Good Friend, Bad Friend( Fiction) - I

Hi! I'm Abhishek. What possibly interesting things can I tell you about myself? Except for the fact that I died last week? Is there anything, no correct that, was there anything special about me? Something worth telling? May be there was, may be there wasn't. I don't know for sure. I was this normal guy, had some simple dreams of getting good grades in college, screwing a chick, getting a good job. Well, I died. Fuck that. Let's move on, I was onto something else...

I died pretty recently. But, I'm not going to tell you how I died. Are you really interested? Okay. I will tell you, but, there was nothing dramatic about it. Pretty much old school you know, a little bit of cough and all that shit. I might come to it later, not now.

I didn't even achieve much in life, so no point going there too. I mean if becoming Man of the Series for the Mohalla World Cup is an achievement, then, yes, my life rocked. Big time. If not, then may be your kaamwaali have achieved more in her life. Sorry about the bad joke. Okay, one last time, are bad jokes an achievement?

So, that zeroes down to the two most precious people in my life. Samar and Abhinav. My friends. And whatever next I'm going to tell you is about them.

I guess it was the winter of December, and I was in the 9th standard. My Dad had just been transferred and thus, I came to this city, I was uncomfortably new to the place. Alien. I knew no one, no one knew me. There was nothing special about the first few weeks, I followed a mechanical cycle of going to school, coming back from it, attending tuitions, eating, sleeping. Every brick, every desk, every goddamn thing of the school gave cold vibes to me. Unacceptable was stamped authoritatively everywhere. I don't know why. I longed for my previous school, my previous friends.

Then, one day, during the lunch period, a fat bespectacled guy came towards my desk and asked me ,"Is anyone sitting here. You mind if I sit here?"

" No one is sitting here. Sit, I have no problems." I said.He smiled. He was wearing braces, I noticed. And said ," Hi. I'm Abhinav"

"I'm Abhishek."

"So, you are new to this school?""Yes. My dad got transferred to this place two weeks back."

"So, you liking the place?" He was trying to make me comfortable. Most importantly, he was talking to me.

"Yea, Actually..." I was interrupted, as some one shouted very loudly from the last bench."Abhi my bitch! Whats up? I wanted to ask you something?,"

"Yea, what?" Abhinav replied without even looking at him.

" Can I bite your tits?"

The entire last bench exploded into fits of laughter. I looked at his chest. He was, to describe in a very brash way, busty.

Abhinav didn't retort as I had expected him to do. He just adjusted his glasses and showed him the middle finger. "Who is he?" I asked.

"He's the certified bastard of our class. Ignore him".

The bell rang and the lunch period got over. As Abhinav and I were drinking water at the water tap, I saw Samar quietly standing behind Abhinav. As Abhinav turned around, Samar grabbed Abhinav's chest with his hands and said, "My Boobie babe! Got you at last" And started laughing loudly along with his friends. They all looked like a gang to me. The typical bank benchers of any school. I wanted Abhinav to slap Samar. Tightly. Instead he said, " Abe Paka Mat! Nikal yahan se."

Samar started imitating him "Abe paka mat. Paka mat. Paka mat. Puk-Puk-Puk-Puk Paka mat. Murga Saala," They scorned and left. I could see a hint of tears in Abhinav's eyes.

I asked, " Are you Okay. Why didn't you tell them anything? You should have thrashed him," I was angry myself. "Abe chhod na. Just ignore them. Tu inse bas door reh"

"Okay. I will," That's all I managed.

Now, after having interacted with at least someone in the class made life a lot easier for me. Atleast, there was someone now with whom I could share my lunches, go to assembly hall, chat while cycling my way back home.

One of the many conversations with Abhinav, while returning back home:

"So Abhinav, how are you in studies?" I had asked it pretty abruptly. We were chatting on something else, and then suddenly I had popped up this question. I don't know why. I just wanted to know.

"Studies? Yea, I'm pretty Ok types."

Pretty Ok. A very safe answer, I thought. Pretty Ok could have meant just about anything.

Some days later, I came to know that there was one guy who had continuously topped the class for 6 goddamn years. Abhinav Sharma. I reflected on my silly question and the sillier interpretations of Abhinav's answer, and smiled.

Abhinav was smart, but he was not a teacher's pet. He used to do all sorts of weird things in class, draw( I have no clue what), write poems( which he would cover, if I managed to sneak a look), talk continuously, crack non- funny jokes and laugh alone. But, he was always up there whenever teacher asked us to solve some problems. He used to be the first one to solve. Everytime. The boy had brains.

" Oye Abhi! Chal Let's play," I said. It was the games period. The only games period of the whole week.

"No. No, I'm not interested," He said as if he didn't care. "You go and play,"

"What you go and play? Don't you want to play?" I said. "This is the only games week of our period. What are we supposed to do then?"

"You go and play if you want, don't push me," He said, adjusting his spectacles back to the eyes which was half crouched on his nose, as a result of speaking animatedly, which I guess didn't come naturally and cheerfully to Abhinav.

"Ok. Fine. Fuck off! Don't play if you don't have to do. I'm not going to stick in that library of yours," I said and stromed to the playing field, though I was pretty sure I won't be given a fair chance in the playing field too but atleast it was better than doing nothing at all. I made it to the field in time. They had just begun sorting out the players for the cricket match. The procedure was really uncomplicated. There were around 20 odd students in the field and each captain had to choose players for his team amongst the bunch, turn by turn. It generally so happened, that the better players were always selected in the beginning and the lesser ones were selected in the end. And the most humiliating part was when it came down to only two players and finally when ultimately a certain player was left out. By defualt, he belonged to the team whose turn it was to call. But , really, wasn't it humiliating for that guy. Look, no one wants me.

I was a half decent allrounder of my team in my previous school. You know the kind of guys who bat a little, bowl a bit. The likes of Lance Klusner, and Scott Styris. Relax. That is just an example. In the previous school's team selection I was always amongst one of the first few to be selected. I provided 'flexibility' to the team, they told me.

But today, as I was standing when everyone's names was being called. I waited and waited to be selected. Everyone was getting selected except me. I don't think they knew I existed. It felt bad. It was not a District level match, but atleast it dent my 'Atleast-I'm-a-good-player-to-represent-my-school-team' ego. And then I got selected into Samars' team, just because I was the last guy no team had taken.

We lost the toss and were fielding. Everyone was standing near the captain. He was instructing everyone where to field, "Accha sun," he said to me. "Tu point pe ja," He said.

I was sharply startled by what he said. Point? Were we playing a real cricket match? This was Cricket at its lowest. A maddening batter's dictate to a pulp tennis ball. But still I trudged along to 'Point'. I roughly estimated where Point could have been and stood there.

Samar cried "Yaar Abhishek! Tu kahan khada hai? That is Cover Point. Thoda square ja."

What the heck? I thought, Why is he taking himself so seriously?

It was a 10 overs match, so that we could finish the match during 1 period. I was standing blankly at the pointless Point. I was sure that I would not get a chance either to bowl or bat. I just hoped not to screw the fielding part atleast. But, in the first 6 overs the battign team had belted 62 runs in 6 overs. That is mammoth even my tennis ball cricket standards. Run rate of 10 tens an over. No, make that 10.33 to be precise. I remembered Abhinav fondly. Samar had already tried 5 bowlers. He called me, "Can you bowl?" He asked me starightforward.

"Yes, but I'm more of a batsman who can bowl a bit," I said.

"Can you bowl?"He asked again. Very rudely.

"Yes, I can. Sure enough." I replied and snatched the ball from him.

This was my chance, I had to prove it to them, show them of what stuff I was made up of. The next 6 balls were going to decide what kind of friends I would have in school. I gave a hardened look to the batsmen, took a long run up, ran as fast as I could, grunted, and bowled the fastest I could have.

To be continued...

Shitty Shitty Bang Bang!

The text of this post is very gross. Please stay away, if, stuff of this kind offends you. Thank You!

I dedicate this post to all the public toilets of the world.

Shitting has always been a very personal thing for me( What a profound statement to make. Isn't it for everyone else too? Anyways.), so I got and still get, though with a lesser magnitude - worked up, when I got to know that the dorm in which I had moved in had a public toilet(4 toilets for 20 people, not a very bad ratio also, although that is a different story). I had never shared toilets before. I mean, even if I had, they were structurally different than this. The previous ones, were closed ones, and this has a cubicle of sorts, which throws up a wonderful prospect of people shitting together. Literally.

Isn't it strange when you are shitting, alongside there is a guy/girl who is also doing the same(Not every time, but generally most of the times). What would he be doing at this time? Dropping and feeling relieved?( how much relieved to be precise?), or waiting to feel relieved and singing some songs in anticipation?( Rafi's Aa Jaa Aa Jaa or Britney's Baby One More Time?), he might also be sleeping for all you know or wiping his ass? Horrendous pictures of tissues painted in various shades of yellow come to mind.

Shitting is not only a biological exercise for me, but also, a physical( I yawn very loudly in Hindi, stretch my muscles, cock my head, make all sounds of noise with remote bones in my body) and an emotional one too( Isn't it? You have the all time in world when you shit. You are at peace with yourself. Nowadays, with the increasingly busy life( don't I sound like a typically sex starved working middle aged frushtoo guy?) where does one get time to think for himself? for others? When I shit I think about things close to my heart, this is the time when I'm in my best moods and is generally accompanied by singing some song. Now, when you are shitting in your home, it doesn't matter how loudly/softly sing, neither does the talent of your vocal chords. But, when you are shitting in a public toilet, you can't sing. And that irritates me. It curbs your independence, it doesn't let you be you. I could have done that in India, but, how can I in United States? It has nothing to do with the quality of people, neither to do with the quality of the country. It has to do with the quality of songs. I mean imagine, me singing ' Sarkailiyo Khatiya/Takia/whatever Jaada lage' and the guy shitting beside me gets disturbed due to that. What will he do then? You never know. These Americans are dangerous. He might scoop his head out of the common wall underneath and say, " Dude, Stop that song of yours. It disturbs my bowel movement." Now, that won't be so good. On second thoughts, will he knock the common wall before scooping his head out?

And I've a weird habit of looking here and there while shitting( I mean all around, 360 degrees) and it is kind of strange, you can only watch a guy's shoe and some parts of his shorts covering his lower part of legs. It is kind of interesting to note what kind of footwear he is wearing, and also the color of his lowers. Some colours surely put me off( though they in anyway don't disturb my bowel movements), but that is what the thing is. Then, after few minutes you hear the sound the flush produces and you know this relationship is going to end. You kind of feel bad. But, hasn't someone wisely said, 'All things in life have to end'. Now, you come out, possibly an eye contact, which might suggest a lot of things; My God! You were there for a freaking half an hour, what were you up to? Or, Get yourself a nice pair of floaters before you even think of shitting again. Or, You used a lot of tissue today, I could make out that from the squealing of the tissue paper's stand.

On the contrary, you might not think any of these. May be, you just smile and say, "It was nice shitting with you."

The common Wall I described in my post!

Fountainhead the movie fails

Originally written for Passionforcinema.com. The article has been originally published here.

First things first. People differ over what Fountainhead represents( whether it is right or wrong) and an endless debate is ensued over this fact, I don’t want to get into any of that. I intend to talk only about ‘Fountainhead the movie’.

What was strikingly different from the novel is the depth of characterization. In the novel’s beginning, you could feel for Roark’s frustration when he laughs sitting on the cliff or his indifference to everyone to the extent that he saw no one walking in the street so much so that he could have walked naked beyond concern. That is the relationship (love or loathe) one forms with Howard Roark in the first two pages of the novel. You can feel Roark’s frustration when he is sitting in the dean’s offixe and is being unfailingly persuaded by the dean. The dialogues between the dean and the student are fantastic.( Agreed, they are filmy and a bit impractical, but, so is the whole of premise of the novel, if you may so please). The dean is furious that Howard is unapologetic, the dean can’t believe that the name ‘Stanton’ can’t shake his will, that for the first time he has encountered someone who considers an individual above the institution, that the person who is going to expel the student feels more clueless than the student who is being expelled.

Contrary to the novel, the movie begins quite abruptly with Howard being in the dean’s office and he says that he will have to expel him. For someone, who might have not read the novel would take some seconds to gather, relax what’s happening? There is no conflict of ideas between the Neo and the established, between the unconventional man and the conventional world, no groundwork has been set, you don’t feel Roark’s stubbornness neither do you see Dean’s helplessness. And that was the beauty of the novel I feel. I mean, for a second, f**k all talk about Objectivism and everything, whether you buy it or not is inconsequential. What matters is every character in the novel was beautifully etched, and you could have easily said that I hate/love this character. There is no such feeling in the movie. And that, I feel is the problem of the movie. That it never goes deep into the psyche of the characters and just sets it up on the screen. Probably for the heCk of it. Everything happens in a daze, in a nonsensixal hurried fashion that makes you sit and wonder – what’s up with the pace? And that is my grievance with the film, that it doesn’t do justice to the novel. Now, some people might say they that had they gone into the history or detailing of every character the movie itself would have been too long. Yes. I agree there too, because if you go on to do full justice to the novel the movie could well be more than three hours long which would have been a torture in itself( or may be not. Who know? Gone with the wind, Lagaan, Sholay were all more than 210 minutes long!). Also, the characters in the novel are such that they are difficult to portray on screen. It is practically impossible to take out each and every detail from a book and incorporate that into a movie. I agree. Successful adaptations of the ‘Mystic River’, ‘The Godfather’ bolster this point.

So, my point is ‘The Fountainhead’ shouldn’t have been made into a movie. At least not the way they made it. Gary Cooper fails miserably as the ‘hero’. Or, may be anyone who will play Howard Roark will fail. Because, the image that people have come to associate with Howard Roark is difficult to fathom. Isn’t it difficult to portray someone who didn’t exist? Someone who will not exist?

Gary Cooper lacks conviction while delivering his lines, may be didn’t understand most of it. (he wanted the courtroom speech to be curtailed because he was finding it difficult to memories and understand most of the lines). When Cooper (Roark) refuses the commission for a bank, his ‘No’ is a flat. It lacks the authority. When Howard Roark says ‘No’ I expect it to spit fire on screen, the ‘No’ should spit venom, have the stamp of authority and pummel the man conversing him in such an ignominy that it makes a mockery of anyone who is even thinking of trying to convince Roark . When Henry Cameroon says on his death bed, Do you want to have a similar fate like me, Cooper’s ‘Yes’ is again non- authoritative. May be I’m expecting too much? May be I’m being a bit too judgmental? May be yes, because I almost adored the novel, the power of Rand’s writing blew me and compared to that the movie was pale. The main thing about Rand’s writing is you can either love her or hate her. She doesn’t allow you to tread a middle path, but, after watching the movie my emotions didn’t tilt towards any extreme (which certainly did while reading the novel). I was plain indifferent and disappointed.

Manorma Six Feet Under: A Six Pack sexy movie!

Originally written for - Passionforcinema.com. The artixle has been originally published here.

If you go by the 'white is white, black is black' definition of right and wrong, then Manorma Six Feet Under is a copy of Chinatown. And it kind of bothered me a wee bit before I sat down watching it. But, not after that. Not even a wee bit. I had not seen Chinatown by that time. And I chanced to see Chinatown couple of days later, and my admiration of Manorma Six Feet increased further. Albeit inspired (or copied, or whatever), this is a good movie. No doubt.

The movie opens in a Rajasthan, where the land is as thirsty for water as is the protagonist (Abhay Deol playing Satyaveer) thirsty for recognition, success. The vast, dry land as a backdrop make for good visuals. In particular, the scenes where the protagonist is shown driving his vehicle. Simple. Captivating. SV, an engineer by profession, a pulp novelist by passion is finding it difficult to get his life moving courtesy a nagging wife, an unsuccessful job.

One day, he meets Sarika and she gives a purpose to his humdrum life. He has to click some photos for her, so that she may be able to blackmail her 'politician' husband and which may facilitate the process of divorce for her. SV soon comes to know that things are not as straight forward as he thought they were. Speeding one night on the highway, he meets her again. She is very panicky and says something to him. The next morning he reads the paper. She is dead. And she was not the wife of Chief Minister. SV is obviously startled by this sudden revelation and wants to put to rest all the confusion.

The movie moves at a good pace initially, fully in control, holding the viewer's interest, scenes tend to merge into one another comfortably. However, somewhere in the middle (and that is the movie's negative point), the movie becomes painfully slow. Everything ceases to happen. You feel you can go take a cold drink from your fridge, reply to your friend's scrap, send an SMS or two and still it won't affect you. Not very thriller like, you would want to say. May be the comatose pace in between is intentional, it contrasts well with the full of twists, exciting and a good paced climax. The sudden change of gears takes you aback. The movie's climax is icing on the cake. It moves swiftly and makes you question your judgment about every character. No one is 'noir' here in the literal sense; the grayness of the character makes a compelling climax.

Performance wise, Abhay Deol carries the movies on his shoulders. I was never a fan of Abhay Deol. But, after watching 'Socha Na Tha' and 'MSFU' in a space of two weeks, I am now. He may not be the next big thing in boll wood, but he is here to stay. In this movie, he plays the role of a frustrated man to a T. the frustration is there, you can feel it. It never comes out though, but you think it can. Anytime. That is the beauty of the character and the way Abhay Deol has portrayed it. In the movie, the guy may be 25, but looks like 35, and acts like 45. Sarika lights up the screen every time she appears and sparkles in a small role. Kulbhushan Kharbhanda has nothing special to offer, Vinay Pathak doesn't disappoint. Raima Sen is not breathtaking, but she is not bad either to spoil the movie. Gul Panag could have been a tad better with her pronunciations. I liked the way she pronounces 'Editor' as 'A-Dee-tur' in her first scene but after that her pronunciation is a bit polished for comfort. She acts pretty well though, something I was pleasantly surprised at. Background music is superb. It is slow, subtle and is faithful to the movie's pace.

This movie might not be a Chinatown. And somewhere down the line, I think the makers of MSFU knew that. Albeit an inspired story, the execution is top class. A good movie. A good tribute to a good movie. Polanski would be happy to see Manorma Six Feet Under.

My Brother....Santosh

Some relations need not be associated with a tag or a formal assignation to make you feel emotionally bonded. There are certain relations which gets formed automatically. Santosh Bhaiya is one of them. He doesn’t belong to my family but is a part of my family, we don’t have blood relation but I have always felt very, very attached to him. I’ve had the best days of my life with him. The best days. I can never, ever forget those moments spent with him and bhaiya( Tushar ). The three of us used to have a ball when mummy and papa used to go out of station for some medical conference and the entire house was left to the three of us. We used to play cricket, watch cricket, do all sorts of crazy things, spearheaded by bhaiya( Tushar). Right from blowing a Chocolate Bomb( those Diwali Bombs, remember?) in the very own dining room to throwing slippers at the television when an Indian player used to play badly. Or, breaking certain things and trying failingly to conceal it from mummy. Santosh Bhaiya used to cook for us( I can’t forget the Chowmein, Maggi and Chicken Curry). He used to advise us, play with us, scold us. He was our father, mother, brother when mom and dad were not around. And I thank god that there were plenty of medial conferences because had they not been, I could have never, ever lived such a life.
Santosh Bhaiya was just a simple compounder in my dad’s clinic but we never treated him like that. He was my brother, my mom’s third son. My brother. It is one relation in my life I’m really proud of. I used to go to him with my Hindi book and he used to ask me questions from the chapter I recently memorized( preparation for exams), he used to get those ‘Big Fun’ chewing gums which had a card of a cricketer free with it. He used to bring one daily. When Bhaiya used to tease me after watching ‘Aahat’ and ‘Zee Horror Show’ ( which I NEVER watched), I used to run away from my room and go to Santosh Bhaiya’s room and sleep on his bed. Sometimes, in the middle of night when I used to have bad( read scary, full of snakes and everything, a bad filmy dream :) ) dream( which was, ahem, almost daily) I used to hug Santosh Bhaiya and sleep on his bed. And somehow I can never, ever forget those things. The little way in which he used to care for us. There was a special relation between us and only we know it- Me, Bhaiya and Santosh Bhaiya.

We also used to go eat out every evening. And I used to say, “ Santosh Bhaiya kuch baahar khila dijiye, hisaab me likh lijiega and paisa papa se le lijiega”. And we used to eat out daily. Egg Roll, Chicken Roll, Chowmein, Chicken Chilly, Pakodas and what not on one of those numerous ‘thelas’. And even today whenever we meet, although we can go out and eat in a swanky place, but we NEVER do it. We still go to those ‘thelas’ and live our life. Yes, that was life. That was happiness. That was fun.

Now, he is a married man and lives separately with his family. He has got a daughter who is 4 years old. She has recently started going to school. It has been 14 years since I have known Santosh Bhaiya and now I’m going to United States. I mean, yes, I would meet him again, but it kind of feels strange. I don’t know when I would meet him and how, my own life would entangle me I’m sure. But, whatever happens, one thing is for sure. I promise myself that I will look after his family real well. I will make sure that his daughter gets the best education possible. I know I would be in a situation to help and help would I.

There are some people with whom parting would not be easy and Santosh bhaiya for sure is one of them.

Politics that roots deep

Edit Post: With whatever intention the article was written, and whatever it meant to convey, has been explained by me in the second comment. I don't want anyone to misinterpret what i have written.

Family, in this post doesn’t represent my father, mother or brother. It is the whole big, fat and huge collection of Uncles and Aunties. In short, family members from both sides. Both, paternal and maternal.

The most frequent question I’m being hounded by my family members these days is, ‘ Tanu! Tum to India aaoge nai ab?’ now, I don’t have any problems whatsoever with this question, but with the pure malicious intent it is thrown at me. It is extremely irritating. Family is a good thing to have, and that too with such a big family as mine who ‘assume’ are pretty well connected with each other. So what they bitch at their own relatives back, so what if they smile at you and leave no chance of passing tones of sarcasm, so what if any achievement of some one else’s son becomes a bone of contention for them, but they fake it so well. One moment they bitxh about another relative and next moment they meet as if they are lost sisters meeting again after centuries. Any amount of achievement meets their scrutiny,

‘ Arre xyz ka ladka? Haan Haan uska to admission donation se hua hai’ ,
‘ Abc ko to boards me sirf 85% hi aaya hai’.
‘ Accha college kya hai? Bahut mahenga hai, wahan to bas paisa waala log padhta hai’,
'Dekho ABC kaise poore parivaar ka naam hansaya hai. Love marriage kiya na. Punjabi hai ladki, pata hai aapko? Inter Caste’

These are some of the comments you can easily hear (or overhear) by some of the family members whose sole purpose of life is to bitch, bitch, bitch. I mean even after their own relatives. Bloody family politics and back biting is their favorite game and their favorite venue is Shaadis, any festival where the family get together happens or even generally. When they meet anyone after a long time. Who needs a reason to bitxh? I’m not saying they bitch about me or something. And even if they bitch, I xare two hoots. They bitxh, is the thing that bothers me. I mean what kind of a family we are trying to build? No. correct that. What kind of family THEY are trying to build? And most importantly, they sometimes criticize about other family members in front of their children thus, prejudicing their children’s mind also.

So, coming back to me going to Um-rika, that is the best way they would pronounce it. The most common and famous question being asked as aforementioned is Are you going to settle there? And it irritates me. They say, ‘tumko to kabhi bihar aur India se lagaav shuru se nai raha hai.’ Now, since even I have to fake that I respect them, I keep quite. I can answer it now. Yes, I don’t have much attachment with Bihar, any would be a wrong word. Because, first of all I hate the stereotyped Biharis. I hate them from the core of my heart. Having said that, my father, my brother doesn’t fall into that category and thankfully I have not grown under that upbringing. I don’t know why, but I don’t xonnext with that kind of a mentality somehow. It is difficult for me. I may be writing shit right now. Whatever. These Biharis have a fixed and a very narrow mindset and I hate them for that. I hate them for not being able to speak English that fluently (Yes. It is a MAJOR factor, inspired by Agastya Sen or whatevr you may wish to think), they are still like 150 years behind, speaking and following a goddamn rudimentary set of beliefs, still besotted with IIT, Medixal, Brahmin-Brahmin marriages, My-Son-gets-more-salary than yours mentality and I hate it. I am urban, I don’t bitxh about anyone in the family (at least people who I love really),I am English and I want to hang around with people who harbor the similar mentality. Now, this doesn’t mean that I don’t like anyone in the family. Infaxt, it is incorrect, I simply adore some of the people of my family. I love them. I respect them. That is what respect is all about. It should come from within. Respect is not about grabbing any elder’s feet and ‘Pranam’ing thme. That is pure bullshit. Real respect and love comes from inside. There is a certain kind of connection with certain people. And with certain people there si not, no matter how good/bad they are or appear to be.

Coming again to answer those kinds of people, whatever attachment I have from my country is difficult for them to understand. Not, difficult. Impossible. So just leave it at that. Sometimes, this politics and bitxhing of people make you really sick and sometimes I want to run away from it. That is why; I think people who are settled abroad are the luckiest. Because, they are oblivious from the muddy slingshots of the so called ‘Happy Family’ whine. And I have always felt that life is so smooth away from the eyes of those ‘prying cynics’ who are reverently referred to as ‘Relatives’.