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 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!"