The Fungal Journals

I bumped into an old friend from college the other day and, during the usual round of questions, I discovered that he was trying to do something on his own as well. Kudos. So, Kapil, here’s a shout-out to you and your coterie at Makbog.

Their website, explaining all that they do and showcasing some of their work can be found here. The folks at Makbog.com describe themselves as IT Consultants and Website Designers based in Delhi, providing end to end Web Site Design, Web Hosting, Software Development, Search Engine Optimization and Internet Marketing.

If you can spare a moment drop by their site and have a dekko.

Cheers, mate. And all the best.

I’m in Bombay these days. It is so nice to be back in Bombay – more than eleven months after I left. For the record, I’m here on work. Off the record, however, I’m just soaking it all back in. I’m put up with friends. So you can guess exactly how much work I’m getting done.

We go out a fair bit. In the sense it rains in Cherrapunji a fair bit. The other day Ravi suggested we try this Indian restaurant that everyone was talking about. Ravi is about as “in” as you can get so his recommendation counts for something with us, country bumpkins. Plus, I was tired of my daily diet of pizzas so I readily agreed. “Caravan Serai” is on Waterfield Road, Bandra, right above Red Box Cafe. It is beautifully done up and its patron-list boasts the Who’s-Who of Bombay.

We were lucky with our timing because we found seating as soon as we walked in. Our server turned out to be a weird mixture of indifference, baritone and laryngitis and the impression I got was that he enjoyed making us strain to hear him. We decided to skip the starters and proceed directly to the main course. Ravi ordered buttermilk to go with the food. Sidin ordered one too but when it was pointed out to him that he had a bad throat he asked the server to get him one at room temperature. The server shook his head. It took us a minute to understand that he meant that buttermilk could not be served “hot”. Cancel our order, we said. He pottered off only to come back with two buttermilks: both cold.

When we told him we had ordered only one he begged to differ. We asked him to take it back at which point he shrugged his shoulders and just stood there. It cheeses me off no end when a service establishment does not heed the customer. We weren’t about to make a scene, however, so we took the buttermilk. If that had been it, however, I wouldn’t be writing about it.

Our food arrived in a while. The meat was soft but drowned in seasoning. Not great, but edible. The breads were nice and soft. But it was the Dal that took the cake. Without going too much into the recipe let me just say that a nice Dal Bukhara uses a fair amount of tomato gravy. However, when tomato is all you can taste, Houston, we have a problem. We had already been rather accommodating on the buttermilk issue. The meat had further brought out our stoic side. The Dal, then, was the last straw. We called back the server and told him that the Dal was, well, tomato puree and little else. He shuffled off and returned with his manager.

We repeated our complaint.

But, sir, our Dal Bukhara is world-famous.

So is Dharavi, monsieur. But you wouldn’t want to live there, would you?

It took him forever to understand that this group was not going to put up with their Dal Bukhara.

I’ll have it made again, sir.

Yeah, right.

The next instalment, when it arrived, tasted exactly the same – hot tomato puree. It was at that point that we decided to retaliate.

There are several issues at stake here. There is, of course, the issue of a bad product in a restaurant. No one should have to put up with that. Especially when the restaurant operates on a plank of “good food”. There is the issue of a restaurant with potential being let down by apathetic staff. Servers, and managers, who drag their feet will drag any restaurant down with them, no matter how world-class the food and ambience. There is the issue of empowerment. The more the authority to make decisions at a lower level within the hierarchy the more responsive the service and this translates, directly, to customer satisfaction. The server should have been authorised to take back a below-par dish without consulting his superior. But what irks us the most is the fact that customer feedback, which is the driving principle of Kaizen (continuous improvement) within the service industry, is met with defensiveness and diffidence. If we had come in asking for their world-famous Dal we’d only have gotten what we deserved with that swill. However, when we asked for just the Dal – no titles attached – we expected a level of quality that, if not present, we had every right to reject. I haven’t even started my restaurant but I already know not to act in this disastrous manner.

Fortunately, there is a fair bit that the customer can do. We could have made a scene within the restaurant. We could have fought tooth-and-nail to have the offending items struck from the bill. We could have whispered to other patrons that they were being short-changed. But we didn’t do any of that. What we did was to pay exactly the bill amount – no tip. I have actually heard of someone who deducted the standard tip amount from the bill. Her explanation was that a Zero bill amount doesn’t punish bad service. It is like saying that while you will be rewarded for good behaviour there is no punishment for bad behaviour. I completely endorse her view. I guess I just don’t have the cojones to do what she did. Luckily, we had the exact change needed to make the amount. I just hope it was a statement that they didn’t miss.

My writing this blog entry is part of that retaliation too. There is no excuse for apathy at a restaurant. None, whatsoever. A product that is not up to expectations may yet go unnoticed. It is a documented fact that service complaints far outweigh food complaints across all types of eating establishments. Also, service dissatisfaction is more likely to make customers vow to never return than complaints with the food. It isn’t very difficult to understand these concepts. But, at the very least, you need staff and management who care about the restaurant and, consequently, the customer. Without that the road ahead is a dark, downward spiral.

Ruchika, Sidin and I headed to the nearest coffee shop to help get rid of the bad taste of tomato-Dal from our mouths. Ravi came to get rid of the vile taste of the complimentary Paan at “Caravan Serrai” which he had picked up to get rid of the taste of the tomato-Dal. Poor fellow! We tried to not ruin the night any more for him by pointing out that going there had been his idea in the first place. Oh, I just pointed it out, didn’t I? Oops. Sorry, Ravi.

More than a year. That’s how long it has been since I last wrote. It isn’t like the blog was very popular but the few who did log on have felt cheated. And, rightly so. My apologies. Let me quickly run you through what I’ve been up to since you last heard from me.

After I signed off I served out the period of my notice rather uneventfully. It also left me free enough to make sure two of my friends got married. To each other, no less. I came back to Delhi in January and my mother, who had been so stellar in her support, previously, was worried sick.

“Don’t tell me you plan to sit at home now.”

“My son. Unemployed.”

She was aghast. I was quite happy to sit at home in the beginning. But three weeks is all I could tolerate. And, pretty soon, I was doing the one thing I never thought I’d do again – making my resume. A week later I was mathematics faculty at an institute that prepares people for the CAT. Ironic, considering my entire preparation comprised two simulation tests. I signed up for the weekends, originally, but as the CAT approached, and my interest in teaching grew, my hours shot up like mad and the time and opportunity to fully pursue the restaurant dream became hard to come by.

I did, however, manage to get some experience and a lot of learning under my belt; thanks, mainly, to some amazing people and a fortuitous series of events.

It happened like this. Near the end of January I was showing one of my ex-corporate friends around my favourite part of town – Connaught Place. And, as I rounded yet another corner I brushed past a tall chap who said, “Hi, Rajjat.” Instinctively I replied, “Hi, Gaurav.”

Truth be told, I was surprised that he remembered me. What was more surprising was that I remembered him. I suck at remembering names, you see, and to do so for someone I hadn’t seen in eight years wasn’t something I trusted myself to do.

I asked him what he was doing.

“Not much. Dad bought me some share in a restaurant so that’s where I spend my time.”

Funny how my Dad never seems to do stuff like buying me part, or all, of a restaurant, all things considered.

I made some remark to that effect; we exchanged numbers and set off on our respective ways, not expecting to hear from each other ever again.

He called back the next day.

“Rajjat, would you want to come down to the restaurant some time and have a look around? Make some suggestions, maybe?”

I said I’d like that and went the next day.

It was a pretty affair with good food but a huge location disadvantage. Gaurav was hoping for ideas and suggested I make the trip to the restaurant a regular affair. I told him I’d love to. It would be a huge learning opportunity for me. But, I warned him, I’d like to keep a large chunk of my time free since I was planning to intern at a restaurant or two.

“Which ones?”

I told him.

“Oh, they’re Dolly Aunty’s places.”

Err, who’s Dolly Aunty?

“My partner in this restaurant.”

Hmmm. You wouldn’t consider getting me an appointment, would you?

“Of course.” Beep beep beep beep. “Hullo, Dolly Aunty? Gaurav. I have a friend who’d like to meet you. Tomorrow?” I nod. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

As we drove over the next day Gaurav asked how I was going to put a spin on my internship so that Aunty saw some value in the arrangement for herself. I wasn’t sure.

Dolly Aunty turned out to be a very sweet lady, almost Buddha-esque in her demeanour. When Gaurav suggested that I consult for their restaurant she was all for it. It took her a while, naturally, to digest how I came to give up a plush corporate job to start my own restaurant. It’s a hard life, she cautioned.

And then she quizzed me.

Do you cook?

What cuisine?

How do you make Crème Brule?

It was only when she was satisfied about my intentions that I brought up the main agenda.

Aunty, all things aside, do you think I could intern at your restaurant?

“Which one?”

I named one.

“Why don’t you intern at all of them one-by-one?”

Much gushing.

When do I start?

“Come tomorrow.”

This was turning out better than I hoped for. I went the next day.

There’s three of them: Aunty, Aunty’s husband, Charan and Manav, celebrity chef extraordinaire. It took a while for Aunty to justify my presence there but once I’d made some recommendations for marketing and service I was very welcome. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen – mainly watching but, when the camera crews came along, I cooked up quite a storm.

Work at the restaurants was fun and, as the incremental learning tapered off I decided to move on. Concentrated on my teaching, added some presentations and Q&A to my repertoire and made the most of days off.

All this while the restaurant was at the back of my mind. The fact that I had no one to unload my concerns and worries on worried me more than the worries themselves. I found a lot of solace discussing my concerns with Nikesh, a batch-mate from campus and a friend from Bombay. Nikesh operates his family business in a related field and he is everything I am not – reserved, grounded, pragmatic and sincere. Everything I was looking for a in a partner, basically and we had mutually agreed on the partnership way before either of us spoke about it.

Nikesh has been stellar. He has had me whipped for a long time now, thinking and re-thinking concepts, pricing staff requirements and the like. We drew up a mental business plan. Just in time, too, because the very next week we got called to conduct a workshop on Business Plans at IIT Delhi. I remember that, at the end of a four-hour workshop, Nikesh had spoken for barely 10 minutes. When I apologised for my boorishness he assured me that it had been exactly to his liking. I said it then and I’ll say it now: Dude, you and I are going to get along just fine.

The CAT came and went. While not difficult, the paper was a tad unexpected and therein lies its beauty. My students’ exams go on till mid-January after which the teaching comes to an end. Mostly. Nikesh and I are busy looking at potential locations for our restaurant and we hope to be up and running by May 2008. If my luck holds we shouldn’t have too much of a problem.

What luck, you ask? Well, I consider myself extremely lucky for having run into Gaurav, Dolly Aunty and Nikesh – all chances that were too slim to factor into any plans I may have had when I came back to Delhi. (Confession: I didn’t have any plans at all). I was very lucky to have had a very rewarding stint at Dolly Aunty’s restaurants. I was also lucky to find a very rewarding part-time vocation teaching – something I enjoy more and more as time passes. I have been very lucky to make all sorts of new friends this past year and to have renewed several old acquaintances. And, most of all, I consider myself very lucky for the unflinching support I have received from family, friends and strangers alike.

Well, that’s it for the update. Look forward to fresh posts soon.

I thought it would be a lot tougher than this. People labour through fourteen years of school, four years of engineering, a couple of years doing an MBA and then much effort goes into making CVs, fitting into expensive-looking suits, fake smiles, misleading answers and misplaced expectations before you land that first job at the IIM. Corporate life, with all its allures, beckons. Different motives drive people to corporate life. Money would be the usual suspect but for most people it is because they’ve never actually thought seriously about any other way of living – our society seldom lets us think for ourselves anyway. Some have responsibilities that only a steady, salaried income can fulfil. For some the glamour of an Investment Bank or a Consulting Firm is irresistible. I always knew these were slots I didn’t fit into. But till very recently I didn’t know where it was that I belonged. I didn’t think I was ballsy enough to be an entrepreneur – they give up cushy jobs for a life of uncertainty and poverty (yeah, that’s what I thought). So that was out. Or so I thought.

I didn’t think I was going to be an entrepreneur. Sure, I’ve talked about it in the past. But everyone who has had a bad day at the office or the whiff of a better salary, or the desire for a new car or a better boss has threatened to walk out on it all and do something on his/her own. No one, actually, wants to be tied to a chair, or a company, or a boss, or a salary. We would rather all be there trying out new ideas, making tonnes of money and being our own bosses. We’d all, rather, be out there creating value and employment rather than seeking it. But most of us don’t have an idea that singular that we would risk our comfortable 9-to-whatever routines for, some don’t believe in themselves enough and most of the rest just don’t have the balls. There are some, it must be said, who exist to do salaried jobs. We need the Investment Bankers, the Consultants, the Brand Managers, the Sales Managers, the secretarial staff and all the others. Some people exist to be exactly what they are. But we all wish it could be different. We all complain. If only things weren’t tight right now I’d be out of here. If only this report didn’t have to go or these plans didn’t have to be made or this deal didn’t have to be struck I’d be exploring my options. And I thought I’d comfortably ride out the next few years, till I knew what I really wanted to do, making excuses for myself in the very same way. But then my bluff got called.

It wasn’t any one particular thing. It was a fortuitous series of events that led up to the Big One. A friend had passed through town a few days earlier and we had talked about his plans (already put into action) of quitting and starting something on his own. As always I had told him what it was what I would be doing if it weren’t for such and such. And, for the first time, I actually discussed the feasibility of my not-so-concrete plans with him. It made me feel a whole lot better because setting out on my own seemed a lot less scary and a lot more promising than it had in the past. The next day my Vice President of Sales came up to me and told me that he was shipping me out to a Sales role – something, he claimed, the others would kill for. I wasn’t particularly looking to leave the cosy confines of the Bombay office or those of my newly-acquired apartment. I was loving the easy routine that let me do this and that on the side, the facilities at the office and tonnes of personal space, not to mention easy access to a bunch of good friends who were in Bombay. I told my Boss I wasn’t particularly interested in going. He responded: if you want to stick around and make a career here it is best if you go. But I wasn’t particularly looking to make a career there. In fact I hadn’t, yet, thought of my job as a career and I had no intentions of doing so henceforth. I told him. What was it that I wanted to do, he asked. Well, in time, I wanted to do something on my own. He laughed. Of all the people who say they want to do “something on their own”, he said, hardly any ever got down to it. According to him, I should either quit straight away or resign myself to the fact that this was what I was going to be doing for the rest of my life and put up with it. I went home pensive. It didn’t take a lot of thinking, though. A couple of sick-days later I came in and told my Boss I was quitting.

I thought it would be a lot tougher than this. I had no qualms, no reservations and no second thoughts. There was no worry in my head. And all this not for any lack of knowing what I had to do. Oh, I knew. I called up my Mom and told her. Her reaction was most reassuring. When you need to sign up people, she said, go for the brains, the money will come. I told my Sales Vice-President. He couldn’t believe his ears. I almost felt bad telling someone who has been nothing but supportive and trusting albeit, in his own way, that I was leaving. The moment passed, however, and I was composed while I dealt the death-knell. It took a while for him to come around. He still looks at me wistfully at times and shakes his head as if to say I could have gone so far. Everyone else reacted in a different, but consistent, way. When I tell them I’m leaving they look at me in a manner most surprised, ask where I’m headed and shake their heads in disbelief when I tell them. Then they encourage me whole-heartedly and tell me that the World is mine for the taking. I tell them that I know it already. My gratitude to all who have been supportive and encouraging.

So, what is the plan, Fungus? Hmmm. Brace yourself. And if you’re expecting me to launch a strategy to take over the world I would ask you to sit this one out. The plan is to start my own restaurant in Delhi. A small, high-end, speciality cuisine place that promises you the best food in town. The key words are “small”, “high-end” and “speciality cuisine”. I want to cook myself but I’m open to other possibilities. This much I have decided. What I haven’t decided is what cuisine I’m serving, where in Delhi I’m going to set up shop or how I’m going to finance the whole shebang. Not the most trivial details, I know, but I have a lot of time to finalise them. You see, and here is where there is a twist in the tale, the plan is also to spend all of 2007 as an apprentice in a similar setup in Delhi and start 2008 with my own label. So that, ladies and gentlemen, is the extent of my plans. None of the details have been finalised but they will sort themselves out. Rather, I will sort them out but only if I have no options, so to speak. Desperation is a great motivator, especially in my case. So I’ve handed in my papers, packed my bags and am all set to make a triumphant return home.

Of course it is scary, the prospect of not having regular job, of not having a steady salary, or the prospect of having to, possibly, mooch off my parents for a year or, shudder, more. But Valhalla beckons. And, by Odin, I shall go there worthy of judgement.

I have one regret, however. In my habitual need to make more of my plans than necessary I have not informed a whole host of near and dear ones of my plans. Others I have told multiple times. There is one lady, in particular, who I haven’t kept posted with my life despite demanding to know what’s going on in hers. And for that I am sorry. But now you know about the Big One. Wish me luck.

You know you have completely lost it when even Red Hot Chili Peppers and Led Zeppelin songs start applying to you. I know people in love seem to think how every Bryan Adams song was written for them. But exactly how twisted would you need to be to believe that RHCP knew exactly what was going on in your life when they started putting their nonsense sentences together? And Robert Plant’s cocaine-induced reveries? Surely coke doesn’t give you the power to look into the future into the life of an insignificant mosquito and write about him and his troubles!

Well, presenting a song of each of the above twisted, unhinged bands that seem to fit my life to a ‘T’. OK, the Led Zep song was till last week. This week RHCP dominates. You would be amazed – actually, I am – how perfectly each line, each word fits perfectly. Other RHCP songs seem to talk to me too. Wonder what I’m snorting.

Heartbreaker – Led Zeppelin

Hey fellas, have you heard the news? You know that Annie’s back in town?
It won’t take long just watch and see how the fellas lay their money down.
Her style is new but the face is the same as it was so long ago,
But from her eyes, a different smile like that of one who knows.

Well, it’s been ten years and maybe more since I first set eyes on you.
The best years of my life gone by, here I am alone and blue.
Some people cry and some people die by the wicked ways of love;
But I’ll just keep on rollin’ along with the grace of the Lord above.

People talkin’ all around ’bout the way you left me flat,
I don’t care what the people say, I know where their jive is at.
One thing I do have on my mind, if you can clarify please do,
It’s the way you call me by another guy’s name when I try to make love to you.
I try to make love but it ain’t no use.

Work so hard I can’t unwind, get some money saved;
Abuse my love a thousand times, however hard I tried.
Heartbreaker, your time has come, can’t take your evil way;
Go away, Heartbreaker.

Dosed – Red Hot Chili Peppers

I got dosed by you and,
Closer than most to you and,
What am I supposed to do,
Take it away,
I never had it anyway,
Take it away,
And everything will be okay…

In you a star is born and,
You cut a perfect form and,
Someone forever warm,
Lay on, lay on, lay on, lay on,
Lay on, lay on, lay on, lay on…

Way upon the mountain where she died,
All I ever wanted was your life,
Deep inside the canyon I can’t hide,
All I ever wanted was your life…

Show love with no remorse and,
Climb on to your seahorse and,
This ride is right on course,
This is the way,
I wanted it to be with you,
This is the way,
I knew that it would be with you,
Lay on, lay on, lay on, lay on,
Lay on, lay on, lay on, lay on…

Way upon the mountain where she died,
All I ever wanted was your life,
Deep inside the canyon I can’t hide,
All I ever wanted was your life…

I got dosed by you and,
Closer than most to you and,
What am I supposed to do,
Take it away,
I never had it anyway,
Take it away,
And everything will be okay…

Way upon the mountain where she died,
All I ever wanted was your life,
Deep inside the canyon I can’t hide,
All I ever wanted was your life…

Stupid quizzes seem to catch me spot on too. I took the “Which Led Zeppelin Song Are You” quiz. The results are below for all to see.

You Are Whole Lotta Love

You are interested in 2 things in this world: Love and sex. You are a complete romantic (and probably a big whore.) You just want to be loved.

You really value your friends and your family, but more than anything, you value your boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/person you are stalking.

You don’t necessarily value yourself very much, but it’s OK because you will find someone else to value you. Sad, but you’re oblivious, so it doesn’t matter.

Take the Which Led Zeppelin Song Are You? Quiz

So, obviously, I think I’m in love. The “think” is a disclaimer because she doesn’t “think” I am. And she is in love with another. How fair is it to assume that your love is love and someone else’s love is just a “phase”? Feel like writing her a song but if she doesn’t even remember me writing her two earlier what good would yet another do? My laptop does little but cycle through her pictures. My hand does little but reach for the phone every so often and stop just short of calling her. I just can’t. She gave me a chance to be a friend and I couldn’t abuse that by trampling all over her privacy. We talk. She accidentally calls me by his name while telling me how much she loves him and how great they are together. She tells me how no one else has so much as a sliver of a chance with her. She giggles; she shakes her head over the phone. I smile on the outside. I bleed.

She scares easy. She won’t let me inside her head. She says it is too twisted to open up to a stranger. She hates when I try and help her. How dare I! I skirt around subjects with her, afraid that with every statement that slips out of my mouth I risk riling her up and losing her to a tantrum of indignation. Flowers and long walks and puppies and silk and champagne and hearts and chocolates and chamomile tea and fragrances and teddy bears and floral prints and elaborate dinners and mushy movies suddenly seem to make perfect sense. I close my eyes and I see her. I open them and I don’t. Why would I ever want to open my eyes?

Something I wrote a while back. Fits, but with a twist. She’ll understand…

You let the alcohol overcome you
an excuse
to confess, admit
so you can get it off your chest
and she won’t remember
…but she won’t remember
you decide
every time you see her
every time you don’t
every time she’s close
every time she’s not
she’s all that you can think of
if only you could stay asleep
for every dream tells her tale
her face, etched upon your brain
her every mannerism, magic
seductive
an invitation you dare not answer
a challenge you dare not take
Enough!
You sleep,
a silent prayer upon your lips
Lord, let my dreams be of her again.
They will!

I’d ask you to bleed for me. But what good would that do?

In all its glory, allow me to present: Hafta, the weekly Mumbai-centric magazine designed to stimulate the intellectual we all have, buried deep within us somewhere. Yours truly is but one the many contributors. Be sure to go through all the content, presented in convenient, bite-sized offerings. And by the time you've read through all that we have to offer this week we'll have fresh content for you next Monday. Truly, lunch breaks will never be the same again.

I had the privilege of attending a General Body Meeting at the All India Institute of Medical Sciences two nights ago. First of all, hats off to the exceptional people I met there. Nothing I could put into words would ever do those great men and women justice. Consider this: We are all – well, mostly, anyway – extremely affronted by the way the government, nay the legislature, has approached the issue of reservation. Everyone, not just the ruling parties but also the Opposition for keeping silent, is at fault. I am not directly affected. Neither are the residents at AIIMS. What is at stake is a principle. Higher education is a responsibility only those who truly deserve can shoulder. Only those who can use it for the welfare of others, only those who can realise its true worth and only those who have earned it through sheer hard work and the gift of ability should have higher education granted to them. Ceteris Paribus there is no difference between a student of a lower caste and that of a higher one – why we still talk in terms of caste is a question that merits an entire piece to itself – so why reserve seats for either? The Government submits that since several students belonging to the OBCs have not had equal opportunities for quality education at the lower levels they have to be spoon-fed at the higher levels. So, if it is being freely admitted that the fault lies in the education system and infrastructure at the lower levels isn't that where the Government's focus should be? Why then, Mr. Prime Minister, are you ruining the lives of millions and making things no better for the rest? For, we know reservations don't work. Setting aside every fact and study Karan Thapar threw at Arjun Singh in their interview the other day – the interview was basically Arjun Singh harder and harder to look like an idiot and Karan Thapar trying desperately to get out of the way (both succeeded, by the way) – our experiences from our stints of graduation and post-graduation have shown us that reservations don't work. Whether it be Osama or Bush, the world around us seems to be telling us that the only way to survive is extremism. Whether it be religious extremism (bin Laden) or extremism of stupidity (Dubbya) all signs seem to be leading the UPA to believe that only by combining extremism in stupidity, denial and a general detachment with reality can it hope to celebrate another anniversary in office. So the UPA has done what it has done and is doing what it is doing despite every academic, corporate and semi-literate advising it to the contrary. False assurances were given of maintaining the number of General category seats in every institution and now those futile promises have also been renegued. Today's announcement of increasing quotas in one go without any mention of timeframe of increasing the total number of seats is a slap in the face of not just the hundreds of thousands of people protesting Reservations but in the face of justice and democracy itself. The Prime Minister states that, "The Reservation issue is settled." How could it be settled without accommodating, in the least bit, the rightful demands of the multitudes of students whose lives they have effectively ruined?

But hark, I digress. I must pay homage to the people at AIIMS and the other institutes, medical or otherwise, who have joined them in this movement. Every regressive, divisive step by the Government has created fresh doubts in the hearts of all those who still hold the principles of equality, meritocracy and the dignity of labour sacred. Every day has brought news of despair to their hearts. Yet they have stood resolute in their convictions. The only regret they have is that while they have been claiming their right their patients have been suffering. This is not to say that the striking residents have shunned their duties. Sleepless days have given way to sleepless nights and one sleepless week has led to another. The residents have maintained parallel OPDs and no critical patient has been denied care. The only consideration in their struggle with the Government is the welfare of their patients. However, on the whole, they realise that it is better to divert a few patients to other doors today than have the incompetence of the quota-products thrust upon them tomorrow and so they have stayed firm in their path. Special mention must be made of some of the other participants in this struggle which, surprisingly, has not found much organised support from the business and academic community but I will address that later. All Government medical colleges and several colleges of the Delhi University have joined hands with the striking residents at AIIMS. The students of IIT Delhi have devised several innovative means of "affirmative protests" including shining shoes and sweeping the streets to show the Government what the meritorious would be reduced to once the quota system kicks in. A hundred students have been on a hunger strike for the past thirteen days. Of the medical students on an indefinite hunger strike in Surat one student has been admitted to the Intensive Care Unit and another has been diagnosed with acute renal failure. The media has either been gagged or has lost interest in the life and death of the only people determined to save this country from mediocrity and shame. I attended the GBM and pledged my personal support to their agitation and its demands. I swore that I would do what I could at my end. I write, but I am not content with merely writing on this issue. This is too big. This is too personal. I am working on a couple of other inititiatives but this is a fight that will ask a lot more from many more of us.

It was away from all this struggle and debate that the enormity of the situation really hit me. My grandmother passed away yesterday. She died at home, in the presence of all those who loved her and all those she had loved. But I talk of the time we had rushed her to the ICU a day earlier. With all the agitation at the Government hospitals and its effect on the services we had little choice but to take her to a private establishment. The doctor on duty at the time was not of the highest calibre and I feared for my Grandmother's life. It was then that it hit me. Once the quota system was in place and entire batches of non-merit students had joined the ranks of the doctors everyone bringing a loved one to the hospital would feel the same doubt and fear I felt for my Grandmother. When the very competence of the person in charge of a patient's life was in doubt what incentive would there be for the sick to come to the hospitals? For that matter, what faith would you repose in a bridge designed by a non-merit engineer? Would you feel safe in your car? Your home? Using your electrical appliances? Making an online transaction? Sending your children to school or college? After all, what kind of education would they receive if the competence of the teacher was suspect? What good would any education do your child anyway if you knew that he or she would end up competing with people who already had reservations in seats of higher education or private sector jobs? Wouldn't the queues move from the tuition centres to the registrar's office where you could get a caste certificate made? Albeit, for astronomical sums of money because, after all, tomorrow a caste certificate would be a guarantee of education, employment and who knows what else.

I am single-mindedly opposed to Reservation and I support every peaceful protest against it. If you wish to help go show your support to those who are fighting the good fight and ask how you can contribute. Write to your Member of Parliament and demand to know what he/she is doing about this. Write in to the newspapers and express your shame at the autocracy of the government and the dictatorial manner in which it has handled this issue and its dismal abandonment of the starving medicos. Organise groups and think of how you can help. As a last resort write to me and I promise I shall channelise your energies towards helping achieve a society based on merit. If you still haven't been moved to helping out you are either brain dead or worse – already a Member of Parliament, in which case I say Shame! Shame on you!

If you are fighting the good fight, however, I would say this to you. This cause is bigger than me. It is bigger than you. It is, possibly, the biggest cause our generation will ever have the chance to fight over. There is no putting a value to this cause. Is it worth 10 days of hunger strike? Most definitely. Is it worth 100? Absolutely? Is there a limit to how far we are willing to go to in this fight? None at all. Is it worth my life? A hundred times over. Only, you and I are most useful alive. Save your strength for we have promises to keep. And miles to go before we sleep. And miles to go before we sleep.

In a befitting manner, it rained as Arsenal's hopes of claiming a first Champions' League title were washed away by a combination of bad refereeing, bad spirit and plain bad luck. Barcelona are to be congratulated for winning the Champions' League but if Ronaldinho's shirt stayed on and not even Barcelona fans cheered where we sat what service could such a game have possibly done to football? Eto'o and Giully and Deco and Puyol and Iniesta were all champions before they walked on to the turf in Paris. If anything, the pulp of their achievement was sucked out by the incompetence of the officials and their victory will seem hollow when they lie awake at night wondering if they were, actually, the best in Europe. So, did the best team win? I'd love to say No but, honestly, who can say? For the briefest period, when Arsenal had their first choice team of eleven on the pitch, they seemed the snazzier of the two. Arsenal went in the underdogs and they knew they would have had to put the pedal to the metal right at the start. They did. Henry had a wonderful chance in the third minute and, although the pace for the next ten minutes was controlled by Barcelona, Arsenal seemed ready for big things. Going ahead with ten men, after Lehman's sending off, was unthinkable so they did the unthinkable. They went ahead.

Lehman's sending off I will not argue. It could be argued that the advantage could have been played and Arsenal allowed to play with eleven players, albeit a goal down. However, no one can find fault with what the referee did. His exemption from blame, however, ends there. No replays of the Eto'o goal were ever shown from the sidelines to let us judge for ourselves whether there was a hint of offside. And doubt there was aplenty. To give Henry a yellow card for winning a tackle where he didn't even attack a Barcelona player and to ignore the various fouls committed by the men from the Nou Camp is nothing short of evil. While Arsenal were working their posteriors off defending and attacking with ten men Barcelona were unwittingly given a twelfth, and maybe a thirteenth and fourteenth, player in the form of the referee and his assistants.

Henry's comments after the game were noteworthy. Speaking of the referee he said, "If he didn't want us to win it he should have said so at the start." This from one of Europe's most soft-spoken footballers is more than an indictment of the travesty that was the officiating at the stadium of Paris.

It was a depressing game to watch. Of course it was depressing for every Arsenal fan. It wasn't very rewarding for the Barca fans either and the match was a disappointment for every fan of football. But, and take a moment to think about this, can you imagine how it must have felt for Robert Pires to have had to watch the match helplessly from the sidelines for no fault of his? For what it is worth, Pires, I am sorry.

The silver medals around the Arsenal necks must feel heavier than lead. The hearts are heavy. Henry may move to Barcelona. For all Arsenal fans out there one wonders what there is to look forward to, if anything at all. Congratulations, Rijkaard. Well done, Ronaldinho.

Different mooods, five minutes of intense scribbling, some sort of satisfaction with the result, hence the post.

Xanadu

‘Tis Xanadu, where I
and you reside, the sky
this wondrous piece of firmament
to this love is testament
This Earth, once barren and mean
now flows vast, pregnant and green
The birds, they flock in wondrous feather
for you and I are now together.

The Furniture and I

I flipped the switch and lo,
the world was plunged into darkness
The furniture tiptoed – silent and slow
and moved in ways I can but guess

The chair stuck out its wooden leg
and sent me crashing to the floor
Your pardon, it said, I beg
and rocked in silent uproar

The wooden chest was just as cheeky
and opened a drawer above my head
and the carpet – prostrate yet sneaky
sent me crashing into the bed

When skin and wood met, the wood
won fair and square, I must confess
I found the switch and flipped it good
My state, at best, a holy mess

What terrors awaited me in slumber
I could not fathom, and oh, my pain!
Would the demons me outnumber?
I dared not flip the switch again