Shammi Kapoor – The Original Yahoo

As an IT journalist, for most part of my career, I had almost nothing to do with the film industry people. Most actors and actresses are tech-ignorants, though of late they have started opening blogs, Twitter and Facebook accounts. However, I strongly doubt how much the running of these accounts is done by themselves! That’s why in the late 1990s, I was pleasantly surprised when Dewang Mehta, then President of the software industry association, Nasscom, introduced me to Shammi Kapoor, describing the Kapoor stalwart as “tech-savvy Netholic”.

That was the time of Nasscom’s annual software industry meet, and I had to spend almost a whole day with Shammi Kapoor.

It was 1998, and very few people had their own website . Shammiji explained to me how he created the site himself, and described his vision about putting interactive data about the whole Kapoor family into the site. He claimed that he used to spend about 8-10 hours everyday on updating the site, and the computer was situated next to his puja room. With remarkable ease he talked about Frontpage, Corel Web Designer and other Web apps and packages, and, believe me, it was not an actor’s gloss-over. Yahoo and Junglee.com were names that were making rounds at that time, and a fellow journalist asked Shammiji if he was planning to sue Yahoo, since he had made that expression famous. Shammi Kapoor just smiled, probably knowing better about the IPR laws better that the scribe.

In the evening before getting to the cab for going to the airport, Shammiji invited me to his house in Bombay, and said, “May be one day we can go beyond this website, and form an Internet company. Come over, we’ll discuss.”

We never met after that. I remembered his words when dotcom movement was sweeping the infotech industry, and the bust that purged the leeches. Dewang Mehta also departed prematurely a few years later, and Shammi Kapoor went off my radar.

May the tech-savvy Kapoor Rest In Peace.

A Surprise Guest at Moosi Maharani Ki Chhatri

Last weekend, me and my wife Aditi, were at Alwar. On Saturday afternoon, we dropped in at the City Palace (now the home of Collectorate, Court and other Govt offices) to meet the District Magistrate of Alwar, Ashutosh Pedankar. Ashutosh wasn’t in, so we decided to visit the Moosi Maharani Ki Chhatri, the imposing and exquisitely carved monument adjoining the erstwhile palace.

Located in the foothills of Aravali Range, the Moosi Maharani ki Chhatri is one of the most famous cenotaphs in Alwar. Vinay Singh built the structure in honour of the Maharaja Bakhtawar Singh and his queen Rani Moosi in 1815. The chhatri has unusual Bengali roof and arches. To gain the access to the cenotaph, we took the steps on the far left when facing the palace.

The cenotaph is built on a pillared red stone. It is a double-storeyed structure. The upper storey boasts a magnificent architecture of marble. The interiors of the structure are equally attractive as they boast intricate carvings. There is also a huge water tank, called Sagar, located opposite to the chhatri.

This artificial tank lined by a beautifully symmetrical chain of ghats with four pavilions on each side and two at each end, was built in 1815 A.D. by Maharaja Vinay Singh with few temples along its banks.

It was 6.00 pm and the light was fast fading. After seeing the Chhatri, we decided to go around the square tank before leaving the place. As we stepped down to the level of side alcoves, we saw at the left a huge barasinga deer sitting on an alcove. Clearly it was a stray deer that came from the hills at the back. It appeared fearless and composed, giving the required natural touch to the nearly 200-year-old monuments around. It seemed oblivious of the stray tourists, government babus leaving for home at the distance, children playing Cricket at the nearby ground, and honking of motorbikes and buses. Much like this old city that remained steeped in traditions and customs, despite the onslaught of the modern era.

Stay at a Palace at Rs 100 a Day

That is if you have a government job. Otherwise it would be Rs 300. But considering that you would bstaying at a palace built in 1875, with all the period furniture around and the tennis court size rooms with 30 feet high vaulted ceilings, even this amount appears measly.

The city is Alwar. A beautiful getaway, steeped in Mughal and Rajput history, just 150 km away from Delhi. And it’s not a hotel we are talking about, but the Circuit House. The Maharaja of Alwar’s State Guest House till 1947, the Circuit House is about 4 km away from the Alwar Railway Station, situated near Hotel Meenal of RTDC. The huge, well-maintained two-storied palace has 12 rooms (or suites) for guests, in the midst of a forest-garden spread over 15 acres.

Every room has AC, TV, huge queen beds, boudoir, and period furniture thrown in. There are more than 100-year old teakwood furniture even in the dining room, with a 16-sitter ‘legless’ dining table in the middle. The wide balcony at the first floor level will not just give you a green view of the well-manicured lawn in front, but also a beautiful sunrise with chirping of birds, and a look at the secret passages and alleys and anterooms at the corners.

While you seep in the ambiance and start feeling rejuvenated, the old cook Hiralal will whip up a fluffy Omelette, fine Darjeeling tea, and toast and milk-cornflakes breakfast. Then have a walk in the forest around, where deer and Nilgais will cross your ways, and scores of peacocks will stare at you from the tree-tops and the alleys.If I go to Alwar again, I will stay nowhere else but the Circuit House, I have already threatened Chouhan, the Chief Caretaker of the Circuit House, Alwar.

Come Christmas

Christmas is in the air. SMSs and e-mails wishing ‘Merry Christmas and Prosperous New Year’ have started choking my mobile phone. Even the Rickshaw-puller ferrying passengers from Dwarka Sector 14 Metro Station to Housing Societies are preferring to blare ‘Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells…’ on their Radios.

The Patisserie at Tiraha Behram Khan at Delhi Gate bazaar, from whom I buy my regular supply of cakes and pastries, has stopped making plain cakes. Now, he has only Chocolate cakes with a small star and Santa Claus cap thrown in inside. The price obviously jacked up by 25% per cent.

Yesterday night around 10 pm, suddenly some music lovers converged on the road in front of my house. As I peeped from my window, I saw two persons dressed as Santa Claus dancing on the road, and a group of around 20 people playing drums and singing merrily. I told my son, “See, now it’s the turn of the Christians to seek attention. We did our Durga Puja, the Malayalees did their bit with Ayappa a few days ago, now the Jesus-followers are celebrating with vengeance.”

My son, who is now home for his Winter holidays, and interning with a law firm, didn’t believe initially. So, we went out to the balcony. And there they were, singing into a loudspeaker. But there was a difference that became clear only when I looked closely. Two young girls were standing on the balcony of the second floor flat across the road, and the young ‘uns on the road were singing, dancing and gesticulating at them, “Aja aja Mary, I love you very very…”

Mary Christmas!

Keeping Abreast with the New Airport

So far, I have gawked at the new domestic airport terminal at New Delhi only from outside. Today I got the first chance of seeing it up close. The inside looked equally swanky, with high ceilings, wide space, and imposing glass and steel structures. It was morning, and I was slated to fly by indigo to Kolkata.

In contrast to the earlier fare of a few small check-in counters at the corner of the wide concourse, here there are only counters, each row with at least 10, and there are rows after rows. Following my international experience, I looked for the name of the Airlines at the top of the counters.

None.

My heart jumped with pride...that means I can check-in at any counter irrespective of which airline I am flying! Also, there were none of those monstrous baggage screening machines around, a la Indian Airlines. That again means my bags don’t need to be firmly tied around with plastic cords to withstand the game of discus throwing by the baggage-handlers.

I got to the nearest counter that had the smallest queue, towing my suitcases and accompanying my wife. As I approached the counter, I offered my ticket printout and the press card.

“Oh, you’re booked in Indigo. This is Jet Airways.”

“But where is it written?” I looked around.

“Here,” the young lady pointed to her ample bosom. Perplexed, I looked at it (or them), and found the small Jet Airways nametag pinned on top.

She informed me that the Indigo counter would be at the backside of the second row from there. Chastised, I started looking for Indigo signs... I mean at the middle part of the ladies womanning the counters for Indigo signs.

Soon, my wife shouted, “This is indigo.”

I jumped the queue, looked at the breast of the lady at the counter quiet critically, and said, “Yes, Indigo.”

The lady at the counter, may be quiet used to it, smiled and said, “Come in the queue please.”

Do You Have A Pen Friend?

Aparna Sen’s The Japanese Wife is a well-made, quaint movie. The main criticism that has surfaced is regarding the veracity of the plot – can friendship, and eventually love and marital relationship, evolve just through letters! I feel the criticism came from young critics, because we have stopped writing letters long ago. I am discounting the e-mails and cryptic SMSs that the younger generation keep on sending 10-a-minute. I had a pen-friend in my younger days, whom I have written nearly 400 letters in a span of eight years. Our close and sweet relationship spanned my school days to the University.

The affair, if you call it so, started in a very innocuous way. I was studying at 8th standard at Narendrapur Ramakrishna Mission School, and staying at the school hostel. Smriti was studying at a Govt girls school at Siliguri, north Bengal. Her father was a Forest Ranger in one of the reserve forests of that region. She procured my address from one of my classmates, who also hailed from north Bengal. It started with postcards and took more than two years to graduate in Inland Letters. Not that we didn’t have secrets to share, but 15 paise for each Inland Letter was quite steep for our pockets. The era of envelopes came much later and we exchanged photographs after four years.

Sprinkled with poems, rhymes and quotes from famous writers, our letters use to talk about our day-to-day life…me narrating the off-beat incidents at the hostel, home visits, future plans and getting prizes at various competitions, Smriti talking about her relatives, and her weekend getaways to beautiful spots in north Bengal forests. The wait for each reply was with bated breath, often more than that for the exam results.

We ‘loved’ each other, but never ‘kissed’. Unlike Snehomoy and Miagi in The Japanese Wife, we never talked of marriage. May be at that age, boys don’t think of marriage. His parents knew about me, and approved of the relationship (at least she said so), I never mentioned her to my dad. But it’s difficult to hide the regular arrival of letters from Mom.

When I was around 25, past the University, the relationship waned, letters became few. It was more because I got into a new set of friends, busy planning life, and there were other ladies to share love. Time became the scarcest commodity. Smriti complained in the beginning, but later accepted the fate. Towards the end, it trickled down two or three letters in a year. We never met, though the physical distance between us wasn’t more than 400 kilometres. Ironically, later I became a globe-trotter.

Thirty years have passed. Smriti must be a happy and busy mother-in-law by now. She was never so slim, so must have gained considerable weight. She had specs even at school, so her eyesight must have deteriorated too. But for me, I see her smiling face even now, eyes wide open.

Aparna’s movie has a struck a sensitive chord.

Moving Up...Or Is It Down

I have changed my car from Maruti 800 to Estilo. And acquired a Lalu Prasad Yadav syndrome.

I met the ex-chief Minister of Bihar when he was lodged in Patna jail for the Fodder scam. Even in the jail, Lalu Prasad was in full form and ease. The conversation moved from opposition-bashing to how people change with passing of time.

Says Lalu, “When I was a young boy, of about eight or ten, I used to ride a bicycle. You know whom I used to hate the most at that time? The car-owners. They used to move like the road belonged to them. I had to often get to the side road or drain when a car approached.

Today I travel by car. Do you know whom I hate most? These cycle-wallahs. They are slow, obstruct your way, and often ride like the road belonged to them.”

After moving up from 800 to Estilo, I have started pitying the Maruti 800 or other similar car owners. They are so slow, don’t know how to drive…