TOW A Cyclone Named Nisha

"This is ridiculous. I can't believe I'm living in this godforsaken place, miles away from civilization, riding around on a Bullet. It's not even a real Bullet, it's something put together by a grease-monkey mechanic who calls himself 'Bullet'. I have to get out of this place, or I'll be stuck here, and I'll grow old here and then I'll have to tell my grandchildren stories of how I used to ride around Singaperumal Koil on a rusty Bullet!"

- Me, on a phonecall, during yet another SPK-induced existential crisis 

(circa 2008)

*******************

Nisha arrived at around 7 in the night. This is what she looked like at the time.

The rain started off as an irritating drizzle that grew steadily worse, drenching us on our way home. Black Magic didn't throw her usual tantrums, and got me home through the winds, steady as a rock. Drenched to the bone, but safe. After a few hours, the power went off, and it was no big surprise. But how do we dry clothes for tomorrow? The Giant sat on the only chair, deep in thought. And then came up with an ingenious scheme to dry his shoes.

The next morning, he seemed disappointed that it didn't work.

For us God's-Own-Country-folk, rain was simple business. It rained for three months a year. It fell straight down and disappear into the ground. Simple. But Nisha made a three-act play out of it.

It rained and then some. And then it stopped, like someone threw a switch. Now, the wind started howling. All through the night, it howled, rushing through the fields around our little house near the railway station. It howled so loud that we all lay awake, waiting for a window to be ripped off or a door to be blown down. The loco-f-ing-motive didn't rumble through town that day. Maybe the wind blew it off the tracks.

Morning came, and daylight threw itself against the clouds, but not all of it got through. It began raining again. This time, it danced with the howling wind. It blew in from the right, now from the left. 

Bhai came in from the house next door at 8, and announced that he was staying in for the day. "I got a packet of biscuits before coming back yesterday. I'm all set for the storm." "Bhai, one packet of biscuits will last you the entire day?". "I'll sleep till evening." Seemed legit.

For the rest of us, a decision had to be made. If we could make it to the office, we could clock an easy 9.5 hours. Watch movies, have lunch at the food court and probably by evening, Nisha would get bored and go away. But we had to get to office for that. It was 8:15. And the last shuttle left the SP Koil at 9. We had 45 minutes to get to the main road. Half a kilometre of flooded fields, and Nisha in all her fury.

"But we'll get drenched! Imagine sitting all day in office with wet underwear.", the JTO warned us. It was a truly terrifying thought. "We don't have a choice. If we stay here, we'll starve. We have to head out.", said the Fraud, which was followed by a group facepalm. I think he was waiting for a chance to use that line. But he had a point. Nisha, or no Nisha, we had to get to that shuttle. And we did, dressed thusly.

Those umbrellas were good for about 5 seconds into the roaring storm. The rain came at us from everywhere, all at once. The Fraud swore like a sailor, trying to hide behind Barber. Me and the JTO clung on to the umbrella with a broken spoke, with the effect that the umbrella now depended on us to protect it. We ran across GST Road waving our arms and umbrellas, and laughing hysterically, and flagging down the shuttle. Miraculously, torsos were still dry.

By evening, Nisha had moved on, finally letting go. Bhai had slept through the day. The Giant had taken this opportunity to eat his biscuits and was puffing his way through his last cigarette as we made it home in the evening. A miniature stream ran past our house and under the railway track to the fields on the other side. The rain had washed away all the cow-shit, and the dog-shit and...well, the roads were clean. It would take till next year, and another cyclone for SP Koil to look this beautiful again.

The Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil

Two months ago, owing the strange combination of an ambiguously worded notice and an irate priest, I found myself back in the Middle of Nowhere, aka Singaperumal Koil. And I found myself getting nostalgic at every dusty turn of the road pockmarked with potholes. The railway cross, where the gate would stay closed for hours on end, waiting for the Pondichery "Superfast" to please, for the love of all that's holy, to crawl by. The bikes weaving their way under said closed railway gate, some of the drivers' contorting their bodies through impossible angles to do so. "Nellai Jeyam", or "Three Star" as it was nicknamed (...another story...) with it's overpriced, oily food. The beautiful evenings, yes, the evenings are actually beautiful here. 


This once-laidback town is now the hotbed of activity. With it's proximity to the Mahindra World City SEZ, the town is an easy option for all those lazy bums who can't even begin to think of a one-hour commute at ungodly hours every morning. And with it's cheap rents it certainly seems like an intelligent option as well. After all, when your colleagues wake up at 6.30 to catch the local sardine can to earn their daily bread, you're still fast asleep. You wake up leisurely at 8. A quick wash, and half an hour later you're at your seat. Just in time to watch the bedraggled souls from Far, Far Away crawl in. Hah!


But wait. That's just one side of the story. The other side surfaces around 8 in the night, when you are done earning your daily bread. Any SE worth his obfuscated code will know that the salary he earns is not meant to withstand continued forays into The Employer's Food Court. And thus the junta tries various tactics.


For example, The Barber used to survive one a scientifically crafted diet. His daily intake went something like this. His breakfast would mostly be a poori or a dosa of some kind from the food court. This would last him till around noon. But he would extend it's lifespan with a chronologically well-placed cup of coffee from the Coffee Day vending machine. Now comes the centrepiece of his master plan. Everyone else left for lunch as soon as the clock struck half past twelve, and would be waylaid by the incredibly tasteless, and yet vividly colorful and expensive dishes on display at the food courts. 70 bucks and an extremely unsatisfactory lunch later, we would be back at our seats. And then, Barber would head out.


See, by now, there would be nothing available at the food courts except Vegetarian Meals. Again, incredibly tasteless. But amazingly filling and of course, cheap. As long as there was no choice to make, it became easy to do. "I'm having this because there's nothing else. Damn. I'm saving a lot of money."


The advantage was two-fold. One, that vegetative mix of rice, and vegetables, just sat around in your stomach for a long, long time. So there was no question of busting another 30 on "snacks" at teatime. Two, the money of course.


The Barber. Financial Planner Extraordinaire.


Anyways, once this lifestyle of "Company Food-courts" blew a hole in our pockets, we would have to turn to the Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil. Street food.


Now, I have to put up this disclaimer. If you:

• are one of those people who care about things like "hygiene"
• are one of those people who care about things like calories
• are a Non-Tamil/vegetarian/looking for food from your part of the world
• are a girl

forget about it. Street food is not for everyone. It's just one of those things. You don't mind it, or you do. If you don't like street food, don't have it. But don't try to convince a Believer. You're just wasting your time.


No, you won't feel like eating it if you see how it's made.
No, it's probably not clean, but hey, everybody eats it.
No, it's loaded with everything that's "supreme" as far as "taste" goes, and "questionable" in every other factor.
No, you will not get North Indian food here.
No, you will not get Kerala food here.


You get the drift.


You can't be dicey about having the fare. You dive in the deep end. If you feel the need for street food, don't let your better senses come in the way. Go on. Dive in the deep end.


The cornerstone of any roadside food stall is the porotta. With absolutely zero nutritional value, this fluffed up disc made of maida is extremely popular among the working class. Why? Because it fills you up and takes a long time to digest. Good enough.


Eggs. There's your sunny-side-up sprinkled with pepper. Yeah, we call it hafaayil. "Half boiled?". No. Hafaayil. Then there is the aamleyt, the country cousin of the omlette. The one-seyd, which is like an aamleyt, except that it's not flipped over, leaving the top jelly-like, yummy.


Decidedly, the best thing you can ask for at any roadside stall is the kothu porotta. infiniteascent dug up a Wikipedia page for this delicious mix of porotta, tomatoes, eggs, and onions. I tell you, you have not lived until you've had this Food of Gods.


Kal Dosa is the cheapest dosa around. The guy slops down a bowl of dosa mix on the sizzling tawa, and shapes it into a thick disc. With the same bowl! Pile two of these onto a plate and douse them with sambar, and you're full. If you want it thin and crispy, you don't ask for a "ghee roast" or "paper roast", like you do at those elite, cutthroat, "high class" vegetarian restaurants. Instead you ask for a nice. And, voila, you get this elliptical, wafer-thin expanse of dosa, folded-up but not folded-up enough to prevent it from hanging over the edge of the plate and scraping the table, as the guy plonks it down in front of you.


Idlis, are cheap, and fast, but not easy to come by. And they sell like the hot cakes they are. So if it's around 9, forget it, you will not be having idli for dinner.


Like I said before, street food is not for everyone. And when I first set foot here, it wasn't for me either. But Singaperumal Koil has this habit of growing on you. I didn't realize it but by the time I was ready to leave a year ago, I had become a regular at most of the 4 or 5 roadside stalls that dot the service road from the Railway Station to Thirutheri. The Thoothukudi, famous for its kothu porotta. The kal dosa of Nellai Jeyam, before it sold its soul and went the "high class" way. The steaming idlis of Aandipetti. The vada from that nameless place near the Singaperumal Koil railway station.


I never thought I'd say this, but when I do finally get out this place, I am going to miss Singaperumal Koil.

Red Skies.

Once upon a time.

Somewhere in Kerala. Or is it? I have been here before. I think I have. On a day like this when the sky shone red.

The temple gopuram rises majestically into a cloudless sky. I glance up, seeing its sepia tones light up the earth like a long forgotten photograph.

As I enter through the temple gate, I can see the sparse crowd of devotees making their way around the temple. The steady chant of mantras echo from the inner sanctum. Why am I here?

I see you. A face so familiar, and yet a memory of a life that's so far away in the past that it seems like a half-forgotten dream. Do I know you?

Your eyes are still the same. But how do I know that?

And an eternity passed but the sun still hovered, just above the horizon, as the sky shone red.

The throng of devotees glance at us as they pass by. There is no time. We have to complete the pradakshina, before the sun sets. Why? Why do we have to? Why can't we just stay like this, here, as the sky shines red?

It's raining, you say, looking up. Your eyes blink as raindrops fall from a cloudless, red sky. I raise my palms skywards, feeling them splash on my skin. I have to keep my eyes open.

Around us, I see the devotees walking faster now. Don't we have to make the pradakshina, before the sun sets, I hear myself asking you. You smile, as if humouring me.

You said, I start, my voice sounding accusing. I know, but there's still time, you say, taking my hand in yours. I have known you, from a long time ago. When we met on the banks of the Sarayu.

You told me then, that you would see me again. On the banks of the Sarayu.

The sounds of a raging river fill the air, as the rushing water tumbles over craggy rocks, throwing a mistry spray into the air. The stones paving the temple courtyard are dotted with the remnants of raindrops from the cloudless, red sky.

The sun hides halfway below the horizon now, the last rays of the day lighting up the gopuram. The rain has all but stopped, leaving us both standing below the fading light of a red sky. It is time, you say, coming closer. But you said there was time, I say, feeling an inexplicable sadness. You said there was time to make the pradakshina, I say, petulantly.

I know, you say, but the sun is setting.

We just have halfway to go, I say. I don't know why, but we have to make the pradakshina. We have to. You glance westward, wistfully, and for a moment, the fading rays dance off the tears welling in your eyes. Or are they raindrops?

This is as far as we can go, you say, but I will always be here, on the banks of the Sarayu.

My fingers close around nothing.

Wait, I stumble, as I grasp at thin air. My voice echoes through the empty courtyard.

I must complete the pradakshina. I cannot turn back. The right shoulder always faces the deity. The shadow of the gopuram waits ahead, as red skies glow, and the sun slowly sinks below the horizon.

The light from the garbhagriham spills over into the courtyard, sparkling from the raindrops on the stones, like a thousand diamonds scattered on the ground. Like a thousand mirrors shattered. I look up and the rain comes down again, from a cloudless, red sky.

This time, I close my eyes, and wake up.

The Best Of Times, The Worst Of Times

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

- Charles Dickens, "A Tale of Two Cities"

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In The Heat of The Night

Somedays, the power went off at 3 in the night. And it would stay that way for another 3 hours. The fact that we knew it would happen everyday, did nothing to help. The heat, the mosquitoes, would get us out of bed by 3.30. You would've found us sitting on our compound wall, our midnight hangout spot. Sometimes there would be a gentle breeze. But most nights, the air was deathly still. And stuffy.

The JTO would regale us with stories of his college days. Hulk would stand off to a corner and light up another Wills. The Fraud, would inevitably be the butt of all jokes. Eventually, we would all come around to our favourite topic. The "bleddy" place, and how to get out of here. Around 4.30, the laughs would run out, and the sleep overpowering would send us back to bed.

4.30 AM. For 5 mins, the mosquitoes would be distracted, and we'd fall asleep. After a long, long time, they wake us up again. The time on your mobile says 4.40 AM. Waving our hands around, we'd dive under the blanket, inspite of the stifling heat, just to get away from the blood-thirsty monsters, and sleep, for the love of all that's holy!

Not so fast. There's a goods train that heads down south to God Knows Where, and the Honking Loco-F-Ing-Motive wakes up the entire town, as it rumbles past our house, horn blaring, wheels rattling. Turn over, go back to sleep. For a long, long time.

One little bugger has gotten under the blanket, and he has to hover close to your ear with that irritating drone. It should be atleast 5.30 now, you think. The mobile shows 4.50. An eternity later, it's 4.52.

By the time the fans come back on at 6, you have fallen asleep somehow. Inspite of the mosquitoes. Inspite of the Chennai heat. Inspite of rumbling locomotives.

*******************

Friday Night Lights On Monday?

TGIF parties were a given. So much so that they became tradition. But sometimes the week got to us even before it began. Monday has been accepted as the toughest day of the week, worldwide, and the smallest member of the herd felt the heat first.

The Little Guy's tactics for getting everyone else to join him on a Weekday Binge were rather Machiavellian. Given the fact that Mr. Kottayam's opinion held sway with the rest of us, he used this to leverage his moves. His planning went thus.

The Little Guy : Dude, what plans for the evening?

Dude X : Whaa? It's Monday! Are you nuts?!
TLG : But dude, Mr. Kottayam is interested. In fact he told me he badly needs a drink, it's been a horrible day (...Mondays are ALWAYS horrible, he's just making you focus on it...)
Dude X: Hmmm...I dunno, lemme think about it. Who else is coming?
TLG : You (...notice how he's already counted you in...), me, and Mr. Kottayam, and everyone else will come (...sufficiently vague enough...)
Dude X : Hmmm, ok I guess if everyone's coming...

TLG : Okay! Come fast, our place!

Now, substitute X = 1 to 7.

And now, the prestige.

TLG : Mr. Kottayam, everyone's like "Horrible day."
Mr. Kottayam : Hmmm.

TLG : So they're all planning to get together tonight. You in?

Mr. K : Everyone?
TLG : Yeah, kinda, Dude 1, Dude 2, everyone.
Mr. K : Ok. I'm in.

The Little Guy. Inventor of the Tuesday Hangover.

*******************

Run Ashaan, Run!

The JTO had done it. He had become the first one to escape Sunshine Country. And to a government job, no less. So, a party was in order, and you know us, we don't scrimp when it comes to parties. There was the usual cohort of Monks, Mansions, and Teachers. There were a couple of fowl, tandoorified. Extremely heavy metal poured out from The Little Guy's big speakers. By around 11, we were all zonked.

As we stood around outside the house, near the wall, everyone was talking to everyone else. Ashaan was in fine form, swaying even without music, puffing away non-stop. Suddenly he turns to me and announces, "I wanna go running. You coming?". "You wanna go running now? Dude, it's the middle of the night!". Apparently, that wasn't the response he was looking for. Turning to The JTO, who was animatedly discussing Irfan Pathan's bowling with The Fraud, Ashaan announced again, "I wanna go running.". The JTO paused, mid-sentence, and said "Ok?" to Ashaan, and continued his discussion.

Having done that, he turned around, apparently to laugh at Ashaan. But the man had already set off down the road. Arms pumping, head high, potbelly rolling, off into the night. As he disappeared round the bend, we hollered at him to come back. Nothing doing. A full 10 minutes later, we heard the sounds of running footsteps. Yes, Ashaan was back, arms pumping, head high, potbelly rolling. As we cheered loudly, he ran back in through the gate, panting, and drenched in sweat. "What happened Ashaan?", someone asked. Through the gulps of breath, he said, "I felt like puking, so I figured I'd jog it off. And then I smoked, and now I'm back, boys!".

And then he tottered off to the road and proceeded to do exactly what he had "jogged off". We christened the road, Wall Street*.

*pronounced 'vaal' -verb, to puke your guts out. Origin: Malayalam, slang, informal

*******************

Those were the days when the world was firmly in our grasp. And the hair was firmly on our heads. Everything's slowly changing, but it does feel good, to look back on those not-too-long-ago days of craziness, and go, as Ashan would say, "Aliya, nostalgia!"

Gotta Get This Up And Running...Again.

I've been thinking of putting something up here for a long time. An original creation. But sadly that department seems to have shut up shop. Or there's no room for it inside my head right now. Whichever it is, point is that I have written mostly zilch in a long time. If you discount the BS on the many answer papers, I have written exactly zilch.

There are no weird ideas floating around in my head. Which is kinda disturbing, because I never seemed to lack that Dali-ciousness. :(

And now, we've worked our way all the way down to the last week of the year. An eventful one. So I'm gonna go over it once more, and see how it's all balanced out. January was the month of hope. New Year starting out, and a lotta things on the To Do list. Most of which were the same reasons I quit my job for. Exam after exams after exam. Still not enough courage to chuck it all and follow some diaphanous dream. Still enough sense left in me not to chuck it all and follow some diaphanous dream.

February. CAT results come out, eventually. Punch in the gut. Now what? Got no answer to the question "So, what are you doing now?". Some questions of my own now. But still, there's the LIBA interview to look forward to.

March 26th is the LIBA interview, and on March 21st I manage to tear the ligaments in my left ankle. Hobbled on one leg to Chennai, and to LIBA for the interview. Horrible GD, great interview. Met my soon-to-be best friend at the GD. LIBA was the best one I had in my kitty till now, and I hoped I'd done enough.

April brought doubts, and questions, and more questions. Specifically, "Now what?". The "I knew it." look reserved for all those who fall because they strayed off the beaten track was beginning to make it's presence felt. Basketball-wise I was close to regaining peak form, now that the injury had healed. Creativity-wise, I was probably hitting an all time high. The Wacom Bamboo was my weapon of choice, and I was practically invincible. Somehow that seemed to give me the bare minimum self-confidence.

May and I was on the LIBA waitlist. With no more information, or hope of conversion. Desperate times, and Bank PO tests were beginning to look interesting. "Screw the dream, I need a job."

June 2nd. "Why was your phone switched off?! You had a call from LIBA! Call them back!". Damn! No balance. Run to town. Recharge. "Hello? Yeah, I got a call about a seat? Yes, I'm interested. Ok. On 7th. Thank you.". Improptu jig in the middle of the town. I'm telling you man, it felt like coming up for air. Whoosh. Pack up. Fly. Enter LIBA.

July. New life. New friends. Guitar Man, even though I was a rank amateur. Somehow managing to court controversy by everything I did. Or didn't. The people who mattered didn't care though, for a change. Thank God.

August. September. October. More of the same. Parties. Friends. Enemies. Patch-ups. Phone calls. Recharges. Recharges. Recharges. Surprises. Fights. Irrational ones. Rational ones.

November. I have Direction. Interviews. Screwing up GDs. Again. Renault-Nissan. But accidents still happen. "Trust" is a small word, but heaven knows how much it signifies. Guardian angels. Superman still can't fly. But that's no reason to stop being Superman, is it?

December. "Now!". The tension. The panic. And the smiles. It IS worth every drop of sweat, every twinge of pain, every throbbing headache, every tired yawn. The smiles are what make them all worth it. Blank a week before the exams. Last minute swotting. "Screw this, I'm gonna do this my way." Surprise, surprise, it works. Counterstrike. "Fire in the hole!". Still works. "O Holy Night". Everyone stops chattering. Goosebumps. "Merry Christmas y'all!". All I want for Christmas is to go home. Home. "So this is what you look like!". Serendipity. :)

And now, checklist time.

• Nope. Still can't dunk. Can barely run round the court.
• Haven't got a Bucket List yet. Dunno why.
• Oh hell yeah, I can play Wake Me Up When September Ends! :)
• No, it's so not cool to lose my cool. Strikeout!
• I sing out loud. Everyone in the vicinity of C-25 will vouch for this.
• No maniacal driving. Don't feel the need to get anywhere faster than I can.
• Orkut kaput!
• The receding hairline is being successfully countered by longer hair. :P
• Mission IMDB 250 is going strong!
• Writing more often is something I promise to promise to do. :P

That's a fairly good strike rate, I think. Onward ho. I'm thinking, "Roll With The Punches" should cover all resolutions for 2011.