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February 05 Lonely in your Absence... I close my eyes, I see her from behind ...
Her hair is a moonless night, darkest and yet serenely peaceful
She turns around ...
And the moon appears... only clearer than the celestial one
She sees me ...
Two twinkling stars... innocently enticing me into its depths
Asking of me mischievous questions without uttering a word
Or is it my imagination
She smiles ...
Her smouldering radiance... igniting smiles on other faces around
She moves ...
Her grace, she's a falling snowflake, a flowing river
She approaches ...
Her scent... a hundred roses would feel inadequate
With her hands, she gestures to me...
Magic wands waving mesmerising arcs through the air
Like a fly, I'm drawn to her flame ...
A flame that can consume me, I'm aware
Unable to withdraw, not wanting to either
An embrace in it is worth a painful death
I reach out ...
Just as I take that leap of faith
She stops, having put on a mysterious mask
A glint in her dancing eyes, I can't comprehend
An evasive smile, that suddenly feels different
She turns around, and walks away.
I'm scalded, and yet not consumed
I've fallen, and yet not lastingly broken
With scars, that I'm sure will eventually fade
But for now, it hurts, this loneliness ... December 05 Everyone looks like Rajesh... ... is the name of this sitcom I'm going to produce one day, on the lines of those American ones with a laughter soundtrack played at the end of every punch line, so the people watching know when to start laughing. And this sitcom is going to be based on a true story - mine. Wondering what I'm talking about? As a prelude, as per the tamilians, with the numerous tamil movies I've seen as reference ofcourse, there are seven individuals in the world who look exactly alike. So, like you and me, there are six others, residing in some corner of the world, and this is the tale of how I got to trace them, well, most of them.
It all started in school, where this lovely classmate and friend of mine was a huge fan of Shahrukh Khan. And she felt I looked a lot like him. Now whether she was friends with me because I resembled Shahrukh Khan or she said I resembled Shahrukh Khan because she wanted to be friends with me, I know not., though I do secretly wish it was the latter. And after all these years, since we are even closer friends now, I presume the similarity must have only grown.
So hey, I'm a Shahrukh clone, I can use that to score on some girls, yeah! With that thought, I proceeded to college life. One night at the hostel, out of the blue one hostelmate says (probably it was the alcohol in him talking),
'Hey, look at Rajesh (though the exact word he used to address me wasn't that decent), doesn't he resemble Shahrukh Khan a lot?'
The state he was in I wouldn't have been surprised if he felt I looked like Queen Victoria, but I was still briefly elated only to be put down by another remark from somewhere,
'Yeah, Shahrukh Khan who just fell down a chimney and got burnt all over'.
Ok, so I'm dark. But that put an end to my 'Shahrukh Khaning', if you know what I mean.
And so the legend goes on to say how I survived through college, ofcourse with a lot more embarrassing moments than this, onto professional life. One such day at work at a customer's site, as was usual I was sitting idle in office in the midst of a romantic chat with a cute online friend, with a webcam, mic, headphones and all the paraphernalia (sorry folks, my company isn't recruiting at the moment), when she abruptly says,
'Hey, turn a little to the left... good, now a little to the right... oh my god'.
I ask, 'What happened?'
'You know what? You look a lot like my uncle . Infact, you look just like him, only a little younger'
No use pursuing this girl now. But god bless her for mentioning the 'younger' part.
Another day in Mauritius, I'm out for a stroll and a shopping spree, all during work hours again (sorry guys, my comapny really isn't recruiting). Am at the book section of this supermarket, with one eye on the books and another on the security guard (by the way, why do they always come running if you spend more than half an hour on one book?) In comes a girl of about sixteen or so, with a group of her friends, all in school uniform. She sees me, looks suddenly guilty, and with a nervous smile starts introducing me as her brother to her friends. Just as I wonder why my mom and dad never mentioned about their trip to Mauritius, she stops short, takes a look at my clothes, looks at me more closely and breaks into a giggling fit. As it is, I'm all nerves playing hide and seek with the security guard, now this and I'm all ready to run. Finally she squeaks out, 'I'm so sorry, I thought you were my brother, you look just like him'.
Aah, but ofcourse. I should have known.
Right! So, I get on with my exciting life and move on to Chennai. Since I think I have a good chance of reducing my waist size (and my shrink thinks he has a good chance of curing me of such fantasies), I invest a little of my hardly earned money at a local gym. The second or third evening there, a trainer walks over and with an embarrassed smile asks,
'Hello sir, what is your name? Do you have a twin brother or something?'
Yes, quadruples infact... one is a movie star, another an uncle to a pretty lady of my age, and another a brother of a little girl in Mauritius. But I say, 'No, I don't. Why do you ask?'
'Sir, you won't believe this, but I have a friend who looks exactly like you'
Yes, right. Now thats something I wouldn't believe.
'He walks like you, he talks like you, it's almost like you'll were twins' ... quintuplets my friend, quintuplets.
Well atleast all five are apparently doing well. You know, somehow it's a relief to know one of us isn't blowing himself up in some cave in Afghanistan or starving to death in some desert in Africa or unthawing himself somewhere in Siberia, call it brotherly love or whatever you want. And as for the remaining two... like my actor brother says in some movie, 'to remain elusive... yeh to mushkil nahin... na mumkin hai'. October 23 The case of the missing underwear Inspired from my good friend Nishant's blog, I've decided to put down in writing those wonderful moments from college and hostel life that have so far only been carried around in a very fond part of my mind. And as is the case for everyone else, these moments aren't few, and hence its only fair to have an entire category created for them.
So, having accomplished this without too many complications, I move onto the first entry, 'The case of the missing underwear'. In contrast to what the title impresses, the incident didn't warrant, nor receive any eminent investigative officers or their skills. It wouldn't justify a national uproar either. Therefore, before you call in your office mates swatting flies around you, to take a look, do read through the whole thing. (I do find it necessary to lay out these right now, for, the way our country is going, we don't need much to create a national crisis, do we)
Hostel life is one where you learn management skills of the kind that aren't taught in any of those sought after B - schools. Managing to survive on an empty toothpaste pack for a month and a half, using iron boxes, suitcases and college text books to coax the paste out of, managing to bathe morning and night with your neighbour's soap, ofcourse without his knowledge, bathings skills to wash your body from head to toe in a quarter bucket of water and storing the rest for the following day, and ofcourse managing to keep your clothes washed, both outer and inner, with neither detergent, nor the time. With this as the norm, it isn't surprising to find in every guy's room, a growing heap of underwear dying to be washed. Then what happens to the trousers or shirts or t-shirts, one might ask noticing only the underwears mentioned. No, I do not have any kinky attraction to underwears. Instead, I must add that the average period of use of a shirt between two washes is atleast a month, and for trousers, atleast a couple of months. Socks, handkerchiefs and other such non-conspicuous items aren't washed at all. They're only put out of use if stolen, lost or torn into too many bits that can't be put together. Underwear too are inconspicuous (atleast in those days, when it wasn't yet the trend for trousers to start from halfway down the ass), but then our motto was always, 'A clean crotch leads to a peaceful mind (in college, that is)'.
We have in hostel two kinds of people. One is the kind who are meticulous and well planned, who take stock of their clothes, dirty and clean, press them, stitch them or steal them well in time before the monday morning blues begin. And inevitably, the second is the kind who are too busy over the weekends, watching the latest movie or playing from morning to evening or simply sleeping away with alarm-interrupted breaks for breakfast, lunch and dinner. It is this latter kind that have the most hectic of monday mornings. The tooth brush is missing, the towel is missing, the bucket is missing, and the water supply's stopped. Having endured these tiny hurdles bravely, the hunt for clothes begins. Thus goes their lives.
The same it was in our lovely hostel too. I'd like to mention that I was part of the former kind, as were my room mates, Rohith and Prasad (I shared a room with two guys, just cause I loved their company). Whereas our immediate neighbour (whose name I wouldn't mention for physical reasons again) were of the latter kind. Now by some divine fortune, I dry my innerwear some place far away, while Rohith uses the window bars to hang his. I must mention here that it makes a pretty good sight this, when seen from the hostel grounds, especially at night. Anyway, one such monday morning, having ensured that all clothes are ready for wear, from underwear, banian, shirt, trouser and footwear, Rohith along with Prasad and myself went to the mess for our vitalising breakfast.
On our return, all was well until Rohith started dressing up. The underwear was gone. It had simply vanished. He first thought it must have got blown away in the wind down to the grounds below. But a quick trip down there revealed no underwear. Then we three began a frantic search in all cupboards, drawers and suitcases. Still no underwear. And our usually late neighbours seemed to have left for college pretty early. So, we couldn't ask them either to help us. Now, I wouldn't specify if Rohith finally had a spare underwear or if he didn't wear any that day to college, cause thats for him to clarify. But we finally gave up on the search and decided to leave for college.
In the evening, after an uneventful college day, as we were sitting around trying to solve the mystery of the missing underwear, in comes our neighbour. He dutifully strips down to his briefs, shows Rohith that his underwear had been in a safe place all day long, on his waist that is, thanks him for the opportunity to wear it, and with a promise of handing it over the next day properly washed and pressed, leaves. To this day, as far as my memory goes, though the mystery was solved, Rohith never got another glimpse of that precious piece of cloth. I only hope, wherever it is, it isn't too uncomfortable. Needless to say, Rohith promptly discontinued his ornamenting of the window bars. September 20 And I walked through glass... No, I'm not a saint or a yogi, or atleast not yet, considering the fact that I'm still unmarried. It's just that I have this weird tendency to try and walk through glass. I'm talking about these glass doors, you see. The other day, along with a colleague of mine, I went to Pondicherry. Speaking of Pondicherry, that reminds me. The traffic there is worth special mention. The vehicles go on the road, period. There's nothing more to it. By 'the road' I include the left side, the right side, the pavements and the medians in the centre. As far as I can see, the only way to drive safely through Pondicherry is to keep one leg on the brake and the other on the gas, one hand on the horn and the other covering your face, especially since the people there take it as an insult to their entire family tree when you honk at them.
Anyway, somehow we reach this posh hotel with this cute receptionist sitting there prim and proper. We're the dudes from Chennai (,the Metropolitan if I may mention) visiting lowly Pondicherry, aren't we. So, we put out our chests, hold our heads high and enquire about the room rates and if the hotel has this facility and that facility, stuff that we'd never utilise even dead drunk. Finally we settle for a room much to the relief of the flustered receptionist, and I walk out to tell the porter which bags to bring up.
BANG !!! Birds and stars everywhere, funny taste in my mouth and a loud drilling in my ears. I just walked through the hotel all-glass front door. Luckily the glass didn't break, so we didn't have to sleep on the beach. Gathering all my senses, I covered my face in my hands, partly due to the pain, but mainly so that the other public don't see who this blind joker was. My clothes I could change lest they recognise it was me, but my face? Ofcourse I could have used this cream on the markets these days that can turn a gorilla into Tom Cruise in a week's time, but the idea didn't strike me then. And as the hotel staff gathered around to see if everything was alright and to give medical aid, I threw a glance at the receptionist. Poor girl, she was trying her best to look concerned while trying not to choke stifling her laughter.
Now, the point here is not this instance of embarrassment. If that were the case, I'd bring out an entire series that'd put these television serial story writers to shame. Unfortunately the issue is my tendency, or more aptly, my inclination towards glass doors and obstacles. Believe it or not, this wasn't the first such incident. About five years ago, at my company office, I was leaving for the day when I had to impress this cute receptionist at the door. Having asked her a stupidly obvious question, I finished it off with a smart ass quote and walked away exactly like James Bond does (atleast I thought so), an eye on her to catch that impressed look, when BANG !!! (the rest, you already know)
The best part is, the Commercial Manager sitting nearby comes out running and tells me very solemnly, 'It's a very expensive door. You could also get hurt doing these things'. 'Yeah right sir, I have this passionate hobby of running myself into closed doors to see how far they swing on impact'. Anyway, I didn't have the heart to retort back lest I see the receptionist's face. Ignoring the pain, I ran away quickly in embarrassment.
So, you see, the problem is confirmed now. Put together a cute receptionist, myself, a glass door and a concrete barricade in between and I'd still end up walking right into that glass door. I've even compiled a law for this, which goes as - 'In the vicinity of a beautiful lady in a reception, the presence of a glass partition, will lead me in a weird motion, directly into the glass partition, leading to sudden changes in physical composition causing acute excruciation' (ofcourse, with all due respect for Sir Isaac Newton and Galileo and the rest of the gang). Anyone reasearching into airbags for glass doors? Just asking. July 06 Kill the Females Trends aren't set just in the cities. For the past century and a half, a very bad trend is being followed in the remote villages and towns in India, and perhaps even in the cities. The trend of killing the unborn female child. Obviously this is an age old issue, and I just read an article on it. Saddening, to say the least.
We men need women right from the day we're born. Before anything else, we need a woman to bring us to this world. We need them to feed us, to take care of our childhood needs and tantrums, to sing us to sleep, to wash our dirty clothes and make our unkempt beds, to console us when we're sad or angry...well, it goes on and on like a Sooraj Barjatya movie. Breaking the eggshells of childhood, and emerging into the adult world, we need women in new roles. As a friend, as a crush, as someone to drool after and flirt with, as a soulmate and finally as a wife, to live with for the rest of our lousy lives.
And then the attitude takes an about turn. We no more need the women. It is like we have suddenly woken up from some hidden confinement and decide its enough. Henceforth, we shall make do with males. And so, every one of us wants a male child, a Son. A son who will sit on your shoulders, lovingly boisterous and take on the world for you. A son who will make his dad proud one day and take forth the 'khandhaan parampara' and business into the future. And the sad part is that the wife or mother feels the same. 'I want a son, just like his papa.' or 'I want a grandson just like my son'.
I quote from that article the view of a woman from a village in Gujarat, 'Raising a female child is like watering your neighbour's plant'. There are some things that can be slowly amended with time, for instance education for women or abolishing child labour. But with this basic attitude towards bringing up your own daughter, I doubt if anything can even be attempted. On a lighter note, being the perpetual bachelor, my main worry is if there will be any women left for me to marry. Even more worrying is if there will be a girl to marry my son to (yes, I'm aware I mentioned son here, but please note that given a choice, I'd go for a daughter). The funny part is gay relations and marriages among men is more prevalent in those other countries where the sex ratio is hardly a problem, while in our country lesbianism is much more prevalent, further diminishing our dwindling stock of eligible women.
So, what is the reason for all this? Obviously it is the maintenance costs of a female (sorry for putting it so bluntly ladies). Honestly in any society, the female child digs a bigger hole in the pockets than the male. Fashion accessories for the female body are a hundred fold more than the male version, both in quantity and cost. And in our Indian society, we still live with another old evil called dowry (the bride's family compulsorily having to give money or expensive gifts to the groom's family at the time of engagement or marriage). Therefore, the family of the girl child needs to start saving with these in mind, right from the day the daughter is born. Then there are the social stigmas, safety issues, what with all those desperate male bastards galavanting the streets. Anyway, the problems are another whole issue by themselves.
And the solution? Abolish dowry for starters. Guys, shouldn't you be ashamed at taking money from a girl? Comeon, where are your male egotisms when needed? And thinking about it logically, shouldn't you be the one paying something to the girl's family in return for taking away their daughters?
Then we could educate the women about their rights in all those far flung villages and make life for women as good as for the men (I know the respective bodies have already started out on these). I'd even go on to suggest government sponsored, free porn shows for those desperate male bastards like us to reduce those desperation levels somewhat. And while we are at it, let's get more men to have gay relationships and lets get those lesbian women to take a look at us perpetual bachelors. Yeah, I know these are some crazy ideas, but what the hell, I'm not asking to be voted to the Prime Minister's office am I?. Atleast the point is made.
PS: Please do not let the humour and the quips divert any attention away from this serious issue. A female child is as good as a male child, if not better. Please do not kill our future lovely ladies.
Here's the link to the article -
May 26 Flirt with WarFlashes of light from far exploding shells intermittent in disorder
Reminding of the violence in the surroundings, lest it may be forgotten
Drum beats rolling of the soldiers' boots marching in the distance
Trampling in condescension upon newly conquered soils
Bullets shrieking through the air towards people and property alike
Striking down with force with neither prejudice, nor mercy
With each distant blast, are buildings trembling violently
As I cower in my rat hole in fear, trembling along
And then I see her, so close and yet almost a lifetime away
As she unsettles, sheds her veil and lifts up her face
Through the cracked glass panes, across the wartorn, deserted street
Into the bullet ridden window of my place of shelter, her eye catches mine.
For the briefest of moments, in peace, the surrounding chaos is forgotten
What do I see in them, is it fear of death or is it grief for the dead
Is it concern for a dependent or in despair of solitude
And then in one honest moment, she reveals to me and I see
The fury in those eyes burning against those that dared to oppress
The resignation in those eyes, resignation to what she must do
And even as I comprehend the justness of it all, she blows herself
In an explosion I never heard, in a blinding light I never saw,
But her image so near and yet almost a lifetime away
Etched in me forever.
May 25 My Mind, My Body and I I have had a revelation. No wait, I have had 'the' revelation. I have been enlightened comme la Gauthama Budha. This one didn't take place under a bodhi tree though, but the rate at which I'm making these revelations during office time, I will end up under some tree very soon. The revelation is that my body and my mind do not get along well. My body seems to have a mind of it's own, and my mind has no mind over matter, I mean latter. Help!!! It has been a while since I've been getting little hints, but now its all as clear as night and day (not if you're in Mumbai, ie, what with all that pollution)
Take for instance the incident when I was at this bus stop, and there was this really huge lady smartly parked next to me. I looked at her, and our eyes met. And then for no reason, my eyes winked. No, I won't say I winked. I never wanted to wink there. And the last thing my mind wants is to wink and get beaten up in front of ten other people on a busy road in a bus stop by a really huge lady. But then, the eyes winked. Thankfully I got this brainwave suddenly and I acted out an oscar winning performance feigning optical invasion from a flying bird. Atleast that is what she must have thought looking at the gimmicks.
Or take for instance this other day on the soccer field. Some pele of the opposite team smacks the ball straight to my face. I can see it coming, and I recollect my mind screaming 'Duck, Duck, Duck you moron, Duck', while my body simply stood there watching the ball all the way as it rocketed into my face. And at the end of the day, who suffers with those bruised lips? Poor me. Talk about third party turmoil.
The best part is when it comes to speech, especially if it is to a pretty girl I want to impress. My mind thinks up a nice opening line, good enough to impress even the snottiest one. As I make the approach, the mind's playing out all possible variations of responses and more wisecracks to counter them. But just as I reach the damsel, my body starts to back out. It starts to sweat all over. Then the fingers start to shake. The eyes start to bulge and scatter suspicious looks here and there. The mouth goes dry and the tongue stays rooted. So what she turns and looks into is a gaping retard, with a dumb smile who's just stepped out of the lunatic ward. If she doesn't scream then, she sure will once the spoonerisms and other slips of the rooted tongue start coming out. Sigh. If only the two could learn to cooperate, many a damsel would be eating off my hands.
Meanwhile my mind ain't all that innocent either. On it's part, it often comes up with all these silly ideas trying to fulfill which, gets me into a lot of trouble. For instance, after watching Mission Impossible the other day, my mind starts to think that I am Tom Cruise. And I get convinced of the same and fly around like a stud, glaring menacingly at every other guy on the road and looking at ladies with a swagger and that knowing smile. 'Hey baby, yeah. How's it going? How about a ... you know *wink*' (that wink being my own doing). This effect is also experienced in the midst of alcohol, especially when the drink is in my inner midst. And then I come crashing down when he replies with his hands (like he just exploded), or she replies with a 'Hey joker, take a look at the mirror will ya? Hmmmpfff ' (like she just imploded). Again whose ego is hurt? Poor mine.
Anyway, now that the problem has been identified, the next step is to find a solution. That is what I'm working on at the moment. I tried meditation, but when I tried to explain that to my boss, he only glared at me and walked off mutterring something about sleeping in office hours or something like that. And that was the end of that. But a solution find I will and till then I won't mind the body and I won't body over the mind.
Peace !!! May 22 Mobile's the Word What an invention the mobile phone is. Enables one to always be reachable by friends, can be used as a fashion accessory, can be used to display financial status, capabilities and eccentricities, can play you good music, can keep you entertained with games, can even keep lonely housewives company when used in vibrator mode in different nooks and crannies of the human body, ahem. And I haven't even covered a quarter of their uses.
Back in those days (when I say 'those days', I mean the good old days, old being the catch word), one was lucky to have a simple phone at home. Yes, a fixed phone (but these days even they aren't fixed anymore). I still remember many years back when we got our first telephone connection at home after more than a year of applying and waiting. Everytime it rang, it was pure elation. All family members came running out leaving whatever we were doing, to take in the marvel. It was looked at with awe and given more respect than certain family members, and only dad was only allowed to handle the instrument. Such was the reverence.
And then people were seen carrying around suitcases that they claimed to be phones. That is when mobiles came into being used, I guess. I had a very rich friend, son of a jewellery merchant, and he used to carry one of these suitcases. In those days, it was more like an Bond gizmo. One was allowed to look at it and if lucky, caress it. Nothing more. And as per him, calls were so expensive then that one rarely used them, unless in a total emergency, such as when you're hit by a car and are flying through the air, or ur halfway down the throat of a crocodile, and...well, you get the hang of it, right?
Then I moved onto college and hostel life. Now hostel life for every individual (except if you're a Tata or Birla or an Ambani) is a period of poverty. However much money you receive from home at the beginning of the month, it's the law of hostel science that at the end of it, you're back to those cheap and tasteless but filling 'thattu dosas' , half used cigarette and beedi butts and local, adulterated-with-everything-under-the-sun liquor. Obviously a local call from a land phone to a girlfriend or friend was a special occassion. Under the circumstances, owning a mobile was totally out of the question, especially since you had to carry it with you even to take a shit for fear of someone stealing it, and worse, having to pay for the prepaid cards shelling out all your meagre belongings. And yet, one classmate of mine got one from his dad as a gift. I suppose that was the only mobile phone in the entire college campus. The way it was being used was very interesting though. No calls were answered, and strictly none were made. The instrument was usually taken out when in the presence of pretty ladies, or to have some fun with friends making digital noises and playing games, until one day someone decided to have a say and stole it.
Those were the days. Now every rickshaw puller, taxi driver, car mechanic and beggar on the road has a mobile. They come in all shapes and sizes. You can take snaps with them, make porn movies with them, play and record rock and roll, access the internet, trigger bombs, perhaps even light a cigarette and carry a peg of your favourite beverage. A pickup line in a pub goes like, 'Hey, what's your mobile?' or 'Hello, I have a friend and she has a Nokia. What about you?'. Take a look below at what happens in a mobile store.
Guy walks in.
'Hey there, show me your latest mobile model please.'
'Sure, here you are. It's got polyphonic ringtones, five games with java downloadable option, screensaver, clock, calendar and diary, plays FM and MP3, has got MMS, WAP, GPRS, EDGE, 3G capability, still camera, video camera with and without zoom, calculator, car alarm, a shaving razor, torch and swiss knife. Can be worn on your sleeve, shirt, wrist, neck, belt or bum. All this with one week battery life and comes in hundred different colours and twenty different shapes.'
'Errr... can I make and receive calls on it?'
'Oh, I'm sorry sir, none of our customers have asked that before. I don't really know...'
'Never mind, I'll take it. It goes well with my attitude and that is what matters'.
Nothing more to say.
May 12 AblutionThe mist clears, the dust has settled and finally the eye can see
Images that were till now blurred, sights that are suddenly clairvoyant
The din finally fades as the last of the echoes too reluctantly make way to
Ear shattering silence intermittently pierced by cries of the creatures of flesh
Wafting through the air the faint odours of fear and the strong stench of death
That bring to mind, those terrible moments to relive, even against my struggles
Thousands of lives, hundreds of thousands of little dreams, withered away
In a moment's notice, and yet sparing the unlucky few to agonise in the memories
The strength I feel no more, it is an effort to take a breath, to even exist
As the haze lifts further, I see many heads slowly lifting up from the carnage
Their efforts to survive against the odds mirroring my own
Just as we give in, helpless and too weak to survive or protest, accepting what may come
The clouds part and the skies open, as if mercifully, moved by all it beheld
The sun shines through, immersed in brightness, rays seeking every niche to reach
Strangely washing away the impure with its glow, the sorrows with its warmth
And I lie here under that warmth, peaceful at last, and purified. May 10 An Insomniac's Dream... ...was how a long lost and recently found, good friend of mine described my blog. I took it as a compliment, pleased as punch. And then I looked up the word 'insomniac' - 'Someone who cannot sleep'. Now what does someone who cannot sleep really crave for? Sleep, obviously. Now the punch took an all new meaning. Was the blog so boring that it put insomniacs to sleep? Anyway, there on I stopped thinking more about it, one of those things I picked up from an eccentric friend. Anyway, but this is just another way to neatly get into talking about sleep, or rather lack of it.
In the past, I used to sleep like a baby, or so my mother says. Am not talking about my life in diapers, cause then it would be pretty weird to not sleep like a baby, wouldn't it? Am talking about as recent as a couple of years back, when I still used to sleep like a baby. And no, I don't mean in diapers. Apparently I used to sleep so soundly, that as per my mom, the whole house could come down and I'd hardly miss a breath. And the worst thing she says is when the others around cannot sleep due to my snoring. Ofcourse, I don't believe a word of that, I have never seen it happen. On a serious note, isn't it strange that people are easily awakened by others snoring around them, but their own snoring, however loud, never awakens them? My theory is that each of us snore at different frequencies and thus our body becomes immune to our own frequencies, however large the magnitude. (if u didn't notice, I am kidding there).
And even in the post-employed period, things weren't different. During those official trips to different cities in India, I was always the one who held up the party with my tardiness. Not trusting the whimpering alarm on my phone, I entrust the hotel receptionist to wake me up. The poor beings must have dialled my room till their fingers ached before I wake up. So, at this moment, let me take a pause and thank all those hotel receptionists for their strenous workouts. And when I settled down into this apartment in Mauritius, the land lady who also kept the house took it upon herself to ensure that I wake up to reach office atleast on time for lunch. Since she cannot enter my bedroom, thankfully too, she wakes me up by knocking on the bedroom door at first, then slowly graduating to pounding and finally to ripping down the door off its hinges. Those were the days, sigh.
So then, why is it that now I can no more sleep in peace, or like that baby? Often I go to bed very early, keen to catch a good rest and keep tossing and turning around, going over things that have been done, of things that need to be done, of ups and lows of the day, month, year and life and every other worthless thing, before I finally get to sleep. And even then, I find myself waking up in the dead of night, for no apparent reason, to resume my tossing and turning around antics. Atleast the old habits persist as far as the snoring goes, according to my present colleague and flat-mate. Though I still refuse to believe a word of it. Apparently the problems of life have gotten important enough to creep in and deprive me of my sleep and peace.
As we grow older, it is inevitable that our problems grow with us. Many of these can be quite sober, grave or life-influencing. But the stupid ones among us take them to bed, and thus lose their peace. Let me attempt a quote here, 'Problems are like television sets. Once you get them into your bedroom, they never get out, and they take up all your sleep'. Hmmm, pathetic, even by my standards. Anyway, I guess its time I got a little smart, leave my problems outside the bedroom door, put on my diapers and hit the bed. And snoring? Who's snoring? April 21 The Sheep in Lion's Skin Strange are these dreams lately, fighting my way through a lot of people, fighting for my life or for plain pride. And no matter how hard I hit, they hardly seem to feel it. And as the blows grow and the adrenaline rushes and the heart pumps harder and the blood rushes faster, I wake up. Too excited to sleep again, I lie there analysing the things past, both within the dream and without, in life. If only I'd taken that chance, knowing fully well that it would work, but still didn't, I could have triumphed. I kick myself for not taking that chance, even in a dream. And yet another night, yet another such dream, yet another fight and yet again I don't take that chance. Pathetic !!!
I know I'm physically strong enough. But what can physical strength do without a mental strength to drive you forward? Childhood phases growing up being taught to obey, respect and not ask questions - are they responsible for what I am? Always worried about hurting someone badly or getting hurt myself - is tthat the reason? Or is the fact that either of that would always end up with more punishment at home for me - is that the factor? And what does a little physical harm do? It is not going to kill. But nay. Ego or too much pride is not something a person like me can afford to live with.
The first few days in college, bracing myself to face the ragging, I never felt the fear. But still, the very next day, when I was offered a chance to live away from the hostel safe from the ragging beasts, I took the easy way out. Why? And then when I return back to those hostel corridors again and when I feel both threatened and ostracised by my own batchmates, I feel the fright? I know I'm strong to handle it physically, but why is the mind letting me down? Do people understand if I tell them it is the way I was brought up? To avoid violence at all costs, to be the nice guy and take a slap and go away? Perhaps that was not the way I was intended to be, but that is the way I have turned out, I guess. I couldn't afford to throw away everything, risk being expelled or suspended from college to take part in some fist fight to satiate my pride or to justify my raging hormones. I had a family to take care of, and I still do. A family who depend on me being the nice guy who takes the slap without protest. And these guys, once friends, walking hand in hand, now trample all over me? And yet, I watch helpless, too shocked to react. Or is it really shock, or fear that ties my hands together?
So much for being the peace loving, nice guy. What does the nice guy get anyway? The world adores violence, they look up to the one who makes the most noise, whose voice reaches the farthest, no matter if it makes sense or not. The most violent person, the more the gory, the more the pain he inflicts and takes, he is the hero. While the weak at heart and weak at mind, irrespective of all their physique and fitness can go to hell. Its the mind that matters and that rules, and no one cares if it is responsibilities that keep you down? The sad part is that in life, responsibilities never cease. If one lessens, another rises up from nowhere, equally unrelenting in restrictions. So then when do I take the chance? When do I learn to stand up for what I want and for what is mine by right? Why does this heart beat faster and these hands start to shake when I take something that belongs to me? Why do I feel like giving in more often than not, and yet, later on, feel like the coward who didn't stand his ground?
Questions, so many. Will I get an answer for them? Time will tell. But why am I waiting for time? Why don't I take the chance? April 10 My Deer Salman Salman Khan, or should I say Mr. Salman Khan, a very well known and one of the leading actors of Bollywood, was today sentenced to five years rigorous imprisonment for shooting and killing a black buck or chinkari (breed of deer). Apparently this was an endangered species in India and shooting it is considered illegal. Honestly I didn't know this fact. Thank god for people like Salman Khan who frequently remind us, the public, of the things we're not supposed to do.
But before all this, I would like to apologise, if not to the reader, atleast to my conscience, for even considering this development worthy enough to come in my blog under the News and Politics section, and that too when I haven't considered any other development that has taken place over the past year interesting enough to write about. But I guess that is the magenitism of the film industry, which is why such bad examples of human beings like Mr. Khan continue to not just survive, but thrive.
To be fair to him, perhaps that is precisely why he may be so severely punished. In my opinion, if any one among the other one billion and still copulating ordinary, working class Indians had committed this crime, there wouldn't be so much media attention on the issue. Which is why perhaps the judicial system was forced to abide so strictly by the law (Do you ask me if the judicial system doesn't strictly abide by the law? Do I even have to answer that?) and grant Mr. Khan such a severe sentence. Isn't it true that we as humans, seem to feel this sort of cruel elation on seeing a very popular or famous person suffer, or fall down in disgrace. In some sort of strange way, their tribulations tend to evoke those emotions, passions and opinions in us, that would otherwise lie dormant till eternity. And so has been the case with poor Mr. Khan too I'm sure. Ofcourse I love this earth and all this greenery and all the animals in it. And as for deer, I love them, especially when cooked in a thick coconut sauce. And jokes apart, I'd love to see these graceful creatures roam around in the woods, in our neighbourhoods and in our homes. But to receive five years rigorous imprisonment for killing one of them is in my opinion, stretching our already far fetched laws even further.
In the same breath, I feel Mr. Khan should be punished not for killing the deer, but for his utter disregard to the laws and rules that we ordinary citizens are brought up to recognise and live by. I don't know this person personally, nor have I heard anything about him from any reliable sources (assuming those film magazines to be reliable is like assuming George Bush's views on Iraq as true). But I have, in my brief stay at Mauritius, been 'fortunate' to catch a glimpse of him during a film shoot. I was really impressed with the guy for his looks, his style and the way he went about amusing the crowd, till this one point, that is. Mr. Khan was smoking a cigarette, and strutting around to his allocated location for the shoot. Just when all things were ready, he called one of the spot boys, and just like it was the most natural thing to do, threw the burning cigarette for him to catch and keep custody. The poor boy caught it, juggling it between his burning palms, and managed to keep it aside.
Now I don't believe in telling other people how to run their lives, or in preaching to them to be role models for society. But that incident put Mr. Salman Khan out of my good books and into the brat category. So, I'm not really surprised that he shot a few bucks, both to get into and out of jail (pun acting on bucks, if you didn't grasp), perhaps being well aware of the consequences. Or he could have been just as ignorant as any other Indian layman regarding the rules and laws of the country. Whatever it is, I think it is time Mr. Khan was taught a few niceties of life. And I think a few years in jail will sure do him a hell lot of good. Atleast it did for another person who goes by the name of Sanjay Dutt. But as usual, thats another tale. March 31 The Charms of India India is a diverse country, with multi lingual people following many different religions, people who come in all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life, and last but certainly not the least multi talented. For someone who's not acquainted with this place, whether a foreigner or an NRI living abroad, coming back to India is a nightmare. Once here, the ill prepared and those who refuse to 'come down to earth' will learn a lot of lessons. Which is what happened to me when I decided to return back for good, to settle down in the land of my forefathers.
The education started right from the very moment I landed. Inspired by the Hollyood movies, where the gorgeous heroine calls for the taxi, and while the taxi waits for eternity, she has her arguments or cliched kisses or her monthly periods with the charming hero, I too hailed a taxi at the airport, put in my bags and spent hardly a moment saying goodbyes and related quotes to my friends. Now the Mumbai police are on the lookout for a black taxi carrying three stolen suitcases. Luckily, thanks to the airport authorities who misplaced my fourth bag, which was eventually found abandoned on another flight, I'm not entirely devoid of some clothes to wear for the time being.
Having learn that lesson, another day I decided to take the train. Seeing just one person at the ticket counter, I politely stood behind him. I finallly got my ticket a couple of hours later, well past the train departure time. The counter guy was helpful, he told me at the end of it all that the queues there don't go in straight lines, they go in clusters. The good thing is that I didn't miss the train either, apparently it was running late by a day and four hours. These days I take the bus.
And one such day on the bus, I saw this vacant seat next to this pretty lady, and sat there. That day I learnt that not only the conductor, driver and other male passengers, but even the ladies of Chennai are well versed in obscenities. Plus my ancestors must have been quite famous, for these people had a lot of 'interesting' things to say about them, right from my great great grandfather to my dad. Atleast I was more fortunate than my very americanised friend. He reportedly went to a wedding and hugged the groom. He proceeded to do the same to the bride, is the last I heard. His funeral was a nice and quiet little affair.
Anyway, by now I'd decided to drive on my own. My doctor, a heart specialist, has advised me against extremely shocking or frightening issues, else I could have elaborated more on those experiences. But I can say that I now believe in miracles and guardian angels. And did you know that all Indian drivers are professional stuntsmen, or that all vehicles in India are manufactured without brakes, the space being taken up to fit in extra noise making devices, or that running a few fellow road users off the road, (and if they don't oblige, running over them) is perfectly acceptable as long as it doesn't slow you down? Well, now I do.
One of the things that hits you the hardest here is the weather. Most of the time it is stifling hot and very humid. Takes a while getting used to. So I went to the beach to take a dip. I couldn't enter the water, for as soon as I stripped down to my trunks, I was promptly arrested by a couple of cops. Apparently some women belonging to the Southern division of the Thane division of the Mumbai division of the Maharashtra division of the Hindu division of the Women's Holy Organisation against Revolting Exposures of India (proudly abbreviated to WHOREs of India, I was diffidently told) lodged a complaint. It seems that when they looked long enough at my trunks, it brought to their minds certain improper thoughts. I spent the night in jail, which is how I got acquainted with this infamous pickpocket expert.
He was a nice fellow, well educated too with a doctorate in something. Apparently he didn't know enough big shots to get a job, and his classmate who liked the lessons so much in school that he decided to stay behind for five more years, was now too big a politician to approach for help. Anyway, he gave me a few tips to protect my money from other pickpockets, following which, from that day on I always carried my money in my underwear, until one day that too was picked. This guy was either too vain or over confident, for he had left behind his contact card and a rose. And the whole time I thought the itching was from the poor quality underwear (not surprising really, since I got it from a busy pavement market for twenty rupees by the kilo).
I immediately went to the cops. Not to complain about the underwear, but about the guy who picked them. The cops asked me to pay them something that came to twice the amount that was stolen. I refused. So they jeered at me and sent me to bring proof that I didn't rob the money myself. I laughed out loud. So they put me in jail and beat me up. Someone told me the next day's papers carried my photo with the caption, 'Smuggling kingpin and Mafia don found'. I was to be taken to the court, but on the way the vehicle broke down. The hawaldars were sound asleep to take notice. So I jumped out and ran. Some cops started shooting, but their guns were so good, they missed me and killed a stray cow that was galavanting on the road. Those cops are now more wanted criminals than I am.
There was a period of a few riots. Some hindus blamed the muslims for the dead cow. They had seen a few muslims a couple of blocks away from the incident. Some muslims blamed the hindus for the dead cow. They claimed it wasn't a cow in the first place, just a few michief makers pretending to be a cow. And in all the melee, I smuggled myself out of the country, and this time I didn't take any luggage. Now I'm known as The Don aka The Bhai. I run my operations from Dubai, with my doctorate pickpocket friend as my right hand man. I tell the cops what to do, dine with his politician classmate and other friends, party every night with actors and actresses, and earn much more than I can spend. and that is how I have settled, finally coming to terms with the land of my forefathers. March 27 All of Twenty Six, how many more to go? Life is a funny business, isn't it? At times it passes by you so quietly and unobtrusively, that you hardly notice it go by until you reach these milestones on the way, such as a birthday or an anniversary, which is when you look up, unprepared and surprised and wonder how you missed all the things inbetween. And that was exactly how I felt when I turned twenty six a few weeks back.
As usual, it wasn't a big affair, the birthday. Its been a while since I've lost that luxury of celebrating my birthdays with family and friends amidst lots of laughter and sincere, unadulterated fun. In college, the celebrations were always forgotten in the last minute preparations for the exams (do I blame my parents or the education system for it?). And in professional life, you're not expected to indulge in such immature gimmicks as celebrating your birthday, or throwing a party for it. In the professional world, no one cares if you were born or died or on what day. Add to the fact that in my job, I normally don't stick to one place for more than six months on average. If I remember well, the last time I really celebrated my birthday was in school.
Those were the days, when all I had to worry about was to finish my homework in time to watch that cartoon show, study for the tests, polish my canvas shoes and not get beaten up at home or on the playground. Everything else was taken care of. And then I fell into this magic hole, rolling over and over in a blur, until I dropped out on the other side, suddenly an adult. I don't feel like an adult, I do not want to be one. I don't want to take upon myself the worries of earning my daily bread, of looking after those dependent upon me, of worrying what the future holds, and for being responsible for all these big things happening around. But I must, for the world expects me to. And so I wake up every morning, put on my mask of adulthood and play my part in the show.
Cross twenty five and I find myself in this cauldron, whether I'm prepared for it or not. It is apparently time to start looking for a life partner, even though you feel you're not ready for a family life. Apparently the people around me know to run my life better than I do. Those goals you set for yourself, during those days when you could afford those moments of laziness to sit back and make plans for the future, are still unfulfilled, you are lagging behind those miles that should have been covered, because you slipped somewhere along the way in that frantic struggle of keeping with the pack. But life goes on, it must go on. It cannot wait for anyone. Try and keep up, or lose your way and fall behind. And so I guess I will go on like this, till one day when I suddenly look up to face the next milestone, and pause again for a while to catch my breath and wonder about what could have been.
Twenty six passed, how many more to go? And for all its worth, happy birthday buddy. If only time could stay still, for once...
March 26 Miss India - I miss the point I was recently watching the Miss India Contest (or should I say the Femina/Ponds/Bharat Petroleum/Kirloskar and whatevershit Miss India Contest) on television. And while watching the telecast, on a Saturday very late into the night, sure that this late night activity is going to spoil my whole Sunday, I was wondering - Why am I even watching this? It is not going to make any difference to me who wins the Miss India crown, or for that matter, who is Miss Personality or Miss Beautiful Hair or Miss Beautiful Molars. My life will go on as before, without even a footstep being altered with the result, and I'm sure so would be the case with ninety percent of the Indian population, of all ages, shapes and sizes.
The only difference I can think of is, during those sudden and unexplainable bouts of horniness in office, when I google for some bikini clad ladies, the names I enter may vary from say, an Anjali Thankappa to an Ann Thomas. For those crazy people out there looking for these stuff, a sexy body by any other name is still a sexy body (I can almost sense Shakespeare's body turning around now). Do any of the guys ever look at the names or other databases? Half of them never lower their eyes below the bust line. Anyway, the point here is not about the interests or oggling characteristics of sex-starved city perverts like myself. Far from it, my bewilderment is, what good is this contest going to do to our society?
Do they intend to sell more powder, lipstick, hair oil and mascara and contribute to the national income? Or is it preaching to the ladies in all corners of this poor country to quit worrying about ways to earn your next meal and concentrate on your figure and beauty? I do sound like a grumpy old cynic, don't I? I can already see the opinions forming in the minds of those lovely, well groomed ladies who happen to read this (assuming someone's even reading this, ofcourse). Perhaps these ladies are right, it might be a case of sour grapes. I couldn't pass for a model's ass, let alone a model, nor do I have the luxury of choosing women from a standby pool, like some of my more affluent friends. So I might just be venting out my frustration and trying to get noticed.
Or perhaps, I may be writing this because of my concern for the way the world around me is going. Without good looks these days, a person is nothing. Atleast thats what these contests and every other ad on television tries to portray. You're an ugly, black girl and people on the streets are trying to murder you. And then a genie comes out of a coke can and gives you this cream, using which you turn overnight into a fair, beautiful air hostess or ramp model with the people around falling all over for your attention. Honestly, I wonder if the guys who come up with these ads ever go out into the real world, or take a walk down to the local market. Or perhaps they're trying to bring a little sarcasm into their work, and are just as surprised as anyone else to see people actually buying them.
And coming back to this year's Miss India contest, I'm sure many participants' speeches would involve catch words like 'Peace', 'World Health', 'Under privileged', 'Education', 'Poor People', blah blah blah. At the end of it all, the winner takes the crown, gets booked into the next Bollywood film, shows some more skin, gives us guys a few sleepless nights, earns some bucks and takes her place in the muck. Meanwhile the starving children keep starving, the uneducated remain uneducated, the underprivileged remain underprivileged and every man, city, state and country continue fighting with their neighbour. Someday, for the question from the judges as to what she(or he, these days anything is possible) will do for the world after becoming Miss India, I hope to hear atleast one reply as, 'Nothing much. I will use this platform to get noticed by some good directors. Then I will sign up films, wear skimpy clothes and shake my ass around for a while, establish myself as a good actress and by around forty years, become a filthy rich tramp, chewed up by everybody who's somebody, and if I ain't already dead with all the shit I'd have gond through by then, end up absolutely fucked up and lonely'.
Ladies, from my heart, with all sincerity, please accept my sympathies. March 20 The Safari Park I call home I don't live in a jungle. I live in a beautiful country in a nice apartment near the beach. Its well furnished, is situated in a developed and civilised location, has decent facilities all around and doesn't at all resemble a jungle, that is unless you enter inside.
And you do that, it is a mini museum. And no, I'm not one of the specimens, thank you very much. My roommate and I share this apartment with atleast a thousand other different species of life forms. The first thing you come across when you enter the kitchen (yeah, either my landlord wanted to be different from the rest, or the mason started construction after a late night booze party, our apartment entrance is through the kitchen) are the birds, sparrows. They seem to easily find their way in through the open windows, but never know how to get out. So, they fly around the kitchen scared shitless (or rather full of shit, that they keep dropping everywhere) unaware that I'm the one most scared in that room.
In the end, after holding up placards with arrow marks and directions, and some waving exercises, and showing them the windows and doors, you cajole the poor things out of the kitchen. All this activity makes you thirsty. So, you open the refrigerator, and there you find a strange looking green mass that you don't remember putting in. After a further analysis, you recognise your one month old bread. (So, this is where it was. I remember looking all over for it). From fungi to big roaches, they're all there inside. It is summer time, and guess everyone needs to cool off once in a while. So, I take the juice container, swipe out a few roaches, close my eyes, say and prayer and take a drink. And before I cause much inconvenience to these peaceful dwellers, I stuff the door shut.
In the mornings, I wake up, walk to the wash basin, open the cupboard to get my toothbrush, and I find this roach grooming itself on it, putting on a show for these little roaches all around. I don't brush my teeth any more. I want to take a crap, and there's another roach swimming in the closet. No, I didn't stop taking a crap ever since, but am always on high alert to jump up any second. Next, I enter the bathroom. This is the most interesting part, for everyday there's a new species I find. One day it was this huge black spider, the size of my palm. Another day it was a snail. We've also been blessed with courtesy calls from a leech, an earthworm, some beetles, lizards and ofcourse our best friends - the roaches. And I'm sure one of these days there's going to be a big T-rex waiting for me in there.
I come out of the bathroom after the field trip and there in the kitchen the landlord's dog is peeing all over the place. The son of a bitch comes in everytime I leave the door open, and some genie blessed him with a bladder that never gets empty. So, there I find myself, miles away from family and home, an executive for a job profile, on all fours dabbing at dog urine.
Weekends are very exciting. I get to laze around at home, watch some television and wait for the swarm of wasps that come in without fail around the afternoons. You see, there are these couple of coconut trees in front of my balcony, and I guess wasps love coconut trees. And ofcourse, they drop in a visit inside our home too every now and then. I roll up a magazine, put on a towel over my head and take stance.
The other day, there was this scurrying noise from my cupboard. I open it to investigate and out jumps a rat or mouse or whatever (he didn't stop for introductions). We chased around the bastard to no avail, but we finally nailed him with some poison that night. Only to find the next morning another one, perhaps a family member, looking for the missing guy. We nailed this one too, ofcourse.
Night time is nice and quiet, since you're thankfully not aware of whats happening most of the time. But I do wake up some unfortunate times in the middle of the night to see a tug of war. The mosquitoes are buzzing all around, and were it not for the bed bugs holding on to me tight from below, they'd surely lift me away. Ofcourse, in the mornings you wake up to realise you've been sleeping with a few beetles, some roaches (again), a few moths and ants.
Talking of ants, they're the most abundant and ubiquitous. Right from my mobile phone, pc, cupboard, clothes to the furniture, wash basin and sugar box, they seem to have been there all. They take the cake (pun intended, no doubt), and the bread and the sweets and last night's dinner. We put a little DDT here and there, and these ants don't even spare that. Wherever you hide whatever thing, they get to them in under an hour. However, counting on their intelligence, we've recently devised a brilliant counter strategy -interchanging the labels of the salt and sugar containers and with labels like 'This is NOT Cake' or 'This is BITTER', etc.
Meanwhile my roommate and I have applied for a license to own a Remington Hunting rifle. We also intend to open our apartment to tourists on weekends. Interested folks, please book in advance. March 03 The Short Skirt Syndrome What is it with the feminine gender these days? The Bible says that Adam and Eve wore no clothes. I mean, it isn't that explicitly mentioned, but one can get the hang of it. And the story goes on to say they ate the forbidden apple, and from then through CK and Gucci and Versace till today's Victoria Secret days, women seem to have come through a fascinating journey as far as clothes are concerned. And now they've almost reached full circle. I mean, early women wore skimpy clothes and fur skin coats and their present day sisters seem to prefer that same prehistoric style.
Today I take a walk in the afternoons, the usual closing time for schools here, and the roads are filled with these school kids, little girls wearing mini skirts as school uniforms. They do start young, don't they? Little wonder most school exams are topped by girls, what with guys struggling to concentrate on their education with all that oggling to do.
I can understand that in a place like Mauritius or other African countries, it could be a weird effect of the global warming scenario. But on television I see some footage of some Russian street in peak winter, and they show some women there covered with layer upon layer of jackets, shawls, and all those complicated feminine wears, but below the waist, the skirt still remains mini. They must be using local anaesthesia, I'm sure.
Go to a happening party, and the hepper the chick, the shorter her skirt. Or are things the other way, the shorter the skirt, the hepper the chick is considered as? Perhaps it has got to do with these fantastic lingerie available to women these days, at exorbitant prices. After paying so much for your panties, whats the fun in keeping it hidden. Let others know about your rich tastes. And since lingerie don't come with a long tag, shorten the skirt to allow a peek. Many times you approach a hep chick and ask, 'Wow miss, thats a nice belt you're wearing.....errrr....oops, that is your skirt?....oh, excuse me' (and run away from there)
At the end of it all, who's complaining? Who, me? I'm just asking a few questions, not complaining. Why would any guy past his puberty complain at such a lovely trend as this? God bless the short skirt, and pray the trend stays longer while the skirts stay shorter. One for the Road and One for the Law -II To understand what all this hungama is about, you need to read the previous entry. In case you actually did that, here goes.
So, there we were, the three of us, Mr. Chairman, Mr. Bullet and me, the stinking Mr. Sidekick3, in the police station awaiting the Circle Inspector to come and take charge. He came, he saw, he recognised. No, not me, but Mr. Chairman. His influences seemed to go quite far. After a few cordial niceties, one or two jokes and comments were passed to and fro, the Circle Inspector called on the Sub Inspector and asked him not to charge us with anything serious, but let us go after a small petty offense charge (afterall they did spend a little diesel in our transporation, didn't they?). And thus, towards day break, we went to the safety of our hostel, with notices to report to a magistrate on some day for our petty charge.
Normal life resumed, and in all the melee and confusion and the usual disorientation of hostel life, the entire issue was soon forgotten, until the day of our 'trial' popped up. So, off the three of us went on our trusted bikes to some remote court in some remote place to see our judge. And there what do we see, Mr. Chairman even knows the court clerk in charge of our hearing (the court clerk is the guy who reads out the charges for the judge and the accused to hear, and is allowed to pass a few pertinent comments) Now I had seen enough, I was prepared to see the judge come out of his seat and shake hands with Mr. Chairman and start gossipping about old times. (Damn, I should have joined politics a long while back).
Proceedings commence, the clerk called out my name, in I strutted and stood in the cage. The guy started reading out the offense that I committed. The judge looked at me and asked if all that was said is true. I know I look like a thug, and if I try to smile, I'd only look worse. So, with a straight face I simply nodded, not opening my mouth. Next question, 'Do you have anything to say to the court before the sentence?' . Another nod indicating a No (why unnecessarily complicate matters). 'Ok, you must pay a fine of Rs. 200 for your charges. You may go' BANG!.
Ooh, that was close, I walked out relieved. Next called out was Mr. Chairman. In he went not at all bull-like, head bowed, more like a cow. He did a proper namaskaaram to the judge. Same blah blah as me, and then this moron, the clerk asks him what he does for a living. Mr. Chairman replies that he's an engineering student and that it was a campus selection celebration, it was meant as fun, etc. And I watch as the judge is very impressed. He says, 'Please pay a fine of Rs. 50, since I cannot let you go without any punishment. You may go'. Damn, I want to kill this clerk.
And then, even more interesting was the display from Mr. Bullet. His name was called, and he didn't walk in to the courtroom, he went in on all fours. He was literally on his knees crawling inside, head bowed, hands folded, all at once. He fell on the floor at the courtroom entrance, he fell on the floor just before entering the cage, he fell on the floor on seeing the judge. Man, this show was quite amusing, but it had the desired effect. I could see it was all the judge could do to not jump out of his seat and come and bless this guy, hug him and pardon him for every single sin he committed in his 21 year long pathetic life. At the end of it all, judge says, 'Son, just pay Rs. 50 for the offences, don't worry much about it. You may go'.
So, at the end of the day, me sitting at the back of this bike, collecting all the drool and vomit falling out of that bastard Mr. Knockout and holding him tight from falling down and playing the nice guy, pays Rs. 200; while Mr. Bullet, for riding triples on a bike and that too drunk, and Mr. Chairman, riding drunk and that too without a license, pay Rs. 50 each and get away with it. Moral of story, well there are a few of them. One -if you're going to get drunk, go all the way and get fucking drunk. Two - Make sure you are the one riding the bike when everyone's piss drunk. Three - Join politics, and make sure you know every fucking assole at every stage of the law. And Four - stay far away from a fucked up drunk who's vomitting gallons per minute. Damn, this is one incident I'll never forget. March 02 One for the Road and One for the Law How many of you folks have spent a little while in a police lockup, or in a courtroom. Ofcourse, assuming you are not a cop or Dawood Ibrahim or a lawyer. (Errr, a correction there, if you were a Dawood Ibrahim, you wouldn't see a police station or a court room either.) Anyways, the below incident is but just another page from that big book of my college hostel memories.
It was third year, campus placements period. One of our hostel buddies had just got placed and offerred a grand treat at this cool five star hotel (with BAR attached, ofcourse, as is the norm with most hotels in Kerala. Little wonder why we malayalees are by default assumed as drunkards) in the city. So, comes evening time and eight of us on four bikes went on our long way. You see, the Engineering College is about fifteen kilometres from the city centre (the average distance, as per research, in which you can show ninety percent of all known stunts on a bike. But thats a different story).
Ok, continuing with the tale, this is where I introduce the eight of us to readers. First to mention is the guy who got placed, Jobbie (please note that all names have been altered solely in the health interests of yours truly). Next guy is Jobbie's room mate, Roommie. Then comes the guy who owned this bullet (the Enfield Bullet bike, remember this is a story of a few engineering students and not the Russian Mafia), so his name Bullet. Next comes our leader in a sense, a bull headed, bull torsoed, impulsive and politically involved college chairman, known henceforth as Chairman. Number five in the list is this guy who I prefer to call as Knockout (you will shortly know why). And finally comes the remaining three sidekicks, Sidekick1, Sidekick2, and the lamest and most naive of them all, Sidekick3, which is me.
I don't find the necessity to explain what happened at this hotel-with-BAR-attached place, do I. What matters is at around twelve pm, eight guys, hardly able to walk straight walked out of this place. Now Mr. Knockout is well known in the hostel circles for his affinity towards alcohol. Also equally well known is his absolute lack of capacity to keep the alcohol inside him. So, true to reputation, he drank gallons, and on the way out was vomitting equal quantities of the stuff. At the end of it all, he passed out on all of us. So, now you understand why this name.
The Enfield Bullet being the biggest bike, was chosen for the dignified duty of carrying Mr. Knockout, with Mr. Bullet riding ofcourse. But leaving Mr. Knockout alone behind the bike was out of the question, unless one wanted to see something similar to Achilles dragging Hector's body behind his chariot (ugghh, to think of Mr.Bullet as Achilles, forgive me oh Greek Gods). Therefore, I was chosen as the one sitting behind Mr. Knockout, holding onto him and the bike and the rider while at the same time supporting his thighs up so that they don't scrape the road. Wonder whatever made them choose me. So, like this we went, weaving our way through the quiet, late night roads hoping not to run into any police check on the way.
Which is exactly what happened. A full jeep, with Sub Inspector and all. Now there is a peculiar enmity between the cops of Trivandrum and the engineering students of our college, and it goes back a long way. And I'm sure they smelled the liquor from a mile away. So, obviously they stopped us, gave us a sample of their fluent, not-so-flattering vocabulary and asked us all to get down. Now, I just couldn't get down. If I move an inch, Mr. Knockout falls flat on the road. But as soon as a lathi landed on my knees, automatic stimulation took over, I jumped out of the bike and Mr. Knockout fell flat on the road. Now the cops took the matter seriously. They thought we were kidnapping the poor fellow (though at the moment I honestly did want to kick the jerk's brains in). And they asked Mr. Bullet and myself to stay back.
The others including Jobbie, Roommie and Sidekick1 were sent off after another vocabulary building session. Sidekick2 was entrusted to transport Knockout safely to the hostel in an auto (man, had I known this, I'd have drunk like crazy too dammit). Who remained were Mr. Bullet (for taking triples on a bike), Mr. Chairman (for not having a license, heh heh, tell me all about it) and myself (the only charges I can think of against me were probably environmental pollution related, since I was reeking of Knockout's vomit). Off we were marched to the police station to cool our asses. And thats where we sat, Mr. Bullet and I stinking, sleepless and drunk waiting for some miracle to happen, while Mr. Chairman spread himself very comfortably on the station floor and slept like it was the most natural thing to do.
(to be contd) February 08 Want a Way with Women One of my friends, seeing the many female acquaintances I had through some online community, enquired of me as to how this is done. Apparently he hadn't gone through the other prolific and popular members there. However, with what little experience I have in the matter, this is a humble attempt to provide him with a few guidelines on the fine art of attaining female acquaintanceship. (It ofcourse goes without saying that this is at the risk of losing all my lovely, fairer sex friends. But I'm sure they'd understand the plight of young, single, available and desperate guys and wouldn't let a silly note like this affect a nice platonic relationship. And if they don't, well, let it be my sacrifice for those guys in whose midst I found myself not so long back)
And as a preface, I must warn you guys, if you take a dip in this below shit and should you resurface with a damsel under each arm, your present perspective of female acquaintanceship would totally turn around. You'd reach the point where you wouldn't see women as toys of pleasure and timepass and to score points, but as just another amazing companion. (I do need to take some insurance, guys)
I must also thank two of my lovely lady friends, one for helping me out in this with her own feedback and suggestions, and the second for teaching me a new way to go about writing this sort of stuff.
So, without much beating around the bush (nope, not that bush you perverts), here goes.
Prior to all your pathetic ventures, there are these five scriptures concerning women that must be understood and assumed. These are like your theoretical constants (something like the speed of light, for my IITian pal), never question them, nor mess around with them. Simply follow.
Assumption One . Women are on a totally different plane than us guys. They spend their entire post-adolescent life dodging and deflecting proposals and passes from every Tom, Dick and Harry (No, am not talking about Tom's whatever being hairy, you perverts, concentrate).
There isn't a carelessly thought of trick you can come up with that the average woman hasn't thought of, mastered and prepared for. You can put in a 'Dear' or 'Honey' or 'Gorgeous' with as much guile and innocence as you can manage, and she will latch on to your true intentions in a jiffy. And don't even think about addressing her as sister or mother or grandmother. Sorry guys, perhaps it may have worked wonders for your great granddad to woo your great grandmom's pretty neighbour, but for our present day, sophisticated ladies, it would backfire on your face.
Assumption Two . The more you run behind a woman, the more nervous she gets. (An interesting corollary to this theory,'Stop running behind a girl, and she'll become confused' was used in a recent hindi movie starring Mr. Shahrukh Khan and Mr. Saif Ali Khan).
See guys, women are so tired of being on their guard all the time that it is so refreshing to come across a guy who's not actually interested in her. I know this appears totally illogical. I mean, if you want to travel from India to China, why would you take a flight to Africa (ofcourse ignoring the fancy promotional schemes of airlines these days, offerring to take you to a place hardly two hours away for free if you fly with them via Timbaktu, Ibitza and La La Land). But trust me on this guys, that's how it works (no, not the airlines, the women). Try approaching a woman with just the intention of a simple conversation for once. Forget about trying to please her, or impress her or compliment her. Just shove it and simply talk.
And to emphasize your romantic intentions, or rather, lack of, you could put in a few sour tales of your old girlfriend who went missing, or a wife who ran away with your best friend, etc. But don't overdo it, she's not a shrink sitting there to hear you go on and on about your pathetic life.
Note that from here, you should stop assuming and consider these as rules. So...
Rule Three . Be honest with the woman you're approaching, about everything (except your romantic inclinations obviously, you can save that for later when the initial stutters are finished with).
This is a little serious here. When you really enjoy talking to a person, whether it is face to face or over the phone or via the internet or through morse code from a sinking ship, it shows through to the other side. If you smile, even if they may not see it, they can feel it. So, start cultivating a little honesty and consideration from now.
Rule Four . (This is where I'm going to really anger all those lady friends of mine) Women love compliments.
No, this isn't contradicting my previous statements. You see, it is something like eating Mughlai Biriyani. What would happen if it were to be overly filled with salt and spices? You'd be spitting out more often than swallowing it in. That doesn't mean you totally avoid the spices and salt, how bland would that taste? (And by the way, when you make biriyani, cooking the slightly pre-cooked meat alongwith the rice makes it taste better, but why the hell am I talking about biriyani now? ) The point is, when talking to a woman, you must put in a little compliment here and there. You lay it on too thick and she spits it out, you don't time it well, she spits you out. So, how do u do it then? That brings us to the last, and certainly the most pertinent rule, which is...
Rule Five . Let me be honest here guys, all of this shit needn't work at all. You need to add that something of your own at the end of the day. You got to rediscover yourself, rejuvenate your thinking processes, use some innovation, invention, parallel thinking, all those fancy gimmicks under the sun, bring them all in. Work harder than you have ever done before, work out strategies, challenge them yourself, rework them out, use some bluff, then some double bluff, and then some more (you get the gist of it?). And always remember, a bird in hand is worth two in the bush. (And I'm sure by now you wouldn't have thought of the other bush.)
As a last word, did you know that in Africa, there are almost two women to every one man? Our privileged brethren, in such places, can toss all these assumptions out the window. So, if after all your efforts, you're still a single piece of shit, fear not, for Africa's always there for you. I've booked my tickets already. And while you're on the way, remember to go via Timbuktu, Ibitza and La La Land, you get discounts on airfare. |
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