Why I can't have sameerahuja for an id

I realized this a long time back when I setup a y! account named sameerahuja82. In those days of youthful enthusiasm, I logged on to yahoo chat and was suddenly flooded with a thousand guys wanting to be friends with me.

Normally I'm a nice guy to be friends with, but still, there had to be a greater reason to the madness. As fate was to have it, I soon realized it. You see, my id could be broken down into two very semantically different interpretations -

sameer ahuja 82 : Another despo dude in competiton. 82? What does that mean! Must be his age. Budhdha.

sameera huja 82 : A Babe! She must from Pakistan. They have hot babes there. And she's so young... Just '82 born!

And if you're a south Asian teenager with raging hormones, as are 99% of the "India Chat" users, which interpretation would you see?

And hence did I realize the importance of separators. Namely, an underscore.

The Demons of Bangalore

Here’s a pop quiz for you… Which are the two most dangerous type of beings wandering in the streets of Bangalore? Give it a shot, you’ll probably get one of them right.

The Street dog and The Male bachelor. The difference is, that the former is liked by the society; fed and protected by the localites. Why wouldn’t it, it provides them security from the demons of other worlds and livens the days and nights with its almost rhythmic vocals. The latter… phew, the male bachelor! He makes the streets unsafe for the local females to stroll in after 7; he makes loud noises all night, his day is a mystery, for his claims of working in the software industry seem suspicious to most. “How can such animals make software, anyways?” Even more unthinkable is the thought of renting him a place to live. He’ll scratch the walls with his nails, drill holes into the floor, bring prostitutes to his place at late nights, he’ll be killing and eating lambs in the house, and will commit only-god-knows what other ghastly and otherworldly acts.

So what do we do? We offer him the dwellings deemed unfit for ourselves, those vacant terrace store rooms or the underground garages, or the occasional apartment where a girl committed suicide. And we charge him so much money that he has nothing left for his gruesome deeds. And we give him our verbal rule book, modifications to which can only be made to our expediency. Rational? Obviously. So what if these side products of the IT Industry drive Bangalore as a cosmopolitan. So what if they form the most critical infrastructural component of the industry that is driving the growth of this nation and this small town turned city. So what if our unwanted properties are now being rented at exorbitant prices just because these ogres have an existential problem. We hate them, and we don’t want them here. They should either leave, or marry. That will magically turn them into wonderful human beings with a great job and a settled life, whom we’ll give the best possible places to live and charge half the amount we charge them now.

Moral of the story: Male? Bachelor? Coming to Bangalore? Save yourself the trouble, marry. Or get a sex change operation done. Either is less painful.

The Parachute didn't open

He was hoping that it was a dream. Like the skydiver hopes that the parachute opens, like the soldier hopes that he doesn’t miss, like the racer hopes that he can make the bend. In those few moments of desperation he had experienced a range of emotions he didn’t even know existed.

Emotions lose their identity as they rise on the scale of intensity. Passionate love, extreme hatred, immobilizing fear or violent anger: each becomes a ubiquitous connection with the universal source as it reaches its ultimatum; the enigmatic hand that clenches the heart in its sudden and strong grasp. As the hand squelches on its vulnerable subject, man reaches the pinnacle of all emotions, the proverbial skip of a beat.

This was his pinnacle. He knew his odds. The next moment, he could be salvaged by the realization of what he was hoping would eventually happen; or be consumed by the throes of reality. Yet, nothing could be worse than this anxious search for an answer.

He opened the pressure cooker lid. Moong ki daal for dinner. Again.