The Nawab of Air Force Station Jammu

By Manas Gupta

This is a true story.

I met Nawab when he was a two-month-old white bundle of fur. He wasn’t the nawab of anything but I don’t think he ever believed it. Clichéd as it sounds, he was also my best friend.

Nawab was a German Spitz who along with a sister, bizarrely named Begum, entered the Gupta household in the winter of 1989 to join a Lhasa Apso called Snoopy. To have three naughty energetic pups in a house was unimaginable fun for me — then a 10-year-old — and my little sister. It was also a hell of dog poop and dog hair for my mother, who still claims that she hates dogs. But nobody believes her, including Ma herself.

Nawab was undoubtedly the naughtiest of the three. He was also the luckiest. That year, an epidemic of some kind of lethal fever had gripped the dogs of Subroto Park in New Delhi. Snoopy and Begum got infected and Begum died. My father tried hard to save both of them, even giving them injections at home, but in the end he could only save Snoopy. He also gave Nawab some preventive injections, an act which probably saved his life besides giving him a sore bum.

Snoopy didn’t stay with us much longer after that as my parents decided to give him to a girl who was head over heels in love with him. That left Nawab alone. Nay, not alone. He had me, and I him. That was when our friendship took off.

My father, who was in the Air Force, got transferred to Jammu, and since the Gupta clan believed in driving everywhere, we drove almost 600 km to Jammu in a 1979 Fiat with a hairy, active dog for company who could use some breathmints. Every two hours the car had to stop so that Nawab could go for a leisurely walk, sniff some plants, eat some grass and puke — disgusting me and my sister — and relieve himself over naked Eucalyptus trees. Needless to say, it was an eventful drive. Nawab couldn’t decide which window he liked more so he moved every two minutes amid loud shouts of “Nawab sit”, to which he would respond with a draft of bad breath and a quizzical look on his face. The drive also taught me not to wear shorts when you’re sharing the backseat with a dog whose nails have never been cut.

In Jammu, Nawab came into his own. He decided he liked Air Force Station Jammu and he declared himself Nawab of the place. Another thing we realized was that he loved Ma as much as she professed to hate him. And the more she tried to ignore him, the more attention he gave her. When she attended the hoighty-toighty ‘Ladies Club’ at the officers mess, Nawab decided to break all protocol and attend the function. Apparently he wasn’t aware that he was neither an officer nor a lady. And he sniffed his way to Ma and casually planked himself under her chair, leading to much screaming among the heavily made-up ladies.

When my father was called by the livid President of the mess committee to drag the self-proclaimed chief guest out of the mess, dad was, needless to say, not amused. Nawab got a major tongue-lashing for his misadventure that day and dare I say a few deserving whacks on the head too. That, we later learnt, was not going to deter the Nawab of Air Force Station Jammu and he soon became a master at gate-crashing events.

Nawab was an adventurer at heart. He had the curiosity of Indiana Jones and the (for want of a better word) womanizing prowess of James Bond. He took it upon himself to get loose everyday and go exploring. Many a neighbor often spotted him leading a pack of friendly — and unfriendly — local stray dogs around the area. The meals he got at home were apparently never enough for his highness. At least three more families claimed to be feeding him every other day. The running joke in the neighbourhood was that he is the most aptly named dog in history.

The Jammu air force station has a massive ground near the residential areas. It used to be J&K’s Maharaj Hari Singh’s Polo Ground. Some officers in the area swear that they once saw four fully grown cows scared out of their wits and running away from a tiny German Spitz barking away at their heels. I bet those cows delivered milk shakes instead of milk the next day.

Meanwhile, Nawab and Ma’s love-hate relationship continued. Ma had started teaching kindergarten kids in the nearby Air Force School. Not surprisingly, her students one day received a visit from his highness. There was a commotion in her class when the kids spotted a calm German Spitz quietly sitting in the entrance of the class, probably trying to learn the alphabet. This time it was my job to drag Mr I-want-to-study-too back home. I was amazed to see he had sniffed her out over 3-4 km away.

I started keeping a close eye on Nawab when mom was in school and just when it was time for the school to end he used to go wild, barking, whining, pulling at his leash. He would spot mom from a mile away and literally start pleading with me to set him free. As soon as I would take off the leash, he would sprint away as if shot from a cannon and assault mom with his welcome. And what a welcome he used to give. Nobody could give a welcome like Nawab. Once we had left him with the gardener — who loved him dearly — to go on vacation. When we returned, he gave us the welcome of our lives. Literally going mad with happiness, jumping at everyone, and making wild sprints around us. You know when they say a pet brings positive energy into the house, you better believe it. Unconditional love is a sight to behold.

On most days it was my duty to walk Nawab. Most times I used to do it willingly too. But sometimes you were in a warm quilt on a winter day or the latest Amitabh Bachchan film was on TV or you just felt it wasn’t fair that it was always your turn to walk the dog, and those days I would scream at him. I would scream at him to hurry with his job and he would look at me and grin. I could swear he could grin. In fact, I was sure the devious bugger would delay choosing the right tree to piss on just to piss me off.

He used to wake me up in the mornings for his walks, especially during school holidays. He would gingerly lick my hand to set the process in motion. If I would stir but not reach for the slipper to throw at him he would take the next step and lick my face. And I would wake up with a start unleashing the sound effects of an angry jackal and glare at him. He would lower his ears and then grin. He was a bastard but a lovable bastard.

I used to go for an early morning jog in the holidays and due to lack of any traffic inside the cantonment take Nawab’s leash off. And just as I would look at him proudly for not running off and keeping up with me, he would spot a cyclist or a scooter and bark his head off, often forcing the rider to lift his legs up in fear and leaving me red-faced. Those were great jogs.

Nawab wasn’t a trained dog. He didn’t fetch his leash or roll over or even heel. He did fetch the ball beautifully. It was another matter that he would refuse to part with the ball later. He used to field for us kids when we played cricket, but his refusal to give the ball would invariable delay proceedings and get him banned for unfair play. There was another interesting thing he used to do without training. My father is a very avid gardener. In fact, the entire family believes dad loves his plants more than the rest of us. And he hasn’t denied it so far either. And so Nawab, during all his fancy exploring of the garden and the world around it, would never step in the flower beds. Some inner instinct always made him walk gingerly on the edges even as dad looked on with appreciation.

He was always scared of dad. Perhaps that was the reason for the garden discipline. An aunt found a way to use this to her advantage when she visited. If Nawab was being disobedient or naughty, the aunt would just call out dad’s name, pretending to complain and Nawab would lower his ears, put his tail on autopilot and sit down as if nothing has happened.

One day, one of his sojourns took longer than usual and he was gone for an entire night. We were not worried as half the Air Force Station knew Nawab by now. Next morning, as the family was sitting in the lawn having tea, mom spotted Nawab hiding in the overgrown Congress grass in front of the neighbour’s home, quietly observing us but not daring to come to us. He knew he was in for a scolding. So mom, ever the tattletale, told dad, who with his cup in hand, pretended to take a stroll towards the grass. He reached there and bellowed “Nawab! Come here right now!” And his highness, knowing that the game was up, sheepishly came out of hiding, dirty with drain water and his tail threatening to take off. Oh and boy did he get it that day.

One of his adventures came on a picnic. Dad had discovered this mountain stream ahead of Jammu, which was visited only by a few locals and was a fishing paradise. Here Nawab encountered a camel. Now, he must have been a cat in his previous life because he just couldn’t contain his curiosity and went sniffing at the camel’s ankles. In his defence, he was probably being polite and sociable. The camel, however, was in no mood to entertain a dog. He casually let his foot fly and poor Nawab went rolling under the parked car. It took some cajoling to get him out of there.

His adventure, however, was just beginning. The picnic was across the fast flowing river which had to be crossed on a raft that the locals had rigged together. The road to the river was also full of rocks. The frightened Nawab, with his ego in pieces, was reluctant to make the uncomfortable journey on the rocks and would keep turning back. Yours truly was forced to carry him all the way to the river. When I reached the river, panting and sweating, dad was waiting. And he had a naughty smile on his face. This was the time when we usually go “Uh oh!”

“I am going to make Nawab swim across the river he announced.”

Our protestations fell on deaf ears. “Stop worrying. Dogs are natural swimmers,” he told us. And unlike death row, where convicts can appeal sentences, the Gupta household was not allowed to appeal a decision when dad had made it. So in went Nawab into the water. He was clearly in discomfort and kept turning back but Wing Commander Gupta would have none of it. He dove in behind the dog and made sure he reached the other side. It was a great picnic for all of us but not for Nawab. I did ensure he came back on the raft though.

Nawab had many more adventures in Jammu. In fact, his many travels around the residential area made him a father too. One fine day, a certain Mrs Soni, who for some strange reason had a daughter called Tiny and a dog called Nighty (or maybe it was the other way round), came fuming to the house and told my mother “your awara dog has made my Nighty pregnant”. While this scandal spread like wildfire and was the subject of many jokes, one of the pups born out of wedlock was given to us. She, and this is bizarre too, was also named Begum. Do not ask me the story behind the names. I could tell you but then I’ll have to kill you.

Anyway, Begum was promised to another dog-loving officer (no inappropriate puns intended) and I don’t really know what happened to her after we left the place.

But we left the place without Nawab. He died young and his last few days were agonizing for him and painful for us to watch. He gamely fought for a while. Dad fought with him. But Nawab had to go. I didn’t get to say goodbye. But perhaps it was for the best. Because all I have is happy memories. And now, when I am blessed to have a partner who also loves dogs and a daughter who looks at dogs with longing, how I wish I could have introduced them to Nawab, my best friend and the king of Air Force Station, Jammu.

Are You A Liftosaur?

By Manas Gupta

Have you ever entered a lift and wished you’d taken the stairs because the other person with you is breaking every rule in the book? Chances are you have, unless that obnoxious rule-allergic liftosaurus is you. So, is there really a rule book of elevator etiquette? Yes, there is. Well, it’s not a leather-bound tome locked up in a safe, but an unsaid understanding derived from common sense.

So what are these invisible rules that we love to break? Here’s a TOI analysis, with some help from Asterix.

ROWDYNOMICS

We often treat the lift as Metro compartment, rushing to get in even before the individuals standing inside can come out. Believe it or not folks, that lift will come back, unless it has a date with a hot female lift. If you can't find space inside the metal contraption, try letting the ones inside come out. There's a word for this process. I think it is called cooperation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DOORMATIX

Some fellow citizens use the lift door for their daily entertainment. Whenever they see a friendly face rushing towards the door, they immediately press the door-close button instead of holding it open. As the door closes, they even flash a grin at the hapless fellow, as if to say: “Take the next one chum”.

LETHARGIX

Is your weight more than your IQ? If yes, consider skipping the lift altogether. Read this slowly - S T A I R S. Not only will the exercise help you burn some calories, it will also be safer for others who use the lift. Have you heard of shock absorbers in cars? Well, I don't think lifts have them. If you're the slim-shady variety, then using the lift for just one floor is still not advisable. It is just one floor people. How lazy can you get?

 

MOBILEANTIX

The word 'loud' is particularly abhorred by the liftocracy. So, if you have loud voices, loud mobile ringtones and a loud personality, we have got two words for you: Zip it. Look around you. Do you see an outlet for all the exasperating noise? Neither do we. In a silent lift filled with strangers, a sudden outburst of 'Munni badnam hui' is not really welcome. Remember that vibrator mode in your phone? Try to use it sometimes. And we don't want to hear the dirty talk from your girlfriend on the other line either. There's a reason they put those volume controls on the side of a phone.

UPSTANDIX

When you enter a lift, how do you stand, where do you look, what do you do? For a start, move away from the door. It kinda stops it from closing. When you enter, most of the folks inside will have their faces towards the door. These folks are sane. If you stand facing them, you are not. Do not stare. Not even if Pamela Anderson and Katrina Kaif are in the lift. Look down as if you are guilty about
something. Eye contact is an excellent conversational tool but in a claustrophobic lift it amounts to staring. If you wanted to stare, you should have taken the 'stare case'. And unless you like being squashed together like passengers in a DTC bus, give other folks some breathing space.

 

DOGMATTERIX

There are lots of other do's and don'ts. These include preventing your pet from taking a leak inside the lift. The same goes for you. It's a lift, not WikiLeaks. If you have a dog or a bicycle to transport, it's better to wait for an empty lift rather than inconvenience others. If there's a mirror in the lift, do not use it to check the number of hair in your nose or the pimples on your cheek. That's just cheeky. And lastly, no naughty PDA. Get a room people...one with windows.

Note: All illustrations are by Times of India's Ajit Ninan. This article appeared in TOI-Crest in Sept, 2011.

Did you brush your tweets?

10 Points To Help You Tweet Better (or Worse)

By Manas Gupta aka @Spooferman_

Etiquette, it seems, is as important in the cyber world as in real life. Not so surprisingly, Twitter, that infuriating yet addictive platform of 140-word epics, has its own set of etiquette.

Recently, I crossed the 5000-follower mark on Twitter (applause). I figured that the one qualification that mark bestows on me is I am no longer a noob (read Twitter newbie).  Of course why such a large chunk of humanity would follow me remains a mystery. My colleagues are pretty sure I am pulling off a CAG here and bloating the numbers. But that’s a different story.

(Frankly, at 33 I thought I was too old for this “shit”. Then I saw Amitabh Bachchan is also on Twitter. The man is like a gazillion years old and has a gazillion followers.  So yes, age —like your followers — is just a number. QED.)

This brings me to my proposed list of gyan. I decided to turn into a self-proclaimed expert on Twitter etiquette. And just because I seem to have some “vela” time in my hands today, here’s what I think you should and should not do on Twitter:

1.Stop interrupting conversations. Yessir! When two adults are tweeting, a third adult is unwelcome. Then it becomes a threesome.  If you do have something to say — hopefully a wisecrack with the stress on wise — then it’s done with a clichéd “sorry to butt in”. But the best way to interrupt a conversation is by.. er not interrupting.

2.Hashtags/trends. Anyone can trend a hashtag and I learned this the hard way. When people are following you, it’s your obligation to not spam their timeline. I did that a few times and was deservedly hit by a few unfollows. Sometimes an addictive hashtag may be too tempting to resist joining in, like #cricketmemories. All you can do is go slow on the retweets. Let the timeline breathe. Oh and if you participate in a #replacefilmwithcrap hashtag, you can legally be shot and then hanged or hanged and then shot.  (My apologies to all the people I inadvertently spammed in my quest for Twitter “experience”.)

3. Slys. A sly is when you pass an indirect remark about someone without tagging him or her. Is it the right thing to do? Not in my opinion. Does everyone do it? Of course. Technically, this entire blog post is a sly directed at various different people on twitter. You know who you are. Now, stop digging your nose.

4. Smiley overload. : ) Everyone doesn’t have an iPhone. :X Those smileys won’t load on browsers and Android phones. :/ Also, try using a language. Contrary to popular belief, most people on Twitter are literate. Stop this emoticon atyachar now. \m/ A few smileys are okay. But 5 smileys per tweets makes you certifiable.

5. Stop trolling. I still haven’t been able to nail down an exact definition of trolling. Apparently it involves rude tweets that provoke an argument or fight. I think what half of Twitter does falls in this category. Technically, it’s a no-no, but so is smoking and overspeeding. How you behave is your own call, though frankly, no harm in being polite. From what I’ve noticed, sarcasm is the weapon of choice on twitter. Try it. It’s fun.

6.BIO/DP.  Your bio says everything about you. Be informative and smart. Remember, on Twitter, everyone is an “avid reader” or “photographer” or “writer”. Be different.  Also make sure you’re not stuck on an egg DP or have chosen some ugly monster for the shock value. Using DPs of celebs or sport stars is just silly. Besides, I know Emma Stone won’t have 15 followers you know and Angelina Jolie won’t be sending me a personal tweet. How stupid do you think I am? Wait. Don’t answer that.

7. Follows and followbacks. (This one is specially for noobs.) Followers are like Bourneville. They are earned. You interact with folks or post good stuff which will get RTd and get you followers. Asking for a followback is a no-no. Also, everyone doesn’t follow back. If a person already follows, say 500-600 people, following any more will make it difficult for him to manage his timeline and keep track of tweets, so keep those expectations low. Also, don’t get too upset with unfollows. You can’t force people to like your tweets or agree with them, you know.

8. FAT Jokes: Do not, under any circumstances, make personal fat jokes. I learned this the hard way too. Exceptions are there. Celebs are fair game, as long as you don’t tag them. Self-deprecatory jokes on your girth and eating habits are welcome…as are generalizations. Some joke formats never die. “Does this jeans make me look fat? [add silly joke about genes here].  Also stay away from certain wards of industrialists. 

9. Go easy on group tags. These just spam mentions. For example, a certain Rocket Singh whose delusional about his sense of humour and wrongly believes he’s part of an intelligent species, sends me some ‘jokes’ every single day. Unfortunately, only he believes they are jokes. And he tags various other people in that tweet. That, my friend, is just rude. If you’re reading this post, stop already, will ya.

10. Stop harassing celebs. Technically, this is the same as trolling. But a lot of noobs try too hard to interact with celebs. A lot of them are sporting, like Gul Panag or Ranvir Shorey. But the sheer number of followers they have obviously makes it difficult for them to respond to every tweet. Heck, I even find wishing them happy birthday silly. SRK has over 4 million followers. If just 2% of his followers wish him on his birthday, that’s a whopping 80,000 tweets. How many do you think he’ll respond to?

11.Block button:  (Remember when this article mentioned 10 points? I lied. Sue me.) Lots of creeps and rude pricks out there who may spoil your Twitter ex perience. There is a magical solution to that called the Block button. Use it.

12. Don't copy man.

Frankly, I doubt if even I would follow all of this so-called gyan. There is just one small catch for staying active on Twitter —  Using your brain is mandatory. Sure, a lot of tweeps are flouting this rule, but don’t let that stop you. And remember the most important rule of Twitter: Having fun. 

PS: There are some rules about RTs and manual RTs too. But since every second tweep is forever cribbing about those, you’ll learn about these pretty soon. And I’m not even going to start on grammar Nazis.

That awkward moment

By Manas Gupta 

aka @Spooferman_

Internet lingo, it seems, is constantly evolving. Unfortunately, for people like me —delusional about still being young and dare I say cool — keeping up with the jargon can be quite a chore.

I joined Twitter a couple of years back and much to my delight, found an entire new world reveling in puns, wordplay and PJs, an ailment I'm often chastised for in real life by friends and family. I felt right at home, or so I thought.

Twitter, however, is a different animal. It's young, brash and bursting with energy and horny teenagers, who all speak in a language that pretends to be English but is way "cooler".

I got my first taste of it when confronted with a teenager who criticised one of my cringe-worthy PJs. Now criticism, as we all know, is a bitter pill to swallow, however rational you may be. When I politely asked this young man to explain, he came up with, "Calm yo titties!" I was stumped. Aside from the fact that this seemed to be an Indian boy speaking, nay writing, in a style straight out of Harlem, New York (yeah, call me racist), I was flummoxed by the reference to my er, nipples.

Anyway, I put that incident behind me and dove into the world of double entendres and silly hashtags on Twitter. However, before I could even fathom the reason behind #replacemoviewith(fill in the blank here) hashtags I encountered the phrase "woot woot". Yes. That is a phrase. According to the urban dictionary (yes, that is a dictionary), it is an "expression of complete approval or joy".

Now, I think of myself as a rational human being. (Okay, some of my friends may not think so, but they are not writing this article, are they?). But, for the love of God, (sorry, I mean Sachin Tendulkar) I cannot understand the reason for mimicking an owl to show joy. Have you ever observed an owl? They always look sad or angry or just constipated. Ever seen an owl smile? Heck, when he says "woot woot", he probably means "what-what, what the fuck you looking at?"

Sure, I've made my peace with the LOLs and the ROFLs and even (shudder) LMAOs. But even for someone whose made a career out of smartly murdering the English language, some things are just incomprehensible.

Another phrase that's the rage is YOLO. It means (hold your breath), you only live twice. Ian Fleming must be rolling over in his grave. Remember, at the start of this article I talked about being young? Sigh! Clearly I was mistaken.

Then you have emoticons. These are also called emojis. Huh? Why? Frankly, adding 'ji' after anything and not adding 'scam' after it should be a crime.  

Amid all this, what really takes the cake on twitter is something called 'that awkward moment'. It's not complicated. It really is all about awkward moments. But if you don't have them, you, sir or madam, are just not cool. In fact, you tweeting is 'that awkward moment' when you try to be cool.

Of course, some of these teens don't even know what really awkward moments are. I'm pretty sure Adam and Eve had the first awkward moment. An awkward moment is when you meet recently separated Siamese twins and ask, "can I join you?" However, when you stumble and fall flat on your face, that's not an awkward moment. That's just stupid. Also hilarious, unless you broke something or died. Then it's an awkward moment.

Frankly, I could go on and on about twitter lingo that makes me uncomfortable or look like a douche bag (yes another twitter favourite). However, that would make this piece TLTR. Too long to read.

PS: ROFL is what dogs do. Hence it's cool.

THE GOLDEN KITE

First post of the year. This one's fiction.

© Manas Gupta

Dara was a troubled child. For a 12-year-old boy named after a beefy wrestler, he was remarkably thin. He would walk to school with long, rapid strides, his bony legs looking like slender pistons, his face creased with worry, his mind a thousand miles away.

This morning, he feared he was going to be late again. “Gupta sir”, a cruel paan-chewing middle-aged man, who took pleasure in hitting the legs of kids with sticks from the neem tree, would scream at him again, assaulting him with a vicious dose of sarcasm followed by a slap that would make his ears ring and call him a useless mute. He quickened his pace as he visualized the scene.

All Dara wore was a faded light blue shirt, a pair of worn-out brown shorts, slippers and a morose expression. As the lone school of the village appeared on the horizon, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately for Dara, he was, what you would call, a nobody. His entry in the class, or the school would usually go unnoticed. He was never seen, unless he was late; never heard because he didn’t have a voice and never spoken to.

He didn’t have any friends and even his teachers barely took an interest in him. He was a shadow reeking with mediocrity, just another drop in the ocean, waiting to evaporate and then fall back, a drop swallowed by earth.

However, there came a day when Dara shone. It was on his way back from school when he spotted the new stationary shop. It bought to his face a rare smile. He entered the shop and gazed with wonder at the shiny paper, the glue sticks, the colourful crayons. In that moment, he was a child again. Gone from his mind was the fear of Gupta ji, the spectre of school, the daily grind.

He took out his pocket money that he had been saving from his school bag, brought some items and rushed home. There, he chucked his bag on the floor, took the items he had purchased, and went to the tiny room on the terrace where his mother stored foodgrains.

Here, he locked the door, and amid the smell of dust, wheat and jute sacks, he went to work. He worked through the day. No one missed him. He didn’t eat, he didn’t study, he just hummed, as much as a mute boy can hum. Eventually, he fell asleep in the room, exhausted.

The next morning he woke up feeling hungry, sore and for the first time, happy. He went down to his mother for breakfast, carrying with him the fruit of his labour. His mother heard him coming, grumbled something about not helping with the chores and started laying his plate. Just then she glanced at him and her mouth fell open.

Dara was holding in his arms the most beautiful kite she had ever seen. Even more enchanting was the smile on his face. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen her boy smile. Overwhelmed by the transformation in her son, the woman just sat down and sobbed. Dara just beamed, holding his kite proudly.

The kite was a thing of beauty. Dara had shaped it like a butterfly. It was made of golden paper and when it caught the sun, it dazzled in the sky. Dara had drawn a beautiful pattern on it, a mesmerizing riot of flowing colours along with glitter and other pretty objects, breathing life into the golden butterfly.

That day he took the kite to the schoolground. A hush fell on the ground when he brought out the kite. Even Gupta ji looked stunned. Suddenly, Dara was encircled by the other boys, everyone curious about the golden kite, asking him a thousand questions, reaching out to touch it, calling out his name.

In that moment, Dara was not a nobody anymore. Everyone knew his name. There were shouts of “Dara, fly it Dara” everywhere. For that moment, Dara was the boy with the golden kite. And he had a smile on his face.

©MANAS GUPTA