to relax and offered me a drink. I settled for a cup of tea. She was dressed in a mauve bathrobe and smelled of lilies, fresh from her bath. She told me her husband was a good man – he owned a business which was profitable, took care of her and the kids, enjoyed a single malt whisky before dinner, and still squeezed in a good bout of sex every night, well, almost every night. He had a healthy appetite as far as sex was concerned.

I relaxed a little more and stretched back on the sofa, the cup of tea untouched. She continued. She told me she was bored, very bored with her life. Though the family went on vacation twice a year, mingled with friends and relatives, attended social functions, and invited friends over, yet her life was boring, predictable.

I smelled the tea. It smelled of cardamom. She crossed her legs; she was naked inside. Something within told me her soul was naked too, devoid of any sense of being - craving for the unknown. I looked at her trying to demystify the moment but gave up. She told me that one afternoon she was feeling so empty that she felt like killing herself. She was sitting on the bed, her mind an absolute blank, when she noticed the laptop on the side table. Although she knew how to use a computer, she never had the inclination to be online. She never thought of it until this moment. On the other hand, her husband was online every night.

She flipped open the laptop, switched on the power button, and watched with soulless eyes as the computer came to life. She did the things she had to do until she was online. A message blinked on the instant messenger. “So how are you today?” asked the message. She realized that her husband must be talking to someone and the person mistook her for her husband. “I am fine”, she replied. “I have uploaded all the pictures you sent last night. Check the site,” blinked the message on the computer. She clicked the blue link to the website that came with the message and waited as the window opened. A jolt shook her from within as if a high voltage naked power line touched her body as the window opened to reveal pictures - her pictures, thumbnails, hundreds of them row after row - in the nude.

Victims of Power Caste

The YSR led Congress government would hugely undermine the efforts of the Naidu regime to project Andhra Pradesh as an IT destination if it does not sort out the aggravating power situation in the state. The government is sending out all the wrong signals by including the IT and ITES companies in its ambit for power cuts.

Agreed that the populist measure of the government to grant free power to the farmers is an early bet to secure a victory in the next general elections. However, with the current power situation in the state, neither the farmers not the showcase IT industry is happy.

The government must also include the core city in its load shedding schedule rather than excluding it from power cuts. What is the motive behind subjecting the IT and the ITES companies and the entire Ranga Reddy district to power cuts?

Are the residents of Ranga Reddy districts sons and daughters of a lesser God?

Hi-Tech Hell - Road to Perdition

Just off the main road to Hi-tech City, barely 4 km away from the glitzy glass and steel towers district is Vittal Rao Nagar in Madhapur, Hyderabad. In addition to a college, the area houses some big corporate addresses, namely Reliance and Karvy and a cluster apartment buildings, primarily occupied by software professionals.

The road to this apartment cluster is in shambles despite many an effort by the residents to bring to the notice of the civic authorities the dismal road condition in this locality. Residents have organized a signature campaign to put pressure on the commissioner, written letters to the media, filed online complaints but the civic authorities are in no mood to have the road fixed.

Builders in this area have often expressed their inability to get the road built, as the local municipal commissioner of Serilingampally demanded an amount of 60,000 rupees per apartment to get the road done.

Vittal Rao Nagar comes under the Serilingampally municipal corporation and NOT under the Municipal Corporation of Hyderabad.

The Bus Ride

The evening wore a very disgruntled and tedious look as if the day itself had a bad day. Warm hot air blew through the bus window and smell of orange wafted through the air. The smell within the bus was rancid with body odor that permeated through bodies that stick through sweaty shirts, blouses, and petticoats. It was the heavy smell of helplessness, despair, and tiredness.

The bus slowed, the conductor pushed two women and the children clinging to them out the door. A passing scooter sped past the wrong side of the road barely missing the first woman. The conductor smirked as he took a peek at her blouse and mentally gauged the potential within. To stop his imagination from running wild, he screamed a profanity and the bust started moving towards the next stop.

The little girl beside me kept slipping off the seat as she tried to perch herself up every time the motion of the bus uprooted her from the seat. “Uh Oh”, she said and then placing one small palm on my thigh she tried to balance herself on the seat. I moved to my right pressing myself against the side of the bus as much as I can to make room. I helped her perch and then sit. My effort seemed to have paid off. She didn’t slide down on the next two consecutive bounces and managed to keep herself steady when a cow came in front of the bus and the driver pressed the brake pedal for a change – to wake himself up.

“Thank you”, she said. I smiled and looked out the window. After sometime the bus was on the highway and rolled with a steady motion. Sleep consumed me and I started to doze. Suddenly the little girl tagged on my shirt and asked me if she could sit by window. Her mother protested. I agreed. So we changed places and I was sitting next to her mother. The rancid was stronger and she smiled as if to tell me that she know I could smell her. I folded my hand and dropped my shoulders ready to doze off again but decided to check on the little girl. She looked out the window and her hair blew within the reigns of her hair clips creating small waves on her small head. She looked serene. I smiled and looked out the window myself.

Dark mellow clouds drifted on the southern sky and covered the raging sun. The sunrays, however, continued to cut through the clouds trying to stake their claim as the only source of truth in the sky. They lost. The clouds grew darker, the wind sharper and the hillocks stared up at the sky mocking the defeat of the sunrays. Drops of rain started to hit my face and I asked the little girl if she wanted me to roll up the window. She said, “No”.
The girl shivered and I placed my hand on her shoulders. She relaxed. The bus was moving at a fast pace and the passengers inside glowed with a newfound charm. The rancid odor was less hostile and the girl’s mother beside me dozed clutching her little brother. I began to doze and dream.

The Beginning

The walk down from the university convocation center tired him. He sat on the neatly laid out bed with a fresh white bedspread covering it. The incessant design on the spread threw up a bright flowery pattern. It seemed to him lately that everything around his world threw up a pattern. A pattern that came and went from his mind’s eye, rechotting off his memory walls into the vast emptiness of eternity. A memory so distasteful, he hated to recollect but this very memory is the core of his existence, the purpose of his life – the reason why Allah still kept him away from the FBI dragnet.

The mobile phone started to ring. He waited for three rings and picked up the phone, “Hello” he said softly into the sleek Nokia 9290 communicator. “You will be glad to know that phase II of the project has been successfully executed. Phase four is on its way” We plan to finish it exactly 10 days before the holy month of Ramzan starts”, the voice spoke softly from the other side of the line. “ Excellent, keep up the pace, I do not want to hear any crap about technical snags in the last moment” breathed Abdulla. “We won’t give you an opportunity”. The phone went off with a small delightful click. “Technology” thought Abdulla. “We will pay them in their own terms – with compound interest”.

Abdulla picked up the satellite phone receiver and voiced in an access code. The screen flickered, and a password text field appeared. He punched in four numbers and waited. The console displayed, “Validating access code”. “Access granted, establishing contact. Type in the contact code”, instructed the console. The line at the other end remained silent. After exactly three seconds, Abdulla pressed in the contact codes. The line immediately came alive and Abdulla spoke in Arabic. “The third phase is underway”. ‘Hope its worth the money invested in the project. We seek infinite justice”, the voice at other end spoke in fluctuating decibels, result of a satisfying, long drawn ejaculation. “ And justice shall be done” convinced Abdulla. The line went dead.

It was 2:00 PM in the afternoon and Abdulla decided to go to the university library. Lately he seemed to spend a lot of time in the library, talking to other Arab students at his class, holding court, justifying the cause, clearing doubts and scheming. He shut the two windows in the dorm and looked in the direction of the apartment across the street. The room seemed empty. “Julia must have gone out”, he figured. He picked up his mobile, squeezed his feet into the pair of Nike, closed the door behind him and stood still. Everything seemed normal. The siren of a police car broke the stillness of the calm outside. He skipped a heart beat. He relaxed. “It OK, just a routine petrol cruiser” he calmed himself and walked calmly towards the elevator.

Once on the pavement, Abdulla became one of them – the milling, thronging, briskly walking New Yorkers, another face in the crowd, another student, another middle eastern youth, clean shaven, big eyes with thick eyelashes and full lips – another Arab, nicknamed “The Angel”, with another mission in the name of Allah to attain eternal peace.

As he entered the university area, he could almost visualize in his mind’s eye the burning, collapsing steel, towering giant structures being reduced to mangled pieces of wreckage, the smell of destruction, the human limbs entwined in the debris – the attack on the world trade towers- exactly a year before, the event that gave his fellow brothers the supreme opportunity to attain the ultimate martyrdom and they are now resting in peace in heaven. He would have been one of them by now, if he had not been ordered at the last moment to stay behind and coordinate the mopping up operation before slithering out of the United States and back to Kabul. He was elated and felt that finally the time had come when these white vermin would be wiped off from the face of the earth and the will of Allah shall prevail upon the world.

Last May, two of my friends, my wife, and I decided to visit Ooty. So when one of us suggested that we “do” the Black Thunder, I stuttered, evolved, and mentally settled myself to a wet experience in one of the water parks around Ooty. The Tamil aunty next door prefers Ooticamoond.

So after spending the previous evening drinking beer, we woke up with a nasty hangover and decided to drive down the hills to Black Thunder, 250 km away from the spooky hotel we were staying in.

The drive was eventless but for the driver who seemed to sport quite a funky beard and an eloquent pair of shades. He was dressed all in white, a complete contrast to the dirty, old, and rickety Ambassador he drove. So after enduring a number of the crafty curves and ornamental driving maneuvers we finally rolled the final stretch to Black Thunder.

Our friend in white, the driver, decided to talk business and briskly announced that he wanted us back to the car within an hour and a half. I looked at him, blinked, and almost nodded when my friend pointed out that it would take us that much time just to dress down for the watery rides. So my friend haggled with the driver for an extended window of time, I screamed, my wife admonished, and my other friend suggested we hurry up.

As we were entering the pink dome like structure, which also served as the gate to the park, I wondered why the place looked so empty from outside and why the other visitors – a short portly aunty, her thin little dark daughter, and her frowning husband – were dressed in clothing that best suited a visit to the temple rather than a water park. We paid for our expensive tickets - which I thought could have been better spent on a T-Shirt or an evening out with friends, sighed and walked into Black Thunder.

No sooner had we crossed the gate, a huge surge of black, half naked, and dripping mass of a family came towards us and zoomed towards the Men Only and Ladies Only dressing rooms – in the same order. For the next three hours we spent in the park I could see little but black and the vision remained with me long after we left the park.

And what a sight it was! A mother of two young daughters tried to cover their dripping wet T-Shirts with one long piece of towel by jumping between them, in front of them, and behind them. For the people with the right kind of taste, the mother herself was quite a sight to watch with her wet Sari pulled tight right across her backside.

And more mothers – tall skinny ones, dark short and wet ones, tall, broad and dry ones – and one with a rose on her hair, the other with a bunch of jasmine. Following in close proximity to the mothers were their children – twins, not-so-twins, crying, smiling, rose running, frowning and all kind of siblings were in magnanimous display.

Then there were the cool dudes. Some of them with big flowery designs on their flares, plastic sun glasses and ill fitting shorts that did little to hide their loud bellies or their hairy dark legs.

Quite a company we were in!

After a round of sign language and several gestures, which included an up-yours, I finally managed to get a key to the locker room. We dumped our regular clothes and got into T-Shirts with Black Thunder embossed on the back and tight low quality shorts bought from the utility stores within the park.

So thus dressed to get wet, we snaked our way to the first ride – that was the only ride we rode that day. We had to queue to get into the ride called the Lazy river and I am not sure if its by co-incidence that all fat portly people including me preferred that ride. As we were standing for our chance into the water, I couldn’t help but notice some very peculiar sights that I am sure I will not be blessed to watch anywhere else in the world.

To ensure that her modesty was not tarnished, I saw this lady get into the Lazy river ride in her burkha. But poor she. As soon as she jumped into the air-filled tube, she slipped and fell into the water, her burkha and whatever beneath it riding way up her thighs. Ladies scorned, men sighed, some choked and I looked at my wife and smiled.

And then the loving dad. The guy got into the water, managed to sit still on an air-filled tube and on him sat his child. Along with the child, he had a pair of shoes in his hand, a feeding bottle, a napkin, a small bag carrying spare nappies around his neck – he was Walmart-Kids-Section in all its glory.

The ride around the Lazy river was full of activity actually, I kept falling off the tube, my wife’s tube wouldn’t budge from the starting point, and one of my friends walked most of the river than ride through it.

Then there were the river Romeos. They kept trying to reach close to all female lazy riders, hit them accidentally, laughed or screamed per their current testerone levels. Finally, after a lot of nudges, a few pushes from fellow riders and lot of knockings from my wife, I reached the finishing line of the lazy river, so did my friends, and my wife. Were we glad!

People in Mumbai took the trains to work the next day after 7/11 because they have no other choice. They have families to feed, debts to repay, and lives to live. The government, on the other hand, will act busy and concerned for a few days, announce paltry compensation packages, and then go back to the orgy of corruption, treason, vote bank politics, and resign to complete ignonimity.

If this spectacle of blood and gore cannot wake up the Indian nation, then nothing can. The government must resolve to go in for pre-emptive strikes across the border instead of pleading to our inimical neighbor to shut down the terrorist camps. It’s like asking a Hyena to give up preying on dead carcasses.

The government must recruit a group of committed, hardcore, patriotic zealots, raise a strike force in the lines of Israel’s Mossad and capture Dawood Ibrahim right from the clasp of the country harboring him. This should send a message to the perpetrators of the blast that India means business.

All the families of the 190 people killed must be immediately compensated with minimum 20 lakhs in cash or government bonds, a house, and a car as a symbolic gesture of empathy for a city nested in a country that lacks the spine to safeguard its own citizens.

Since 9/11, how many blasts have rocked America? None. This is because America chose to use its might to go after those who kill in the name of religion. Agreed, that we do not have the unbridled air power, or for that matter any power that America has, but we have to demonstrate to the forces of evil that we can strike back as well.

We are a peace-loving nation? Whom are we kidding? We keep raping our women, burning our brides, bribing our cops, and voting criminals and social handicaps like Arjun Singh to power. If our politicians can garner even a fraction of that will and cunning - they do so judiciously to win elections – to plan and execute pre-emptive strikes across our border, India could be much safer.

As a nation, we must stop resigning such cowardly acts to Karma and start to take matters in our own hands. Yes, we are going to ruffle a lot of feathers, but if we do not take any decisive action now, tomorrow might not be there for us to give us another chance.

It’s not enough that Mumbai limps back every time after each carnage; it is time India kicks some butt.

The Mumbai Spirit

The clunky cranky sound of the iron wheels against the metal track, the rainy chill that permeated the underarm smell of the person standing next, the hunger after a long day's work, and the imagined aroma of pakodas and hot tea filled my senses as the 1764 to Borivili rolled out of Kher station.

And then the deafening sound.

I found myself thrown to the extreme corner of the first class compartment, enveloped in a blackish cloud and that alien smell nauseated my senses. The air was heavy with piercing screams, distress shouting, and a general sense of loss and confusion.

My senses dimmed and my eyes were hazy. I felt a searing pain on my left shoulder drenched with blood. I began to faint. Just before I lost total consciousness, I could feel two reassuring pair of hands reach towards me, then a face, a smile and then blackness.

Today as I lie on the hospital bed surrounded by family, my arm in a cast, I feel lucky to be alive. Lying on the bed, I realize how death stared at my face, grinned, and left me to live another day.

- As narrated by a lucky survivor of 7/11.

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