Raino Rainu!

(Disclaimer: For the Kannada & Bangalore-challenged, this blog might sound as sensible as an Emme-tika.)

It has been raining nice now, for a weeku. A bit too nicely, actually. Creating exactly the kind of weather that makes us Bangaloreans so full of ourselvesu; convinced we are soooo much cooler than the sweltering Chennai, boiling Mumbai, frying Hyderabad, seething Kolkata and all other fellow cities.

So, well, the rain has caused lot of drastic changes in lives of many Benguluru peepul suddenly woken out of the mid-summer slumber. Howisthat?

Platinum Star Naveen - (also known as Thippegowda in his native Hulihalli near Mandya) - has now sat back after completing hatrick hit fillums: Kulla, Kariya and Kkeppaa. Becoming a staunch follower of Numerologist Jyothishi Somayaji after his first two successes.

Now he is taking Monsoon Camps on:

i) right handling of macchu, longuu and chainnu.

ii)use of the Correct Cannada where 'ha' is 'aa' and 'aa' is 'haa'.

Venue: Sir Puttannnachetti Town Hall, Town Hall Road, Bangalore. (Classes also conducted by Teleconferencing in select centers.)

Einfy Murthy: Eating a well-deserved hot Raagi Exotica with Spinach Soup (Raagi Mudde and Soppin Saaru).

After successfully proving in his paper with Plough-on Das Pai and Plan-done Nilekani published in The Anglophilia that 'Yankee Doodle' was the original National Anthem of India.

But was modified by the Kalasipalya invaders to some 'Jana Gana Mana' thingy thing.

After years of kidnapping all kids lost on Bengaluru one-ways and disc-turned-pubs, taking them to Electronic City and calling them Sophtwere Engineersu.

Cheddi Yeddy: Rushing surreptitiously to Columbia Asia Hospital on Bellary road to get his facial and palm muscles fixed. They got jammed after a week of hallu-kissi-ing (all teeth showing and smiling) and V-finger showing.

But half-a-way through, somewhere near Cauvery Theatre, realizing that the hospital was on avnak*an International Airport Road. Hence, taking quickest possible detour and got himself admitted in good ol' Mallige Nurrsing 'ome.

IT BT Ess Emm Kisna: Poor thingu. Papa. Che. No worku. Only Sonia ma'am callingu. He goingu, comingu, goingu, comingu. Bekagittha idella? (wanteda, all this?)

VJ Mallya, Business Magnet and Chic Magnet, Cricket and Politics Repellent: Sipping self-sponsored beer. Throwing darts at the Dravid Picture on his wall. All the jewelry on the fingers clinking. Supermodel Vijayalakshmi on the couch unsuccessfully trying to catch his attention.

Supermodel Vijayalakshmi: Hanging around with the business magnet, trying to get over her 4th divorce. Wondering why magnet is paying so much more attention to that whatshisname cricketer's face on the wall. "Men!", she muttered under her breath.

Worried that probably because she's not size 0 any longer. She's become fat, like those "normal, healthy" women. (snort) She's now size 0.003. Bidappa would faint.

"Now, that is a nice one." She thought of Bidappa. Not like other men. Not at all like other men.

Director Manja: Happy after producing three itt filums (Hit Films) in a row with the afore-mentioned Platinum Star Naveen.

In fact, he is very very happy. Yaake? (Why?) Because in his next filamu he doesn't have to take all that trouble with making the heroinnu wear translucent White Seere (Kannada for Saree), Burukiran's key-board kreativity and fake rain. At least not the fake rain. Ah. Hmm.

Happy visions not getting blurred even with the knowledge of his favorite herionnu secretly marrying an ex-CM.

Venkata Krishnan, Yetanother IT Project Manager, 2001 K-CET 236th Rank: Depressed yaah. Sorta liking this Mohini Manoj (wanmore Software Engineeru) for a year now. Want to marry her and live with her in the Malleshwaram home. Walk every evening in Margosa road, drink Badam Milk from Asha Sweets and Idly Chutney from Veena Stores on Sunday Mornings. Wahatay life with whatay chic.

But no chance whatsoever maan. What with all the cologned, Ray-Baned, Allen-Sollyed Chaddhas, Guptas and Chopras also eyeing her. What chance did he stand, with his checked-stitched shirt and Vibhuti? Who let yallthese north indies in yah? Chancey illa. (No Chance)

"May be I should drown indha rain end die. Oh, I should ask Amma first".

Kanakambal, Venkata Kishnan's Amma: Cursing the rain for wet-ting the damp laundry she had hung on clothesline 5 min ago. Wondering whether it was raining in Detroit where her elder son worked.

Worried about the younger one. Why was he still stuck in Yindia? All her Venkateshwara Temple crones asked smugly " Still in Indiyava? Not yet got onsita?". Equally worried about why he didn't want to see Shweta R K's jataka. Such a sweet girl. What hair. What complexion, what skill with Veene and Filter Coffee!

So much better than that Bob-cut Bimbo the elder one stomped the Sapthapadi with! (ceremonial seven steps taken by the bride and groom; with deep significance which was lost 2000 yrs ago)

Rohit Sharma & Prateek Y K, IInd Sem studentsu, Mech, MSRIT: Sipping over-priced coffee in Sanjay Nagar Cafe Coffee Day.

Lilly Kutty and Thomas Mohan, Louverrs, Christ College: Sipping a lil more over-priced coffee in Forum.

Jeevan Hegde and Anand Srivastava, 9th grade, DPS: Sipping an outrageously over-priced coffee in The Bombay Store.

Self, joblessu, pennilessu: Humming "... Neena Shakunthala? Alla Naan Shashikala ...".

Smokin' Research

(This story is inspired by a real life incident and modified according to the author's whims and fancies) 

Scene: Summer of 2008. Bengaluru. A summer intern from an inconsequential b-school called TAPMI in meeting with Project Guide. The project is in Marketing.

TAPMI Summer Intern (TSI): So, well, er... um... this is all the data I could collect. 

The Project Guide (TPG): Hmmm. I was expecting at least three times more.

TSI: .... (shifts uncomfortably on the chair)

TPG: Do you smoke?

TSI: (glad for the change of subject) Er, No. (its hard to say you don't smoke to an obvious smoker)

TPG: You should.

TSI: Oh?

TPG: It is much easier to collect data that way.

TSI: Oh. (so the subject did not change after all.)

TPG: You might talk about all this Organized Retail Boom, but its the unorganized sector that drives more than 90% of commerce in India. 

TSI: Er, yes. (Where exactly is this leading to?)

TPG: You see, you can buy a cigarette in a kirana shop; just smoke and talk. They will give out how much ever data you need. People who smoke and talk are trusted. No need to do so much circus with data collection and respondent fatigue and all your MBA stuff.

TSI: Ah. Very, um, insightful. Yes.

Narrator: Never knew smoking was an effective Market Research tool, did you?

Insomnia

I lie on my bed-

very alive and very awake.

The world around me-

has slept and died.

I lie on my bed-

the summer surrounds.

My back sweats

My hair steams

My pillow radiates.

The night will strangle me.

I lie on my bed-

hating the soul my brain is stuck in,

hating the body my soul is stuck in,

hating the life my body is stuck in.

Hating myself:

for past foolishness

for pointless attachments

for pitying myself.

I lie on my bed-

hoping that sleep will take me.

I will bear any nightmare

in exchange of the reality.

All I want is escape-

a temporary shelter

for a few hours.

But as I lie on my bed,

sleep won't take me

death wont take me.

I am condemned

to be:

very alive and very awake.

(Pic Credit: Insomiac by SuzyTheButcher on Deviantart)

3 Mistakes of My Life & Frank Cover Designs

This is one of those perfectly-well-educated risks I take. In fact, it's a risk if it has a fairly large element of doubt in it. This dint. I knew this was going to suck.

So I read the recent Chethan Bhagat - 3 Mistakes Of My Life (3MML). And the book dint fail me. It regurgitated the exact kind of mish-mash that I expected it to regurgitate.

If I had to describe it in one word: Masala.

If I had to describe it in two words: Oh Goodness!

If I had to describe it in three words: What The Eff.

If I had to describe it in four words: Are You Kidding Me?

And so on and so forth. I think I went up to something like 436 words. What was your highest score?

If you've read Five Point Someone (FPS) and One Night At A Call Center (ONCC), you are half way through this book. FPS was a pleasant change for people who otherwise dint read Indian English writers (So, I should logically not be using the word 'change'. Anyway.). Free flowing style, IIT, grass, liberal use of fuck, sex from unexpected quarters, pressurizing parents- no other combo could be more Ready To Eat (RTE).

Fine, thought self, after reading FPS, the Indian English lit. could do with some non-heavy writer. After the Rushdies, Desais, Roys, Seths and Naipauls.Although I wish the story had a little bit more story in it. But one can't complain all the time.

I will not comment about ONCC. Except that Bhagat could have sold that Master Plan of 'Scaring Americans' to the Scary Movie series producers. And that scene of the male and female leads re-uniting in the traffic to Yash Chopra.

But 3MML beats the above two hands down. One of my pals commented that "Bhagat might as well directly write Bollywood movie scripts, instead of all this exercise with calling it a 'book'." This author couldn't agree more. What a book. What a book.

All the necessary ingredients for RTE literature. All the Kahani Mein twists for a Bollywood movie. Love, Religion, Cricket. Recipe Complete. Oh wait, we forgot the seasoning : Friendship That Never Dies.

But there is, of course, one aspect that deserves praise. If not a deep and profound writer, Bhagat is definitely a good Marketing Man. Mass appeal substance with mass pricing. His market strategy seems to be really paying him off. What's with the popular fan following, passionate defenders and analytics based on his work (e.g., this) : Chetan Bhagat has sure made a paisa vasool base for himself.

Methinks, why take all the trouble to make it look like a book? It can proudly claim what it is. Using my meager intelligence and still meager creativity, I wonder if it'll be rather more frank if the cover could be modified to:

1. The Ready To Eat theme. (Nutrition facts and recipe instructions written in Hindi, English and all South Indian languages inside the package in a leaflet. )




2. The Bollywood Theme. (Including the music company, producer's name, director's one-liner and the actors' passionate poses)

How We Finally Saw The Doctor, Finaly Got Drenched And Finally Won A Match!

(Disclaimer: If any of you are thinking that this is on the lines of How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life by Kavya Vishwanathan, please. Please. Don't. Insult. Me.)

I woke up with a terrible headache last morning. I had been waking up with similar terrible headaches for a week now. Its not like I hate terrible headaches or anything; I just am not comfortable with how they make my head ache terribly.

So, considering that this has been happening for a week and Migraine had re-entered my life after many years, I arrived at the painful conclusion. I had to - there was no avoiding it - meet Paddy. You see, Paddy, my 'family doctor' more widely known as Dr. Padmanabhan. Again, it's not like I don't like meeting him. He's a jolly good fellow. He has a special knack for remembering every little detail in your life. He's chatty, friendly, thorough with all the local gossip and generally prescribes medicines that relieve me.

What scares me about meeting him is the queue outside his 'office'. Even if you go in a non-peak hour, the minimum waiting time is about 45 min. Being a total liberal, Paddy doesn't think any practice such as having an assistant or consulting based on appointments or giving out a arrival tokens is necessary. Surprisingly, in spite of the unpretentious and minimal infrastructure clinic, people seem to love him. At any given point of time, half the Bangalore North is waiting to visit him.

My mater clearly specified that either I saw him today or stopped giving headaches as an excuse to escape work. I chose the latter with a heavy heart. At 11.30 AM, I drove up to his clinic. I parked the car under something that looked like that extinct concept called tree. There was scanty shade, but that was the best place I could find for our swanky Maruti.

So, I went in. Squeezed myself onto a bench. Which was actually a Cuddapah Slab cut and polished on one side and left raw on the other. There were one million other human beings in the 5X5 waiting room. I made a mental note that I was to one millionth one in. Not that a mental note would ever help if a fight about the sequence of going in broke out. It was just for my reference.

I was seasoned enough to know to take a Henry James with me. So I read and read. I couldn't read for hours together; now and then I paid attention to my surrounding. What I saw would have delighted any Market Research dude. A total representative sample. Right from a family who were speaking with a heavy Brit accent to a laborer couple from Gulbarga.

I stared at every one now and then. Everyone stared at me now and then. Along the way, three heated arguments about 'sequence' broke out- arousing my mild interest.

By the time my turn arrived I had finished 3/4th of James' Washington Square. I had a delightful conversation with the doc. Got diagnosed of what I had already diagnosed before. By the time I came out and saw the glorious sun, it was about 2 PM. In good time.

Self came back, ate delicious lunch with appehuli (a havyak brahmin dish, very spicy, made from raw mango, reputed to have heavy sleep-inducing effects). Consequently, slept like the proverbial log. And I woke up with the best possible thing I could imagine waking up with - the smell of rain.

It had been raining like what they call Cats and Dogs the past week in the city. Shakara Nagara (that's the obscure corner of the city where I live) received some showers that were probably what were sent down when the black clouds were napping. Not being in any danger of getting caught in a rain while driving, I was hoping day after day that we get a 'proper' rain.

I woke up without mater doing the customary acting of pulling my body off the mattress by physical force. Me made some tea for both of us. You see, we people from the Coastal Karnataka prefer tea over coffee unlike other South Indies. We both and our American Spitz (its a dog breed) Nishita (that's the name) sat on the veranda. We slowly savored the hot tea and the first good rain of the year.

My heart was filled with the sort of completeness that only a heavy rain and a roaring sea can create. The wind blew with the smell of water on virgin soil and the green looked greener and black looked blacker and air became more of water and solids became blurs.

The evening went by. Watched with the family how the Kings XI won against the Mumbai Indians. Ate Mangoes. The parents and self decided that we shall not tolerate another RCB slaughter. The Hindu had said something in the morning about 'CSK ( My 'ol joke - "the Chennai team has to have the word 'Super' in its name! hehehe") being surely closer to the semi-finals since its got a match with RCB'. Oh Shame!

So, Padre sat with his MS Excel, Mater sat with her Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and I posted the previous blog entry. The Bro pulled himself (using all his moral fiber) to watch the match and the Vodafone ads till the CSK scored 75 or so and then gave up. We all went to bed at the stipulated time, innocent.

Today: Bro wakes up in the morning and takes up The Hindu. There is no climax/suspense here. All of you, dear readers, know that RCB won the last night's match. This author was jolted by surprise, though. The bro read out the headline "Bangalore Ambushes Chennai" (talk about sensitization of news). The family reacted thus:

Padre- "eh?"
Mater- "huh?"
Self- "what the ____?"

So, that's that. Yesterday was the day of accomplishments of nearly-impossible events. I saw Paddy after waiting only for 2 hrs, it rained a real rain with wind blowing and all those special effects and RCB won a match. What a day.

Ouch, It Hurts. (Ramblings of a Cricket Illiterate)

Well, I am sitting in front of the computer because I cannot bear sitting in front of the TV.
To watch my old flame Rahul Dravid and crew get slaughtered and to bear simultaneous dodamma (mother's elder sister) 's comments on how RCB cheerleader's have the minimum possible cothing is beyond human endurance.

Well, I take no pride in identifying myself as a knowledgable person in cricket. My opinions and biases are absolutely biased and unscientific. Like, I dont like Kolkata Night Riders because I don't like SRK. You get the drift.

On the same lines, I like RCB because, well, they have the 'B' and Anil Kumble and Rahul Dravid. I still think Dravid is immensly, intolerably, aggressively hot in an unaggressive way. I think Anil Kumble is such a typical Bengaluru Boy, he resembles half my cousins. Apart from all that its our good old Mallya (who failed with many stints such as the Tipu Sultan fiasco before Karnataka Elections that did not help him) who's invested his pocket money into RCB. SO, you see, curiosity plus pride plus joblessness summed up to RCB supportership.

So, I know as I type this, my Royal Challengers are most probably getting - as the popular usage goes - "mothered". The hot captain's been playing decently in recent past. But that ain't enough. Ocassional rescue from a Steyn and a Taylor aint enough either. I dint like Charu Sharma from the beginning. But thats because I dint like Mandira Bedi.

There's only one thing to be proud of- my poor people. Who pay ridiculously over-priced ticket prices and teem the Chinnaswami Stadium on Cubbon Road (We Bangaloreans are addict to over-pricing. If somethng is priced reasonably, we sniff suspiciously. ) or crowd the TV sets in spite of knowing that that perfect six is SO well aimed, it is bound to - by Laws of Physics - fall right into the nearest fielder's hand. Without him moving an inch.

Of Ruthless Dissections and Bengaluru Aunties

There are critics and there are critics. We are talking about the most ruthless and clever kind here. The sharpest tongues and the widest vocabularies belong to them. Most importantly, the scope- what better place as a proof of an increasingly evil world than our dear old city?

When you travel by the BMTC (Bangalore Metropolitan Transport Corporation) buses, there are basically two kinds of seats you might end up in-
a) Sitting Seat (0.1 probability) or
b) Standing Seat (0.9 probability) {I once mentioned this term in my post Anyways(z)}

My preferences of entertainment are based on the condition I am in. If it’s the rare (a) condition, the order is: aunties, book, music, sleep. If it's the usual (b), the order goes: aunties, music. So, you see, these aunties are a vital source of entertainment in BMTC buses and generally in public. Especially if the audience is a nosy, easily impressed and demented person such as myself.

(Let me make something very clear at the outset, dear reader. Although I know I myself happily qualify into the ‘Auntie’ class now, the ones I am referring to here are those whom I grew up calling Auntie. That would be approx. the age range of 40 to 60 yrs.)

Anyway, after this essential introduction, lets get down to the real understanding of these razor sharp critics of all humanity. They sit at nearby seats in the bus, having pushed down every other form of life trying to climb in. After all of the bunch are settled in, they scan the environment for Topic Of Today's Discussion (TOTD). Yet, they have a preference of certain victims over others. The general sequence of dissection proceeds thus:

1. Pretty and/or well-dressed Girls

The primary thing that catches the aunt's eye is the nearby pretty and/or well-dressed young girl. The Especially if these young ones are sinfully fair or have a certain flair for fashion, they might as well carry a board saying "I Am TOTD". The various statements that such a subject extracts could be:

"nodi, hege sonta kano thara shirt hakondidhale-" (see, how she's wearing a shirt that shows the waist-)

"yaak beku ashtondu make-uppu?" (why is so much make-up needed?)

"ee hudgeergella SMS maadodhe kelsa" (all these girls' work is only to SMS.)

"yeneirutthe asht kisi-kisi maadokke?" (whats there to giggle so much about?)


With this, a collective disapproving look is cast over the subject. If the subject is a typical B'Luru young lady, she will absorb the looks stonily and throw it back magnified at the source. If she isn't, God Save Her.

2. The 'Guvernmment'

The invisible Government is the next best TOTD. Mundane questions such as what party is currently in power, who's the Chief (or Prime) Minister, whether there is a govt. at all or is it a President's Rule are absolutely immaterial. The basic assumption of life is such: There's a government, that is inefficient, hence our lives are miserable, had we had a better govt., Silk Sarees and Cable TV would have been cheaper.

The dissection begins with the slightest provocation. Such as say: Rain.

"What sort of Rain is this. Thoo."

"And this guvernnment also. Thoo."

"Look at how that road is getting wet. All those donkeys in the government are doing god-knows-what" (Most of the Aunties are govt. service employees themselves, or working in nationalized banks or with accounts and valuables lockers with these banks.)

"What else? everybody is busy making money. It seems XXX has 10 Crores!" Collective Exclamation. (the XXX probably has 100 Cr)

"For what? their children? or their mistresses?" (hehe hehe hehe)

"Ayyo. Leave ma. Haal thind makkle badkalvanthe. Visha thind makklenu badukthaara?" (Children who have drunk milk only don't survive, will the ones who drink poison survive?)

{This statement usually implies that the money that comes from politicians' corruption is used to feed their children. This feed is obviously poisonous, cause it roots from corruption. Hence, children who are fed this poisoned food cannot obviously survive. This age old Kannada Proverb is one of the most widely abused one. It, of course, completely ignores the fact that all the children of all the well-known thugs of this country are now studying in Yale/Oxford/Stanford/Harvard, etc. }

"Houdu Houdu." (yes yes.) In chorus.


3. City Planning

These Aunties are what you call Master of all Trades. Especially in a city such a Bengaluru where a road is dug, converted into a gutter, dug again, graveled, tarred, left in rain, re-dug, etc., there is immense scope for their civil engineering and architectural talents to develop.

"What non-sense. Is this a place for a bus-stop?"

"I know. Simply waste."

"No no. Not waste. We need a bus stop here. But this is Plain Stupid."

"I'll tell you. They should first make an underpass from that side beginning. Then make this one way. Then it'll be Ferfect." (yes, ferfect)

"Yes. Yes. Like how they did in Mekhri Circle. Except that underpass is too deep at places. It'll bump and all. But otherwise, like that only will be good."

"Ayyo. If you do it that way, where will kadlekai (ground nut) and panipuri (pani puri) boy stop?"

"Yes. Paapa. Where will they stop? Those police people will drive them away. Papa."

"I'll tell you whats best. Make a flyover here. One wing from north-east to south-west. Another from north-west to south-east."

"Hehe. They will overlap then."

"You can make them go one over another".

"You can't."

"You can. You don't see English movies, eh?"

"You can't. My son is in Infosys."(adding irrelevantly.)

"Mine is in Goldman Sachs." (now the conversation has lost track)

"Ayoo. What company is it?"

"Dint he get in Wipro or Infosys or Satyam?"

"No no. This is good it seems. Its an Amerikkan company."

"Hmmm". (Collective internal sympathetic sigh. Poor woman, son in some Bogus Company. Gultmen Sex it seems.)

Karnataka's Gaddhi and My Precious Vote

Today was the first stage of Karnataka Assembly Elections. The day. For some hundreds of candidates eager for "Jana Seve" (Serving the People).

The radios and hoardings in the city have been doing some impressive advertising for the act of exercising vote. There's this radio ad that goes:

In a drone male voice "Bengalurina Problem No. 37564." (Bangalore's Problem No.37564)

In a fancy gay fashion designer voice "These Bangalore pubs are supposed to close at 11.30 PM. Soooo boring ya. blah blah blah. Bangalore's supposed to be a party city. I mean, where's the party, ya? Like, look at the roads.. blah blah blah .."

In an educated firm male voice "Are you going to vote this time?"

In the same fancy gay fashion designer voice "what? no!! Its so unfashionable. No cameras also!!"

Sound of a Slap

Strong male regional accent voice "Ree, vote maadri! (Do vote, people!). Or else SHUT UP for next five years!!"

Pretty neat, huh? Well, its obviously a lot more impressive when you hear it. Anyway, you get the idea. So, there has been advertising on dual lines:

1. DO Vote line
2. Do vote for ME line

The Election Commission has cut down heavily on the second line of advertising. So, this time the elections did not bring about the olfactory torture that they usually do. No multi-colored ugly banners, no cacophonous rickshaw announcements and very very thankfully no traffic jam campaigns.

So, well, I woke up early morning. Took bath, climbed the Activa - head held high - and drove off towards my voting center. I reached the center, I walked up with the Proper Pride of a responsible snobby citizen and demanded the fundamental right.

Guess what- My name wasn't there in the voter's list! I waved my Election ID Card at the Election Officer. He replied in a bored voice, as though he had told this to hundred people:

"illa madam, ID card idre agalla. listnalli hesrrirbeku." (No madam, ID card isn't enough. Your name should be on the list)

I said incredulously " aadre naan hindhin General Elections nalli vote maadidhini. Nan hatra Card idhe nodi." (But I have voted in the last General Elections. Look at my card!)

Now he adopted the tone with which you speak to the kindergarten kids. He uttered slowly so as to drill it into my skull "illa - madam, ID - card - idre - agalla. listnalli - hesrrirbeku." (No - madam, ID - card - isn't enough. Your - name - should - be - on - the - list).

I came out defeated. Meanwhile I saw my parents arrive, vote and leave. Of course, I thought, had I actually expected that ANYTHING involving Chethana Achar will go smooth without any kireek (Kannada Slang: Hotch Potch Brainless Trouble) whatsoever? I finally approached the X Party table set up nearby, who were helping people with their 'lists'. I asked the least dangerous looking volunteer to help.

He, poor thing, diligently started manually scanning the list. Sitting under the hot Kolkata Sun which has these days , taking clue from rest of the Northern India, migrated to Bengaluru.

"Lets search House No. wise" he said. "did you say 337?"

We scan the list for No. 337. We finally found it. The list showed only Mr. and Mrs. Achar. No mention, not even a clue of the 55Kg, very visible, Miss. Achar.

"Hmm. okay, lets see Age wise".

This is where we both got a technical doubt. Did the list contain our ages when the list was made or was it presently updated? It was 18 if earlier and (regretfully) 23 if now. It clicked to neither of us, that we could check up my parents' ages. In our defence, there was the Bengaluru-migrated-Kolkata sun over our heads.

"Hogli Bidi. (let it go.). We'll search name wise."
We found Nine Chethanas without initials or surnames. Two of them had same Father's first names without surnames or initials. ( We South Indians love adding multiple alphabets to our names. Eg. Y S V R Reddy.) We were both baffled.

This is where I said "Elementary, my dear Karianna (for that was his name). The first Sanjeev is 36 yrs old. The second one is 54 yrs. So, my biological father must be the latter!"

Our eyes glittered with the light success and our scalps sweated with the heat of the aforementioned Sun.

I walked back to the polling booth in the old Proper Pride Walk. Gave a grave look to all around. Scratched my chin meditatively at the electronic polling machine; although I had decided where my vote would go days ago. The Proper Pride Syndrome.

So, phew. As my principled mother put it- I fulfilled my Pavithra Karthavya (sacred duty). And set on with my normal mundane life.

Now looky here, reader. If you have read me regularly, you'd know am no idealist. But I just heard that the voting percentage in the city was 44%. (This is out of the 50% of people whose names manage to get into the voting list.)That, my friend, is a shameful percentage. For a city which is supposed to be educated, progressive and whatnot.

May be you dint find a helpful Karianna like I did. May be you think there's no point in voting anyone. May be you think you are cool. May be you thought you could drive up to that outskirts resort cause you have a two day holiday.

Anyway, I ain't no preacher. I am only a watcher of the world around me. And a lousy documents-maker to my patient reader. But what I am not, is a pessimist. Even if I were buried in deep soup, I'd prefer to think if it needed more pepper. A democratic machine runs on soup-thinkers, not soup-cribbers.

Well. Lets see who'll take up the reigns of my beloved state. Will it be Yeddy's Saffron Cheddi Sangha or Congress' Convenient Ideology School or Gowda's Raagi Mudde (famous rural k'taka Ragi balls (edible)) jana? Or will it be the good ol' Chitranna? (Chitranna: kan, noun, lit:mixed lemon rice, slang:hotch-potch brainless mix)

I always seem to vote for the loser candidate. You know what they tell about birds of similar feather flocking together :P

A Hitch Hiker's Guide to- KMC Greens, Manipal

Since there have been books written as hitchhiker’s guide to the most unlikeliest of places, including the Ancient Nightmare Planet Krikkit, it is high time a talented individual writes about likely but neglected destinations. (Being talented is not entirely necessary.)

Therefore, I take up the mammoth task of writing a guide for the common man to the commonest of places. By common man, I desire to indicate at students such as myself, constantly out of work and money. As the first in this entirely remarkable series, I present to you, dear Reader- KMC Greens, Manipal.

WHERE

If one stands in the heart of Manipal, (Tiger Circle, not Guzzler’s Inn) one can see in all directions. That is, if our highly locomotive & competitive local Udupi-Parkala bus drivers haven’t yet run over you. Pick the darkest corner to north-west. Try to spot a multi-colored-squared water thingy intended to be a fountain and walk towards it. Again, employ all your senses for detection of our friendly bus drivers until you cross the road.

WHAT

As soon as you reach the water thingy, a pleasant surprise awaits you. The green stretch of grass beyond and the well-lit lane suddenly pops into your view. Walk ahead, and come near the round-headed spike division on the main lane. For the convenience of the user, the further article is divided into various entertainments that KMC Greens has under its sleeves.

Wild-Life

The first thing you will notice is that this bald spike (pole?) is very animal friendly. The cows generally enjoy rubbing all parts of their body against it. The male dogs enjoy peeing over the divider’s bald head. The female dogs (‘witches’ with a ‘b’), on the other hand, like growling at the above mentioned male dogs. The Rodents are experts in jumping out of a hole and jumping into another in a matter of 2 seconds. The Cats are on a constant look out for these rodents while they are constantly looked out for by the clever female dogs and their pups.

Gently avoid the domestic wild-life here, trying to not move too fast and get into the other side of the divider. Lo! If you arrived there on a clear day, you will behold this beautiful view:

Dancing

At any given point of time, the open air theater stage at the end of the lawn is occupied by persons who are practicing a certain dance. Being a regular visitor, this author has many a times wondered “What, What program is it that they are practicing for throughout the year so relentlessly?”

The music for which these dances are being practiced for, most surely contain words such as – Ishq, Pyaar, Kyon Hua, Ladki, Dil, Pagal, Soniye, Balle Balle - if in Hindi and Baby, Lipstick, Love, Hip-Hop, Ma Body, Lick, Ass, etc. if in English. There are also perhaps songs in Taiwanese or Malaysian, but those are beyond this author’s comprehension.

The persons involved in these dances could include males, females and males acting like females.

Society:

KMC greens is one of the nerve centers of social life in Manipal. As you walk in the area, you will find groups of people- of mixed gender- walking, shrieking, giggling, doping, etc. The males of this group are mostly dressed in baggy pants that threaten to yield to gravity any moment. The females, on the other hand, wear outfits that are adamantly and firmly stuck to the surface of their mortal bodies.

You might also, now and then, observe a rather silent group with eye-brows knotted in worry. These come from a certain b-school called TAPMI whose campus is so huge that a blue whale could get lost there. This bunch usually tries, rather unsuccessfully, to enliven up their brains with Coffee after a day’s man-slaughter at their Alma Mater. The tourist is strongly recommended to not mix with this bunch.

Food & Drinks:

The main source of food and drinks is the Shenoy Shop set on the first floor of the central structure. Below is the small snapshot of their menu and prices:

1. Over-sweet coffee without mixer- Rs. 5
2. Yesterday’s Fresh Cut Fruits- Rs. 5
3. Cheese Burger with a Hint of Cheese- Rs. 10
4. Paneer Roll with more Tomato than Paneer: Rs. 25

There is also a Fresh and Honest (name, not description) Coffee outlet in a desolate corner of the campus. Although one might feel that this must be the place where Batman was born, the coffee from here is recommended.

Landmarks:

A tourist might want to check out the following:

• the Central Fountain
• adjoining Food Court
• the steps opposite to the Fresh & Honest Coffee outlet

As a conclusion, this author wants to bring to your attention that a tourist should carefully check before sitting down anywhere at KMC Greens. Avoid sitting right under trees which host all species of birds with heavy bowel movements. Try not walking into one of the rather affectionate couples populating all the cozy corners.

Anyways(z), Boring Types.

The World continues to baffle me in its worldly way.

According to some not-so-neutral sources, I started speaking when I was 10 months old. Now I am 270 months old. That make sit 260 months of identification of sounds. And yet, there doesn't go a week when the World around me doesn't bombard me with a baffling new word.

Its the 2002 A.D. I am sitting in a stupor in one of the BMTC buses that promised to take me from Majestic to Malleshwara. I see some young female humans board the bus. I try and mentally make a profile of them. "five girls, giggling, in jeans and 'tops', wearing hair-styles that they apparently thought were stylish, speaking in Kan/Tam/Telg-English and generally condescending".

They throw a dirty look at me. I deserved it of course, I was staring at them shamelessly. (It hurts a feminine ego to see another female check you out like that; because you know she's mentally bitching about you.) I wither under the look. I stare out of the window to see a dog peeing on the trunk of a 'Corporation' tree. (those were the days before fancy terms like BBMP came along)

Being a clever reader, you know I am still curious about their conversation. Even if I wasn't, their volumes were loud enough for even the deaf to hear them in the otherwise silent bus. so, it goes:

"I told him ya.. hehehe.. then he told me thats not like that .. hehehe...".

"How did he come to know? He dint know about it yesterday, no? How come? I know- Sheela must have only told him"

(giggle giggle giggle)

"Anyways, its all so funny".

This is where I almost tumble down the seat. Note, dear Reader, that i have marked a certain word in red. The circuits of my brain suddenly stirred into life.

What, is it, I thought. I know "Anyway". Is this the plural?? What can the plural of anyway even mean? That there were many ways, out of which there were many any ways? Isn't anyway supposed to mean any of the many ways? so, by the nature of its existence- there cannot be a plural 'anyway'? It had to be singular. Did it mean the sub set of any way that could be selected from the super set of many ways? Or were we stepping into the world of extended choices and greater avenues?

Well- that was only a small fraction of the thought process that word invoked. But soon, being only a below average human, I forgot about this new curiosity. Little did I know this this was only a prolouge to an era.

Hence, it began, somewhere around early 2000s in Bengaluru. In the years to come, I was to be given faint heart attacks very regulary. My world was getting flooded with statements such as- "why you looking so sad types?" which effectively pushed me from sadness to incompreshension. I would wonder.

"Now, what did this mean? Was there a type of people or 'types' that always looked sad? And did I now looked like I belonged to them?"

And none of this came from people whom you could pass off as being "linguistically challenged" (we are in the age of politically correct terms.). These were the educated and fancy types! High-heel wearing, Revlon Lipcolor dabbing Memsahibs buying tarkari (Kannada for vegetables) and grocery talking on phone saying "I got standing seat in bus, ya.". I never bothered brooding on 'standing seats'.


So, here I am. In 2008 AD. The world has changed a lot in past 5 years. Especially for my city. Radiostations have pioneered the art of inserting standard Kandu words such as "maadi", "swalpa", etc. everywhere- Simultaneously pacifying the Kannada Activists and attracting the supposedly 'hip' crowd. Sunidhi Chauhan sings (?) the Big FM title song "Keli Kelisi Life Nimaddagisi". Goodness knows meaning what.

Spice Telecom ads say "Simply Talk Maadi". Which means the same as "Simply Talk". Why, in the name of Holy Mother, does anyone want to add double positive? "maadi", by the way, means the same as "do". What am I supposed to mentally translate it as? "Simply Talk Do"? or "Simply Talk Talk"????!!

Well, I long ago decided that it was time to "take a chill-pill", so to speak.

Anyways, the world is one Swalpa Adjust Maadi types place.




(PS: Thank You, to whomsoever this is whose picture I flicked from the net.)

Calvin, Hobbes & Fight Club?

It was one of those any Wednesday afternoons. I, for some reason, (my life is populated with "some reasons") started google image searching for Susie Derkins. For those who are familiar, she is Calvin's only known female friend and probably didn't think too highly of him .

Anyway, the result pops up and I find half a page of Susie and other half of whats-her-name who played Marla Singer in Fight Club. I am consummated by what is only a natural curiosity for a jobless MBA intern and click on one of the pics.

And Woop- opens before me one whole world of philosophy. The image is from a website which argues that Fight Club is the grown-up version of Calvin and Hobbes. I read the website. I read,read and read. It, of course, is very long.

Indeed, you'd think, "if a chappie decided to write about a theory like this, he's bound to end up writing a lot". You ignore the fact that the website doesn't have very reader-friendly format. But you don't know how to react when you are bombarded with an image such as-


And you say to yourself "seriously?". Then, the reasonable self speaks and says- "well of course, if the chappie wants to say that chappie A is the grown up version of chappie B, he would naturally choose to photoshop one's face into another while the latter was looking into a mirror. Thoroughly human and logical." You read on.

What you have been reading as an argument so far is how FC's X is very similar to C&H's Y and therefore Y just grew up into A. Sensible. Very. Then, all of a sudden; the author chappie shoots a logic on how FC's M is very dissimilar to C&H's N, therefore N just grew up into M. This is when your logic starts complaining of slight stomachache.

Here, are the two examples of the logic :

Logic No1. Similarity:

"In the film Fight Club, the real name of the protagonist (Ed Norton’s character) is never revealed. Many believe the reason behind this anonymity is to give "Jack" more of an everyman quality. Do not be deceived. "Jack" is really Calvin from the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes. It’s true. Norton portrays the grown-up version of Calvin, while Brad Pitt plays his imaginary pal, Hobbes, reincarnated as Tyler Durden. ... Just as Calvin has an imaginary jungle-animal friend named Hobbes, whom everyone else believes to be nothing but a stuffed toy, "Jack" in Fight Club has an imaginary cool-guy friend named Tyler, whom no one but Jack can see. "

Logic 2. Difference:

"Free from the protective bonds of her parents’ guidance and the bland safety of her suburban home, Susie loses her moral bearings entirely and sinks into a dark, seamy, grim world of sex, drugs, and eccentric Albert-Einstein-like hair. Her transformation is so complete that she no longer even remotely resembles the upright citizen that her parents and society wanted her to be: thus, she changes her name. (.. to Marla Singer)"


(I had to add this image here, my hands itched in the itchy way - it says "Marla remembers the girl she used to be")

Apart from the logical confusion, the reader is, at this point of time, supposed to feel a stream of empathy for Marla, who lost her disciplined and 'normal' childhood. The grand tragedy of an intelligent, sensitive girl losing her 'goodness' due to life's hardships.

Dear Reader, Did you suppose this is where I reached out for the hand-kerchief and Paracetamol? No, It was after I read this and saw this picture:

"Moe Develops Karmic Bitch-Tits". That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is the icing.

PS: For those who are intrigued by this, er, School of Philosophy, here's the link for the top three websites propagating it. In no specific order.

1. Chow's
2. Metaphilm
3. Robert's
   

An Obituary

I suppose you could count me lucky- since it took me 22.5 years of living to come so close to death. Sunday, March 27, 2008, my very close friend from school died in a road accident. I came to know it through an uncle who read a report in the newspaper.

Divya Subramanium – was a close friend from approximately 6 yrs. Very different from most of my other gal pals, she always had a certain air of purpose around her. She was one of those people who come across as very reserved; but actually easy to get along with. Among the very few who caught my jokes and sensed my temper, I miss you deeply, girl.

The sole reason why I ever went to the local temples was that she dragged me along. Always wanted to be an architect; she became a good one. A lecturer from college told her mother that she was going to be a rank holder when the university results would be out. She was doing her project in Bengaluru and was supposed to go back to Hubli. It’s the “Supposed to” that hurts.

As I recently discovered, the first feeling death causes is – disbelief. You have someone’s voice still in your head, you remember how they walked and smiled; but all that will never ever be seen. It is hard to get used to the fact that she is gone, gone forever. That you wont get calls from her saying “you haven’t bothered to keep in touch since you left to Manipal, have you?” And the disbelief eventually leads to grief.

I always fancied myself to be too sophisticated to cry at funerals. I cried like a baby at Divya’s. The fact that I am capable of so much grief is a self-discovery to me.

Her mother’s grief was beyond tears- she just talked and talked and talked.

I miss you, my very artistic, deep, beautiful and sensitive friend. My friend - lost to one of the city’s potholes and a BMTC bus. I will never forgive myself for not keeping up our appointment- you would probably have been as alive as ever had I fixed a date with you last weekend. The first thing that comes to my mind every morning I wake up is that you are, gone.

Although my grief is no where as deep as her parents’ whose only child she was, I deeply mourn her loss.