Recently I attended a seminar organised by the Ministry of Textiles to promote entrepreneurship in women. It was quite a gala event and the Chairperson was the Daughter in Law (DIL) of the Textile Baron of Mumbai.
The moment she entered, a collective sigh was heard from all the participants. Dressed immaculately and loaded with diamonds from head to toe, the DIL wowed the crowd. The moment she started addressing the audience, the dazzle dimmed a little, however no matter how ill prepared she was or how ill informed about the occasion ( DIL seemed to have confused the event with one of her charity luncheons) , her diamonds still managed to engage and enthral the entire audience.
The seminar was not as lustrous as the diamonds earlier described and after a lot of boring sessions followed by super-boring ones, it finally came to an end. There was a huge rush to meet and greet the DIL and in that rush someone stepped on my sandals and one of the stings broke.
I was so furious and started cursing everyone and life in general. Here I was standing with a broken sandal while the DIL was being shipped out in a Mercedes Benz. To deal with the situation at hand, I put a safety pin on my sandal and dragged my tiny feet to a shoe shop where I bought sandals decent enough to carry me home. However it struck me as totally unfair that just because the DIL was born to a Baron and married to another Baron, she gets everything as a birthright, whereas I who had been slogging so hard, when was I ever going to get my due.
Almost a week later during a cleaning spree, I took out the broken sandals from my bag and was throwing them in the garbage when my maid saw them and asked if she could take them away. Of course I told her. And then sharing my misery I told her how bad I felt that my sandals broke and I had to walk a mile in broken sandals to buy a new pair.
She looked at me and exclaimed “your sandals broke and instead of getting them repaired, you bought new ones, how fortunate you are!”
At that moment it hit me that what I complained of about the DIL’s birthright, this maid was thinking the same about me. Compared to her life, I am living life King Size.
Life draws levels in strange ways.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Holy Mother!
It is a well known fact that mothers in India can think of only two things; one is their children and second is how to feed their children. On top of it add the adjective of being a Punjabi mother and all she can think of is puttar, parathas and butter.
I remember when I was in Delhi staying in a hostel, my mother would call up and first thing she would ask would be “how is the food?”. And the same story for all the girls in the hostel. At times I would be so angry at her for asking the same old lame question. Furious I would be, but then whenever our dabba-wala brought food which seemed like someone had just thrown up in the Tiffin, I would miss my mother oh so much.
My mothers’ pains eased only when I moved in with relatives later and she was happy that there was someone to fuss over food for me (Oh mataji).
Now working in an MNC, my colleagues visit our office from all over the world. Whenever anyone orders aloo-paratha, I cannot stop myself from telling them “No one makes parathas like my mother”.
My son is two and a half years old and so far I have been a loving mother yet have tried my level best to make him feel independent, not been overly clingy or protective. However,recently I observed that my son is losing weight.
I complained to my husband, my mother, my son's nanny and finally visited the paediatrician complaining of his weight loss and poor appetite. The Doctor laughed and said that there was no problem with my son; that he was gaining height and nothing wrong with his appetite either, just that I had finally stepped into the holy corridors of motherhood :P.
I remember when I was in Delhi staying in a hostel, my mother would call up and first thing she would ask would be “how is the food?”. And the same story for all the girls in the hostel. At times I would be so angry at her for asking the same old lame question. Furious I would be, but then whenever our dabba-wala brought food which seemed like someone had just thrown up in the Tiffin, I would miss my mother oh so much.
My mothers’ pains eased only when I moved in with relatives later and she was happy that there was someone to fuss over food for me (Oh mataji).
Now working in an MNC, my colleagues visit our office from all over the world. Whenever anyone orders aloo-paratha, I cannot stop myself from telling them “No one makes parathas like my mother”.
My son is two and a half years old and so far I have been a loving mother yet have tried my level best to make him feel independent, not been overly clingy or protective. However,recently I observed that my son is losing weight.
I complained to my husband, my mother, my son's nanny and finally visited the paediatrician complaining of his weight loss and poor appetite. The Doctor laughed and said that there was no problem with my son; that he was gaining height and nothing wrong with his appetite either, just that I had finally stepped into the holy corridors of motherhood :P.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Being Arundhati Roy
I don’t know how many of you have read the works of Ms. Arundhati Roy other than of course her Booker winning “God of Small Things” GOST.
Now GOST was in a class of its own. I remember it came out in the year 1996-1997 and the moment it was awarded a booker I had the book in my hands. And till date, the story is imprinted on my mind. I can still recall some of the phrases.
Since the novel however, she has dedicated her time to various social causes and lent her scathing criticism on all sorts of topics varying from Indian government conducting Nuclear tests to Narmada Dam to comparing the treatment given to the Naxalites equivalent to genocide.
Since the novel, there have been several books by her, which are essays on socio political issues and all of them have been, hmm..., putting in my very own words, LOADED. Yes, totally loaded. They are so full of acid that it takes a very strong gut to go through the book at a length and after one is finally done with one book, one feels like theres nothing good in this world except the book and some of the martyrs described in those books.
Personally, after I was done with the first one, I had a bout of acidity which lasted a fortnight. Such is the power of her words on me. However being her most ardent admirer and having immense respect for her acrid opinions, the moment her second essay-ish book was announced, I had it in my lap. But this time, I remembered to take an anti acid tablet after every twenty pages.
I used to wonder at length, what is it like, being Arundhati Roy? How does she go through with life being so full of bile, how does she detoxify herself? And I think the answer was quite evident but I was late in arriving at it.
She writes a book, derides the politicians, in general points out each misery of life, highlights how inadequate we are in dealing with the real problems that surround us, how people are suffering and how we the so called educated class stand there watching , doing nothing. And then she is done. Her books are her detox therapy ! She lets it out all on paper and stays quiet for a couple of years till the bile starts building again and voila! there’s a book to write.
PS: I highly recommend “War Talk” and “Listening to grasshoppers”. The latter brought back my migraine.
Now GOST was in a class of its own. I remember it came out in the year 1996-1997 and the moment it was awarded a booker I had the book in my hands. And till date, the story is imprinted on my mind. I can still recall some of the phrases.
Since the novel however, she has dedicated her time to various social causes and lent her scathing criticism on all sorts of topics varying from Indian government conducting Nuclear tests to Narmada Dam to comparing the treatment given to the Naxalites equivalent to genocide.
Since the novel, there have been several books by her, which are essays on socio political issues and all of them have been, hmm..., putting in my very own words, LOADED. Yes, totally loaded. They are so full of acid that it takes a very strong gut to go through the book at a length and after one is finally done with one book, one feels like theres nothing good in this world except the book and some of the martyrs described in those books.
Personally, after I was done with the first one, I had a bout of acidity which lasted a fortnight. Such is the power of her words on me. However being her most ardent admirer and having immense respect for her acrid opinions, the moment her second essay-ish book was announced, I had it in my lap. But this time, I remembered to take an anti acid tablet after every twenty pages.
I used to wonder at length, what is it like, being Arundhati Roy? How does she go through with life being so full of bile, how does she detoxify herself? And I think the answer was quite evident but I was late in arriving at it.
She writes a book, derides the politicians, in general points out each misery of life, highlights how inadequate we are in dealing with the real problems that surround us, how people are suffering and how we the so called educated class stand there watching , doing nothing. And then she is done. Her books are her detox therapy ! She lets it out all on paper and stays quiet for a couple of years till the bile starts building again and voila! there’s a book to write.
PS: I highly recommend “War Talk” and “Listening to grasshoppers”. The latter brought back my migraine.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Order in the Court
Having grown up on a staple diet of Earl Stanley Gardner novels, the courtroom always conjured up images of intrigue and mystery and high-voltage drama.
A couple of days ago I had a personal experience in a court like situation and man I was so excited at the thought of being there. Though I had scaled down my expectations, not expecting to see Perry Mason, yet I was a-flutter.
Reaching at sharp 10.30 a.m , my Lawyer was missing from the scene. Now even with my scaled down expectations, I hadn’t quite figured out a court without a lawyer, but here I was. When I called him on his phone, ha asked me to take a seat in room no. 2 as he would be reaching in a couple of minutes. So I sat down intrigued and mystified, curiosity building in me, why Room no. 2?
Suddenly the room started filling up and there were hush-hush tones and we all got up to welcome “Your Honor” who looked like he had just had too many mirchis and was having trouble with digestion. He was joined by a “Lady Your Honour” who swished in her neatly starched saree and the moment she sat down , expressed her disgust that the chairs had not been dusted well.
The case matter was forgotten and the lawyers there were already taking off their coats to wipe the seats when she settled the matter with a wave of her hands. I spent next three hours listening to the most vivid details of defected cars, insurance companies cheating on claims, delay in delivery of courier, a persons’ fingers being glued because the super glue he purchased did not come with a warning (man really needed a warning? ).After a while it was been there done that. I had heard all possible cases anyways before in papers (except the super glue one)
In between I would get up and call my lawyer who was always just a couple of minutes away and every time I realised it was getting difficult to get back into Room No. 2. At 1.p.m there was a lunch break and while everyone rushed out, my lawyer rushed in !!!!! He said he knew our case would not come up for hearing till 4.pm. but wanted me to hold on to a chair in Room No. 2.
Now I had to ask him. The reason why Room Number 2 was so crowded? Was it because the particular, “Your Honour’s” judgements were famous and people came from far way places to listen to his judgements? Taken aback with my question, he said “don’t you know the secret of fame of Room no. 2? Its the only room with an AC !! and thats why its always full !
Well, Ms. Embarrassment has been a faithful friend for years, and we are particularly known as twins, however, now it was now dripping from me like the water from that AC.
Finally keeping my mouth shut, I waited till our Lawyer was successful in getting us another date for another hearing two months away. Its like Sunny Deol said “tareekh pe tareekh pe tareekh”.
My experience has truly enriched me and now I know when I go for the next hearing, I must find a seat in Room No.2, must carry biscuits and believe me when I say this, “Perry Mason I’m done with you for life”.
A couple of days ago I had a personal experience in a court like situation and man I was so excited at the thought of being there. Though I had scaled down my expectations, not expecting to see Perry Mason, yet I was a-flutter.
Reaching at sharp 10.30 a.m , my Lawyer was missing from the scene. Now even with my scaled down expectations, I hadn’t quite figured out a court without a lawyer, but here I was. When I called him on his phone, ha asked me to take a seat in room no. 2 as he would be reaching in a couple of minutes. So I sat down intrigued and mystified, curiosity building in me, why Room no. 2?
Suddenly the room started filling up and there were hush-hush tones and we all got up to welcome “Your Honor” who looked like he had just had too many mirchis and was having trouble with digestion. He was joined by a “Lady Your Honour” who swished in her neatly starched saree and the moment she sat down , expressed her disgust that the chairs had not been dusted well.
The case matter was forgotten and the lawyers there were already taking off their coats to wipe the seats when she settled the matter with a wave of her hands. I spent next three hours listening to the most vivid details of defected cars, insurance companies cheating on claims, delay in delivery of courier, a persons’ fingers being glued because the super glue he purchased did not come with a warning (man really needed a warning? ).After a while it was been there done that. I had heard all possible cases anyways before in papers (except the super glue one)
In between I would get up and call my lawyer who was always just a couple of minutes away and every time I realised it was getting difficult to get back into Room No. 2. At 1.p.m there was a lunch break and while everyone rushed out, my lawyer rushed in !!!!! He said he knew our case would not come up for hearing till 4.pm. but wanted me to hold on to a chair in Room No. 2.
Now I had to ask him. The reason why Room Number 2 was so crowded? Was it because the particular, “Your Honour’s” judgements were famous and people came from far way places to listen to his judgements? Taken aback with my question, he said “don’t you know the secret of fame of Room no. 2? Its the only room with an AC !! and thats why its always full !
Well, Ms. Embarrassment has been a faithful friend for years, and we are particularly known as twins, however, now it was now dripping from me like the water from that AC.
Finally keeping my mouth shut, I waited till our Lawyer was successful in getting us another date for another hearing two months away. Its like Sunny Deol said “tareekh pe tareekh pe tareekh”.
My experience has truly enriched me and now I know when I go for the next hearing, I must find a seat in Room No.2, must carry biscuits and believe me when I say this, “Perry Mason I’m done with you for life”.
Monday, May 24, 2010
What’s the deal with grandmothers?
A queer species, the grandmother!
Today I am going to unfold the, the, the biggest myths about the mystical creatures called the grandmothers.
The general perception is that the eyesight and hearing go down as one ages, but believe me when I say that the rule doesn’t apply to the Grandmothers.
They cannot thread the needle but certainly see the slits on your torn jeans. They cannot hear the dialogues on TV but always holler if the doorbell or the phone keeps ringing beyond five seconds. They can always tell by the sound of car engine outside, which neighbour came in at what time at night.
They do take time to get out of bed, aching joints and cursing their age and praying to almighty to be relieved of this jan-jaal on regular days, but there’s no one more agile when there are hungry far-away visiting relatives to be fed.
Grandmothers are generally of two kinds, the Funtoo Granny and the Gruntoo Granny .
The Funtoo is always game for going out, doesn’t stop you from doing anything, nothing is weird enough for her and all is possible if you are with her. She lets you sleep late and will serve you Parathas three times a day. She does not stop you from eating a tub full of mangoes even though you later wish she had.
The Gruntoo is always spic n span, her clothes are always starched and so is her attitude. Her most frequent used word is ‘No’ followed closely by ‘Don’t’. She hardly approves of anything and basically nobody is good enough for her. She makes you eat salads and dals. Her advice is always sound which you never listen to but later wish you had.
Having a Funtoo Granny seems like a blessing but you are doomed if both your Grannies are Funtoo ones. A childhood spent under the influence of two Funtoo Grannies leads to an adulthood ; am sorry, it does not lead to an adulthood, cause one is perpetually stuck being an insolent child having difficulty to differentiate between fantasy and reality. I am sure there is a medical term to describe it, but to me Bi-Funtoo Granny Syndrome seems just fine.
Having a Gruntoo Granny seems like you have seen Satan personified on earth, yet there is no curse as powerful as having both grannies are Gruntoo ones. A childhood spent under the influence of two Gruntoo grannies leads to adulthood; am sorry, leads to no childhood and perpetual adulthood while having great difficulty expressing emotions and hugging the loved ones and generally life is one big time-table to be adhered to. I am sure there is a medical term to describe it , but to me Bi-Gruntoo Granny Syndrome seems just fine.
Now I have had a blissful life, having been blessed with one Funtoo Granny and one Gruntoo Granny. Life is a perfect equilibrium between parathas, mangoes and dals and salads. I enjoyed an unbridled childhood and adulthood came to me with slow cautious steps. Of all my blessings, this is the one I am officially most grateful to God for.
When my Funtoo granny passed away some twelve agonizingly long years back, I was so angry at the world. I was so angry that my Funtoo Granny had to go first. But now that my Gruntoo granny is counting her last days, I have been wondering , better to have Gruntoo Granny than to have no granny at all.
She makes my life Grand.
Today I am going to unfold the, the, the biggest myths about the mystical creatures called the grandmothers.
The general perception is that the eyesight and hearing go down as one ages, but believe me when I say that the rule doesn’t apply to the Grandmothers.
They cannot thread the needle but certainly see the slits on your torn jeans. They cannot hear the dialogues on TV but always holler if the doorbell or the phone keeps ringing beyond five seconds. They can always tell by the sound of car engine outside, which neighbour came in at what time at night.
They do take time to get out of bed, aching joints and cursing their age and praying to almighty to be relieved of this jan-jaal on regular days, but there’s no one more agile when there are hungry far-away visiting relatives to be fed.
Grandmothers are generally of two kinds, the Funtoo Granny and the Gruntoo Granny .
The Funtoo is always game for going out, doesn’t stop you from doing anything, nothing is weird enough for her and all is possible if you are with her. She lets you sleep late and will serve you Parathas three times a day. She does not stop you from eating a tub full of mangoes even though you later wish she had.
The Gruntoo is always spic n span, her clothes are always starched and so is her attitude. Her most frequent used word is ‘No’ followed closely by ‘Don’t’. She hardly approves of anything and basically nobody is good enough for her. She makes you eat salads and dals. Her advice is always sound which you never listen to but later wish you had.
Having a Funtoo Granny seems like a blessing but you are doomed if both your Grannies are Funtoo ones. A childhood spent under the influence of two Funtoo Grannies leads to an adulthood ; am sorry, it does not lead to an adulthood, cause one is perpetually stuck being an insolent child having difficulty to differentiate between fantasy and reality. I am sure there is a medical term to describe it, but to me Bi-Funtoo Granny Syndrome seems just fine.
Having a Gruntoo Granny seems like you have seen Satan personified on earth, yet there is no curse as powerful as having both grannies are Gruntoo ones. A childhood spent under the influence of two Gruntoo grannies leads to adulthood; am sorry, leads to no childhood and perpetual adulthood while having great difficulty expressing emotions and hugging the loved ones and generally life is one big time-table to be adhered to. I am sure there is a medical term to describe it , but to me Bi-Gruntoo Granny Syndrome seems just fine.
Now I have had a blissful life, having been blessed with one Funtoo Granny and one Gruntoo Granny. Life is a perfect equilibrium between parathas, mangoes and dals and salads. I enjoyed an unbridled childhood and adulthood came to me with slow cautious steps. Of all my blessings, this is the one I am officially most grateful to God for.
When my Funtoo granny passed away some twelve agonizingly long years back, I was so angry at the world. I was so angry that my Funtoo Granny had to go first. But now that my Gruntoo granny is counting her last days, I have been wondering , better to have Gruntoo Granny than to have no granny at all.
She makes my life Grand.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Giving Advice
Giving advice can be an awfully tricky thing cause would you really want them to do what you are saying? Really? Its specially tricky when it is about helping someone ( eons younger) choose the right guy to marry and more so when you know that the advisee is hanging on to every word you are saying and her parents are later going to hang you for whatever you say to her.
What I really want to tell her is that “Hey you don’t need to get married just because your parents are now desperate to kick you out of their house”, but I cannot really tell her that, can I? Oh yes I can cause I have a big mouth and MY parents are not around and I am blissfully married. Ha ha I should add but don’t as I am a little sensible if not really known for being sensitive.
Now how does anyone decide whom to marry? This has been my research area since the time I had to face the dilemma myself. Earlier than that, I used to be like the rest of the junta and laugh around at all those going through the trauma and make their lives so miserable that getting married seemed to them a fairer deal than spending a minute more with me. Many a wedding made in heaven have been sped up by this humble catalyst.
Here today at the age of 25, Jigna is faced with the dilemma of whom to get married to and she has come to me for advice. Are you wondering why does anyone come to me for advice? It’s simple, cause I have fooled everyone into believing that I have a successful marriage and I am so good at it that even my husband believes that he is happy. See see .....
“Gut, your own gut will tell you when the time comes” is what I tell everyone, even though my own gut went somersaulting when the time came for me. But I can’t tell Jigna this. Now Jigna (name changed to preserve identity) comes from conservative Gujarati Jain family who have allowed her to get a professional degree and work just so she can be marketed well when the time comes. However Jigna’s poor fate collided with me one day when we took driving lessons together and the following 21 half hour sessions liberated the most smooth talking , free thinking rock chic babe I have ever known ( I’m talking about Jigna here, smooth is not my thing, I do caustic).
I asked her whether she had the guts to beat the system, stay afloat fighting a lone battle with her parents and the extended clan (Ku Klux was so passé) till she decides on her own. In reply, deafening silence. Well silence as an answer is generally accepted as a yes, but we are not discussing the general here, are we.
So I told Jigna to listen to her parents, meet the prospective grooms and finally let the destiny guide her (one can learn so much just watching trailers of Karan Johar movies).
Some may question if I was being sinister, plotting to eliminate the single status from earth as I had been untimely robbed of mine. Or if I was a chicken and backed out of telling what I really should have told Jigna? But I will have none of that, cause my dear I was simply giving advice. And the whole point of advice is that nobody takes it.
What I really want to tell her is that “Hey you don’t need to get married just because your parents are now desperate to kick you out of their house”, but I cannot really tell her that, can I? Oh yes I can cause I have a big mouth and MY parents are not around and I am blissfully married. Ha ha I should add but don’t as I am a little sensible if not really known for being sensitive.
Now how does anyone decide whom to marry? This has been my research area since the time I had to face the dilemma myself. Earlier than that, I used to be like the rest of the junta and laugh around at all those going through the trauma and make their lives so miserable that getting married seemed to them a fairer deal than spending a minute more with me. Many a wedding made in heaven have been sped up by this humble catalyst.
Here today at the age of 25, Jigna is faced with the dilemma of whom to get married to and she has come to me for advice. Are you wondering why does anyone come to me for advice? It’s simple, cause I have fooled everyone into believing that I have a successful marriage and I am so good at it that even my husband believes that he is happy. See see .....
“Gut, your own gut will tell you when the time comes” is what I tell everyone, even though my own gut went somersaulting when the time came for me. But I can’t tell Jigna this. Now Jigna (name changed to preserve identity) comes from conservative Gujarati Jain family who have allowed her to get a professional degree and work just so she can be marketed well when the time comes. However Jigna’s poor fate collided with me one day when we took driving lessons together and the following 21 half hour sessions liberated the most smooth talking , free thinking rock chic babe I have ever known ( I’m talking about Jigna here, smooth is not my thing, I do caustic).
I asked her whether she had the guts to beat the system, stay afloat fighting a lone battle with her parents and the extended clan (Ku Klux was so passé) till she decides on her own. In reply, deafening silence. Well silence as an answer is generally accepted as a yes, but we are not discussing the general here, are we.
So I told Jigna to listen to her parents, meet the prospective grooms and finally let the destiny guide her (one can learn so much just watching trailers of Karan Johar movies).
Some may question if I was being sinister, plotting to eliminate the single status from earth as I had been untimely robbed of mine. Or if I was a chicken and backed out of telling what I really should have told Jigna? But I will have none of that, cause my dear I was simply giving advice. And the whole point of advice is that nobody takes it.
Monday, April 12, 2010
The Mumbai Daredevils
The IPL season and well to repeat a clichéd phrase, the cricket fever is on. But as the true aficionados would have found out by now, there is no such team as Mumbai Daredevils. It’s either Delhi Daredevils or the Mumbai Indians.
As it happens, I am very much a devout Cricket-ian and follow this religion fanatically. Further it is a mortal sin not to know Cricket in India, so unless I have my scriptures (facts) wrong, this is not about IPL, is it?
No, nope nopa nope. This is about the true daredevils of Mumbai, the Auto-Rickshaw Wallahs (henceforth referred to as ‘Daredevils’). Dressed in sleek white or Khakhi uniforms, these modern day warriors deliver the always in hurry Mumbaikars to their destinations. And like our all time favourite spy, Bond, James Bond who goes from one messy fight sequence to another with his tuxedo coming out cleaner every time , these warriors don’t lose their sheen either throughout their crusade.
Fighting the Mumbai traffic every day, the Metro rail construction at Andheri Kurla Road, the flyovers at Western Express Highway, the submerged Milan Subway, the burst water pipes at Juhu, name it and they have braved it. Not to mention the smooth dealings with the Maamu at the crossing when he has caught them jumping the traffic signal.
True Gentlemen these Daredevils are, maintaining a well oiled machine, following the fare meter to the T, returning the balance to the last Rupee and being extra kind to the old and the pregnant (mutually exclusive terms). Never to relent from earning their fare, if stuck in a jam of any sort (not fruit jam, silly) Daredevils will get you out of it. They know each No-entry, No U-turn, No parking signs by heart and make full-use of them; after seeking your approval of course.
Talking of Daredevils one must acknowledge the machine that gives them their identity. The Auto-ricksaw. Bearing the colours of a bumble bee (yellow and black), it has the same mighty buzz and the same mighty sting. Carrying the Mumbaikars, the ordinary and poor, the rich and the famous, the in-power and the out-of power politicos to their destinations, they carry the eternal spirit of Mumbai on their cushioned seats
One doesn’t need despair if one doesn’t spot an auto-rickshaw on the road. Just yell “Rickshaw” and lo and behold, one will materialise out of nowhere. Such are their magical powers. The magic is bound to be so, as they are so near to God. The interiors of each Auto-rickshaw are a mini-temple/mosque /church/gurudwara depending upon the orientation of the Daredevil. And they have the power to convert the most stringent atheists into believers. Just ask an atheist to hail an Auto-Rickshaw one day and in no time will the Daredevil’s driving skills have them praying for their lives.
I read somewhere that there is a very thin line between being Brave and being Foolish. I propose an amendment, suggesting that the ‘thin line’ be replaced by ‘iron-grill partition’. My proposed amendment is based on the fact that the brave Daredevils don’t care for their lives as long as you reach the destination and we are foolish for hiring the Auto-Rickshaw despite knowing the same. It goes Vice-versa too. But whichever way it goes, there is no ‘thin line’, there’s an iron grill partition between the two.
Whatever be the case, every morning when I am getting late for office, my very own Daredevil come to the rescue and makes me reach the office, always on time, though with my hands clutched for prayers.
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