The Foot-In-Mouth Chronicles - Part 2

As more than three months have strolled by since Part 1 went live, it is only fair that all due apologies be tendered to the handful of good men and women who've believed I was AWOL. I attribute the hiatus to my recent proclivity towards this medical drama, which has had me pretty much under House arrest, inviting approving aaha's from a few enthusiastic and like-minded work colleagues and grumpy looks from a few other I-don't-care-about-you-and-your-House-minded academics. Anyway, like all rib-tickling sitcoms, we head forward. I feel duty-bound to cater to popular requests and persuasions that have come my way after Part 1. So, another day, another story, and another foot lands in the mouth.

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

March 2006.

I happen to be heading the college's Literary Club. My tasks as Secretary primarily involve delegation, but the fact that only a modicum of trusted juniors and batchmates show up under the working umbrella meant that the head of the club has to masquerade under multiple guises - that of the finance manager, inventory manager and sometimes poster-boy, as the situation demands. During one such occasion when I'm busying myself running glue over a poster, the Pharaoh saunters past, and in the process tips me off about an unscheduled appointment with The Goon, effective immediately. 

The Goon. Aah. Not good news.

The Goon calls the shots in my college. He currently heads the Division for Student Welfare, and is known to have a fearsome reputation. An intimidator extraordinaire, The Goon has a past record that boasts of smoking into a student's face thereby meting out a similar treatment in kind to the student, who had himself inflicted it upon an innocent fresher. The Goon had graduated from one of those TN colleges known for producing the vilest of rogues. A rendezvous with The Goon two days after he had entrusted me with the forgotten task of inviting a well known writer over was going to be pleasant by no means. 

The security guard outside The Goon's office finds a jittery young man sweating profusely. Two minutes later, I walk in, my kerchief dripping. Crackers are about to wreck havoc on me. Please just let it get over, God, I pray.

The Goon is poring over The Elements of Physical Chemistry by Peter W Atkins, making notes for his next lecture. He looks up questioningly as my footsteps carry across the room. In a sudden moment of confessionary instinct, I decide to break it to him. 

'Sir, I am sorry I couldn't get through to Mr. Writer. I was held up with my mid-semester exams.'

And I stand there.

'I told you to talk to Dr. Bhat about his contact details. Have you got the contact details at least?

'Yes sir. I have.'

'Fine, mail him today and get back to me.'

With this he goes back to Atkins.

At this point, I heaved and began to relax. No wait, relax would be a mild word. I over-relaxed. And I over-relaxed so much, that you'll see why this incident found its way here. The enthusiastic Secretary in me shot up.

'Sir, don't you think inviting the writer over during the tech-fest might not invite so much participation? I mean, we could have him over some other time during the course of the semester, and I am sure there would be a lot of students attending.'

You think he got angry there? Wrong. He was not just angry. He was raving mad. You don't say things like that to The Goon and get away with it. Nobody does. Even on their luckiest day.

'Who do you think you are?'

A drop of fresh sweat trickles down my forehead.

'Sir...'

'No, tell me this, who the hell do you think you are?'

Darn, he's gone to using 'Hell' in under five seconds. I advise myself, say Sorry and get out of here. Fast.

'Sir, I am sorry...'

'You think you're a Dada huh? Who the hell asked for your bloody opinion?'

Dada and Bloody. Another couple of attempts at diatribe against the uncouth Secretary. The growing rate seems exponential. Situation getting out of hand.

'I am sorry sir...'

'No! I am sorry I am wasting my time with juvenile fools who have no idea where to poke their bloody noses into!'

My mind goes, 'Juvenile?! Where have I heard that word?' By the time I manage to dig up the word's meaning he's let out a dozen more abuses. 

When my feeble attempts at apologising finally chunk his armour a good part of 20 minutes have trudged past. I walk out with a picture of Larry David prancing in my head, shouting three words out loud: Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Footnote: 

This incident happened when the Club was slowly finding its feet thanks to my batchmates and a few extremely reliable juniors. I learnt a lot from the experience of heading the club. Fellow clubbers with reasonably good brain cells might recollect the purpose served by the year-long stint during one of my job interviews. For the uninitiated, my revelation that went along the lines of 'I am the Club' to the tall IIM-A grad interviewer sealed the job ;) 

Part 3 shall follow in good time. 

 

Credits:

The three-month hiatus, Poets of the Fall and O'Hare, Chicago. And oh, The Goon as well. :)

The Foot-In-Mouth Chronicles - Part 1

Pleasant Wednesday night. The bus rumbles on the giant freeway that is Mount Road, inviting wafts of breeze potent enough to disorient my hair (Yes, it's grown back alright, after this escapade. I am glad to say I've gotten back to using a comb since the past week). I point my gaze towards the biker speeding past my M7 bound for Thiruvanmiyur. He's clad in a T-shirt that says 'Drive like you've stolen it'. Three seconds later, he's flown out of sight like a jet. So have the past 365 days. It's exactly a year since I bade goodbye to college life. I've come across a few extraordinary people while I was on campus. And bus journeys like these spanning an hour or so provide just the right amount of time for me to reflect on the happenings, particularly specific incidents when I was made to look like a joker with rotten eggs spattered all over my face. 

*****

September 2007. I've just ordered a Shikanji at Skylab and taken my usual place under the usual tree, looking for the usual dog that haunts the joint for crumbs. I look around me, and spot The Samurai beckoning towards me. I seat myself beside her, and indulge in smalltalk for a few minutes before she decides to deviate to a more interesting topic, although in good time it would retrograde into something that might have made a lot of people raise their eyebrows everytime I walked past.

The Samurai : You know, sometimes I think I love sloth. What a vetti sem da! I mean, look at all the movies I get to watch and not feel an ounce guilty about not having to study! That's psenti-sem life, in a nutshell!

I nod my head in reply. Aah, of course. Sloth. I tell her about my latest blog post, where I've conveniently listed my activities for the world to read and envy. The conversation continues.

The Samurai - You know, given the choice of a Deadly Sin to bring about my death, I'd probably pick sloth! 

"Ahem, really? I don't think I'd choose sloth if I were you..."

"You wouldn't? Which one, then?"

Me: (without waiting for the next millisecond to end) Gluttony...!

Looking back, that was when I thought the engine caught fire. I should have just shut up and let things be right where they were, but no, I had to say it. What was at the tip of my tongue had to be spat out...

"...or you know, lust wouldn't be such a bad thing to die of...."

The Samurai stares at me. Blinks to check if she's heard right. Lust, I'd just said. 

The bout of laughter that follows turns quite a number of heads. And when she comes to, she gives me a sorry look.  

"But you're incapable of lust!"

Sheesh. While such candid statements put you in the good books of any onlooking 45 year old woman who's looking for a nice, home-grown, incapable-of-nefarious-activities-match for her daughter, it is downright insulting coming from a woman who's your age. I choke on the Shikanji and cough for the next five minutes, and tell her that I need to fix an appointment with the physician, excuse myself and leave. 

*****

October 2007. The cultural festival is here. My best friend and advisor the Pharaoh (who, by the way, can be found here) is in the room giving me company by helping me tick all those movies off my still-to-watch list. It's Scent of a Woman tonight. We watch the blind Al Pacino doing one of his masterful dance moves, taking out any visible trace of effort. Flawless swings. Our jaws drop. After the movie, the Pharaoh reminds me of the Salsa Workshop, and tempts me to venture into something bold and daring, by asking Violet out for a dance. 

It takes me three walks around the hostel to make up my mind. I nervously dial a number which I've never dialled before. 10 rings and out. The bird's not near the phone. Ah, this makes things much simpler. I leave a message. No reply for the next half an hour. And then the beep, or the kela as campus lingo goes. She's really sorry, she just got asked out by someone else. But she says that the Jam Queen is still not taken, and I could ask her. All the nervousness drains itself in a split second. I redial confidently this time, and mutter that it's okay. I later ask the Jam Queen out for the dance over a pre-arranged dinner, and she's gracious enough to say yes. 

Turns out, the dance involves a lot of really complicated body maneuvers that would never have crossed my imagination. Nevertheless, it opens out into a real fun session, where couples start fabricating the moves to suit their respective body capabilities. The initial tension about the dance now non-existent, lots of jokes follow from my end in between all the dancing. And stories about last year's Salsa too, about how the Pharaoh had screwed up his face in concentration, making his lady copy the movements of the instructor precisely down to the last detail. The Jam Queen giggles, and mentions something about 10 pointers being the conformist type. Maybe the Pharaoh mind-read her. He made a 7.5 that sem.  

  

Towards the end of the dance, the woman is supposed to nest herself in the man's arms at the sound of the last beat. So far things have gone off well. Yes, clumsy, but no major mishaps. Unlike last time. Subconsciously, I smile. This prompts a questioning look from the woman. 

(Looking back, I should have said nothing and continued. But no, I had to say it. When things that are at the tip of my tongue...you get the drift) 

I let slip that during the previous year's Salsa, Good-Golly-Miss-Molly had rammed into the floor, after my fresh and slippery hands had failed to grip on to her waist. That was it. The dance met with a premature end. I guess I should have held my tongue, but well. Where's the fun without a little screw-up!

*****    

As I alight at Thiruvanmiyur, I snigger to myself. I am reminded of a couple of other instances that might make me stick my foot in my even bigger mouth, but they shall wait for another day. 

Credits: 

1. The Samurai, who I hope, has no longer any questions about my virility.

2. The Jam Queen and Good-Golly-Miss-Molly, with whom I've shared very clumsy, albeit awfully entertaining dances. 

 

Movie Review : Varanam Aayiram

There aren't many movies at the end of which you're not sure about whether or not you liked the past two and a half hours. Varanam Aayiram is one such.  There were loose ends, the narration wasn't exactly seamless, the dialogues were ordinary, even puerile at times. Yet, it had some kind of appeal I couldn't bring myself to scoff at. 

Varanam Aayiram is one of those rare movies where a guy ought to be accompanied by his dad and his girl. Ideally he'd want to divide his attention equally between them and the movie, switch shoulders to rest his head, depending on whether its old Surya or young Sameera who's painting the screen with class or oomph, as the situation may warrant. My case? Well, my dad's 500 km away from where I stay, and well, anything said about a girl at this point of time might result in banishment, so I'll keep shut here. ;)

The characters more or less do justice to their roles. One might accuse the elderly Surya of overdoing a throat-cancer patient. Or scorn at the teenaged/grown-up Surya end 100 out of 108 of his dialogues with 'Daddy'. Or gape in shock as the heroine nonchalantly reveals that she has an admit at UC Berkeley (Holy Cow, candidates from BITS and most IITs get balled, and here's an REC Trichy female talking about it as if it's as straightforward as adding water to milk!). Or grumble about how long the bloody chopper would remain airborne, before the director was done with describing the elder Surya's life history replete with larval and pupal stages of his son. Or stare in disbelief in the end as the rest of the family sans the elderly Surya smile, minutes after his final rites, in an attempt to get on with life. But that, in essence, is what Varanam Aayiram is all about. Resilience. The grit to bury the past and move on. Not many can do that. I am not sure I can. 

However, having watched the movie, what one does not complain about, are the following. Varanam Aayiram, Karanam Ezhu ( Yes, yes, I smell rotten tomatoes).

1. Simran. Probably one of her best roles yet. That of a 70s college girl, (where she resembles Asha Parekh to a large extent) followed by that of a caring wife and concerned mother. Graceful role. 

2. Sameera Reddy. I never thought I'd say it. 'Howl' is just about what I can manage at the moment. All apologies.

3. Major K. Surya. With a body built like a tank, he's set to take over as pin-up in many bedrooms across the state. 

4. Divya Spandana. The rebound. She's what one might call pleasantly plump and pinchable. I tend to favour those that fit my description. My apologies, again. 

5. Harris Jayaraj. He scores. And scores brilliantly. Be it the classical number sung by Sudha Raghunathan or the modern-day number with guitar riffs (it's a mild copy of an ACDC hit, but what the hell :) ) Well worth queueing them up in a loop and enabling the Repeat option.

6. Sights of the US. Neat camera work. Makes you want to board the next flight and tour. 

7. The Director's intent. He goes the extra mile to tell you why fathers are so special. And why it's  important to move on in life. And so you put up with all the claptrap about Surya going insane, getting into drugs and the like, all in some kind of hope that your patience will pay off sometime soon. 

It does. It's a Gautham Menon movie after all. 

There's never quite someone like a director wishing to tell his own story. 

The Victorian Age Revisited

A peaceful evening opened up to the Welsh skies

Adorned to regal majesty by the winsome sun.

Alongside the southern creek, a bored fisherman deemed it wise   

To dump his forlorn trawler and have some fun.

Yonder across the hill lived a pretty Cornish lassie

Picking cherries for the night's dessert delight

She looked over the hedge as she caught his coo

"How 'bout a walk along the shore tonight!"

She traipsed to the chalet, the basket forgotten 

Wearing a wry smile, mind lost to logic beyond the distant mast

The universe would expand, meteors would shoot past

Yet, our woman would chase fantasy with the air of one smitten.

The breeze swept their faces, its wafts tender as a child

The sea engulfed their footprints, bathing the rocks wild

She whispered to him, "What shall your riposte be,

If that son-of-a-gun brother of mine were to spot us beside the sea?"

He returned her gaze, a grin surrounding his countenance

Gazing up at the sky, resting his back against a boulder

Before looking back at her, eyes twinkling through his glance

"I don't know, maybe I'd slip an arm around your shoulder?"

As he spoke a silver steamer strolled into sight 

"Aye laddies, that's a rich haul!", a voice yelled

The woman at the shore quivered, turned her head in reflex

"That's him!", she said. Murphy's laws had yet again been upheld.

The fisherman scampered away into the windy night

Leaving the lass to play reception to the homecoming

The brother beamed. "You're here to see the herrings, aren't you!"

She let out a tremulous smile, only to see another liner returning.

The fisherman alighted from the soppy deck, 

Waded across to the jetty and pulled up his torso

'That's a fine catch you've got there, Mac", he said

Turning to the woman, he remarked, " 'Ve we met before?"

A Tryst with Cutting-Edge Technology

When I started this blog last June, I had something in mind when I chose the blog header and the link. Back then I was quite a keen follower of Prison Break ( I still am, but I've not yet gotten my hands on Season 4 ). So I thought anagrams of the names of the lead characters Scofield and Sara would be a good idea for the blog. So the blog kicked off, and I started writing about things that interested me. Music. Crosswords. Cricket. Humour. Food. But I never thought I'd get a reason to post something that would have the remotest of semblances to Prison Break, considering I don't do reviews.

I was wrong.

October 18, 2008.

5:45 AM. It is a chilly morning in Bangalore City.

I alight from the bus, dodge the Autowallas ushering me, and march towards the opposite side of the road. Koramangala 2nd Block. Shortly one of those BMTC buses comes along, and 10 minutes later I find myself outside TGI Friday's on Airport Road. I cast a doleful look at the building and plug my headphones back on. Three Air Supply numbers later, I knock on Heaven's door, the entry to my abode during the course of my internship until June past.

My sisters are finally back in the country. It's a family reunion after more than a year. Understandably, there's a bit of emotion surrounding all this, but since that's a family affair, we'll just let that be. This post is not about the reunion.

My Dad is the first to notice it.

'You've gone down alright, but you'd look smarter if you got rid of your unkempt hair. Why don't you get it trimmed?'

Smarter? I think it over. Sure. Why not.


8:00 AM.

I head towards the nearest saloon, mutter 'Short' to the barber like I always do, and set my specs aside. It's usually a peaceful process, a consequence of which is everyone's happiness. The barber gets his due, my head becomes lighter and well, honestly I think Bangalore's Radio Indigo 91.9 plays pleasant English numbers which you can almost doze off to.

I notice that the scissors are conspicuous by their absence. Machine, the barber complies. Go ahead, I tell him. I close my eyes. These guys are pretty adept at what they do, I mumble to myself, and recalled the last time my haircut had gotten screwed up.


Sometime in 1993. Lazy Sunday evening.

You need a haircut.

Dad, no. I have homework!

Trust me, you need a haircut. Let's go.

But it's a Sunday. Saloons are not open today!

And sure enough, no saloon is open. We go back home. Dad is disappointed. And then he takes matters into his own hands.

Scissors. Comb. Anyone can do a haircut, he says.

Twenty minutes later, he examines my head. First this way, and then the other. I have no idea how I look, yet. Mum happens to walk in, and she gapes at me. A hollow patch on the right side of my head greets her. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, and Dad is sheepish. Anyone can do a bad haircut, Dad corrects himself.

Just to screw things up further, the class photo-session is scheduled for the next day. Later, looking at the snap, my friends would scorn at my novel hairdo while I hung around peevishly.


'Done, saar.'

The barber removes the shroud off me. I put on my specs.

It's hard to exactly describe my reaction. My face expressionless, I manage to mouth 'How much?' and pay him.

'Saar, if you want Ghajni style, I can do that also. Five more minutes.'

I shake my head vigorously, unable to utter a word. I get back. My knock is greeted by one of my sisters.

'Hey, look who's home! It's Michael Scofield!'

Guffaws follow. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, but this time, Dad is overjoyed.

'15 years ago, this is EXACTLY what I intended!'


Addendum:

October 20, 2008. Monday.

Seen on the work-board of my cubicle:

Return to innocence

Migrating from the secure cocoon of a college student who has his every need tended to by his auto-replenishing joint account to the self-reliant working professional who thinks twice before spending his hard earned paisa is something that happened overnight in your case. Expectedly, your transition raised eyebrows from your ten-year old cousin, who’s quite a stalwart as far as his vocal skills go. The Academic-Yesterday to Working-Professional-Today scenario is something he couldn’t really understand, even more so considering the fact that his backyard-cricketing partner of the yesteryears had taken to a job. As some kids see it, anyone who is “working” is no longer considered a kid, and must be given respect. But this kid is not used to such niceties in your regard.

So when you paid your uncle a visit a month back, the kid eyed you like he might have greeted his maternal grand uncle who sports a big fat mustache. No usual cries of “Dei, come, let’s play cricket” or “Dei, Ramprakash scored his 100th first class century for Surrey!” Much as you found it weird, you just let it be, and continued indulging in political talk with your grandpa and later, vodka- talk with your uncle, who was quite the research analyst as far as the brands were concerned. All this time, your cousin watched you talking away in quick-fire English, building your current image in his head, with every probability of a complex developing.

Finally, when you found him watching an old Ashes series on TV, you sat down beside him, slipping an arm around his shoulders.

“So man, howdy! Long time. How’s the cricket going?” (The bugger had been selected for the district’s Under-14 Cricket squad, but had been benched for almost all games since he was just around ten years of age. Maybe the actual reason was that he added up vertically only to about four feet…)

So an animated session started, about how his practice games had gone really well, but he’d not been able to find a place in the final-11 when it mattered. Never mind, you told him. All in good time. He was a good player with decent batting technique, and you consoled him saying his time would come. By now you supposed that the ice may well have broken, and expected him to talk a little more.

Eventually, curiosity did kill his patience.

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I am a software engineer.”

Okay, that’s a common term these days, he seemed to think. His next pressing concern-

“Is it easy?”

“Erm, kind of. It is hectic at times, but well. It’s alright.”

This makes no sense to our chap, so he probes further.

“So what does your work involve?”

You wondered if a ten-year-old would grasp half of what he’s told about developing applications and related things (not that you understood it very well yourself, but that was the kind of image you liked to exude. Never mind. Back to the kid. Ah yes, the explanation.)

“Erm, I code…you know what that means?”

Blank stare.

You tried to explain. “See, Coding is something in programming that has a lot of typing involved..erm…” In parallel your fingers played away on an imaginary keyboard, with the kid fixated upon them for a while.

Slowly, he seemed to register it.

”So you type…for a living.”

“Erm, kinda, yes.”

A sudden look of defiance and energy.

“So what’s the big deal, I can type too!"

You smiled. “Great, so you too can become an application developer some day.”

“No, I’d rather play cricket, I love signing autographs, though I might stutter when it comes to speaking English at the post match ceremony, but (turns to his dad) you’ll help me there, right?”

His dad pitches in. “Sure, you just go there and play, boy!”

You’re amused. “So you’re definitely growing to be a cricketer some day?”

“Of course. Don’t you see the money they make? It’s insanely huge!”

It’s a materialistic world, your yoga-philic alter-self thought. Even kids know it these days!

You decided to play with his mind. This kind of talk usually made for good entertainment, exposing a reason why we adore kids so much, being their innocence.

“Alright, so you become a great cricketer. You earn a lot of money. But then, let’s say you’re 35, and your arms and limbs are no longer the way they used to be. You’re forced to think of retireme-”

He cuts me short. “I am not playing to retire at 35.”

Hmm, resolute kid. “Okay, suppose the selectors chuck you out-“

“Only if I give them a reason to, and I don’t see that happening.”

Man, this bugger’s confident, you thought. “Okay, let’s say, thanks to some cheap zonal selection politics, you’re ignored…” and you waited for a counter-statement.

“Go on”

“…for a series. And for the series that follows. Then?”

No sign of wilting. “Oh, I’d probably have a kid by then, I’ll start coaching him!”

Chuckles all around.

“What if it’s a girl?”

“You haven’t heard of the Indian Women’s Cricket team, have you?”

You smiled. Such sarcasm at 10. This guy would be a livewire at 22.

“So cricket is your life?”

His face glowed as he brought down the face of his bat for an imaginary on-drive.

“Yeah!”

We went on to discuss a lot more things. But the above snippet was what you enjoyed most. When you’re with kids, the best part is to look out for the change of facial expressions in accordance with their capabilities. If they’re good at something, they’re so confident about doing well in that arena. Else, a look of pure apprehension covers their face. They’re kids after all, there’s no pretence anywhere. Too bad you couldn’t capture it on your cell phone.

What a priceless conversation!

Full Monty

...and that's how it's done! ;)

Whattay satisfaction!

PS: I know the pic quality sucks, but well, not more than your average vacuum cleaner! ;)

Jobless on a Friday evening

Okay, so I've been tagged. It's considered impolite to refuse one. More so if it's a female who has tagged you (yeah, we're all true Englishmen). (Psst: Dad, if you're reading this - you're NOT to show this post to mum!)

1. If your lover betrayed you, what will your reaction be?

Quoting U2, and slightly tweaking the line so it means the other way round, "I can live with or without you."

2. If you can have a dream to come true, what would it be?

A byline reading 'Chief Editor, The Economic Times Crossword.'

3. Whose butt would you like to kick?

Ganguly, Lalit Modi, any person who may figure in connection with Q1, worthless clowns who don't reply to earnestly written mails, and egoistic morons claiming themselves to be the messiahs of neutral bodies (No, I am not referring to Waterman and his fountain pen). 

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?

Ah. I'd probably buy out all the Landmark, Odyssey and Crossword outlets in the world. 

5. Will you fall in love with your best friend?

Erm. No. 

On second thoughts, why not?

Hey wait. Is this a googly pitched outside off stump? 

*shoulders arms*

Well left. 

6. Who do you think should make the first move? (Original Q: Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?)

The guy. Else the guy's a girl.

7. How long do you intend to wait for someone you really love?

Oh, I tell anyone who'd listen about my waiting-till-I-am-30 story. The trouble is no one buys it!

8. If the person you secretly like is already attached, what would you do?

Erm, I am sure two can play this game ;)

9. If you like to act with someone, who will it be? Your gf/bf or an actress/actor?

Revathi (the Tamizh actress of the 90s). She's a class act. 

Course, there are your regular Hollywood actresses as well, but I wouldn't be acting then, would I? I'd be desperately trying to pick up my dropped jaw. 

10. What takes you down the fastest?

OTIS Lifts. Or my feet when I am not all that tired. I haven't tried gravity over long distance yet. 

11. How would you see yourself in ten years time?

The invention is probably prehistoric and it's called a Mirror. Next!

12. What’s your fear?

The only thing I fear is fear itself. (Now, I don't really know what that means. But it seems to be a really intellectual statement to make...)

13. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

Insane talker. Pleasantly plump. Drives you nuts. Keep away from her. (We connect on all four levels ;) )

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?

Hmm. I'd say divorced with alimony. You're single, you're rich and when you get bored, you can get back to your ex- and relive the old times whenever you wish ;)

15. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

Does what I do in my bedroom really matter here? 

16. Would you give all in a relationship?

'All'? And file for bankruptcy like them? Fat chance! 

17. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously, who would you pick?

Toss. Heads I get both. Tails the ladies are never betrayed. 

I love my discretion! 

18. Would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?

Let's go over the fables and morals we learnt way back in LKG again, shall we? 

Kindness pays. And an elephant always remembers.

 

19. If its your last day and you have one call to make, whom would you call? Dont tell me your mom. Someone else. (Original qn:What are your three most important expectations in love )

Airtel Customer Care. Shouting at them even for no fault of theirs is some cheap thrill ;) 

20. List 6 people to tag:

Psyche

Karthik

Thiru

Vivek

Mukund

Navin

Ambiguity

Consider the following exchange between a woman with a humorous disposition and her not-so-humorous partner.

Punny Woman: I am pregnant.

Terrified Man: What?! Are you kidding me?!

Punny Woman: Yes.


Given Punny Woman does not pun all the time, is she pregnant?

Slapstick comments are welcome. :)


PS: Thanks to Psyche, who never ceases to be an inspiration for whatever stuff you see here.

Afterglow

Compiling this post has proved to be a tough proposition. For one, I don't manage to find as much leisure time in front of a monitor as before. And as for point two, well...read on.


Like I said in my previous post, imagining myself as someone who's not a student was a pretty comical thought. But it was once I keyed in the post and re-read it several times that something else struck me. I'd gotten myself into a drill. A drill so mentally draining that it would drive me to wonder about the last time I'd actually laughed out loud (or LOLled, like a few people might put it) till my belly ached. Must have been a couple of months back.


So I got around to jotting down a few moments whose value I thought would be priceless. Moments that would make you feel like something from deep down inside was slowly creeping up your wind pipe, like adrenaline making your heart thump sending a rush of blood to your head. Moments, a few of which would never come back. I choose to call it the Nirvana effect. Here is a list of instances. Tell me how many you can relate to.


Waking up to the sound of music, yawning profusely, making a half hearted attempt to lift up your body, but thinking the better of it half a second later, and snuggling back into the pillow. Bliss.


The awry feeling in your stomach when you're making the descent from about a hundred feet on a giant-wheel or whooshing past at lightning speed on a roller coaster ride. Sometimes, even a plane taking off makes my arms bristle.


An Indian cricket victory which you wanted really badly. Remember when we chased down 316 versus the Pakis in Dhaka something like a decade back? The feeling was insane. While I remember screaming at the top of my voice (well, we are more mature now ;) ) my sisters leapt and wept for joy. Now that's what is national pride.


Guitar solos are sometimes rendered so clinically, to the extent of causing temporary amnesia. At times you find you're stared at by people on the road on account of contorting your eyes and face rather tightly, following every movement of Stairway to Heaven or November Rain down to the last riff, your fingers around an imaginary guitar all the while. And getting a tune right after four hours of relentless guitar practice is like a birthday present.


For those of you who haven't seen or heard of tap-dancing, please watch this. The guy is called Michael Flatley. He shall fill in the shoes of my role model if I ever plan to give up my coding job in search of what my heart really wishes me to be ;). His movements give you a real kick. (Unintended pun. No joke, this!). The Irish music in the background is just as delightful as the swaying feet of the dancers. In a word, it's Grace.


For someone who is majorly taken with cryptic crosswords, it felt magical to complete The Hindu Crossword in less than an hour. I was then in the form of my life, something I haven't been able to repeat for a couple of years now. And well, staying with Crosswords, a certain outlet at Icon Mall on 12th Main at Indira Nagar, Bangalore has been a rather special place during the course of my final semester internship.


Sessions on mindless drivel with The Pharaoh recounting riveting gossip tales, with debates spanning a distorted spectrum of husky voices , CIA agents, kickass pickup lines (Top Gun, eh? ;) ) and cranky movie titles like V for Vendakka (Non-Tamilians, sorry. There's no joke here).


There is so much more to key in, but putting them in black and white seems to be a killing job. That was point number two.

Atrocity in Madras City

An old Mountain Dew ad emphasized what would go on to become a popular quote on TV: "Cheetah bhi peeta hai". Now, what do you know. The fact that you'd join a firm and start working too, talking about company prosperity, project deadlines, client-server applications and related technical know-how could be thought of in the same vein as Ganguly playing international cricket for India. Both cases are classic examples of a tragedy, but true, nonetheless.

On the first day, like all South Indian men gaining entry into their first jobs, you arrived at your workplace an hour and a quarter ahead of the scheduled reporting time adhering to standing instructions from home (what with the Rahu Kaal and the likes creeping in). You checked your watch every ten minutes, and wiped traces of sweat trickling down your forehead. There was a slight bout of tension coupled with excitement, but you knew the sweat had more to do with an external factor - a painful one at that - being Madras city's climate. Man, you'd seen the hot deserts of Rajasthan and even withstood the 51º Pilani summer, but Pilani kinda went easy on the H-word. The humidity in Madras, alongside the sweltering heat was sufficient to make a camel pant, your sources had informed you. As you ran the kerchief down your temple for the twelfth time in as many minutes, you had not the slightest doubt in their judgments.

Your to-be colleagues did not observe superstitious sentiments, for they arrived on the dot at 9.30. After the obligatory round of introductions, they made you fill numerous forms, including those that involved you nominating a person to receive your funds in case you suddenly kicked it, bringing to your memory a blog post that you'd read sometime back.


Work culture in your company was something that you started to appreciate, as the week panned out. The easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach - it seems like your companyfolk knew this funda too. Maybe that was why they treated you to a pizza lunch on the very first day, following it up with a get-together at Το Πάρκο* (refer Footnote). That was where the MD got the new recruits to break their shell of shyness by way of cajoling them into singing or doing a jig. With all due respect to your colleagues, the feeling that your rendition of Hotel California was received with much more gusto than the few Tamizh numbers or more importantly, the Gult numbers that went on display, ended your day on a high. And of course, speaking of highs, the 16 bottles of red and white wine that were shipped in came to your mind. You'd even gotten a phone call during the course of the get-together, where you had belligerently claimed in a rather shaky tone that you held a wine glass in your right hand, sporting brown coloured liquid right from the stem up to the brim. That the brown liquid was Coke, and that it had nothing to do with wine escaped the caller's imagination.

If you'd thought the parties ended right there, you were in for a surprise - which was another party, this time at Ο ψαράς της ορμίσκος** (refer Footnote again) - a place you considered retiring to after you'd seen enough moolah in life. A game of beach cricket later, four more imposter drinks later, more maniacal dancing moves from the MD later, you returned home well past eleven, when you looked back at the week that passed. Sadly, this was just the first week, and the actual business started the following week.

At work, your discovery of a few subtle yet significant points taught you a thing or two with regard to interacting/socializing with your colleagues. Initiating a conversation with colleagues could be uncomfortable, less awkward for a newbie. So the most common initiator would be to enquire after the area they resided in, the current state of their project, and the likes. But asking a colleague what he was working on at the moment could be embarrassing to both sides if the two of you were in the restroom, beside each other...you get the drift. Lesson to be learnt: Never open your mouth in the restroom. No, don't even look at people. Go, do, leave. No questions asked.

You also tried to draw parallels between life at college and at work.

At college, bucket parties (bucket = vodka + champagne + soda + etc) happened well past midnight, unbeknownst to higher authorities in your college.

At work, bucket parties happened well before midnight, amidst higher authorities in your company. And invariably, it was the higher authorities that acted cranky at the end of it all, and behaved the next day like they could never stand nonsensical behaviour from anyone.

In college projects, you can get away with copied code. No sweat.

In company projects, you can't get away, even if your code is original. Efficiency issues matter. Sweat.

At college, your presentations are attended by experts in your field who will screw you no matter how brilliantly you've explained your implementation of the Bellman-Ford algorithm.

At work, your presentations are attended by colleagues who'd rather get on with their projects than listen to your presentation, bringing down the population of flies in the process.

And finally, at college, you'd rather discuss who's seeing who, who just ditched who, and that cute girl you spotted in your Data Structures lecture.

At work, you're forced to discuss the G8 summit, the India-Pakistan-Iran gas pipeline, the 123 deal and the role of the communists in Bengal, and that cute girl....wait a minute...cute girl who?

So that's the work drill. And it goes on.


Footnote:

* - Language changed for privacy.

** - Language changed again, for privacy.

The Art of Self-Discovery

This post comes to you courtesy Dad who sent me an interesting article this morning. I thought I'd post it, as a continuum to my previous entry. All apologies to all those who were in anticipation of another mokkai post. I promise you it's not far off ;)


The Art of Self-Discovery

By Pandit Sri Sri Ravishankar

Only those who have eyes can see and only those who have ears can hear. That which has to be seen cannot be heard; it has to be seen. Life has five dimensions or five senses — seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching. But there is one more dimension that has gone out of sight; that is feeling. Feeling the Presence. Light cannot be heard through the eyes; it has to be seen through the eyes. Sound cannot be seen through the eyes but heard through the ears. Likewise, the presence has to be felt by the heart.

God is not an object of senses but the feeling of feelings, the presence of presence, the sound of silence, light of life, the essence of the world and the taste of bliss. And our human life is enriched only when we can live this sixth sense of existence, of feeling.

If you are feeling depressed and continue to feel depressed, you create particles of depression around you. Those ions of depressions around you go and stick to the environment. If someone walks into that place, even after you have left, that person for no reason would start feeling depressed. Have you experienced this? You walk into a room and suddenly feel angry vibes. You were all right a few minutes ago but the moment you walk in, all the anger, stress and tension overtakes you.

Today there is a lot of talk about the environment. Environmentalists are at work everywhere you see. There is talk about protecting the forest, bringing up more greenery, recycling of things, materials, plastics and use of more natural and organic substances. A few years ago, this was not an issue at all, wasn't it? Now all nations are coming to an agreement to save planet earth. Like we pollute the earth, we pollute the water, we also pollute the subtle environment of feelings and emotions.

Man has become a victim of his environment. He is not in control of his mind but a victim of the environment. Is it not so? We pollute our environment in a very subtle way through our negative emotions. But it takes quite sometime to clear the environment of this. It is inevitable that sometimes you feel stressed, sometimes you feel negative, sometimes you feel doubt, sometimes you get into all sorts of moods — it is inevitable. It happens. Nobody wants it. But when it happens how do we handle them? We hear a lot about other things in life but we spend very little time to hear about ourselves; how to handle our mind? How to be in the present moment? How to be happy and grateful? This we have not learnt. This is the most unfortunate thing. Then what is the solution? This is where we miss a very fundamental principle that governs our environment, our mind our emotions and our life in general. Our body has the capacity to sustain much longer the vibrations of bliss and peace than it does negative emotions because positivity is in the centre of our existence. Just like in the structure of the atom, protons and neutrons are in the centre of the atom and electrons are only the periphery, same is with our lives; the centre core of our existence is bliss, positivity and joy but it is surrounded by a cloud of negative ions. Through the help of the breath we can easily get over our negative emotions in a short period of time. Through meditation and certain breathing techniques you can clear this negative cloud.

In future, I think the rule will come — anybody who feels depressed, will be fined! Ten thousand rupees fine for getting depressed! Then you will be asked to go and breathe and meditate and get rid of all your depression without swallowing any tablets. What is there for you to get depressed? You are here for a few years anyway; just a few years on this planet. And as long as you are here, you can as well, be happy.

This life has so much to offer to you. You can see this once you take sometime off, rejuvenating the soul. You soul is hungry for a smile from you. If you could give this, you feel energized the whole year and nothing whatsoever can take the smile from you.

Everyone wants to be successful in life. But without knowing what is success, you want to be successful. What are the signs of success? Just having a lot of money, is that success? Why do you think money means success? Because money gives you freedom so that you can do whatever you want. You may have a big bank balance but, you have stomach aches, ulcers, you may have to go for bypass surgery; can't eat this, can't do this, can't do that. We spend half our health to gain wealth and spend half our wealth to gain back the health. Isn't that funny? Is this success? It is very bad mathematics.

Look at all those who claim to be successful — are they successful? No, they are miserable. Then, what is the sign of success? The sign of success is overwhelming joy, right? It is confidence, compassion, generosity and a smile that none can snatch away, being really happy and being able to be more free. These are the signs of a successful person.

Take some time off to look a little deep into oneself and calm the mind down. Thus erasing all the impressions that we are carrying in our minds and experience the presence, the divine that is the very core of our existence. This is FEELING THE PRESENCE!

I am high!

I am no atheist. At least, I was never brought up that way. But I do take time and ponder over THE question (which is considered kinda sacrilegious in my household) - Is He there or isn't He?

I've wondered why people take the trouble to visit temples. I once asked my mother this, and got told off for asking smartass questions in a place of worship. Okay, my point here was, when most households do have a room dedicated to Pooja/Punaskaar, from where does the need to visit temples arise? Is it because God frequents temples more than he visits households? Or is it just the plain tradition originating from years past, which has stood the test of time?

One such answer that makes sense to me is that temples are where good vibrations interfere. Huge temples built over thousand years ago have multiple chambers which diminish in size as one progresses towards the deity in the very last chamber - which is invariably lush with vibrations. But for the priest's mantras, the chamber would be deathly quiet, yet exuding a sense of calmness and composure. Over a period of time, a confluence of good vibrations adds to the aura of a temple - which is immediately felt. For example, there's this temple called Dhyanalingam, located some 30 km west of Coimbatore which remains one of the best places I've meditated at.

I said I was no atheist. I am no agnostic either. I do have an idea of what God is.

Okay, so most people claim they find peace after a visit to a temple. So do a lot of people, after a round of meditation. Let's equate the two sentences.

Meditation initiates vibrations, which as we theorized, are already abundant in a temple. Man feels content thanks to the positive vibrations, leading me to believe that God is nothing but good vibrations. In another sense, God is everything that is good and pure.

I do believe in a God who is not a person or an idol. It does not make sense that God could be a man/woman - and all men and women are bestowed with identical bounties when they take their place in the world. When man is in a spot of bother, he appeals to someone who he believes is a higher force with greater wisdom - like when we may approach our elders whom we believe would be the right foil to provide help/advice during testing times. Very simply put, man looks for someone better than him.

At this point, I am reminded of my Physics teacher at High School - S.Venkatraman, who often used to quiz us on matters of religious/mystical significance even as he wrote down the equation for Newton's Law of Gravitation on the board. He was one who believed that a person is often his own solution. "Aham Brahmasmi", he declared, when a curious student asked him whether he believed in God. 'Yes', he said, 'I am God. You're God as well. Vaazhve thavam. Anbe Sivam' (Life is meditation, Love is God)

I can't help but agree with him. When you meditate, the vibrations you sustain are so powerful that they kinda give you the feeling you've been teleported to some place else, and believe it or not, most people are almost always infested with a new kind of vigour after a quiet session all alone. Maybe this is why elders advise us to close our eyes and count upto 10 everytime we get hot under our collars. Bluntly, after a round of meditation, you're better than you.

In Hindu culture, it is common to see children being addressed Parabrahma - for they've only just stepped into the world - and well, honestly, I can't think of a better example for something so good and pure. Therefore, children are God. It is only once they grow up that they learn about malice, slander, jealousy and hordes of other vices - so they kinda lose their 'good and pure' status. It is when we meditate that God makes that quick entry into us, and for a few moments we are at peace with ourselves. But not for long, right?

When you pay your respects to elders, you're merely acknowledging the fact that they've been through the mill, through life (which is perhaps the strictest teacher you could find) and therefore they are closer to realization of the self than we are, which is why I guess most people look up to saints like Ramana Maharishi or The Divine Mother. They're so full of good vibrations, so you could suppose they WILL have been wiser than the average man, given any point in time. Of course, a corollary follows that God is any equation with a Lim wisdom --> infinity applied.

So much for vibrations eh? For all you people who thought they could only be transverse or longitudinal, here's some gyan. It doesn't come often from me ;)

The Forgotten War

He was on the verge of a battle. A tussle had been on the cards for a long time now. He had tried his best to avert it. But who could thwart higher orders? Certainly not a pawn. There was immense pressure. From all sides. If Fate was against him, even the Gods conspired to bore chinks on his armour. Those chinks would soon proliferate to expose gaping holes, and his armour would be just as good as a sieve, tailormade for his enemies' artillery to embed themselves into his system. But if blood had to be shed, there were hardly any options left. He was a warrior after all. He was expected to made out of the stern stuff Mark Antony once waxed eloquent about. He was made to stare death in the eye and defeat it, at whatever cost. He had remained one-up against death ever since he had taken to the weapons.

He entered the field. He armed himself with weapons. Three powerful swords, each of them lethally sharp and capable of delivering fatal blows on their own. He had used them before to escape death numerous times. He geared up.

He rubbed his hands together. His palms were warm, yet soaked. He looked at himself in the mirror. No blood yet. Only a matter of time, he told himself. He rarely returned from battle without a bruise or a scar. He rubbed his cheeks, his chin and his temple slowly but surely. It helped him focus on the job at hand. It seemed to grant him some unforeseen strength and belief. It was the usual drill when he embarked on yet another of those Would-He-Return-From-This-Alive journeys.

He was on his way.

He caught sight of a horde of black ruffians charging towards him. He unleashed those powerful weapons of his, and brandished them with a flourish.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Heads went tumbling, and he marvelled at the lack of resistance from his opponents. When confronted with genuine valour and sophisticated weaponry, they just caved in. Every single time. He was in a rush at the moment. He permeated into their ranks.

And then the first drop came out. He had been struck. Reddish brown fluid oozed out of his system, in trickles to begin with. And then profusely. He yelled for courage, wiped the blood off, and pursued his task with dogged optimism. More ruffians fell. More blood exuded. He was a spectacle to behold. His eyes sparkled, the sinews of his face tightened, and his heart throbbed. Horatio Nelson would have been be proud of him, though he still had two eyes for vision and two legs to support his body. He continued to strike terror into their hearts.

Within minutes, he was done. He had lost count of the number of warriors who had been slain by the wrath of those deadly weapons. His face was a mess, but he was now relieved. The battle was over. Aah. Back to base camp. He was alive to tell his tale and see the light of another day. He'd won. He sighed and reached for his conch to signal victory.



"Dai! Stop howling and get out of the bathroom! I want to shave next!"

Damn.

"Coming, Dad. Give me two minutes."

RIP : The English Language.

Disclaimer: Any reference(s) to living beings in this post is directed at their ability to take it in the right spirit (hic!) and is cent percent intentional.

English.

I am glad I have the gene to appreciate the beauty of the language. A few people I know call it eccentric. Even my dad who is a very good exponent of vocal English chooses to call it peculiar, and attributes his reasoning to phonetics. As dad sees English phonetics, G-H-O-T-I is pronounced "FISH".

GH as in enouGH

O as in wOmen

TI as in funcTIon.

And there you go. GHOTI = FISH. Pronounce words the way you want. It's a free country.

I disagree.

Words are supposed to be pronounced and written the way they should be. I've always subscribed to the puritan school of thought as far as written and spoken English are concerned (though any vocabulary along the lines of these is always frowned upon. Substituting words with their verbose counterparts does not exactly qualify as creative writing).

It's surprising that in this context, man errs deliberately, as is his wont, in the world of type chatting. Sample this. Most of us would be used to these kind of statements:



Margarine man:

Instance #1: thr? i gt rmnded of smthn. rmembr tht plce in velacheri whr i stayd?

Instance #2: Ntn. Bi bi.

(Our man despises vowels, by the looks of it. And the letter 'g' too. But it's become routine to omit 'g', specially if it's a trailing 'g'. Somethin'. Anythin'. Nothin'. Geez! Where are they?!)



Obbu BOBbu:

Instance #1: Chk dat. im gng der. r u 2 cmin wid us or wat?

Instance #2: k. u hrd abt dem? dey r gng to cum 2 pilani!

(A clear obsession to replace th with d. Erm, I am not going to classify the other typos.)



Mr. Nose Picker:

Instance #1: cmon...tis s chennai...ppl can liv outside cols!!!

Instance #2: wodever. actualli, i hav watchd onli 3 movies..."d john nash" movie ,den "no country 4 old men" and den crouchin tiger hidden dragon..seriousli gud!

(Substituting Y with I? Why?! Might as well type 'y' and get the spelling correct, right? No, this is style, he says. 'Wodever'. )



And finally,

The Rather-Man:

(quoted verbatim from an online profile)

Passions: sittin idle gazin at te sky(sounds too poetic rather..)nyways dats wat i luv doin!!!chattin for hrs...nd all other stuffs vich r absolutely worthless...,

Cuisines: vnt given a try (?!)

(No comments)




I understand the whole fiasco started with a brilliant mobile phone provision called SMS. Rather frustrating to hit a key thrice to get a letter on the screen. T9 dictionaries are a waste of time and space (No point arguing how efficient the data structure is, Mr.Huffman. No one is using your algorithm, sadly).

So the practice carried over to keyboards as well. I for one find it much much easier to type "Are you there?" in double quick time compared to its chat lingo counterpart "r u der?"

And the worst part is everyone's doing it. I find it revolting to find people replying "S" to my questions. On my part, no amount of cajoling people to type out each word in its entirety has worked so far.

So I resort to derision. Not that it works. At least I get some kick out of the conversation.

Credits: Dad, Goldilocks and people who've made me get my act together for this post ;)