MY FIRST BRIBE: A TALE OF OCTROI, SNACKS, AND SICK LEAVE

This is how I bribed a government official, a first for me, and the subsequent developments.

I had to have a piece of paper stamped by the UP Government Octroi Department. The man transporting the computers had to pay the duty, have it stamped, and return it to the Delhi head office. He didn't do it and believed he was doing the firm a great favour saving some money. We required proof of transit, and that the octroi was paid as we got a complete refund from the authorities.

To close this chapter, I traveled to Ghaziabad. Soon I meet the clerk in charge. You know how these Govt peep are. They act retarded to all the questions as though they don't understand anything. That is till the palms are greased. Then they become more intelligent than 5 PhDs put together.

Same here.

The peon stepped in to save the day. This was when we were having a cuppa chai under the tree. He claimed that for a drink, this buzzard will do your work. I asked him to make the arrangements. Oh sure. So I stayed back in Ghaziabad. As planned, the clerk and the peon arrived. The peon leaves after taking his quarter.

The clerk is not happy with the platter I present. He says, where is Kaju? Sir, I can’t drink without Kaju.

The bugger. Kaju is costlier than the drinks. However, I hurried outside to fetch him his Kaju.

Come tomorrow sir, I will sign.

The next day I went only to find him missing. On leave. The good peon informs. He is sick, saar. Oh sh*t.

Well, he was sick for the next two weeks. The Kaju and drinks didn't mix well and he had tummy trouble. I returned two weeks later. Now it's my turn to act dumb.

No sir it can’t be. Even I ate and drank na. I didn't have any trouble.

Any hoo, he did sign the documents I needed. But sure will never ask for kaju ever.

#firstbribe

Then I asked Chatgpt to refine it and this is what I got.

My First Bribe: A Tale of Stamps, Snacks, and Sick Leave

I found myself navigating the labyrinth of the Uttar Pradesh Government Octroi Department, chasing a govt. seal that was vital for our company’s refund process. The computers we transported required proof of octroi payment, but the person responsible had skipped this step, thinking he was doing the firm a favor.

So, to fix the mess, I traveled to Ghaziabad, determined to close the chapter. Soon, I was face-to-face with the clerk in charge—a classic government employee archetype. He pretended not to understand anything I said, like a script straight out of a tragicomedy. But there’s always a workaround, as they say, and in this case, it was palm grease.

Enter the peon. Over a cup of chai under a shady tree, he confided that the clerk could be "persuaded" if a drink was involved. Fine, I thought, and left the arrangements to him. That evening, the clerk and the peon arrived. After pocketing his quarter, the peon left, and the clerk got to business. Or so I thought.

The clerk examined the offering and frowned.

"Where is kaju? Sir, I can’t drink without kaju."

Kaju? The audacity! But with no other choice, I dashed out and bought him the expensive nuts. With his demands met, I was assured, "Come tomorrow, sir. I will sign."

The next day, I returned, ready to collect my stamped papers. But, surprise—he was on leave. "He’s sick, saar," the peon informed me. Sick? From what?

Turned out the kaju and drinks hadn’t sat well with him. For two weeks, the clerk was “recovering.” When I finally returned, he was back at his desk. This time, I decided to play the clueless one.

"No, sir, it can’t be the kaju! I ate and drank too, and I’m perfectly fine!"

He wasn’t amused, but he signed the documents at last. As I walked away with the papers in hand, one thing was certain—this man wasn’t asking for kaju again anytime soon.

#FirstBribe

AN ADVENTURE AT VICTORIA HOSPITAL, BANGALORE

Hospitals aren’t typically places for adventures, but life often surprises us. My journey with a hernia surgery at Bangalore’s Victoria Hospital turned out to be one of those unexpected tales that stick with you — not for the pain, but for the people, the quirks, and the lessons learned.  

Let me set the stage. I’m a big guy. Some say, large. And as if that wasn’t enough, I have hypertension — a polite way of saying my blood pressure thinks it’s competing in a race. So, when I was told surgery was necessary, it wasn’t just a case of rolling me onto the operating table and getting on with it. The hospital staff took no chances, conducting test after test until I was cleared for the procedure.  

The day finally arrived, and there I was, lying on the operating table, with local anesthesia coursing into my body through my spine. I was conscious the entire time, feeling nothing but a peculiar pressure on my chest — a sensation I’d liken to a 60-wheeler truck idling there.  

Now, I must sing praises for the unsung heroes of any surgery: the anesthetic team. These remarkable professionals, whose names I’ll never know, held my hand, talked me through the process, and kept me calm for the entirety of the two-hour long procedure. They’re the ones who ensure you drift off to la-la land and, more importantly, wake up afterward. Yet, we rarely remember them, let alone thank them. Here’s to you, silent saviors of the surgical world!  

The surgery itself was a success, though it came at a small cost — I lost my belly button. Yes, my cute, round innie navel, gone forever. They’d warned me beforehand, even made me sign a declaration acknowledging its possible departure. It’s strange how something so small can feel like such a significant part of you. Farewell, old friend.  

My surgery was conducted by, lets just say, Team B — efficient, precise, and, like a good PowerPoint presentation, straight to the point. Special thanks to Dr. B himself, the maestro of the operation, who managed to perform a sophisticated medical procedure while keeping his communication crisp with razor-sharp clarity. 

A humble thanks to all those who took time out of their busy schedule to see that things went ok for good old me.

Victoria Hospital itself is a fascinating ecosystem. It’s a well-oiled machine where the key to surviving (and thriving) is simple: do as you’re told, not what you think. Focus on the task at hand and don’t get distracted by the grand chaos around you. The doctors don’t have time for chatter, which is understandable given the sheer number of patients they treat daily. They’re like magicians performing their tricks without the theatrics — just results.  
 
Now, let me put across an idea. Picture this: a mini metro system snaking its way through the hospital. Two lines, strategically designed. The Purple Line would start at the main gate, stop at the Infosys Lab, the New OPD block, Vani Vilas, and the trauma care unit, before winding its way to nephrology, the Pradhan Mantri unit, and back to the admin block. Meanwhile, the Magenta Line could begin at the other entrance, make its way past the Medical College, hostel, the older blocks, and the burn ward, before completing its loop. Trains start every ten minutes, no charge, zipping patients and staff to their destinations like clockwork. Think of it — a transit system for a hospital that is the size of a small town!  

During my two-week stay, another marvel stood out: there wasn’t a single mosquito or housefly. Not one. In a public hospital, no less! A rare feat in India. Whatever pest-control magic they’ve conjured, it deserves a standing ovation. If they can manage that, maybe my metro dream isn’t so far-fetched after all.  

In the end, my time at Victoria Hospital wasn’t just about surgery—it was an experience. A journey through a world that, despite its challenges, functions with remarkable efficiency. To the doctors, the anesthesiologist angels, the administrators, the silent pest-control heroes, and the frontline warriors of Team B: thank you. And to my navel,  - tata, you’ll be missed.  

 

Victoria Hospital, Bangalore 

#victoriahospital #bangalore #bengaluru #surgery #thankspanki #thanksritsi

A TALE OF TWO METRO RAIL: HYDERABAD VS. BANGALORE

Today, I embarked on my first metro journey in Hyderabad, and naturally, my mind raced back to compare it with the metro experience in Bangalore. Here's how they stack up:

 

 

Way up in the sky: The Hyderabad metro is notably elevated, perhaps to an extreme, which I can only guess is either to accommodate future expansion or to increase the bill for construction and installation of a lot more escalators and lifts. You know why! 

It's a unique feature but raises questions about practical use and cost efficiency.

 

Commercialization: Hyderabad's metro stations double as mini-malls, bustling with shops and eateries. The same things you get right outside the station. While this might boost local commerce, it somewhat detracts from the primary function of quick transit. In contrast, Bangalore's stations, while less commercial, offer a straightforward transit experience. You won't find a ciggi shop, but you'll find a functional space.

 

Cleanliness and Passenger Experience: Bangalore's metro shines in cleanliness, with stations so spotless you feel it’s something automatic as you hardly see the cleaning staff at work. The trains are longer, moving more people while maintaining a spacious feel. In Hyderabad, however, the stations feel cramped, and cleanliness is more visible with cleaners often sweeping into your face. The space constraint might be due to the commercial additions or simply design choices.

 

 

Smoothness of Ride: Bangalore's metro feels like it glides on butter, offering a smooth, almost silent journey. Hyderabad's, on the other hand, feels less refined, with a ride that seems more like a HMT tractor pulling a rocket lorry on a kankar road, metaphorically speaking. My first ride here in Hyderabad included an unexpected stop between stations, something I've never encountered in my years and years of travel within Bangalore.

 

Ticket Systems: Bangalore uses a round plastic token for tickets, a tactile and reusable solution. Hyderabad opts for a printed QR code or an online scan-and-pay system, which, while modern, lacks the physicality of Bangalore's tokens.

 

Announcements: The Hindi voice-over in Hyderabad seems to treat commuters like they need everything explained very slowly, which can feel a bit condescending. Dont ask for examples but I missed the names of some stops coz the first bit and the last bit were far apart.

 

Social Observations: One stark contrast is the presence of beggars at Hyderabad's metro stations – a social issue not as visible in Bangalore's cleaner, perhaps more controlled environment. It's a reminder of broader societal challenges that public spaces reflect.

 

Consideration for Passengers: Hyderabad seems to prioritize senior citizens with more reserved seats, showcasing a cultural respect for the elderly. Bangalore combines seats for both seniors and pregnant women, which is less efficient and less specific. At last, Hyd scores.

 

Final Thoughts:

 

While both cities have commendable metro systems, they each carry unique approaches to commuter experience, urban integration, and operational efficiency. I am not qualified to say which is better but Bangalore is. And remember, I am a pucca Hyderabadi from namma Bengaluru.

 

Anyway, there is a video of the trip. Enjoy.

#nammametro #hydmetro #bangalore #hyderabad #bengaluru #compare

WE SHALL MEET AT 9:00 | CHRONICLE OF AGES

 

We shall meet at 9, said the soft-spoken priest.

Can we meet at 830?, insisted the lady on the phone.

We shall meet at 9, repeated the priest. Most humbly.

However, the lady had already made plans. The cab was to pick her up at 7 and drive her to Srirangapatam on the Mysore highway to meet this priest.

This priest was said to have an energy. And was now constructing a temple using ancient construction techniques. She came a 1,000 miles to meet him. But the lady, tough as nails, was to do it in her schedule.

Now.
The cab came early, at 615. They reached Srirangapatnam by 730.
"I arrived early," she messaged the priest."Can we meet now?"

They took a coffee break. Next to the shop was a poster of a temple. It was called Nimishamba temple. Where the god grants wishes every minute—nimisham. So to the temple it was. And as she was exiting, she saw another poster. For another temple. The Kshnamaba temple. Where the goddess grants wishes every second - kshanam. So there was another temple visit. After Darshan, she went to meet the priest. And as the priest walked in, she saw her watch. Dot 9 am.

The temple he is constructing is called Samaypuram. 

The time temple.

The above piece was given to Chatgpt and this is what it gave out.

The Time Temple

“We shall meet at 9,” said the soft-spoken priest, his tone measured and calm, as though his words carried the weight of inevitability.

“Can we meet at 8:30?” insisted the woman on the other end of the line. Her voice was sharp, brisk, a trait honed from years of navigating a world that respected punctuality and precision more than patience.

“We shall meet at 9,” the priest repeated, gently, humbly, as if the time itself was sacred.

The woman, however, had already planned her morning. A cab was scheduled to pick her up at 7 a.m. and ferry her the 125 kilometers from Bangalore to Srirangapatna, a historic town along the Mysore highway. She had come over a thousand miles to meet this priest—a man said to radiate a rare, unexplainable energy. Word had it that he was constructing a temple, reviving ancient architectural techniques lost to time.

And yet, despite the intrigue, she was resolute: the meeting would happen on her terms.

The Journey

The cab arrived earlier than expected—6:15 a.m. instead of 7. By 7:30, she was already in Srirangapatna. The air was crisp, carrying the faint aroma of jasmine and the earthy scent of the nearby Kaveri River. She sent a quick message to the priest.

“I’ve arrived early. Can we meet now?”

There was no immediate response. Unperturbed, she decided to explore.

Nearby, a modest coffee shop beckoned. She ordered a steaming filter coffee and sipped it slowly, her impatience softening against the rhythm of the small town waking up. Next to the shop hung a large poster of a temple, vibrant in its depiction of a deity.

“Nimishamba Temple,” the text read. Beneath it, a curious claim: The goddess grants wishes every minute—nimisham.

Intrigued, she decided to visit. The temple was a walkable distance away, tucked along the riverbank. Inside, devotees prayed fervently, their hopes mingling with the faint chiming of bells. The air felt charged, and for a moment, she felt a strange peace descend over her.

As she exited, her eyes caught another poster, faded but still legible.

“Kshnamamba Temple,” it read. The goddess grants wishes every second—kshanam.

A subtle smile curved her lips. If wishes could be granted in a minute at one temple, why not shave it down to seconds at the next? And so, she set off for Kshnamamba.

This temple, though less grand, held its own mystique. Its sanctum glowed with oil lamps, their flames steady despite the occasional gust of wind. She offered her prayers here too, her earlier impatience ebbing away entirely.

The Meeting

After a rather busy morning, she was waiting at the appointed place.

The priest appeared. He was a tall, serene figure, his robes simple but immaculate, his presence commanding yet calming.

“You arrived early,” he said, his voice laced with a knowing smile.

“Yes," she said and looked at her watch, it was dot 9:00,"but we are meeting at the time you chose,” she replied, her tone softened by the morning’s events.

The priest gestured for her to follow him. They walked a short distance to a clearing where an intricate stone structure was taking shape. Sculptors chiseled away at massive slabs of granite, their rhythmic strikes blending into the hum of the nearby forest.

“This,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “is the Samayapuram temple—the Time Temple. It is dedicated to the sacredness of time itself. Every stone here is measured, every corner aligned to cosmic rhythms. Time, you see, is not something we command. It is something we honor.”

She stood in awe, the realization settling over her like a gentle wave. The morning’s sequence—her insistence, the unexpected detours, the divine encounters—had all led her here, precisely at the right moment.

The priest turned to her, his gaze steady. “Time has a way of arranging itself when you surrender to it. Sometimes, the minutes and seconds matter. Sometimes, only the appointed hour does.”

And for the first time in a long while, the woman—tough as nails—let go of her need to control.

Epilogue

Years later, the Time Temple became renowned for its remarkable construction and its profound energy. Visitors would come from across the world, each drawn by tales of its harmony with the cosmos.

As for the woman, she often thought of that day, of the temples that marked the minutes and seconds, and of the priest who taught her the sacred art of waiting.

And whenever she found herself rushing or resisting, she would close her eyes, take a deep breath, and remember: We shall meet at 9.

HOW TO WRITE | hguy.blogspot.com

The Thakkar Commission Report (published 1986) pointed the “needle of suspicion" at RK Dhawan for complicity in the conspiracy to assassinate Indira Gandhi. This can't be true. Dhawan would have thrown himself in front of a bus to save IG. 

What that implied was Manharlal Pranlal Thakkar was enraged by his own sub-par investigative abilities. He was looking for someone to blame, and right then Dhawan presented himself, whose only transgression was to keep quiet and decline to respond to any of the questions. 

This brings us to the point I want to make.

A government report writer is a very powerful person. I have no doubt that Dhawan suffered greatly as a result of those remarks, and it may have even damaged his career thereon.

This further brings us to the most powerful person in a police station. 

The writer. 

What he writes is set in stone. So be ready to pay whatever he asks. Ok. If he writes, 'he hit his wife, and she fell dead” ... then that's the end of you. But if he writes, 'It seems he and his wife were arguing and it was getting very physical, and she fell and hit her head and was later declared dead. ” ... then you have some wriggle room. This wording sounds so eloquent in the local language.

NEXT JANMA LOVE Part II | hguy.blogspot.com

Trust me when I say that the two did end up getting married. Both engineers. Both employed. And everything appeared to be going well.

Until.

He got a job in Canada. 

And he took his wife and went.

He working. She is a homemaker [hate this word, sounds more like a mestri].

A couple of years later, they return to India, buy a house.

He working. She still the aforementioned homemaker.

Do you see where I am going with this?

If you think homemaker is my point, then you are totally wrong. Well, not totally.

Her mother, a widow for a long time, moved in next door. Every day, the mother and daughter get together. He cant stand his mother-in-law's manipulative and medling behaviour. One thing leads to another, and we see hubby & wife squabbling a lot.

They decided to part ways. She says she will take the house and only then grant him a divorce.

It's only here that she realises the house is not in his name. His father countersigned the loan needed to buy the house. Father made sure the house was in his wife's name. 

The girl changes her tune overnight. No. I don't want a divorce.

The boy is wiser. 

Today. They have been separated for four years or more. Leading independent lives. 100's of people are working overtime, trying to bring them together. There is so much bitterness, that I don't think it will happen. But who knows?

This all was pre-pandemic and I am not up-to-date on this story. I only hope there is a nice juicy part 3 to tell. I mean with a happy ending.

THAT DAY IN 2012 | hguy.blogspot.com

One evening I went to a cyber cafe as the net company had blocked my net access at home. Why bole tho...when the verifier came home, it was locked. What did he expect? I will leave my job and wait for him.

Anyways.. I logged into Facebook and ping..A message from Aruna.  Couldn't believe it. To tell the truth, I have Altavista-ed her, Yahooed her, Lycos-ed her, and even Googl-ed her but she was elusive. 

But when she wanted she found me in a jiffy.

Then Mayank added me to the class group and then OMG.

 

What a day it was... thanks Vijay Ratnam - He later used the word STREWN- powerful word….. thanks Mayank - love u man, thanks Aruna...

#bvbps #hyderabad #classof83 #rcpuram #bhel #reunion

A MAKE-IN-INDIA STORY

Today.

I'm going to tell you about a great Made-in-India story.

It was a wise decision by the government to replace incandescent light bulbs with more energy-efficient LED and CFL.

Excellent.

The government decided to go one step further and manufacture the bulbs on its own - by mostly subcontracting, offering them for sale to the general public at fair pricing. Really low pricing.

Not bad na.

The entity that was established was ESSL.

They produced a product that looked good enough, but that's it. Their bulbs and tube lights lasted precisely three weeks before they went phut, as if set to a timer.

Not that they didn't know of the problem but they already had a solution. Get rid of all the inventory as soon as you can.

You won't believe me when I say they sold bulbs and tube lights like vegetables. Door to door. Brightly-lit zing-bang open vehicles went gully to gully and sold the ware. Damn cheap. 50/- for three. And it all sold. Fatafat. The temporary warehouses quietly closed down and the phone number of the company stopped working. Coz these were sold with a lifetime guarantee not just a warranty. 

My landlord got excited and replaced all our lights for free. Only for us to keep buying the perishables. I have kept all those bulbs and tube lights. 

Coz when Modi comes to give me that 15 lakh which he promised to drop in my pocket. I will ask him for another 500/-

#essl #bulbs #tubelights

KIDNEY STONES KI KAHANI | hguy.blogspot.com

My stomach hurt a lot one night. Piercing discomfort. I agonised all night, and in the morning I visited my neighbour; a well-known physician with impeccable bedside manners. He gave me a quick glance after my rona-dhona subsided and remarked, "Go have a beer." I was zapped. He explained. 

You have kidney stones? And alcohol aids in the stone's dissolution.

But he wanted me to go for a scan just to be sure.

Thus I visited this medical facility.

They began admitting formalities and discussed surgery with me right away. I waited there in misery while they were preoccupied with aforementioned admissions formalities. Not in pain anymore so I wondered why surgery. I came in just for a scan. BTW I had 100% health insurance from the company I worked for.

Those days I had one of those little Nokia phones. I pulled it out and contacted a friend and asked him to grab me a pant shirt from my room (which was happily unlocked) and come to this blessed hospital. And then sent my office cab driver a message asking him to pick my up near the hospital (it was on the way).

He did it my friend, brought me a ripped-out t-shirt and a much-used sweatpants from the to-wash pile . I snuck out, climbed the cab and arrived at work wearing that outfit—complete with chappals, of course,  Hawaii.

When I told the doctor this story, he laughed like a ticklish girl. Despite me robbing him of a big cut. He stated. The stone will come out on its own. Bring it to me. Alright.

So, it came out while urinating one day at work. I picked it up with haste using tissue paper, the whole process keenly observed by my boss. Wondering, whats wrong with me. I presented it to the physician. Parts of it were red. Give up tomatoes and brinjals, he urged.

What he is unaware of I don't have control over what I eat coz I eat mostly outside. You can't make Vangibath without Vangi. Na.

WHERE R U FROM? | hguy.blogspot.com

Where r u from?

Hyderabad.

Telugu’s eh!

No.

Muslims aa!

No.

Then...

Hyderabadi Christians from Rajasthan...

What???!!!

Ya. But the story goes back a lot more.

There was this man. Punjabi Brahmin settled where the Ganges originated for 3-4 generations. They never came below Rishikesh except maybe to Haridwar for Kumbh, that's all. This guy comes down and joins the army. 6 ft 4 was not a fighting man. He was in the military dairy farm. Met a military doctor. A Tamilian Christian, almost 5 ft tall. Love marriage. How the hell did it happen? He, fair almost white, she, short and dark almost black.

He was posted at Sec'bad when he died and his daughters settled here. 

The father's father was a Rajasthani Christian and the mother a Hyderabadi Christian. He a bigshot lawyer and she a Govt official. When the transport dept. split into railways and roadways she chose roadways and hence was an APSTRC state govt. employee.

The couple separated when their kids were having their own kids. She had a stroke and lived long with that limp in the leg.

Next Gen had an arranged marriage. But consciously decided not to give their kids a religion. 

So the kids grew up believing parents were gods.... how wrong were they.

There is one more layer that no one talks about. Big mystery. 

When things are hidden na it can cause a lot of long-term damage.

Anyway, most are dead. The others are waiting to die and next next gen is poised me only hope for greatness. Mixed genes and all that.

MOMS BEST COOKING

My mother was an incredible chef. Yes, I am aware that everyone says that about their mother, but in my instance, it is true. She could almost instantly turn die-hard vegetarians into devoted non-vegetarians. I've witnessed her cause so much addiction to her street food that a significant family intervention was necessary in one particular household.

You will enjoy this video on Saroja Singh née Roy/Rai's greatest haat ka jaadu if you knew her. We no longer have her around, or else I would give you some taste.

THERE IS A FRUIT CALLED DURIAN | hguy.blogspot.com

Among the things banned in Singapore are two surprising items.

 One - Chewing Gum

 

 Two - a fruit called Durian.

 

 

I saw the sign all over but never the actual fruit, Durian. I didn’t even know how it looked. From the drawing, it looked like something prickly. I thought it exploded unexpectedly and hurt nearby people. How wrong was I?

 

 

It turned out that the Durian - a cousin of jackfruit - is a stinky fruit and even cabbies don’t allow it in. That’s it. The aroma it sends out is too strong. Hence banned.

 

 

I did see them once at a mall. Not inside but placed outside. But it's only on Youtube did I see it cut.

 

Chewing Gum is banned everywhere but Durian is banned only in public transportation.

HOW I GOT TO KNOW SKEETER DAVIS | hguy.blogspot.com

I was introduced to Skeeter Davis's songs in the late 90's when I was in Bombay.

This girl, whom I barely knew, had gone shopping and, when back, left a plastic cover on my desk. She must have left it there by mistake, so I put it in the drawer to be given back the next day.

The next day, no sign of the girl. The following day too.

It was then I peered into the cover to find an audio cassette (yes, those were the cassette days). I took that home and heard Skeeter Davis for the first time. My.. I became an instant fan and heard the cassette over and over the next few days.

Then the girl returns and asks about the cover. I am in two minds, but I say it is safe and return the cassette to her.

The following day, the girl comes in fuming and complains that the tape is all worn out.

Guilty..

Well, she complained and complained until I promised to buy her another Skeeter Davis cassette ....... and a treat.

Since then, she's grown on me—I mean, Skeeter Davis—and now I hear them for the music at times and for the lyrics at other times. I can hear them when I am happy or sad.. She has what it takes to put me back on track.

Here are some of my favourites.

#skeeterdavis

GOLGAPPA aka PANI-PURI | hguy.blogspot.com

You won’t believe what happened today. 

I had to get up early coz the garbage van comes at 730. I have been missing it for the past few weeks and you know na. So I went down with it all and as I was returning something caught my eye. In the community postal bin for our building, there was this letter with a golgappa stamp on it. I was like fully awake now. I didn’t even know the govt. issued golgappa stamp. But the letter was not for me. What do I do? 

Dilemma.

Then I saw the name on it. Oh, He died half a dozen years ago. So I brought the letter home and am now the owner of a golgappa stamp.

#golgappa #panipuri #chats #india

MURTHY'S FAMILY COMPLAINS TO ME| hguy.blogspot.com

 

Murthy's mother and sister came and complained about him.

Oh

I called them all for negotiations.

Oh

They started fighting there too

<silence>

Hari, I have one question.

What?

Don’t you have problems in your house?

What!! I mean they are old friends.

What did you expect it will achieve for you? Will you get money? Can you put it in ur resume? Or at least are you getting sex from someone there?

No. Cha cha.

Then why this gula. See. You are exposing your bum. You will be blamed come what may. There is no upside to these negotiations. You know what they want. She wants a portion of that house. He doesn’t want to give. They will talk about everything except the most important point.

True.

Actually, before coming to you, they came to me for arranging the negotiation. I asked for 10k. That was the last I heard of them.

FLIGHT FROM INDONESIA | hguy.blogspot.com

I had this weird dream.

You know how dreams are, they melt away from memory quickly. But I noted it down right away.

 

 

So here it is.

 

 

 

We are on a flight from Indonesia (wonder why?) to India. It’s a big plane. Three floors. We can walk up and down.

 

 

Now, my ex-boss Sentil is on this flight. I don’t know how he came to be in my dream. All I remember of him is that we were part of a fashion show at Dell together.

 

 

 

He has an ex-girlfriend in Indonesia so he requests for the plane to land. And the pilots oblige and land, not at an airport but, on a road by the sea.

 

 

The aforementioned GF comes to meet him. But says she can’t go with him becoz husband will get angry. The girl is in full burkha-hijaab. That was odd coz she was a pucca Brahmin in India. In fact, her family went against her relationship with Senthil coz he was a Christian. And got her married to a devout Brahmin from Indonesia. As these discussions were going on the tide rose and almost covered the road. The pilots hastily take off.

 

 

I believe that she is Queen of Indonesia now. The old king saw her on one of his horse rides and hence.

 

 

The smart girl, doesn’t want to give up the Queen duties.

 

 

Well, one of the pilots grumbling away comes and sits beside me and we discussed takeoff and landing. The king gets wind of this escapade and scrambles his jets. He sends them toward the Philippines. He never liked them while the bulky Air India plane slowly sauntered (I will stick with this word)  towards India. Then the dream ended.

 

 

CHARTERED ACCOUNTANTs AND THEIR GLAMOROUS WORLD | hguy.blogspot.com

 

There is one group of privileged people who never come under the scanner and have lived a life of gleeful abundance. They are the Chartered Accountant of India.

 

 

Let me explain. Work is always forced down their throats. That too by an act of the parliament. The law says accounts have to be audited and approved by a Chartered Accountant then only it will be accepted by the govt.

 

 

Now can you see the loophole here? Let me explain again.

 

Take for example Swiggy. They earn 10 bucks per delivery. They have many deliveries morning to night in every town, city, and state daily. Right. Now end of the year all this needs to be accounted for. But they, if they want, can show only 50% of the total delivery and keep the rest of the money unaccounted for themselves. They don’t have to share it with anyone, don’t have to pay tax.

 

Now how can they do it? With the help of CA. The 10 bucks that they receive goes into a bank. Right. But it's not one bank but rather quite a few banks coz it’s an all-India company. And maybe the 10 banks for a big city like Bangalore. So they have 500 bank a/c's. While auditing they show only 250 bank accounts. At one go a big chunk of money is hidden. Who is supposed to catch it? The CA's. And if they don’t, there is no other cross-check or monitoring agency to catch such delinquents. The sign and seal of a CA stating that he has audited the accounts and all is changa is all the Govt. requires. The Govt. passed the law but who pays the CA's - the businessman. So he is bound to bend his head here. Sir, you went on a foreign trip with ur wife and kids. Ok, don’t worry! we will show it as a business expense. You bought a house for your GF. Don’t worry! We will manage. Sir, the food bill is too high esp. since you don’t serve food. Oh, your father is the caterer. No problem! We will manage.

 

Paytm and Vedanta are two companies waiting for shit to hit the ceiling. Does Warren Buffet, who is a shareholder in Paytm, know of the accounting golmaal this company perpetuates? Yes. But won’t do a thing coz he has invested money in it and prays for its survival.

 

You should see Adani's Chartered Accountant's office. A ramshackle place with about twenty chairs and tables with about half of them un-occupied auditing many billion billion dollar companies. wah bhai.

 

The big five-Arthur Andersen, Deloitte & Whatever, Ernst & Young, KPMG, PricewaterhouseCoopers- are the major beneficiaries of this scam. They earn million to create and approve fake accounts. Remember Satyam, ILFS – they should be called auditor scams.

 

 

But that’s not the story I want to tell today.

 

 

Years ago, I was called by the CA, a man of 50,  and his pretty assistant to the conf. room. I was made to sweat 20 mins before they even spoke to me. Then the old man pulled out a receipt from a folder and showed it to me. Is that yours? Yes sir, I replied. But it’s a liquor bill. It’s not allowed. You can’t give your bar bill to accounts. Well, the fact is we had 2 Koreans visiting our office and I was their liaison. They drank and played golf. I didn’t drink or play golf. But paid for it all and was duly reimbursed by the company. What happened was the amount of 760/- was deducted from my next salary (the boss later paid me cash).

 

That’s the work of a CA-be high and mighty and catch peanuts and let the big holes be.

So of all the black money in India, CA's are responsible for 100% of it. Turn it on its head. No CA. No black money.

#CA #paytm #vedanta #scams #auditing #byjus