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When a Blind Man Cries - An Ode to Nivedita

Deep Purple’s “When a Blind Man Cries” is arguably one of the saddest rock ballads ever penned and sung. But honestly, I was never a great fan of Purple and only started paying serious attention to the song after hearing a cover version by the German never-grew-old rockers Axel Rudi Pell. They did justice to the song in a way Ian Gillan and the rest of Purple could never dream— powerful, yet plaintive heavy metal vocals, with canyon-deep guitar riffs emerging from the core of the heart only to rip it apart, while tears stream down from empty eyes. Listening to this song invariably reminds me of a college senior and good friend, “Raja,” an ethnic Nepali who lived in a small room behind a pharmacy owned by his uncle, not far from my home. Short, stocky, thuggish but effulgent, we shared a love for books and rock music—though he leaned more towards metal. I started appreciating Iron Maiden thanks to him, while he tripped on Floyd's...

Russi Topi and other Delusions

Ushanka-The Iconic Russian Hat a.k.a. The Russi Topi Out of the blue, I was contacted by a Russian chap I had once met at a conference. No prior message, no email—just a straight video call from his car. No apology, no excuses, or preamble. He claimed it was common practice for them, and immediately looped in a colleague. Since nothing about Russia—or Russians—surprises me any more, especially when it comes to their business culture, or the apparent lack of it, I didn’t react. From unscheduled calls to blunt emails and bullying tactics used during meetings, it's all part of doing " Bizness wiz Mazeer Russha. " It was evening, I was free, so I let it slide. He had called for the unlikeliest reason— not one I could have ever guessed—they wanted to discuss the scope of sourcing construction workers from India. They first grumbled about how hard it was to get labour import quotas, pitched it as a “great opportunity” for me, even gave me a peep of Lubyanka —former KGB, now FSB...

Down Diya Brigade

In my class section in high school, there was a group of boys who weren’t particularly good at anything - not academics, sports, music, looks, not even cracking a decent joke or spinning a convincing yarn. Yet, they were united by one habit: Booing anyone and everyone who, in their view, dared to step out of line. Many of them were Boy Scouts as well, though not everyone. Told early on that they are a chip above the rest, with badges to proved it, they had an innate belief that they could lecture anyone. Same with delivering condescending comments to outright insults all in the name of greater good, and playing the victims when the tables turned. A trait many carried into adulthood, and by all evidence it still hasn't eroded for some now in their 50s. Though the two of the worst offenders were not scouts, they just played the role of being too cool to be a part of anything except Booing Cheerleaders. With my outspokenness, sometimes unusual and often outlandish...

SHAME

I first tasted deep shame in 10th standard, delivered personally by a girl’s mother, who kicked me out of their house like some neighbourhood pervert. The irony - I had never touched the girl. We were just friends. Soon afterwards, my friends in her school gleefully informed me that she was caught with some boy in the school toilet. They faced disciplinary action. Meanwhile, I inherited the silent disgrace. The second blow came when I confessed to a friend’s girlfriend, who thought I was a Casanova, that I never had a girlfriend, never touched a girl, and was completely inexperienced. In contrast, she had been sleeping with her coach since school, followed by a relay race of men, eventually devirginized my friend, then when he left for higher studies, helped his best friend become a man. A few more years and bodies later, she married a gold digger from the back end of nowhere - that's decades before Social Media and OnlyFans normalized such behaviour. ...

Enlightenment

The voice on the phone delivered a phrase most men dread hearing from a woman, “Ravi, I have something important to tell you!” In this case though, despite being completely smitten with her during that period and even entertaining the rose-tinted fantasy that she was the one who got away, I had nothing to worry about. My strict code of not getting involved with married women kept me safe. I was, however, totally unprepared for what followed and even less how to visualise it. “My third eye has opened,” she announced with absolute seriousness, then launched into a ramble about Shiva Lingams, visions, stream of consciousness and pre-Columbian Hinduism as evidenced by how a US state, made famous by fried chicken, was actually named after the Sanskrit word for thorns. It is usually not very easy to unsettle or surprise me with things spiritual, bottled or otherwise, and her cosmic revelations too barely moved the needle. Well, except for the quie...

Fueling Thoughts

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