"You prepare the paperwork and come, yes?"

So apparently I have a new job profile - that of translator between my building's Nepali watchman/supervisor and foreign tenants with broken English who don't speak Hindi.

I'm at home finishing up season two of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia this afternoon, after getting home from a 4am-12noon shift at work, when the doorbell rings. It is Ramesh, the watchman, who speaks decent Hindi. But he's got an accent that makes it a little difficult to comprehend what he's saying, plus he doesn't really open his mouth when he speaks. Its more of a mutter.

He says something about how he can't communicate with the man below, who he says is Iranian. He says he's supposed to pay eight thousand rupees but wants to bring it down to seven. I have to ask thrice to confirm just what he was paying for. It's a motorcycle the guy below is apparently selling. Ramesh asks me to translate between him and the Iranian.

I go down and ring the doorbell. A thin, nearly bald man in utterly ill-fitting track pants - and I mean ill-fitting; like too tight in all the wrong areas - with a brat clinging to his foot opens the door. He's clearly confused at why the watchman has brought a white guy who hasn't shaved for a week and desperately needs a haircut. Flustered, he asks us to come in but I politely decline.

I tell him what Ramesh asked me to - that he will give seven thousand now and the rest later. The guy looks at me like I've asked him the meaning of life. Ramesh looks at me expectantly.

We manage to get on the same level soon enough, and I figure out that the motorcycle is not his, but his friend Musa's. Musa is not in Bangalore, I'm told. Ramesh wants to know who has the paperwork. The Iranian says he does. Ramesh is apprehensive of signing off in front of a third party. The Iranian seems keen to shut the door and smack his brat, who has now started to hurl a tennis ball against the wall. Ramesh looks back and forth between the Iranian and I.

The Iranian gets onto the phone, speaks for a minute, and hands me the phone. I speak to Musa, whose accent is thicker than the man in front of me. He wants to know who the interested buyer is. I tell him it's the watchman. He says he wants eight thousand tomorrow. I converse with Ramesh, who says he can give seven and a half max, final offer, repeating that he's a poor man and that Musa give him a concession. Musa isn't buying it. I hand the phone back to the Iranian. He and Musa speak for a while longer.

"OK, that is settled. Thank you," he tells me.

I ask him what is settled. He gives me a blank stare. Ramesh twitches. The kid is about to eat the tennis ball.

He says that Ramesh should decide what he wants and come back. I tell that to Ramesh, who is not properly puzzled. He asks who has the paperwork, and is worried that a third party won't suffice in completing the paperwork.

The Iranian says he has all the paperwork, but that Ramesh must bring the money and "prepare the documents". By now I'm the most confused, and tell Ramesh what the man has said. "Chuck it, something's fishy with this Iranian," he says.

I suppress my laughter. The Iranian snaps at the brat. I say thanks for his time, Ramesh gives him half a smile. The Iranian shuts his door.

Ramesh and I have an awkward moment. He thanks me and we part ways.

That was like a moment from the sitcom I was watching. My life is fun.

Flat tracks be damned, Sehwag has just hit three consecutive fours, scampered a couple, and smacked another boundary to reach his sixth Test double century. What a player. No Indian batsman has hit six double centuries.

He's on 202 from 168 deliveries, on day two of a Test match. Not just any Test, the first one at the Brabourne for 36 years.

My father is sitting in the crowd somewhere. Lucky man.

Listened to a few tracks by The Raghu Dixit Project. Decent. I especially liked 'Mysore Se Aayi', 'Hey Bhagwan' and 'Ambar'. Its contemporary folk, sort of. The band played at a prison in Bangalore recently. Seems the inmates enjoyed it, from what I saw on TV.

It doesn't feel right seeing Adnan Sami Khan and Jermaine Jackson jiving in a pop video tribute to Bombay (yes, Raj, I will call it that, boo hoo)a year after 26/11. What does Jermaine know of the city? What does he know of India? And seeing Adnan holding the Gateway of India between his index finger and thumb just looks wrong. I see where he's going, trying to salute the city's spirit and all he's earned from it once hopping across the border. It smacks of gimmick. But more so it leaves an awkward taste, given how strained relations have been between India and Pakistan. A Pakistani, who has earned so much fame and money since landing in Bombay, holding a symbol of the city, just in front of the scene of that horrific attack? Doesn't feel right.

Trains used to be decent fun. What happened? Can't sleep. Can't eat (what is with the two veg patties and a slice of bread for breakfast?).

Ik Omkara ... OYE!

What if Vishal Bhardwaj had made Omkara with Sunny Deol instead of Ajay Devgan? Let’s have a look at how different some of those unforgettable dialogues would have been … steady on …

Omkara in the jail (yelling with an outstretched hand, with that trademark sideways glance): “Jo agvai ka kaam kare soh hijra, Bhaisaab. Agar inki beti mujhe jhoota bole toh maa kasam, saara PIND ko aag lagake ek-ek karke in KUTTON ka khoon pee jaaonga! Jo bole so nihaal!”

Omkara to Vakil Sahib: ”Hamari jaat to khoob pehchani aapne Vakil Sahib, par apni beti ke dil ki baat nahi pechaan sake! Dolly sirf meri hai, sirf meri, aur koi bhi mai ka laal uski taraf aankh utha kar bhi dekhe na … toh haddi-paslee thod ke rakh doonga!”

Omkara to Surinder Kaptan: “Badi lakdi mat ttha, Kaptan! Maa ka doodh piya hai toh asli mard se panja lada!”

Omkara to Kichloo, who has been held up against a wall: (With an outstretched arm, pointed index finger wagging, eyes burning, nostrils flared, lungs being cleared with the force of a geyser) “Oye, haramkhor, sarat godon pe lagate hain, sheron pe nahin! Yaad rakh nahin toh boti-boti pees ke rakh doonga! Balwant Rai ke kutto! OYE!!!”

Omkara to Kesu as he anoints him the new bahu bali: “No if, no but, sirf JATT!”

Instead of humming the lullaby Jag Jaa to Dolly, Omkara will stomp his feet and dance: ”Yaara o yaara, ab toh jag jaa!”

Omkara to Rajjo on the evening of Gollu’s birthday: “OYE! Saam dale kinga jaayegu tu, machchar?”

Omkara, instead of asking Langda where Kesu is, will bellow: “Oye, ROMEO kidhar hai?”

Omkara to Langda Tyagi and a bloody, inebriated, shamed Kesu Firangi: Kasoor daaru ka nahin, PAKISTAN ka hai! OYE! Hand pump kidhar hai?”

Omkara, when demanding to know where the jeweled cummerbund: ”Utaar ke fenk do ye wardi aur pahen lo Balwant Rai ka patta apne gale mein!”

Omkara to Langda in the rain after the shootout on the train: “Haan ke naa? Oye kaminey, haan ke naa? Yeh dhai kilo ka kaath jab kisipe padtha hai na … toh aadmi uttha nahi, ud jaata hai! Haan ke naa?”

Omkara’s ultimatum to Langda ahead of his wedding day: ”Taarikh pe taarikh! Saddi se pehle saboot ni laya na … toh halak pe haat daal ke kaleje kheech lunga haram khor! Kasam khata hun kal ka suraj ka, ussi waqt zinda doonga! OYE!!”

Omkara to any number of baddies, reaching for the nearest hand pump: “Khaal udhed ke pinjar dhoop mein sukha doongaa, Balwant Rai ke kutto!”

Run fat boy run

I’ve started running off and on – the off ration outweighs the on significantly – in the mornings after my gym membership expired in August. I can’t do this gym thing; I much prefer the outdoors.

It’s been good because there actually is a place to run near my apartment in Bangalore and there are lots of joggers and walkers so I’m not the only person exercising at that hour. As expected when a white guy puts on a t-shirt and shorts and straps an iPod Nano to his arm in these parts, there are a lot of curious onlookers.

By now a few of them - the regulars like the bicycle tire repair dude, the newspaper stand owner, the barber who opens his shop at 7 as I’m returning, and the army guards at the gates of the officers’ mess – don’t even bat an eyelid as I bustle past.

A few people have struck up conversations whenever I stop to walk a little ways to cross the road or where the dirt path around the lake is dug up. There was the sardarji who crossed me in his Hyundai Accent – he’s also a regular walker – and asked me if I wanted a lift to the lake; the elderly American lady walks with her trio of friends; the college kid walking his dog who asked me why obesity was so bad in the US. A few others have just stood gaping. There are invariably young kids – most regularly the street urchins and the boy scouts – who giggle. There was even the trio on a motorbike who catcalled as they sped past (I know, three dudes squashed together on a Hero Honda and I look strange?).

Today was funny though. So there I was this, busting a gut to The Doves’ ’Kingdom of Rust’, when an auto rickshaw slowly pulls up and put-puts alongside. Says the driver: “Hello, boss, you want auto?”