Radio Goo Goo (or Radio Ga Ga Part Too Too)

My slightly less-than-reverent post on Bangalore's chatterbreed seems to have attracted a fair amount of attention from the accused. And for those of you who quite understandably skipped reading the comment track of the post, here are the responses of some of the RJs who wrote back after reading it:

Manasvi (AIR) said:
Glad to know you love AIR. Many people call it old fashioned. But those who work there would only know the effort it takes to be a part of AIR. and the number of restrictions we have to consider before every word is spoken.

Priya Ganapathy (ex Radio City) said:
One of my friends told me to check out this blog and man, i haftu admit, u guys made my day!! Full majaa happened. I can't believe that there are quite a few who still remember the 'Core FM team of Radio City!' and so many who loved the Retro Show & the Late Show. I had an awesome time while I was there, and it feels utterly wunnerful that u were listening. For those of you who need an update on my life - I quit fulltime radio but now host events, do voice-overs and am back to writing. Travelling a lot... but if I find a radio station that's calling out my name - u can be sure to hear me on the airwaves;-) Till then, take care and thanks for ur wonderful messages! Yours in music n madness - Priya Ganapathy/Lingo Leela/Sister Stella

Rashmi and Prithvi (Radio One) said:
Can't start without saying that your post Radio Ga Ga brought a smile on all our faces on a day when Radio One works without takin a pause - Friday (25th of April i.e last week). And this of course included my station head Shyju Varkey, the breakfast jock Prithvi, Ulfat Sultan a k a Agent Rakesh, a few of our sales guys and me. These instances makes us feel good of our presence in the market and assures us of the connect we have with our Bangalorean Buddies just like anyone of us at Radio One who find an instant relationship establshing with Chamrajpet Charles of Prof Sultan. Thank you so much for the support and of course for tuning in.


After a couple of emails to and fro, I realized Rashmi and Prithvi's Radio One office was almost next door to my workplace, so off I went last Friday to meet them. Acutely aware of the high fashion state that my friday work wear was in, I decided to accessorize a little by smoothing down my frazzled hair with some good quality BWSSB water before meeting them. Thank you 30% relative humidity, in the 3 minutes that it took to walk down to the station, my hair was back to resembling the Great Indian Macaque again.

A pretty Rashmi breezed into the foyer as soon as I came in, and took me inside to meet 'everybody'. Very soon, a nattily dressed Prithvi was shaking me by the hand and leading me into the recording room. Inside, the pretty RJ pavitra (adh yen neer kudeetheero pa, nangu solp kodi (what water you drink-o-pa)) was at the console, studying all the intellectual smses that were coming in from her listeners. "Hai SXZVLW. Hehehe" flashed the most recent one, which she efficiently deleted with one graceful schloomp, while turning on the music, feeding the cat, doing her taxes and calling back an smser in another fluid motion.

Rashmi and Prithvi dragged me out of the studio before I could fall at Pavithra's feet and beg to be accepted as a disciple forever, and whisked me away to the main office. "Yaar ivrella?" (Who are all these people?) I asked looking mika-mika at everybody, feeling exactly like the legendary Boré Gowda did on his first trip to the city. Tinkly Rashmi laughter bounced off the walls of the office. "Ivraa? (These peopleaa?) Well, the guy sitting over there is RJ Anjaan, and this person here, is your friend Ulfat Sultan", she said pointing to a smart dude tapping away industriously at what I'm sure was his next hilarious clip. "Oh hi", he said, looking up momentarily. "Abb..ab.. gnh", I said, waving weakly and pretending to melt into the floor.

The station director came out soon enough, and at that point I completely lost it and gibberred away incoherently in Kannada. There was a light tap on my shoulder. It was Prithvi. "You know all those nice things you just said to the director? Yeah, so he doesnt speak Kannada." he said. "Oh hauda? Hehehe mhemhe", I simpered and turned back to the director. "Adhe budhdhi, nim radiyaa aithallraa? Bhal beshtyth nod budhdhra. Belg-belghoth jagli myaag kuntkaand kyaalthen nwaadi." (Charming programming, dear sir. I enjoy listening to it greatly as I sip my cha in the breakfast room), I continued in an inexplicable pan-karnataka halli-mix. For some reason, the English section in my pea brain had decided to pack its bags and take a vacation to Nelmangala.

Before I could cause any more embarrassment to the director or the staff, Prithvi and Rashmi dragged me out, still gibberring away furiously in Nelmangalese. They finally lured me into the elevator and out of the building with promises of a bonda at Kaycees.

Aiyo, mast maja banth ammawra - swaamyoi! Bhal thyanks kanra.

A letter to ze pooblick

Guten Tag.

Zis is your airportdirektor speaking. All ze papers are reporting already about ze screw ups in my new airport. I am ankry about zis. You are mean, mean people, and zerefore I vud like to say ze following. Boo.

Howeffer, in the greater pooblic interest of your mutterland, I am klarifyink ze misconceptions zat have formed in your kopfs, vun by vun, as follows:

1. I don't give a spaetzle what you sink about konnektivity to my airport. Take your time, its not like you can go anyvere else to fly. Muhahaha.

2. You haff problem vith ze old airport klosing. I belief zere are two solutions for zis problem.
(a) My vay
(b) Ze high vay.
Ze answer to 2(b) is NH7. Let us not go there. Getting to my airport is your business. You can get to my airport by megic carpet for all I care. Auf weidersehen HAL. You vill not be missed here at Deffanahalli.

3. I vos not eating bratwurst ven ze conveyor belt in ze beggege claim died ze moment it vos svitched on. In fect, I vos pacing the floor boards composing my next indignant press release on how my airport operations haff been kompletely rheady for months.

4. I haff been constantly warning my staff to use the aerobridches only to connect people from terminal to flight. Not as slippery slide (whee!) for zeir personal enchoyment. However, zey are refusing to listen. I zerefore recommend zat all you lazy esses undergo an intensmountaineeringtrainingprogram like I haff, to enable you to board ze plane using a series of rope laddahs. Zis is ze only vay fohvard, konsidering ze benne-mudde's zat we have operating ze aerobridch zese days. Jooseless fellows I tell you.

5. You vont me to build train to come to ze airport? Vot silliness. Vosh your face and think lochically. If you haff train, vy must you come already to ze airport? Vell okay, if you insist, giff me money and I vil build train for you. I vill not hire my aerobridch operators to drive train, do not vorry.

4. The lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartment has been rheady for months. Howeffer, since the lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartmentmanager vos having trrouble findink his vay to the lostandfoundaeroplanesdepartment through the long line of people waiting to check in to ze missink airkraft, he vos not able to locate ze missink airkraft. Move, you dumkopfs, ozervise you vill be heah forevah.

5. Zis is airport. Not texi stend. Or Murugeshpalya cultural association. I vill hire Helga from Herrenberg and Wolfgang from Wurtenburg to drrive my texis if I please. If you can say "Meine airportdirektor rhoolz" in a konvincing accent, you vill be hired. Ozervise, boo hoo. Go drrive a Volfo boos. Harumph.

Yes and now back to my bratwurst.

Can't get any verse

Just I will tell off one poetry
So kindly to be keeping the quiet ri.
It may be shallow
Or crass, you faallow?
And irritate you senseless, it might ri.

Onnaf my friend, a daaktar,
Loved a girl and quite raacked her.
Their honey moonu
Came a tad too soonu
'Cos when she asked him to wear protection, he maacked her.

Yettanother boy in a call center
Had a big row with his mentor.
He is currently regarded
As mentorry retarded
After she ate the book he lent her.

A man sat down at Koshy's
And ordered two masala doshys.
The waiter glared.
Not that the man cared.
He, in fact, calmly picked his noshys.

A young girl from Banashankari
Wore jewels and assorted junkery.
When someone asked why,
She said, "Simple. I
Just want to ensnare a hunk ri."

Raj Saxena, while at Forum
Would never maintain decorum.
When they'd throw him out,
He'd scream and shout.
Once he even pulled off his jeans and tore 'em.

Does this story have a moral?
Visual, tactile or aural?
Or a heart-rending
Rhyming ending?
No, it doesn't.

Flyover feveru is backu.

2009 is when it's all going to happen. The BBMP, having partially completed the world's biggest roller coaster for everyday use on Sankey Road, has now decided to go super high tech. They're going to build a skyway on stilts from Minsk square all the way to Hebbal. They're also throwing in landscaping, a traveling circus, thirteen temple elephants and a high speed train that will reach you to the airport before you can say Hunsemavur Nanjundaswamy S.K.

This is just part of the grandiose master plan. People from Electronics City will now link up to the airport via a series of three skyways. At the end of the journey, they will have the option of purchasing pictures of their terror struck faces taken just as their cars begin to hurtle down the steepest ramp of the skyway.

People from Whitefield and Indiranagar need not worry either. A skyway will fly them over the old airport, past Domlur and into a large hole in the ground located near Johnson market. Illuminated signs bearing the inscription: "We suffered for 40 years, it's your turn now, gaaaahahaha", sponsored by the Yelahanka residents association, will be installed in the hole to make the descent more bearable.

A special corps of 83 traffic policemen specially selected on the basis of paunch size will be stationed throughout the length of the skyway to frantically motion the traffic along. Special parachutes will be provided to them to quickly exit the skyway in the event of a traffic jam.

National petroleum reserves are expected to hit zero 6 months after the inauguration of the airport. Bicycling on the skyways will therefore be actively encouraged. To provide further encouragement, speakers will be installed at regular intervals throughout the skyway, playing the song "Aye Gangu, ee biku kalisi kodu nangu*" on endless loop.

In anticipation of frequent power failures rendering the high speed train useless, passengers will be provided with a cone of kadle puri** each and marched to the airport in single file. Senior citizens however, will be suspended from the tracks and provided with a set of hand pedals to winch themselves slowly but safely to the airport. The IPL cheerleading squad will be recruited to recite "Dum lagake, aisa" to a pair of bullocks that will be airlifted onto the tracks to pull the train to safety.

It's all going to happen. By 2009.
So far, we've got this:

BBMP, we love you ma, ok? oaaaaakay.

*Dear Mr Gangadharaiah, would you be so kind as to educate me on the workings of this charming two-wheeled transportation device?

** Karnataka equivalent of bhel

Acknowledgements: Picture of the BDA Junction magic box received with thanks from the kind offices of Camera Karan.

The mountain cake-shop

It was 5 in the evening. Our grandfather had left us at the cake shop while he went to get tickets for The 36th Chamber of Shaolin at Rex, next door. My brother and I were ravenous. Cakes of every shape and colour beckoned at us from glass cabinets all around. Goodie shelves were stacked sky-high with pastries, patties, puffs and pies. Our only hope of getting anywhere close to the counters was to crawl under the legs of the crowds that thronged them. After a couple of slithers, twists and crawls, we finally managed. We stood on tiptoe and reached as high up as we could, waving wildly to attract the attention of the surly attendant. She paid us no heed, choosing instead to scowl at all the others that had managed to reach the front of the counter.

In sheer desperation, my brother yanked at the hem of a skirt near his head. A chalky voice neighed down at us from above: "Eh, look two littl'uns. What y'all want my darlings?" it said. "D..d..danish pastry."said my brother. "Two", I added, holding my fingers up at a smiling, heavily made up face. "'Ere, give dese two sweet'earts danish pastry neh." said the large woman to the surly attendant. The attendant reluctantly slapped two drippy, treacly treats on the counter and returned our change. "Go siddown dere 'n' eat." she said, pointing to an unoccupied table. "Y'all came 'lone eh?" "No, our grandfather's gone to the theatre to buy tickets." we chimed in chorus. "Ooh, holidayzuh?" she said, and turned back to continue haggling with the attendant, while my brother and I ran to the table slavering over our spoils.

This is my earliest memory of Nilgiri's - the most celebrated cake shop in South India. They'd been around over seventy five years before I arrived on the scene, and still stand strong and proud today. New cakeshops have come and gone, some with arguably better fare than their old world competitor. None, however, have been able to replicate their unbeatable always-been-there flavour, that seems to have ingrained itself irreversibly into our palates.

By the 1940s, Nilgiri's had moved down from their mountain abode into a little shop on Brigade Road stocked with homemade English goods. When they started their booming fancy cakes business in the '50s, everybody in Bangalore ordered from them. For every function, a cake more special than the previous one would be delivered fresh from Nilgiri's. For a wedding reception, my grandparents ordered a cake shaped in the form of an entire stage. For Pongal (yes we are incurably cantonment), they ordered a sugarcane shaped one. My mother's birthday cake was in the shape of a house, my uncle's was like an aeroplane, and the crowning glory was a rich Vat 69 bottle cake specially ordered for my great grandfather's birthday.

Nilgiri's, though hugely popular by the '60s, was still a friendly little shop. My mother remembers an incident from back then, when she arrived by auto on Brigade Road and realized she'd left her purse back home as usual. She hesitated only for a moment before deciding what to do. After admonishing the auto driver for not bowing low enough, she adjusted pin no. 112 in her bouffant hairstyle, batted her mascara'ed eyes and told him to wait by the side of the road, so as not to inconvenience the 8 vehicles that plied on it daily. Looking steadfastly away from the risqué poster at the Opera theatre, she took 347 mini-steps across the pavement (on account of her double wrapped saree), and stood at the Nilgiri's counter, knotting and unknotting her pallu worriedly. "What happened ma?" asked Mr Chenniappan, the kindly proprietor. The young mutter, amidst heaving bosoms, fluttering eyelids, and helpless looks cast hither and thither, explained her predicament. Without a moment's hesitation, Mr Chenniyappan emptied a bag full of 1 paisa coins onto the counter and said, "Take as much as you want ma". She counted out 100 coins, the staggering fare from Malleswaram to Brigade road, and gave them to the waiting driver, who was standing with his palms folded over his head and one leg crossed over the other, waiting for his fare in a meditative trance. He accepted the money with another low stately bow and sputtered away, humming the latest Sivaji hit.

But that was then. By the time I was tall enough to reach the top of the pastry counter, things had changed. The sweet little mountain-bakery had been replaced by Nilgiri's Supermarket, the biggest shop I had ever seen. You could get everything you'd ever read in an Enid Blyton there. Marzipans, gingerbread, licorice, cheeses, marshmallows, jellybeans, asparagus, easter eggs- everything. And at the cake shop below: pastries, puffs, pies, minces, pizzas, tarts, eclairs, macaroons- and of course, those slurpily delicious Danish pastries. The counters were operated by a bevy of Tamil women, all equally surly, and if my grandmother was to be believed, "hired directly from Nimhans, I tell you." They looked straight through you, said "No" just on a whim, and in the unlikelihood of their taking mercy on you, made you acutely aware of how privileged you were to be getting something from them. Nevertheless, the crowds surged on through the '90s and midway through my college years. Nilgiri's cakes were, after all, the cheapest and loveliest to be found.

Upper Crust, the restaurant started by the Nilgiri's heir-apparent, did roaring business, especially with the college crowd. People from my college, strategically situated in the heart of the city, would be the first to bunk class and appear there for a quick bite (and sometimes a long drawn out date) before a movie. The cafe-restaurant was also the perfect place to meet after a long day at work. When they started serving Chettinad cuisine, our joy knew no bounds. Unfortunately, the cafe went into decline in the 2000s thanks to family feud, and closed down a couple of years ago. Die hard Nilgiri's buffs like me grew sadder as the stacked shelves in the bakery grew lighter and lighter with every passing year.

Last week, an enthusiastic classmate and I decided to organize a college reunion at the Nilgiri's cake shop. We felt it was the perfect place to renew old aquaintances, and perhaps bid fond farewell to our old favourite hang out. As we waked down the stairs to the basement cake shop, a pleasant oniony aroma hit us. It was the all-too-familiar smell of Nilgiri's baking. The cake shop under its new management had been given a face lift. There was air conditioning, modern furniture, elegant lighting and even a children's play area. Nilgiri's' slightly anachronistic trademark pastries and cakes stood proudly in their shelves once again. The surly staff now smiled waterily at the customers, as they laboriously keyed bills into their new cash machines. The food, in true Nilgiri's style, was cheap, pleasant and satisfying.

As for the reunion, the less said about being the only singleton among 10 ageing classmates - spouses and children in tow, the better.

There, there. It'll be all better soon.

Do you know what Bangalore's biggest problem is? It's the weather. We're spoilt brats. If the thermometer registers a 5 day blip of 2 degrees above normal, we think we're dying. When it rains for 45 minutes instead of 30, we go to pieces over it. When the winter's nice and chill, we cringe at the thought of how hot the summer could be. And then there are those memory trips that everybody goes on in April, the moment the mercury hits 35 degrees for 2 hours: "Nimgenri gothu Bengloor chali bagge! 20 varsha hinde Malleswaradal Shivrathri maLege badlu manju bilthaa ithu gothaa?" ("Whaat all you maadran peepals know I say. 20 years ago, the dosa batter at CTR would freeze saalid before hitting the tava even in midsummer. You fallow?") Has our weather really suffered such a dramatic change over the past 50 years or so?

Thankfully, it hasn't. We have.

Does anybody know which year Bangalore recorded its highest temperature (39 deg)? It was in 1931! While the met department agrees it was probably a freak occurrence, it also says that Bangalore's average summer temperatures have only gone up by a degree or so in the past 30 years. They seem unsure that it's a long lasting phenomenon, or if it is cause for real concern. But while the global picture is definitely cause for worry, can one measly degree cause this kind of mass weather hysteria among Bangaloreans today? I'm sure there's more to it. Here are my theories:

(e) Bangaloreans are incredibly paranoid about the weather. While we love bragging about it and smirking down at the sweltering plains below us, we're also the first to panic when it isn't significantly cooler than the rest of India at any given point of time. We need to be a good 8 degrees below Chennai, for example, to feel completely satisfied. Even the slightest rise in temperature makes us worry about losing our USP, and we hate that.
(n) Bangalore weather is always on the edge. Our clockwork weather pattern is worrisome. The balance between heat and rain is so delicate that we're convinced its going to go awry some day. If it doesn't rain and bring the mercury down exactly when it should, we immediately assume that the end has finally come, and run around in circles, moaning.
(o) We live in matchboxes that don't breathe naturally. The simple beat-the-heat measures like high roofs, red oxide floors, large verandahs and ventillators that our older buildings used, were excellent temperature control mechanisms.
(u) With modern conveniences at our disposal, we are willing to tolerate fewer and fewer weather eccentricities. We'd rather turn on our airconditioners at full blast, or flock into malls and theatres the moment we feel even slightly uncomfortable. We'd probably not feel this bad if we allowed our bodies to adjust to temperature changes gradually like the previous generation did, instead of confusing them by plunging in and out of supercooled zones every few hours.
(g) There's too much weather information going around. Heat related anxiety is particularly prevalent in Bangalore. We worry ourselves sick after reading the weather columns in the papers and watching the rest of the country swelter on tv, instead of facing our relatively milder summers calmly.

But since we are such a bunch of moaners, here are some simple tricks to keep cool for the next few days until the rains come:

(h) Don't forget to drink as much water as you can. Try and get used to drinking room temperature water, to help acclimatize your body to the ambient temperature.
(a) If you live on the top floor, sprinkle a bucket of water on your roof in the mornings and evenings. Makes a dramatic difference.
(l) Wear cotton. We are used to dressing up in Bangalore, because the weather normally allows us to. But for now, put your fancy numbers away. People are too exhausted to notice anyway.
(r) When you wash your face, wet the back of your neck, your ears and your inner arms. Helps you cool down dramatically.
(e) Cut out the sunlight with curtains or chiks (roll-down blinds) during the day. You could wet them too, if your home is sufficiently ventillated. Remember to roll them up at night though, or your rooms will get incredibly stuffy.
(a) Eat simple food. Rice, salads, juices, greens, yoghurt, fruits - you know, that sort of thing.
(d) Look around you and see where you can plant trees. Select spots that are likely to remain undisturbed for the next 30 years. You will never regret the small effort you took now, 10 years later. If you are not upto the task, call these people. They will do it for free.
(y) And most importantly, relax. It isn't so bad. Yet. Old Bangytown's clockwork rain usually kicks around the end of April and brings things back to normal. Until then, drink majjige and stay cool, but also think about what you can do to keep it in good ticking order.

Radio Ga Ga

They're everywhere. You can't escape them. Their incessant screaming seeps through your skull and messes with your brains. They gibber at you excitedly while you're at restaurants, malls and on your way to work. Their non-stop banter bounces off your eyeballs and lodges itself irretrievably in your psyche. Their ghoulish laughter rings in your ears hours after they've gone. They shriek in amusement as they watch you grow more and more dependent on their histrionics to tide you through your day.

What is most alarming, however, is that their numbers are swelling rapidly. The handful of RJs at Bangalore's solitary FM radio station in the early 2000s has now self-replicated to form a whole tribe of hysterical, airheaded babblers, chattering across 30 stations today. Unfortunately, I have never been able to catch a live specimen so far, to ask it the questions that I've always been dying to:

Are you sure you haven't been genetically altered? What do you have for breakfast before you let fly on the world like that? Do you sound like CDs on fast forward even when you're off work?
Will you ever have spouses? who aren't deaf-mute? Or children? How are those gonna work out if your spouses have permanent headaches from your incessant chattering? Ok I don't want to know the answer to the last one.

I must admit though, that there are a few chatterers that stand out from the maddening clamour. They gibber a little less, and make just a teeny bit more sense than the rest. This is my tribute to them. You kinda sorta make-ish my day, so, ummwell thanks.

Malavika (Radio Indigo): What! You lefta? Just like that! Why?? How can you do this to me, Bikerdude, your most adoring (and regretfully silent) fan? My mornings to work were made so much more bearable by the cheeriness of your happaladha-hittu voice. Your good humour and understated wit, especially when those obnoxious schoolkids called in and asked you to "playya song f'my muddher", were so charming. I will miss you I say. Come back! Wail!

Prithvi (Radio One): Boss, you're the man. Aha what a lovely RJ you are I say. I crown you the undisputed King of Kanglish. Your crazy humour and voice impressions are awesome. OK they're also slightly girly, but hey we like that. Oh and guy, could you ask your people to redo that jingle for your show? The one that has "Gooooood morning 'aa-Byengloora'" clunkily dubbed over the earlier 'Bangalore'? Apart from that, very good boss, congrats ok? ok.

Radha Thomas (Radio Indigo) : Sigh. When your deliciously husky voice hits the airwaves every Sunday, I stop wherever I am and listen intently. To the slightly run-of-the-mill but gorgeous jazz that you play with such coolness. Mid-middle full garagase Gayathri voice also. Aha, what a. Thank you for being born ma. Enjoy ok?

Rohit Barker (Radio Indigo) : Ahem, what can I say. You were awesome when you started, until you had that lobotomy a couple of years ago. Seriously boyo, what gives with the hysterical giggles and the brain dead jokes these days? We want the old Bright Barker back. We miss you(ish). Luckily the extra brain space seems to have been substituted with fairly good taste in music. And that Saturday thing you do with the gravelly voiced DJ whatsizname is really quite lovely, so great going!

Darius (Ex Radiocity): Well you're tough to ignore, aren't you. Taking some time off the air after all those death threats from the people you humilated during your call-in shows? Ah ok. Take, take.

Chaitanya Hegde (Ex radio city, now somewhere on a satellite): Putta, I can't say I dig your music, but your voice has a lovely reassuring tone to it that we all really like. So keep talking, but keep that finger off the play button, Ok? Ok bye.

Priya Ganapati (Ex Radiocity, now Mumbai, no?): Hai so nice. Full RJ ki Rani you were. Where you went off I say? And more importantly where did you take your awesome, awesome alter egos: Sister Stella and Lingo Leela? Boss! you guys used to make my day back then, with those slonguaze lessons and gogonut oil melodies for maaaladies. Come off back no, what is there?

Chamrajpet Charles and Prof. Ulfat Sultan (Radio One): Dude, you rock. Even a die-hard cantonment type like me can't get my dinglish to flow as smoothly as you do. 'Ow y'all manije so well I dunno men buggeh. Muss'be all dose quarters and bubba curries y'all eat hevery week, neh? What-tever you say baba, when I meet you I'll take off one xerox of your foot and hang it off on my wall only. Oi teri xerox ka taanga! Much love.

Sheetal Iyer and Vasanthi (Where are you these days ma?): Aiyo, sweeties you are I say. Sweetal and Pleasanty you can change off your names to, no? Nice job OK? Oaakay.

And finally, my all time favourites:
The nameless RJs on All India Radio (AIR) FM:
Dear saars and medams,

Kindly note that I am terribly in love with all of you. I am fascinated by your polished, measured tones, resultant of decades of practice in the dharna tent with an apricot seed in either cheek. I am highly entertained by your tinkly genteel laughter whenever any of your readers from Kaval Byrasandra sends in a joke. The detailed explanations provided after each joke are greatly appreciated by goldfish embryos, rock dwellers, politicians and waiters at Mocha.

Thanks to your intelligent discussions on various fascinating subjects during the Rajkumar favourites hour, my knowledge on piles, streptococcal infections and commercial chakkotha cultivation has advanced immensely.

I realize that you have approximately 88,743 hours of flute recitals in your archives, and am only too happy to listen to them incessantly, at the risk of going slightly mad at 7 every evening. I even approve of your long stoic silences between songs, when I assume you take your well-deserved tea breaks.

Live long and prosper, AIR, I love you. OK? OK.

As for the rest of you:
I'm not saying you aren't good. I'm not saying you are, either.