I Am No Jeeves

We Are Moving.

2008-12-13T10:43:00.000-08:00

Dear Reader,

We are shifting to WordPress (from Blogger, of course). For the following reason(s):

1. I have too much time at hand.

2. I have too less money to spend on time pass.

Apart from above, there are also minor technical details which are absolutely insignificant. May be I will regret ditching Blogger. May be I will do another massive upheaval from there to back here in a week's time.

But right now, I hope you continue reading me here. Remember, there is only a small change in the address- just insert "wordpress" instead of "blogspot".

See you there,

Pip Pip.

Feeling Silly

2008-11-28T04:35:00.000-08:00

As I reload the Mumbai news web pages minute after minute,
And watch people getting shattered,
Some shattered for being out of their homeland
Some shattered because this is their home land (there is no escaping it).

Just as I watch, people’s lives are changing-
Some lives have come to a pointless, ridiculous end,
Some lives will carry nightmares till the last
Some lives will never feel safe again.

I feel silly.
To be studying for a test,
To snuggle under the cosy blanket,
To wonder what to wear tomorrow,
To decide if I like Pista flavour more or Vanilla,
To dream about who will employ me for how much.

For all I know,
The boy with the AK-47 – For his age and costume –
Might as well have been my little brother.

My Hairy Fairy Story

2008-11-23T23:44:00.000-08:00

I would like to ask a few questions to men in general:

Do you think my ridiculous hair style is more ridiculous than the hair in your arm pit that I can see through your t shirt sleeves?
What makes you think that long, thick haired women are hotter - doesn’t it strike you that they might as well be Jehadi militants hiding nuclear weapons beneath their long tresses and you might never know it? (At least everyone can see what's on my scalp.)
If you can be OK with me wearing denim jeans like you, why cant you be OK with me having hair as lengthy as yours?
Or are you the saddest of the sad kind that joins communities in Orkut called "We Love Women Who Wear Chudidhar"?
Will you get scared if I tell you that your ass is cute?

I have been trying to not refer to this subject - but the circumstances are so. I am hereby sharing with general populace the story of what has been my constant source of embarrassment and entertainment for the past 6 months - viz. my latest, really short hair cut. Here are a few snippets of public reaction for the same:

W.T.F.Iceman was sitting a row ahead of me. He said "I need to get a haircut; my hair's starting to look like Chethana's". (I know you are reading this, you meano.)

A few days ago, PJ told me that with my latest hair-do, I look like I could play for the Brazilian (soccer) Team. Not-subtly-hinting at Ronaldinho.

A year junior smart ass asked me "It seems you had normal hair last year?"

The worst, of course, has to come from a mother. She watched a clipping of me talking on the local Namma TV and asked with sincere concern if I combed my hair every day.

Flashback:

I got my hair cut in that god forsaken place called Bounce in Bengaluru for a ridiculously high amount. After the lady pronounced that she was done, I gingerly opened one of my eyes and looked into the hundred mirrors surrounding me. I looked like someone right out of the sketches in NCERT text books about pre-historic cave people. I just stared at myself in disbelief.

She asked me : "so, you like it?" [ :-) :-) ]

I said: "I, urm , look like a .... boy." [ :-/ ]

She: "Hehe. Of course not, you look awesome."

I: "Er, dont you think it's been cut too short? I mean, there is no hair on my head."

Other people in the Salon including one gay hair designer: “OH look at you - Soooooo pretty!"

I think people in the salon are professionally trained to act thrilled-by-beauty, especially when one among them has royally screwed up a customer's head. This particular set, may I add, acted brilliantly well on that count.

Present:

6 months past and my hair has grown really long now. Compared to before. Now I can use 4 hair clips and one elastic band and achieve a ponytail that is 1 inch in length.

I am not a newbie to having really short hair, but men around me apparently are. Which means that not only have I enjoyed being butt of many hair jokes for the past few months, I have also intimidated some poor people into thinking that I am some :

a) super-intellectual Arundhathi Roy type or

b) power yielding Indira Gandhi type.

All the kicks of being a short-haired carefree woman apart, I have been feeling nauseated ever since I lost almost all my hair to some freak medical thing. That sensation just hasn’t left me. And I still look into the mirror only for the necessary stuff. I otherwise avoid that process altogether.

I am leaving you with something from Maloose. The first time I saw it, it shook something deep within me. As though I was mourning afresh for the loss of something so superficial, yet deeply precious. It’s called Once upon a Hair Cut.

Now What?

2008-11-03T22:21:00.000-08:00

Somebody has stolen my florescent green-colored pencil sharpener. What I want to ask is - Why? I know I am loser enough to carry a pencil sharpener at 23. I don't understand why anybody else would want to touch it, though. It was like one of those things that by their very own nature wont get stolen. For example, when people send batch mails saying someone's flicked their black umbrella, I feel very smug. I know no one would steal mine. No one would want to be even found dead with my pastel bright pink umbrella.

Very rarely do I look for a hindi song. I am suddenly overcome with the desire to hear and watch that kahi door jab din dhal jaaye song. All the 7 copies of that song on Youtube say - "We're sorry, this video is no longer available." What are the chances that Youtube doesn't have a popular hindi song?

I don't know if Pulao is pronounced as pu-la-oh or pa-la-oh. For that matter, I don't know if pudding is pah-ding or pu-ding.

As I type on my lappie, I glance down at my bare arms. I see it covered with dark, unhealthy skin. Fair, unhealthy skin is OK. Dark, healthy skin is OK too (not according to aunt T, but i choose to ignore her). I realize I have neither.

I have lost the ability to differentiate between coffee and tea. At least the coffee and tea that they make in our college canteen.

I have eagerly started downloading Avatar - The Last Airbender (yes, you read it right) on Vuze. There are 0 seeds online out of 112 seeds whenever I am online. Which mathematically means that, from past 5 days, I have downloaded a total of 0%.

I am happy that there are no classes today for me. But I have come to college anyway. I am annoyed with myself for coming when there was to pressing necessity to come and then getting annoyed that if I have come anyway, I shouldn't be getting annoyed with myself in the first place. Because it is I who has turned up and getting annoyed. Conflict of interests of sort, you see.

I don't know why my shoulders hurt so badly sometimes. I am hoping that its not old age. But I am also hoping its not something worse.

I think the 3 month old puppy stomping around in our campus is a flirt.

Two Love Letters

2008-10-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Priya,

I am not your regular cliche person. I am not even your regular person. For that matter, I am not even a person. I am the person. (He he. how do you like my little grammar joke?)

I am not going to compare you to weird stuff like moon or flowers or butter flies or honey cakes.

Everyday, when I drive to office on the bike with my salesman's uniform choking me, with my heavy sample material bag, in the heavy Bengloor traffic under dust and smoke and heat, I pass through that fountain near that what-do-you-call-it circle. Usually, that is the only pleasant thing that happens to me all day. As the spray of the fountain hits me for a few seconds when I circle the circle, I feel like I am sprayed with everything that is pure.

That is what you are, the rare spray of purity in my otherwise cluttered life.

You have made it quite clear to all your friends, my friends and our mutual friends that you think I am pumpkin-headed moron. I strongly protest this. My head is not shaped like a pumpkin. You could call it onion. Or even like the Taj Mahal dome. But not pumpkin. You see, pumpkins have a horizontal-oval shape. Where as my head, is somewhat vertically-oval. So, as much as I admire you already, my admiration for you will grow if you made your comments based on geometrically correct observations.

Oh, I liked that new black chudidhar that your "guy" gave you, but I think the neck's tad bit too deep. Also, you look thin in it. Where as you aren't actually that thin.

Love,

Rohit Ramanna (Jr.)

***

Dear Priya,

I write this letter under the mind-numbing circumstance of you having cried all night to me last night over phone.

As you gave me to understand I am a bastard. Following which you asked me if I loved you. I said "No". You told me that I had told you that I loved you only a week ago. I told you that I did not promise you any sort of status quo. You repeated your opinion that I was a bastard. Smart girl. Good logical thought process.

Anyway, I write this letter to you because you seemed to ask the question "why" too many times. Let me first introduce you to the concept of weighted averages. I assign 'weights' to things. I rate you on 100 for various such things. I then multiply these things with weights and give you a score. The ratings are written in points and weights for each component in ( )

Hair : 70 (.05)

Skin complexion : 75 (.05)

Boobs and Ass : 99 (.20)

Limbs : 95 (.10)

Sweetness : 80 (.05)

Flirtation Intelligence : 90 (.05)

Married to me? : 0 (.10)

Pregnant? : -150 (.40) {negative for positive results of pregnancy tests}

So your score is = 70 (.05)+75 (.05)+99 (.20)+95 (.10)+80 (.05)+90 (.05)+0 (.10) -150 (.40)

= (-14.95)

You see, that is a negative score. No man in his sane mind will accept a negative score. Although you are absolutely near-perfect in everything else, this whole baby-inside-stomach is very score hurting.

I hope I have communicated my logic to you comprehensively. I also hope that you will have no issues with the calculations; I have used MS Excel 2007.

Remember, there is no greater power than that of logic. And logic demonstrated with some number-crunching is the most impenetrable kind. Since you are some sort of an MBA grad, you will absolutely appreciate this philosophy.

Wishing you best in all future endeavours,

Dr. Ananth Balu Srirampura

Oversimplification

2008-10-07T02:31:00.000-07:00

"I strayed, thats all."

A Much Wanted Cup of Chai

2008-10-02T12:18:00.000-07:00

I have been sick all day today. I am also thoroughly confused because I feel like fever, but I actually don’t have a high temperature. I also have a blocked nose and itchy throat which means that I am pronouncing it as “blogged noze and idchy dhrot”. So, I spent the whole day doing what I do best - sleeping.

In the evening, I dropped into M’s room. N was also there. Seeing my condition, N invited me for a chai (tea) in her room. I agreed. I had no clue this would be one of the best things to happen to me in the month.

Honestly, I am extremely naïve when it comes to cooking and all that. So, I had no clue how people made chai in a hostel room. While I sat on the bed with a heavy head and constant sneezing, N and M bustled about and made a hot, heavenly ginger tea. M had brought some Marie biscuits and chakkuli to nibble along with.

This is water + tea leaves being heated in N’s room. I loved the color of the coils when they are hot. Also, notice the cute little Krishna statue on the right hand corner of the table.

They used this diary whitener thingy. This is the first time I am drinking something made of it; it is almost close to real milk. I gathered you need some practice and expertise before getting the hang of using the milk powder.

Our cups were ready to be poured in and the tea is ready to be poured. Notice the small white nozzle container on the left top corner – it is the ginger essence that M added.

M’s and mine tea on the bed with the nibble-alongs. The Marie biscuits were apparently chocolate flavored; but M and I simply couldn’t detect a trace of chocolate in them. I personally don’t see why people should be in need of chocolate flavored Chai biscuits. You might as well drink hot chocolate.

Anyway, their (no-real-milk, no-real-ginger) Milk Ginger Chai did a much better job than the doses of paracetamol I have been taking. Thank you M and N, for saving my day!

Meanwhile, this is what has been happening in the world around me.

People are attacking churches, raping nuns, the government is non-committal, the press is printing and people are throwing the news papers away next day along with other garbage. Deep-rooted rot that a million liters of ginger tea cannot help.

To Different People

2008-09-29T03:40:00.000-07:00

The most gratifying thing in this world is to write letters to people who will never read them. I present below three letters that I wrote- at different points of time, in different situations – and never posted. I must warn you that the length of this post might be overwhelming.

To D,

Of all the times I have spent with you, the image that stands out most clearly in my mind is the one with you wearing thick glasses and staring at me distastefully across the school van. You did not conceal the fact that you disliked me for being so loud, arrogant and boastful. Not that I cared, either. But then, life, in all its innovation, made us very, very good friends.

Both of us would take a good hot water head-bath and come to Maths Tution classes on Sunday afternoons. The smell of the Shikakai from your thick hair, the hot moisture of my own head, the wafting smell of Mrs. Maths Sir’s onion Sambar, would make me invariably drowsy. You would spend half your time pinching me off from sleeping. We would spend the rest of the Sunday laughing our asses off about absolutely unrelated things. There was this one day when I imitated the primate expression on R’s face when Sir asks him a trigonometric equation – you got into such a fit of laughter that you fell off the bicycle and bruised your hands.

You hands – so talented. All those brilliant sketches of people, the mural paintings on the walls of your bedroom, those technical architectural diagrams and that small, confident handwriting in my ‘Memory Book’.

The Sunday afternoon you died, I was making Gulab Jamoon with Aunt V. If it was 6 years ago, we would have been sitting next to each other in the Maths Tution classes.

Monday morning I was informed that you had died in a road accident last afternoon. I read it in a news paper. It told everything - where you lived, where your grand parents lived, the name of the architect firm where you were doing your project, your age, gender, name. Still, as I drove up to your grand parents’ home, I was desperately hoping that I was mistaken. I saw around 30 people silently standing outside your Bangalore house and sinkingly I knew I was right.

I saw your body – they had wrapped it in plastic and covered with white cloth. Some lab guy in St. John’s hospital had tried his best to make your face look human after the bus had run over it. I hugged your legs and cried and cried. I never knew I could publicly cry so loud, that I could touch a dead body, that I could create such a scene. Your mother was incessantly talking to herself; your father was his usual silent self – except for the tears, your grand mother sat quietly surrounded by 5 other women – staring into nothing, only murmuring your name now and then.

A white van came, took you and drove off. Giving me only one last glimpse of your small, petite built. I wiped my tears. I took your phone from one of your cousins and transferred all your pictures to my phone through blue tooth. Then, business-like, like that van, I drove off too.

I have not looked at those pictures much. I realised I don’t need them. I try not remembering you, because when I do, I hate the fact that I am alive and you aren’t. I don’t have the bravery to face the hollow you left behind.

To M.P,

You left on a Tuesday evening. You called to say you were leaving, but never called to say you reached the other end. Thereby, you simply walked out of my life. I didn’t resist this walking out – because by then I knew that you were to be let gone. I had bound you long enough.

I wonder why you took to the binding for so long, though. Why, for months and months, did your hear a silly 21 yr old rant on about sillier things? How did I even figure in your general scheme of life? You were such an ambitious person, such an over-achiever, so sure about yourself, so planned out about your whole life – how did you fit a gypsy like me into your otherwise well-structured world?

This day during the world cup when you said that the Brazilian coach was a Chut and I asked you what literally did ‘chut’ mean and you went all red. This day when I started arguing with a junk jeweler boy on Brigade road and you stood next to me, pretending like you did not know who I was. This day when we were having a lunch at Tangerine with an animated hilarious discussion about sex and the whole Kitty Party in the next table went quiet listening to our talk. This day when we watched 300 in Rex without uttering a word to each other throughout the movie. This hot sunny day you came to rescue me when I had no money to buy a CAT application form and no ATM around was working.

Looking back, I feel extremely foolish about myself. That I talked to you so much about myself and never about you. You knew my soul and I din’t even know your favorite color. You were my rock and I was your burden.

There are one million ways to start a conversation with you now, but I won’t. I do deeply miss you at times. But I will not tell that to you, because you will hate it. I will hate it myself. We are the stiff-upper-lip people. I would like to tell you, though, that all that time you were with me hasn’t gone in vain. You did manage to rub some of yourself on me. Looks like I did gather some of your poise and equanimity after all.

If you come to discover how much I have grown since you last knew me, you will think of me somewhat well. (I guess,) You might even remotely, vaguely admire me. As a Friend? Lover? Brother? No Clue. May be years down, I will know you for who you really were.

To (Mrs.) A,

They say you were born again when you gave birth to me. You told me that I troubled you there too, for many painful hours I simply refused to be born. Even though it has been almost 23 years now that I was finally born, I don’t think either of us has cut the placenta that binds you to me and me to you.

During all those turbulent teenage years when I fought with you on a daily basis, I was convinced that you wouldn’t understand me. Ever. I always believed that we were a different generation and we would be different people.

But now, I have discovered a trend. A pattern, if you prefer that word. I see that I am growing into someone pretty much like you. Similar tastes, similar wants and similar troubles. I am also tempted to conclude that I might pick a husband just like the one you picked. I think my daughter will need me and escape me at the same time - the way I do you.

Your life has been drastically different from mine. You roamed woods, villages and fields and ate Brahmin food and studied in scholarships, won academic ranks and married simple. I explored my city and was fed more than I could eat and provided before I demanded anything and will probably marry grand. You are likely to be happy that your daughter is more lucky, educated and liberated than you ever were.

But you are wrong there, mother. Me, my mother, my grand mother, her mother – all of us, we are women. We will never escape the fate that was written for us millions of years before we were born. A co-ed school doesn’t twist the fate. A Gucci bag doesn’t matter. Me using P & G's Whisper Ultra where my grandma used a cotton cloth doesn’t change a thing. We are all bound by our gender. A gender that gives us our unique physical and mental pains. Across the millennia, we have borne it. We have loved our men, in spite of hating them.

I am terrified when you speak of your mother in past tense. I cannot imagine living with the memory of a mother and not a real one. So, I don’t think of a future. I only look forward to being touched by your hands that have been roughed by washing dishes in spite of all of us demanding you hire a maid.

You see, you don’t hug me and touch me the way many other mothers do to their daughters. But when you do, it melts my immature soul.

My question, dear reader, is, what is the whole point?

Inside Out and Outside In

2008-09-25T23:36:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like you have been existing in a constant state of non-existence? There are times when it feels like I am not in my life, but merely a viewer watching a movie of my life happening. Of late, I seem to be relevant only for the moment. As though there was no looking forward into the future and no looking back into the past.

It is strange how when you stand out and look inside, the inside looks blurred. And you go in and look out, the outside seems hazy. It is the negative of the ancient grass-on-other-side-of-the-fence mirage. Only things in my immediate surrounding make sense. Anything beyond or within are not for me to read.

I am uploading two photos I took just as a parallel to what I feel. Both of these are taken in Cosmos Cafe, Valley View, Manipal.

Inside Out

Outside In

Meanwhile, I have been wanting to re-start my drawing and crayoning after a long while. For some reason, I feel that some doodling will set me free (free of what? I don't know.). If I do ever sit down to it and create something wholly unremarkable, I will share it with you.

"I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual.": (Virginia Woolf, Diary, 17th Feb 1922)

Its 2.15 AM

2008-09-21T13:42:00.000-07:00

Its 2.15 AM on a Monday morning. I have had a one more of those blasted Sundays that don't feel like Sundays.

You know how you think on a Friday -

" Wow, tomorrow's Saturday and the day after's Sunday. I'll sleep the whole of Saturday night and the whole of Sunday day".

But then the reality simply laughs at your face.

Reality can take a walk in the garden, for all I care, though. You see, I don't get bogged down by petty stuff such as ass-on-fire schedules. I count life's gifts to me. The net speed in my room is now, for example, 12.0 mbps. I don't hear the soul consuming noise of building constructions around me. My lap top has worked continuously now for 5 hours without having a MS Windows break-down even once. I am happy.

Below is a picture of the window ( not the MS one) view of my room 2 minutes ago. Take note of the night outside and complete lack of books on my book shelf.

I read 'Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit' while my roomie reads 'Investments'. She's having a well-deserved sleep, so am making weird and entirely unnecessary beep beep noises on my lappie. She thinks I am a bozo and I think I am a bozo. Together, I suppose, we neutralize our room.

I look forward to another working week with all the hate I can muster. But, as always, hating is not exclusive of having a good time. Right Ho, then.

My Life Is Getting Increasingly, Progressively, Inexplicably Weird.

2008-09-12T06:17:00.000-07:00

My life is getting increasingly, progressively, inexplicably weird.

***

I was standing in the corridor in a group and laughed hard at a joke. I fly came buzzing from somewhere, precisely entered my mouth like a well-programmed missile and hit my throat. I, in a matter of one nano second, shifted from laughing to choking. I started coughing uncontrollably, my eyes watered and everyone around me made gasping noises and grabbed me as I collapsed. I recovered after a few moments, but I actually felt the fly slowly sliding down my oesophagus.

***

I was sitting at 8.50PM on the benches lining the soccer ground on end point watching nobody play. The lights were on and the ground was more liquid than solid because of the monsoons. There were only flies and birds around. Some species of grey-colored small birds were squatting and hopping on the ground. Suddenly, some 10 of them took flight. It was an awesome sight; I opened my mouth to say

"Wo-"

THUD.

It took me two seconds to notice that one little birdie had simply hit thud against the ground. I looked up to see what it had hit against. Nothing. It had simply fallen down from the air and slammed the ground. I sat silently in the night mist and I felt a sickening knot in my stomach.

***

I stood in the bathroom waiting for the steaming hot water to fill my bucket. 7.30 AM today morning. The view outside was brilliant. I came near the window, looked down on the uninhabited valley from the forth floor. I stood there for some long minutes. I had a long, heavy day to go. Standing there, looking at the white-green valley with the soothing background of water flowing into my bucket, I was at perfect peace with myself.

I only realised a black shape. A crow came and slammed against my window pane - 2 inches away from my face. It fell down. I silently screamed, my heart thumping. I got so scared, I physically ran back 5 steps. If I hadn't closed the glass pane, the crow would have hit my face.

***

We had an awesome time on the Kaup (Kapu) Beach with the benign moonlight, imposing light house and shrieking girls. We spent an hour in the water, dropping any pretension of dryness.

We came back to Sai Parivar for dinner. I happened to look down on my feet in the parking lot. I thought I saw something abnormal. Then I thought my nail color was washed off from one of my toe nails. Then I realised that I did not have one toe nail. In place of a nail, there was just pink skin. I didn't feel anything. Not even a slight pain or bleeding. One whole big toe nail was gone. Vanished. Walked out of my life. Without making the slightest of noise.

***

I actually guessed an answer right in the MBFM (Money, Banking and Financial Markets) class.

A Sunday Morning That Didn't Last

2008-09-07T21:21:00.000-07:00

It was one of those Sunday mornings that actually feel like a Sunday morning. My life is not filled with too many of those of late, you see. So, when a Sunday morning does feel like one - I appreciate it. More usually than not, I appreciate it by sleeping. At odd angles. And walk around the rest of the Sunday with a cramped neck, or hand, or shoulder, you get the drift.

So, yesterday morning was one of those Sunday mornings. I was fast asleep and my body had subconsciously decided to cramp the neck. Hence, I was lying in an angle suitable to that purpose. My phone rang, woke my roomie up, woke up the domestic help akka four floors below, woke up a sleeping dog in Parkala and subsequently woke me up. It was A.

A: "Morning, did I wake you up? Hey, what say, beach?"

Self: "Ummmm."

A: "Listen, its 6.30 now, so if you leave in, say, fifteen minutes, we can go to Virgin Beach. It'll be awesome. The weather's great. Sexy drive. Remember I told you yesterday that I wanted to go?"

Self: "Ummm. Huh? Whaaa?"

A: "Beach. Virgin. Now. Told Yesterday." (A's skills of summarising have developed strongly since I came along.)

Self: "Oh, ha ha. Okay okay."

A: "We can also drop into Cosmos Cafe for the English Breakfast after that."

Self : "Okay, okay. Mmmm"

A : "So, 10 minutes? okay, 15? We'll leave?"

Self: "20."

A: "Okay. 20, okay. Bye. Don't get late, okay. Bye."

Self: "Okay." (Mmmm.)

I dragged myself out. Put myself into something sporty. Took out those nice sneakers that I hadn't used since I came to Manipal. I am a democratic person. But I strongly don't support a fungal colony growing inside my sneakers. I had shown my non-support by not letting my sneakers get wet. Here, you see, at this time of the year, the mere fact of existing was qualification enough to get drenched. Every single day. But it surprisingly hadn't rained for past two weeks and I decided I could risk the sneakers out of their cozy dry hiding place.

So, we left after 30 minutes. We drove cheerfully up to the tip of the hill, stopped at China Valley restaurant and looked towards the ocean. We noted that the sky in the general direction of the ocean looked morbidly black. We also noted that all cars/people coming from that general direction were drenched. We scientifically concluded that we should not go towards the ocean. We then went on to intelligently decide to go to the nearby End Point and trek down all the way to the Suvarna river. Even as I type this, I wonder where our both's respective common senses had gone then. Grazing grass, probably?

We managed to reach till one of those ridiculous Gazebos that have recently come up in sporadic places across the End Point hills. A's Avenger was parked some 100 feet behind us. Then, it began. It started as a drizzle, grew to a steady beat and before I finished saying "Oh No --", our classic Western Ghats rain had returned. After 2 sunny weeks. On the only day we had decided to get out.

Well, we stood there like two bewildered cavemen. Our only protection being that roof above us. With no walls surrounding us. For 1.5 hours. There was water flowing on the floor, there was water on the seats, all around us, the rain thrashed. As we watched, streams and puddles started getting formed and grew at an alarming rate. Everything 10m beyond us was just white fog. We did not see another human for all that while. With a sigh, A said:

"You know what, we should simply go."

It then struck me as the most natural thing to do. So we walked back, into the roaring rain. As though we were giving the rain a middle finger.

Self: (yelling over the rain) "You know, if we were going to do this anyway, we could have done this an hour and a half ago."

A: "Hmmm"

Self: "I don't think we can do the English Breakfast in Valley View. They won't let us in."

A: "Hmm. Yeah. Mmm."

Self: "Look at the brighter side of it, I don't want to take bath for the next one week. Or go near any kind of water at all. I'll save time."

A: "Mmmm. Heh Heh Hehmmm." (vague mention of a laughter that soon dies down)

You see, A is one of those guys who think that if the context is depressing, your mood ought to be dark too. I don't agree with that sort of attitude. But I dint push for humor. I know I shouldn't push a man who was driving me behind his back on a country mud hill road with water madly pouring all around us with no other human in sight. This wasn't the time or context for paradigm shifts.

As we sat down and had our breakfast, the water simply flowed from our table. A's beard was dripping of water. My heart bled to even look down and catch a glimpse of my hitherto well-preserved sneakers. Instead, I smiled at an oriental girl. It felt like ages since I saw a member of the Homo sapien sp. I have never before appreciated so much, the simple marvel of being dry and being among other humans.

So, that is how, instead of running on the beach with my sun glares and and having an English Breakfast, I ended up getting drenched with my wind cheater and having cold hard idli vadas at Sharada Mess.

On a Sunday Morning that had initially started to feel like a Sunday Morning, may I emphasize.

Youth and Age

2008-08-27T05:39:00.000-07:00

I discovered that she was 25 yrs of age. Two whole years more alive than me. Yet, she and him together made me feel old and ugly. And an instantaneous death of self-love.

I have been smugly happy since I discovered our age difference. Thereby attaining heights of hollowness I haven't dreamt of. But 2 years older! Haha! Take that, you actually-old-but-young-acting bitch, take that!

***

P is back in college. I caught a vague glimpse of his hair and I knew it had to be him. My heart just skipped a beat. I was once again in the presence of an irresistibly hot man.

I had been looking forward to it. I have taken up his subject without even glancing at it's title. He knows it, I think. He knows that there are at least a dozen women in my batch starry-eyed for him. You can't have lived for 50-60 years and not know that you are h-o-t. Of course, the whole old hindi song singing and finance wizardness only adds to the appeal.

***

She walked into the class with her white cotton saree and irritated expression. She used a lot of big words without too much meaning. She recollected fondly incidents that happened 25 years ago. She scolded some for things that they did not care about. She gave away free advice on irrelevant topics to irrelevant people. She ranted on about things that were important to nobody other than her. All the while, though, she did not lose her dignity. Or self-confidence. Or assurance that everyone cared about what she spoke.

I sat in one of the last row and saw her for what she actually was. My future self. Without any doubt, I knew I would grow into someone just like that. Recollecting meaningless past, talking irrelevant things, loving people unworthy of it and using unnecessirily long sentences. I was heading towards it, clearly. I was going to grow up just like that. Just. Like. That.

***

By the end, that is all there is to it. The false security of youth and the unreasonable dread of age.

To My Dear Bollywood Lyricists,

2008-08-21T23:49:00.000-07:00

You haven't died. You all are alive and kicking. I am obviously elated by this fact. You all have given me the philosophical depth that I wouldn't have developed otherwise. You are truly the pinnacle of Indian Civilaisation (the oldest living one, the one that hasn't invaded any other, the one where people are abstemious and gods are obnoxiously crazy about gold jewellery) in the 21st century.

All of you have miraculously made more than 100 songs with the permutation and combination of 5 base words - kudi, balle, pyaar, shava shava and duniya. We are truly proud of you. If we had a Feilds Medal for Repititive Yet Vaguely Non-Repititive Lyric Writing, India would win it every time. And NDTV would have made two-day long programs about you with tablas playing in the background music.

You all work like an entity with many bodies and a single soul. While academicians all across the world are stupidly pouring over Semantics and Phonetics volumes, you have successfully merged Hindi, Urdu, English, Panjabi, Bihari, Bhojpuri, Marwari, etc. Generations to come will scarce believe that entities such as this walked upon this earth with flesh and blood. To add to our great delight, all designers, musicians, chereographers have formed similar many-bodied-one-souled entities.

I have hereby shunned my ol' Led Zep, Floyd, Dylan, everyone. My immunity system can no longer take their profound deep lyrics. They have lost sustainable competitive advantage by not knowing Punjabi.

I heard a song with the following lyrics while getting my eyebrow threaded in the beauty parlour yesterday:

Sajna ve karle party, Kudi tu lagdi hai Naughty,
Freaky Freaky raath ho gayee.

(Or whatever)

We both were moved to tears (of laughter). No, really. Balle Balle Shava Shava. No? Okay.

(PS : My beautician was so uncontrollably moved by this song, she unintentionaly scrapped my eyebrow off. I am walking around in the campus looking like that Satan person in Passion of the Christ.)

The Life That There Is

2008-08-17T01:17:00.000-07:00

Classic Rock and Classic Dakshin Kannada

Strikingly Obvious Social Death

Hollow Attempts at Fashion

Scribbled Notes, Junk Food, Phone and Algae-filled Walls

Yesterday.

2008-08-13T08:51:00.001-07:00

If there is something called 'past-sickness', like home-sickness, I have it.

*****

As I sat yesterday on the front steps and watched the wild rain at 11PM, I remembered that almost an year ago, I had sat here, watching the wild rain at this time. That was the day B, S and I had come all the way from Indrali to have some dessert. There were other people sitting on the porch too. At that time, I dint know most of their names. One of them was playing Pehala Nasha. Everything was just like the last night; except me.

As we sat on the porch that day, I showed my middle-finger to B. S asked us what that meant. B and I almost toplled down with disbelief. While B gaped with her mouth open, I sincerely asked S if she honestly did not know what a middle-finger gesture meant. She answered back with all the sugar-sweet-sincereity, "No, Chetu (hehe) I don't know. Seriously (hehe)." I, was understandably upset. I, who had started gettting fluent with 'fuck' in 8th std., could not tolerate this kind of ignorance surrounding me.

'It means "Fuck you"', I said.

S dint reply. A serious flaw in my logic hit me.

'Do you know what fuck means?' I was almost getting worried now.

'Hehe. Of course I know what that means, Chetu. Hehe'. Phew.

Our converstaion was growing on these lines. Meanwhile, the rain had got all the more wild. My pink couldn't-get-more-girly umbrella started pretending like a kite. B had a phone with a VGi cam, the too romantic atmosphere made her start recording a video. And just then, as though to complete the moment, G called me.

We had a regular conversation about all things. I was ecstatic with happiness from an unknown source. The rain, the tasty Hangyo generous dessert, the conversation, the companionship gave me a weird high. I was telling G how drunk-on-life I was feeling then.

And he simply said- in the way only soul-friends know you - "This might just be one of the happiest days of your life. I dont remember you ever sounding like this."

I said "Stop saying creepy things, G. Hehehehehe".

*****

I saw the video after going back home yesterday. My heart was broken, my eyes burned (they had had too much of rain and too much of tears for a day's quota), my clothes were wet, my head thumping. As I saw the video, I wondered who that person looking like me in the video was. So much younger, so much happier. With a slim build and long hair. With the laughter in the eyes. With a love for her life that I haven't felt in ages.

I was laughing uncontrollably, pushing my straight long defiant hair behind my ears. B was following me with the cam just to bug me. My pink umbrella kept coming in and out of the frame. Pehla Nasha was vaguely playing in the background. S was trying out middle fingers, cheerily scandalised with herself. I remember that G was laughing aloud too. For some reason I don't remember.

He left the continent few weeks after this. I never heard the laughing voice after that.

The whole video was a mixture of heard and unheard laughter. Of expressed and hidden joy.

*****

I can't help but mourn for the part of me that has grown and gone. For the people who have come and gone and stayed and not gone and gone but come back and gone but might not come back. For the rare flowers not stopped by and appreciated. For the rare bugs in the corridor not photographed. For the DDLG lyrics mugged up in 5th std and forgotten now among all the Phirangi Gaane. For the dead grandmother's popular recipes that nobody knows how to cook. But I guess one lives and waits.

*****

What the hell, if life can throw up a 24 yr old S who dint know what the middle-finger stood for, life can pretty much throw up anything.

Rain and Time

2008-08-09T00:15:00.000-07:00

As the days grow, the past fades.
Faces, smiles, smells of loved ones
seem like a vaguely-remembered dream
on a friday morning.

The rain lashes across, Earth oozes of water,
Sea-winds howl, laterite walls are full of ferns.

My blankets are damp,
My freshly-laundered Levi's have moulds,
My room has glow-worms cheerfully flying across in the night.

As life becomes a blur,
of water, greenery, mess food and MS Power Point,
The past slides like silk
from my eager palms.

I get lost in small worries and forget the bigger burns;
I become numb to every love lost.

All My Bags Are Packed ...

2008-07-19T07:41:00.000-07:00

... well, almost. I choose to ignore mother constantly nagging me about how ill-organized and totally not-yet-packed I am. She doesn't understand, there are two kinds of packing : physical and mental. I am mentally packed and psychologically prepared to leave. But that sort of packing ain't good enough for Mommy.

Well, I am leaving to Manipal on Monday. I will probably be back on next March. That will be the longest time I have been away from home.

Its not that I particularly mind being in Manipal. In fact, I don't have such rigid early coming-back-home timings, can eat what I want where ever, can wander aimlessly whole evening sipping coffee and nobody will really bother. In short, to put it our Bengaluru slang way: No Asker, No Teller. Physical freedom is a strong intoxication.

Yet, there is something I miss when I leave home. It is as though I am being kept out of the loop, if you get what I mean. All things that were a big part of my life aren't there any longer. More unsettling is the knowledge that, all the things that I was a big part of, move on well even without me.

I am used to make tea at home ever since I was approximately 10 yrs. Always under the impression that the parents will miss my tea deeply when I leave. Nope, they enjoy the mother-made tea as much, or probably better. The grocery shopping gets done in time, the post office and bank paper-work gets done well, the dog-walk taking goes on punctually. It suddenly dawns on you that you really aren't inevitable. Things are just as smooth without you, thank you.

Worse still, is missing out on big things. The bro was a full head shorter than me when I left last summer. This summer, I wondered who this boy was, towering over me with my brothers face wearing my brother's clothes but with a lot gruffer voice.

I have lived in the 'layout' for 15 yrs now. We have been here so long, almost every reasonably social person and almost all shop keepers knew me by face. Now, I came back after a year and the marwari shops have new marwari boys who don't recognize me; there are lesser number of scary aunts who say "oh, Achar daughteraa, come come"; there are suddenly Reliance Fresh, Bata, More., and a whole lot of other swanky shops - none of whose staff know me.

In the past one year, there have been times when work got to my nerves and people haven't been particularly nice. On those melancholy evenings, I have desperately wished I had a real home to go back to. With a real family in it. But the only thing I could go back to was my bachelorette room. I dint really mind it, you see, I could lie down, watch a movie, eat anything, stay awake, listen to music, anything. But there's something in a mother that isn't there in Wi-Fi unlimited download systems.

As I type this, I can hear the dishes clanking as mother washes them, father's lappie's keys being tapped, brother droning on "... mass is a basic property of matter...", IFB washing the clothes in spin, I can smell the scent of hot sweet milky tea in the kitchen - and I know I will miss the sights, sound, smell and feel of my home. But I am eager to get back to the Other World, with its salty air, laterite rocks, Chinky students, mid-night coffees and all its adventure.

Another drastically different life beckons me - and I answer its call with all my spirit. But there is one basic truth that I shall not deny: The Greatest Journey is the one back Home.

Houston, We Have A Condition Here.

2008-07-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

I parked the ol' girl 800 right in front of the" tailor aunty's" place. (Have you noticed how we have developed this admirable system of flesh-and-bloodising all humanity? Driver anna, beggar uncle, potato-tomato akka. One wonders if this is the peak of dignity of labour.) Anyway, this is a usual digression from the real story.

Like I was saying before the regular digression, I parked the ol' girl 800 right in front of the tailor aunty's place. Mr. Achar had recently nearly decapitated me for causing a 10 micrometer scratch on the right-front side of the car; so I was extra careful with the parking. (In case you are curious, it was the usual maa (Mrs. Achar) sentiment that had saved the nivea-coated self skin.)

I performed the usual in 2 seconds.
Hand-break : check
regular gear : check
lights : check
lock&key : check.
Internal check Done. Got out.

Surrounding thorny bushes : negative
aimless playing primary school children : negative
excessive direct sunlight : negative.
Good. All clear.

So, well. I was dressed in that purple chudidhar that thankfully hid the newly acquired fat. Mother had forced me into wearing Little gold jewelery; she thinks I have reached an age where I should start treating gold as 'real' jewelery. For some reason, she did not approve of the gold-colored sandals. They are too, ahem, she thought.The unwanted gold on body did not dampen my spirit, though.

The morning was so typically Bengloorish, the weeds in empty sites so green and clean, the non-degradable polythene bags on roads all uniformly white, the occasional dog poop - there wasn't anything that could put down the spring in my walk. There was a threat of rain, but no real rain. My favorite kind of rain, this was.

I climbed up the slow steps of the tailor aunty's house. There was a strong wind. The Wordsworth moment was building up itself. My right eye caught an unusual motion in the corner. I happened to turn. After a horror-stricken nano-second I saw the Achar 800 cheerfully running down the road.

The bags just fell out of my hand, I ran down the steps, the utility-less golden sandals thrown behind. I ran for my life. No, really, my life. I knew the father wouldn't think twice before separating my head from the rest of the body if anything happened to the fancy Maruti. I sweat (the same sweat that refused to show one drop of itself even after 4 kms of brisk walking). The heart was pounding in my mouth, the stomach had fallen. In short, the anatomy was screwed up.

I closed in on the car - frantically looking for human presence. Where were all the auto annas, worker annas and driver uncles?? Huh? Where are you people when I need you? I am always sweet and non-bargaining. I am a woker-supporting socialist who simply doesnt argue with your fees. Where are you all when my car's running down slope with NO ONE inside it??

I screamed "stop! stop!". This, predictably, dint help too much. I ran and hugged the car bum and tried to create a physical resistance. After 2 seconds, the pace reduced. Reduced enough for me to pick up a nearby brick piece and keep it as a temporary stop behind the wheels.

Did you know that hand-breaks aren't good enough for real slopes? Should I be carrying bricks everywhere I go in the Dickie? Why the hell is it an 'automobile' if it can't stay 'autostationary'?

This, my friend, is one of those rare moments when one is glad to be riding a Maruti 800 and nothing bigger.

Re : Re : A Long Due Letter

2008-07-06T07:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Handi Mari,

With reference to your previous and only letter, I deeply and sincerely desire to communicate the following to you:

TTBTTH.

Regards,
Chethana

(PS: In case you are wondering, this is the sound produced when one puts one's tongue partially out of one's mouth, with closed lips and forces amount of air out with a certain frequency and ttbtths.)

Re : A Long Due Letter

2008-07-04T04:54:00.001-07:00

Dear Chetu Mari (if you insist on being called so),

Back off.

I was trying to hold my patience when you sent me that first letter, but the PS was just the last straw. Seriously, one wonders what sort of narrow perspective of the world humans have. Lets come to that later.

For the record, it is boring being in Java Space. Especially since I am stuck in your blog, where I only get to see intentional bored readers or unintentional bewildered stray people. Did you know, clever woman, that there is a software called 'Raino'? Many purposeful people who search for this software are directed to your post 'Raino Rainu' by Google. I suppose they spend approximately 23 nanoseconds staring at your post and 23 more nanoseconds cursing Google before hitting on the 'back' button. Have you any idea how much resource misdirection and inefficiency your unhelpful blog is causing?

And please, what is this obsession with losing weight? Is there nothing else you should be worried about? Doesn't it bother you, for example, that you couldn't go to work yesterday because VHP closed down all offices in Gandhibazaar? I suppose you don't care about your work. But don't you wonder why people still fight for one temple : as though your country wasn't already teeming with a billion temples? In your city, lakhs of people turn up for the Kalyanotsava (marriage ceremony!) of a metal-and-stone statue and ministers spend lakhs restructuring their government quarters according to Vaastu. You must be feeling blessed to be a part of all this lakhs fueled neo-religiousness.

I know exactly what you must be thinking now - that I am a left-leaning, Hindu-bashing, Pro-Muslim person. But don't forget I am a pig and your Islamic pals hate me from all their hearts.

What is all this ranting about your complexion, food, social life? Tell me, what were you thinking when you were buying tomatoes yesterday for your low-carb diet? I suppose about that small top you saw in Commercial Street. Did it even pass your mind that while you paid Rs. 10 per kg for tomato, the farmer who grew it got only 50 paise? I personally find it disturbing, I don't think he recovered even his operational expenses. Will his children ever get as good an education as you got (even with your obviously low IQ)? And what about his acres of cultivable land given to Infy so that their executives can swim in cool, clear water and eat Italian food?

Well, honestly, I don't think there's too much point in mentioning all this to you. If you had the necessary sensitivity, you would have already noticed all this. But your biggest concern is, of course, that your complexion isn't good enough. There's not much I have to say to Homo sapiens, especially female urban Homo sapiens in their early 20s.

To conclude, I hereby strongly resist all your attempts at embarking on 'long and mutually beneficial relationships'. (snort)

Regards & c.,
Handi Mari

(PS: Get a Life, woman.)

P.S.

2008-07-03T03:44:00.001-07:00

Readers interested in reading others' highly confidential correspondence are advised to first read the previous post. To better understand the present one. As you see, this is only a P.S.

(PS: Since I bared my soul to you in my previous post, dear Handi Mari, I think we are safely on our way to a 'long and mutually beneficial relationship'. (that's how we sign off our BrandScan official letters and I think its quite cool; quite contrary to certain people who think it's overtly fancy.) Which means to say that we are now bum-chums.

So, continuing with my weight-gain problem, I saw today afternoon in ETV Kannada some Ayurvedic dude who said that eating wheat chapattis wasn't good enough for losing weight. Apparently if you ate chapattis made of old wheat, you lost weight. But if you ate chapattis made of new wheat; you gain weight. Now, isn't that a big operational constraint?

Since you are my new best friend, will you guide me on how I can differentiate between the two? I am appealing to your animal instincts that are supposed to be much superior to ours. Also, since you are a piglet, I think you might have greater expertise when it comes to food.

I am assuming you want your newly-found best friend to be slim and smart. Love, me. )

A Long Due Letter

2008-07-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Handi Mari,

I think I have neglected you too long after e-adopting you. I have been writing things for faceless, nameless people. The same way we all seem to strive for approval of faceless, if not nameless people we may never even see. For example, mother asks me to not wear my favorite black chudidhar to some one's marriage because black is not good. Its not my marriage, not even my blood-relatives'; I probably won't know anybody there other than mother and father. May be we will bump into parents' friends - all of whom would have invariably known me when I was "this small" (downward facing palms brought near the knee). But, well, I change into something non-black.

You are stuck in Java-space. I don't know if that is fun ; cause I have never been there myself. Even if it isn't, I hope you aren't feeling too bad about it. The Real World is not assured fun place either. Its definitely not fun if you are a rare dark girl born in an otherwise fair south Indian Brahmin's family. It doesn't matter if you can play Hamsanandi on Veena, laugh at Wodehouse, get the highest section grades in Marketing papers or can convert Justified Alignment in MS Word to Left Alignment.

But I guess things will be different for you because you are a pig. I suppose they will count on you being fat and cute. Come to think of it, I think my aunts will be very happy if I am fat and cute too. But you see, I was born in 1980s - unlike them who dropped into this planet in 1940s-50s. I dont think Fat is hot or cute. Unlike them, I have dislike for 'round' female bodies. They have no idea that I used to get internally proud when they made fun of how thin and 'flat' I was.

I used past tense in the previous sentence because I am not slim any longer. As much as it is a subject of delight for my flesh-and-bloods, I hate looking into the mirror. All the Mysore Paks, Amul Butters, pizzas with extra cheese have finally showed themselves up in combination with complete lack of any physical activity. You see, I live in the real world where shallow consumerist beauty concepts are imposed on women of my age. By Designers and Cosmetics Corporate Giants. Since I am as gullible and as self-judgementless as most women, I have successfully taken the bite.

So, I have cut down on all my basic South Indian instincts of hearty rice meals. I am currently dinnering on 2 wheat chapattis; heartlessly pushing away the sambar, buttermilk, gojju, palya etc. I am also jogging, exercising and badmintoning regularly. I have eliminated post-lunch meals and pre-dinner meals.

What do female pigs have to do to remain socially acceptably beautiful? Eat more, is it? Are your Kareena Kapoors and Shilpa Shettys non-power-yoga-doing, healthily-eating plump pigs? My general knowledge tells me that is the case.

I wish I was a pig. Anything other than a human being. But that's neither there not here.

Yours,
Chetu Mari

when gtalk gets to your nerves and you can't ignore it.

2008-06-28T00:38:00.000-07:00

Life sure is not pleasant when you live among people gazillion times brilliant. For example, you dont get the jokes that are being cracked. Far from judging whether they are clever or not.

One of my acquaintances has a gtalk status message that goes:
"Higher Inflation!! Not an issue ..Go for Money Market Funds!!!"

What - What does it even mean? Is it sassy? funny? witty? Why is it making me feel like an earthworm? Why should I be going to Money Market Funds instead of eating overpriced Kadlekai? Will you stop being on my gtalk list if I ask what Money Market Funds are?

I rather prefer status messages like: "@home". No frills attached.

The Oh-Not-So Happening (or Shyamalan, Where Art Thou?)

2008-06-21T22:41:00.000-07:00

Been to The Happening (TH) yesterday at Inox. There were two things worse than the movie-

1. Garuda Mall loos. The House Keeping staff there seem to have a brilliant strategy. They start cleaning all loos of all floors at the SAME freaking time. So you can imagine. This bunch of n women and girls goes to the loo in the 4th floor, realises its under maintenance and runs down to the loo in the below floor. By the time the bunch reaches 3rd floor, the number is 2n. By the time we are hurrying towards the ground floor loo, we are 16n in number. And that one's under maintenance as well. This is the 3rd time this is happening to me at Garuda Mall. Mr.Garudachar, where art thou?

2. Inox Sandwiches. What. What. What are those veg sandwiches made of? Agreed I was eating in the dark while watching a Shyamalan movie, but all my 5 senses put together couldn't sense anything other than : cabbage. I mean, who makes an only-cabbage or predominantly-cabbage sandwich? (except for cabbage sandwich-makers, of course.)

Coming to this movie- I loved the initial scenes where people are killing themselves- jumping off buildings, hanging, shooting, etc etc. But the story as a whole was tuss pataki (Cracker that did not crack). None of the characters came out strong. Except for the lead teacher guy and the small girl.

The story line was so damn predictable. For example, that lonely ajji talks only one sane, but out-of-context line about there being a secret communication tunnel. This is SO intentionally inserted, that you know well in advance that tunnel would come into play soon. What jass.

Funnily, the most impressive part of the movie was the titles. The clouds moving, the music, the imagery was very effective. But the movie story falls thud after some 15-20 min. To the makers' credit - cinematography was good as usual, the music fairly good and the morbid death scenes were quite good now and then.

I haven't watched Lady in The Water or whatever. But this is the least good among all other Shyamalans. I don't know if it was his joke that he should play the role of that inconsequential caller ( Leo or someone) with only his voice heard. A sure heartbreak for people like me who think he is hot+talented. No Shyamalan. No Shyamalanesque art.

Again, Manoj Night Shyamalan, where art thou?

(PS: Lou has this whole blog running; radical but interesting idea, I must say.)

Bol Rediff Bol

2008-06-17T08:36:00.001-07:00

{The above is my first hand at a Hindi title for a post. It might not be original or distantly funny, but there it is! (sob) I am living up to those slogans we used to write on blackboard with 'color chalk's on the occasions of Hindi Saptah in School. Hindi Hindustan Ki Dil Hai. Or was it Delhi Hindustan Ki Dil Hai? Anyway, this is absolute digression from the topic at hand.}

AC Neilson recently conducted a nation-wide survey on What Are Indians Doing Right NOW? The shocking results were summarized in the following chart:

As the chart clearly portrays, Indians have finally arrived at the ultimate sure-shot entertainment and knowledge sharing tool- Rediff.com. Not really Rediff, so to speak, but its comment space. Years ago, I started reading Rediff articles, then i started smiling through the articles and comments, now i eagerly directly skip to the comment section without glancing at the article in question.

Why is it such a ready-to-eat entertainment for a soul bruised from everyday life? What is it in Rediff comment spaces that soothes your nerves and puts them on happy wavelengths? Here's the answer. Here's why Rediff Therapy is getting so hip with the hip people and fast replacing Retail Therapy.

Nope, not making fun of anybody's English here. There is nothing funny in one whole nation of people being compelled to become experts at a non-phonetic foreign tongue. I am only presenting a few snapshots of the rediff comment space : only a small drop of a vast ocean. I strongly suggest that the reader click on the images for greater text clarity.

1. Free Career Advice

The rediff users keep giving free career counseling and advice to each other. Consider this:

This discussion is on an article that is about the SRK Vs AB tussle that might or might not exist. There is the first one- DS who has written a painfully long comment on the article. 'U' gives him the valuable advice "go back to work. don't waste your time. ok". Hmm. Humanitarian.

2. Free Sex Advice

There's this article on some dood called Harman- on whether he is good, as good as or better than Hrithik. There are, naturally, commentators who support both the sides and those who support neighter.

But there is one sweet person who is very concerned with Priyanka (Chopra) 's love-life. Presumably so because she's acted with both of them? Anyway, Mr. Soft-heart expresses his concern thus.

goes: "Best of luck priyanka. Have you got plan B? Chinese vibrators are far inferior to the desi stuff".

Sweet guy. Not very patriotic though.

3. Free Novels

Some readers just write their hearts out. Probably Gita Teacher's 1000 words essay mood hasn't left them yet. The below comment is on an article about Kareena's rise to stardom. There is one commentator - the first one- who was so overcome with emotion, that he wrote this:

Very, er, academic.

(I would've loved to publish the whole of his comment, but unlike the good Rediff.com, blasted Blogger.com gives me only a limited space. Damn it. )

4. Free Linguistic Advice:

Since we are proud and clever people, there have to be linguistic jabs. Here's this article on Saif and Rani appearing on some SRK show sometime. So, well, there is a certain Mr. Dasgupta who writes something about how Saif's behavior wasn't appropriate and a certain Mr. Sing reacts thus:

The Singh says:
"oye.. what is this new species?? a hip bengali??
when did "dis" happen "dude"?
;)
babu moshai.. i "thot" bengali's take pride in being "english" what has gone wrong here ..ehh?"

Very insightful. But did you insert the "oye" by mistake, Mr.Singh? Balle Balle. No? okay.

5. Free Content Analysis

This is a comment on some comment which was on an article based on Sarkar Raj. It is self-expalnatory:

"Please don't write bull." . Couldn't have put it better myself.

6. Free one-Man Show:

There are some omniscient readers who write 9 out of 11 comments on a board. Here's a sample. This is also the comment board of that article on SRK, Saif and Kareena.

This one reader wrties three comments back to back to back. The titles are "this is film industry couples", "shahrukh make this show worst" and "gay pair".

An impressively wide coverage of topics.

7. Free Sarcasm

This is the comment space on an article that gave a not-very-flattering review to Dasavataram. There are indeed reader's who passionately defended both sides. One series of acid comments goes thus:

There are two readers, say A & B.
A passes a remark on B saying, "this movie is highly intelligent - for ppl below IQ of 40". After a protest from B, A gain says "was that english?". Ouch. Acid.

How precise and clever of you, dear Mr.A.

8. Free Friends:

Finally, you could look out for readers who are ready to make friends with anybody of the same or opposite gender. Even at the cost of typing and irrelevant comment. This again from that Hrithik Harman post:

Here, Reader 1 types out a heavily (intended to be) sarcastic comment on a burning issue.
Reader 2 reacts: "Hiiiiiiiiiii"

I knew it- brainlessness was always a turn-on.

So, even if this post is shamelessly long, it is shamelessly short of the amount of entertainment that rediff comment space offers. So next time your boss' on phone, log in to rediff and soothe your nerves while he yells away to death.

A Visitor - I

2008-06-15T00:52:00.000-07:00

From afar, I assumed it was yetanother bee. But no, this is a longer, sleeker cousin. On closer examination revealed tiger-striped wings. In the nick-of-time when I was about to catch it by it's wings, I noticed it also possessed a sting. Ahem.

Being someone who grew up reading Poornachandra Tejaswi's fascinating, inquisitive and humorous literature, I notice a non-human visitor in our premises only too soon. It is only natural, that a large part of my childhood was spent in conversing with non-human visitors, non-human neighbours, non-human friends and their friends' friends.

Anyway, for the past one week, I have been noticing him/her in my room:

Six-legged, body-toned, sting-ed, insects aren't really rare, you see. But what has been striking me about this one is its pattern of appearance. I have always seen a pair. (I am assuming it's the same pair every night.) I have seen them ONLY in the night, by the way. One of them sits on my mosquito net and the other one on the adjacent wall near my pillows (the above picture is the wall-lover's).

I have spent half of mornings searching for them in my room in the day light, the garden right outside my room, the mango tree, the neem tree and all others. No sign. I tried looking it up in the meagre collection of arthropod-books we have. No clue. None whatsoever.

So, after a week of intrepid perusal, I have accepted them. I say a casual 'Hey' to them as I get into the bed. And when I wake up int he morning, I know they are gone and will be back in the night. Probably.

A year ago, I was superstitious enough to think that might be some sort of omen from the Soul of The Universe. But now I am less stupid; I know this is aliens trying to communicate with me. Am now just trying to figure out what.

Trapped In My Face Paint

2008-06-12T00:18:00.000-07:00

"You look just like Indira Gandhi now. Really. Same nose, same chin, same hair. Just like her. Very smart" the mother said.

"But the point is, I don't want to look like Mrs. G!" I grumbled to the mirror.

"See, this looks cute. Like an innocent school kid".

"Except I am not an innocent school kid".

"You are innocent."

"..." (I let the statement hang)

"Hehe. But this hair cut is hehe."

"I know! I know!"

"You know what- Now you are not Chethana, you are Chetan. Not a darling daughter, a dear son. Hehehe."

"Amma- never mind."

***

Oh, dear reader, you are demanding that essential thing to all good stories called Flashback. Ha. So here it goes:

Eight months ago, dear ol' Paddy (you might be interested in an elaborate description of him here) glanced down sadly at a blood test report (whose diagnostic fees was reimbursed by the Govt of India to Padre). He had discovered that my biological self was shamefully deficient in two somethings he called Iodine and Iron.

"This is mosa (cheating). I thought you had gained weight while staying there- so have become healthy. No No. (shake of head). This weight is not a healthy plump. This is iodine-low blowing up. Poor child. Che. "

"Hmm" I said.

Not in my wildest dreams had I dreamt what this implied, dear reader. I thought this is just one more of those deficiency ramblings of a loving doctor. No! This was a warning bell I ignored. I have an in-built knack for ignoring warning bells and getting serious about trial drills. Lets return to the story.

3 months ago, I started noticing that:
1. my hair looked like it was dyed brown in a punk rock way.
2. falling down as though they were all learning some kind of special parachuting techniques.

2 months ago I dropped back home to stay with the parents. They gasped at my skull.

"That's it." Madre declared. "No more fooling around. Doctor. Beautician. Today!"

I shivered under the iron resolution. The doc wrote an elaborate vitamin diet prescription. The beautician point-blank refused to touch my hair.

"No madam, if I cut her hair now, she will look like a boy. See, no new hair. Let the new hair grow at least for some months."

Madre considered 2 months as 'some months'. So back to the cut-lady we went. She patiently explained some rocket science principles of hair-cutting and declared she will give suitable healthy-looking hair cut. I just trusted our Lord.

So, it is after the masterful hair-style that Madre said:

"You look just like Indira Gandhi now. Really. Same nose, same chin, same hair. Just like her. Very smart"

***

I woke up today morning, looked at the mirror first thing and shrieked.

What is it, I wonder, that connects us so deeply to our gender? Is it about social acceptance? Is it vanity? My gender, to tell the truth, is just a part of my biological self. Like a scar on the skin. Yet I am so bound by its identity, that any flaw in it makes me mentally ill. I cannot accept to feel like me and look like some moron. Isn't the feeling of me being me enough, why do I have to look like me too? And why am I unhappy about something that is so brittle that it will all go away in a few months and come back in next few months?

Or am I simply like a certain Ms.Rai, who travels the world trapped in her own face paint?

May be we all differ in the face paints. But the trapping, certainly, is universal.

Karnataka's Gaddhi and My Unsolicited Opinions

2008-06-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

The last time I talked politics was on the voting day for the first round of Karnataka's Assembly Elections here. The results are out long back. This post is long due.

Now that BhaJaPa has successfully opened an account in the South (The South of Vindhyas - as journalists think is the fancy way of referring to it), our love Yeddy has constantly employed three actions. We will index them as:

1. Hallu-kisi-ing. (Hallu = Teeth, Kisi = open wide). - understandably to display overwhelming happiness that dignified smiles do not justify.

2. V-Finger showing - assuming that V is a sign of victory. Our Bengaluru street children will snigger if you show them the 'V' finger ; our dictionaries use that as a symbol for a certain biological release action.

3. Mysore (Maisur) Petaa wearing. - natural attempt at identifying with Kannada culture.

I am what the neo-rightist dudes will label as 'pseudo-secularist'. Never been too much in love with our hindutva-saving-contract-obtained friends. But this time's Karnataka elections came as a mild surprise me. I have to make note of them here.

Firstly, our saffron pals de-saffronised themselves quite a lot. I did not hear anything about a certain Rama Mandir, no mention of Italian Descents, no reference to 'Foreign Hands' and certainly no importance to Dutta Peeta.

This is weird, self thought. They are actually battling for the government on real governance issues!

The other major party - our dear ol' INC leaders were busy playing inky-pinky-ponky to decide who'll be presented as the prospective CM. Sadly, the number of inky-pinky-ponkers was so high, by the time they finished inky-pinky-ponking, elections were over. So now they have whole 5 yrs to evolve into more complicated forms of ink-pinky-ponkisms.

So, BhaJPa won hands down- for a great number of reasons clearly beyond the scope of this post. What is within the scope of this article is to explore what this signifies to us as the Most Honourable Their Excellencies citizens.

Does this mean that one of the two major national parties is aligning itself more to center than to right? Now that the not-a-fundamentalist-thank-you model worked in Karnataka, will it be used even more effectively in the hovering 2009 elections?

If it is that way, then good. We have one left-centrist gang, and will have one bunch of right-centrist Charlies. That should be fun. That is more like the legendary Amreeka type. It is but natural dear reader, consider the below:

1. our grannies are talking about low-carb diets.
2. our children know what an 'elevator' is, but blink when you say 'lift'.
3. our fathers have office 'skedules', not 'schedules' .

On the same lines of logic, our politicians are naturally getting more American. They are centrists but are differentiated by either left-leaning or right-leaning. They have stopped campaigning alone- they bring their wife/daughter along to wave in general directions.

So who knows, may be in one of the near-future elections, I might have only two options on the ballot paper. I will think for a minute on whether I am for or against abortion. And then I will beep. Thank you very much.

If You Thought You Had Taken It All Away

2008-06-10T09:21:00.000-07:00

... Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter when the
promise of a brave new world unfurled beneath a clear blue
sky? ...

... The flames are all gone, but the pain lingers on.

Goodbye, blue sky-
Goodbye, blue sky.

My home is close to the National Highway 7 which is now the International Airport Road. 13 years ago, when father and mother brought me to show our new home- I stared wide-eyed at the lines of May flower trees (Gulmohar) along the NH. Stood in a line like soldiers. Blazing red they stood, with May Flowers fully bloomed, as though on fire. Soldiers on fire.

It is gone now. The road is four-lane. No Trees, No flowers, No May.

Even to this day, when I dream, I dream traveling on that old road- it is a narrow lane, filled with blazing red May Flower trees. Laughing in my dreams they are, like a dead grandfather. My mind just doesn't register any road-widening bull crap.

I will not remember these new barren roads. I refuse to die with impressions of dusty, tarry, sooty roads with honking horns and choking lungs. I will laugh at those claims of development (oh, really?). We were right how we were, sailing boats in monsoon fields after school where Supermarkets now stand. Stealing giant guavas from groves where apartments now reside.

Oh, go on. Kill my world for raising your stock prices. I will show my children on Adobe Photoshop version 9.8 the precise green-red shade of a new-born mango leaf.

PS: You can kiss my ass.

No Country For Old Papers

2008-06-07T04:30:00.000-07:00

In my part of the world, the word 'paper' can assume multiple meanings based on the person and time of the day.

If its my old man saying "paper takond baare" ("bring the paper, I say") while he's in the process of seating himself on the sofa early morning, it indeed means 'newspaper' or The Daily.

If its the Madre herself yelling "Chetu, paper takan' baa" ("Chethana, bring the paper, I say") from the kitchen in a pleasant evening, it simply means paper for pakoda purposes.

If it is the bro grumbling "Chetu, paper kode" ("Chethana, give a paper, dude"), at any time of the day, it demands that I take a blank white foolscap sheet for him to sketch DragonballZ (or some similar-sounding weird name) characters on them.

The whole point of giving this background is to clarify that this post is about the first kind of 'paper'. Not the cartoon-drawing kind, not the pakoda kind and definitely not the loo kind.

I grew up discovering that early morning news papers were that perfect insulation between sleep and daily chores; so mornings would find my huddled on the sofa (half-squiggling, half-sitting) paper in hand (half-held, half-fallen) and reading it (half-eyes closed, half-open (d'oh!)). It took me many years to start absorbing the contents of what was printed on them.

After a couple of more years, I started noticing that our papers did not remain the same. It was Deccan Herald (DH) first, then got shifted to The Hindu, which made way for the Indian Express, which was later ditched for The Times of India (TOI), which after a very short while made way for DH again. So the mixture continued. Evidently, Madre and Padre weren't happy with any of them. Why, became eventually evident too.

Apparently, there was something very itchy about all of them. Each one of them were itchy in a different way. The itchiness was so characteristic, even by simply reading the paper piece in which the local grocer packed kadalekai (groundnuts), I could say "Ha! DH". As though the specific kind of itchiness was a part of their identity.

I know how unscientific the previous paragraph was. Pliss allow self to explain one-by-one:

DH : Even after years and years of heralding the Deccan plateau and plates after plates of their employees yenjooing Masala Dosas in MG Road's Coffee House, DH still has not discovered Nirvana. It is still on its quest to find out what it actually thinks of what. May be some Maisur Masala Dosas can help, instead of the regular ones.

IE : Privileged to have one of Bengaluru's most confusing traffic junctions named after it, IE, for some reason, chooses to not belong to Bengaluru et al. Unlike DH, IE has discovered solutions to all the problems that plague the world. Namely: Sonia Gandhi and/or INC. Whatay vision, I say!

TH: The 3rd greatest sure-shot giveaway of Southies (after filter coffee and coconut oil), TH has been rendering yeoman service to the readers since 1243 B.C. N Ram's cretivity is at its peak especially when it has to fuel some Cauvery (previously (Late) Veerappan) heat. Queen Victoriamma wanted to descend upon TH office and bless them with her August Presence, but realised that she was dead long ago. He throws the issue into greater relief here and there.

TOI: TOI, toy, ah what can I talk about you?!
you are the only one to advice me on
whether Hrithik's one child is due,
Priyanka's favorite bra is pink or blue,
Jolie kissed only Pitt or the whole crew,
'borrow' from Hollywood magazines gossip few
Now and Then touch upon that boring thing called Real World
and print some News : old or new.

What is the use of all this rambling? To help Kariamma and Mangamma decide which is the best Indian Anglo Daily to pack their Kadalekai in.

(PS: Click on the picture if greater text visibility is desired.)

Raino Rainu!

2008-05-31T09:31:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-05-28T08:18:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-05-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T09:36:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-05-22T06:23:00.000-07:00

(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)

2008-05-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-13T08:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-10T06:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-06T08:24:00.000-07:00

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:

Over-sweet coffee without mixer- Rs. 5
Yesterday’s Fresh Cut Fruits- Rs. 5
Cheese Burger with a Hint of Cheese- Rs. 10
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.

2008-05-03T23:29:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-05-02T07:46:00.003-07:00

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.

An Obituary

2008-05-01T08:04:00.001-07:00

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.

Wiping My Fingerprints

2008-01-23T10:40:00.000-08:00

On the paths that I walk,
I wish I don't leave footprints behind.
I am one of those who,
Like the bed unruffled after I've slept on-

Paths that have formed across centuries,
By all the grandparents I know and all the grandparents they knew-
Paths so beautifully there,
For humans to walk on-

Or perhaps so we are made to believe?

I'd like to share my path with many-
Dust, dogs, cobwebs, cockroaches-
Every new day fills me with a new thrill,
At the creation that surrounds me.

I am one of those who-
Will wipe their finger prints off
after they've touched the TimeGlass.

Being An Underdog

2008-01-21T23:18:00.001-08:00

I wonder if it's a natural thing to get depressed after every encounter with art. Of course, the level of depression being a function of the strength of the art-piece and its connectability with your own life.

Its probably ok to feel sad when you are sitting on a rock looking down at an Ellora ruin. Or may be listening to an old song from a dead composer and knowing that nobody will ever make this kind of music again. You know, lost-past-glory and all that romantic blah blah.

But who the hell gets sad after seeing A Beautiful Mind, or seeing a colourful, crafted mirror-handbag from a hippie Gokarna, or worse- after reading a Wodehouse? You will definitely classify me as a psycho if I start listing out all the things that contribute to a rapid decay in humour.

I have absolutely no personal memories attached to any of these. For example, the hippie bag wasn't gifted to me by an ex who is infesting the US in pretext of a post graduation. No. that isn't even my bag. But I just look at it and wonder where it came from and who weaved it and how much they sold it for and what it cost them and if their children go to school and if they have a clean house and if the husband is a drunkard and if they have ANY clue whatsoever of Foriegn Direct Investment which the sentimental leftists argue will kill them all.

And you know how it is. You already have this small little brain that is being driven beyond tolerance. You are anyway not absorbing 80% of what is expected out of your absorption capability. To top everything off nicely, you have a mind that has a tendency to connect things one from another then to another and so on. Although some chariable people might cal me a lil 'neurotic'; I know that I am, well, Mind-Fucked.

I wonder then, if it is just how an individual's mind works or is it your father's cynicism rubbing off on you. When I see a movie on how John Nash (played by Crowe) made his way through Game Theory with that blonde incident in the bar- (My Professor, who watched it with us, commented that Nash had probably had too many beers)- I am filled with a sense of worthlessness. The helplessness that engulfs you when you know you would have no way connected a Blonde in the Bar with Nash Equilibrium.

You read Wodehouse and you know for sure your life is never going to be like Bertie Wooster's. Not in the sense of being all-rich and all-English. In the sense of being mindlessly happy. In the sense of having a Jeeves who will shoulder all the responsibility of thinking your brain has. In the sense of unsuspectingly walking into trouble and then trying to get out of it. Then being back to your old unsuspicious self.

I belong to a generation of children raised up by educated, not-too-religious middle class Indian parents. I was thrown too much information and examples at me to be blissful. I was told I will not survive in the reckless world if I was not alert always.

I was fed too much ambition, by parents who want an IAS officer in the family, by aunts whose sons went to IITs, by neighbors whose daughters graduated from IIMs, by classmates who are studying Advanced Thermodynamics in MIT. Forget about the 'conventional' achievements, I know it wihin that I am not going to be a part of any environment-saving campaign. I will never walk among people of an epidemic-hit village and nurse them. I was fed so much ambition, it frustrates me that I am not born brilliant. I am filled with laughable jealousy at people who are.

No, I dont have the simple luxury of either being happily ignorant or the blessing of being a achiever.

And you'll wonder how one person could possibly concieve such profound frustration after watching a simple movie.