A Touchy Movement

Some time ago, I got a forwarded mail that was just so, so wrong. There is no other way to describe it. Let's have a look, shall we?

Disclaimer 1: Personal Details masked, because I don't want to be hunted down and killed by a touching* Systems Analyst.

Disclaimer 2: I have *nothing* against Systems Analysts. They're delightful people. Most of the time.

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

<quote>

Hi Friend

One more touchy movement

I like to share some thing. Like every day I start early for bang-6, When I reached bommanhalli  bus stop, I saw a lady, she is not able to stand properly, look like she is sick, people are watch her but know body came to help her. I was not able to understand what she is asking (talking in Kannada). One girl come to me and asks about her. We ask one auto person to drop her to BTM. He agreed but when he saw the leady without saying he run away, I was looking for another auto, Girl was having conversation with leady and she took out big money and gave to leady without any hesitation, Till that time able to get another Auto. We finally board her to auto.

You know who that girl is, she is one of <company name masked> HR.  (I did not asked her name)

I saw people to help other but most of them from <company name masked>  It always makes me to feel proud to be part of ‘<company name masked>’

Such incidents always touch me, my sole, Humanities is still there in world. 

Friends – if we cannot become like SUN, at least  we should like Candle.  

Thanks and Regards,
****** ***** *****
_________________________________________________
Systems Analyst
<company name masked>, Bangalore, India
É +91 80 ********* , *********** È +91 ***********
? ***********@********.***
MSN/AOL -**********/********* 

<unquote>

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

Amazing. A truly transcendental experience, reading this...thing.

Let's wade right into the morass.

• "Touchy" --> "Touchy" means "irritable"...what he really meant was "touching" but of course, this is just the beginning, and really, this is great in the face of what's coming.
• "touchy movement" --> Good Lord.
• "people are watch her but know body came to help her" --> What this person talking about knowbody really knows, no?
• "We ask one auto person to drop her to BTM" --> The one reasonably correct sentence in this Pool of Misery. In fact, the others are so horrifying that this one shines like a diamond.
• "We finally board her to auto." --> What does this mean? Really? Yeah, I know that he's TRYING to say that they got the "leady" into the auto, but really that sentence(...if you can call it that.) is straight out of an English teacher's nightmare.
• "It always makes me to feel proud" --> I no, we all make us to feel so proud that Systems Analyst is making type this much in English, know?
• "Such incidents always touch me, my sole, Humanities is still there in world" --> They touch his "sole". The underside of his foot. And he's very grateful for all the Humanities courses in the world, of course.
• "Friends – if we cannot become like SUN, at least  we should like Candle." --> I hear this is a big problem nowadays, people hating candles.

And, the most horrifying part.

• Systems Analyst --> that would mean a reasonably senior member of a multinational giant. 

But then again, I guess he gets. it. done. 

Without talking.

Hopefully.

Stories From Long Ago - Part III (Puthol Bhat and The Finance Minister)

"So?"

"So..."

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing..."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Are you going to talk?"

"About what?"

"Well something! Say something! You're putting me to sleep!"

"Well, I could tell you a story?"

"A story about what?"

"About my grandfather?"

"Ok..."

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

The days of DD-1 and summer holidays. When an ice-cream was a rare celebration, and eating out meant "Mixed Noodles and Chilli Chicken" at Hotel Karthiyayini. For half an hour every night, the lights would go off. And the world sat down and everyone fanned themselves with a newspaper, in the light of a flickering candle, as mosquitoes buzzed just out of reach. The only generator in town belonged to Dr. Haridas, whose house carried on as usual as the rest of the world watched the long hand of the clock move slowly across half its face.

The elders would reminisce about the days when the world was still black and white. The British Sahibs still ruled India, but to a small community of Konkanis clustered around a small temple off 70 Feet Road, the politics and drama of their daily lives held much more interest than the happenings in a faraway land. And as these stories were relayed through each passing power cut, the men and women that featured in them attained mythical, heroic proportions in the mind of an imaginative young boy. I listened, to the nostalgic musings by the half light of a flickering candle as the long hand of the clock moved slowly across half its face.

The first one from the sheltered community to pass SSLC, my grandfather, Narasingha "Putholu" Bhat was immediately branded a "red" or a "communist", for choosing not to tread the path of his father, Hari Bhat, a priest at the small temple off 70 Feet Road. And no ordinary priest, Hari was the son of one of the three priests who carried out the prathishttha of the idol, a loyal and faithful servant of Lord Mahavishnu. And his boy? He wanted to study, and learn typewriting, and work! The nerve! Who did he think he was! Tongues wagged, as is wont to in the small community clustered around the temple off 70 Feet Road.

Putholu was no ordinary boy. He grew up in a crowded house, watching his father struggle to make ends meet with his meager income from his job as a priest at the temple. He saw the petty politics that maneuvered Hari Bhat out of it too. The same idol that Mannkku Bhat and his son had worshipped faithfully all these years sat serenely behind those high walls, as the Powers That Be cast a blind eye to His loyal priest. A good day, was when the family ate twice a day. Most days Putholu and the rest of the family went to sleep on empty stomachs. Putholu realized the only way out of this unfair little world around the temple was an education. Not able to afford a book, he would walk to far away Fort Kochi to his uncle's house, to study with the books they bought for their children, under the light of a street lamp. They would share dinner with him, a bowl of gruel and beans. He would sleep on their verandah at night and walk back home to the small house near the temple in the wee hours of the morning.

Now, having armed himself with an SSLC degree, and typewriting skills, he became one of the very few at the time qualified to be employed at a Sahib's company. Aspinwall & Co., a major exporter with its office in Wellington Island, was looking for an accountant, and through a family friend, Putholu applied for the post. Confirmation came a few days later. Putholu was now an official employee of a Sahib's company. Hari Bhat's head had never been held higher. His son was the accountant of a big Sahib's company. Tongues wagged furiously. Rumours spread like wildfire about how Hari Bhat was now a rich man, thanks to his son's salary. Sycophants lurked, but Hari made sure that none of them reached his son, cutting them off as soon as they reared their heads, once famously doing so in a court of law, but that's a story for another time.

Putholu rose through the ranks at Aspinwall & Co.. An accountant with a hawk's eye, he became the Sahib's right hand man for balancing his books. One fine morning, T.T. Krishnamachari and his cohort of vigilantes showed up at the office at Wellington Island and demanded to see the Sahib's financial statements and books of accounts.

The following sequence might have been a tiny bit exaggerated through years and years of retelling, but Krishnamachari was not impressed with the half-baked responses the clerks were giving. Surreptitiously, the Sahib sent the word out. "Get Bhat over here!". Minutes later, a gleaming black car rolled to a stop outside the small house that Mannkku Bhat built, near the small temple off 70 Feet Road.  It was the sort of thing that brought everything else to a standstill. Every eye in the vicinity looked on unblinkingly, as an emissary of the Sahib escorted Putholu into the car and sped away, setting the tongues wagging even more furiously. A Sahib's car? For Putholu??

By the time Putholu reached Wellington Island, Krishnamachari had worked up a fine lather and had reached a point where he threatened to sue the Sahib and his company. Putholu arrived, and sat down with Krishnamachari and the Sahib. For half a day, they sat in the Sahib's office going through the statements. By the end of it all, Krishnamachari was smiling. The Sahib was smiling. Putholu had saved the day.

As he was leaving, Krishnamachari asked for the young man who had handled the accounts. "Join me as my PA", he told Putholu. Ever the dutiful son, Putholu replied that he would have to ask his father.

For Hari Bhat, now an old man, sick and bed-ridden, Krishnamachari's offer was something that threatened to take his son, whose job with the Sahib had elevated them from the life of "temple dwellers" , who would some day have to perform his last rites, to a faraway land of which he knew nothing. "I want you here with me", said Hari, and as far as Putholu was concerned this was the final word. He declined Krishnamachari's offer and continued in the Sahib's office at Wellington Island till the day he retired. 

Later that year, the British set sail back home, leaving India in the capable hands of Pandit Nehru. A few years later, T. T. Krishnamachari became India's fifth Finance Minister.

Putholu earned the Sahib's unending gratitude for his services, and to this day, people talk about how the Sahib came to his house in the gleaming black car to inquire on Putholu's health, as he lay on his deathbed.

The lights come back on. The long hand of the clock has ticked thirty times. The world is in colour again, and everyone sits silently for a while. I look at my father, my great aunt, they all have this half smile on their face. Are they thinking "What if?". It's time for dinner, and everyone has their work to do for tomorrow.

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

"Why didn't he say yes? Your lives would've been so different!"

"Yeah, and I probably wouldn't have met you..."

"Oh no, then it's probably a good thing he said no!"

"He he he, yeah now go to  sleep, that was a long long story..."

"Are there more stories about your grandfather?"

"Oh yeah, but not now, go to sleep!"

"Oh, but I'm not sleepy anymore..."

"Well I am, and besides I've been talking for a long time..."

"Oh...ok then...goodnight."

"Ok, goodnight."

Author's Note : "Putholu" and "Mannkku" are nicknames. Nobody is ever called by their real names in the small community clustered around the temple. Everyone has a nickname, or atleast a twisted version of their names. "Saraswati" becomes "Saraspati". There are nicknames like "Rumbhat" (Ram Bhat). Some of the more imaginative ones are "Thorappan" (Bandicoot) and "Kuvla Ambat" (Snake Gourd Curry). I really have no idea how people come up with these names, but they stick, to a point where no one really recognizes their real names.

An Interview With A Konkani

Everytime I get a phone call from home, I usually end up freaking out a friend/bystander, because I'm speaking a strange language, which sounds like it came from beyond the Himalayas. Which usually leads to the following inquisition.

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

Q: What was that??

A: That was the Konkani language. I'm a Konkani. 

Q: You're a what?

A: A Konkani. That means that I speak the language, and that I am a part of a very exclusive group. Hah! Bet you didn't know Deepika Padukone was one of us. Or Vijay Mallya.

Q: You have a separate language for yourself?

A: Yes, we do. And unless you are one of us, I don't think you'll understand a word of it. If you know Marathi, you might understand some of the words, and this works both ways. I can understand some Marathi.

Q: So say something in your language.

A: No! Besides, you'd either squawk or keel over laughing. You're not ready yet. 

Q: Ah. So how did you learn it?

A: The same way you learnt your Hindi/Malayalam/Tamil. I learnt it from everyone at home speaking it.

Q: Waitaminnit. So you don't speak Malayalam at home?

A: No. I'm not a Malayali.

Q: How does that work? Aren't you from Kerala?

A: No, I'm not a Malayali, if that's what you mean.

Q: So where are you from?

A: Sigh. I'm from Kerala, but I'm not a Malayali.

Q: Er.......

A: It could be, and I'm just taking a wild stab in the dark here, that my ancestors settled down in Kerala?

Q: Ohhhh. So where are you really from?

A: Goa. All Konkanis are originally from Goa. But they spread out across the coast, primarily to avoid persecution at the hands of the Portuguese invaders. Yeah, those times. That's how far away my Goan connection is.

Q: Whoa, so you are, in a way, Goan.

A: Not really, I probably wouldn't understand a word in Goan Konkani.

Q: There are types?

A: Yeah. We are spread out across the Konkan Coast. Starting from Goa, we settled down in Maharashtra, Karnataka and pockets in Kerala. I am from the small group that reached Cochin.

Q: So how are all of them different?

A: Well, each of these regions had an influence on our way of speaking. You will see a pronounced difference in the way a Mangalorean and a Kochikkar speak, even though they are speaking the same language. The words are mostly the same, but somewhere in between, a word with heavy local influence will pop up and confusion will reign.

For example, "sugar". Kochi Konkanis call it "paindhaar", obvious influence of the Mallu word for sugar "panjasaara". The Mangaloreans call it "sakkar", which is more of a Marathi influence, I guess. So when a Mangalorean asks a Kochikkar if he wants "sakkar" in his coffee, the other will probably say no, "paindhaar" is fine.

Q: Whew. Complicated language.

A: Don't you guys have dialects? Do you understand every version of Hindi/Malayalam/Tamil? It's the same thing.

Q: So your Mom and Dad are both Konkanis?

A: Yes. My dad is from Kochi and, mom from Mangalore.

Q: Tell me something in Konkani?

A: Like what? Do NOT say "My name is ........."

Q: Dammit. Ok, how do you say "I want something to eat."?

A: Are you sure you're ready for this?

Q: Yeah. Absolutely. Bring it on.

A: Now, when I say it you do NOT keel over laughing.

Q: Oh. Ok?

A: "Makka ittheyi khanvchaak jaai."

Q: Wha?! What IS that?

A: Yes, that is how we speak.

Q: Explain the words in that.

A: Makka - "For me" 

ittheyi - spoken with a nasal tone - means "anything"/"something"

khanvchaak - again, the n denotes a nasal tone - means "to eat"

jaayi - "want".

Q: Whoa.

A: Yeah, whoa.

Q: So you guys are like this totally different culture and everything?

A: Well again, a lot of regional influence, but yeah we have our own temples, our own customs and traditions, our own diet, our own way of talking.

Q: What kinda diet?

A: Konkani dishes are, well, different. For example, any Kochi Konkani worth his "meett" (salt) must have tried the Pathrodo, atleast once in his life. So what is it? It's a kind of roll, made out of Colocasia leaves. I'm pretty sure that   no-one had any idea you could actually eat that stuff till we turned up, and tadaaa.

Q: Ah. Interesting. So about your name, "Bhat". Is that a common Konkani name?

A: Yes. "Shenoy", "Pai", "Kamath", "Prabhu" are some of the others. A "Bhat" is usually a priest. As was was my great-grandfather. My grandfather was the first in my family to pursue a career outside of priesthood. These surnames were usually indicative of the person's trade in the "days of yore". Like a "bhat" being a priest, a "Prabhu" was usually a landlord, "Pai"s were businessmen (yeah, we are genetically inclined towards it), and the "Mallan"s/"Mallya"s were , well, bodybuilders.

Q: So you could be a priest?

A: Technically, yes.

Q: Do you know all the rituals and everything?

A: No, which is why I'm not one. But after my upanayanam, I used to do the morning pooja at my house.

Q: Upanayanam? What is that?

A: That is the Thread Ceremony. It signifies that the person is now truly a Brahmin.

Q: You're a Brahmin? Then how come you eat meat?

A: Er, why not? I believe, "faith" should be in the mind, not the stomach.

Q: Ah. Wow, interesting.

A: Aren't we all?

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

Secretly, I love freaking people out like that. It's fun to see the double-takes, and faces with that "/:S" expression when they hear me speak. Like Ashan says "the language from before God's existence".

But undoubtedly, the funniest came last Republic Day Celebrations at the hospital where my dad works. My sister and I were watching the proceedings from the back, and talking to each other in Konkani. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the guard trying to make sense, and miserably failing to do so. Finally, he decided he couldn't take any more, and leaned over to ask, in patchy Hindi, "Kidhar ka aadmi hai?" ("Where are you from?"), Mallu accent and all. "Ivide okke thanne ullatha, chettaa" ("I'm from around these parts."), I replied, in perfect Malayalam. The double-take and the sheepish laugh? Priceless.

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"

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

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!"

Stories From Long Ago - Part II (a.k.a How I Discovered Water)

"So what story are you going to tell me today?"

"But I thought it was your turn today!"

"But I like listening to stories from when you were little. I want a story!"

"Ok, ok, ok. Hmmm. So, once upon a time..."

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

Summer meant running around all day, climbing trees, watching the same old movie tapes again and again, and over again. Home Alone. Tom & Jerry. Beautiful People. The Gods Must Be Crazy. There was this plant in the Kalahari desert. It's root looked something like an overgrown potato. And the bushmen scraped the skin off the root and squeezed it, and they got water. 

If you dig deep enough, you will find water. I read that somewhere. Also, the soil was always damp when we dug, no matter how dry the sand was at the top. So the water was there. It was just a matter of digging deep enough.

But then there's only so deep you can dig with your hands. We needed some heavy machinery. There was this rusty garden hoe lying in the darkened store room. The answer to the water problem of Cherthala.

So one fine, jobless morning, me and my trusty friend, started digging for water in my backyard. As I hacked through the earth, we became excited seeing the damp soil beneath. "We're almost there! Keep digging!", he yelled. And pretty soon, there was a thunk!, and water started flowing out of the hole in the ground. Well, I hadn't expected it so soon. Because it was supposed to be really deep underground. But who cares, we'd struck water! We had solved the water crisis! We were going to be famous! (...yeah, bang on, that last one.)

Soon, the backyard was flooded, and the water was snaking through the fence into my neighbour's yard. By now, my aunt had started yelling at me from the house about something. I had been too elated to listen to her, but the water wasn't stopping. How do you stop a natural source of water? "I'll plug the hole with a brick!", I said. There were plety of them lining the hedge anyway. The brick disappeared into the "spring" with a disappointing plop. And yeah, the water kept coming. Now what? The geniuses that we were, we decided to "build a dam!". Yeah, we started piling up mighty walls of sand around the edges of the mini lake. Epic fail. The water just flowed past like they didn't exist.

Now, the neighbours' servants started coming out to see what was going on. Turns out the water in the houses had stopped. One of them yelled at us saying "I haven't cooked lunch yet, and now their little girl doesn't have any food for the afternoon, all because of you two!".

By this time, we had sort of figured out we'd probably need to hightail it to the arid Kalahari to escape the hiding of a lifetime when our parents got back from work. And that the "spring", was in fact an underground water pipe. And the "thunk!" was the sound of the hoe breaking a sizeable hole into it.

An odd jobsguy from the nearby hospital turned up after a while, and surveyed the destruction. Water was still bubbling up from our "spring". Two yards were flooded. A group of seething servants. And two very sheepish looking kids.

"You guys did this?".

Er no, there was this giant crab...

Er no, a mole...

Er no, this hole just *appeared* this morning...

"Yeah...we were digging..."

He turned off the water, and fixed it, and we stood around watching him. Pretty soon, all the water seeped back underground (...from whence it came.). The hole was covered up. The water in the houses was back. And I think the little girl had her rice porridge or whatever she wanted for lunch.

I didn't come out of the house for a week.

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

"Hahahaha! You were a menace, weren't you?"

"Hey, I thought I could hit a natural spring!"

"Hahahaha! A natural spring!"

"Well yeah, the way they showed it on TV, I thought I could. But I knew something was wrong when the water came out so soon."

"Hahahaha!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's enough. Now go to sleep."

"But I'm not sleepy any more! I want another story!"

"Another story? But if I tell you all the stories now, what will you do tomorrow? And besides, you have class tomorrow. So go to sleep now."

"Hmmm, ok. But will you tell me another story tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Ok. Goodnight..."

"Goodnight..."

The Supershort Story Of How The World Ends.

Ctrl + Alt + Del.

Open Task Manager.

End process "superman.dll".

The world ends.

...Dammit.

A Bit Of Luck, A Bit Of Black Magic

I found her hiding behind a row of Royals in various stages of repair, at "Bullet" Gopi's "Diesel Bullet Garriage". Yeah, that's how it was spelt, as the board that hung over his garage announced.

A protege of the Bullet Legend of Pudupet, Jafar Ali, Gopi was one smooth talking, grease-monkey genius. He knew how to sell a Bullet. Not that people who came looking for Bullets needed much convincing. But then, it takes something special to sell a Bullet chassis, fitted with a diesel motor, without an RC book, or chassis number, and no sales deed, to gullible software engineers who know they're getting ripped off. Yep, he was one of a kind.

So, anyways, after umpteen trips to the garriage, to find my Bullet, she finally caught my eye. Jet black, with a red flame tattoo across the fuel tank, she looked like a caged tiger, is what I would like to say, but it was closer to hobbling nag. Now, though your's truly was smitten by the prospect of a Bullet, I still wasn't confident of handling one, let alone a "God-Knows-How-Old" machine like this one. This is where Ashan comes in handy. Having already succumbed to the wiles and guiles of Gopi and acquiring The Amazing Thumper, Ashan had become Resident Expert on Diesel "Gopi" Bullets.

Kick-starting Thumper was a religious experience. You began with a silent prayer to The Powers That Be. A dozen spirited, progressively flagging kicks later, you could actually see the gates of Heaven. And finally, when the engine roared to life, the angels sang.

Why should she be any different? So we manoeuvred her onto the centre-stand (...standard position for kick-starting for amateurs, pros kick-start while sitting...), and Ashan did his little silent prayer. And kicked. Vroom. First kick, I kid you not. Plumes of smoke billowed from the exhaust and blocked out the sun, the thunder of her engine rattled the pebbles on the ground below her. In reality it was slightly less dramatic, but I was floored. I wanted her. I needed her.

The crafty fox Gopi noticed, and I could see the price go up. As I communicated my intentions to Gopi through my version of Tamil, I could see the gleam in his eyes. Hook, line, and sinker. We shook on 20k. He would polish her up, get her fitted with lights, a horn (not that she needed it, but just in case), and in general get her ready for the road. Well, in a general, more-or-less, you'll-keep-coming-for-repairs kind of way anyway.

I remember the first time I took her out on the highway, from Chengalpattu to Singaperumal Koil. I remember the raw, untamed power, and I was scared stiff to turn that accelerator more than absolutely necessary. I kept accelerating and pulling back, afraid that I was going to be the First Malayali in Space if I went too fast.

Slowly though, I started getting used to the intricacies of handling a Bullet.  "Bullet" Gopi liked to say, not everybody can ride a bullet, it takes "telunt" (loosely translates as "talent" in English) and a "neyck" (knack, n, A special way of doing something). Another of his tactics to reel 'em in. Well, it took a hell of a lot of patience too.

Gopi fleeced both me and Ashan mercilessly. If it wasn't the lights, it was the kicker. If it wasn't the kicker, it was the brakes. If it wasn't the brakes, it was the clutch cable. Oh boy, the clutch cable. How many times that thing snapped on me. Sometimes, she would just refuse to move. For no apparent reason. In the middle of nowhere. And just when you start contemplate ditching her, she would come to life again and chug along. Like nothing ever happened.

She still needed a name. The One Who Writes For Food, declared her a "chick magnet" on sight, and suggested a nomme de guerre. Black Magic. And "Black Magic" she was named.

Boy, did she work some magic, Ol' Black Magic. The Prospective Missus declared, "I don't get on bikes, what if it topples over?!". And then she saw her. In all her patched up glory. Black Magic just had this neyck with people. The lady said Black Magic spoke to her. I don't know what they talked about, but she agreed to a ride, and the rest is history.

Well, not exactly. She ran out of diesel 2 minutes into the ride.

Long story short, The Missus stuck around inspite of that fiascoed, first bike ride. She loved the big, black, noisy, smoke-belching machine, right down to the tiny lights that never worked. She doesn't approve of my current ride, a Star-City, not one bit, she thinks that bike is the devil incarnate. But Black Magic was her favourite. She still asks me sometimes, "What do you think Black Magic is doing now?". A bit of luck there, I guess. But more than that, a bit of Black Magic.

Black Magic made sure that every day was an adventure, in some sense of the word. Another story, another time maybe. Till then, ride safe, and wear a helmet!

Stories From Long Ago - Part I

"So...?"

"So tell me a story."

"A story? What kind of story?"

"A story from a long time ago. When you were little."

"Hmmm, let me try to remember."

"Fast, 'cos I'm sleepy."

"Ok, ok. Once upon a time..."

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

Life was simple. The world was so small. The sun rose in the east. Which was across the highway that ran past the gate. The long, straight road ran from the north to the south. That meant, if I faced the sunrise, and spread out my arms, my left arm would point towards Jammu and Kashmir, and to my right lay Kanyakumari. 

I couldn't play in the sun because I would fall sick. I couldn't play in the rain because I would fall sick. I learnt how to spell "apparatus" while hooked to an oxygen tank at 3 in the night, because I couldn't breathe. Also, there was nothing else to read. My dad read The Count of Monte Cristo aloud to me, when I fell sick, and I liked their names. Fernand. Mercedes. Luigi Vampa. The Chateau d'If.

I didn't like travelling in buses because they were crowded, and they made me want to throw up. Trains were ok. Mom used to leave every morning at 7, and come back at 7 at night, on a train. My Dad and I would drop her off in the morning and pick her up at night, on the IND-Suzuki. It rained one day when we were coming back from the railway station. We were getting wet. Dad made me sit between him and Mom. I didn't get wet. "Tell God to make it stop raining", said my Mom. And I did. And it did. In those days, miracles happened everyday.

The "Seven times" table was my Everest. I could never figure out the intricacies of that weird number. But one day I finally tamed it. I couldn't wait to tell Mom. But I had to wait, because the train was late that day. It finally came.

"Mom, Mom, Mom, I learnt the seven times table!". 

"7 times 1 is 7, 7 times 2 is 14."

"...7 times 8 is...7 times 8 is..."

"It's..."

"No, Mom, I know it! Wait, wait, wait, 56!"

"...and 7 times 10 is 70!"
There. The flag had been planted.

I couldn't speak Malayalam. I could speak Konkani. No one spoke that at school. I could speak English. No one spoke that either. "Speak English" said the painted sign at the top of the blackboard. I was confused, because the teachers never spoke in English either. Everybody ran around during the break. I never ran because I wouldn't be able to breathe at night. I would sit watching other kids run around, and munch on my jam sandwich.

One day I felt like running, and I ran. And I heard another kid yelling and crying behind me. Apparently while sliding out of my seat, I had knocked over the desk behind mine, and it fell on his leg. He was taken to the hospital, and I had everyone telling me how I had broken his leg, and made him miss classes. I couldn't understand the big Malayalam words they used, but I got the point. And I didn't know how to explain to them in Malayalam that "I usually don't run around, this is the first time I tried to, and I didn't do that on purpose, in fact I didn't even know the bench was tottering behind me.". So I became the bad boy who broke the other boy's leg. I didn't bother running after that. It was pointless anyway.

*****************************************************************
"You there?"

...

"You're asleep, aren't you? Ok then? Goodnight?"

...

Click.