Observations in the Laboratory called Life.

TransVest City.

Waves lash mercilessly against the Gateway promenade. Raindrops fall harmlessly against the humongous French windows of the Taj. Extended families and coy couples lounge about lazily, chomping away at the exquisite fare available. Below on the street, Victorias carrying 'Phoreners' ply about to and from the Gateway to the Radio Club, turning right swiftly, emerging head-long into the Causeway.

A vivid petrol pump beckons with its red lights going and off teasingly. Just opposite, a populous temple is a -throng with believers, most of them lepers and diseased, crying out vociferously in competition with the chimes. Cows graze about ponderously, blocking the smooth movement of cars, screeching away at ruthless speed. Beggars engage in malevolent duels over a single coin dropped callously by a passing stranger. The character, our local yuppy puppy walks around laboriously, enquiring at every nook and cranny until he is besieged by a million passionate rogues; some aiming at his briefcase, still others his imported umbrella and a host of the rest just waiting to catch a glimpse or a hurried caress. Our man is visibly ruffled, but will, nevertheless, queue up to catch a glimpse of the mutilated demi-god confined within. Appeasing such holy spirits has become a habit, if not a ritual that the gent practices religiously, with his eye fixed firmly on the next million.

Passers-by plod along, nonchalantly, engaging in pointless banter. Some are bargaining the price of a faded, jaded antique that has no re-sale value. Some are stuffing anything and everything remotely edible available in their perennially open mouths resembling over-stuffed garbage bins. Still others try to negotiate the on-coming brutal traffic, comprising of over-sized double deckers, dilapidated taxis, painstakingly old BEST buses and wiry bicycles that look like some nineteenth century invention gone horribly wrong.

The dour stench of open sewers fills the air, the mob and the abundant food that's lying open since the last Sunday. It lies thick, spreading over a mile, laced with the smell of heavily burning incense and vibrant floral garlands, freshly baked pizza and finely ground coffee. The pungent aroma that results is akin to a shot of pot; transporting you to another, surreal world where the banal mix happily with the supernatural. The rains are a welcome change. They have washed the city impeccably clean. Now the drains have clear water gushing through them. Kids on the street will bathe in them gleefully. Old mammas and ayahs will line up animatedly with enlarged vessels to fill. Suddenly, showers from heaven have baptized everything grotesque and evil. The thick mist and firm clouds gather over the city in fumes, demolishing everything putrid and rotten in sight. Large banyans, Ashokas and bougainvillea are robust with luscious, green foliage.
The water comes down in torrents wrapping the unsuspecting, lazy city in a tight embrace. Soon, the city will be overwhelmed in its arms; it will lie paralyzed, surrendering to the monsoon's charms.

Reality Check
Conclusions: Never visit temples.
Ignore animated strangers.
Eat less, don't stuff yourself and never eat off the road.

The Station Heaves….

Resplendent sunbeams taper in through the myriad holes in the tapestry above, creating a markedly complex pattern resembling ancient Egyptian designs. A mammoth timepiece placed in the center runs two hours behind time. It looks like a black hole and if you gaze hard enough you can see it drawing everything towards it, much like the locus of a vicious tornado. Avant-garde stalls set up in a neat row sell everything from outmoded vaccines to badly brewed coffee. Tattered film posters proclaim the end of all things rational as they cry out raucously to be noticed. Billboards with fancy lights and garish colors distract the discerning eye looking for directions. The bare ticket windows are agog with excitement as juveniles cheerfully plan their first journey away from home. The decrepit microphone comes on with a piercing crackle announcing the arrival or departure of the next locomotive. Signboards with fused bulbs indicate the type, time and venue of each train. The station has eight enormous platforms on which stands the public, waiting anxiously, preening out longingly, for a glimpse of their medium. An overused, overhead bridge carries the mob, spraying out reluctant individuals at various openings.

Sitting right under the window, a meager tramp lunges out to get your leg, but as the panic recedes, you realize that you've stepped onto his morsel. In the corner, hidden from all, lies a brand new coupon-validating machine that nobody uses- an advancement made by the ruling party. Eager beaver touts scurry about, emerging from their rat holes at breakneck speed. A wretched voyeur rubs past pinching your bottom sadistically, smiling lasciviously. You brandish your umbrella in utter dismay, poke him in the middle, until the crowd intervenes and takes care of the rest of the proceedings. Hold your breath, the ordeal is not over yet. The nightmare continues as you look on with eyes firmly shut.

Then, there is a deafening rumble that grows into a beat and the sound resonates enveloping your senses. It's as if a hundred drummers are beating away at once, oblivious of their surroundings, immersed in the harmony that they belt out. The train chugs in smoothly, hooting wildly at it's own arrival. Twelve blocks of rusted metal come sliding in silently, slickly, meanderingly, reminding you of a giant Anaconda. At the far end a lean, mean, blue machine rolls out of the tracks into the light outside. Innocent passengers hanging onto the bars above, rock recklessly. Some are even flung out swiftly, but pushed back in, in a mighty reverse swing.

From one of the deserted compartments of a stationary train emerge cacophonous cries that sound like Red Indian tribals, in a lingo that is indecipherable. The train is just about to leave and for many that is a life and death situation. Huge baskets of jute containing the catch of the day have to be loaded on. Pomfrets, prawns, even sharks weighing a ton have to be ported outside. The whole platform reels under the heavy odor of dead fish. Kolis scream at each other piercingly, in desperation, as time is running out. Women with baskets on their heads, wet to the bone, race for the bogie, mastering the balancing act, skillfully. The guard blows the whistle and waves the green flag, inviting a thousand curses from the livid fishermen who need just a few more seconds to do their thing. But the intolerant train has moved. Women throw out the leftover cases that fall all over tripping individuals, as the train, metrically pulls out of the station.

Reality Check
Conclusions: Always carry an umbrella/baton/stick to hit.
Never sit alone in a train.
Never mess with fishermen.

The Cinema Beckons…

The colossal Sterling Cinema is the Mecca of all keen movie-lovers. Situated in the heart of the bustling city, it is a familiar hang-out for bubbly school and college going teens. I remember vividly, watching my first x-rated adult movie in school there - we were dressed in uniforms, but were allowed to go straight in and watch what was playing. Sterling - the name itself has an old-world charm attached to it. To us it's the symbol of freedom; freedom from tradition, freedom from authority and freedom from conformity. The heavenly theatre still attracts the youngest, hippest and most happening crowd about town. Uninterested, weary students have a chance to bunk school or college lectures; when it all gets too weighty, and escape to the convenient, comfortable confines within.

Now, it's become more of a routine family affair. Eager troupes of ten or even twelve have a sound reason to look forward to. After the flick, there's always the traditional Waikiki next door for a substantial Frankie or mouth-watering hotdog or a post-modern Barista for a nippy, nippy shake that chills you to the bone. The feeble road-side sandwich stalls have given way to giant, hearty Subways; emulating the great American attempts at superlative gastronomy. The eclectic Cake Shop of the RTI also has some delectable fare. Sterling's catering is good enough in itself, if you're too bored to step out.

Bare ticket counters open an hour in advance of each show. The populace lines up in long, tortuous queues to reserve their seats. Tickets can now also be booked supersonically, on phone or on the Net. Throughout the day diverse films are broadcast serially. The first show is a matinee which normally doesn't attract too much of a mob. But as the day advances the public swells and by the time it's night the whole city emerges from deep slumber, ready for the enjoyable night ahead. Groggy touts are sometimes seen selling tickets in black, which means each ticket is sold for at least double or triple the price. Glitzy posters of upcoming movies or the next change adorn the walls of the foyer. You can spend long, fun filled hours just traversing around, inspecting the near works-of -art in detail. The bedecked stairway leads to the Balcony and Dress Circle seats above; a privilege reserved for the infamously rich and richer. The screen is a giant ahead of you, inviting you to witness two hours of engaging drama. The concave hall is marked in places with large 'EXIT' signs, signaling the doorway in case of an emergency. Active ushers carrying dazzling torch-lights show you the way around until you find your damp, mothball-laden seats. The first ten grueling minutes feature commercials and public messages. You even have to stand up for the National Anthem. As the cinema unfolds you are lost in a world of animation, sound effects, action, passion, close-ups, long-shots - everything's that not any part of the mundane rigmarole of life. Read-alternate reality. Intrusive mobiles keep chiming right through the movie adding to the onslaught of mindless clatter. The magic is interrupted by a short break when everyone runs to the loo, the cafeteria, or outside for a quick puff. The duel is over before you even know what has flashed before your eyes. All through, you've reacted just as the rest of the crowd, baffled at your own ignorance or at the sheer inability of the medium to penetrate. So, in a sense you've emerged victorious. Your sanity is intact, unaffected by the blows caused by the confluence of audio and video hara-kiri.

As the lights come on, you wake up, pinch yourself to make sure you're still within, shake off the evident impact the visual's just had, straighten your wrinkled attire and proceed, however unsteadily, out of the grasp of the sinister monster.

Reality Check
Conclusion: Never bunk lectures.
Don't take visual messages too seriously; they may have been trying to kill you silently for a very long time.

The Office Pulsates..

Chock-a-block streams of people scurry out of the immaculate minivan. Most of them have their multipurpose mobiles on and are rapidly going through the events of the day. Grave meetings, hasty outings, opulent lunch appointments, abrupt visits from the bosses, protracted presentations etc. The active phone never stops ringing, as people from all over the world are busy transacting tedious business. The long-drawn day for an average office-goer begins at five. A quick jog around the block or in the park opposite, some gym workouts, weights and on to breakfast after a quick shower. Most people have to travel cumbersome distances, so they either eat in the cafeteria at the office or carry lunch boxes. But some spirited ones manage to cook up a meal, as the day lies long and hard ahead. Eggs, cornflakes, coffee and juice seem to be the preferred favorites for bachelors and harried married men alike. Then, a distracted drive all the way to office, braving the travails of weather, traffic, the traffic police and dreadfully long traffic lights. You're most likely to bump into a long lost girlfriend looking for that small ride just around the corner. Or better still, a long-lost boyfriend who bears no resemblance to the one you knew six months ago. In either case it's best to just walk through; speedily, there are more urgent matters, improved girlfriends and boyfriends awaiting your august arrival.

For bored females it's mostly the same ritual. Please the boss, keep smiling empty-headedly, nod at the slightest gesture, scurry about like a deranged rat and keep your mouth firmly shut. All this, after you've put your hair in place, tidied your over-starched dress and painted yourself red, blue and green for the chief's approval, which is unfortunately, always wanting. For adventurous men who adopt more novel means it's a potential battleground. It's considered clever and smart to do the exact opposite of what the boss wants; to talk at him instead of to him, to bellow, scream and confront the confounded man in the face. Very soon you're in line for a swift promotion, even if the company is in for heavy losses; which is not your problem, anyway.

Inside a sprawling boardroom you have to see the collective hysteria to believe it. Keen executives, pushy managers, even tardy peons are at each other's throats, trying to make the most irrelevant point. Ubiquitous questions fly about like cutting darts, choicest expletives are hurled freely until the decibel level creates artistic doodles on the walls and windows. At the end of it, no one knows what happened, no one's won or lost, everyone is happy, sadistically, that the next guy didn't make it and the meeting came to a naught. The anxious juniors keep blaming the retiring seniors who seem to do the disappearing act like trained monkeys.

Then, there are those fervent ones who do all the work. The ones who slog it out and will most probably receive all the acerbic flak and a demotion. Just a couple of these in every unit, ensure the smooth running of the office. The others are merely around to provide comic relief every now and then, or every five minutes, whichever suits them fine. Many of them are just out to look for marital prospects; still others have fled home, cruel parents and are exacting revenge on unsuspecting objects. Some just want to make sure that the superior colleague gets in as much soup as possible. Most can barely make conversation as they are from poor backgrounds and for their whole life they've been living on chances and mistakes made by other people. It becomes a trifle tricky, surviving such pesky monsters coming at you from all sides. Sometimes it looks like you're in a virtual video game, pushing all possible existing and non-existing buttons as promptly as you probably can to make your way through. Sometimes it feels like some hideous, invisible enemy is, by design, sending you troublesome and difficult people and situations. To face this and emerge heroically unscathed happens to be the insurmountable challenge some lunatic who watches too many Jim Carrey cartoons has placed before you. The more of this you get the more experienced and skillful you become! That happens to be company and management policy! You're left bewildered, outwitted, outnumbered, and critically doubtful of the objectives of Capitalist pursuit.

Reality Check
Conclusions:
Never believe bosses, most of them are emotional, vindictive psychos.
Remain unemployed, unless you're on the streets.
Analyze gang politics in your company.
Never believe Critics; they're too Jealous to let you win.
Never believe Partners; they're only there to Sink you.

Gargantuan malls have replaced abandoned, old-fashioned mills all over town. Towering complexes reach out expansively for the endless sky. The threatening, lumpen structures poke out of all kinds of neighborhoods. Some are residential areas, others house slums, some even compete with multi-storeyed high-rises. Some hang out precariously on hills and mounds. Most have huge spaces reserved as parking areas all round. As you enter one of the lesser known ones, the first thing that catches your attention is the smooth escalator carrying terrified mortals up and down in a tizzy. Dazzling lights threaten to blinden your already receding eyesight. Row after row of symmetrical stores sell anything from jewelry to dapper designerware from all parts of the world. In a sense, you get a glimpse of fashionable France, tasteful America, ingenious Japan and exotic Rome, all rolled in one. Contemporary brands vie for the credulous buyer's attention. Sauntering in, you find at least a dozen obliging hands attending to you at once. Not one among them has any dress sense or any idea of what the store sells and what the customer is looking out for. Eager but lacking salesgirls coax you to pick up what is most costly and least sought after. Kitschy garbs with absurd designs stare at you in the face, menacingly. Fitting suits made of the most prickly fabric bite hard into your skin, breaking into an ugly rash. Outrageously skimpy outfits turn you, overnight, into a Barbie doll oozing oomph. Matching accessories are flung at you threateningly, until you want to run for cover. All the while, the bill keeps adding up and runs into your last month's salary. You have been thoroughly swindled but are gullibly made to believe the opposite.

Your eye wanders to the distant dining area serving all kinds of eclectic fare. Well-lit stalls and colorful kiosks beckon earnestly. From fresh popcorn to appetizing burgers, everything is available, just waiting to be picked up. But, then you wonder how old and stale the food has been. How many months and years has it been stored for? Whether the medium used was appropriate or not? Suspiciously, you enter looking for a quick but satisfying bite. The ambience is inviting, but is the food fresh, well-cooked and well, edible? All your fears are allayed as you chomp into a delectable Russian salad overflowing with mayonnaise. You wonder if chefs are flown in from abroad to churn out their own country's fare. Or are overtly enthusiastic Indians fast becoming the foremost cooks of the world?

As you step out from one store to another you observe that for the past one hour you have been the only customer. Nine out of ten shops are as empty as a sunken ship. All that razzmatazz, jazz, pizzazz literally amounts to zilch. Hideously shaped watches cry out to be noticed. Stodgily patterned jewelry lies unappreciated. Pricey shoes and footwear that have no utility wait their turn eternally. You head out as you headed in, empty-handed, empty-headed and empty-pursed.

Reality Check
Conclusion: Shop sensibly.