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.

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!"

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!

The Sesky Six.

Disclaimer: The names used in this blog are purely fictional, though the same cannot be said about the characters. Any resemblance to any person, dead or alive, is therefore purely intentional. The fine print is intentional too.

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In a world full of Heroes and Villains, The Six blur the line that separates the two. Sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the light, they blend seamlessly into each. Talented. Powerful. Enigmatic. They are the Men Of Tomorrow. Well, most of them anyway.

Econo Mystery

On Friday evening, he disappears. Conspiracy theorists believe he teleports to the Magellan Constellation [citation needed]. Returns from his sojourns late, late into the night on Sunday. Sometimes by Monday afternoon. Hidden behind a shaggy mane, his face is as yet unseen by the world. As the end of the month draws near, he switches to a top-secret, highly specialized diet. He is mankind's answer to The Dragon Warrior.

"

Master Tigress : It is said that the Dragon Warrior can go for months without eating, surviving on the dew of a single gingko leaf and the energy of the universe.

"

Well, Dragon Warrior ain't seen nothing yet.




Gizmo Gadget
The ultimate gadget-freak. If it's in the market, he's got it. If it's not in the market yet, he's still got it. His shelves are stocked with "outdated" technology from 3015. 


His current obsessions include :

• an imaging device that actually transforms the surroundings into a place of the user's choice.
• a communications thingmajig that allows per second billing for calls to Alpha Centauri, and, dig this, teleporting.
• a Smoke Device made of Extraterrestrial Crystal. Technically, this is not a gadget. Ah, but who cares, woo-hoo!

Ex Crasy
Years ago, it was rumored that this guy was from another planet. He had the amazing ability to morph into yahoo-road-trip mode in 3.14159265 seconds.Yes, that is pi. Yes, he meant it to be that way. Once, he drank an entire bottle of Absinthe before embarking on a reading marathon that included "The Republic", "Les Miserables" and "The Complete Calvin and Hobbes Collection". Yes, he got through all of them before stifling a yawn.


But then, he met this girl.


Now all he does is shout "Twin-tailed Bushwhacker!" or "Fish-whupped Freefaller!" or something along those lines, every few minutes. Nobody knows what these words mean. But, he insists that in the cosmic sense, they are significant. Nobody knows what that is either.




Sai Lent Maan
He once survived an entire month on air alone. And then he slept. But then, a mortal dared to wake him up. The mortal was skadooshed into tiny, floating particles. 


He rarely spoke, but when he did, the world cowered in fear. He once reduced Hulk Hogan to tears by just looking at him. He was The One they all feared and revered.


But then, he started getting phone calls.




Sodio di Acqua
This jet-setting person lives a 365/24/7 life. Fridays are meaningless to this high-flyer. He is always on the move, sometimes at speeds faster than light itself. No one has seen him during the day. But at night, glimpses of this volatile individual can be caught by the flickering light of a 17" CRT Monitor. He comes, and goes, like lightning. Everything must be done fast, and NOW. And fast.

A repeat offender, he can be identified by his trademark, hedonistic, barf-inducing comments. To ALL photos. Afflicted by the Lastkeystuck Syndrome, his sentences usually end with multiple repetitions of the last character ("wowwwwwwww", "U know whaatttttttt").

Entire tomes have been filled with stories about him. New legends are written about him every day.

He is wanted dead or alive in 3 countries, and dead in 168.

Lightning Bolt Ed

His mind moves at speeds that even light cannot think of. Every decision is made even before the question is asked. Currently the owner of the fastest bike In The Entire Universe, he was pursued by Bajaj, to star in their ad campaign for The World's Fastest Indian.

For him, the past holds no meaning. He lives in the future. He sings songs from the future. His food is made in the future, and time warped to the present. He is The Future.

NOT!

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Fiction! Fiction, I tell you!

"Friday the 13th" PWNED by "Thursday the 12th".

So, Friday the 13th is drawing to a close, and barring any TGIF-booze-fuelled hijinks from here till midnight, I have managed to go through it without any major incidents.

Well, yesterday kinda made up for it anyway. So what happened yesterday? Those of you who follow my tweets, or visit my sporadically-active Orkut/Facebook pages, got the point that my mobile was stolen. Or lost, according to Maraimalai Nagar's finest. 

But as with everything else, things are never what they seem to be. There’s always something that's not said.

Here's what really happened.

My mobile, or ex-mobile anyway, religiously belted out George Thorogood's "Bad To The Bone" at 6.30AM everyday. Including Sundays. And I religiously snoozed it as long as it took for it to the point, and went back to sleep till 7. Or 8. Or 9. Why should yesterday have been any different. As soon as the first guitar riff started echoing in the living room (yeah, we sleep in the living room. Welcome to The Life Of An SE.), I clicked on "Snooze", without even opening my eyes. I've worked at that. Around 7.30, Switchfoot started on "Dare You To Move" to tell me that somebody wanted to talk to me at this ungodly hour. Click. Mercilessly silenced.

What happens next, can be part of any Quentin Tarantino movie. And this is the part that really sucks (nope, still not over the whole lost-my-phone thing!), so I'm just going to rush through this. 

Roomie gets up 7.45ish, leaves for office around 8.30. Leaving the door closed, but not latched. Because the door is usually locked with a padlock from outside. With the three of us inside, not yet back from our trips to Neverland, he usually just closes the door. But the law of averages finally catches up with you when you're bent over, tying your shoelaces. With the emphasis on "bent over".

I finally decide to get up, and reach out for the mobile, which would be in the vicinity of my head. A quick hand-scan reveals that it's not there. So, it must be under the pillow. Right? Wrong! It's nowhere. Maybe Roomie-Who-Leaves-Early was looking at it and kept it somewhere. So I take Roomie 2's phone and dial my number. It's ringing. Except, I can hear it only through his phone.

Someone, let's call him Some Odd Bloke, or SOB for short, picks it up. I appeal in a jumbled mixture of Tamil, Hindi and English for him to return the phone, for which I would pay him whatever he wants. As expected he cuts the call, and after that every call is greeted with "The number you are trying to reach is currently unavilable...".

By this time Roomie 1 and 2 are doing frantic recons inside the house to see what else SOB has taken. All the money from my wallet too. Cards, thankfully, are still intact.

So here's what happened. Roomie-Who-Leaves-Early, does what he does, he leaves early. SOB walks into the house, picks up mobile, pulls out all the money from a wallet that's lying around, and thanks to my outrageous luck, it's mine.

Realization finally sinks in.

Mobile stolen. Check.

Wallet emptied. Check.

All this accomplished right in front of my eyes, except that they were closed. Check.

Major bummer. Double check.

Welcome to Singaperumal Koil. A small town with a big name, hiding unnoticed on the outskirts of both the Chennai and Kancheepuram districts. In fact, it's so strategically placed that neither district wants to claim ownership. A nondescript halt on the Grand Southern Trunk Road. If you run too fast in this town, you end up in the next one. One with an equally imposing name, Maraimalai Nagar.

Welcome to a world where anything is possible. To a world where three laptops are flicked during a power outage from a first floor apartment, because they happened to be near a window. A world where "SE" loosely translates into "Filthy Rich, Arrogant, and Gullible.". Where you have to shoo away the flies to see what you're eating. Welcome to the middle of nowhere.

The fact that a pack of tenacious SEs have survived in this desi equivalent of The Outback for this long is no mean feat. To see a documentary of their "Life", from early 2007, click here. Only 5 of the original 11 now remain. 

So, the done thing when your mobile is stolen is to block your SIM. The highly skilled individuals, down at the call center, put you through a "Virtual Frisk". And they are so polite that, they begin and end a sentence with "Sir". Also, every other sentence is "Thank you, Sir"."Sir, can you please confirm in whose name this number is taken, Sir?". "Thank you, Sir". " Sir, please stay on the line while I retrieve your information, Sir". "Thank you, Sir". Finally, my SIM has been barred.

Apparently, the next thing to do is to mail cop@vsnl.net with the following details.

Notice the use of words lie "just have to" and of course "no need to go to police". So easy. And therefore, guaranteed to NOT work. You see, disabling phones when you give them the IMEI number, is a no-go for GSM phones. ie, unless your phone came with a SIM of it's own, say "Tata goodbye" when you lose it. Atleast, that's what repeated interactions with Highly Skilled Individuals @ Call Center revealed.

Now, there's one part that I've left untouched. And it's my personal favourite. The bureaucracy.

cop@vsnl.net is the terror-inducing email ID of the Cyber Crime Cell. They have a mobile number too. The person who answers it has one thing to tell you. "File FIR local police station". "I sent you an email...hello? hello?". He's said it so many times, to so many gutted people, that it's become a lifeless monotone sans prepositions.

So Roomie-Who-Leaves-Early and me tagged over to the nearest police station. Which is located in the neighbouring town of Maraimalai Nagar. Extremely convenient that Singaperumal Koil does not have a police station of it's own. But that's not the point.

I will try to recreate the conversation from inside that Hallowed Place.

Me : Sir, my phone was stolen from inside my house.

Sir : Who stole?

Me : Eh?

Sir : Who allowed inside house?

Me : Huh?

Sir : Go see Madam. (...pronounced "Me-dum".)

Me : Thank you, sir.

Madam, meanwhile, was busy yelling at someone. So we waited outside, till she spotted us, and indicated that we should enter her presence.

Me : Madam, my phone was stolen from inside my house.

Madam : How door open?

Me : Door was not latched, only closed. (Notice that talking to important people with a lesser command of the language forces you to speak like them.)

Madam : Aha! You not take care of things, then what we do?!

Me : But ma'am, it was taken from inside the house!

Madam : No! How you know?

Me : Madam, I called the number and...

Madam : I see people like you daily. College students, roaming around on two wheeler, at 2 or 3 at night, all ganja.

At this point, I realize that the conversation is totally out of our hands. Which is a fate that it now shares with my mobile too.

Madam keeps going for another few minutes in a staccato mix of Tamil and English. We have reached a point where we expect her to accuse us of stealing a phone. But the storm blows over and she asks us to come the next day to see The Inspector. But, she says "Only missing! No stolen". 

Me : But madam, my phone was taken from inside the house!

Madam : Missing only!

Me : Thank you, madam.

I called up the Cyber Crime Cell to inquire whether a missing statement would be enough. "File FIR local police station".

It's like a thick fog that engulfs you. Bureaucracy truly rules. In every sense of the word.

Yeah, so coming back to where I started. 

Compared to this, Friday the 13th paled in comparison. That kind of stuff is hard to live up to. 




PS : And speaking of PWNED!, check this out. "Sick, Wicked and Nasty."