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									<title>An ordinary life</title>
									<link>http://www.fropper.com/ezBlog/Eccentricity</link>
									<description>Bits and pieces of my routine life</description>
									<language>en-us</language>
									<pubDate>2008-Nov-02, 13:15:01</pubDate>
									<lastBuildDate>2008-Nov-03, 22:50:28</lastBuildDate>
				
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						<title>Nothing to lose</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/24031</link>
						<description><![CDATA[It was the morning after &ldquo;Dhanteras&rdquo;. I was out to buy milk from the neighborhood store. I looked around, no one seemed to be in cheerful mood, unlike last Diwali. Last night&rsquo;s festivities were low-key; even fire-crackers stopped by 11pm, rare for a supposedly upmarket neighborhood like mine.   On my way, I met a few familiar faces and exchanged Diwali wishes. I couldn&rsquo;t help but notice the lack of enthusiasm, worried looks and cheerless voices. I couldn&rsquo;t blame them, I too was in the same boat as them. Over the last week, I had seen value of my investments in the market diminish. An across-the-board salary cut was announced at the workplace just before Diwali, and&nbsp;there still was a possibility of layoffs.&nbsp; Even the banks I trusted my life's savings with&nbsp; seemed to be on verge of collapse.   And then I heard laughter for the first time that morning. A group of urchins was collecting the fire-crackers, that somehow remained unburst and were swept out of houses, from roadside garbage dumps. They had gotten hold of a broken pistol (the one used by small kids to burst &ldquo;tikli fataka&rdquo;), candles, and a few little bombs (&ldquo;pitpiti bomb&rdquo; in local parlance). And they were happy.   These kids belonged to the many laborer families, who work and live at the construction sites strewn across my locality. Some were dressed in rags or discarded clothing, and some little ones were not dressed at all. Almost all were barefoot. Unkempt, unclean, malnourished &hellip;. but somehow they were happy in these gloomy environs.   As I watched them, they rummaged through the garbage to find more such &ldquo;treasures&rdquo;; until a killjoy sweeper close by shooed they away, hurling abuses at them. They ran across the road, unmindful of traffic, laughing and shouting &ldquo;Happy Diwali&rdquo;, in reply to sweeper&rsquo;s abuses.&nbsp; I am sure they were back as soon as sweepers left and resumed their &ldquo;treasure-hunt&rdquo;, chanting &ldquo;Happy Diwali&rdquo;.   Yeah, &ldquo;Happy Diwali&rdquo; kids. May you remain as carefree and happy every Diwali to come. Worry is for us, the &ldquo;haves&rdquo;, who are afraid to lose. But you are lucky, you are &ldquo;have-nots&rdquo;&hellip;. you have nothing to lose.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Nov 02, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Bomb Scare</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/22547</link>
						<description><![CDATA[Thursday, 8.10 pm at Deccan bus stand. I was sitting in a city bus, waiting for it to start and take me home. Tired and hungry after a hard day at work, I was getting impatient.   Bus driver and conductor nowhere in sight, other people sitting in bus were also fidgeting. Some of them got down from the bus. And then I noticed.....a guy had left his messenger bag on a seat, had got down, and was walking away from the bus. He soon disappeared in the crowd.  I was surprised at first. Nobody left their baggage behind like that; at least didn't leave it somewhere out of sight. Then in a split-second suspicion struck me...... the bag might contain a bomb! I suddenly remembered London bus bombings, and the recent bomb blasts in Delhi and Gujrat. Fear made me numb for few moments, I didn't know what to do.  The first thoughts that came to my mind were of death and its consequences. What would my parents do, if I died now? Would they be able to cope with such a shock? Why didn't I get my life insurance done in time? But then, didn't I read somewhere that such insurance did not cover losses due to acts of terrorism?  I looked around, about a dozen people still in the bus. Should I alert them? Should I get down quickly and ask them to follow suite. Probably they will laugh at me, how did I get that idea in my head? Even if they listened to me, could they get away from the bus quickly enough? What about the people outside? I shuddered at the thought of a stampede that might ensue.  At a closer look, the bag did not seem to contain any hard or big object. But who knows; an explosive could be small, or even liquid, and still be deadly. I tried to remember how the bag guy looked like. Maybe I could help police identify him. But then the futility of the exercise dawned on me. How could I help identify the assailant, if I was dead?  Finally, I made up my mind to alert other passengers. I was just about to address the woman in front of me, when I saw.....the bag guy walking back towards the bus, the bus driver and conductor behind him. He probably was smoking, or had made a trip to the loo.  8.20 pm, all aboard and the bus started moving. The most stressful 10 minutes of my day had just passed. But even though this &ldquo;bomb scare&rdquo; was a false alarm, I am worried. It could have actually happened....  I guess I am getting paranoid, sort of. Now I check beneath my seat, when I board a bus.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Oct 05, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>What one wants in life….?</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/14152</link>
						<description><![CDATA[A few years&nbsp;back, one sleepy afternoon, I turned on the TV to find that an interesting documentary on Discovery channel was being aired. It was about a woman, a photo-journalist, who covered Bosnian war.   Although I cannot remember her name now, but I guess she is well known (the documentary itself was evidence to this and it also mentioned about a movie made on her life and war experience in which Andy McDowell portrayed her).   She narrated an incidence that happened during her stint in Bosnia. She had a boyfriend (a fellow journo), who had gone to cover the war there before her, and then disappeared. Worried for him, she went on searching for him when sent there herself on assignment. Fearing the worst, she looked in every possible place she hoped to find him. And finally, found him in a dilapidated hospital, badly wounded. Unfortunately, soon afterwards there was an attack on that hospital. She knew, horrified, that whoever&nbsp;couldn't manage to run away from hospital would be brutally killed.   This is where she almost choked trying to hold back her tears. Meanwhile, I dreaded the thought that she might have watched helplessly her boyfriend being killed. Then,&hellip;she spoke again. She informed us that they both managed to escape with help of a few locals.   So what was the cause of her grief then, I wondered? Well, it so happened that her boyfriend informed her that he was saved and brought to hospital by a local girl. She was also taking good care of him and he had fallen in love with her!!! Later, her (ex) boyfriend married that local girl and settled there. Well, our photo-journo lady was broken-hearted and returned home after finishing her assignment. She somehow got over the harrowing experiences of the war, but she couldn&rsquo;t get over this.   I&rsquo;ve always wondered since then what made her still hanker after her ex? She had everything in the world; a great career, lots of adventure, a slew of enviable assignments, fame, and awards. She could easily be a role model to others; I could myself give anything in the world to be like her. But all she wanted was getting married to her ex and raising a family!   It seems nobody wants what he/she has got in life, they want something else, something just opposite of it :-(.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Apr 18, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Traveling in rickshaw-less Pune</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/13787</link>
						<description><![CDATA[The auto rikshaw-vallahs in Pune have decided to go on strike yet again&hellip;.for God-knows-what reason! They give us poor commuters a hard time even when they are not on strike, by charging exorbitant fare (wonder why is that called &quot;fair&quot;; when it's so unfair), meter tampering, rash driving or simply refusing to take you where you want go.  
 
Yours truly has often been the target of foul language and even attempts of physical assault by these rik-vallahs, when she has refused to pay more than legitimate fare. Now you would ask why do I use riks for commuting, if I have had such a bad experience with them? Well, my answer until yesterday would have been: scarcity, if not total lack, of alternative means of commuting.  
 
Of course, there are PMT/PCMT buses running on most city routes, but they rarely run on time. There are six-seaters, but they are always &quot;overloaded&quot; and cover a short distance. So if you have to travel from your suburban home to work (a distance of roughly 10.5 KM) everyday, you have to hire a rik even if it's a costly, sometimes humiliating, experience. And that's just what I though&hellip;until today.  
 
Today, due to rik-strike, I was forced to reconsider my opinion about city buses and six-seaters. As I already knew of the strike from the newspapers when I left for work today, I hailed a six-seater. The riks were conspicuous by their absence. Though it was over-crowded, the six-seater took me to the nearest &quot;stand&quot; for a princely sum of Rs. 5/-. From there, after waiting for 10 minutes I caught another six-seater, which took me to University Circle, again for Rs. 5/-.  
 
Things became easier from University Circle as lots of buses pass from here. And within couple of minutes of getting down from six-seater, I caught a bus that took me to Corporation stop. Hardly 10 minutes afterward I was on another bus, which took me straight to a stop bang opposite my workplace.  
 
Total fare for the journey (six-seater + bus) Rs. 20/- (unbelievable, I'd have to pay at least Rs. 70/- for rik for the same distance). The only problem is time taken for journey, 1.25 hrs. I was late by 0.5 hrs for work. But as my boss consoled me, &quot;Better late than never&quot; . Today, I was lucky to quickly catch six-seaters / buses one after the other. Tomorrow I might have to wait half an hour waiting for the bus.  
 
But today I am happy that I was able to give the riks a miss, and travel cheaply around the city. The lesson I learnt: if you have time and patience, you'll get around Pune easily using the buses and six-seaters.  
 
So rik-vallahs of Pune, go on!!! Have a prolonged strike! You guys won't be missed!!!  ]]></description>
						<pubDate>Apr 11, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Vise-Admiral of Nebraska</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/13209</link>
						<description><![CDATA[From an Indian student's diary:   It was early spring of 1997. I was visiting Lincoln, Nebraska on a research program with University of Nebraska, USA. On a modest stipend and shoestring budget, I was staying at a cheap bedsit and eating at the local McDonalds. Waking up early, grabbing a quite bite at the McDonalds before heading to university was my morning routine. But one fine day, this routine was broken due to an unusual event.   Just when I was getting ready to step out in the morning, my landlady came up to inform me that somebody wished to see me. Downstairs, I saw a well-dressed official-looking guy waiting for me. &quot;Hello Mr. XXXX. Mr. Grant, the mayor of Lincoln, would like to meet you personally regarding an official matter. I am David, his secretary. I am here to take you to mayor's office&quot;, he said.   I was surprised, and even scared; why the mayor of the town wanted to see me? Did I do anything wrong? Did they suspect that I was a potential illegal immigrant? Or had I broken a law I did not even know of?   The secretary sensed my unease and informed me, &quot;The mayor is pleased to see that you, as a visiting scholar, doing a commendable job at the university. He'd like to honor you by conferring on you the honorary title of His Excellency Vise-Admiral of the Navy of Nebraska.&quot;   What!!!! I couldn't believe my ears? The mayor would like to honor me? That too, with such a grand title? Naturally, I was elated and was ready to meet the mayor.   The secretary took me to the mayor's office in mayor's official car (how long was that car!!!). Once I was led inside his office, the mayor greeted me with a warm handshake and welcomed me to his town. The secretary promptly brought forward a certificate, which proclaimed that the mayor of Lincoln has conferred the title of His Excellency Vise-Admiral of the Navy of Nebraska on me. The mayor handed the certificate to me, and immediately the secretary shepherded me out of the office. I was surprised that the &quot;ceremony&quot; was so short, but was happy nevertheless.   I was in high-spirit when I returned from the mayor's office. Instead of going to the university, I decided to celebrate by having lunch at a fancy restaurant. Ditching my frugal habits, I ordered a turkey and wine and ate as if I was the king of the city. I even left a hefty tip, to the surprise of the waiters. I was already daydreaming about how my family and girlfriend would be surprised by this news; their own good-for-nothing Mr. XXXXX was now His Excellency Vise-Admiral of the Navy of Nebraska!!! What fun!!! Thinking of all this and humming a pleasant tune, I returned to my bedsit.   My reverie was broken by the voice of my landlady calling me. She told me that someone had called for me. Taking the phone from her, I said, &quot;Yes, this is Mr. XXXXX here&quot;. &quot;Good evening, Mr. XXXXX. This is David again, from the mayor's office. I hope you did not take your honorary title too seriously&quot;, he said (trying to stifle his laughter, I fancy). &quot;The mayor has this habit of playing pranks on visiting foreigners. Nebraska, being a land-locked state, does not have a Navy and thus cannot have a Vise-Admiral; honorary or otherwise&quot;. And that was when my eyes fell on the desk-calendar near the phone. The date was April 1st.&nbsp;  *This is a work of fiction without an iota of truth.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Apr 01, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Sons of soil</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/13073</link>
						<description><![CDATA[The current politics-induced &#8220;son of soil movement&#8221; taking place in most Indian states brings this little story to my mind. I don&#8217;t remember where I heard or read this story and some historical details in it may be inaccurate. Nevertheless this is one sweet little story. Here is how it goes: 
 
Sometime around 13-14th century AD; Persians, or &#8220;parsees&#8221; as we call them in India, suffering from persecution in their own country Persia (now Iran), started migrating to other countries. One of their ships shored near Somaan in Gujrat, India.  
 
The king of the princely state, where the ship landed, heard of these foreigners who were seeking asylum. The king was worried, as the local populace was not willing to let the foreigners settle on their land. But how to turn back poor asylum-seekers? This was against the Indian tradition of protecting even the enemy if he requests refuge.  
 
The king talked to his advisors and decided to send a message to the parsees. The message was in code: a pot full-to-brim with milk. It was decided that if parsees could understand the message and could give a satisfactory answer, they would be given refuge. The pot was then sent to the parsees, who called on their wise men to help decipher the code.  
 
On the sight of the pot of milk, the leader of the wise men smiled and asked his people to bring a handful of sugar. He added the handful of sugar slowly to the pot of milk, while stirring the milk carefully to dissolve the sugar without letting even a drop of milk spill. He then sent the pot back to the king. The king was surprised and pleased when he saw the pot returned. He granted refuge to the parsees, along with the rights to own properties and run businesses in his state. What was the message and what was the reply that brought whole-hearted acceptance to the parsees from the once-doubtful king and his people? 
 
By the pot full-to-brim with milk, the king meant to say: &#8220;The population of my state is already very large and we are short on land and resources. How can we accommodate you?&#8221;. And by adding sugar to the pot of milk, the parsee wise man replied: &#8220;We will mix with the local populace, as the sugar blends in the milk. And we&#8217;ll make your state as prosperous, as sugar sweetens the milk. We&#8217;ll live in harmony with your people, without being a burden or threat&#8221;.  
 
The parsees lived and prospered in the king&#8217;s state and later spread out to other states as well. They adapted to the local culture and also enriched it with their own customs and rituals. They have grown from strength to strength and now are as integral part of India as any other Indian community. They built large business houses like TATA (which is one of the best known Indian brands across the world), along with prestigious social, charitable and educational institutions; thus giving back to the country and sharing their prosperity. 
 
Doesn&#8217;t this story have a message for those on both sides of current sons-of-soil/outsider divide? Why don&#8217;t they too follow this example? Let the natives whole-heartedly accept the &#8220;so called&#8221; outsiders (remember, they are our own countrymen) and let the outsiders respect local culture and make their new home state prosperous, just like sugar sweetens milk. Amen!]]></description>
						<pubDate>Mar 30, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Another &quot;Prince&quot; in making?</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/12777</link>
						<description><![CDATA[Turned on the TV this morning, only to find the news channels covering news of another child that fell and got stuck in a borewell in a hamlet near Agra. Not again&hellip;.  This must be the 6th or 7th incident (lost count now) of a child falling into borewell, since Prince was rescued from a similar ordeal and became an instant celebrity.   That makes me really suspicious: is there any conspiracy behind this? Is there greed at work behind all this, greed for money or instant fame? Are these mishaps being &quot;staged&quot; deliberately, risking the life of a child for whatever gains it may bring?   If the answer is yes, who's the guilty party? It's hard to believe that parents could be so ignorant to be careless about their wards, even if they are poor, illiterate or live in rural area. And how come the openings of all those borewells are never secured and left open for any child to wander near or fall into them?   Media is sure to blame; non-stop coverage of such incidents may bring help or hasten the rescue for the child in trouble, but it also confers on the victim quasi-stardom; possibly encouraging &quot;copycats&quot; to &quot;perform similar feats&quot; to achieve similar results. Not to forget that the incessant media coverage soon turns into a farce, and viewers like me loose interest.   This should be stopped, or the lives of more children will be at risk. First, the people responsible for not securing the openings of borewells/shafts/manholes should be fined heavily or punished. Secondly, media should not be allowed to sensationalize such incidents, as it seems to do more harm than good. Thirdly, politicians should be prevented from using such incidents to make show of their generosity (remember the booty promised to the rescued kids?) and sensitivity to garner votes.   I can only hope that sense finally dawns upon the people behind such things and no more young lives are risked for such ill-gotten gains.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Mar 26, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>Haircut on the Women’s Day</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/12392</link>
						<description><![CDATA[The day before the Women&rsquo;s Day brought a lot of goodies my way .  
 
Airtel sent me a free emergency charger and gave me 1000 free Airtel to Airtel minutes (Guys, don&rsquo;t get jealous. Read the rest of the story ). And even my company gifted me and other female employees vouchers to a local spa-cum-salon which entitled us to 50% discount on any service of our choice.  
 
Obviously, I was overjoyed &nbsp;that I could go the spa/salon without breaking my bank. I was anyways tired of my old hairstyle and the voucher allowed me to avail the services of hairstylists trained by Javed Habib. I quickly called up the spa-cum-salon and fixed an appointment for haircut, on the Women&rsquo;s Day.  
 
On the appointed day and time, I marched into the salon and was pleased to find a swanky new big salon and smart-looking stylists attending to me. Thousand times better than that cubbyhole of a beauty parlor in my neighborhood!!!  
 
&ldquo;What would you like, ma&rsquo;m&rdquo;? One sweet voice asked. I declared I wanted a nice haircut with a new hairstyle. &ldquo;Yes, please step this way, ma&rsquo;m&rdquo;, the owner of the sweet voice cleared a chair for me. Once seated, I selected a hairstyle from a catalog, and then the stylist set to work. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling of being pampered, my hair being shampooed, my scalp massaged, then the snip of scissors &hellip;I was almost lulled to sleep. I daydreamed of stepping out looking great with my new hairstyle, turning heads&hellip;..  
 
&ldquo;Ma&rsquo;m, would you like your hair this way?&rdquo;, the sweet voice broke my reverie. I opened my eyes&hellip;.Whoa! Who&rsquo;s that horrible creature staring back at me from the mirror? &nbsp;Oh no! It&rsquo;s me&hellip;whatever happened to my hair? Seemed somebody had given me an electric shock that made my hair stand up at the end. Dismay soon gave way to rage . &ldquo;This is not the style I wanted.&rdquo;, I nearly shouted. &ldquo;But ma&rsquo;m, this one is better than the one you chose. Still, if you don&rsquo;t like it, I&rsquo;ll fix you the one you chose. I&rsquo;ll have to snip your hair a little more from this side and that&rdquo;, came back the smug answer from the still sweet voice. I took a look at the current state of my hair (very little of them remaining) and shuddered at the thought of further snipping. Then I gulped, and took the hard decision: some hair, albeit badly cut, on my head is better than no hair. My words came out in half a sob, &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t want them snipped any further&rdquo; . With a heavy heart I got up, paid my discounted bill (cursing the moment I decided to come here) and stepped out in the cold-hard world, which has ready to laugh at my misadventure and misfortune . I went straight to home, and did not venture out for the whole weekend.  
 
Next Monday at workplace, I spied on some colleagues (mostly guys) laughing behind my back. But there was some consolation as well, as a couple of other &ldquo;victims&rdquo; came into sight. Now I am wearing a cap all the time, just like Himesh Reshamiya, and hoping that my hair grow back fast, so that I can visit the cubbyhole beauty parlor in the neighborhood and get a proper haircut.]]></description>
						<pubDate>Mar 20, '08</pubDate>
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						<title>What'll I gift to Santa-Claus</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/9366</link>
						<description><![CDATA[What'll I gift to Santa Claus? 
An extra-large goodies bag, of course...so that he can bring us all more gifts . 
And a Formula 1 car, so that he can reach us at top speed, and we don't have to wait for long for our gifts. 
 
Luv you Santa....]]></description>
						<pubDate>Dec 31, '07</pubDate>
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						<title>In the beginning, there was nothing.</title>
						<link>http://www.fropper.com/post/7772</link>
						<description><![CDATA[Then I started a blog.....]]></description>
						<pubDate>Oct 08, '07</pubDate>
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