I would not have named my blog Greeker, for i know not what it means. But after 15 names for a blog, which all gave me the same reply - that the name was unavailable, as an act of desperation, i became a Greeker - A man for whom blogging is still greek and the Internet, Latin. No offense to a single soul... I am now, by choice, a Greeker!
Sunday, February 17, 2019
When man management lessons begins at home…
Tuesday, January 08, 2019
On the eve of my second date with the Middle East…
Wish me luck, dear reader, as I wait to engage in the second part of my Gulf sojourn!
Saturday, December 29, 2018
From past perfect, to future possible!
The last time I wrote something on this space, I was yet to enter my 30s. And now, I’m married, with two kids and a third on the way.
Some decisions in life, like this blog, for example, are taken on a whim. Then those decisions come back to surprise you by enduring for far longer than you thought they would.
Such decisions may die a thousand natural deaths. But like the memory of a loved one, it never completely leaves you. It would remain at the back of your mind, patiently waiting to be beckoned once again, on a whim, and come alive!
Some friends never leave you, even if you wanted to. And some enemies never leave you, however badly you want them to. This blog is slowly limping back to life at the insistence of a friend, from decades earlier, who I thought would remain a mortal enemy. Once again… surprises, surprises!
You know who you are. Thank you for pushing me into trying to write this blog again!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Walking To A Fish Market Near You…
I’ve lived in
She’s always told me that the best times to buy fish were in the early mornings. I’ve rewound in my head a million times those journeys, where I accompanied my mother to that market near my house, to buy fresh fish, never later than 5am on each occasion.
As to why I never did the same in
And then ‘Big Chief Eagle Eye’, my newly christened Canon, came into my life and changed everything. I arrived at the market at 3am and didn’t leave until about four hours later.
At 3am, the market was still asleep. People lay curled wherever they could, catching on a few last moments of shut-eye, before the hectic day that would unfurl before them.
At 4.30am, more trucks started rolling in and innumerable people suddenly materialised out of nowhere. The faint murmur of the crowd gradually rose a notch higher as bidding parties took their designated places. The prayer call from a nearby mosque stilled the crowd for a moment. They respectfully waited for it to end and…
…by 5am, all hell broke loose. People were everywhere, screaming at the top of their voices. One man – the bid organiser – cupped his hands to his ears and shouted in rapid Arabic while others agreed, argued or walked away from him. People strolled atop fish boxes, just like they would in a park, ever so careful to never tread on the fish itself…
By 5.30am, the crowd began moving inward, towards the centre of the wide hall, as each batch of fresh fish was auctioned off. Different trawlers spent multiple days on the open seas to take this catch off nature’s lap. When auctions came to a close, there weren’t a single sad face in the crowd… everyone had made a bargain or the other that day…
By 6am, the outer auction area went back to being deserted. A faint hubbub, of excited voices of the fish resellers, floated through from deep within the bowels of the huge concrete market building. Their day had just begun…
Friday, December 26, 2008
Walking The Souq…

It was like going starting at the beginning of time, to the time when
Mud brown brick buildings rose to kiss the sky, along the two sides of the stone-sown path. Well rounded pieces of teakwood played intricate games of hide and seek with the mud and brick structures. Candle lights, thinly veiled by multi-coloured glasses, painted the evening with different hues of faint colour.
The sky blushed a deep red of evening, reflecting off coloured sheesha glasses. Sweet scents of peaches and myrrh gathered form as wispy plumes of faint white smoke, rising and dissolving into the cold wintry evening. A thousand sandaled feet made rhythmic music on the stone paths, even as a hundred tongues spoke a multitude of languages, selling wares, dreams and more…
Cheeks touched cheeks and noses, noses, in the familiar routine of Middle Eastern familiarity. The faint aura of universal brotherhood hung in the Souq’s air…
When I woke from my trance, I found myself sitting amidst history, watching tradition blend seamlessly with modernity. People smoked scented hookahs, turned their heads, and surfed the World Wide Web. They sipped strong black teas, brewed together with centuries of knowledge, and conquered the distance barrier by speaking into their mobile phones…
How long does it take for a person to cover 300 metres? For me, it was almost three years. But if that was the price I had to pay for getting my first romantic feel of
Monday, December 15, 2008
Lost, Atlantis, Found...
2. Blue Dancers.




Monday, November 03, 2008
I Miss You So, Ammachy…

Saturday, September 20, 2008
Happily Ever After...

September 11, 2008, people beamed with pleasure as another institution was firmly established.
My sister, the only one, got married.
Standing an arm’s distance away, resplendent in a white sari, awash in the yellow glow of halogen lamps, was the being which I had protected all my life, with all my will. She had transformed from ‘our little one’ to a confident young woman. It did not feel like 23 years had passed since I first held our family’s ‘little bundle of joy’ close to my chest, next to my mother’s cot, in the hospital room.
When happy memories rush at you from all sides, it feels delicious to submit to its joy. Growing up was certainly more fun with her around. She taught me to be a big brother, in her own subtle way.
There were times when I took her hands in mine, while crossing busy roads, and then there were times when I covered for her mistakes, earning sound thrashings in return. There were times when we used to make hand-drawn birthday cards (competing to outdo the other) and other times, as kids, when we used to count the number of cows during long journeys.
She was the one who always called my bluff and found that I cried while reading Reader’s Digest articles. She was the one, who in the darkness of countless movie theatres, found that it was not only my mother who had streams of wet tears while watching sentimental scenes. She was the one who knew all about my crushes, since class nine. She was my fashion guru and she was my rock. Correction, she IS my rock!
Not having you around is going to be hard. But knowing that you got the best mate there was, makes it a bit easier.
I now close a little box, inlaid with velvet, deep in my heart, about happy memories of you, from 23 years, till now. Once in a while, I will open it, living again the joys of our yesteryears. On September 11th, I opened another fresh little box in my mind, where shall reside the happy memories of your second phase in life.
NOTE: I dedicate this piece to every brothers this world saw, who enjoyed seeing their little sisters grow up from being shy youngsters to charming princesses.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
A Song For December...

I was walking back from the St Stephens College Library, in Delhi, arms full of heavy books on Indian history, cursing our curriculum that made me toil so hard, yet was stingy in appreciating the efforts. Cutting and walking across the basketball court, I heard this song for the first time. Although four of my friends were singing along loudly, fittingly out of tune and reminding me of croaking frogs, it didn’t matter in the least…
…the song had already captivated me.
“Bulla Ki Jaana Maen Kaun” or “Bhulla, I don’t know who I am”, sung by Punjabi rock singer Rabbi Shergill, immediately went to the top of the list of MY favourite songs. It stays there, firmly at the top, to this day.
It was then strange that it took me three years (until today, June 25, 2008) to finally watch the song’s video. Once again, it blew me away. It reminded me so much of the past that I left behind, it reminded me so much about home…
...The green trees, the inky darkness of the night, the cold kept away from me by four layers of clothing, the warmth of the camp fire, the hotness of delicious tea against my freezing, ungloved hands, the mouth-watering smell of fresh made omelette, jam-packed between two lightly-brown roasted breads, the old radio hanging from the wall, blaring out the song which I fell in love with...
The song has made different impacts on different people. Over three years, I have heard some say that “Shergill sings with gay abandon,” while others “I could feel the heart-wrenching pain in his voice.”
For me, it was both.
This song, each time I got lost in it, made my heart soar like a bird who made its first flight into the deep blue sky. This song made me feel like having taken a prolonged dip in a cold river, on a hot summer day, refreshing me to the core of my being. This song made me feel like a lover, pining for his long lost one. This song made me feel... so much like myself.
Try to hear, see and feel this song.
Do not worry about lyrics, they have been deciphered for you. The camera work is awesome, capturing India’s mood perfectly.
Someday, if I meet the Punjabi gentleman who gave me a song to love forever, I would hold his hand in a firm shake, look into his eyes and say softly…
“Thank you…”
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Dance Of Death!

…and smoke…
…and screeches of raw rubber burning on asphalt, on the huge parking area, where my Don Whito Corleone lay…
I was witnessing for the first time how Arabs truly proclaimed their happiness. Land Cruisers, Hummers, Nissan Patrols and even a flame red LAMBORGHINI danced the mad dance of victory, the mad dance of death...
A huge circle of cars, mostly white, all turned inwards, with their lights on, made up the arena of fun. Cars, in huge numbers, raced into the circle from different directions, at each other. Swerving at the final moment, they skidded sideways, in full circles, burning rubber, throwing up gut wrenching screeches.
The pattern of the mad, deadly dance shifted with the passing time. Starting out with just two cars, the numbers gradually built up and so did the cheer from the watching white-robed congregation.
And then, another strange noise, like that of croaking frogs, overtook those of the screeching tyres. The people, almost on cue, turned and fled. The cars stopped their deadly antics and rushed for various exit points as one. The revolving blue and reds were here, the cops…
They came in packs, flooding the arena in their powerful Land Cruisers. They cut off the exit points, caught a few death dancers, while many fled. The spectacle, which lasted more than ten minutes, was busted in less than one.
Sometimes, I believe in fate…
Had I decided to go back to the stadium to collect my friend, as was the original plan, I would have missed the entire show. I would not have had anything to write in here.
Now, when me pops asks me if I ever saw the dangerous side of living in Qatar, I can smugly say…been there, done that!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Resolutions!
Thats the new look for the new year.
It will last a few months...
...or till the time my sister, or mother, finds out about it!
Monday, December 31, 2007
2007 Is Dead, Long Live 2008!
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Of An Aquamarine Sea And The Visions It Holds…
The blue waters of the The occupants, with wind playing games with their hair, sat mesmerised, as the Filipino captain expertly handled the boat, shouting instructions into his walkie-talkie, in sweet Tagalogue tongue.
We left the
I imagined an imaginary land, hundreds of feet below the calm sea tops, just waiting to be discovered.
The glorious, aquamarine, calm, peaceful, life-giving, salty sea…
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
These Are A Few Of My Favourite Things…
The ‘Sound Of Music’ inspired me, for the millionth time, and hence this list, of a few of my favourite things…- The wind - sweeping through my hair, tears - forming channels on the sides of my eyes, as I breathe the delicious night air, while coursing the misty dark New Delhi roads, in my silver Honda Activa, on my way to Jama Masjid, seventeen kilometres away from where I lived, to have steaming hot beef kebabs, lovingly baked over red hot coal pieces, and blown hot by the little silver hand operated fan, worked by the little boy, standing nearby, in his traditional Indian Muslim dress…
- Sitting cross-legged, on the floor, with a big elephant-ear shaped leaf in front of me, white, yellow and red curries keeping me company, eagerly looking forward to have the first taste of steaming red rice, cooked in the dark black mud clay pot…
- Slicing the still night with the yellow beam from my pearly white ‘Don Whito Corleone’, during long drives into the desert, with nothing more than soft music, keeping pace with the very beats of my heart…
- Seeing a cloudy sky, feeling the clap of distant thunder, eagerly looking heavenwards, to catch the first round fat water droplet, at the tip of my nose…
- The birds that fly to the south, in an open V formation, with wind on their wings, and courage in their eyes…
- The gentle gooey feeling of clay, sticking to the base of my feet, and the delicious pain that follows, as my bare skin touches the hard white rock below, at the Al Khor beach, on a dark night, with just two friends, and the numerous crab hunters, with their shining lanterns, as small as fireflies, in the distance, clothed in darkness…
- The pain of labour, while giving birth to words, fearing each moment, if they would be lost on me, forever….
- The immense satisfaction, after each successful story written, of having brought into this world, a healthy, screaming, imaginary baby, full of words…
Last, definitely not the least, thinking about my favourite things, and mentally reliving every moment of them, over, and over, and over…
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The Written Word…
I sat in the middle of a largely empty stadium, devoid of the numerous screaming fans that usually inhabit it. They were still at least an hour away from me. It was then that I realized that my laptop had died on me. I had nothing but the greens in front of me, gradually springing to life with the frantic footsteps of the camera crew, eager to air the football match that was soon to happen.
Strangely, I was not sad at my predicament of an hour to be burned out… for then, I rediscovered the joy I always felt, when I was writing.
I freed myself from the constant ‘spell checks, word counts and thesaurus checks’ that had made my words plain mechanical. My notebook was once again filled with words that had cuts and bruises on them. My hands protested against the unfamiliar writing routine I was putting it through. Somehow, I felt happy, and I felt human.
Once again, it was that delicious race against time to transfer ideas onto paper, before they disappeared altogether. No one has ever called my handwriting neat. But at that point, I swear I felt that it was the best on the globe.
Though I don’t remember the first word I learned to write, I do remember the first word I spoke - ‘Am-ma’, which means ‘mother’ in my native tongue. I do remember the innumerable hours the lady so selflessly spent, to teach me to write and read. I do remember her gifting me my first ‘join-the-dots-yourself’ alphabet book. I do remember the joy I felt when I completed joining the dots, though I had no idea at the time that I had written what was my first few English alphabets.
Sometimes, in the darkness of my bedroom, when I am balancing myself between consciousness and a dreamless sleep, I rue my loss of the written word.
To own a computer was a childhood fantasy. I yearned to escape from the dirtiness of my written word and graduate to the tiny, neat, roman letters that appeared on screen whenever I gently tapped the white keyboard in front of me. For the 18-year-old boy who was me, it was a dream that led me on while growing up.
Now, two desktops and two laptops later, I yearn to return to the written word, fully knowing that it’s simpler said than done. Computers hold a charm for me no more. In the midst of a rapidly filling stadium, I understood that pen and a sheaf of paper were indeed my greatest friends.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
...And Calm Came Down!
Friday, August 10, 2007
The ‘F’ Word

When it comes to matters of the ‘F’ – The Family - I have been a lucky bloke. My parents knew the importance of a tightly bound family, god bless them for that.
Every of my trips home, including this one which I waited for over a year and a half, has been something that I looked forward to. This year, I had started my countdown well ahead, from day 150 on.
Scattered widely at the four corners of my state and in the neighbouring one, we have never been closer. Every one of us counted days on the fingers of our hands to the day when all would descend to one house. And then, laughter, fun, and unbound love would come together. And it did.
On the very first day of my vacation, my grandmother fell ill. And the hospital became the family. From the four corners came the family, just like that, and room No. 502 suddenly became the next meeting ground. The pall of gloom usually associated with a hospital suddenly became a stranger among us. All was well.
During our get-togethers, memories are always an important compatriot. Blunders done during growing up years always came back to haunt me and my cousin brothers/sisters. None were spared. And when fourteen people sit together, some on chairs and some on the floor, there is never a dearth of smile-worthy topics. And that’s why I love my family get-togethers.
I have been lucky to have strongly-bound families on both sides. I don’t know if I would have turned out the way I am, for better or for worse, had it not been for this group. I owe my way-of-life to them.
I am content.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Feeling In Love...

It must be a direct result of all those intense love songs that I heard in the calmness of the silence provided by my dear Don Whito Corleone…
The ethereal silence inside my car and the faint chords of melancholy belted out by the soulful Gregorian saints gave me that feeling again…that of feeling in love. The boy was once again little, excitedly hopping ahead to where the sands of time intended to take him. For him, without a doubt, the land of love would be filled with milk and honey and frankincense and myrrh…
…and of course, the girl he went to sleep thinking about, the girl he woke up wishing about…
The first time the boy felt in love was in his sixth grade, when the girl in the blue dress with the blue tiffin box to match offered him a piece of brown bread dabbed in red jam and faint yellow butter… he accepted the bread crumb and along with it, a part of her, into his life…
The feeling stayed for close to six years, until he reached graduation.
During a boring session at the physics lab, there seemed to be one spot that emanated much positive energy. Invariably drawn to its point of origin, the boy stood, and stared. Seated on a high platform, eyes closed in concentration, listening intently to the vibrations of the thin tuning fork, sat the most beautiful being he had ever seen… she struck the tuning fork again and the vibrations seemed to link with his heart, to the very depths of it…
… and the girl opened her eyes to him. The boy could do nothing, but melt at the sweet smile the girl gave him…
Eons later, the boy graduated and each went their way, in search of the life they knew they both should lead…separately.
Sometimes, when the boy sees a girl smile, nod her hair away from the forehead while concentrating on the book she is reading, take the extra care to put things back in place, arrange the flowers in breathtaking fashion, smiles at the old lady before helping her cross the road, wave at the school bus filled with grinning children, hand over loose change to the blind man sitting on the road… he would once again feel in love. A love that was never meant to be...
With the faint hum of the air conditioner in his ear and a thousand stars reflected in his eyes, the boy took the right turn, to home and to oblivion.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Kawabunga...Its The Holy Grail Of Football...
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Just Plain Crazy Old Greeker!
What do people collect for a hobby? Rocks, stamps, coins, centipedes? I collect mails in my yahoo inbox.
I just sat down today and went down memory lane, through 2045 e-mail messages, seven years worth. I replied to about forty, for the second time in five to seven years.
There were people who owed me cash, there were people whom I hated through the core of my being, there were people whom I owed my life to, there were people who I knew I could never talk to again.
The thought, somehow, makes me truly melancholy. Why had I waited to rewrite to them for so long? After all, they are people who I have known through that growing up phase called life...
It’s plain amazing, but of the forty that I mailed, just three bounced. And that leaves me with only thirty seven reasons to be anxious.
Tomorrow, for me, is NOT just another day. It is for me, the delicious wait for the unknown.
Would my mail ring a bell? Would the ringing prompt them into action? Would they be joyous at hearing from me? Would they spite me for the troubles I took? Would anyone remember? Would anyone care?
A few years a go, when I still lived in a world where lies didn’t exist, I would have felt an optimist. But now, in an age where emotions are considered a weakness, I truly don’t know anymore...


















