This is a flashback and obviously an over hyped version of events in the good old college days :)
Even just doing nothing but being nice to the neighbor’s dog has fetched me quite an adventure, unbelievable as it sounds. One of my neighbors, who is in possession of spy glasses which automatically tune themselves into people’s bathrooms and bedrooms, also happens to be a brilliant narrator. He followed this series of events and the tale he delivered is as follows-
Varun B. Krishnan threw a dog biscuit up in the air, and it was brilliantly caught and devoured in mid air by neighbor’s dog Scot.
This was a frequent ritual - VBK visiting the neighbors, and passing time with their intelligent canine, Scot.
What he didn’t know, and didn't have the slightest inkling about, was that Kabali, eminent soldier of the Community of Stray Dogs in Mylapore area (CSDM for short) had been watching the ritual, jealousy flowing in abundance through that bony body of his.
"We are gathered here, ladies and gentlemen, to discuss the course of action to be taken against the individual known as Varun B. Krishnan, who spoils Scot the celebrity with biscuits of low quality. thereby reducing the luster of his skin." Declared Maari, thalai of the CSDM establishment.
Kabali had reported against VBK. The anti-VBK operation had begun.
7:25 am.
The gate of Mr. R.B. Krishnan's house sprang open, and out stepped VBK, a sad expression writ large on his face as he thought of the worthlessness of another day of college. As he reached the end of the street, there stood Kali, another assassin of the CSDM. Through her brown and perpetually alert eyes, she eyed him. Just as he rounded the bend, she emitted a low growl, and snapped at him. The man panicked, and started running for his life, with Kali right on his trail.
His run had been powered by the morbid fear of rabied assault and encountering an unbelievably sharp set of canine teeth. A public execution of a human being by a set of dog teeth on a public road was avoided, thankfully, due to (un)timely arrival of the college bus. The ass driver had overenthusiastically arrived a few minutes early, and like a morning Suprabatham had started mouthing obscenities in Telugu.
This driver, it has to be said, is a dimwit. An uncountable number of times he has asked the SAME people for their bus passes, an excruciating number of times they have shown it to him, and yet he torments souls by his persistence.
Man, he uses the damn indicator and horn so damn ruthlessly and pointlessly. I mean, if some chap honks at a signal with 50 seconds more to go for green, and if he starts flashing the noisy indicator 0.5 km before he turns, you KNOW he's a nut.
After another infernal day in college,(Where he was verbally intimidated by teachers for flunking, electrocuted to near death by a 5 Volt power supply in the lab, and beaten up by his classmates for attempting to explain to them that loafing was the path to salvation), he alighted from the college bus, looked around, and spotted him.
A rather sly mutt lurked on the side of the street, amongst the beggars. Yes, unmistakably, he was another assassin of the CSDM, presently involved in the anti-VBK operation. At a brisk pace, VBK walked towards the assassin, and suddenly steered himself into one of the narrow side streets. Just when he thought that he was being clever, VBK looked ahead, and to his horror, he saw a few growling, menacing soldiers of the CSDM advancing.
He turned back, only to be faced by the assassin who had blocked the other side. It was an ambush. VBK the man silently swore, thought what heaven would be like, and pondered over the feasibilities of after life.
Menacingly the cohorts of the CSDM advanced and closed in on VBK. The man opened his mouth and began to sing. Death song, thought he. I’m allowed a death song am I not?
Even as he proceeded to sing, his voice massacring the song itself with its cacophonic nature and marring the notes of the song with carelessly meandering pitch, the soldiers of the CSDM retreated. VBK had the lethal weapon- that of ear tearing, heart breaking horrible sound.
With flinching muzzles and a reduction in growling, VBK who had stood routed and unable to move espied the chance and yelling ‘Escaaaaaape!’, he made a run for it, the CSDM soldiers who had been momentarily stunned by the cacophony gave chase all the while snarling and barking.
A man running for his life runs faster than anything else and hence VBK reached home, puffing and panting, much to the alarm of folks at home.
The King of the Crows, the Black Elder, was perched on the highest boulder in the vicinity as he proceeded to speak,
“. . . And he has been laying out food for us everyday and now he is need. Yes Ladies and Gents, it is our duty to aid Varun B. Krishnan fight his war against the CSDM. . .”
“. . . We shall make it a point to poop on the CSDM members’ heads. . .”
“. . . We shall swoop down and grab any delectable (or otherwise) morsel of food right from the members’ mouths!”
“And so shall we help him win this war thereby assuring ourselves a lot more food in the mornings!”
And suddenly there came a shrill and extremely ear piercing noise from the tree in which the birds were perched- they were cheering the Black Elder’s decision. They would whole heartedly aid VBK in his war.
Varun B. Krishnan stepped out of the house. He looked to his right as far as he could see. There, hidden in the turning, was a CSDM member’s tail. This time VBK was prepared, bribe in hand, and fear in his heart. He prepared to face the CSDM.
The bribe was a packet of chocolate biscuits. Chocolate supposedly arrests the capabilities of dogs and many thanks to his newspaper reading he was aware of this.
“I have BISCUITS!” he cried, holding up the biscuit packet. Nothing moved. The assassins remained hidden.
VBK moved a few steps forward. Out sprinted Kali, and initiated a psychological assault by growling and flashing a sharp and deadly set of incisors.
VBK staggered back, panic-stricken. In the process he accidentally threw at Kali, a chocolate biscuit.
Kali looked at the biscuit. Kali stared at the biscuit. Her mouth watered at the very sight. The biscuit was definitely tantalizing her, VBK could see.
VBK saw his chance, and slowly started to tiptoe to the end of the street.
At that very moment, a black bird swept down from the clear sky, an agent of the Black Elder. One grab with a dexterous claw, and the biscuit which was tantalizing Kali was no more.
“NOOOOOOOOO!” Cried VBK, just as desperate beings whom can do nothing about their desperation do.
Kali was shaken out of her biscuit induced trance.
At that moment there was a flash of metal, a screeching sound. (Not VBK’s singing)
The scene will be better explained in slow motion.
VBK continued to yell “NOOOOOOOOOO” (NO with more Os for the slow motion effect)
Now we see more clearly. The flash of metal was a car, and it was heading directly towards Kali. VBK the man put himself in front of Kali impulsively being an avid and active member of the Blue Cross, and Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. The car driver had the sense to brake, after running over a foot of VBK’s.
“Bow Wow, Wow Bow, Grrruff!” Declared Kali.
VBK did not understand, but he thought it might be something to the effect of a thank you, as Kali’s brown eyes were wide with gratitude.
“Don’t you mention it!” Said VBK, his speech punctuated by wails about his aching foot and curses thrown at the driver who had conveniently sped away.
Just as VBK thought it was all over, behind him came a ferocious bark. Kali prepared for another assault . . . on the biscuit packet on the floor, that is.
That my friends, was the tale of how I handled the Canine Crisis I was faced with.
Of course, I did not see all this happening, but my friend with spy glasses saw it that way. He says that this was the most interesting series of events he has ever seen through that spy glass, and even the next door girl’s bathroom cannot offer more spice. I don’t know how he can declare such things, but I presume he must lead an otherwise boring life.
I for one have led a highly eventful life till now, and it has taught me a lot of things; All of them learnt the hard way. The living proof of Murphy’s laws I am. . .
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Chettipuniam Nights I
The police were meticulously combing the area known as Chettipuniam for any traces of the hidden serial killer. This particular killer had the audacity to show himself in public with his weapon of choice, allegedly a cycle stand composed of wrought iron.
He did not stop there. He had raised the cycle stand high above his head in an inhuman attempt to slaughter an innocent by standing kid, and had screamed, “I’m going to kill you, mangy mutt!” At this instant, the ‘killer’ was indirectly responsible for making that kid perform the impossible mixture of crying, wetting his pants and fainting at the same time; the ladies sitting and gossiping on the road side opened their mouths in terror and closed them with their hands (A rather useless gesture. Why couldn’t they just close their mouths and act surprised anyway?); the men looked upon the killer, an abundance of terror present in their eyes; some quaking in their ill-tailored pants and some took the ends of their off-white dhoties and started chewing on them, for fear of biting off their finger nails in the tension.
Whoa, hold your horses; I’m moving too fast for my own good. Let’s slow down. Na, let’s rewind a little and come back to this picture which I have painted.
Ever since the frustrated software engineer (Let’s call him VBK) had come into the area known as Chettipuniam, he had been under attack by various forces of nature. These included, among other revolting creatures, snakes which gobbled up rapidly multiplying toads, an endless horde of stray dogs which took malicious pleasure in chasing innocent software engineers to the brink of exhaustion (All except VBK’s roommate Don, because all the dogs used to cringe in fear at the very sight of him.. His Himalayan appearance could be better described in another post dedicated to his entirety.)
It was a standard morning – waking up to the scratchy feeling that in an hour more he will be sitting in front of a screen in a zombie like state sipping on some horrid tasting coffee and mindlessly trolling around some pointless code, which is so sensitive that as soon as you touch it, it throws up hundreds of errors. Doctors prescribe something to stop people from throwing up, and software engineers prescribe bits of code to prevent the software from throwing up (errors).
VBK, the veteran of the public forum, also known as BB VBK, was as usual dissolving the BB and drinking it in (Sounds better when translated to Tanglish – karachu kudichufying) when he came across this post-
From: Swapna Sridharan
Posted At: Wednesday, December 08, 2010 10:41 AM
Posted To: ******
Conversation: Need to kick some ass
Subject: Need to kick some ass
Hi,
Any pointers to stress busting – any place where we have full authority to go and break, crack, hit, bite, pull, push, annihilate, burn, crush or grind random objects in frustration, please let me know. I am totally pissed off in life right now.
-Swapna
At this point in time, VBK had the dreaded impulse which would later lead to the series of unfortunate events which was least expected. He wrote –
From: VBK
Posted At: Wednesday, December 08, 2010 10:42 AM
Posted To: ******
Conversation: Need to kick some ass
Subject: Need to kick some ass
CC (Put my name in cc) to my Id. I need to kick some too.
-VBK
It was a really different post which VBK could relate to and he was sure that it would get deleted as soon as the Iron Fist got to see it. And he was right, because in a hurried frenzy, the posts got deleted. But what did not get deleted was the name of the person from VBK’s mind. It was a girl. And a rarity. How many women are violent enough to want such things and also audacious enough to post it on the BB?
That was a real turn on. And yea, you guessed what happens next – it blooms. Here ‘It’ is an unclassified concept which is better off undefined. You know, no strings attached. Just It. But whatever ‘it’ is, I would just like to warn you with a rhyme – If it blooms, then at sometime it will be doomed. Bloom and doom. And the unfortunate VBK had not a clue about this. Very soon that CC to my ID to a random stranger became a
“Hey, let’s go for coffee, there’s a new coffee machine on the ground floor.. Don’t forget to bring your mug!” And so it was. VBK and Swapna Sridharan for coffee outside one of the buildings.
Now many fellow software engineers might have come across this particular post on the BB –
“DON’T KEEP COFFEE MUGS OUTSIDE BUILDINGS, DOGS WILL COME AND LICK”
And that was exactly what happened when VBK and his unclassified date finished their coffee and were chatting up schemes about how to inflict violence on unsuspecting passerby folks.
“Hey, you stray doggie! Get the hell out and stop licking my cup!” She yelled. The dog looked up, puzzled by the sudden outburst. He was just about to lick the cup, when the violent Swapna threw a stone at the poor unsuspecting dog. The projectile of the stone was such that it hit the dog squarely in the middle of the eyes. He yelped helplessly and ran away, but as he moved away, he gave such a menacing look to VBK that ensured, “I’ll take care of you later, you animal abuser!”
He did not stop there. He had raised the cycle stand high above his head in an inhuman attempt to slaughter an innocent by standing kid, and had screamed, “I’m going to kill you, mangy mutt!” At this instant, the ‘killer’ was indirectly responsible for making that kid perform the impossible mixture of crying, wetting his pants and fainting at the same time; the ladies sitting and gossiping on the road side opened their mouths in terror and closed them with their hands (A rather useless gesture. Why couldn’t they just close their mouths and act surprised anyway?); the men looked upon the killer, an abundance of terror present in their eyes; some quaking in their ill-tailored pants and some took the ends of their off-white dhoties and started chewing on them, for fear of biting off their finger nails in the tension.
Whoa, hold your horses; I’m moving too fast for my own good. Let’s slow down. Na, let’s rewind a little and come back to this picture which I have painted.
Ever since the frustrated software engineer (Let’s call him VBK) had come into the area known as Chettipuniam, he had been under attack by various forces of nature. These included, among other revolting creatures, snakes which gobbled up rapidly multiplying toads, an endless horde of stray dogs which took malicious pleasure in chasing innocent software engineers to the brink of exhaustion (All except VBK’s roommate Don, because all the dogs used to cringe in fear at the very sight of him.. His Himalayan appearance could be better described in another post dedicated to his entirety.)
It was a standard morning – waking up to the scratchy feeling that in an hour more he will be sitting in front of a screen in a zombie like state sipping on some horrid tasting coffee and mindlessly trolling around some pointless code, which is so sensitive that as soon as you touch it, it throws up hundreds of errors. Doctors prescribe something to stop people from throwing up, and software engineers prescribe bits of code to prevent the software from throwing up (errors).
VBK, the veteran of the public forum, also known as BB VBK, was as usual dissolving the BB and drinking it in (Sounds better when translated to Tanglish – karachu kudichufying) when he came across this post-
From: Swapna Sridharan
Posted At: Wednesday, December 08, 2010 10:41 AM
Posted To: ******
Conversation: Need to kick some ass
Subject: Need to kick some ass
Hi,
Any pointers to stress busting – any place where we have full authority to go and break, crack, hit, bite, pull, push, annihilate, burn, crush or grind random objects in frustration, please let me know. I am totally pissed off in life right now.
-Swapna
At this point in time, VBK had the dreaded impulse which would later lead to the series of unfortunate events which was least expected. He wrote –
From: VBK
Posted At: Wednesday, December 08, 2010 10:42 AM
Posted To: ******
Conversation: Need to kick some ass
Subject: Need to kick some ass
CC (Put my name in cc) to my Id. I need to kick some too.
-VBK
It was a really different post which VBK could relate to and he was sure that it would get deleted as soon as the Iron Fist got to see it. And he was right, because in a hurried frenzy, the posts got deleted. But what did not get deleted was the name of the person from VBK’s mind. It was a girl. And a rarity. How many women are violent enough to want such things and also audacious enough to post it on the BB?
That was a real turn on. And yea, you guessed what happens next – it blooms. Here ‘It’ is an unclassified concept which is better off undefined. You know, no strings attached. Just It. But whatever ‘it’ is, I would just like to warn you with a rhyme – If it blooms, then at sometime it will be doomed. Bloom and doom. And the unfortunate VBK had not a clue about this. Very soon that CC to my ID to a random stranger became a
“Hey, let’s go for coffee, there’s a new coffee machine on the ground floor.. Don’t forget to bring your mug!” And so it was. VBK and Swapna Sridharan for coffee outside one of the buildings.
Now many fellow software engineers might have come across this particular post on the BB –
“DON’T KEEP COFFEE MUGS OUTSIDE BUILDINGS, DOGS WILL COME AND LICK”
And that was exactly what happened when VBK and his unclassified date finished their coffee and were chatting up schemes about how to inflict violence on unsuspecting passerby folks.
“Hey, you stray doggie! Get the hell out and stop licking my cup!” She yelled. The dog looked up, puzzled by the sudden outburst. He was just about to lick the cup, when the violent Swapna threw a stone at the poor unsuspecting dog. The projectile of the stone was such that it hit the dog squarely in the middle of the eyes. He yelped helplessly and ran away, but as he moved away, he gave such a menacing look to VBK that ensured, “I’ll take care of you later, you animal abuser!”
Chettipuniam Nights II
According to the encyclopedic knowledge of Varunopedia, the following defines the bizarre creature known as the multi-tongued-toad –
Multi-Tongued-Toad
From Varunopedia, the vetti encyclopedia
(Amphibious distant cousin of the Babel Fish)
For other uses, see Repulsive Creatures stuck to Cycle Tyres (Disambiguation)
A multi-tongued-toad will prey on your stupidity and translate the language of animals for you. In order to make the multi-tongued-toad work for you, you need to continue making stupid comments and it will then get pumped up and start translating the language of animals into whatever language you made the stupid comments in.
As for VBK, he never runs out of making stupid comments such as ‘Oh, came back from FC huh. Had your lunch?’ or, ‘Hey that car has so much dust on it, I think it’s not been cleaned for a long time!’
Now, it so happened that Mr. VBK chanced upon one of these Multi Tongued Toads stuck to the front wheel of his bicycle. (See picture for reference) He gingerly lifted it, placed it in his pocket and continued walking. Since stupidity was in abundance, the toad automatically powered up and stated translating the language of dogs for him. So now, VBK could comprehend dog talk. (Yeaa baby, another Dr. Dolittle at your disposal)
Just as he was cycling out of Mcity and into the previously described shady area of Chettipuniam, he heard voices talking. The mutli tongued toad started translating in a scratchy voice, and it was then that VBK realized that he was overhearing the conversation between two dogs.
“Bro, check this fool out. His girlfriend threw a stone at Kabali today.”
“Yea? Let’s give him some pain.”
Suddenly out of nowhere, two vicious and sufficiently toothy dogs were running towards VBK, claws out, teeth sharp and glinting.
VBK saw them running towards him with kolai veri (License to Kill) and panicked. He mounted his cycle as soon as he could, but in the process of mounting the bicycle, a prominent RRRIIIPPP could be heard; that was when he looked down and noticed, to his horror, a gaping hole in his pants.
What was worse, the Multi Tongued Toad decided to make a grand entrance through the hole into… Err… Into VBK’s private chambers.
VBK was screaming his head off and pedaling as hard as he could so that he could get away from the chasing dogs and also so that the toad would not move further into the … Forbidden territory. In the process he almost ran over an old man who was walking along the road trying to smell the flowers (But ended up getting stung after a few unidentified insects decided to take a bite at his bulging nose)
Anyway the point is, by the time VBK got away from the dogs on his bicycle, he had reached such a speed that the friction between the road and the tyres had put top speeds of the Need for Speed cars to shame and had busted the cycle tyres. He had no way out. The next morning, he would have to walk. And why did all this start? All because Swapna threw a stone at a dog. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to positively, and literally, ensure that she ‘went to the dogs’.
That night, VBK got some moral motivation from his roommate Don on how to do some teeth smashing, nail pulling and other horrific things in that genre. Now that his cycle was unusable, he dismantled the cycle stand from it and now, armed with this weapon, went to meet his fate.
In the middle of the Chettipuniam road where Lorries flattened the Earth, infiltrated the air with endless amounts of dust and jobless people took refuge, VBK the cycle stand warrior went forth. It was at this time, that the dog spoke and this was in turn translated by the Multi Tongued Toad –
“So, you have come to die. So be it.”
“No, I have come to watch you die.”
“Me, die? I would love to see you try!” Barked the dog.
“I’m going to kill you, mangy mutt!”
FREEEEEEZE! This if you recall, is the beginning of our story. And this, my friends, is the unfortunate turn of events which led to VBK being mistaken for a ruthless serial killer and child abuser. It was his misfortune that a small child had been standing in the way of the dog and VBK; this made people think that VBK was actually going to slaughter the poor kid. This was the picture I had painted.
Now, slowly zoom out and notice the intricate details of the painting. This painting hangs in the middle of Chettipuniam tea shop in the year 2020, because the story of VBK and his adventures in Chettipuniam went on to become legendary, and every time a frustrated young software professional goes in and lights a cigarette to drown his frustration, he looks upon this painting and draws inspiration. The cycle stand which was almost used there lies today in the museum of venerable artifacts, as depicted below. Watch out for more Chettipuniam night chronicles.
VBK's Cycle stand in the museum of venerable artifacts
Multi-Tongued-Toad
From Varunopedia, the vetti encyclopedia
(Amphibious distant cousin of the Babel Fish)
For other uses, see Repulsive Creatures stuck to Cycle Tyres (Disambiguation)
A multi-tongued-toad will prey on your stupidity and translate the language of animals for you. In order to make the multi-tongued-toad work for you, you need to continue making stupid comments and it will then get pumped up and start translating the language of animals into whatever language you made the stupid comments in.
As for VBK, he never runs out of making stupid comments such as ‘Oh, came back from FC huh. Had your lunch?’ or, ‘Hey that car has so much dust on it, I think it’s not been cleaned for a long time!’
Now, it so happened that Mr. VBK chanced upon one of these Multi Tongued Toads stuck to the front wheel of his bicycle. (See picture for reference) He gingerly lifted it, placed it in his pocket and continued walking. Since stupidity was in abundance, the toad automatically powered up and stated translating the language of dogs for him. So now, VBK could comprehend dog talk. (Yeaa baby, another Dr. Dolittle at your disposal)
Just as he was cycling out of Mcity and into the previously described shady area of Chettipuniam, he heard voices talking. The mutli tongued toad started translating in a scratchy voice, and it was then that VBK realized that he was overhearing the conversation between two dogs.
“Bro, check this fool out. His girlfriend threw a stone at Kabali today.”
“Yea? Let’s give him some pain.”
Suddenly out of nowhere, two vicious and sufficiently toothy dogs were running towards VBK, claws out, teeth sharp and glinting.
VBK saw them running towards him with kolai veri (License to Kill) and panicked. He mounted his cycle as soon as he could, but in the process of mounting the bicycle, a prominent RRRIIIPPP could be heard; that was when he looked down and noticed, to his horror, a gaping hole in his pants.
What was worse, the Multi Tongued Toad decided to make a grand entrance through the hole into… Err… Into VBK’s private chambers.
VBK was screaming his head off and pedaling as hard as he could so that he could get away from the chasing dogs and also so that the toad would not move further into the … Forbidden territory. In the process he almost ran over an old man who was walking along the road trying to smell the flowers (But ended up getting stung after a few unidentified insects decided to take a bite at his bulging nose)
Anyway the point is, by the time VBK got away from the dogs on his bicycle, he had reached such a speed that the friction between the road and the tyres had put top speeds of the Need for Speed cars to shame and had busted the cycle tyres. He had no way out. The next morning, he would have to walk. And why did all this start? All because Swapna threw a stone at a dog. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to positively, and literally, ensure that she ‘went to the dogs’.
That night, VBK got some moral motivation from his roommate Don on how to do some teeth smashing, nail pulling and other horrific things in that genre. Now that his cycle was unusable, he dismantled the cycle stand from it and now, armed with this weapon, went to meet his fate.
In the middle of the Chettipuniam road where Lorries flattened the Earth, infiltrated the air with endless amounts of dust and jobless people took refuge, VBK the cycle stand warrior went forth. It was at this time, that the dog spoke and this was in turn translated by the Multi Tongued Toad –
“So, you have come to die. So be it.”
“No, I have come to watch you die.”
“Me, die? I would love to see you try!” Barked the dog.
“I’m going to kill you, mangy mutt!”
FREEEEEEZE! This if you recall, is the beginning of our story. And this, my friends, is the unfortunate turn of events which led to VBK being mistaken for a ruthless serial killer and child abuser. It was his misfortune that a small child had been standing in the way of the dog and VBK; this made people think that VBK was actually going to slaughter the poor kid. This was the picture I had painted.
Now, slowly zoom out and notice the intricate details of the painting. This painting hangs in the middle of Chettipuniam tea shop in the year 2020, because the story of VBK and his adventures in Chettipuniam went on to become legendary, and every time a frustrated young software professional goes in and lights a cigarette to drown his frustration, he looks upon this painting and draws inspiration. The cycle stand which was almost used there lies today in the museum of venerable artifacts, as depicted below. Watch out for more Chettipuniam night chronicles.
VBK's Cycle stand in the museum of venerable artifacts
Monday, October 11, 2010
How I Breached the Gates of Hell - I
I knew I was dead.
Why? I remember pushing in more vodka shots than I could handle and abusing my boss so much that kids and conservative women would commit suicide without a second thought after hearing it; I remember I accosted a random public transport bus; I remember politely asking the driver to get the fuck outta the driver’s seat, and when he didn’t oblige I remember pummeling his head with my ancient Nokia 3100 (People always used to call it sengal, so I thought I would use it likewise), throwing him out and then with an air of Aurangzeb ousting Shahjahan and taking the throne, I ascended the throne of the bus and started driving it in a haphazard manner. It’s not every day that you get to beat up bus drivers and drive buses. And of course, it’s not every day that you die.
That railway crossing I stopped the bus on? Well, let’s just say some stuff on that bus and on that train won’t be the same any longer.
Through the hazy mist, in the bleary distance I observed a cloaked and mysterious figure approaching me. As he came closer, I realized that he was too handsome to be real. His features were carved out so perfectly that he put the statue of David and Michelangelo to shame ten times over. He came over with an air of absolute nonchalance, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Oh wait, I should bite my tongue. I don’t think I’m in the world anymore. He spoke like he was so bored of everything, especially me
.
His tone patronized every cell in my body.
“Ah, welcome, software engineer (SE) number 85,236,574,911,235,841.”
“What?”
“Oh, you’re dead and you’re at the gates of hell.”
“Hell?! What the… HELL?!”
“Yes, now that curse shall acquire more meaning.”
“You gotta be kidding me man. Jesus Christ!”
“Ah, ah, ah. That kind of cursing is not allowed in hell, Mr. SE.”
“Come on! Why am I in hell? I’ve never used f*** and Jesus Christ in the same
sentence, I’ve never …”
“Save your breath while I list out the reasons why you’re here.”
This was absolutely crazy! Why the hell was I in hell?
“For starters, you just parked a bus on the railway tracks. There were 12 people on the bus that couldn’t make it out of there when the train rammed the bus, and the train which came in? The driver and 6 people died on that. You are responsible for the deaths of 18 people. Include yourself. 19 people. That’s worse than most serial killers.”
“But I didn’t do it intentionally! I was just a guy who got pissed with his software job and wanted some fun!”
He shrugged and lit a cigarette with the same nonchalance he had exhibited before. He spoke again.
“Well, as the ruler of this realm, I have nothing to say. I do not sympathize or empathize with you.”
“You are the ruler... You are the devil?!”
“Some call me that, yes.”
“What the… The devil smokes?”
“Why not? And no lung cancer or any other monstrosities associated with it.”
“So how does hell work?”
“Simple. A guy called Coelho said the universe conspires to give you what you want if you really want it. Here it happens in reverse. If you want something really badly, hell makes sure you don’t get it.”
“Err.. I guess that’s how life works for everyone in a non Paulo Coelho world.”
“Whatever. Who cares? So, you’re a software engineer huh. Allow me to outline your duties.”
“Duties?! Nooooooo. Don’t tell me. Please, please, I give you full permission to do anything heinous. Eye gouging, limb pulling, merciless beating with spiked whips.. Anything but please don’t make me do coding again!”
“That’s how hell works. And I take immense satisfaction in informing you that you can do absolutely nothing about it. Hahahahahahaha.”
Well, I had seen and heard thalaivar’s evil laugh in Endhiran (Thankfully I saw that movie before I departed from Earth) and let me tell you. Compound the effect of that laugh a few million, no, a few billion times and even then it won’t even come close to the devil’s laugh. The devil’s laughter made my eyes pop out and reach my tummy, where my stomach was churning at close to ultrasonic frequency.
Wait. Did I even have internal organs anymore?
(To be continued … )
Why? I remember pushing in more vodka shots than I could handle and abusing my boss so much that kids and conservative women would commit suicide without a second thought after hearing it; I remember I accosted a random public transport bus; I remember politely asking the driver to get the fuck outta the driver’s seat, and when he didn’t oblige I remember pummeling his head with my ancient Nokia 3100 (People always used to call it sengal, so I thought I would use it likewise), throwing him out and then with an air of Aurangzeb ousting Shahjahan and taking the throne, I ascended the throne of the bus and started driving it in a haphazard manner. It’s not every day that you get to beat up bus drivers and drive buses. And of course, it’s not every day that you die.
That railway crossing I stopped the bus on? Well, let’s just say some stuff on that bus and on that train won’t be the same any longer.
Through the hazy mist, in the bleary distance I observed a cloaked and mysterious figure approaching me. As he came closer, I realized that he was too handsome to be real. His features were carved out so perfectly that he put the statue of David and Michelangelo to shame ten times over. He came over with an air of absolute nonchalance, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Oh wait, I should bite my tongue. I don’t think I’m in the world anymore. He spoke like he was so bored of everything, especially me
.
His tone patronized every cell in my body.
“Ah, welcome, software engineer (SE) number 85,236,574,911,235,841.”
“What?”
“Oh, you’re dead and you’re at the gates of hell.”
“Hell?! What the… HELL?!”
“Yes, now that curse shall acquire more meaning.”
“You gotta be kidding me man. Jesus Christ!”
“Ah, ah, ah. That kind of cursing is not allowed in hell, Mr. SE.”
“Come on! Why am I in hell? I’ve never used f*** and Jesus Christ in the same
sentence, I’ve never …”
“Save your breath while I list out the reasons why you’re here.”
This was absolutely crazy! Why the hell was I in hell?
“For starters, you just parked a bus on the railway tracks. There were 12 people on the bus that couldn’t make it out of there when the train rammed the bus, and the train which came in? The driver and 6 people died on that. You are responsible for the deaths of 18 people. Include yourself. 19 people. That’s worse than most serial killers.”
“But I didn’t do it intentionally! I was just a guy who got pissed with his software job and wanted some fun!”
He shrugged and lit a cigarette with the same nonchalance he had exhibited before. He spoke again.
“Well, as the ruler of this realm, I have nothing to say. I do not sympathize or empathize with you.”
“You are the ruler... You are the devil?!”
“Some call me that, yes.”
“What the… The devil smokes?”
“Why not? And no lung cancer or any other monstrosities associated with it.”
“So how does hell work?”
“Simple. A guy called Coelho said the universe conspires to give you what you want if you really want it. Here it happens in reverse. If you want something really badly, hell makes sure you don’t get it.”
“Err.. I guess that’s how life works for everyone in a non Paulo Coelho world.”
“Whatever. Who cares? So, you’re a software engineer huh. Allow me to outline your duties.”
“Duties?! Nooooooo. Don’t tell me. Please, please, I give you full permission to do anything heinous. Eye gouging, limb pulling, merciless beating with spiked whips.. Anything but please don’t make me do coding again!”
“That’s how hell works. And I take immense satisfaction in informing you that you can do absolutely nothing about it. Hahahahahahaha.”
Well, I had seen and heard thalaivar’s evil laugh in Endhiran (Thankfully I saw that movie before I departed from Earth) and let me tell you. Compound the effect of that laugh a few million, no, a few billion times and even then it won’t even come close to the devil’s laugh. The devil’s laughter made my eyes pop out and reach my tummy, where my stomach was churning at close to ultrasonic frequency.
Wait. Did I even have internal organs anymore?
(To be continued … )
Saturday, October 02, 2010
My Deep Rooted Love - Namma Madras!
Wrote this article in response to this, but don't think I stand a chance to come anywhere close to Vir Sanghvi. Anyhow.. Just to vent my feelings for my passionate lover Madras I penned this one. Feel free to add more :)
The beach breeze caressed my face and automatically pulled at the corners of my mouth, thereby bringing a smile to my lips. The seemingly endless sand with all the sea shells strewn around, fascinating kids to dig for them and exhibit them as the most precious treasure in the world; the sukku coffee vendors loitering around, convincing uninterested people to buy their stuff; sundal vendors who invariably irk couples sitting comfortably in the sunset trying to get intimate; (naan mahan alla springs to my mind) Sparks fly from the coal powered, hand operated corn machines – our very own similar invention to the barbecue J This particular corn, flavored with lemon, salt, and chili powder is absolutely scrumptious and lip smacking.
The sky is painted in rich colors which only nature can synthesize. As we draw back slowly from the too-beautiful-for-words beach, we now zoom in to the streets of Mylapore –
Genial mamas and mamis go walking in the park with their sports shoes and piping hot gossip about the latest girl to get engaged to a maaplai from the US. Luz corner is buzzing with activity with the trademark street shop owners sincerely calling pedestrians to indulge in their wares. Luz corner is a shopper’s paradise for all classes of people – you get everything from your dependable yet cheap local platform chappals to an overpriced pair of Reebok shoes. (This is also the case with the city’s shopping hub T-Nagar – there is absolutely NOTHING which you cannot find there! The insanely economical Bhagya’s hotel which has been serving it’s standard naan and paneer butter masala – wow, it’s a treat for everyone whose wallet doesn’t want to become lighter!)
School kids walk back from school; joy in their hearts, free of worries. They stop at Iyengar bakery to munch on a rather delicious cream bun, or a puff and a badam milk. The Mylapore tank is teeming with fat fish which are being overfed by enthusiastic people who purchase pori for the fish and keep feeding them; And OH, what do we see here ?
Our ultra traditional Tamil Brahmin mami with her madisar saree, personifying traditional culture and values, talking in her adorable Brahmin dialect; (Which is often the cause for poking fun) and early in the morning, the smell of fresh filter coffee wafts from the traditional Mylapore home, invading your nostrils and thereby triggering something in your head; and of course, not to forget the grandiose festival of aruvathi moovar, where the 63 nayanars grace the streets with their presence. The scale on which this festival transcends all barriers – the crowd is infinite and there is a rather famous saying that if you want to lose your child, just go to aruvathi moovar. The shops on the platform start about 3 kilometers from Mylapore and you get literally everything – delectable chips, freshly fried on your request, assorted sweets in huge glass bottles which you can keep staring at and salivating; innumerable number of fancy toys for the kids; basically it is just a totally festive atmosphere, where the 63 idols are paraded around the Mylapore tank – the four roads enclosing the tank are the busiest at this time of the year, and the street shops in Luz are in a deep bonanza state.
Chennai MRTS is something which is an astounding system, which can take you around half the city! That familiar sound of the train wheels on the tracks and on the gravel. That sound of screeching brakes. That horn from the train just before it starts.. And the joy you get out of sticking you head out from the open entries/exits! That wind in your hair, trees and houses rapidly rushing past; the landscape changing from a crowded city to a lighthouse, towering over everything and casting it’s luminescence over all; And of course, the familiar cry of “suda suda onion samossaayyy! Sooda irundha kaasu saar!” (piping hot onion samosas, I will take money only if they are hot!)
You get down at central station to the buzzing activity, hustling and bustling passengers running to stalls to find their journey’s companions at Higginbothams book stall; you get an unmistakable whiff of fish, the porters in red all set to take your luggage and rob you blind ;-) and you know you are home. The hoarding ‘Chennai Central’ along with the iconic clock tower reminds one of the rich and sophisticated past of Madras.
In the heart of the city, right in the midst of a concrete jungle where horns are blaring, lights are glowing and the air itself is busy, you find solace in the natural jungles of IIT and Anna University. Where else would you find a national park dedicated to the diverse life forms in the middle of a city? We have it. If you want to escape from the hustle bustle of the city, just slip in to Anna University or IIT and amidst the trees and the silence on nature you shall find solace.
If you’re really in the mood to whistle, go ahead! Madras offers you so much scope for whistling, cat calling, screaming, and what not – Just go for the electrifying matches at Chennai Chidambaram stadium and you’ll know. Every match played there warrants appreciation from the crowd, who support their team ferociously, but don’t think twice about showing their appreciation to the opposing team either- the crowd which gave Pakistan a standing ovation!
Just go for any movie starring Rajni and you will beyond doubt and acknowledge, yes! Chennai people can make noise. Each step which Rajni takes is greeted by whistles, cheers and general admiration. Each six which Dhoni hits out of the park is welcomed by Sivamani’s foot tapping beats and the calls of the public. Why do you think CSK is such a successful team? The fans go crazy! Dhoni himself goes crazy, telling us to put whistle for CSK :)
Having said so much - Beach football. Tennis ball cricket. Footbard travel. The Rs. 3 juice shops and the 6 rupees paneer sodas. From the poshness of Boat club road to the local-ness of Nandanam housing board. From the mega ad hoardings at T-Nagar to the huge painted ads on crumbling tenements beside Kotturpuram bridge. From the clean and clear Mylapore tank to the stinky yet surprisingly feel good cooum river. From the overcrowded and over squeezed T-Nagar to the emptiness and grandeur of Guindy National Park…
Each and every building, object or environment is bound together with the oneness of the city’s humanity and humility. Every crumbling wall, every drop of water from the corporation tap, every molecule of everything that ever exists is wound together inevitably and cohesively with the indomitable spirit of Madras… Madras, namma Madras!
The beach breeze caressed my face and automatically pulled at the corners of my mouth, thereby bringing a smile to my lips. The seemingly endless sand with all the sea shells strewn around, fascinating kids to dig for them and exhibit them as the most precious treasure in the world; the sukku coffee vendors loitering around, convincing uninterested people to buy their stuff; sundal vendors who invariably irk couples sitting comfortably in the sunset trying to get intimate; (naan mahan alla springs to my mind) Sparks fly from the coal powered, hand operated corn machines – our very own similar invention to the barbecue J This particular corn, flavored with lemon, salt, and chili powder is absolutely scrumptious and lip smacking.
The sky is painted in rich colors which only nature can synthesize. As we draw back slowly from the too-beautiful-for-words beach, we now zoom in to the streets of Mylapore –
Genial mamas and mamis go walking in the park with their sports shoes and piping hot gossip about the latest girl to get engaged to a maaplai from the US. Luz corner is buzzing with activity with the trademark street shop owners sincerely calling pedestrians to indulge in their wares. Luz corner is a shopper’s paradise for all classes of people – you get everything from your dependable yet cheap local platform chappals to an overpriced pair of Reebok shoes. (This is also the case with the city’s shopping hub T-Nagar – there is absolutely NOTHING which you cannot find there! The insanely economical Bhagya’s hotel which has been serving it’s standard naan and paneer butter masala – wow, it’s a treat for everyone whose wallet doesn’t want to become lighter!)
School kids walk back from school; joy in their hearts, free of worries. They stop at Iyengar bakery to munch on a rather delicious cream bun, or a puff and a badam milk. The Mylapore tank is teeming with fat fish which are being overfed by enthusiastic people who purchase pori for the fish and keep feeding them; And OH, what do we see here ?
Our ultra traditional Tamil Brahmin mami with her madisar saree, personifying traditional culture and values, talking in her adorable Brahmin dialect; (Which is often the cause for poking fun) and early in the morning, the smell of fresh filter coffee wafts from the traditional Mylapore home, invading your nostrils and thereby triggering something in your head; and of course, not to forget the grandiose festival of aruvathi moovar, where the 63 nayanars grace the streets with their presence. The scale on which this festival transcends all barriers – the crowd is infinite and there is a rather famous saying that if you want to lose your child, just go to aruvathi moovar. The shops on the platform start about 3 kilometers from Mylapore and you get literally everything – delectable chips, freshly fried on your request, assorted sweets in huge glass bottles which you can keep staring at and salivating; innumerable number of fancy toys for the kids; basically it is just a totally festive atmosphere, where the 63 idols are paraded around the Mylapore tank – the four roads enclosing the tank are the busiest at this time of the year, and the street shops in Luz are in a deep bonanza state.
Chennai MRTS is something which is an astounding system, which can take you around half the city! That familiar sound of the train wheels on the tracks and on the gravel. That sound of screeching brakes. That horn from the train just before it starts.. And the joy you get out of sticking you head out from the open entries/exits! That wind in your hair, trees and houses rapidly rushing past; the landscape changing from a crowded city to a lighthouse, towering over everything and casting it’s luminescence over all; And of course, the familiar cry of “suda suda onion samossaayyy! Sooda irundha kaasu saar!” (piping hot onion samosas, I will take money only if they are hot!)
You get down at central station to the buzzing activity, hustling and bustling passengers running to stalls to find their journey’s companions at Higginbothams book stall; you get an unmistakable whiff of fish, the porters in red all set to take your luggage and rob you blind ;-) and you know you are home. The hoarding ‘Chennai Central’ along with the iconic clock tower reminds one of the rich and sophisticated past of Madras.
In the heart of the city, right in the midst of a concrete jungle where horns are blaring, lights are glowing and the air itself is busy, you find solace in the natural jungles of IIT and Anna University. Where else would you find a national park dedicated to the diverse life forms in the middle of a city? We have it. If you want to escape from the hustle bustle of the city, just slip in to Anna University or IIT and amidst the trees and the silence on nature you shall find solace.
If you’re really in the mood to whistle, go ahead! Madras offers you so much scope for whistling, cat calling, screaming, and what not – Just go for the electrifying matches at Chennai Chidambaram stadium and you’ll know. Every match played there warrants appreciation from the crowd, who support their team ferociously, but don’t think twice about showing their appreciation to the opposing team either- the crowd which gave Pakistan a standing ovation!
Just go for any movie starring Rajni and you will beyond doubt and acknowledge, yes! Chennai people can make noise. Each step which Rajni takes is greeted by whistles, cheers and general admiration. Each six which Dhoni hits out of the park is welcomed by Sivamani’s foot tapping beats and the calls of the public. Why do you think CSK is such a successful team? The fans go crazy! Dhoni himself goes crazy, telling us to put whistle for CSK :)
Having said so much - Beach football. Tennis ball cricket. Footbard travel. The Rs. 3 juice shops and the 6 rupees paneer sodas. From the poshness of Boat club road to the local-ness of Nandanam housing board. From the mega ad hoardings at T-Nagar to the huge painted ads on crumbling tenements beside Kotturpuram bridge. From the clean and clear Mylapore tank to the stinky yet surprisingly feel good cooum river. From the overcrowded and over squeezed T-Nagar to the emptiness and grandeur of Guindy National Park…
Each and every building, object or environment is bound together with the oneness of the city’s humanity and humility. Every crumbling wall, every drop of water from the corporation tap, every molecule of everything that ever exists is wound together inevitably and cohesively with the indomitable spirit of Madras… Madras, namma Madras!
Thursday, September 02, 2010
The Case of the Curious Dr. Cupid
It was unfortunate indeed that nature had decided to paint the sky in pleasing shades of grey and black, dotted with stars lined up in beautiful patterns and the moon’s presence further intensifying the romantic nature of the night. Oh wait, why then did I term this unfortunate?
Because on top of a water tank on the terrace of a five floor residential apartment sat our hero Lucky, crying his heart out. The volume of tears coming out of his eyes gave serious competition to the Mumbai floods and he held in his hand a letter, written by a feminine hand. This particular piece of paper had the words which tugged at the heart strings – “Together forever and ever, my darling.”
And on such a romantic night, our hero was crying because his girlfriend was no longer his girlfriend. He was just another star in the sky filled with millions of stars, and his ex girl was the moon. She didn’t care about just another star in a million.
“How could you do this to me? I want to die! I am going to jump! God, this is your fault!” He pumped his fists towards the sky, accusing the almighty of negligence and unsteadily shaking back and forth on the water tank; the culprit responsible for this shaking was a beer bottle. Ah, the beer bottle – the least prescribed and most effective medicine for love failure.
At this point in time, Dr. Cupid was standing right behind Lucky and speaking to him –
“Girlfriends are like that beer. They intoxicate you, but leave you with horrid hangovers.”
Ah, the past –
It was 12.02 am. In a bedroom adorned with rather provocative posters of Madonna and Trisha lay snoring peacefully Lucky’s brother. Next to him, an entity wriggled around excitedly under a blanket, covered from head to toe. From the interiors of the blanket were emitted some strange lights and some murmuring sounds. One might’ve thought that some black magic ritual was being practiced there and yes, that was true– Love was performing black magic on Lucky! Dr. Cupid was standing there with a scorn on his face, right outside the window. But Lucky did not see him there; he was too busy talking to his darling.
Let us zoom in on the blanket and zero in on the conversation –
Girl on the other end of the line childishly chimes –
“Darling I want you here, NOW!”
Dr. Cupid mocked her – Here, I will send you your boyfriend right now – see his bare hairy chest and him in his undies and wish you were in hell!”
Lucky was sighing romantically. “Will you be there for me always?”
“Surely da chellam! Forever and ever ok? I promise!”
Dr. Cupid was tearing his hair apart in anger. “You idiot! Same lines I have heard a million times! For a guy, forever = forever! But for a fickle minded girl, the time period ‘forever’ is directly proportional to the patience of that girl. Forever may be defined as one year, two years, or till she gets sick of you! Now you are sickening me out!”
But our man Lucky was too mesmerized by his chellam to notice anything.
It was Valentine’s Day, the day when hearts throbbed faster, birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and the sun shone. Well, thought Dr. Cupid – Birds chirped even on normal days but people found it irritating. Flowers bloomed even on normal days, but people never stopped to notice. The sun shone brightly every day, but people just said it was too hot. That one factor – Love – added more beauty to everything. Was it a boon or a curse?!
In a coffee shop which was bursting with couples, Lucky and his girlfriend were holding hands and exchanging mushy lines. It was at this time that Lucky took out his gift for her and presented it – A silver bracelet which was way out of his budget; she screamed in delight but while she was putting it on exclaimed – “Oh I would have liked gold better!”
Then she took out a rather battered looking book and gave it to Lucky – “This was my favorite children’s book when I was in 5th standard… Noddy tales! See my friend and I have even drawn some cartoons on it!”
Dr. Cupid was seen banging his head against the wall and saying – “Aiyayo.. You stole from your dad, sold your brother’s DVD s, volunteered to go shopping for your mom so that you could steal the change… And finally amassed enough to buy the silver bracelet, and what does she give you? Not a paisa she spent in giving you that crappy child’s book, which you are sure to fling in some corner and hide it from your friends because if they see it, they will kill you by just making fun of it for eternity!”
“Ohhh sweetheart.. Thank you so much!” murmured Lucky.
Cut back to present –
Lucky is still crying over his loss. The reason for the breakup which she gave was so complex, Lucky thought he had to do a PhD in Integral mathematics and differential physics just to decipher the collective meaning of the reason she gave.
Suddenly, his mobile phone beeped. He took out his mobile and thought to himself – I used to expect messages with a song in my heart because I knew it would be a message from her.. But now I am sure it’s just some mokkai forward from my friends. But to his surprise, it was an SMS from HER.
His heart beating faster, his hands trembling, he opened the text message.
“Please return my Noddy tales book. Give it to my friend.”
Dr. Cupid stood there, just polishing his nails and whistling. “What did you expect you dumb ass!” He shouted.
“Love is not hanging out in coffee shops. Love is not buying expensive gifts. Love is not chatting at 2 am in the night and turning up in a zombie like state to the office the next day!” Cried Dr. Cupid.
“What the hell IS love?!?! How did it suddenly disappear!!” questioned Lucky.
“It’s what you think you had before you broke up.”
Lucky wasn’t listening. He decided something had to be done. He called his friend Bajji over the phone… Bajji picked up the call.
“Machan, so your girlfriend dumped you huh?”
“What?!?! How the hell did you know da!”
“Oh well.. You haven’t called me for a year or something, ever since you started dating her… Now that you’re calling, I just know!”
“Ya da… Bloody she dumped me da!”
“Oh well, Wait machan, I’m coming over. Is there beer over there? I’ll get some. I’m bringing Sandy along too.”
In a few years Lucky realized how amazing it was being single. No tantrums at 1 am. No “You don’t trust me anymore!” accusations. His wallet didn’t get lighter and lighter each time he went out. It was the carefree life. It was just – peace. Lucky himself didn’t know he was such an amazing story writer and in a few years, he had written about 72 stories and was working on a novel. Wow, he thought. I finally found myself, hiding behind layers and layers of “Love you forever” which never did work out.
When she messaged him again about the Noddy book, he just coolly replied, “Return the silver bracelet first!” and he had not heard from her ever since.
Dr. Cupid watched all this, a much happier person.
“Well, as I always put it, behind every successful man, there WAS a successful woman! ;-)”
In the meantime, Dr. Cupid suddenly heard another wailing sound somewhere nearby. It was another guy, Ramu, crying his heart out… “Oh, why, WHY did she break up with me? She told me she would NEVER break up with me no matter what!!”
And Dr. Cupid sighed. “You incorrigible guys! Here we go all over again….”
Because on top of a water tank on the terrace of a five floor residential apartment sat our hero Lucky, crying his heart out. The volume of tears coming out of his eyes gave serious competition to the Mumbai floods and he held in his hand a letter, written by a feminine hand. This particular piece of paper had the words which tugged at the heart strings – “Together forever and ever, my darling.”
And on such a romantic night, our hero was crying because his girlfriend was no longer his girlfriend. He was just another star in the sky filled with millions of stars, and his ex girl was the moon. She didn’t care about just another star in a million.
“How could you do this to me? I want to die! I am going to jump! God, this is your fault!” He pumped his fists towards the sky, accusing the almighty of negligence and unsteadily shaking back and forth on the water tank; the culprit responsible for this shaking was a beer bottle. Ah, the beer bottle – the least prescribed and most effective medicine for love failure.
At this point in time, Dr. Cupid was standing right behind Lucky and speaking to him –
“Girlfriends are like that beer. They intoxicate you, but leave you with horrid hangovers.”
Ah, the past –
It was 12.02 am. In a bedroom adorned with rather provocative posters of Madonna and Trisha lay snoring peacefully Lucky’s brother. Next to him, an entity wriggled around excitedly under a blanket, covered from head to toe. From the interiors of the blanket were emitted some strange lights and some murmuring sounds. One might’ve thought that some black magic ritual was being practiced there and yes, that was true– Love was performing black magic on Lucky! Dr. Cupid was standing there with a scorn on his face, right outside the window. But Lucky did not see him there; he was too busy talking to his darling.
Let us zoom in on the blanket and zero in on the conversation –
Girl on the other end of the line childishly chimes –
“Darling I want you here, NOW!”
Dr. Cupid mocked her – Here, I will send you your boyfriend right now – see his bare hairy chest and him in his undies and wish you were in hell!”
Lucky was sighing romantically. “Will you be there for me always?”
“Surely da chellam! Forever and ever ok? I promise!”
Dr. Cupid was tearing his hair apart in anger. “You idiot! Same lines I have heard a million times! For a guy, forever = forever! But for a fickle minded girl, the time period ‘forever’ is directly proportional to the patience of that girl. Forever may be defined as one year, two years, or till she gets sick of you! Now you are sickening me out!”
But our man Lucky was too mesmerized by his chellam to notice anything.
It was Valentine’s Day, the day when hearts throbbed faster, birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and the sun shone. Well, thought Dr. Cupid – Birds chirped even on normal days but people found it irritating. Flowers bloomed even on normal days, but people never stopped to notice. The sun shone brightly every day, but people just said it was too hot. That one factor – Love – added more beauty to everything. Was it a boon or a curse?!
In a coffee shop which was bursting with couples, Lucky and his girlfriend were holding hands and exchanging mushy lines. It was at this time that Lucky took out his gift for her and presented it – A silver bracelet which was way out of his budget; she screamed in delight but while she was putting it on exclaimed – “Oh I would have liked gold better!”
Then she took out a rather battered looking book and gave it to Lucky – “This was my favorite children’s book when I was in 5th standard… Noddy tales! See my friend and I have even drawn some cartoons on it!”
Dr. Cupid was seen banging his head against the wall and saying – “Aiyayo.. You stole from your dad, sold your brother’s DVD s, volunteered to go shopping for your mom so that you could steal the change… And finally amassed enough to buy the silver bracelet, and what does she give you? Not a paisa she spent in giving you that crappy child’s book, which you are sure to fling in some corner and hide it from your friends because if they see it, they will kill you by just making fun of it for eternity!”
“Ohhh sweetheart.. Thank you so much!” murmured Lucky.
Cut back to present –
Lucky is still crying over his loss. The reason for the breakup which she gave was so complex, Lucky thought he had to do a PhD in Integral mathematics and differential physics just to decipher the collective meaning of the reason she gave.
Suddenly, his mobile phone beeped. He took out his mobile and thought to himself – I used to expect messages with a song in my heart because I knew it would be a message from her.. But now I am sure it’s just some mokkai forward from my friends. But to his surprise, it was an SMS from HER.
His heart beating faster, his hands trembling, he opened the text message.
“Please return my Noddy tales book. Give it to my friend.”
Dr. Cupid stood there, just polishing his nails and whistling. “What did you expect you dumb ass!” He shouted.
“Love is not hanging out in coffee shops. Love is not buying expensive gifts. Love is not chatting at 2 am in the night and turning up in a zombie like state to the office the next day!” Cried Dr. Cupid.
“What the hell IS love?!?! How did it suddenly disappear!!” questioned Lucky.
“It’s what you think you had before you broke up.”
Lucky wasn’t listening. He decided something had to be done. He called his friend Bajji over the phone… Bajji picked up the call.
“Machan, so your girlfriend dumped you huh?”
“What?!?! How the hell did you know da!”
“Oh well.. You haven’t called me for a year or something, ever since you started dating her… Now that you’re calling, I just know!”
“Ya da… Bloody she dumped me da!”
“Oh well, Wait machan, I’m coming over. Is there beer over there? I’ll get some. I’m bringing Sandy along too.”
In a few years Lucky realized how amazing it was being single. No tantrums at 1 am. No “You don’t trust me anymore!” accusations. His wallet didn’t get lighter and lighter each time he went out. It was the carefree life. It was just – peace. Lucky himself didn’t know he was such an amazing story writer and in a few years, he had written about 72 stories and was working on a novel. Wow, he thought. I finally found myself, hiding behind layers and layers of “Love you forever” which never did work out.
When she messaged him again about the Noddy book, he just coolly replied, “Return the silver bracelet first!” and he had not heard from her ever since.
Dr. Cupid watched all this, a much happier person.
“Well, as I always put it, behind every successful man, there WAS a successful woman! ;-)”
In the meantime, Dr. Cupid suddenly heard another wailing sound somewhere nearby. It was another guy, Ramu, crying his heart out… “Oh, why, WHY did she break up with me? She told me she would NEVER break up with me no matter what!!”
And Dr. Cupid sighed. “You incorrigible guys! Here we go all over again….”
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
The Spider of Fear
Warfare. How we rape the Earth and send into her bowels the remains of the heroes who fight for their country. Characterized by hunger for blood, the metallic agents of death christened bullets fly from guns, pierce into flesh and bone and nullify the human and what he has ever stood for. Years of growing up, making memories, developing character, all nullified by that simple metallic bullet.
Yes, I am a war hero. I became that by making my enemies die for their country. I became a hero by creating martyrs. Colonel Anantha Krishnan – War veteran of Kargil.
Now, years after Kargil is over, fear engulfs me and torments me. Fear which was not there on the battlefield comes to me after the battle. A soldier’s fear is never unjustified and even for me, the reason is clear. Pakistan is sending out hit men to terminate me even as I speak.
Evening descends upon the serenity of Mylapore and I see the various mamas and mamis sporting expensive sports shoes and walking briskly towards the park for their evening rounds of exercise (a little) and oodles of area gossip (Did you know about my daughter-in-law’s first cousin’s father-in-law’s only brother? He is going to Americaaaa.. States!)
How my heart yearns to join them… But then Pakistani spies will unearth facts pertaining to me and my routine and kill me without sympathy.. Yes, I showed no mercy while shooting them down in the war, why would they show any while killing me?
Oh, ohhh… Dear Lord! There my observant eyes spot a man with a white hat asking someone for directions.. Shit that person is pointing towards my apartment! That is the Pakistani spy.. I need to get the hell out of here as soon as possible!
---
My name is Farid ul Hamid. I am a devout Muslim and I want to go to Mecca. My childhood memories are bleak and I do not recall if my parents ever took me to Mecca. All I remember is the sand, the camels. I have this fear of sinning. We should never sin, because God will punish us.
Powerful and Merciful he is, and in his name I terminate all the unholy filthy beings that populate this planet. Some people tried to brainwash me that killing was a sin, but killing in the Lord’s name and doing his work is not, which is why I do it.
I never know who orders it, or how it works. But it just happens – When I wake up, I find the name of the person I am supposed to kill, along with the reason why they should be wiped off from the face of the Earth.
Most of these people fought in the Kargil war, where they killed many of my brothers. Even now, I have been sent to terminate one man, Colonel Anantha Krishnan.
I have been unable to locate this person so far; and now the entity called fear is tightening its noose around my neck; if I do not find him I will fail as God’s harbinger, which means I have sinned. If I sin then the almighty shall smite me and make me wither with just his will.
---
Woeful winds wash over the foe’s withering lands.
Willful subjugation of the enemy is in our hands.
Wandering greedily across the Earth, we wonder how we can grab more.
Wasting lives without remorse, the soldiers of death march across the borders,
Wistfully I wait for an end, but will it ever end?
Yes, I am scared of soldiers. They torture us, loot us, kill us, rape our wives, enslave our children and erase our footprints from the annals of history. Somehow I needed to eat the fear. I will do it by killing a soldier.
Oh yes, killing a soldier will help me understand that they are not demons who can be killed. It will help the world of civilians understand that they can kill a soldier too. And very soon, no country will have soldiers left to fight with! Ha! Erase the pawns of battle and what are you left with?! Dust!
In this area there lives a man who is a soldier. Anantha Krishnan is his name…
---
Dr. Manamaruthuvar
Army Psychiatrist
Inside a room above which this board was hung, Dr. Manamaruthuvar was speaking to a timid looking man.
“Mr. Skanda, you did right by bringing us this case. Your neighbor whom you had told us about is indeed suffering from a strange phenomenon. He is afflicted by post war stress and he hated his war experience so much, his brain split itself into two parts – both expressing hate for his profession.
After following him for the past one week, we unearthed the facts – He becomes a Pakistani Muslim who kills soldiers. He also morphs into a rather charming and poetic writer who is afraid of soldiers.
What makes this case most peculiar is the fact that both his alter egos are out to kill his original personality. From this we can deduce that a part of the poor man hates and reprimands himself for every moment that he was in the war. We could not determine whether he has any more of these personalities…”
Mr. Skanda wiped the sweat trickling off his brow and spoke.
“Doctor, such a man is dangerous to have around. I fear the safety of my kids – especially because one of them keeps saying he wants to become a soldier one day.”
“Fear is like a spider, Mr. Skanda. It crawls into your head silently, weaves a web and traps all your thoughts within the web – and then every thought is stuck in the web of fear. Look at this man – even his alter egos are afraid of something!
But you have no cause for worry, Mr. Skanda. We will send out personnel and take him to the rehabilitation wing as soon as possible. Thanks again for your concern.”
As Mr. Skanda walked out, he couldn’t help noticing that the doctor sitting in front of him, if he removed the mustache and snow white hair would look the same as the balding and clean shaven Colonel Anantha Krishnan who lived next door…
Yes, I am a war hero. I became that by making my enemies die for their country. I became a hero by creating martyrs. Colonel Anantha Krishnan – War veteran of Kargil.
Now, years after Kargil is over, fear engulfs me and torments me. Fear which was not there on the battlefield comes to me after the battle. A soldier’s fear is never unjustified and even for me, the reason is clear. Pakistan is sending out hit men to terminate me even as I speak.
Evening descends upon the serenity of Mylapore and I see the various mamas and mamis sporting expensive sports shoes and walking briskly towards the park for their evening rounds of exercise (a little) and oodles of area gossip (Did you know about my daughter-in-law’s first cousin’s father-in-law’s only brother? He is going to Americaaaa.. States!)
How my heart yearns to join them… But then Pakistani spies will unearth facts pertaining to me and my routine and kill me without sympathy.. Yes, I showed no mercy while shooting them down in the war, why would they show any while killing me?
Oh, ohhh… Dear Lord! There my observant eyes spot a man with a white hat asking someone for directions.. Shit that person is pointing towards my apartment! That is the Pakistani spy.. I need to get the hell out of here as soon as possible!
---
My name is Farid ul Hamid. I am a devout Muslim and I want to go to Mecca. My childhood memories are bleak and I do not recall if my parents ever took me to Mecca. All I remember is the sand, the camels. I have this fear of sinning. We should never sin, because God will punish us.
Powerful and Merciful he is, and in his name I terminate all the unholy filthy beings that populate this planet. Some people tried to brainwash me that killing was a sin, but killing in the Lord’s name and doing his work is not, which is why I do it.
I never know who orders it, or how it works. But it just happens – When I wake up, I find the name of the person I am supposed to kill, along with the reason why they should be wiped off from the face of the Earth.
Most of these people fought in the Kargil war, where they killed many of my brothers. Even now, I have been sent to terminate one man, Colonel Anantha Krishnan.
I have been unable to locate this person so far; and now the entity called fear is tightening its noose around my neck; if I do not find him I will fail as God’s harbinger, which means I have sinned. If I sin then the almighty shall smite me and make me wither with just his will.
---
Woeful winds wash over the foe’s withering lands.
Willful subjugation of the enemy is in our hands.
Wandering greedily across the Earth, we wonder how we can grab more.
Wasting lives without remorse, the soldiers of death march across the borders,
Wistfully I wait for an end, but will it ever end?
Yes, I am scared of soldiers. They torture us, loot us, kill us, rape our wives, enslave our children and erase our footprints from the annals of history. Somehow I needed to eat the fear. I will do it by killing a soldier.
Oh yes, killing a soldier will help me understand that they are not demons who can be killed. It will help the world of civilians understand that they can kill a soldier too. And very soon, no country will have soldiers left to fight with! Ha! Erase the pawns of battle and what are you left with?! Dust!
In this area there lives a man who is a soldier. Anantha Krishnan is his name…
---
Dr. Manamaruthuvar
Army Psychiatrist
Inside a room above which this board was hung, Dr. Manamaruthuvar was speaking to a timid looking man.
“Mr. Skanda, you did right by bringing us this case. Your neighbor whom you had told us about is indeed suffering from a strange phenomenon. He is afflicted by post war stress and he hated his war experience so much, his brain split itself into two parts – both expressing hate for his profession.
After following him for the past one week, we unearthed the facts – He becomes a Pakistani Muslim who kills soldiers. He also morphs into a rather charming and poetic writer who is afraid of soldiers.
What makes this case most peculiar is the fact that both his alter egos are out to kill his original personality. From this we can deduce that a part of the poor man hates and reprimands himself for every moment that he was in the war. We could not determine whether he has any more of these personalities…”
Mr. Skanda wiped the sweat trickling off his brow and spoke.
“Doctor, such a man is dangerous to have around. I fear the safety of my kids – especially because one of them keeps saying he wants to become a soldier one day.”
“Fear is like a spider, Mr. Skanda. It crawls into your head silently, weaves a web and traps all your thoughts within the web – and then every thought is stuck in the web of fear. Look at this man – even his alter egos are afraid of something!
But you have no cause for worry, Mr. Skanda. We will send out personnel and take him to the rehabilitation wing as soon as possible. Thanks again for your concern.”
As Mr. Skanda walked out, he couldn’t help noticing that the doctor sitting in front of him, if he removed the mustache and snow white hair would look the same as the balding and clean shaven Colonel Anantha Krishnan who lived next door…
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Red Shirt Blues
He rubbed his eyes again and again. He found it very hard to digest the fact. Already his stomach had been misbehaving with him in its function of digestion for the past few days due to the hotel food, but this fact – well it was harder to digest.
The fact was that he needed to grab a contract from a client for painting a building, and he had asked his wife to pick up a new shirt for this purpose. He failed to understand what nefarious intentions she had in mind – but she had picked out a RED SHIRT for his meeting with the client. RED.
Though he carried out a thorough analysis of the shirt from various angles, rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and even put on his glasses – he put the glasses on and stared at it, he took off his glasses and attempted in vain to flap out the color, but no. A red shirt is what he had. Bright, stubborn red.
He sighed and put it on. In front of the mirror, he looked like some out-of-work clown who wanted to scare the pants off the elite fashion designers in town.
“Wow, you look phenomenal!” Cried his wife cheerily.
“Phenomenal enough to be arrested for blinding a few unsuspecting humans on the road!” he grumbled.
“Oh, come on! It’s not that bad. Red is the color of bricks. And you’re the one who’s going to paint the bricks right?”
Wow, if there ever was an award for crappy logic, there would be no second guesses to whom that would go to, thought he.
With a worried disposition he mounted his bicycle and wobbled unsteadily. But as the breeze conditioned his face, he soon forgot about the monstrosity that was personified by the red shirt.
The leaves that passed him by as he looked skyward while cycling; the fresh breeze; he could see the leaves disappearing, then as he pedaled on the sky appearing from the greenery of the leaves.
Suddenly, he saw a blob of white descending towards him at high velocity. Before his nature-enjoying mind could comprehend what this might be, the black, feathered creator of the white blob (commonly addressed ‘crow’) had delivered a small lump of white substance (commonly addressed as bird shit) on to his red shirt.
The angle at which the crow had delivered its stuff was deadly in its accuracy and now, the red shirt sported a tinge of white on it.
Now this really perturbed our hero; he was not too happy with the red shirt to begin with, and now his shirt also sported a rather freaky white stain, adding to his out-of-work clown façade. As he stopped at a local tea kadai to get a water packet to try and clean off the stain.
In the meantime, a mama whose house happened to be right opposite the tea kadai was eagerly anticipating someone to drop by… He was talking on his mobile phone –
“Aan, Shenbagam mami, where is your son? I have been waiting for him for the past 20 minutes. I want to introduce him to my daughter.. As I have been saying, they will make a very good couple.”
“I know mama, he is on his way. He is so eco friendly so he will be coming there by cycle. You can identify him by his Red Shirt. He might initially be scared about the whole concept of marriage. Please talk to him slowly and make him understand the importance of all this!”
“Yes sure… Oh I think I see him now! He is wearing the red shirt and coming on a cycle! I will go and bring him in!”
Saying so the mama rushed forward and grabbed our hero, who was just buying a water packet to cleanse the crow shit.
“Come come maaplai! Oh dear, this is not good.. These crows are always a menace! Come in, come in! We’ll get it off in a jiffy!”
Now our hero was dumbstruck and in the beginning, his reaction was limited to – “Err?!?!?!?!” but then he realized that some nutty guy was actually offering to get the stain off his shirt; so he followed the mama.
“Here, here, have some fresh filter coffee. My daughter only made it!”
The coffee turned out to be extremely sugary, horrendous tasting, nearly tongue eliminating. God save the guy who marries that girl, thought our hero. And then the mama spoke and threw in a bombshell which was far worse than the coffee –
“Your mother and I have decided it’s time for you to marry my daughter.”
Our hero choked and writhed uncontrollably; the coffee cup fell from his hand; he was almost shivering. The prospect of two wives was making him dizzy.
“Maaplai, maaplai! What happened!”
“Err.. I am not a maaplai. In fact, I’m already married. Not happily married or anything, but married nonetheless!”
“Oh, you can’t wriggle out so easily maaplai. Your mom told me you might be fickle minded about this…”
At this point of time, our hero was fuming over the ancient practices of our ancestors and swearing. The women had the yellow thread and toe ring (thaali and metti) to prove that they were married. How the hell do men prove it?!
“Mama, whatever it is, I need to take your daughter out for a drink together and have a one night stand with her before deciding if she can be my life partner.”
Mama suddenly entered palpitation mode. It was his turn to give the drama like reactions.
“What? Drink ah? Night ah! Abacharam, abacharam!” (A classic tamil expression ruthlessly condemning all things sweet and pure such as drinking, smoking, and other enjoyable activities)
“Yea, think about it and let me know. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Saying so, our hero made a hasty exit.
Just when he was still worried about the white stain on his red shirt, he was accosted by a couple of villagers who were pretty excited to see him.
“Ayya!! Vanakkam Ayya! You are the champ right?”
Oh dear, here we go again. What is it this time?
“No, I am not a champ. I am probably the champ of Loserism, but hell, I’m dead sure that’s not who you are looking for.”
The two village get up guys were talking in strange dialects excitedly.
“Saar, you are the champ! Red shirt, white mark… They are the colors of our organization!”
“What freaking mark you doofus! This is a crow shit stain!”
“No no, you are coming with us now! We are going for the Jallikattu! You are the Jallikattu champ right… Yes, yes we were told that you didn’t like publicity. Saar come on, come with us!”
Amidst cries and protests of “You bunch of thick headed freaks! Let me go or I’m gonna ensure a bull’s butt is thrust in your face!”, our hero was carried into a cleverly concealed ground, where about six to seven others were waiting with eager faces. Villager number one mumbled with reverence, “Wow, did you hear our champ abuse us? Even his abuse is related to bulls!”
In the midst of the illegal jallikattu ground stood our hero, dust gathering at his sweaty forehead. He had to admit that this gave him a very tamil hero like feel, though how he ever got himself into this mess was beyond comprehension.
The bull looked like he was going to do some serious damage. Our hero wondered what sin he had committed in his past life. A small lump was forming in his throat. With an unmatched suddenness, the accursed bull charged towards our hero in the red shirt; this was when our hero realized that he was wearing the color RED!
Hero quickly took off his shirt and threw it far away. Bull followed the flying shirt for a while. In the meantime, our hero was rapidly trying to make an exit from the other side. The villagers were grumbling amongst themselves…
“Isn’t it shameful that our champ has a potbelly? It doesn’t look like he is a champion at all! And to think we came all the way to the city for this! Look how he is running from the bull!”
It was then that some background music seemed to be emanating from the ground.
“Eh like a lion, like a lion my darling grandson is walking….” Some old hag seemed to be singing…
A heavily muscled individual with attitude entered the ring. The TRUE CHAMP had arrived, much to the cheering and applause of the crowd. Now this was a champion!
Just 15 minutes later, our hero was given back his crow crap stained shirt, and the champ who had just tamed a bull was laughing in his face…
“Hahaha! How could they think someone like you was the champ? You don’t even have the qualities to be the guy who cleans out the bull’s dung!”
“Err.. Thank you? I’ve really got to go, Mr. Champ. Thank you for the timely entry, failing which I would’ve made an exit from the world itself!”
“What, where are you going? You need to have lunch! Come here man; try some of this fish kozhambu. It’s unbelievable!”
“No, no, I’ve got to be leaving…”
“I insist!”
“No no, I’m leaaaaaaavvvv” At this point of time, the degree of ‘horribility’ of our hero’s situation deepened. The fish kozhambu had spilt on his red shirt. Our hero’s life suddenly started moving in slow motion; “Nooooooooooo!” He cried.
Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is winding at normal speed now and Fast forwarding)
Location – Client’s building site.
One of our hero’s competitors was wearing an expensive business suit.
Another was wearing a well pressed formal shirt.
And our hero, well, nothing can be said about his impeccable red shirt with a white crow crap stain; it was exquisite in its design. And while the other competitors smelt of expensive perfume, our hero’s scent was unmistakable and unmaskable – the scent of the fish kozhambu on his shirt!
The client came outside adorned with a white dhoti, white shirt, heavy gold chain, ridiculously huge gold ring and an uninterested attitude. The competitors lined up… They would be questioned in depth about their quotes separately. But wait! What’s this? The client suddenly sniffed something so divine…
Something so familiar… Something out of this world… His grandmom’s Fish Kuzhambu?!?!?! But how was it possible here? Oh my God, that man in the red shirt… He was the man!
The client’s eyes were watering.
“Thambi, come here. Thambi, let me get a whiff of you. You smell brilliant!” Saying so, the client hugged our hero.
“My granny…” He said and sobbed!!
Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is fast forwarding)
“Wife, you are not going to believe what happened.”
“Who cares? Did you get the contract or not?”
“Yes I did, and through the most unbelievable series of events!”
“Thank God you clinched it! See I told you the RED SHIRT would work! What color did the client want you to paint the building?”
“RED.”
The fact was that he needed to grab a contract from a client for painting a building, and he had asked his wife to pick up a new shirt for this purpose. He failed to understand what nefarious intentions she had in mind – but she had picked out a RED SHIRT for his meeting with the client. RED.
Though he carried out a thorough analysis of the shirt from various angles, rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes and even put on his glasses – he put the glasses on and stared at it, he took off his glasses and attempted in vain to flap out the color, but no. A red shirt is what he had. Bright, stubborn red.
He sighed and put it on. In front of the mirror, he looked like some out-of-work clown who wanted to scare the pants off the elite fashion designers in town.
“Wow, you look phenomenal!” Cried his wife cheerily.
“Phenomenal enough to be arrested for blinding a few unsuspecting humans on the road!” he grumbled.
“Oh, come on! It’s not that bad. Red is the color of bricks. And you’re the one who’s going to paint the bricks right?”
Wow, if there ever was an award for crappy logic, there would be no second guesses to whom that would go to, thought he.
With a worried disposition he mounted his bicycle and wobbled unsteadily. But as the breeze conditioned his face, he soon forgot about the monstrosity that was personified by the red shirt.
The leaves that passed him by as he looked skyward while cycling; the fresh breeze; he could see the leaves disappearing, then as he pedaled on the sky appearing from the greenery of the leaves.
Suddenly, he saw a blob of white descending towards him at high velocity. Before his nature-enjoying mind could comprehend what this might be, the black, feathered creator of the white blob (commonly addressed ‘crow’) had delivered a small lump of white substance (commonly addressed as bird shit) on to his red shirt.
The angle at which the crow had delivered its stuff was deadly in its accuracy and now, the red shirt sported a tinge of white on it.
Now this really perturbed our hero; he was not too happy with the red shirt to begin with, and now his shirt also sported a rather freaky white stain, adding to his out-of-work clown façade. As he stopped at a local tea kadai to get a water packet to try and clean off the stain.
In the meantime, a mama whose house happened to be right opposite the tea kadai was eagerly anticipating someone to drop by… He was talking on his mobile phone –
“Aan, Shenbagam mami, where is your son? I have been waiting for him for the past 20 minutes. I want to introduce him to my daughter.. As I have been saying, they will make a very good couple.”
“I know mama, he is on his way. He is so eco friendly so he will be coming there by cycle. You can identify him by his Red Shirt. He might initially be scared about the whole concept of marriage. Please talk to him slowly and make him understand the importance of all this!”
“Yes sure… Oh I think I see him now! He is wearing the red shirt and coming on a cycle! I will go and bring him in!”
Saying so the mama rushed forward and grabbed our hero, who was just buying a water packet to cleanse the crow shit.
“Come come maaplai! Oh dear, this is not good.. These crows are always a menace! Come in, come in! We’ll get it off in a jiffy!”
Now our hero was dumbstruck and in the beginning, his reaction was limited to – “Err?!?!?!?!” but then he realized that some nutty guy was actually offering to get the stain off his shirt; so he followed the mama.
“Here, here, have some fresh filter coffee. My daughter only made it!”
The coffee turned out to be extremely sugary, horrendous tasting, nearly tongue eliminating. God save the guy who marries that girl, thought our hero. And then the mama spoke and threw in a bombshell which was far worse than the coffee –
“Your mother and I have decided it’s time for you to marry my daughter.”
Our hero choked and writhed uncontrollably; the coffee cup fell from his hand; he was almost shivering. The prospect of two wives was making him dizzy.
“Maaplai, maaplai! What happened!”
“Err.. I am not a maaplai. In fact, I’m already married. Not happily married or anything, but married nonetheless!”
“Oh, you can’t wriggle out so easily maaplai. Your mom told me you might be fickle minded about this…”
At this point of time, our hero was fuming over the ancient practices of our ancestors and swearing. The women had the yellow thread and toe ring (thaali and metti) to prove that they were married. How the hell do men prove it?!
“Mama, whatever it is, I need to take your daughter out for a drink together and have a one night stand with her before deciding if she can be my life partner.”
Mama suddenly entered palpitation mode. It was his turn to give the drama like reactions.
“What? Drink ah? Night ah! Abacharam, abacharam!” (A classic tamil expression ruthlessly condemning all things sweet and pure such as drinking, smoking, and other enjoyable activities)
“Yea, think about it and let me know. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Saying so, our hero made a hasty exit.
Just when he was still worried about the white stain on his red shirt, he was accosted by a couple of villagers who were pretty excited to see him.
“Ayya!! Vanakkam Ayya! You are the champ right?”
Oh dear, here we go again. What is it this time?
“No, I am not a champ. I am probably the champ of Loserism, but hell, I’m dead sure that’s not who you are looking for.”
The two village get up guys were talking in strange dialects excitedly.
“Saar, you are the champ! Red shirt, white mark… They are the colors of our organization!”
“What freaking mark you doofus! This is a crow shit stain!”
“No no, you are coming with us now! We are going for the Jallikattu! You are the Jallikattu champ right… Yes, yes we were told that you didn’t like publicity. Saar come on, come with us!”
Amidst cries and protests of “You bunch of thick headed freaks! Let me go or I’m gonna ensure a bull’s butt is thrust in your face!”, our hero was carried into a cleverly concealed ground, where about six to seven others were waiting with eager faces. Villager number one mumbled with reverence, “Wow, did you hear our champ abuse us? Even his abuse is related to bulls!”
In the midst of the illegal jallikattu ground stood our hero, dust gathering at his sweaty forehead. He had to admit that this gave him a very tamil hero like feel, though how he ever got himself into this mess was beyond comprehension.
The bull looked like he was going to do some serious damage. Our hero wondered what sin he had committed in his past life. A small lump was forming in his throat. With an unmatched suddenness, the accursed bull charged towards our hero in the red shirt; this was when our hero realized that he was wearing the color RED!
Hero quickly took off his shirt and threw it far away. Bull followed the flying shirt for a while. In the meantime, our hero was rapidly trying to make an exit from the other side. The villagers were grumbling amongst themselves…
“Isn’t it shameful that our champ has a potbelly? It doesn’t look like he is a champion at all! And to think we came all the way to the city for this! Look how he is running from the bull!”
It was then that some background music seemed to be emanating from the ground.
“Eh like a lion, like a lion my darling grandson is walking….” Some old hag seemed to be singing…
A heavily muscled individual with attitude entered the ring. The TRUE CHAMP had arrived, much to the cheering and applause of the crowd. Now this was a champion!
Just 15 minutes later, our hero was given back his crow crap stained shirt, and the champ who had just tamed a bull was laughing in his face…
“Hahaha! How could they think someone like you was the champ? You don’t even have the qualities to be the guy who cleans out the bull’s dung!”
“Err.. Thank you? I’ve really got to go, Mr. Champ. Thank you for the timely entry, failing which I would’ve made an exit from the world itself!”
“What, where are you going? You need to have lunch! Come here man; try some of this fish kozhambu. It’s unbelievable!”
“No, no, I’ve got to be leaving…”
“I insist!”
“No no, I’m leaaaaaaavvvv” At this point of time, the degree of ‘horribility’ of our hero’s situation deepened. The fish kozhambu had spilt on his red shirt. Our hero’s life suddenly started moving in slow motion; “Nooooooooooo!” He cried.
Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is winding at normal speed now and Fast forwarding)
Location – Client’s building site.
One of our hero’s competitors was wearing an expensive business suit.
Another was wearing a well pressed formal shirt.
And our hero, well, nothing can be said about his impeccable red shirt with a white crow crap stain; it was exquisite in its design. And while the other competitors smelt of expensive perfume, our hero’s scent was unmistakable and unmaskable – the scent of the fish kozhambu on his shirt!
The client came outside adorned with a white dhoti, white shirt, heavy gold chain, ridiculously huge gold ring and an uninterested attitude. The competitors lined up… They would be questioned in depth about their quotes separately. But wait! What’s this? The client suddenly sniffed something so divine…
Something so familiar… Something out of this world… His grandmom’s Fish Kuzhambu?!?!?! But how was it possible here? Oh my God, that man in the red shirt… He was the man!
The client’s eyes were watering.
“Thambi, come here. Thambi, let me get a whiff of you. You smell brilliant!” Saying so, the client hugged our hero.
“My granny…” He said and sobbed!!
Rrrrrrrrrrr…. (Reel is fast forwarding)
“Wife, you are not going to believe what happened.”
“Who cares? Did you get the contract or not?”
“Yes I did, and through the most unbelievable series of events!”
“Thank God you clinched it! See I told you the RED SHIRT would work! What color did the client want you to paint the building?”
“RED.”
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Psychoware -I
The software engineer had his intense, intelligent eyes fixated on a leaf which was being propelled around helplessly and aimlessly by the wind. He reveled in this simple sight by comparing his life to the course of this simple leaf – directionless, controlled by external factors, drifting without a sign into the nothingness…
‘Token number: Five, Zero.’
‘Token number: two, seven, eight.’
‘Token number: four, number: eight six … ‘
The metallic voices in the food court irked him like his ears were being torn apart by hot spikes. Droning on and on in his head, he detested these voices as they were inhuman, they were tormenting, monotonous and ruthless – how much ever you shouted they would never stop or they could never be outshouted, they could not be drowned. You HAD to submit to the power of the voice coming from the loudspeaker. In short, the whole thing reminded him of encounters with his boss.
He sat in front of the machine that had come to mean more than half his life. His PC. This is where the pointlessness of life began to raise its ugly head and entangle him within it. What was his life beyond the sickening lines of endless code? Meaningless mails which promised employees a great working experience and which fooled them into believing that they were living a great life flooded his inbox. He shift deleted every mail, and opened the forwards. Hahaha, the forwards. Now that was some fresh lease of life… By the way, how could life be so sad ass that forwards meant salvation?
What had he ever wanted in life? He didn’t know. He never did. He had been a wet sponge full of energy, ready to get into a literary career right after barely scraping out of school. Four years of engineering had squeezed this sponge dry; life’s juices, life’s essence had been squeezed out of him.
Lunch. The wind was still blowing hard, and the leaves were still flying around. Then his eyes fell on the tree. The tree which stood its ground irrespective of how much the wind howled. That was when he decided – he would be the tree. He would cease being the leaf.
‘Token number: four, one, six’
‘Token, two,:number, nine.’
‘Number: Token, six, … ‘
That was it. He could take it no longer. In front of him stood a bespectacled young chap, waiting for his token number to flash on the screen. He tapped the guy on the shoulder and when he turned, Rudran laid a resounding punch right on the bridge of that unsuspecting guy’s nose.
“AAaaaoouuu!” Wailed the guy in pain. Blood sprouted from his nose and by the time anything else could happen, shocked people moved away from the counter and kept watching what was happening. This gave ample time for Rudran to get the hell out of there without second thoughts.
He was panting and his lungs, greedy for air, kept him gasping till he regained composure. He was thrilled. Adrenaline pumped through him and gave him a powerful feeling, like he was the Lord of the world. That was how it all started.
The next day. Around 8 pm. The Food Court was deserted save for few. Even though the people were few, the token machines droned on. . .
‘Token number: eight, four,
‘Token,number seven,three, number.’
‘Token Nambarrr, eight, five, six, … ‘
The Psychoware had been booted in his head. His face acquired a contorted glow. His whole presence filled up with malicious satisfaction. He needed a place to perform his operations... Aha! He had spotted it. The broom closet which was conveniently pocketed away in a remote corner– you wouldn’t notice it if you were just walking by. This was the venue where he would take them.
“Err.. I would like to show you something really interesting!” Rudran was addressing a gullible looking guy.
The guy looked at him from head to toe, unyielding.
“I have to catch the last shuttle…”
Rudran placed a hand on this guy’s shoulder in an aggressive fashion.
“No no, shuttle doesn’t matter anymore. You HAVE to see this interesting thing.” He said, clamping his hand on the guy’s shoulder and applying pressure.
“Ok, ok I’ll come!” The other guy cowered.
Hahaha, just the typical kind of guy – eats like a pig, looks like a huge bull, and still scared of me because I intimidate him, though I am smaller than him. What a sucker.
“It’s just in here man, come on in!” Called Rudran pleasantly. A broom and bucket happened to mark their presence in that closet.
Ah, the tools of the trade!
“See, this broom… It has qualities which you can never imagine. It’s usually used to wipe the floor, but I’ve ascertained that your head would function better than this mop. And I’m not going to waste phenyl on this. I’m going to use blood which oozes out. You pathetic fuck! “
THWACK!
A resounding sound echoed against the walls of the small broom closet. A totally unwary and unprotected skull came into contact with the thick, heavy plastic of a rather sturdy broom, resulting in the cracking of the former.
Hahaha! Take this you over- eating, ass-glued-to-seat, eyes-glued-to-system bastard! You deserve every blow from this thick plastic. Yessssss …
The plastic cracked, and this was when Rudran ceased the pounding.
Rudran announced in general -
“Victim number : Zero, Two… “
‘Token number: Five, Zero.’
‘Token number: two, seven, eight.’
‘Token number: four, number: eight six … ‘
The metallic voices in the food court irked him like his ears were being torn apart by hot spikes. Droning on and on in his head, he detested these voices as they were inhuman, they were tormenting, monotonous and ruthless – how much ever you shouted they would never stop or they could never be outshouted, they could not be drowned. You HAD to submit to the power of the voice coming from the loudspeaker. In short, the whole thing reminded him of encounters with his boss.
He sat in front of the machine that had come to mean more than half his life. His PC. This is where the pointlessness of life began to raise its ugly head and entangle him within it. What was his life beyond the sickening lines of endless code? Meaningless mails which promised employees a great working experience and which fooled them into believing that they were living a great life flooded his inbox. He shift deleted every mail, and opened the forwards. Hahaha, the forwards. Now that was some fresh lease of life… By the way, how could life be so sad ass that forwards meant salvation?
What had he ever wanted in life? He didn’t know. He never did. He had been a wet sponge full of energy, ready to get into a literary career right after barely scraping out of school. Four years of engineering had squeezed this sponge dry; life’s juices, life’s essence had been squeezed out of him.
Lunch. The wind was still blowing hard, and the leaves were still flying around. Then his eyes fell on the tree. The tree which stood its ground irrespective of how much the wind howled. That was when he decided – he would be the tree. He would cease being the leaf.
‘Token number: four, one, six’
‘Token, two,:number, nine.’
‘Number: Token, six, … ‘
That was it. He could take it no longer. In front of him stood a bespectacled young chap, waiting for his token number to flash on the screen. He tapped the guy on the shoulder and when he turned, Rudran laid a resounding punch right on the bridge of that unsuspecting guy’s nose.
“AAaaaoouuu!” Wailed the guy in pain. Blood sprouted from his nose and by the time anything else could happen, shocked people moved away from the counter and kept watching what was happening. This gave ample time for Rudran to get the hell out of there without second thoughts.
He was panting and his lungs, greedy for air, kept him gasping till he regained composure. He was thrilled. Adrenaline pumped through him and gave him a powerful feeling, like he was the Lord of the world. That was how it all started.
The next day. Around 8 pm. The Food Court was deserted save for few. Even though the people were few, the token machines droned on. . .
‘Token number: eight, four,
‘Token,number seven,three, number.’
‘Token Nambarrr, eight, five, six, … ‘
The Psychoware had been booted in his head. His face acquired a contorted glow. His whole presence filled up with malicious satisfaction. He needed a place to perform his operations... Aha! He had spotted it. The broom closet which was conveniently pocketed away in a remote corner– you wouldn’t notice it if you were just walking by. This was the venue where he would take them.
“Err.. I would like to show you something really interesting!” Rudran was addressing a gullible looking guy.
The guy looked at him from head to toe, unyielding.
“I have to catch the last shuttle…”
Rudran placed a hand on this guy’s shoulder in an aggressive fashion.
“No no, shuttle doesn’t matter anymore. You HAVE to see this interesting thing.” He said, clamping his hand on the guy’s shoulder and applying pressure.
“Ok, ok I’ll come!” The other guy cowered.
Hahaha, just the typical kind of guy – eats like a pig, looks like a huge bull, and still scared of me because I intimidate him, though I am smaller than him. What a sucker.
“It’s just in here man, come on in!” Called Rudran pleasantly. A broom and bucket happened to mark their presence in that closet.
Ah, the tools of the trade!
“See, this broom… It has qualities which you can never imagine. It’s usually used to wipe the floor, but I’ve ascertained that your head would function better than this mop. And I’m not going to waste phenyl on this. I’m going to use blood which oozes out. You pathetic fuck! “
THWACK!
A resounding sound echoed against the walls of the small broom closet. A totally unwary and unprotected skull came into contact with the thick, heavy plastic of a rather sturdy broom, resulting in the cracking of the former.
Hahaha! Take this you over- eating, ass-glued-to-seat, eyes-glued-to-system bastard! You deserve every blow from this thick plastic. Yessssss …
The plastic cracked, and this was when Rudran ceased the pounding.
Rudran announced in general -
“Victim number : Zero, Two… “
Saturday, May 01, 2010
Zephyr
It was another one of those dark and rainy nights.
Water droplets born from the clouds started kissing the Earth gently at first, and then more passionately, and finally the force was so much that the kiss morphed into a tormenting, piercing pounding.
In the eeriness and the sepulchral silence of the graveyard where soulless corpses took refuge, stood a man, the rain bouncing savagely off his black umbrella. Cold lines cut across his face, hardening his visage; but the coldness of his heart far surpassed the coldness on his face.
He looked grimly at a singular line of graves, all identical save for the numbers engraved on them. They bore no epitaphs or announcements like ‘Here lies…’ On the tombstones were just engraved a number, and a date. There will be just one more tombstone, and after that I’m done, Zephyr told himself.
He looked at the long line of identical tombstones – the people he had killed. He never cared who they were, what they did, if they had kids; it was his job to kill, and it was something within him which told him to bury them; No names, no status, no discrimination; all those meaningless entities perish with the person and they were all buried together in the same soil, subject to the same maggots, and ultimately crumbled to the same dust. Death was the inevitable unison which bridged everyone irrespective of anything.
Zephyr had only one person left to kill, and it only made things easier that he hated that person. All his deaths had been for the living, for the job; his last kill was for himself, because hate was consuming him and he could bear with it no longer. He had tried to relate to this person throughout his meaningless existence, to seek refuge, to understand what he was all about, but he could never figure out. Whenever this person stood in the graveyard of soulless corpses, Zephyr always thought that this person didn’t have a soul either and that the only difference was that this person was a walking corpse.
There had never been another side to this guy except the killer side; there was only cold calculation, colder feelings and of course, the coldest heart.
The rain was now ceasing its relentlessness; Zephyr shook the raindrops off his umbrella and with haste in his strides, reached the undertaker who had been doing the business of engraving the tombstones of Zephyr’s victims.
“This is your 110th, Mr. Z” Stated the Undertaker.
“The next one will be my last one.”
The undertaker was not precisely happy to hear this, because the business of burying murdered people and keeping the whole thing under wraps was an extremely productive business. But the whole foundation on which he had been given the contract was the usual ‘no questions asked, none answered’ one, but now since the contract was going to terminate, the undertaker could take it no longer.
“Who were all those people you killed?” He queried.
Zephyr too, had no obligations anymore as this was going to be his ultimate assignment. He took off his coat, pulled up a rusted chair, and nonchalantly lit a cigarette. The undertaker looked at the cold angles on Zephyr’s face and shuddered. The whole room was dimly lit by a few dull bulbs; Zephyr wondered - was this because the nature of the undertaker’s job was like that or was it because he didn’t want to see how weepy or ugly his clients were when they were grieving someone who died; but then, you can’t exactly expect freaking colorful neon lights on the display at an undertaker’s.
“I killed them because I was asked to, and the dough was good. I am as clueless as you are about their identities. It was just look at this picture, go kill him, take your money, shut your fucking mouth and get the fuck outta here.”
“Why did you do it? You would’ve annihilated so many families and you would’ve destroyed a large number of people who could’ve made a great difference.”
“What’s done is done” stated Zephyr, taking a contemplative puff at his burning cigarette.
“Now how come you’re stopping?”
“Well, you’ve been my only friend and you’ll soon find out.” And with an air of enigma about him, Zephyr turned to leave. As he shut the door behind him, the undertaker wondered- I didn’t even know him and he says I’m his only friend. What a sad ass life he must lead.
Perspiration drenched his palm as he clutched his faithful GP-100 Ruger Magnum pistol. For the first time, his heart was throbbing and adrenaline was pumping as he cocked his gun. He could see his last victim in front of him; Hate bubbled up inside him and threatened to cause an unprecedented internal explosion. This had been the advantage of not knowing any of his other victims. They were just meaningless faces and there were no connecting roots. Here the roots ran so deep; they were welded together and nearly indistinguishable.
His last victim- Victim Number 111. A nice note to end it on, he thought. He messaged his undertaker – Collect it at the usual place.
Zephyr saw his last victim for the last time, and pulled the trigger.
The undertaker went to the usual place and saw the victim; in front of him was a mirror.
The undertaker buried the last victim in that sepulchral row of graves. The only difference was, this tombstone read differently –
Here lies Zephyr, the man responsible for this entire row of graves including his own.
Water droplets born from the clouds started kissing the Earth gently at first, and then more passionately, and finally the force was so much that the kiss morphed into a tormenting, piercing pounding.
In the eeriness and the sepulchral silence of the graveyard where soulless corpses took refuge, stood a man, the rain bouncing savagely off his black umbrella. Cold lines cut across his face, hardening his visage; but the coldness of his heart far surpassed the coldness on his face.
He looked grimly at a singular line of graves, all identical save for the numbers engraved on them. They bore no epitaphs or announcements like ‘Here lies…’ On the tombstones were just engraved a number, and a date. There will be just one more tombstone, and after that I’m done, Zephyr told himself.
He looked at the long line of identical tombstones – the people he had killed. He never cared who they were, what they did, if they had kids; it was his job to kill, and it was something within him which told him to bury them; No names, no status, no discrimination; all those meaningless entities perish with the person and they were all buried together in the same soil, subject to the same maggots, and ultimately crumbled to the same dust. Death was the inevitable unison which bridged everyone irrespective of anything.
Zephyr had only one person left to kill, and it only made things easier that he hated that person. All his deaths had been for the living, for the job; his last kill was for himself, because hate was consuming him and he could bear with it no longer. He had tried to relate to this person throughout his meaningless existence, to seek refuge, to understand what he was all about, but he could never figure out. Whenever this person stood in the graveyard of soulless corpses, Zephyr always thought that this person didn’t have a soul either and that the only difference was that this person was a walking corpse.
There had never been another side to this guy except the killer side; there was only cold calculation, colder feelings and of course, the coldest heart.
The rain was now ceasing its relentlessness; Zephyr shook the raindrops off his umbrella and with haste in his strides, reached the undertaker who had been doing the business of engraving the tombstones of Zephyr’s victims.
“This is your 110th, Mr. Z” Stated the Undertaker.
“The next one will be my last one.”
The undertaker was not precisely happy to hear this, because the business of burying murdered people and keeping the whole thing under wraps was an extremely productive business. But the whole foundation on which he had been given the contract was the usual ‘no questions asked, none answered’ one, but now since the contract was going to terminate, the undertaker could take it no longer.
“Who were all those people you killed?” He queried.
Zephyr too, had no obligations anymore as this was going to be his ultimate assignment. He took off his coat, pulled up a rusted chair, and nonchalantly lit a cigarette. The undertaker looked at the cold angles on Zephyr’s face and shuddered. The whole room was dimly lit by a few dull bulbs; Zephyr wondered - was this because the nature of the undertaker’s job was like that or was it because he didn’t want to see how weepy or ugly his clients were when they were grieving someone who died; but then, you can’t exactly expect freaking colorful neon lights on the display at an undertaker’s.
“I killed them because I was asked to, and the dough was good. I am as clueless as you are about their identities. It was just look at this picture, go kill him, take your money, shut your fucking mouth and get the fuck outta here.”
“Why did you do it? You would’ve annihilated so many families and you would’ve destroyed a large number of people who could’ve made a great difference.”
“What’s done is done” stated Zephyr, taking a contemplative puff at his burning cigarette.
“Now how come you’re stopping?”
“Well, you’ve been my only friend and you’ll soon find out.” And with an air of enigma about him, Zephyr turned to leave. As he shut the door behind him, the undertaker wondered- I didn’t even know him and he says I’m his only friend. What a sad ass life he must lead.
Perspiration drenched his palm as he clutched his faithful GP-100 Ruger Magnum pistol. For the first time, his heart was throbbing and adrenaline was pumping as he cocked his gun. He could see his last victim in front of him; Hate bubbled up inside him and threatened to cause an unprecedented internal explosion. This had been the advantage of not knowing any of his other victims. They were just meaningless faces and there were no connecting roots. Here the roots ran so deep; they were welded together and nearly indistinguishable.
His last victim- Victim Number 111. A nice note to end it on, he thought. He messaged his undertaker – Collect it at the usual place.
Zephyr saw his last victim for the last time, and pulled the trigger.
The undertaker went to the usual place and saw the victim; in front of him was a mirror.
The undertaker buried the last victim in that sepulchral row of graves. The only difference was, this tombstone read differently –
Here lies Zephyr, the man responsible for this entire row of graves including his own.
Friday, April 09, 2010
Toad Wars
A vivid flashback:
It was the beginning. In a land far removed from the concept of sane distances (let us call this land oh-so-crappily-far) there lay a hill. This particular hill took upon itself the task of populating itself with some repulsive creatures. On introspection and countless years of pondering (because mountains are nearly incapable of thought) the hill decided that it should populate itself with slimy and revolting toads. To control the toad population snakes were invited and given homage. On the hill’s peak stood Gpaparibbit, the founder of the Hill’s toad race. He thrust onto his child toads the ultimate commandment of the toads –
“THOU SHALT SCARE THE PANTS OFF HUMANS.”
It was at this time that the Creator looked down upon the toad, and was shocked; he was bamboozled. Seeing the creator in this state, the Earth trembled and thus came into being the concept of Earthquakes.
The creator realized that the commandment of the toad involved two new concepts, namely pants and humans, without which the entire life of a toad would become meaningless. It was at this point in history when the Creator decided to create humans, and because he was the pinnacle of intelligence, he later made the humans themselves invent pants.
And thus, due to Gpaparibbit the toad were born the concepts of Earthquakes, pants, and more importantly, the human race.
Present day:
Rechristen Oh-so-crappily-far to ‘Chettipuniyam’. GPaparibbit’s descendants had acquired various superpowers and had now completely evolved into the abhorrent creatures which star in B-grade horror movies. A check list of the revolting characteristics –
- Slime covered skin, color of which is sure to trigger off alarm bells in the ‘fear’ centers of the brain – Check!
- Vile appearance and viler activities like sticking head into unwanted places such as dog’s ass – Check!
- Superpowers like super-jumping, human-scaring, head-dropping, acidic-peeing, and hideous-smelling—
Check!
Now after checking in the various parameters of these gruesome creatures, let us move on to the point in our story where a group of professionals working at a software company (supposedly- but in fact, secretly writing a code for hegemonic world domination by re-routing all the world’s satellites and reprogramming everyone to be jobless)
The ageless hill observed the entry of these professionals; it was a long time since the hill had had any fun; it rubbed its giant earthy and forest-covered arms in anticipation, thereby causing a tremor to materialize. It called upon the legions of repulsiveness to awaken from its deepest depths, and directed the legions to the home of the unsuspecting professionals.
2 days later
The naïve individual known as VBK entered the toilet. This particular place was not furnished with even a bulb, as a result of which going to the toilet and finishing the intended job was quite burdensome – A torch had to be inserted between the teeth to provide a constant source of light. When VBK entered the toilet, his 7th sense (6th sense and all is an old school story – the 7th sense is the instinct of sensing a frog when it is about to pounce on you and make its slime stick to you) informed him quite strongly that mischief was afoot. As he shone the torch around, he spotted one.. No, two, Naaaa… THREE hideous creatures hiding in the darkness which had given them refuge. The toads looked at him menacingly, glaring with their beady eyes and exhibiting their throbbing throats. Horror gripped him and he ran out crying “Toad, TOAD!”
2 more days later
Gloves fashioned from polythene covers.
Helmet pilfered shamelessly from a friend.
Broom which had been acquired illegally from the man living upstairs when he was too busy contemplating how to convert frog infestations into a profitable business.
Dust-pan which was very reluctantly purchased from a shop 7 kms away.
If you thought VBK was going to wear all this gear on his joy-ride to the Asylum, think again. This gear is what makes him a true warrior, the soldier who fights against the minions of the hill – the toads.
The helmet was acquired because just a day before, VBK had entered the toilet, only to be viciously attacked by a slimy toad sticking to the ceiling; the result – Completely freaked out VBK jumping up and down shouting ‘Oh, CRAP!’ somewhat resembling a talking rat’s ass which has been recently doused with kerosene.
With the gear in place, VBK approached, where to his knowledge two mini-monsters were in hiding. VBK’s roommate, Agent Daniel, patted him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of one, mate.” And went inside the realm of the battle, armed with the battle broom. Meanwhile, VBK was giving running commentary:
Daniel attempts to verbally intimidate the toad into vacating the place once and for all! No response. Possibly the toad does not comprehend English.
Daniel shines the torch light into the toad’s face and tries to blind it and then throw it outside!
Toad does not budge... Toad is holding his ground.
Toad’s move – he jumps in Daniel’s direction, but Daniel adeptly uses the toilet door as a shield and defends himself from the toad leap… Toad rebounds and hits the floor hard! Is he out? Nooooooo! Toad gets up again and gets ready to pounce.
Daniel is getting real pissed. He tries to shoo the toad out of the window, but to no avail. Toad simply wants to sink its miniature claws into Daniel and infest him with toad slime.
Now Daniel decides to go in for the kill.
*WHACK*
R.I.P Toad which caused unprecedented damage to the walls by emitting its acidic piss on it.
The first murder in the new home. The dead body of the toad lay there, awaiting further action with respect to its disposal. Daniel didn’t have any second thoughts; the evidence had to be disposed. In the manner of throwing a simple chocolate wrapper into the dustbin, Daniel disposed the body of the toad in the toilet bowl and flushed it down. VBK was the only witness to this gruesome event, and in some corner of his cowardly heart, which was conditioned by the worst horror movies ever, he was scared that the miniature soul of the toad would come back and haunt him forever.
As the toad wars continue unparalleled to any wars in history, the hill in the background is facing its first true foes; its first REAL challenge.
The battle awaits…
It was the beginning. In a land far removed from the concept of sane distances (let us call this land oh-so-crappily-far) there lay a hill. This particular hill took upon itself the task of populating itself with some repulsive creatures. On introspection and countless years of pondering (because mountains are nearly incapable of thought) the hill decided that it should populate itself with slimy and revolting toads. To control the toad population snakes were invited and given homage. On the hill’s peak stood Gpaparibbit, the founder of the Hill’s toad race. He thrust onto his child toads the ultimate commandment of the toads –
“THOU SHALT SCARE THE PANTS OFF HUMANS.”
It was at this time that the Creator looked down upon the toad, and was shocked; he was bamboozled. Seeing the creator in this state, the Earth trembled and thus came into being the concept of Earthquakes.
The creator realized that the commandment of the toad involved two new concepts, namely pants and humans, without which the entire life of a toad would become meaningless. It was at this point in history when the Creator decided to create humans, and because he was the pinnacle of intelligence, he later made the humans themselves invent pants.
And thus, due to Gpaparibbit the toad were born the concepts of Earthquakes, pants, and more importantly, the human race.
Present day:
Rechristen Oh-so-crappily-far to ‘Chettipuniyam’. GPaparibbit’s descendants had acquired various superpowers and had now completely evolved into the abhorrent creatures which star in B-grade horror movies. A check list of the revolting characteristics –
- Slime covered skin, color of which is sure to trigger off alarm bells in the ‘fear’ centers of the brain – Check!
- Vile appearance and viler activities like sticking head into unwanted places such as dog’s ass – Check!
- Superpowers like super-jumping, human-scaring, head-dropping, acidic-peeing, and hideous-smelling—
Check!
Now after checking in the various parameters of these gruesome creatures, let us move on to the point in our story where a group of professionals working at a software company (supposedly- but in fact, secretly writing a code for hegemonic world domination by re-routing all the world’s satellites and reprogramming everyone to be jobless)
The ageless hill observed the entry of these professionals; it was a long time since the hill had had any fun; it rubbed its giant earthy and forest-covered arms in anticipation, thereby causing a tremor to materialize. It called upon the legions of repulsiveness to awaken from its deepest depths, and directed the legions to the home of the unsuspecting professionals.
2 days later
The naïve individual known as VBK entered the toilet. This particular place was not furnished with even a bulb, as a result of which going to the toilet and finishing the intended job was quite burdensome – A torch had to be inserted between the teeth to provide a constant source of light. When VBK entered the toilet, his 7th sense (6th sense and all is an old school story – the 7th sense is the instinct of sensing a frog when it is about to pounce on you and make its slime stick to you) informed him quite strongly that mischief was afoot. As he shone the torch around, he spotted one.. No, two, Naaaa… THREE hideous creatures hiding in the darkness which had given them refuge. The toads looked at him menacingly, glaring with their beady eyes and exhibiting their throbbing throats. Horror gripped him and he ran out crying “Toad, TOAD!”
2 more days later
Gloves fashioned from polythene covers.
Helmet pilfered shamelessly from a friend.
Broom which had been acquired illegally from the man living upstairs when he was too busy contemplating how to convert frog infestations into a profitable business.
Dust-pan which was very reluctantly purchased from a shop 7 kms away.
If you thought VBK was going to wear all this gear on his joy-ride to the Asylum, think again. This gear is what makes him a true warrior, the soldier who fights against the minions of the hill – the toads.
The helmet was acquired because just a day before, VBK had entered the toilet, only to be viciously attacked by a slimy toad sticking to the ceiling; the result – Completely freaked out VBK jumping up and down shouting ‘Oh, CRAP!’ somewhat resembling a talking rat’s ass which has been recently doused with kerosene.
With the gear in place, VBK approached, where to his knowledge two mini-monsters were in hiding. VBK’s roommate, Agent Daniel, patted him on the shoulder and said, “I’ll take care of one, mate.” And went inside the realm of the battle, armed with the battle broom. Meanwhile, VBK was giving running commentary:
Daniel attempts to verbally intimidate the toad into vacating the place once and for all! No response. Possibly the toad does not comprehend English.
Daniel shines the torch light into the toad’s face and tries to blind it and then throw it outside!
Toad does not budge... Toad is holding his ground.
Toad’s move – he jumps in Daniel’s direction, but Daniel adeptly uses the toilet door as a shield and defends himself from the toad leap… Toad rebounds and hits the floor hard! Is he out? Nooooooo! Toad gets up again and gets ready to pounce.
Daniel is getting real pissed. He tries to shoo the toad out of the window, but to no avail. Toad simply wants to sink its miniature claws into Daniel and infest him with toad slime.
Now Daniel decides to go in for the kill.
*WHACK*
R.I.P Toad which caused unprecedented damage to the walls by emitting its acidic piss on it.
The first murder in the new home. The dead body of the toad lay there, awaiting further action with respect to its disposal. Daniel didn’t have any second thoughts; the evidence had to be disposed. In the manner of throwing a simple chocolate wrapper into the dustbin, Daniel disposed the body of the toad in the toilet bowl and flushed it down. VBK was the only witness to this gruesome event, and in some corner of his cowardly heart, which was conditioned by the worst horror movies ever, he was scared that the miniature soul of the toad would come back and haunt him forever.
As the toad wars continue unparalleled to any wars in history, the hill in the background is facing its first true foes; its first REAL challenge.
The battle awaits…
Friday, March 19, 2010
Ascetic
The legions of nature are always merciless and immutable to our senses.
Raindrops fell on the beach and made deep wounds in the sand. The scent of the sand and rain coalesced with the scent of the salty sea and hit my nose with savage force – Thus was defeated my sense of smell.
As I stood barefooted at the place where the sand and water make love, I could feel the coarse, wet sand burying my feet under it; I could feel little crabs in the vicinity making their presence felt by tickling my toes – Thus was defeated my sense of touch.
Exquisite mollusk shells lay scattered on the sand, vulgarly displaying their intricate designs crafted by nature herself; the waves of the ocean competed with one another in a beautiful, unspoken race of who would reach the shore first and lick my feet; the great ball of fire, the sun presided over all, silently mocking my admiration – Thus was defeated my sense of sight.
The soft music of the ocean, the sound of the rising and falling waves filled my ears; the call of a distant bird made me crane my neck and look up, trying to spot the source of the beautiful sound; the rhythmic pounding of the water came crashing down on the rocks and I could almost hear the particles of rock eroding through the centuries, only to be deposited as sand on the shore – Thus was defeated my sense of hearing.
I couldn’t say much about my sense of taste, because it was being defeated by some groundnuts which I picked up from a newspaper cone one by one and popped in my mouth.
I am the owner of my 64 years. I am the owner of riches, a family and everything, but not the owner of my own senses it seems. How can one control the senses? What If I do not want to smell the flowers even if they are being thrust in front of my nose?
Well, if there is something I want to do before I kick the bucket, it is to conquer that bit**, nature and show her I won’t be enchanted by her treats. I want to know what happens. What happens when you don’t sense anything? What will happen when you don’t see, hear, smell, feel or taste?
To know the answer, I decided to become an ascetic. What the hell is the point of being the same person all these years fake-smiling to clients, harassing your subordinates, amassing money by the thousands each day?
The strictest self discipline is what I decided to impose on myself and find out what happens if I conquer my senses. Call it a vulgar display of wealth if you will, I don’t seem to care any longer – I purchased a small piece of land, an island by the beach with absolute privacy; No human beings to disrupt my mission. As to the non-humans, they have never been as much trouble.
Day 1
The coarse sand irritated my bare feet as I walked on in my island. My feet sunk into the sand and got buried. The warm sand felt cozy around my fingers and ankles. How do I get away from all of this? I need solitude. I need a place where I cannot be tantalized by nature’s treats. Some place, where my senses are not assailed by the call of the wild or the persistent call of the sea. Ah, I chose the perfect spot – A rock just near the sea. But nature’s forces keep putting me down…
Day 2
I am trying, trying not to feel anything. I strive to be like the rock beneath me, I want to be a part of that rock, and not feel anything through my senses. I want my senses to go inert. Go away, stupid birds which have no sense of where to shit and stupid crabs which cannot walk straight! Go back to where you came from and leave me alone!
Day 14
I am not able to let go of my senses. Maybe rejection is not the key. Maybe I should just acknowledge the presence of nature instead of trying to push it all away…
Day 23
I stood on the rock, waves licking my feet. I allowed the sensation to wash over me. I was just neutral to my senses. Just felt the water at my legs. I acknowledged how it felt.
A mental image of the whole thing was developing in my head. A mental photograph, if you will. Through closed eyes and an open imagination I could see the crabs moving along, occasionally exercising their pincers; I could see the birds of the sea gliding across the vastness of the ocean, looking for foolish prey that swam very close to the top of the ocean; I saw the clouds in the horizon occasionally trying to block the sun from showing his red face to the world.
Day 31
Each day I stood there and sharpened my mental photograph. Each day I added more details to the mental photograph in my head. It ranged from anything as simple as a crab’s pincer to something as complex as the hue of the sky during a particularly beautiful sunset.
What I subconsciously did was to slowly deviate from the actual experience provided by my senses and delve more into my mental perception, enriching the experience provided by my vivid imagination. Basically I was trying to weaken my senses and sharpen the mental photograph. In my head I could feel the pinching of the crabs and the water, but I couldn’t physically feel it through my senses. I was slowly detaching myself from my senses.
I was ecstatic when I achieved this because now there was only one step left – that is, removing the mental photograph and replacing this with emptiness. Ah, to feel how it is to be as impervious as a rock, senseless and empty. You bit** nature, I’m coming to conquer you! Will I achieve Nirvana and feel that I am the universe and everything in it?
I don’t know… Yet. An irritating traveler has been invading my practices lately. He comes paddling along, on his boat. Apparently he has bought the neighboring island and wants to irritate the shit out of me by coming to me every morning and adding unnecessary details to my mental photograph. He keeps yelling!
“Oye! Good morning!” He calls, ignoring my evident frustration. I want to beat him to death with his oar…
Raindrops fell on the beach and made deep wounds in the sand. The scent of the sand and rain coalesced with the scent of the salty sea and hit my nose with savage force – Thus was defeated my sense of smell.
As I stood barefooted at the place where the sand and water make love, I could feel the coarse, wet sand burying my feet under it; I could feel little crabs in the vicinity making their presence felt by tickling my toes – Thus was defeated my sense of touch.
Exquisite mollusk shells lay scattered on the sand, vulgarly displaying their intricate designs crafted by nature herself; the waves of the ocean competed with one another in a beautiful, unspoken race of who would reach the shore first and lick my feet; the great ball of fire, the sun presided over all, silently mocking my admiration – Thus was defeated my sense of sight.
The soft music of the ocean, the sound of the rising and falling waves filled my ears; the call of a distant bird made me crane my neck and look up, trying to spot the source of the beautiful sound; the rhythmic pounding of the water came crashing down on the rocks and I could almost hear the particles of rock eroding through the centuries, only to be deposited as sand on the shore – Thus was defeated my sense of hearing.
I couldn’t say much about my sense of taste, because it was being defeated by some groundnuts which I picked up from a newspaper cone one by one and popped in my mouth.
I am the owner of my 64 years. I am the owner of riches, a family and everything, but not the owner of my own senses it seems. How can one control the senses? What If I do not want to smell the flowers even if they are being thrust in front of my nose?
Well, if there is something I want to do before I kick the bucket, it is to conquer that bit**, nature and show her I won’t be enchanted by her treats. I want to know what happens. What happens when you don’t sense anything? What will happen when you don’t see, hear, smell, feel or taste?
To know the answer, I decided to become an ascetic. What the hell is the point of being the same person all these years fake-smiling to clients, harassing your subordinates, amassing money by the thousands each day?
The strictest self discipline is what I decided to impose on myself and find out what happens if I conquer my senses. Call it a vulgar display of wealth if you will, I don’t seem to care any longer – I purchased a small piece of land, an island by the beach with absolute privacy; No human beings to disrupt my mission. As to the non-humans, they have never been as much trouble.
Day 1
The coarse sand irritated my bare feet as I walked on in my island. My feet sunk into the sand and got buried. The warm sand felt cozy around my fingers and ankles. How do I get away from all of this? I need solitude. I need a place where I cannot be tantalized by nature’s treats. Some place, where my senses are not assailed by the call of the wild or the persistent call of the sea. Ah, I chose the perfect spot – A rock just near the sea. But nature’s forces keep putting me down…
Day 2
I am trying, trying not to feel anything. I strive to be like the rock beneath me, I want to be a part of that rock, and not feel anything through my senses. I want my senses to go inert. Go away, stupid birds which have no sense of where to shit and stupid crabs which cannot walk straight! Go back to where you came from and leave me alone!
Day 14
I am not able to let go of my senses. Maybe rejection is not the key. Maybe I should just acknowledge the presence of nature instead of trying to push it all away…
Day 23
I stood on the rock, waves licking my feet. I allowed the sensation to wash over me. I was just neutral to my senses. Just felt the water at my legs. I acknowledged how it felt.
A mental image of the whole thing was developing in my head. A mental photograph, if you will. Through closed eyes and an open imagination I could see the crabs moving along, occasionally exercising their pincers; I could see the birds of the sea gliding across the vastness of the ocean, looking for foolish prey that swam very close to the top of the ocean; I saw the clouds in the horizon occasionally trying to block the sun from showing his red face to the world.
Day 31
Each day I stood there and sharpened my mental photograph. Each day I added more details to the mental photograph in my head. It ranged from anything as simple as a crab’s pincer to something as complex as the hue of the sky during a particularly beautiful sunset.
What I subconsciously did was to slowly deviate from the actual experience provided by my senses and delve more into my mental perception, enriching the experience provided by my vivid imagination. Basically I was trying to weaken my senses and sharpen the mental photograph. In my head I could feel the pinching of the crabs and the water, but I couldn’t physically feel it through my senses. I was slowly detaching myself from my senses.
I was ecstatic when I achieved this because now there was only one step left – that is, removing the mental photograph and replacing this with emptiness. Ah, to feel how it is to be as impervious as a rock, senseless and empty. You bit** nature, I’m coming to conquer you! Will I achieve Nirvana and feel that I am the universe and everything in it?
I don’t know… Yet. An irritating traveler has been invading my practices lately. He comes paddling along, on his boat. Apparently he has bought the neighboring island and wants to irritate the shit out of me by coming to me every morning and adding unnecessary details to my mental photograph. He keeps yelling!
“Oye! Good morning!” He calls, ignoring my evident frustration. I want to beat him to death with his oar…
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Dummies Guide to Tam-Brahm Weddings
(No offense meant to anyone in particular. If you think any point here refers to you, Don't abuse me but instead get in touch with your inner self and try to accept the fact that you are a dummy and you need to seek professional counsel before attending weddings)
Ah, a tam-brahm wedding. Now this happens to be a lively congregation of the cream of society.
The cream of society unfortunately is for the most part a highly phony gathering of people who run out of conversation fast and run out of genuineness faster. Dealing with a tam-brahm wedding is a totally different experience because you really don’t know how to start dealing with it, or whether you should start dealing with it at all. Let’s get down to the dirty stuff –
1. “Epdi Irukka/irukkel?”
Let’s face it folks, it’s more of a rhetorical question, because even if you are dying of some deadly and dangerous disease which is eating away your brain or sanity, you are going to reply “I’m fine, how are you?” So next time, if someone asks how you are doing, just reply –
“Unfortunately I have contracted a disease known as bored-by-the-same-crappy-question-which-doesn’t-need-an-answer. It is fatal and you are just making it worse. So get out before you become the cause of my death!”
The rather knotty problem is after asking how that person is, you have no idea how to proceed with the conversation, because you either know so little about the person, or they are a generation above you and you might be afraid that they are going to start giving you unwarranted advice on how not to keep a French beard because it makes you look like a hardcore Muslim terrorist. Hell old man/lady, it’s not a fuzzy fungal growth beneath my chin which is going to reach out and eat you, or develop a character of its own and plant a bomb. Maybe I should allow my beard to speak – “My name is VBK’s beard, and I am not a terrorist’s property!” So leave it alone! (Although I do really wish I had a tentacle beard like Davy Jones in Pirates... If only to freak people out with all the tentacle movement)
2. “Eppo vandhel? Journey comfortable ah? Jet-lag irukka?”
These questions are reserved for people falling in these two categories –
a) They are pretty old and you have no idea what to ask this person; and sometimes it becomes embarrassing when you ask journey comfortable ah because it’ll turn out that the person you are asking had moved into the city ages back! And so, the conversation goes like this:
“Journey comfortable ah?”
“Enna journey? Naan inga dhaan 5 years ah irukken!”
Oh dear, here comes the uncomfortable pause. You try to recover.
“Err, illa, veetlendhu mandapam ku journey epdi, traffic jaasthi ah?”
“Enna pa solre, en veedu to mandapam just 5 minutes distance!”
At this point, the best thing would be to draw inspiration from the 100 m sprint athletes and pretty much get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
b) The second category of people is the NRI families flooding the wedding, flocking in from flights. Inevitably, most of the heads of the families are software engineers with bulging bellies and insane software skills; their bellies have been conditioned because their bratty kids ran toy trucks over them, thinking them to be interesting terrain. These are the people with jet lag; they want to make it general knowledge that they spent thousands of dollars to fly here and sleep off during the day; Their biological clocks are all haywire and before they get accustomed to the day/night patterns here, it’s time to leave. Well, don’t just stop by asking if the journey was comfortable, because this will inadvertently trigger the response "It was good". Instead, ask your teenage cousin how hot the air hostess was, or ask your athai if she caught your athimber ogling at the pretty woman next to him. Though this may initially trigger a sense of Huh? What! How dare he! it is sure to get better and people might actually start accepting the fact that you are not the regular epdi irukkel kind of conversationalist.
3. “Payyan 12th standard ah? Nalla padikkanum. Endha engineering college la setha porelu?”
As it turns out, majority of the Tam-Brahm people are total geeks who are rarely into any other profession other than engineering. A few stray leaves on the family tree might actually manage to do something else other than engineering, but most people don’t want to cut out the benefits of going to ‘America’ as it if fondly called. Hence the family is riddled with ‘America maaplais’- cool dudes who spend their lives learning to cook Tam-Brahm food in America and looking into their monitors all the darned time while accumulating alarmingly increasing waistlines; and Iyer girls who learn classical music or dance and pursue that while doing their engineering.. After all, when the time comes to get married, the parents have to say, “She is an engineer and has this many concerts in this many sabhas to her credit!”
What is with the Tam-Brahm obsession with engineering and going to the US? Why can’t people just let their kids do what they want!
4. “Saaptaacha?”
This is, in my opinion, the crowning glory of stupidity. Food is one of the most integral parts of any wedding, and people rarely, almost never miss the chance to go and kottify as soon as possible. Unless you want to exhibit the characteristics of a selfless martyr, in which case you don’t go into the saapadu pandhi. Smarter still, you can go to the pandhi and claim not to have eaten yet – even then people think you are a martyr. Or else, just say no and go for the eat for a second/third round; after all weddings are all about tantalizing the taste buds and tormenting the stomach into doing unimaginable amounts of digesting.
5. Maaplai/Maatuponnu vandaacha?
Oh hell, this one again. Maybe it's just a tradition, but unless you have been giving amazing business to the ophthalmologist, you ought to be able to see that the maaplai or maatuponnu came in the morning itself and has been sitting there like a rock, a permanent arc writ on his/her face (smile)and of course, there are always these pesky kids on stage. Alleged to add to the cuteness quotient of the stage probably. Just note this point in all weddings - there will invariably be some kid who comes on stage and tries to act cute with the maaplai or the ponnu. Why?!
6. Happa, ippo enakku route clear!
This completes the list of cliched lines at weddings. The younger sibling usually says these lines indicating that he can now get married. Someone ought to go tell him that if he is going to go about belting crappy lines of this sort, no one would want to be in his line at all, whether it's clear or otherwise
Please do add your own, after all we are on a mission to eradicate dumbness :-)
Ah, a tam-brahm wedding. Now this happens to be a lively congregation of the cream of society.
The cream of society unfortunately is for the most part a highly phony gathering of people who run out of conversation fast and run out of genuineness faster. Dealing with a tam-brahm wedding is a totally different experience because you really don’t know how to start dealing with it, or whether you should start dealing with it at all. Let’s get down to the dirty stuff –
1. “Epdi Irukka/irukkel?”
Let’s face it folks, it’s more of a rhetorical question, because even if you are dying of some deadly and dangerous disease which is eating away your brain or sanity, you are going to reply “I’m fine, how are you?” So next time, if someone asks how you are doing, just reply –
“Unfortunately I have contracted a disease known as bored-by-the-same-crappy-question-which-doesn’t-need-an-answer. It is fatal and you are just making it worse. So get out before you become the cause of my death!”
The rather knotty problem is after asking how that person is, you have no idea how to proceed with the conversation, because you either know so little about the person, or they are a generation above you and you might be afraid that they are going to start giving you unwarranted advice on how not to keep a French beard because it makes you look like a hardcore Muslim terrorist. Hell old man/lady, it’s not a fuzzy fungal growth beneath my chin which is going to reach out and eat you, or develop a character of its own and plant a bomb. Maybe I should allow my beard to speak – “My name is VBK’s beard, and I am not a terrorist’s property!” So leave it alone! (Although I do really wish I had a tentacle beard like Davy Jones in Pirates... If only to freak people out with all the tentacle movement)
2. “Eppo vandhel? Journey comfortable ah? Jet-lag irukka?”
These questions are reserved for people falling in these two categories –
a) They are pretty old and you have no idea what to ask this person; and sometimes it becomes embarrassing when you ask journey comfortable ah because it’ll turn out that the person you are asking had moved into the city ages back! And so, the conversation goes like this:
“Journey comfortable ah?”
“Enna journey? Naan inga dhaan 5 years ah irukken!”
Oh dear, here comes the uncomfortable pause. You try to recover.
“Err, illa, veetlendhu mandapam ku journey epdi, traffic jaasthi ah?”
“Enna pa solre, en veedu to mandapam just 5 minutes distance!”
At this point, the best thing would be to draw inspiration from the 100 m sprint athletes and pretty much get the hell out of there as soon as possible.
b) The second category of people is the NRI families flooding the wedding, flocking in from flights. Inevitably, most of the heads of the families are software engineers with bulging bellies and insane software skills; their bellies have been conditioned because their bratty kids ran toy trucks over them, thinking them to be interesting terrain. These are the people with jet lag; they want to make it general knowledge that they spent thousands of dollars to fly here and sleep off during the day; Their biological clocks are all haywire and before they get accustomed to the day/night patterns here, it’s time to leave. Well, don’t just stop by asking if the journey was comfortable, because this will inadvertently trigger the response "It was good". Instead, ask your teenage cousin how hot the air hostess was, or ask your athai if she caught your athimber ogling at the pretty woman next to him. Though this may initially trigger a sense of Huh? What! How dare he! it is sure to get better and people might actually start accepting the fact that you are not the regular epdi irukkel kind of conversationalist.
3. “Payyan 12th standard ah? Nalla padikkanum. Endha engineering college la setha porelu?”
As it turns out, majority of the Tam-Brahm people are total geeks who are rarely into any other profession other than engineering. A few stray leaves on the family tree might actually manage to do something else other than engineering, but most people don’t want to cut out the benefits of going to ‘America’ as it if fondly called. Hence the family is riddled with ‘America maaplais’- cool dudes who spend their lives learning to cook Tam-Brahm food in America and looking into their monitors all the darned time while accumulating alarmingly increasing waistlines; and Iyer girls who learn classical music or dance and pursue that while doing their engineering.. After all, when the time comes to get married, the parents have to say, “She is an engineer and has this many concerts in this many sabhas to her credit!”
What is with the Tam-Brahm obsession with engineering and going to the US? Why can’t people just let their kids do what they want!
4. “Saaptaacha?”
This is, in my opinion, the crowning glory of stupidity. Food is one of the most integral parts of any wedding, and people rarely, almost never miss the chance to go and kottify as soon as possible. Unless you want to exhibit the characteristics of a selfless martyr, in which case you don’t go into the saapadu pandhi. Smarter still, you can go to the pandhi and claim not to have eaten yet – even then people think you are a martyr. Or else, just say no and go for the eat for a second/third round; after all weddings are all about tantalizing the taste buds and tormenting the stomach into doing unimaginable amounts of digesting.
5. Maaplai/Maatuponnu vandaacha?
Oh hell, this one again. Maybe it's just a tradition, but unless you have been giving amazing business to the ophthalmologist, you ought to be able to see that the maaplai or maatuponnu came in the morning itself and has been sitting there like a rock, a permanent arc writ on his/her face (smile)and of course, there are always these pesky kids on stage. Alleged to add to the cuteness quotient of the stage probably. Just note this point in all weddings - there will invariably be some kid who comes on stage and tries to act cute with the maaplai or the ponnu. Why?!
6. Happa, ippo enakku route clear!
This completes the list of cliched lines at weddings. The younger sibling usually says these lines indicating that he can now get married. Someone ought to go tell him that if he is going to go about belting crappy lines of this sort, no one would want to be in his line at all, whether it's clear or otherwise
Please do add your own, after all we are on a mission to eradicate dumbness :-)
Friday, March 12, 2010
Pawn of Paranoia - 1
(Been blogging for 4-5 years now, changing blogs, changing layouts, shamelessly publicizing and so on. Some of my writing was supposed to be published but it never did work out. My dream is to get it published someday. I just need some motivation for that to happen. Please do come back to this space at least once every week. If you guys can give me some motivation, nothing like it! Thanks :)
He stood at the edge of the terrace, five floors above his death. He wanted to plunge into the certainty of death and end all the other uncertainties. He wanted to destroy the web of complexity and senselessness that his mind had woven around him. Just one more step to death…
With that thought he took a step forward and dived head-long into the sea of tar and concrete below. He was unlucky enough to survive the fall. In fact, he was really pissed to open his eyes in the hospital and realize that he was not dead; he was not in heaven or hell; He hadn’t even minded the thought of going straight to hell for eternity, because hell seemed better than what was going on in his life.
1 year ago…
In the confines of his miniscule home in a crowded locality, Raman the inspector was executing a series of knuckle push-ups. He was young, fiery and intelligent. He was rising among the ranks of the police force with amazing agility of mind and body. He had cracked 3 murder cases and 4 burglaries, and had an unblemished record as a detective par excellence. Now, he was working on a case involving a serial killer. This particular killer’s obsession was that he would decapitate the head of the victim and take it with him. No one knew what he was doing with the heads. The heads just went missing. There was no sign of robbery, there was no motive for murder, and the victims seemed to be random. Raman was assigned the case.
It happened for the first time just after he finished the push-ups.
“So, are you going to find the killer?” A deep voice questioned Raman from the shadows.
He was startled for just a millisecond but his reflexes were as sharp as the edge of a Swiss-knife; Raman’s hand bulleted out onto the table and clutched his .32 caliber Webley revolver tight and pointed it towards the voice in the darkness.
“Come out of the dark now. How come I didn’t hear you before?”
A lean, bearded man stepped out of the darkness into the narrow radius of light, the source of which was a single bulb which illuminated just a fraction of the room.
“I am one with the shadows, Raman. My name is Serriver. I have been asked to tell you that you are the one who has to save the world from doom, and to guide you through this.”
“Are you crazy? There is no doomsday. Who are you?"
“Raman, Raman, Raman. Wasn’t I being absolutely clear about who I was and why I’m here? Put the gun down. Here, let’s talk.”
Serriver sat on the ground cross-legged. Raman slowly lowered his revolver and sat down face to face with Serriver.
The light bounced off Serriver in a translucent, ethereal way. His eyes were black as black can get. He started talking.
“This world is going to be doomed. All the evil of the world has been compounded into one single being called Hangi. This Hangi is engineering the biggest nuclear weapon in the world. He plans to cause a nuclear holocaust and wipe out all life on this planet.”
“I know I’m dealing with a crazy idiot who is wasting my time. What do you want?”
“Look, Raman. I have been destined to help you out. You cannot hurt me. Your mind will not allow it.”
Suddenly a shot reverberated in the tiny house, shaking its foundations. Raman couldn’t believe it because it seemed to him that at the exact moment when he pulled the trigger, his hand involuntarily pulled back and made the bullet go elsewhere. Serriver was still sitting there, scratching his beard thoughtfully. He hadn’t even flinched when the shot was fired.
“You’ve got to learn to trust me, Raman. You cannot hurt me. I cannot hurt you. That’s the way it’s going to go. You have got to kill Hangi. Maybe a century ago, no one would’ve thought about nuclear or atomic weapons. And yet, in 1947 the fateful atomic bomb blasts in Japan wiped out two whole cities. Today, nearly six decades later, why is it so difficult to believe that a weapon to destroy the world is being engineered?”
Raman held his head in his hands. This was not making sense to him. Who were Serriver and Hangi? Why did they have such weird names? A headache started creeping slowly into existence. A slow, pounding ache which laughed through the pounding and caused immense pain.
“Hangi is powerful. He is the compounded evil being, and has many resources at his disposal. He will send people to kill you all the time if he knows of your existence. Keep your head down. Stop hunting down stupid idiot serial killers and wasting your time, because if you don’t stop Hangi, the mother and father of all killers, he will annihilate this planet and there won’t be anyone left to kill.”
“Why did it have to be me?” Raman questioned.
“You are the best of the best. You just don’t know it. You are the elite and you wield the power to save the world.”
“No, no, no! Get out, you piece of crap!”
In his frustration, Raman picked up a book and threw it at Serriver, but just like before, his hand seemed to lose control in the last moment and the book landed elsewhere.
Through his bearded and lean countenance, Serriver smiled. It was strange to see this figure, translucent and ghostly, sitting there and talking about doomsday.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens could be heard. They were getting closer.
“There, his agents have found out about us. See how fast he functions.” Serriver shouted through the alarmingly increasing noise of the approaching sirens.
“But who are they?”
“They are cops, corrupted for his cause. They have been mentally poisoned to strike you down.”
“But I am a cop too!”
“Ah, but your mind does not bear the venom which they have!”
“Ok, now what am I to do?”
“Run. Run to the terrace.” Serriver counseled.
Adrenaline pumping through his entire body, Raman grabbed his revolver and sprinted up the stairs to the terrace above the fourth floor. The sirens were getting closer.
“Now what is to be done? I don’t want to gun down other cops, good or bad.”
“Then why the hell did you bring the revolver?”
“That’s like my safety net.”
“Run to the top of the water tank. Quick.”
Further down, Raman could hear agitated voices. Probably the corrupt cops were searching for him. But they would never find him when he was hiding on the water tank, the highest vantage point on the terrace. He climbed the ladder to the water tank, pulled the ladder up so that the cops couldn’t use it to get to him, and sweaty and exhausted, he fell asleep on the water tank, his heart thumping loudly, mind boiling in turmoil.
In the morning he opened his eyes, and saw the unusually black and translucent eyes of Serriver piercing him.
“That was close, but this has just started.”
He stood at the edge of the terrace, five floors above his death. He wanted to plunge into the certainty of death and end all the other uncertainties. He wanted to destroy the web of complexity and senselessness that his mind had woven around him. Just one more step to death…
With that thought he took a step forward and dived head-long into the sea of tar and concrete below. He was unlucky enough to survive the fall. In fact, he was really pissed to open his eyes in the hospital and realize that he was not dead; he was not in heaven or hell; He hadn’t even minded the thought of going straight to hell for eternity, because hell seemed better than what was going on in his life.
1 year ago…
In the confines of his miniscule home in a crowded locality, Raman the inspector was executing a series of knuckle push-ups. He was young, fiery and intelligent. He was rising among the ranks of the police force with amazing agility of mind and body. He had cracked 3 murder cases and 4 burglaries, and had an unblemished record as a detective par excellence. Now, he was working on a case involving a serial killer. This particular killer’s obsession was that he would decapitate the head of the victim and take it with him. No one knew what he was doing with the heads. The heads just went missing. There was no sign of robbery, there was no motive for murder, and the victims seemed to be random. Raman was assigned the case.
It happened for the first time just after he finished the push-ups.
“So, are you going to find the killer?” A deep voice questioned Raman from the shadows.
He was startled for just a millisecond but his reflexes were as sharp as the edge of a Swiss-knife; Raman’s hand bulleted out onto the table and clutched his .32 caliber Webley revolver tight and pointed it towards the voice in the darkness.
“Come out of the dark now. How come I didn’t hear you before?”
A lean, bearded man stepped out of the darkness into the narrow radius of light, the source of which was a single bulb which illuminated just a fraction of the room.
“I am one with the shadows, Raman. My name is Serriver. I have been asked to tell you that you are the one who has to save the world from doom, and to guide you through this.”
“Are you crazy? There is no doomsday. Who are you?"
“Raman, Raman, Raman. Wasn’t I being absolutely clear about who I was and why I’m here? Put the gun down. Here, let’s talk.”
Serriver sat on the ground cross-legged. Raman slowly lowered his revolver and sat down face to face with Serriver.
The light bounced off Serriver in a translucent, ethereal way. His eyes were black as black can get. He started talking.
“This world is going to be doomed. All the evil of the world has been compounded into one single being called Hangi. This Hangi is engineering the biggest nuclear weapon in the world. He plans to cause a nuclear holocaust and wipe out all life on this planet.”
“I know I’m dealing with a crazy idiot who is wasting my time. What do you want?”
“Look, Raman. I have been destined to help you out. You cannot hurt me. Your mind will not allow it.”
Suddenly a shot reverberated in the tiny house, shaking its foundations. Raman couldn’t believe it because it seemed to him that at the exact moment when he pulled the trigger, his hand involuntarily pulled back and made the bullet go elsewhere. Serriver was still sitting there, scratching his beard thoughtfully. He hadn’t even flinched when the shot was fired.
“You’ve got to learn to trust me, Raman. You cannot hurt me. I cannot hurt you. That’s the way it’s going to go. You have got to kill Hangi. Maybe a century ago, no one would’ve thought about nuclear or atomic weapons. And yet, in 1947 the fateful atomic bomb blasts in Japan wiped out two whole cities. Today, nearly six decades later, why is it so difficult to believe that a weapon to destroy the world is being engineered?”
Raman held his head in his hands. This was not making sense to him. Who were Serriver and Hangi? Why did they have such weird names? A headache started creeping slowly into existence. A slow, pounding ache which laughed through the pounding and caused immense pain.
“Hangi is powerful. He is the compounded evil being, and has many resources at his disposal. He will send people to kill you all the time if he knows of your existence. Keep your head down. Stop hunting down stupid idiot serial killers and wasting your time, because if you don’t stop Hangi, the mother and father of all killers, he will annihilate this planet and there won’t be anyone left to kill.”
“Why did it have to be me?” Raman questioned.
“You are the best of the best. You just don’t know it. You are the elite and you wield the power to save the world.”
“No, no, no! Get out, you piece of crap!”
In his frustration, Raman picked up a book and threw it at Serriver, but just like before, his hand seemed to lose control in the last moment and the book landed elsewhere.
Through his bearded and lean countenance, Serriver smiled. It was strange to see this figure, translucent and ghostly, sitting there and talking about doomsday.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens could be heard. They were getting closer.
“There, his agents have found out about us. See how fast he functions.” Serriver shouted through the alarmingly increasing noise of the approaching sirens.
“But who are they?”
“They are cops, corrupted for his cause. They have been mentally poisoned to strike you down.”
“But I am a cop too!”
“Ah, but your mind does not bear the venom which they have!”
“Ok, now what am I to do?”
“Run. Run to the terrace.” Serriver counseled.
Adrenaline pumping through his entire body, Raman grabbed his revolver and sprinted up the stairs to the terrace above the fourth floor. The sirens were getting closer.
“Now what is to be done? I don’t want to gun down other cops, good or bad.”
“Then why the hell did you bring the revolver?”
“That’s like my safety net.”
“Run to the top of the water tank. Quick.”
Further down, Raman could hear agitated voices. Probably the corrupt cops were searching for him. But they would never find him when he was hiding on the water tank, the highest vantage point on the terrace. He climbed the ladder to the water tank, pulled the ladder up so that the cops couldn’t use it to get to him, and sweaty and exhausted, he fell asleep on the water tank, his heart thumping loudly, mind boiling in turmoil.
In the morning he opened his eyes, and saw the unusually black and translucent eyes of Serriver piercing him.
“That was close, but this has just started.”
Monday, February 22, 2010
Homecoming
Chakravarthy had been a part of the enterprising new generation of youngsters, fueled by the desire to succeed; and he had reached success, tasted its sweet fruit.
Chakku reached the United States of America in 1987. He was in his early 20s and willing to lead a destitute life. His tale of success is similar to those of the many thousands of others who immigrated to the USA- rapid advancement in career and lifestyle with little consideration for suffering.
Idlis became cereal, Rasam rice became Pizza, and Chakku the Indian became Chax the American. Love called in the form of a Punjabi woman, and Chax answered.
Chax married Twinkle at a Registrar’s office, with colleagues as witnesses. Both of them had no friends- their career permitted them to have only acquaintances. They didn’t think that was a sad thing- after all, they had themselves for everything.
For the first few years, Chax sent home some money to his parents, but saw no point in doing so after a few years, because they never called him, and he had no use for them anymore. And he was quite sure his smart brother would be earning a lot for the family; even if he wasn’t, what the hell. They could still milk some dowry money off his wedding.
So life rolled on, and the money piled up. Letters from the couple’s parents were first answered, and then they went unanswered, and finally, unopened.
One day, his brother Ranganathan was at the door. Chax hardly recognized him.
“Chakku, you’ve become so fat.” Things like this were what Chax hated. People from home had the tendency to state the obvious. Actually it wasn’t even his home anymore- it was a fragment of the distant past. Chax sighed.
“What do you want, Ranga?”
“Appa is dead.”
“I don’t care. Don’t come to me with the fragments of a lost past and claim any relation to me. I’m a different person now.”
“Come home, Chakku. Come see us at home. Home is what made you what you are today.”
“America is making me what I am today, not some remote village in Tamilnadu where people pee in the open and have no ambitions and aspirations in life. People who had ambitions already moved out.”
Ranga left without saying a word. He realized there was nothing he could do or say to bring his brother back; he was hooked to America.
The 9/11 terrorist attack on America proved that the country was not the safest place to be, and Chax lost Twinkle in the attack. She had been working inside when the terror struck. Police reported that she had died on the spot.
It was a lightning bolt to Chax’s heart. It struck him down, and he was shocked. America was the last place he had thought terrorists would attack. They wouldn’t have the balls, he had thought. But now he had lost his wife-his only friend in the country.
Time passed, but his grief did not pass. He decided to go back home at last; after many years. There was no one to console him in the USA. He flew to India, deciding to be there for a few weeks before returning to work.
At home in India, the people he had accused of being stupid because they were overly sentimental came to him and consoled him on his loss. They didn’t even know him, but they understood his loss, they said. He hadn’t even come home for his father’s death, and yet his mother said she understood that in today’s world, work was first because work was the present. A dead person is the past. Obviously, the present was more important than the past. Chax was flabbergasted. He didn’t know how to thank his mother for understanding. When he told her that, she laughed and said that she was his mother, and hence knew him inside out.
They showered genuine affection on him; his mother made him special Mysorepak dripping with ghee and payasam with roasted cashews. He forgot his grief. He drowned the grief in the flood of his family’s affection.
Soon, it was time to go. He packed his bags and the taxi drove him to the airport, which was a long way off. He had to go back to his work. He wasn’t one of those sentimental idiots who would come back home, compromising his job for family. Family he thought was typical toilet paper- You use when you need it, and then throw it away. Use and throw. But how much ever you throw you’ll need to use it again sometime in the future…
Chakku reached the United States of America in 1987. He was in his early 20s and willing to lead a destitute life. His tale of success is similar to those of the many thousands of others who immigrated to the USA- rapid advancement in career and lifestyle with little consideration for suffering.
Idlis became cereal, Rasam rice became Pizza, and Chakku the Indian became Chax the American. Love called in the form of a Punjabi woman, and Chax answered.
Chax married Twinkle at a Registrar’s office, with colleagues as witnesses. Both of them had no friends- their career permitted them to have only acquaintances. They didn’t think that was a sad thing- after all, they had themselves for everything.
For the first few years, Chax sent home some money to his parents, but saw no point in doing so after a few years, because they never called him, and he had no use for them anymore. And he was quite sure his smart brother would be earning a lot for the family; even if he wasn’t, what the hell. They could still milk some dowry money off his wedding.
So life rolled on, and the money piled up. Letters from the couple’s parents were first answered, and then they went unanswered, and finally, unopened.
One day, his brother Ranganathan was at the door. Chax hardly recognized him.
“Chakku, you’ve become so fat.” Things like this were what Chax hated. People from home had the tendency to state the obvious. Actually it wasn’t even his home anymore- it was a fragment of the distant past. Chax sighed.
“What do you want, Ranga?”
“Appa is dead.”
“I don’t care. Don’t come to me with the fragments of a lost past and claim any relation to me. I’m a different person now.”
“Come home, Chakku. Come see us at home. Home is what made you what you are today.”
“America is making me what I am today, not some remote village in Tamilnadu where people pee in the open and have no ambitions and aspirations in life. People who had ambitions already moved out.”
Ranga left without saying a word. He realized there was nothing he could do or say to bring his brother back; he was hooked to America.
The 9/11 terrorist attack on America proved that the country was not the safest place to be, and Chax lost Twinkle in the attack. She had been working inside when the terror struck. Police reported that she had died on the spot.
It was a lightning bolt to Chax’s heart. It struck him down, and he was shocked. America was the last place he had thought terrorists would attack. They wouldn’t have the balls, he had thought. But now he had lost his wife-his only friend in the country.
Time passed, but his grief did not pass. He decided to go back home at last; after many years. There was no one to console him in the USA. He flew to India, deciding to be there for a few weeks before returning to work.
At home in India, the people he had accused of being stupid because they were overly sentimental came to him and consoled him on his loss. They didn’t even know him, but they understood his loss, they said. He hadn’t even come home for his father’s death, and yet his mother said she understood that in today’s world, work was first because work was the present. A dead person is the past. Obviously, the present was more important than the past. Chax was flabbergasted. He didn’t know how to thank his mother for understanding. When he told her that, she laughed and said that she was his mother, and hence knew him inside out.
They showered genuine affection on him; his mother made him special Mysorepak dripping with ghee and payasam with roasted cashews. He forgot his grief. He drowned the grief in the flood of his family’s affection.
Soon, it was time to go. He packed his bags and the taxi drove him to the airport, which was a long way off. He had to go back to his work. He wasn’t one of those sentimental idiots who would come back home, compromising his job for family. Family he thought was typical toilet paper- You use when you need it, and then throw it away. Use and throw. But how much ever you throw you’ll need to use it again sometime in the future…
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