28.04.2010.

Dear Amul Butter,

I was introduced to you even before I was born. You see my Mother too is rather fond of you. My earliest memory of you is a warm delicious aroma. It rose from this delicious brunch my Mother made with steaming hot rice, daal, boiled egg, potatoes and you… all mashed together and garnished with green chillies. And know what Amul Butter? Over two decades and half later that memory is still as fresh as if it was only yesterday. Nothing ever beat that delightful taste. You were a part of my life in numerous ways. Appearing at breakfast on top of or in between sliced bread, peppered with black pepper and then reappearing as the same avataar albeit a bit soggy in the school tiffin box. You were the desire that effected my dignified begging for ‘just aar ektu’ (read liberal spoonful). You were the temptation that drove me to filching. Oh the Joy of sneak into the kitchen unseen, noiselessly removing your 100gms net weight from the fridge, flip the flap and digging in as deep as possible with a finger – heaven I tell you would have lost in competition. When love arrived in my life like stolen pages of a romance novel you were often my saviour. Love is hard work and hard work makes one hungry. Imperative all night long and well into the next morning lovey dovey coochikoos over the phone spelt trouble in more ways than one. Numero uno was of course the phone bill but the other? To my Mother’s utter consternation a double pack of Bourbon biscuit meant to last half a week ceased to exist overnight. Mum being a strict lady flatly refused to indulge – me or my love, biscuits or otherwise. The fatwa passed was a subsistence allowance of Britannia Marie or Thinarraroot biscuits till the scheduled release of the next packet of Bourbon, incarcerated in a secure storage facility (read locked cupboard). But I had you. A generous layer of you between bland Britannia Marie was a delectable escape from such cruel edicts. You were always there… in rainyday khichdi, in congealed over boiled Maggi to make it edible, in molten allure on Pao Bhaji or as charm on insipid idlis. Do you remember the time I first met you on an early morning flight? You wrapped smartly in silver foil, name printed neatly in blue and my guilty pleasure of discreetly licking you off the butter spread after some furtive glancing around. You and I in our sinful tryst with hot handmade tawa bread… you melting at the warm warm touch and my shameless lapping at your sensuous drib down my fingers. I could go on and on. Over the years I have travelled far and wide and I have had many a butter from all over the world. From the excess of varieties in Europe or America to the simple home made butter in Djibouti. But I have never had another butter like you... you are the best butter on earth. Someday I wish to be a doting father and I will introduce my child to your delights… I’ll relive those special moments with you one more time through my kid.

I love you Amul Butter.

J******

28.03.2010.

Listed below are a few minor corrections with respect to information given in previous posts –

1. Yeah I have had a laptop for a long long time now and thus my statement in the first post stands null and void.

2. Yeah yeah I changed the phone handset too.

3. The statement in the very first post calling this blog as a passing whim now stands officially withdrawn.

4. I reclaimed the title – His Majesty His Royal Highness The Prince of Pithrasgarh.

5. Yup I have since resumed playing IGI 1 & 2. In fact now I’m much better at it.

6. No Annihilina does not make lemonade on hot summer afternoons like Anne does (the lemonade making software is undergoing final trials before deployment) and yes ex²tremely advanced cyborgs/androids like me are programmed to drink lemonade on hot summer afternoons. But they prefer beer… lager to be precise.

7. The FNT-7900 stories told to the single digits do not move on from one Sunday to another based solely on my imagination. My mood does play a role once in a while and depending on the direction my mood swings to the following take place –

• He goes for drydocking.
• He goes for systems overhaul.
• He goes for weapons upgrade.
• He goes for much needed vacation.
• He has a ‘Kryptonuclear’ powerplant meltdown (little kids must not even enter his room because of contamination hazards).

• He goes AWOL (pssst.. this happens when am not even in the mood to think up excuses to not tell stories)

Author’s Note: Some readers can be rather irritatingly observant!!

24.03.2010.

A pretty young lady I much adore said the name of my ship sounds like a colourful African bird. The idea has caught my fancy. “Glorious Plumeria” yes she does sounds like a colourful African bird. We sailed out from Tsuneishi on the 23^rd of March bound for Bluff, Newzealand. We crossed the ‘Challenger Deep’ today, the fifth time I crossed the deepest place on earth. Life onboard is routine. My last ship was the best of my sea career and I think after Global Ace this ship feels stiffling. Out of a crew of twenty one the only one I have come to admire is the Ukrainian Mate. That’s rare considering I am the snooty and condescendingly arrogant sort who inevitably places himself on a higher plane than almost everyone he meets. Apart from his amazing hard work or sense of responsibility what has surprised me is his ability to remain smiling and genial no matter how much he works or how fatigued he is or the never faltering softness in his nature and behaviour. I respect the man. I’ve also come to like the Cadet. At twenty he is much more easily likable for his small town boy innocence unlike the wiseass, skinny drainpipe jeans wearing, Chinese Crested (although I’m a dog lover I can’t stand this breed) hair cut sporting youngsters I oft come across. He told me quite candidly that he comes from a small village and would appreciate if I taught him officer etiquette. I confess the kid took me by surprise. Mine was the second last batch of trainee officers who underwent etiquette training classes before some pen pushing deskbound arsehole decided it was not a requirement anymore. That and some other lowering of standards led to an influx of officer’s who have proprieties similar to horses in a stable or in some worse case scenarios swine in a sty. This young lad with his constant effort to make his English better, his clothes smarter, his work perfect, his manners proper and his knowledge sound is like a breath of fresh air. I grudgingly confess that I’m often forced to do homework in my cabin so that I can teach him properly… from the right glass for a particular drink to long forgotten lewd full forms of spherical trignometry formulas. The funny bit is the realization I have had from this. First how much I have forgotten of so many things I had painstakingly perfected a decade back and second that sometime in the future I might take up teaching as a career.