I landed on the wrong planet

How to make rasam

2011-06-23T19:13:00.002+05:30

Today, I am going to teach you how to make rasam.

The first step in making rasam is to make sure that it is a Tuesday afternoon. A Tuesday afternoon is known to induce immeasurable empathy with the universe and an inexplicable sense of guilt – both of which are assuaged by the precisely made rasam. So, on a Tuesday afternoon, in a dark kitchen where the dust motes shimmer like memories, with that framed Tanjore painting of Kamakshi to the side looking like a well-fed judge on Masterchef, we begin.

I could ask you to take a lead-lined vessel, or I could ask you to take an iluppuchatti. That is the difference between making rasam and making rasam on a Tuesday afternoon. The difference between lukewarm and vedhu vedhu. Boil water in the iluppuchatti. As soon as the first hopeful bubbles begin to emerge, turn off the heat and drop a lump of tamarind inside.

Now, the tamarind lump must essentially look like a sage. The seed must be within. The whiskers must be long. Drop the tamarind and walk away from the pot without looking back.

Cut a tomato into nine pieces. For the next ten minutes, you should contemplate on the larger historical perspective of our decision to use a tomato with the tamarind soaked water. It is not simply a perspective on colonialism and the death of indigenous arts. It is rather, a perspective on vegetable warfare. The tomato and the tamarind have always been arch enemies – like liberals and free thinkers. The tamarind considers itself a grass-root artist, a Fabindia wearing flautist who performs under a Banyan tree to an audience of Fabindia wearers. The tomato is the pulpier artist, the guy who got famous on Youtube, won a reality show and is now the most searched word. The rasam puritans out there would tell me that it is illogical to use two sour sources, pardon my syllables. But the clash is essential to the dynamic nature of the rasam. However, with powerful performers like this, you need a strong stage.

Once the tamarind has soaked in the water, remove it for it was a meaningless illusion to begin with anyway. Now, boil the water, add the nine tomato pieces and listen as the jugalbandhi unfolds. Before it gets to the competitive phase, however, you must add a spoon and a half of paatti’s rasappodi (Grandmother’s Rasam Powder). It is there in that rolled up Quaker Oats cover, with that melting rubber band wound tightly around. Hold the rolled up cover in both hands, bring it close to your nose and, before a sneeze can completely form, unwind the rubber band in one smooth motion. If this is done right, you should see a tiny puff of burnt sienna escape from the mouth of the cover like dust from Alibaba’s cave. Once the rasappodi is added, our grand performers will quiet down a bit. This is the time for the salt. Contrary to popular opinion, salt does not serve any ritualistic purpose and is purely for taste. When the rasam comes to a boil, set it down but do not turn off the stove. It is imperative that the next step be performed over the same fire.

Take a smaller vessel and let drip seven drops of ghee. Ghee – the nectar of the gods, the wine of the divine bovine! Let the ghee ascend to the heavens to announce the intention of the cook! Let the ghee carry the message of rasam to the four winds! So be it. So be it.

Sputter mustard seeds in the ghee. Incidentally, ‘sputter’ is perhaps the best coined word in the English language, so you must listen to the phonetic expression of the same as the mustard seeds sputter. But don’t listen for too long, for it is a mesmeric sound that will draw you in if you are not careful. Add a pinch of hing and quickly pour this consecrated concoction into the rasam.

Pluck three twigs of coriander with the index finger and thumb after professing several apologies to the plant. Garnish the rasam with coriander. After ten minutes, take a ladle and swirl the rasam three times in the apradhakshanam direction before serving.

Serves 1 for there is no other.

Art

2009-11-14T21:08:00.005+05:30

You don’t do it because it’s free or cheap. It’s not because it grows on trees or that it lines your sidewalk. You don’t go there because it’s just down the road. You don’t chase it because it’s the in-thing; not because it’s pop-culture and hip.

You do it in hidden caves where bats feel their way. You did it in subterranean chambers where dragons slumber and laze. You do it in the dead of the night. You do it after lunch on Tuesday.
It’s illegal. It’s prohibited. It’s frowned upon. The government doesn’t like it. Your mom doesn’t like it. You could lose your job and wander naked in the forest alone; you could grow a beard and piss self-important people off.

Legalise it, you shout. Legalise it? Do you want it for 30 bucks at Big Bazaar? Do you want the astral plane shipped to you from Alaska? Legalise it so that you can call customer care at two in the night and complain about the lack of clarity?

If it’s for sale, it ain’t it.
If it’s over-the-counter, it ain’t it.
If it’s on discount, it ain’t it.
If it’s #1 New York Times Bestseller, it ain’t it.
If it’s fraught with significance, it ain’t it.
If you get it, it ain’t it.

It’s the naughty breeze that rides up a widow's skirt during her husband's funeral. It’s the strange shape of the big turd you just extruded. It’s the smiley face that eases the sarcasm in the text you just received on your phone. It’s a painting of white diagonal lines aesthetically slicing across a white canvas.

Martian Interlude

2009-06-02T15:24:00.000+05:30

Burn slow, baby. Burn slow.

Rainforests, Pine forests, multiplexes and cigarettes. School buses, French kisses, video tapes and apocalypse. Fire in the mountain, run, run, run! Pyre at the count of ten, run, run, run! Run through the dirty lane, run through the street. Run through the plastic shop selling plastic beet.

Come through my open door.

Come through the fire.

Swim through the dirty soul.

Swim into desire.

Foggy breath and sweaty lips. Burning bush and seething crown. Why do we touch, why do we kiss? Is it the fire or is it the smoke?

Oil fields and broken beads – empty teats and parched feet. Jarring beats and famous cheats. Oh, how they burn! How they bleat!

They bleat and moan, pitiful and low.

But you burn slow, baby. Burn slow.

A Suicide Letter

2009-03-31T10:53:00.000+05:30

A suicide note is an unfair way of having the last word in the argument. But it is the unimaginative that would leave the party without a punch-line. To have the screen drop without an encore seems like a betrayal of the entire act. So, forgive me for dragging the epilogue. If you are reading this, I am obviously dead. Thus, you must also know how I did it.

The most effective way to commit suicide, it seems, is to use a .38 caliber revolver and shoot the back of the head – somewhere just behind the ear. The brain bits would be all over the place, the head slumped sideways – perfectly positioned to land a slot on the prime time news channel. Utterly painless and utterly déclassé. Not my style.

I would have loved to jump off a cliff – very much like The Fool in the Tarot deck. The symbolism would have been complete – not to mention the joy of succumbing to the ultimate temptation of the precipice. But poison seemed the most aesthetically pleasing, spiritually satisfying option. I now belong to that elite company that has sipped the Shiva Merlot – I now rub shoulders with Socrates. The intentional symbolism here too was satisfying. The act of drinking to see new visions is an old, archaic practice. The ancient king Raghu drank the divine cow’s milk to see the way to the heavens. The True Guru gave Kabir bhang to open up the existential bubble.

To say that no one is responsible for my death would be to deny the interconnectedness of everything in the universe. It would have been a shame had I lived without making anyone responsible for my actions. It would have been a deliberate attempt at understating the influence of some exceptional men and women in my life. But in these paranoid times, even a dead man has to censor his words to please the frightened masses. So, let me forgo literary embellishments for political correctness. No one is responsible for my death.

The frugal setting in which my body must have been found might have given you the idea that poverty was the reason for my death. But I had never considered money to be the yardstick of the quality of life. Nor was the reason something as shockingly refreshing as a failed love affair. I believe such cases are a rarity these days. No excruciatingly painful diseases either. In fact, I could dance around here all day like Rumpelstiltskin, and you would never guess.

I did it because I wanted to be the only person to have used Rumpelstiltskin’s name in his suicide letter.

With much love,
Formerly Anonymous

You may say I'm a Dreamer

2009-03-24T19:57:00.003+05:30

“Many, many happy returns of the day!”

As far as dreams go, this one was certainly lame. There was no surrealism in the events that unfolded after the pronouncement of that statement. ‘Unfolded’ seems to imply an unfurling in the past, when it actually happened outside time. And space. Our consciousness is no more limited by the now than it is limited by the skull. Thought does not happen in the corrugated alien surface of the brain. Awareness is not an electric spark that arches from the medulla oblongata. Reality is the self. The universe is an idea – and not a well thought out one at that.

People that know me are not surprised that I keep writing about dreams. For reasons that are perceived by various individuals simultaneously as laziness, cowardice, deviant behavior, complacency, introspection and imagination, my love for these visions of alternate realities are known to many, if not understood.

The fogginess of a dream is purely retrospective. Furthermore, though it is often diagnosed as a cataract in the mind’s eye brought on due to the supposed linearity of time, the haze is purely the result of ignorance and a refusal to be awed.

My birthday party is held in an all-girls’ school. I am slightly irked by my assumption that I would automatically enjoy revelry in the presence of pheromones flowing like tiny rivulets down a mountain hirsute with sage and oak. It is the cafeteria, and the other tables are occupied completely by teasing teams of teens tickled by the thought of testosterone. None of them look at our table, preferring to ignore the rather raucous party thrown to celebrate my birthday – which it isn’t.

Sitting right across me is you, happy and mischievous. You love such parties – not because you enjoy being part of such social extravaganza, but rather due to your propensity to come up with fabulous one-liners and sharp retorts. It is only the unimaginative that would leave the party without a punch-line, you think.

Two others are here too – but what good is it in trying to paint their faces for you? They could be anybody. They could be my brothers, or my sisters. They could be elves or Martians. Their heads could be oblong or ovoid. They are fillers – twenty-second commercials. They provide the comic relief in a humorous play. They shout and cackle like the heroine’s friends in a Hindi movie. They are here for the cake and the ambience.

Breezing through the throng of a million more girls entering the cafeteria is your friend. I do not know him. He is my mentor. He holds a tray full of what ought to be tequila shots. Up close, the tray is empty. And I am drunk.

“What whiskey was it?” asks my mentor.

I struggle to remember. “The name had something to do with a shore. Ivory Coast, Green label?"

You let out a snort. Incidentally, snorting is rather difficult to do. You can easily swallow your spittle and choke on it. And snorting is very unbecoming too. It sounds like an immoral guffaw.

“Mulberry Coast! How can you forget?” You are scandalized and amused that my knowledge of elite whisky is still not as incomplete as yours. The girls are laughing – like thousands of metal dishes eloping. Like millions of angry fiddles bitching about cats.

“And now,” says the unfamiliar mentor with a flourish. There ought to be a cape and a handlebar moustache jostling with that flourish. “And now, for your gift!”

A man seated amidst the gaggle of girls undergoes spontaneous combustion. If I can save the man, the girls would shower me with French kisses. I approach the burning man and he stares me down.

“Pitiful,” murmur the three or four comic goons at our table. The mentor shakes his cape mournfully and departs. When one is mournful, one doesn’t just leave. One departs.

Standing to my right is a dog. I pet him.

“Really?” he asks before bounding away.

Pitiful.

The woodpecker's dream

2009-01-23T01:44:00.001+05:30

Inspired by the Ramayana

Stars peek in through the gaps in the living canopy overhead like curious neighbours at a poolside party.

The fire dances like a harlem queen, shamelessly.

The shaman dances on, his loincloth swaying like a fabric phallus in the presence of exquisite lingerie.

He holds a sceptre. An alabaster rod with an intricate carving of a serpent slithering through time.

The fur that he wears is singed here and there - evidences of earlier dances in front of more primeval fires.

He is ready to tell the story. Only it is not a story. It is the sound of the earth. The sound of plants crying. The sweet wailing of the jungle fowl. The cacaphony of the treepies. The wild party of the owls. He talks like the falling waters. He whispers like snakes mating.

"Winter is when woodpeckers dream. In the forests of antiquity, the woodpeckers peck away at the minds of sages. The wind tiptoes through the oaks. The gigantic pines are silent sentinels seemingly standing over an organic crypt. A city beyond human comprehension stretches and sleeps peacefully in the afternoon sunlight. It is yesterday."

A faint smell weaves its way through the layers of magic electrifying the air. The smell of burning sage.

The smell of dead angels.

A hollow pecking sound repeats from the nether regions of the dark forest. A woodpecker having a nightmare, perhaps?

"She strolls in, from everywhere. She weaves a dress from the soft grass that grows in the higher meadows. She dips a finger in the cold rushing waters and adorns her nose with a dazzling ring. She coaxes a sleeping plant to give birth to lillies in the winter. And then she sings."

Stars weep cold mist at the sad song. The trees shiver with goosebumps that startle sleeping thrushes. The cold seeps like dirty water in the lungs. She sings and she weeps, her teardrops making the earth bleed.

"There stands, across the pond, a stately figure. His body glimmers like polished ebony. His chest as broad as the unforgiving desert. His eyes sparkle like the crescent moon. He wears the forest around his waist to cover his eager organ. His countenance speaks of royal birth and a rugged life. He pledges his heart to the daughter of the earth. She returns his gaze, caressing him with her doe-like eyes. Her eye lashes tug at him, and his look threatens to incinerate her."

The sceptre is now an erect penis, thrusting at the fire. The sparks fly at every thrust, like heated spurts of semen.

"This is the woodpecker's dream, of forgotten wisdoms and broken spires. Of untold truths and elusive nymphs. The dream shatters with the hunter's arrow. Clouds weep at the wake."

I had a dream. Or do I have?

2008-10-06T01:11:00.001+05:30

I realized that what woke me up was not the alarm but the rather unusual dream involving me and my eighth standard English teacher.

I don't usually dream about my English teacher. In fact, I would much rather fantasize about my History teacher, Ms Amudha. Now, she was a looker. Her intricate explanations of the Battle of Waterloo were often accompanied with bad pronunciation and exquisite swaying of the hips. My years of puberty were spent imagining myself being taught the philosophies of Kajuraho by her in my make-believe nocturnal tuition sessions. Fellow pimple-ridden teenagers of my age at that time would immediately connect this above-mentioned fantasy with a specific website that catered to its clientele by providing erotic literature of the lowest quality.

Sundhari, my English teacher, must have been forty when she had been teaching me. She weighed at least 90 kilos, tied her hair in a bun, would walk around with a wooden ruler to punish wrong-doers ("Show me your knuckles!"), and always held the strong belief that 'asif' was short for 'housewife'. So, now you can understand why I had woken up.

It is said that we have five minutes after waking up to try and remember whatever we can from our dreams before they shatter like dropped china. But, sadly, this dream was like a dropped bread that leaves a gooey butter mark on the floor the stench of which never goes away. I can still remember the dream.

It was a classroom. I cannot imagine meeting her anywhere else. I don't think she existed anywhere else. She was in her usual position - which was behind the desk, standing with her weight resting on her arms which were placed firmly on the table. Maybe it was because of her obscene weight or maybe it was her natural bone structure - but I have always marveled at the outward-bent arms. It usually made a sickening angle with the vertical - like the legs of a cartoon table on which Coyote's head is being smashed repeatedly by a bouncing anvil.

"Your grandfather is dead, Rajagopal."

Now, this was a curious thing to say not merely because it was a rather morbid pronouncement in such a pseudo-comic setting but also because he has been dead for ten years.

"Can I go home, then, ma'am?"

Back in school, I have always addressed all my female teachers as 'miss'. She had always been 'Sundhari Miss' or 'English Miss'. Yes, I know. I am one of those. But, thankfully, my dream-self seemed to have grown up with me.

"Your grandfather is dead, Rajagopal."

Second time around, I was getting rather agitated and pissed off with the fact that the announcement required an exclamation point that she was not yielding. She seemed to say it with the same intensity she reserved for adverbs and conjugate verbs - those being two of the many things she had had no clue about.

"Yes, ma'am. I know. Can I go home now?"

It would have been wonderful had Ms Amudha walked in at that time. But I have never been able to master lucid dreaming. Ms Sundhari just stood there with her back to a funeral pyre and said:

"Your imagination is getting rather macabre, Rajagopal."

I was getting darker and meaner and still no exclamation point. What does it take to shock this woman? Wasn't she affected by my sinister ideas? Does not the fact that her favorite student (Yes. One of those.) is now thinking a lot about mortality and is being paranoid about death shake her very core?

"I am sorry, ma'am. I will try thinking about submarines."

"You may go."

I turned to do so when I felt something hard and grainy on my shoulder. The wooden ruler. With a very audible gulp that came out as a speech bubble, I turned around.

"Your usage of tense is pathetic, Rajagopal! Show me your knuckles!"

மதிகெட்டான் சோலை

2008-09-22T02:07:00.003+05:30

An attempt at writing fiction in Tamil.

சென்னை என்னும் பாலைவனத்தில் பல நீர்க் குளங்கள் உண்டு. பரதேசியாக திரியும் நாடோடிகளுக்கு தங்களது அனுபவங்களையும், சித்தாந்தங்களையும் ஆழமாக சமுதாயத்தின் மனதில் பதிப்பதற்காகவே நிறுவப்பட்ட இந்த ஸ்தாபனங்கள், மக்களின் மயக்கத்தை ஊக்குவிக்கும் கோவில்கள். சாராயத்துடன் ஊறுகாவுக்கு பதிலாக கம்யுனிசத்தையும், காம்போதியையும் கலக்கி நக்கும் மனித இனத்தின் ஒன்றுபட்ட இரைச்சல், மரணப்படுக்கையில் கிடக்கும் மனிதநேயத்திற்கு பாடுகின்ற ஒரு அவசர ஒப்பாரி போல் இருந்தது. இதனாலோ என்னவோ, மைல்ஸ் டேவிசின் சாக்சபோன் அந்த அசிங்கமான சத்தத்தை மறைக்கமுடியாமல் மறைத்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது. சில நிதர்சனமான நிஜங்களை பல போதைகளை கொண்டு மூட வேண்டியிருக்கிறது.

ஒரு அழகான வாக்கியத்தின் நடுவில் வரும் சந்திப்பிழையைப்போல, அந்த இடத்தில் அவனது தோற்றம் ஒரு ஆச்சர்யக்குறி. பல எழுத்தாளர்களையும்; "இன்னும் பத்து மாதங்களில் உலகம் அழியப்போகின்றது!" என்று சந்தோஷமாக தத்தம் தீர்கதரிசனங்களை கூவும் மத குருக்களையும்; லியோ டால்ஸ்டாயையும், கார்ல் மார்க்சையும், அவர்களை கரைத்துக் குடித்த அரசியல் கிழவர்களையும் வியக்க வைக்கும் அளவுக்கு அடர்த்தியான தாடி. புவியீர்ப்பு ஏதோ அவனது மேல் இமையை மட்டும் அதிகமாக தாக்குகின்றது போலும் - அந்த கண்களின் சுவடு மட்டும்தான் ஏதோ ஒரு கோணத்தில் தெரிந்தது.

அவன் முன்னே ஒரு காலி கோப்பை. ஏற்கனவே "Repeat order sir?" என்று கேட்ட சர்வரை உட்காரவைத்து, அரை மணிநேரம் CERNல் நடக்கும் Big Bang சோதனையை Bing Bang என்று தப்பு தப்பாக உச்சரித்து, விவரித்து அனுப்பி விட்டான்.

"மாடனைக் காடனை வேடனைப் போற்றி மயங்கும் மதியிலிகாள்!" என்று அவன் சொன்னது ஏதோ அந்த சர்வரின் பிறப்பையும் அவனது தாயையும் அசிங்கப்படுத்துவதுபோல் இருந்தது. "சுத்த அறிவே சிவமென்று கூறும் சுருதிகள் கேளீரோ?"

இத்தனை நேரம் மலத்தின் நடுவில் இருந்தது தெரியாமல் திடீரென்று தன்னை சுற்றி இருக்கும் அசிங்கத்தை பார்த்தவன் போல் சட்டென்று அந்த இடத்தை விட்டு எழுந்தான்.

Sodium vapor lamp - கலாச்சாரப் பதுமைகளின் அணையா விளக்குகள். தெருவெல்லாம் மங்கியதோர் சாயம். பிணங்கள் சாலையோரத்தில் கிடந்திருந்தன. ரத்தமில்லாத மரணம் - ஞானத்தின் இறுதி உர்வலம். இவன் ஒருவன் மட்டும்தான் பைக்கில் சென்றபடி அஞ்சலி செலுத்தினான்.

வீட்டில் மயான அமைதி. ஏதோ ஒரு முணகல் சத்தம். மைல்ஸ் டேவிசின் சாக்சபோன் இசையை படு கேவலமாக வாயில் முணகிக்கொண்டு, அவனது தலையணையை ஆசையாக பற்றிக்கொண்டு, அந்த காலியான ஹாலில் இரண்டு மணிவரை ஆடிக்கொண்டிருந்தான்.

Do car horns really go BEEP?

2008-09-17T16:48:00.000+05:30

How about the sound from the engine of a Suzuki Max 100R? Does it go TRRRRRRRTRRRRRR or DRRRRRRRDRRRRR? What about those laced aural patterns of a metallic nature within this engine sound? How do you translate that? Have I already translated it by calling it "a laced aural pattern of a metallic nature within this engine sound"? What about SPLORT and BOINK?

I want to write about a carnatic music concert. How do I do that? Sure, I can describe the audience, the singers, the way the singer's spit travels and hits the mike, the way the music binds the listeners together in a collective trance. But what about the music itself? What is the literary equivalent of a good arohanam of Hamsadhwani?

Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Saaa!

There! Can you hear the Mayamaalavakowla? Can you sense the Suddha Rishabam and the Kakali Nishadham? Do the swaras wash over you like a slow stream getting benevolently faster? How about if I put a line on the top of certain vowels? Does that make it sufficiently sanskrit and sufficiently musical?

As my fingers TAP on the keyboard, I am beginning to grasp the inability of the written word. (chair scraping on cement floor with an eyeball stuck underneath) is the closest we have got to writing authentic sub-titles for crazy Japanese movies.

tap tap tap tap TAP! Wrrrrrr..... Kqueakikqueaki... TAP!

Take a drag

2008-09-10T15:14:00.002+05:30

Bodies and lights. Bodies swimming in the stale air. Writhing. Undulating. Gyrating. Droplets of sweat charging across the space between the men - lit by the flickering serial lights from above. Blink. Blink.

The sound from the loud speakers comes only as an afterthought, loud though it is. Film songs. Self-compositions. Hymns to the gods. More film songs. The drums beat faster. The bodies are not swaying anymore. There is a jerky motion - like old Charlie Chaplin movies. Real life is doing a television - showing static frames and passing them off as one continuous scene.

There is an imposing, huge, gigantic idol of Ganesha. He is leering rather sadistically from behind his long, serpentine trunk. He dominates everything - watching over the drunken men and the cheap songs. The lights swim across the vision. Ganesha again, this time frowning at the quarreling men.

No. That's not Ganesha! That's Dionysus - the Greek god of wine that inspires ritual madness and ecstasy. You can see the ancient greeks on that road - 10th Main, New Thippasandra, Bangalore. You can see them carousing and dancing. You can see them gulp down Monitor Whiskey and sing praises to the seven dominions of Zeus.

Pretty soon, you will see them on the pavement. The rulers of this country, passed out on the sidewalks like pieces of dirt. The beggar picks the dried remains of yesterday's sambhar from his fingernails and watches the scene with rapture. Tomorrow's leaders squat with him - and drink in spirituality through half-closed, bloodshot eyes. Feed them with power brownies the likes of which Amsterdam has never seen. They are overdosed with all that power. Of the people, for the people and by the same stupid people. Give them democracy. Inundate the streets with beer. Fill the textbooks with Big Bangs and moral education.

Intoxication seems to be the only to answer to cynicism. One small whiff of illusion and you are hooked. High above the puny humans having a spiritual orgasm, a cloud drifts - lit by the innumerable sodium vapor lamps of the city. You get the feeling of an inferno underneath. We are all blazing in it. The pain from the scorching heat of our personal hells are supposed to cleanse us. Corporeal mortification.

The cloud curiously looks like a crucifix.

Katradhu Tamil - a review

2008-09-05T17:10:00.001+05:30

"Drink hot coffee, drink hot tea - and remember the people that remember you."

Prabha drinks only hot coffee and tea. He likes to have his lips scorched just so that he can picture once again his Anandhi urging him to drink scalding hot water on a hot day.

This is an eloquent conversation between intellectuals - leaving the general masses as stupified as Karunas in the movie. But why worry about general masses when you have a piece of art as precious as this?

"That imaginary tiger was dreaming about the imaginary desert. Thus was our love begun at the age of 7."

Writer-director Ram has not only scorned a few of the existing stereotypes, but has also displayed Prabha's inherent hypocrisy beautifully. Prabha's battle with his inner demons depicts itself externally with horrifying results. The camera pans and zooms with the landscape as Prabhakar wanders like a nomad, the view skewing with his own loss of perception and his intoxication. It is not a single man's battle against the society's evils but the tale of a man whose dreams turn into obsessions; whose ideas turn into ideologies; whose inevitable hypocrisy persecutes him harder than any known law.

When Prabha commits his first murder, the blood spurts onto his arm. The warm blood. Jeeva, as Prabha, is chilling with his reaction at the gush of blood. The background score by Yuvan Shankar Raja is haunting throughout the movie. Jeeva is brilliant in this movie - something that goes to show what a good actor in the hands of a good director can do. And the girl that does the role of Anandhi (I am terrible with names) is like a sudden strumming of a sitar in the middle of a eulogy.

Watch the movie. If not for anything, watch it for the screenplay. The story unfolds like a badly unfurled carpet. Each bend is a new pattern.

Bullshit

2008-09-01T04:11:00.001+05:30

Silence. It's never absolute. Even in the most confined of the quietest places, there is a vague ringing in the background. There is no source. It could be the sound of blood pounding through your veins, it could be hidden crickets in the wall. But there is that ringing.

A Tv comes into view amidst the blackness. A TV in a room lit by a dim red lamp. Purely for effect.

It's an old TV. That much is clear from the static. The new ones don't show the static. There is just a blue screen keeping in pace with the Microsoft generation. I have read that the visible evidence of Background Microwave Radiation of the universe is the static in your television. We are actually witnessing the remnants of the Big Bang (or whatever theory you might prefer) by looking at the static.

The man who has the only seat in the room seems not interested as if to mock bearded sentinels of theology. He is intently staring at a crack in the wall, illuminated garishly by both the dim red lamp and the aformentioned static from the TV. The crack runs deep, horrendously anthropomorphizing the dead wall. The wall is of some generic color that looks undecided. It could be beige. He continues his investigation of the crack.

He suddenly lifts his shirt up and examines his belly button. It looks like a squashed oval. He scratches his beard in contemplation. There is some significance here that he can't quite place.

"An otherwise linear time bends upon itself to create ugly, so-called patterns that we call memory. Curiously, memory is never in first person. Why? I see myself in those scenes. How?"

The silent ringing returns with a vengeance, as if in anger at the interruption. The first stars are born.

Impossible!

2008-08-28T17:07:00.003+05:30

For the person whose individual evolution depends on a bubble of experience and influence that does not extend beyond the frugal boundaries of his inherent self; for the person whose existence is marked by cyclic milestones of trouble and misery; this person who knows for sure that he has been singled out out of the millions of species to bear the brunt of the attack that life has in store - for this person, it is an inability - the logical culmination of a universe that will not leave him alone. A life that has been unfair, seeming to give him disadvantages for no reason, can only be expected to riddle him with inabilities.

Give me strength to attempt the impossible. For it is the impossible that marks a great man. Failure to do the impossible is the work of pure genius. For it is no disability on his part. It is just the final task. The successful completion of the impossible is a paradox, for it must follow that he had merely overcome a disability. Overcoming a difficulty is evolution. Attempting the impossible is deviation.

And these deviant humans are the ones who know that impossibility is merely an inevitability. For the purpose of an impossibility is not to taunt the human race, but to single out those that have risen beyond human cognition.

Customer care

2008-08-13T14:09:00.000+05:30

That's F. Karthik. F for foxtrot.

Foxtrot, sir? Can you spell that?

What? No! You don't need to spell 'foxtrot'! It starts with 'f' and that is my initial!

Your initial is F, sir?

Yes. F as in foxtrot.

Foxtrot, sir?

Look. Forget about the foxtrot, okay. My name is F. Karthik.

Can you tell me what the F stands for?

It stands for my father's name!

What is your father's name?

How does that matter?

Nothing. I just never heard of an Indian name starting with F.

Well, his name is Fanibhushan.

And your name is Karthik?

Yes.

What does it mean, sir?

Karthik?

No. Fanibhushan.

It means the wearer of snakes. It is Shiva's name.

Your father's name is Shiva?

No. I am talking about Lord Shiva.

And your name is Karthik! Very nice, sir.

Look, are you going to give me the credit card or not?

Definitely sir. Could you please confirm your last name, sir?

I don't have a last name. F. Karthik is my name. I am a south indian.

Verywellsir. Youhavejustconfirmedtomeyourfirstnameandyourlastnamesir. PleasestandbyasIredirectyoutoourcustomercarecenter. ThankyouforcallingICICIbank. Haveanicedaysir.

What? Hello?

Goodmorning, thisisFoolendu. Fortherecords, pleasestateyourname, sir.

Uh....Foolendu? What does that mean?

I don't know sir. Could you please furnish me with your details, sir?

Um....sure. My name is F. Karthik.

F, sir?

Yes. F as in fuck off?

Phobophobia

2008-07-29T21:48:00.002+05:30

The shadow extends its hidden tentacles, their gray suckers smacking their lips eagerly. The table that gave birth to the shadow stands to one side, meekly watching the horror that it has unleashed. The walls retreat to a corner, like stunted spectators watching the travesty of a sitcom. I cringe and sink into the floor, but the tentacles seem to be unaware of spatial dimensions. There is a horrible noise, like a heap of shit belching. The hair on my skin stands up straight, not being able to withstand the suction.

Fear grips the heart like a cold steel glove. The chill spreads to the spine faster than bad news. Words are morbid. Taint. Torment. Macabre. Hideous. A darkness that seeps in from the back parts of the brain unleashes images of horror. Death. Insanity. Expulsion. Rejection. Failure. Paucity.

Don't cross the road - the car with its powerfully lit eyes and a leering radiator grill will throttle you to death. Keep off the lawn. Don't touch the fence. Choking hazard. Highly inflammable. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Stick no bills. No parking. No entry. Highly toxic.

We surround ourselves with symbols of fear. We take pride in being afraid. These images of fright are everywhere, encompassing everyone in an all-permeating fear. There is even a fear of using a different verb other than 'grips' with 'panic'. Society's tentacles with their masked suckers suck our inherent ammunitions against fear.

Paranoia. It scares me.

Calm writer home from heaven

2008-07-28T17:16:00.003+05:30

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar,
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

Lord Byron

Writing this fresh from memory is not easy. The images are still cascading, still trying to find their place in the huge jigsaw puzzle that will eventually be my reference for my Coorg trip. I am sitting right now on a cold floor, the sludge from the hills still not dry on my knees, and the keys on the keyboard look like enormous mountains, every single one of them. Enormous, mist-covered mountains.

Just ten hours ago, I was standing at this crossroads. The path behind led to a deeper and darker part of the bamboo forest all around me. The path to the left led further down upriver towards more trees. The squiggly line of dirt to my right disappeared around a boulder that had a velveteen sheen to it thanks to the moss. Straight ahead was the river, muddy and fierce. I stretched out my arms and let the scene wash over me, drenching me to my very core that was already drenched by the steady but mild showers. The rain brought alive the forest, making it look like an Amazonian dream. The whole region was so sensuous that even the clouds seemed to be ejaculating constantly.

Among all the TV commercials that captured my imagination when I was a kid, the best probably was the Old Spice commercial with these clean-shaven men bravely and joyously rafting down a churning white river. That, to me, was adventure. It was the high-point of any happy, balanced life. The kid-me knew then that if I ever rafted down a river, I would be going the right way. Cauvery had always been the river I associated with religion and festivals and temples. And though I knew Cauvery river-rafting was happening, I could never work that into my image of Cauvery that always flowed past temples in maroon and white and where brahmins did their sandhyavandhanam. That notion was happily shattered and sent into oblivion as I paddled vigorously against the rapids, dodging the boulders. Pity I have a beard.

What has nature to teach me? Was nature ever a teacher? Why do visions of mountains and streams and forests move my inner being? Being there felt like coming into my inheritance. Travel is a sound - a desperate cry resounding throughout the umbilical cord I share with the earth.

A murder mystery

2008-07-18T23:56:00.001+05:30

A random beginning of a random murder mystery. Might turn into something...

One step inside the house and I knew that the news was seriously bad. There was a darkness in the house - not the palpable black, not the absence of light - just a lingering darkness. I could even sense the inspector's uneasiness. The lights were on - yellow lamps set at artistic intervals so that the place seemed to be lit by glowing torches rather than electric lamps. Right then, the effect was to amplify the shadows, to make them appear like savages dancing around a corpse.

One of the shadows belonged to Ruchika, Guru's wife. Her tall and usually-beautiful frame showed signs of agitation and shock. Her eyes met mine and for a second, I could sense her need to have a friendly soul near. But that was not to be. The inspector was interested in ushering me out of the hall and into the bedroom.

This was the scene of the crime, no doubts about it. It reeked of death, just in the neat arrangement of the room. Everything here was morbidly clean. The books were at right angles to the edges of the table, the clothes hung like extremely well-behaved gentlemen in a cannibal's butcher shop and the drapes refused to sway inspite of the heavy rain and winds outside. It is in a room like this that church organ music would usually rise to a crescendo. But there was no sound. Even the rain seemed muted from this room. Of course, all this were perepheral observations. What struck me as soon as I entered the room was the rather unusual angle Guru's corpse was making with the wall.

The scene was not particularly grotesque. Atleast, not in the way usually murder scenes are. There was something artistic about the way the kitchen knife was sticking out of Guru's forehead - like an evolution of Rodin's Thinker. The final outcome of the inner struggle in the form of a knife through the brain. What was scary about the whole thing was that the eyes did not look lifeless. There was nothing glazed about them. They still had the powerful, penetrating vision. Guru was intensely frowning at me while pondering upon a knife.

Another curious thing was that the room did not smell. There was nothing in the room to suggest a corpse but the corpse.

"Inspector, when did the murder take place?"

"About fifteen minutes ago."

Fifteen minutes. Just fifteen minutes ago a brutal randezvous had taken place right here. The time felt so near, almost as if I could just reach out and caress that moment. Just one step backward and I might be able to see it.

"Who-"

"That's what I am here for, sir. I would like it if you could answer some questions."

"What? Here?"

"Why not?"

I hesitated. It was not fear. It was something else. That creepy feeling of being watched. By Guru. No. Not Guru. The corpse.

"Can you tell me where you were fifteen minutes ago?"

"I was in my apartment!"

"How long had you been there?"

"What's the meaning of this? Are you suspecting me?"

"I have to suspect everyone. That's my job. Now, how long had you been there?"

"Not for long. I had been to my agent to discuss business. He lives in Benson Town and he can verify to this."

He had only started suspecting me and I was already giving alibis. His gaze was accusatory but I supposed that must come with the job. Or may be, it was one of the requirements of the job.

"I will see to it," he said, and his tone was such that I could make no mistake that he would see to it. His eyes were like steel, heavy and hard as he seemed to scan me. "How do you know the victim?"

"Guru? Me and Guru are good friends. Were. We used to work together at Wipro before I quit the place two years ago."

"Why did you quit?"

"How does that matter?"

"Just curiousity."

"I quit because I was getting tired of the mundane existence. I took up a career in writing and I have published one book." My one book. From the way things were going, a second book did not seem likely. I was degenerating with the failure of that one book.

I didn't expect him to pursue that line of questioning further. To a policeman like him, any information that is about books and music cannot have anything to do with a murder. I should have enlightened him on Munch and Gogh. On Dali and da Vinci.

"Do you suspect anyone?" he asked me.

"No. I don't. I mean, this is way beyond my everyday grasp of things. Something this surreal only happens in my stories. I have no idea what to do right now." My words were getting dumber and faster. I could sense my grasp of events go beyond my control. I knew I was panicking because I was not being articulate.

"How well do you know Ms Ruchika?"

"She, uh, she is a good friend of mine. I met her through Guru. All three of us regularly hang out together, you know. We keep meeting almost every other day."

It felt like talking to one of the really old computers that took forever to come up with an answer. The inspector seemed to carefully dissect every syllable and read what he could from them.

"Okay. Please do not leave this house until I have clarified further things. Till then, you can stay here."

For a minute, I thought he was going to force me into staying in that room with the corpse. At that time, the possibility did not seem laughable. Till a few minutes ago, he was Guru. Now, it was the corpse that could turn into a zombie and kill me. All my childhood hallucinations of monsters under the bed were reborn in the form of a Guru dressed in clown clothes and coming towards me slowly in that dimly-lit room, with the knife sticking out of his forehead and the inspector urging him on and laughing at my whimpering. I then realised that he was referring to just my physical presence in the house. I turned to go.

"One more thing." I stopped dead in my tracks. "What was your first book about?"

"It was about travel. About the inner journey of the soul. A travel-fiction. What does that have anything to do with this case?"

"Even the most bizarre, seemingly unconnected events can have a bearing on this murder, sir."

"Right." I walked out of the room and headed towards the bathroom.

Deconstruction

2008-07-13T16:42:00.002+05:30

A short story...

Gentlemen! I have the most unbelievable story to tell you.

The above words can be visualized as follows: A Victorian house with heavily-mustached men sitting around a fire while one tall, lean, clean-shaven man stands in front of the fireplace and addresses the gathering - probably talking about his escapades when with the British Raj in India. Or, it could be a much travel-worn sergeant just escaped from the jungles of Vietnam, sitting at his debriefing session and recounting his experience at Phnom Penh. Or, it could be the broke-private eye, talking to his clients about his cracking of the case. Please note that the murderer could be in the crowd of listeners as well.

Gentlemen! I have the most unbelievable story to tell you...

Well, I did have a story tell you and it was on this blog for a while. But stories, like humans, not only write themselves but also erase themselves. This one did too. Mainly because I found it to be too abstract for public consumption. Every writer must do stuff like these to fill up the 'trivia' section on him in Wikipedia. So, here's one for the books!

People with stories

2008-07-10T12:34:00.000+05:30

Two people were having a conversation next to me. Two people in an office, from their cubicles.

To recollect the exacts of that conversation would be a tough task even five seconds after that exchange. It went along the lines of:

"Did you try to do it using the New Java Applet Package?"
"No. We had decided to take the old route of finding a backdoor and trying to loop the program from in there."
"But don't you think it would have been easier to try the AOD?"
"And not to mention that Server 2000 guidelines. We did it the wrong way."
"It's like Heisenberg's Uncertainity!"

What I heard, for the first time, was not esoteric mumbo jumbo but life. They were having fun with it, discussing their programs and their technologies. It was their dream. I could see them, standing in the middle of their respective homes and happily thinking back to this moment. There would be mental black-and-white photographs of these moments, of such a perfect setting for the important episodes of their lives. If their lives were to be made into movies, these would be the scenes picked for a slower playback with beautiful music in the background when the movie ends. The scenes where they find stories.

I have the script all figured out for the biopic on me. I know how it should end. Slow Scottish bagpipes in the background. I am walking on a busy, crowded street as the camera zooms out from behind me while the bagpipes drone on. A slow flash of white light and a shot of me laughing at a joke at a coffee shop with a late-afternoon sun behind me. Flash. A shot of me kissing a girl under starlit skies. Flash. I am looking out of a train window with huge mountains in the background. Flash. I am jamming with friends in a Bombay apartment, with rain-clad clouds and jazz and smoke and vada pav and mini tea. Flash. I am walking all alone, in the extremely crowded street while the bagpipes reach a crescendo.

I am able to see other people's perfect scenes. I can see them moving in slow motion during these times for posterity. I can see them fixing my position in their world so as to get the picture right.

Renaissance

2008-06-30T12:15:00.002+05:30

"That is basic human tendency, man! You can't expect people to change it!" "All that may be good for songs and stories. But practically....?" "Yeah yeah. I am pretty sure you don't practice it yourself." "Dude! You are fighting Darwin's theory! Survival of the fittest, man!"

People are rushing. They start rushing when the red shows some sign of morphing into amber. They rush with their horns beeping - like migrating wildebeests. They rush out of the elevator, trying to squeeze their slimy skins out of the just-open doors before the other guy. And they are rushing towards extinction - glorifying it as evolution.

Human tendency is just another name we give to the fences and the walls we place around ourselves. Survival of the fittest? Children crying their hearts out because they haven't been selected to the next round of 'India's next biggest singer - brought to you by Pepsi!'; Young girls trying to desperately seduce a guy and not be dumped by him to win the big prize in 'MTV Splitsvilla' - this, apparently, is survival of the fittest. How long are you going to eat money before you realize that you are eating your own tail?

I can hear the boos from the crowd now. I can hear them calling me a hypocrite. A bundle of contradictions. And if at all I pray, I pray for a cleansing of my thought. I am aware of my fallacies - I am aware of my continual dependence on materials.

சிந்தை தெளிவாக்கு, அல்லால் இதை செத்த வுடலாக்கு.

All you ever needed to know - you already do. The basic truth has been set but convoluted by neo-religion and corporate greed.

The fittest are those that can love. Unconditionally.

She

2008-06-26T22:13:00.001+05:30

The pattern on the table looked like a bunch of dead lights on some forgotten spaceship in some crappy science fiction movie. A bunch of women were humming in a hollow way from the stereo - deep space or deep sea? The cars on the road were throwing curious lights on the road - a halogen siesta. And of course, those darn sodium vapour lamps were there too.

I observed the stream of conciousness that was escaping my brain faster than a roadrunner. Nonsense, basically. Spaceships and exploding stars and a lot of humming.

Conversations. I was deprived of them. I was undertaking a mini-vipasana - no talking. I am a listener. I listen to stories from enthusiastic lips. But the only lips that evening were that of a stray cat's.

"So, what do you think of spaceships?" she asked me with those dark eyes of hers, watching me from across the mocha fumes.

"We need more of them. I want something to remind me that it's NOT a small world," I replied.

"But don't you think that their absence proves that it is a huge, huge world?"

She had a point there. Can't help losing myself in your eyes - she was singing along with the stereo.

"Yes. They are huge. And deep," I said with a stupid grin. She feigned innocence. You're my shooting star! Why was I even singing this?

"Are you trying to flirt with me?" she asked.

"Of course not! I am just pulling you in. Urging you to teach me."

"Teach you what?"

"About socks and their cosmic significance."

"Oh no! You are no way close to that kind of evolution. I would have to start from butterfly effect and chaos theory."

"I am listening," said I.

"Meow," said the cat.

Yet another roadside attraction

2008-06-11T19:45:00.002+05:30

The tip of the pen was tapping against my lips. A book on the backside of the bill for three coffees? My lips were turning purple - the color of ideas. The pen was already making love to the paper that was as white as the cirrus clouds wisping slowly overhead.

Stories must write themselves. They should flow like the pheromones of pregnant housewives. They can never be wrenched. And no way was I going to wrench one onto the remaining ten inches of paper. But maybe, if I did not make the g's and the y's as virile, it could be done. What if the entire story was in one sentence? That way, I could ignore the periods. Maybe I could murder a few articles too. I never really liked the self-important a's and the hyped-up the's.

"The deal with women's breasts," began the shaman whose beard had, entangled in them, the leaves from last year's autumn, a wishbone and an unused condom and whose robe consisted of a pig's skin for he, like his master, believed in the commutation of the soul from the here and now to the there and then riding on flying pigs which, incidentally, had been misunderstood and had been convoluted into the phrase - 'If wishes were wings, then pigs would fly' - and whose eyes had no glint or twinkle contrary to popular belief but had a dulled look in them owing to, perhaps, the curious assortment of ferns and mushrooms around him, "is that it is a replacement to their buttocks that had once been the source of arousal for the primeval man who, like his paleontological ancestors, entered from behind her and hence has transferred his attachment with two globules to her mammaries."

No periods. No point.

RAGE

2008-06-05T15:59:00.002+05:30

Small world? SMALL WORLD?!

It is not a small world, you insignificant mortals! You - stupid crowd! - you live in your claustrophobic, plastic-smiled neighborhood that is as cheerful as the people are in the toothbrush commercials; you meet small-minded, insignificant others; make friends, make love, make an excuse for living and at the end of it, you meet other stupid carbon copies of yourselves and you exclaim, "Small world!"

Were you looking for a well-written piece here with the i's dotted? Well, this is the real me. Not the writer. Not the engineer. Not the son. Not the brother. This is me - naked and crying. I am a hypocrite living in a world filled with liars. I have no principles. I am the Satan!

This is an explosion. If blogs were humans, this one would be bleeding from the eyes. And there is no reason. No pattern. Just a need to kill. An insatiable need to kill the lies, to devour the flesh that craves for these....these Things! Materials. To rip the heart away from its fallacies; to strip life off the rules.

The pillar is broken, the mane is disheveled and the nails sink into the flesh.

Stand aside, Mr Siskel!

2008-06-02T13:39:00.003+05:30

How fast can you rattle out a story? One look at someone on the road and stories burst out like the staccato bursts from an automatic rifle. A fourty-something woman crossing the road with two kids. Probably a hard-working housewife trying to make ends meet while she worries constantly over her drunkard husband and her two lovely kids. The kids may probably hate their father, but I suppose they hate losing a family more. They are planning to study harder so that they can earn a lot and keep their mother happy. The mother probably does some tailoring to earn that extra cash.

Every story is someone else's until it is told - that is a line from a play that I watched recently. Coming back from the theatre, I exercised my new-found storytelling expertise on random people. The woman with the two kids was my first victim of generalization for the sake of fictional embellishment. I stereotyped her in order to make her story mine. Her burdens, her sorrows, the pathos - they belong to me now. I feel like the antithesis of one of those Dementors from Harry Potter that suck out happiness from humans.

And now, I have passed on the story to you. It is your baby now. You have to nourish her and give her scars. You have to make sure that she cries and laughs. A writer has no responsibility towards his words. Indeed, any art need not have any point to it.

And now, we come to the crux - that play. It is called Water Lillies. A very interesting ploy - using three seperate conversations to make us understand something. A trilogy - it was called. The conversations were interesting, both on and off the stage. What really let me down was the director's earnest desire to send what has been legally termed as a 'message' to the audience. Why? Why should there be a point to a play? Or a book? Have we been so conditioned with the concept of a climax that we do whatever it is that we can do to bring it to an end? Why can't a play just be?

Barring that, there was nothing else that ruined my day. I was drenched in both the creativity deluge and the rain from above. The sky was golden and the rain was raunchy. And my stories were fast overpowering my senses. Every single person after that woman gave me volumes and volumes of stories. I was looking for patterns. An old man on the street, looking at the passersby hungrily, hoping for a rupee or two. Was he deserted by his selfish son? I have been watching way too many soap operas.

Another thing that I noticed in the play - a certain lilt and tune in the delivery of dialogue. That's me - nitpicking. There was a critic that was sitting next to me, and he whispered in my ear towards the end of the play - "I know nothing about the cast or the director but I bet you that more than half of them are Brahmins." I went backstage and challenged them with this accusation. And every single one of them said in a I'm-not-a-racist-but-damn!-am-I-better-than-you! kind of a voice, "Why yes! I am a Brahmin! How did he guess that?" I was forcefully reminded of the various Malayalees that have asked me how I found out their place of origin when they hadn't spoken a word in Malayalam.

Couldn't resist but show you that there was no point to this post. And nor is there an ending. Do you get the 'message'?

Animation

2008-05-24T16:07:00.002+05:30

It was literally a stairway to heaven. Imagine ascending it under twilight. Evening. Thursday.
Two floors it rises, before coming to a halt at the terrace. Not exactly twilight. It is the uniform gold and pink and purple that seems to wash over the universe.

The trees - those are the first things that you notice. Trees swaying madly even though it's only a mild breeze. Maybe it's just the vibrance. I see the cuckoo nestled in the tree, her eyes searching. Is she looking for her lover? Why isn't he back? A hungry eagle, perhaps? A cat? The eyes pierce everything while her invisible ears must surely be perked up, straining to listen. No. It is not a 'she'. The woman is missing. And he is pining for her. Evenings are the best to mourn the loss of a love. But a sudden flutter of black wings and she is there, nipping at him playfully.

Such associations we make! The random interlude of two cuckoos caught in a poetic circle. How trivial! Mortality. That's what made us make up stories. Living a life with a perpetual expectation of death, it is purely natural that we glorify our existence.

Associations. Rhymes without reason. Make-believe patterns and imaginary fears. This is what mankind thrives on. The subtle wave of the tree speaks volumes when it shouldn't. A stray dog in the street looking for morsels. A hunt for survival turned into a reality show by people on the balcony feeding dry bread to it and haggling over whose turn it is to throw the crumbs.

There are numerous dhrishti bommais adorning the terrace railings on every house. Ancient charms to protect the insecure people in their flimsy dwellings. And all these charms are usually grotesque faces - a Hindu version of the gargoyle. But they are not scary. They stand (or are they sitting? It's just their heads, you see!) with their faces turned towards the distant horizon. What are these friendly demons saying to each other? Are they, perhaps, talking about humanity's desperate need to anthropomorphize everything around it? Do they want us to let them be so that they can happily practise voodoo?

How much had the clouds been part of my childhood! And now, they look mean and threatening for having ignored them. One huge cloud in particular is slowly taking the shape of a giant walking over mere mortals. Like Atlas holding up the sky. Slowly, inch by inch, he steps over invisibility, banishing all thoughts of the clear sky above. No, he is not banishing the view. He is teaching us humility. To lean down with the face hunting the clouds; to wait for a glimpse of the vast, unmoving, ever-changing permanence that is the sky; to spread the arms in bliss as infinity smothers us with love - the clouds are here to teach us that.

Where is the other soul - that other person that centuries of writers and poets promised me? Where is the person who can lean down with me? Pining? Why, I sure am! Seeing the evening in all its vastness can not only be humbling but also belittling. I want to be secure in the foolish knowledge that these things that I experience don't go unshared. My eyes search.

There! A woman in a saree, staring at the horizon. She doesn't look as if she is contemplating what to make for dinner, or whether to bring the dried clothes in. She is just looking. One more. A man. Two other girls, stopping their shuttlecock match to drink in the splendour. We - that housewife and that college kid and those two girls and the rest of the dhrishti bommais - look towards the horizon. Anticipation. Suspended animation.

I wept as I held mankind's collective breath - waiting for the next second.

I am me as you are me.

2008-05-18T23:52:00.002+05:30

Winter. The words flow like a glacier, unbridled in their beauty. Words are tiny icicles zipping through the icy floor of the canyon like frozen bullets. The clear white sky and the ocean meet in obscurity, the horizon all but a memory that is fast fading. Quiet.
In this stillness, there is a sense of dread. That of the unknown. That of knowledge opening the eyes to new fears.
The tender snowflakes fall, landing like little fairies. The flakes are reluctant to be grounded, their obstinance clear from their levitation. They are suspended ever so slightly above my skin, not wanting to end the journey. Then, as if instant salvation was attained in the breath of a second, they evaporate from my heat.
The next flakes are not so ethereal. Their attachment to reality is real. They are solid. I believe in them and so, they exist. As huge mounds of snow. As massive mountains gleaming like burnished silver. Snow Is.
Belief and fear. The two emotions build over each other, building my world. The snow is real.
The sky is real. The silence is tactile. And fear is solid. Frozen.
My words write me. Spelling mistakes included. A bad phrase ruins my day. Words flow around me as if like the frequent rarefied dust in a science-fiction movie merging together to form a superhero. The Z-particles zing through my skin, adding another layer to my dream. Another coating of paint.
This is mine. Everything is me. My words. My dream. Beyond me, there is nothing. I am where it all begins. I am the destination.

நான் என்ற பொய்யை நடத்துபவனும் நான்.
I preserve the 'I'.

Where is the fear? Where is the knowledge? They are gone now, like the morning mist under the sun. The veil is not lifted, mainly because there is nothing to uncover. Nothing to disillusion. You, reading these words - know this. I ordered you to read them. I made you. The years culminating to your perusal of this were my doing.
Next, I plan to add Unicorns in Russia. So long.

The trip continues

2008-05-12T19:01:00.003+05:30

Continued from The trip begins.

We always wait for something to happen. It is this anticipation that we call hope. But so immersed are we in this anticipation that we fail to recognise that our needs have always been fulfilled even before we resolve that need. All you ever wanted in your life - they are right here, in front of your eyes. Go and grasp it before it vanishes in a puff of green smoke.

Enchantments - they are nothing but the frequent lies that we uncover. Once the charm fails, the truth shall out. But are you ready for the truth?

Traveling in a typical South Indian bus can be quite harrowing and overpowering for a newbie. There are so many people that you come in close contact with. There are so many stories that you hear. And the bus has always been the best storyteller.

The grime from the rusty and wet window is something that remains foremost upon anyone's mind that has been on such a bus. The grime and the sweat. The bittersweet essence of humanity. Hardly an endearing aspect of our race. But I wanted this - to lose myself in this sea; to try and forget the smell of deoderants and flavoured cappuccinos. To try and be human.

I didn't know what I was waiting for as I stared out the window. Inspite of my long speeches about the love for humanity, I couldn't wait to set my eyes at the distant, darkening horizon to diminsh any awareness that I might have had of the world inside the bus. The world inside the bus was ugly. It was full of drunk college professors and obese housewives. The kids were obnoxious as ever, throwing up and eating spiced cucumber at the same time.

Now, spiced cucumber is probably the cornerstone of any bus travel within Tamil Nadu. The hawkers swoop in around the bus as soon as the black smoke from the exhaust mingles with the smell of urine in the bus stand. These sellers are true dare-devils. They often do not care if the bus is going to leave within the next thirty seconds. They will still manage to make the sale. And they can get you a change for 500 bucks if only you are ready to buy the cucumber with chilli powder wrapped in an old tamil newspaper that proudly proclaims the improving health condition of MGR.

One of the main events that led to me sitting in that rickety bus that shook with every passing breeze was my want to plunge back into a world that I had only just about started to explore before it had been taken away from me rudely. I am, of course, talking about my curious childhood. I was born just at the time when telephones were fast becoming an essential commodity. Before I could revel in obscurity, I had my mind numbed by the reality shows. And just when I had discovered that touring talkies were making their rounds in my hometown, we had bought a video cassette player. I am not a technology-hater. I just happen to be someone always stuck in the wrong time. But in this travel, I had planned to wrestle with time and stop it.

But none of this made me want to buy the cucumber.

This might end up as the starting of some chapter in my book. And this might be continued as well..

The Kitchen at the Center of the Universe

2008-05-09T13:29:00.003+05:30

For a long time, I've had this creeping suspicion that my kitchen might be the center of the universe. Whenever I decide to do anything there, chaos abounds. I was afraid that, owing to the enormous amount of cosmic activity going on there, my making instant noodles might cause the premature extinction of the weathered-horned wadywysts in the star system of Merak. Thus, I was forever happy in the knowledge that nothing was ever cooking in my kitchen. Nothing that might shift the entropy and result in astronomers wetting their pants in excitement. So, you should be thankful for the musty smell and obese spiders and the fatter lizards.

If you were to notice the Orion nebula these days, however, you might detect an increase in its size. I am immensely sorry, Mr Hawking, but I simply had to make those chapathis!

My chapathis have taught me a lot about polygons. Initially, the biggest problem to me was the kneading. It is oddly satisfying and slightly kinky. But don't rush to make conclusions involving the dough and me. I swear we are just friends.

Once I had the dough right, it was the shape. They were predominantly rounded rectangles. Then came the octogons. I realized that I had been trying very hard to get a circle. Why? Confirmance? I decided to move into abstraction.

So, this is what unemployed writers do. Some learn the guitar, some learn French. I, on the other hand, have entered the orgasmic world of gastronomy. While on the subject, let me tell you that 'gastronomy' is an extremely unappetizing word and evokes images of oily potato crisps and butter chicken sold on the roadside on a hot, humid evening by sweaty vendors. We need a new word. Something along the lines of - Oh, I don't know... something that doesn't make you visualize a middle-aged man eating a burrito!

My invisibilty was sealed one afternoon when I was trying to make some sambhar. My sambhar flowed around with the consistency of hydrochloric acid when the phone rang.

"We are calling from ICICI Bank. Would you like to go for our premium platinum credit card with a coating of tungsten and duralumin? The credit limit is five lakhs."

All of this was said in one continuous flow and I am making it up about the coating of tungsten. That's reserved for the really privileged customers.

"Thanks. I don't mind another one of those. I am an uemployed writer and I do need a lot of money."

*CLICK*

No more sales pitch before they take that leap of faith and realize that I could turn into a bestselling author. My sambhar tasted like carpet. Blissful ignorance. And sweet invisibility.

Love Story

2008-04-28T22:36:00.001+05:30

Love.

What am I doing, talking about love? Well, why not? In the thousands of years of evolution of this ethereal and evaescent species called humans, there has been no emotion that has captured the imagination of millions more vividly and more deeply than love. Fear is also a close contender, but fear is a reaction that comes forth when something that is loved is threatened. All the other emotions are offshoots of this curious one.

Love is a humbling experience. Love makes you fall down on your knees and weep. Love makes you look up and see the vast, blue sky - wanting to just levitate and be embraced by that giant shroud. Love is all you need.

I am in love, as you may have surmised. How am I in love? I will tell you.

It was a hot afternoon - the kind of afternoon that you want to sleep through but can't. There was humidity in the air thick enough to stir it with a spoon. And my sweat was adding on to the salty taste in that seaside air. There were tiny blisters on the underside of my feet - and every step I took was like that of Ariel's, the little mermaid that forsook her fins for legs just so that she could walk the sands and meet her lover. Every step cut like a knife. And I was walking to a shop so that I could buy a pair of swimming trunks.

"Uncle? Are you going to Mummy Daddy?"

She was all of ten years old. Dark skin and darker eyes. But her clothes and her skin were painted over by a collage of colors - red and pink and purple. Evidences of a celebration were clear in her skip. Holi? At this time?

"Yes." Mummy Daddy was the name of the shop that sold swimming trunks, among other things.

"There is a shop called Hot Breads right opposite to it and my house is a floor above Hot Breads. Can you help me cross the road? I am not supposed to, on my own."

"Sure!" I discovered the beginnings of a smile on my face. She misread it.

"Don't think I am mental, okay? I am like this because we had summer camp and we celebrated holi. Everyday, we celebrate one festival. Yesterday we had diwali. And the day before, we had Janmashtami. And before that, Christmas. And tomorrow, we will be doing New Year!"

"That's lovely. And I don't think you are mental."

We walked on - me in silence and she talking about her school and the summer camp and the fat boy that had tried to kiss her earlier. *YUCK! BOYS!*

"What's your name?" I asked her, not taking my eyes of hers. Such beautiful eyes!

"Neha. And yours?"

"I am Raju." Raju is the name I give when I am not in the mood to discuss the curious evolutionary aspects of my other name - Joos.

"That's a nice name. Even my brother's name is Raju. Actually his name is Raj, but he calls himself Raju. Are you in college or working, uncle?" All this was said in a single breath.

"I am working."

"Oh! Infosys?" Smart kid. All she had to go by were my dorky glasses and my weird haircut.

"No. I am a writer. I write stories."

"Wow! I love reading stories!"

"But I am afraid these are the grown-up variety."

She mused over that one for a while and then said, "Oh! Love stories?" The smile on her lips were mischievous for having found out something naughty about me.

"Ummm....yes. And some other stories too. Here is the shop. Do you want to hold my hand while we cross?"

"No. That's fine, uncle. I am a big girl."

We crossed while she kept talking about the stories that she liked to read. Once we were on the other side, she thanked me sweetly and vanished.

I was glad that her mother hadn't warned her about talking to strangers. And I was in love.

Love. It can make you smile in the middle of a busy street on a hot, humid afternoon when you have blisters on the underside of your feet.

Modus Operandi

2008-04-25T22:58:00.003+05:30

Currently reading - Hardboiled wonderland and the End of the world by Hiraki Murakami (Did I spell that right?)

Currently listening - to Albert Collins, The Imperial Recordings

Recently watched - Into the Wild

Currently blowing - my own trumpet

There! My deed for the blogworld is done. I don't play the usual tag games that you find elsewhere. I have discovered confirmity. And it doesn't suit me.

The joys of fucking the thingy

2008-04-23T13:11:00.000+05:30

"Fuck! I think I left my phone back at the cafe!"

"Fuck! That's some seriously awesome piece of work!"

"Faaaack! Way to go dude!"

"She wants me to buy her that dress with those thingies hanging out. Fuck, it's costly!"

You get the idea.

There is beauty in calling a thing by its proper name. 'The streets are lined with rhododendrons like a huge grey carpet bordered by the blood of a thousand beautiful souls' definitely sounds better than 'This is fuckin' awesome! Look at all those red thingies!'. But there is a joy in convoluting names - in monopolizing the language with expletives and zing-a-whoos.

'Fuck' is like a bomb going off in a packed bus in the middle of Times Square. Like uncorking a shaken bottle of champagne, 'fuck' gives out imageries with dazzling colors and intense emotions. And 'thingy'! Well, what can I say about the 'thingy'! The 'thingy' is the cornerstone of any intellectual conversation and no other word has furthered the cause of universal acceptance and oneness than the 'thingy'!

Language is not a barrier. Language is the gateway to conversing without words. Once all the thingies are fucked, we can start talking.

The Dragon Hunter

2008-04-03T12:04:00.001+05:30

Death is but a beginning - in a sea of beginnings. But truly, there are no beginnings. We are forever caught in this vicious cycle of friends, family, money and love. In truth, these are nothing but the sidedishes on a platter called illusion. These are the fine gossamer threads in the curtain that has been put over our eyes, blinding us from the truth.

"You are too young to be thinking about things like these! It is a mistake to give these thoughts the freedom that you have given them!"

Critics are forever hounding us. These servants of illusion toil ceaselessly, imprisoning as many souls as possible. Here, take this job. Work till you are grey in the hair and weak in the soul. Here is a car. This is a tiny box-like thing that will take you through a bigger box, to meet little people. It IS a small world, don't you forget that! Here is some money. Buy yourself more boxes - houses. Ah! Here is a lovely girl. She is smiling at you. Go and embrace her before the other man does. Here is a handsome fellow! He is yours, can't you see? Hold hands and make love. This person will be the final turn of the key in your padlock. There is no escaping it. Get married - because that is the language that we understand. Uh oh, you are going to die because of all the stress. Don't forget to turn off the lights when you go. Have a nice day.

We enact a script, switching roles often. But the play is old an boring. Noone can ask questions. Of course not! It just wouldn't do if someone decides to doubt the will of the Masters. You get nailed to a piece of wood for doubting something like that. You can say you dislike a person. You can say you hate a movie. It IS a free country, after all! But you can't dislike God. You can't hate religion. These are things that are and should be taken for granted.

When you live in an illusion, you need a myth to survive. And we, as humans, have embraced countless myths - money, power, lust, religion. These are the empty hopes that we fill our mundane lives with - evanescent destinations in a pointless journey.

WAKE UP!

Look at those trees filtering the early morning sunlight. There, can you see the color of the sky and that little girl? That smell - that underlying smell amidst a huge smog of deoderants and perfumes and paav bhaaji - that is the smell of humanity. Inhale it, let it mingle with yours.

Every second that we live is another second of pure bliss. To be here, in this time and space, and knowing that there are other times and spaces that we can go to at any point, knowing that there are different layers to illusion, knowing that infinite compassion is what truly keeps the heart pumping - oh! What joy!

I am off in search of this joy. I am a hunter, looking for dragons under unturned stones. There are no more dragons, you say. I don't know that and neither did don Quixote.

So, this will be my last post for some time to come. My bags are packed. The road is long. The signboards are dead.

Wish you well.

Let's Talk

2008-03-13T11:18:00.003+05:30

People are like the graffitti of a dog's urine on the sidewalk - smelly and evanescent.

They come in all sizes and colors. Some are good. Some are bad. But all of them are stuck on you. They leave their mark that is indelible - like that gooey thing on the underside of your shoe. And picking them apart is disgustingly satisfying.

"Fucker! You are a writer?!"

He was wearing thick, dorky glasses and his eyes were bloodshot. He had a t-shirt with words that were as inconsequential as this man in my life. The things a writer has to do to write - they are laid down in the contract. And top among them is to converse. So, I played along.

"Yes," I replied, trying hard to resist my temptation to turn my back and order for one more pint.

"Fucker! That's bullshit man!"

Some people really test you, making you discover new limits of patience.

"I am sorry?"

"Yeah, you should be! No one can be a writer, dude! Asshole, that's not a job!"

A few people around us had taken to staring over the top of their glasses, happy at the prospect of a bar brawl.

"I write for a living."

"I don't buy that crap! You're just sittin there with your beard and your kurta and your pen & paper, tryin to impress some arty chicks. That's all you're doing - selling your wares like a whore!"

This should have angered me. And it did.

"And what do YOU do?"

"I work for a software company, dude!"

I stared at him long, trying to make him see that he was a lost soul. Trying to beat it into his head that he was a nobody. No passion. No dreams. C'mon 'dude'! See the irony!

"I make a lot of money," he continued, refusing to accept defeat. "I buy a house. A car. Date a chick. Marry someone else. Grow old and die."

What was this person doing - digging his own grave?! Was this a practical joke that he was playing on himself? I discreetly looked around the bar for any hidden cameras with Pogo's label on it.

"And that is better because......?" My raised eyebrow ought to have burnt down his sceptical ones. But he ploughed on.

"It is better because my life ain't complicated. I don't bother about my dreams. I don't give a shit about my passion."

"But what about what you really want to do?"

He sat there, sipping and thinking.

"What was the biggest sorrow you've ever had to face?" he asked, countering my question with one of his own.

"I lost a loved one recently." Why was I even answering?

"You aren't dead because of that, right? You pulled through. You will pull through when you lose someone else. I pulled through even after knowing that I can't do what I want to. And that, motherfucker, is the kicker!"

I looked at the seat he had vacated after that punchline. It was closing time and the other patrons had left, disappointed at not seeing a joust.

"Sir? We are closing." It was Mani, the bartender.

"Tell me, Mani. Why do you work here?" The question had shot forth without my meaning to.

"I like listening to conversations, Sir. That'll be 450 rupees."

A rainbow in my water

2008-03-11T17:36:00.002+05:30

Some words have been sculpted to perfection. But these words do not reveal their meanings to us often. Today, I was privy to a few of them:

Dazzling, Shattering, Scintillating, Stupendous, Glittering, Overwhelming...

There was a rainbow in my water. It was fed by the rays of the sun. The glass was half full and the rainbow was fully gone. It carried with it solitude's stench. But there was a rainbow, though there was no thirst to quench.

The bamboo chairs gleamed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through straw-curtains while elderly germans peered into their laptops. There was an Indian kid next to me, trying very hard to impress his quasi-americanness on everyone around him. Or was it quasi-germanness?

The steak was red and peppered, while the potato was creamy and looked a little sick. A hungry squirrel entertained everyone there with his fight for survival while the bamboo chairs gleamed on.

The streets welcomed me back with purple and indigo and yellow. How many colors! How many trees! Where had they gone? The buildings scattered around the street blocked the sunlight every now and then, creating pools of gloom that still glittered with the multitude of markets stacked with fruits. The fruits were dancing, shamelessly displaying their peels and their seeds.

I had long since taken a decision to travel and write and enlighten myself. But I never thought that I would be travelling between my house and various little pieces of heaven fifteen minutes away. The road is always there - the same road that leads out of the house leads to the mountains. It is the same road that connects people. And it dazzles with the dust off the shoes of fellow dreamers.

Put me on a highway. Show me a sign. And take it to the limit - one more time...

PS: While on the subject, I have started a new blog that I may never update but hope to. You can visit it at http://diamondsoflucy.blogspot.com I am planning to use it as a blog meant only for my weird translations of various works in Tamil. That's all.

Issued in public interest

2008-02-25T03:18:00.003+05:30

I ignore beggars. I look away from them, not wanting to see my inexplicable guilt reflected in their eyes. Why should I feel guilty? It is not my fault that they are penniless! There was nothing I could have done in my past life that would have prevented them from stalking me! If I happen to eat a veg burger while they lust after clean water to drink, it is only because I happen to have been born in a well-to-do family purely by chance. There was nothing I could have done.

I also desist from giving them money. Inspite of my talking about chance and luck in a favorable fashion, I have this ridiculous notion that they need to earn their food! Why can't I just accept it as pure luck that they ask me for money when I happen to have it?

She was standing on the other side of the low fence that seperated the swanky coffee shop from the filth that populated the all-too-real sidewalk. My masala omelet was almost over save for a sorry-looking piece that I had left because it had gone cold. We were talking about going to a movie. All of us were aware of her presence - her torn saree, her brownish-red hair, the battered aluminum plate, and the heavily patched bag. I was extremely thankful that the breeze was blowing in the other direction and her stink did not carry. We continued ignoring the world on the other side of the fence.

"Hey! Chocolate! Chocolate beku!" she asked authoritatively. She was pointing at the last bit of the omelet. Either she was new to begging or she was slightly touched in the head. Her furtive glances and her changing facial expressions seemed to suggest the latter. I went through the usual feelings - the first being fear. Raw fear. She could easily reach over the fence and grab at my neck. She could try and hit me in the head for being richer. And then fear gave way to revulsion. Actually, fear and revulsion battled each other before irritation took over. I just wanted to see her go. I gave her that last piece without looking at her. She was meticulous in emptying the bare plate off even the onion pieces.

"Powder!" she said, gesturing at the sugar packet. We, at the table, glanced at each other. Omelet with sugar? What the hell! We handed over that too. She quickly got down to her unusual dinner of cold omelet with sugar to taste.

I was slightly disturbed. That was her dinner? I knew beggars went hungry for days. But somehow, the fact that there were beggars who were ready to eat a ridiculously small piece of omelet with sugar troubled me more. Before leaving the place, I handed over the cup of iced tea that was half empty. She accepted that with a I-deserve-that-tea-anyway kind of a look.

We did go to the movie that we had planned. 4 hours of pure stupidity. 250 bucks worth absurdity that went down well with popcorn and Pepsi. But in the movie hall, there was a poster that grabbed my attention.

Everyone's talking about it! But no one is doing anything about it!

PREVENT GLOBAL WARMING! ACT NOW!

Mills & Bharathiyar

2008-02-21T20:36:00.000+05:30

Muthamittu, pala muthamittu, pala muthamittu unai serndhida vandhen.
With kisses, and more kisses, and more kisses, I revel in our union.

The above line is from Bharathiyar's Vallipaatu. I say, off with his head! I have come here, not to praise him, but to kill him.

Bharathiyar is a love-struck young man who was never able to find his soulmate. He grew up on Shelley! What else can you expect from a man like that? A sissy of the highest order!

He has, of course, given a lot more to Tamil literature through his songs with such diverse topics like philosophy, atheism, communism, spirituality and pure tongue-in-cheek-ness. But he is remembered for his mushy love songs! He is remembered for his Kannamma!

Sure, he was gifted. He came out with some of the glorious lines that still send a tingling down my spine whenever I read it. A case in point:

Kovvai ithazh nagai veesa - vizhi konathai kondu nilavai pidithaal!

I am not going to bother with the translation of that line. It can never be done justice to. What style! What grace! There is a pure fluidity in his words. The syllables simply slide off the tongue, dripping with pure nectar and venom. And pure mush!

Was he slightly twisted in his head? I think not. He was very clearly living in an illusory world. A world that he had built - just for him and his kannamma. What made him retreat to this sensory paradise? Was he too sensitive to the demons around him? He used to be a wife-beater, as astonishing as that sounds. Did the guilt of it eat him from inside? Could it be that he never was able to face his wife and apologize to her? Could it be that he was setting things right by being extra nice to kannamma?

He was a lot like Dylan in the sense that he was made a reluctant rebel. He wanted to write songs about kannamma and about shakthi. He wanted to investigate the hyped-up spirituality business. He wanted to redeem Paanjali. He wanted to hold intellectual conversations with cuckoos.

Perhaps this line is the most profound:

Nachu thalai paambukulle - nalla naagamani ulladhenbaar. Thuchapadu nenjile - nindran jothi valaruthadi!
The legendary Naagamani gleams within the head of the vilest of snakes. And your image blooms like a flame in this detestable heart of mine.

Bharathiyar was a coward, living in an alternate reality. He was a lover. Can you see my dagger through his heart?

Let's be stupid

2008-02-19T15:31:00.002+05:30

There are always a few unsaid things.

The eyes talk a lot more, hinting at hidden mysteries. Those eloquent eyes push the words in your face. And behind such eyes, there are always a few unsaid things.

We construct bridges across rapids - wanting a human being. The bridge could lead us to death, but we plough along, braving bitter winds. Who could be behind those eyes? Is it the person that we see or is it the person's darkest desires come to life? Can the bridge hold? Can you walk hand-in-hand? "Don't go there! She is a slut!" says someone. "He is an asshole!" says another. But we look at them and say, "I know. But maybe there is more to this person! Let's just be stupid and build the bridge!" There are mishaps along the way. Those snubbed critics come back to life, spitting on our half-broken bridges. But we still plough along.

Such are the relationships that we forge. We decide to be stupidly brave and go ahead with the bridge. We are monumental risk-takers - adventure-seekers and adrenaline-junkies of the highest order! It gives us a high, to put someone through the test that we have deviced. Those unasked questions and those unsaid things - they come out as we watch the bridge shake and fumble. We - the builders of the bridge - stand on it and jump, trying to implode it. We are cruel quality-controllers, subjecting the bridge to the vilest of tests.

Why are there questions? Why should there be any answers? There were no expectations to begin with. Then why are they sprouting up? But we are past caring. We do not often realise that we are lousy builders - quite illogical actually! And as we watch the bridge succumb to our test, we pride ourselves in our victory, not realising that we lose our skills as each bridge collapses.

And the bitter-sweet irony of it all is that we were building a bridge to our own island!

But we need to be stupid throughout. We need to be stupid to start building a bridge. And we ought to be stupid and try not to test it with construction balls!

How nice it is to walk on the bridge with you. Let's just keep being stupid.

The man that clothes me

2008-01-27T03:20:00.000+05:30

It was predominantly a dark room lit by the fire in the hearth. The shadows of the men assembled danced on the ceilings, making them appear even more surreal than the figures in the tapestry far above them. A few maids scurried here and there, carrying pitchers of water or wine.

Peter was pacing the stone floor, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. The others looked at him apprehensively, some hoping he had an answer to why they were gathered there.
The creak of the door created a sudden stir among the assembled, and Jesus of Nazareth strode in, rather slowly. His eyes moved over the twelve others gathered there, resting briefly on a man hidden in the shadows.

"Teacher!" Peter rushed forward and kissed Jesus's feet. The others suddenly seemed to have realised that this was the apt thing to do, and snapped out of their trance to do so.

Half an hour later, the twelve were sitting stunned, as the impact of what their teacher had told them sank in. It was going to change everything. Every single person knew that they were witnessing history - a legend in the making. But who was the one? Their eyes moved sideways, daring the others to doubt them. The air seemed to have turned sharp all of a sudden, as daggers were thrown from behind eyelids. Who?

"Judas Iscariot!" The man addressed so by Jesus jerked up, his eyes missing everyone but the messiah's. "Come with me. We need to talk."

Guilty as charged! The other eleven looked at the darker man with contempt and - could it be relief? Had Jesus beckoned Peter, or Bartholomew - would the feeling have been same? There was no way to find out anymore. The die had been cast. The man had been marked.

Jesus and Judas strolled along the courtyard of the temple of Solomon, their path adorned by a dazzling moonlight from above. There was a faint scent of fresh herbs in the air as the two men walked.

"We are pretty much the same, my Judas. We have both been marked. There are times when destiny weighs down on you like a mountain. There are times when death might feel lighter than a feather. That is when men confront choices."

"But there are no choices, are there?" asked Judas, his eyes reflecting the moon.

"No. Not for us." A sudden cloud of darkness seemed to have passed Jesus's face as he said the words, and Judas could sense the sadness behind those words.

"You," said Jesus, "are going to free me from the man that clothes me. You are going to free from eternity. You are going to kill me, Judas. You are going to be my salvation."

Nothing - not even the eyes - betrayed the other man's emotions as he heard the words. He kept nodding and looking - deep inside.

"Let me initiate you into the way of stars, my friend," said Jesus, looking up. "Let me tell you about the duality of things. Hear the words of the gods as you listen to the inner drum. Let me tell you about fate and chance.There are layers to the human response, and there are levels of understanding. There are colors of men and shades of evil. Listen, and let me tell you..."

The younger man did not know how long the session had lasted - but he was smiling at the end of it all. There were tears in his eyes, but he looked at the Saviour with a new-found light. He had been the doubter, but now he was the only true believer. He was the first gnostic.

He bent down to kiss the anointed one's feet. Jesus flinched from Judas.

"Not yet," said Jesus. "Not just yet."

The above short play is based on a discovery called 'The Gospel of Judas' near the Dead Sea, where the Nag Hammadi scrolls (Dead Sea Scrolls) had been discovered. The authenticity of this document is still in question but it makes for an interesting read.

Walking with the dreamers

2008-01-22T01:46:00.000+05:30

The morning was early and the ducks were elegant. The small pathway along the lake seemed to stretch on endlessly and it was the first time I was enjoying a walk with six others.

It had been Mahendra Pallava who had suggested that we head out to a pub the previous night. Pulikesi had gotten drunk with vodka while Sivakami had taken it easy with lime juice.

And now we were all walking along the lake and Kabilan intoned, "Nagareshu Mysore."

"Athi Sundaram," said the Pallava king and I half-expected Sivakami to compose a dance right there, competing with the swans.

The Annual Theatre Festival (or Rangayana) at Mysore happens curiously every year. A few foreign films had also been showcased. 'Shame' by Ingmar Bergmen had touched a nerve - the pathetic human emotions and the shameful exploits to survive were put embarrasingly on display.

I had initially envisioned a place with bearded men in kurtas and movies that displayed breasts in aesthetic, black & white frames. I wasn't disappointed. But what surprised me most was how much I liked being there.

Then it had turned out that we (my travelling companion and I) were friends with the cast of 'Flame of the Forest' - a stage adaptation of Kalki's 'Sivagaamiyin Sabhadham'. The play brought alive the Kanchipuram of the Pallavas, resplendent with Sivakami's dance and Appar's poetry. Men and women that were forever stuck - and blissfully so - with Hamlet and Chekov performed with their hearts and souls. The same men and women with whom I was walking.

That very morning, I had woken up at six thirty to a lively discussion of the usage of iambic pentameters in Othello and its uses in theatre.

We were all dreamers there, refusing to look at the world in the eyes. We were rebels, trying to break through. Through to the other side. Some of us had found it. Some of us were still hunting for it. But all of us were dreaming. There were no inhibitions. No hesitations. No physical contact.

I had found the pleasure of their company. The company of a thousand lost souls. The company of one collective individual. The pleasure of travel. The pleasure of life. The kind of two days that bearded men in kurtas always talk about...

The mango grove

2008-01-02T18:17:00.001+05:30

Like friendly monsters waving their tentacles, the plants outside the coffee shop saluted me in the breeze. It was afternoon and the sun was throwing kaleidoscope shadows in that tree-ridden street. Tuesday.

The cushion sighed as I sat, and I ordered for tea.

There were baubles and mistletoes hanging limply, mourning the death of Christmas while Jim Morrison sang the eulogy from the speakers.

My tea arrived and tantalised me with the reflection of the asbestos and the crotons above it. How wonderful would it be if we could just reach in through the tea and carress the world beyond it? 'Through the Earl Grey' - I would call it.

The next song brought images of an earlier America - with metal diners and grumpy men and weathered hats and sweaty armpits. And intelligent waitresses and passionate adultery.

Why is it that all my recurring images are from a place and time I have never been to? The neon signs and the falling snow and the smoky cigarette form another image.

I was surprised by the creeping sunlight. There I was in the midwest evening and then there I was in the deccan afternoon. Shit! There I am!

The trip begins...

2007-11-20T15:44:00.000+05:30

Sodium vapor lamps have character. They make love to darkness unlike the harsh mercury ones, and beget little puddles of orangish black. They are rude, these lamps. They monochromatize even the stars! A world of blackish orange with a purple universe giving up to a chemical libido. And then there are places where they fail to reach - gaps in the fabric of luminous reality. Darkness. Footsteps meet the silent night.

What do writers mean when they say that the air was crisp? Does it mean that the air is brittle, breaking with every word? But I swear - no other word describes the state of the air better than 'crisp' when it is 3 in the morning on a cold November in Bangalore. Crisp, crunchy, cold air shrouded by the night. A little dog was laughing somewhere in the distance. And as usual, the sound of the distant train. All inimical to a silent night. Only thing missing was the tick tock of the invisible clock. My nocturnal overture.

I was dressed unfashionably - knee-length trousers and a thin T-shirt that said "Don't follow me, I am lost too!" on the front. My flip-flops were flipping and flopping on the pavement. I was chilled to my very cells.

I was, of course, going through a mental anguish. No other person would be walking those streets that night but one with a heartbreak. And when a 22-year-old male takes that walk, you can bet your last cigarette that a girl is involved. My problem was that the girl was not involved. Not involved in me.

My world was slowly crumbling around me. I had been born a die-hard romantic - the worst kind. I used to be the kid that headed to the library when the rest of the boys were playing cricket to impress the girls. The stereo-typical head-of-the-math-club kind of a kid. Except that I hated math. But I do wear glasses. Then one day, as my rotten luck would have it, I had picked up "Bridge Across Forever" by Richard Bach.

Which was why I was wandering aimlessly on that desolate street, trying to find meaning, to find reason.

Everything happens for a reason. But for the devious mind, every single occurence can be interpreted as a reason. I don't believe in fate or destiny. Life is nothing but a cast of a die. A six and you're in love. A one and you're dead. Cause and effect are mere probabilities, connected by happenstance. Doing the right thing does not matter except that it might slightly increase your probability of having a good thing done on you. Chance. Not fate. Luck. Not reason.

I carefully retrieved a smoke from my box and lit it up, inhaling deeply. I turned around to watch out for any passing police cruisers.

Time has a curious habit of stretching when it wants to. Time is expandable.

Sodium vapor lamps have character. They make love to darkness unlike the harsh mercury ones, and beget little puddles of orangish black. They are rude, these lamps. They monochromatize even the stars! A world of blackish orange with a purple universe giving up to a chemical libido. And then there are places where they fail to reach - gaps in the fabric of luminous reality. Darkness. But was it really darkness? Have I been here before?

I had a well-paying job. The typical IT ones. My day started at six thirty and ended at one in the morning. The pay was good - it was phenomenal for one just out of college. But the work was tearing my mind apart. Ever since I had joined the job, the only things that I had read were some Functional Specifications of some weird business house and the only things that I had written were some few lakhs of meaningless codes for some faceless clients. I had had enough of that numbing cycle.

The dog grinned at me in a curious way - very reminiscient of its relative, the hyena. A scavenger come to feast on dying dreams. Rigor mortis was setting on my ambitions. I could see the tongue lolling out, eyes open in one last desperate cry for life. I didn't much like that dog. The pavement was slowing down beneath me, the tiles too far apart.

A few teenagers were singing "Alice! Alice! Who the fuck is Alice?" from one of the numerous terraces. A cellphone was ringing from a nearby house. My mind was screaming out a eulogy.

Where was the silence? I needed some quiet.

I heard a tiny sound and I looked up. The sky was unbelievably huge and vast. And not a single cloud in sight. There was Orion. And right above Orion was this small orange star. Probably a red dwarf long dead now. Half the stars in the sky are most likely dead. But what does time matter in the cosmic sense?

Time is expendable.

The sound seemed to have come from that dying star. A huge tunnel was yawning open in front of my eyes, the star at the end of it. Star streaks formed the inner wall of the tunnel. Just like that rabbit hole that Alice went through. WHO THE FUCK IS ALICE?

I knew I had to change my lifestyle. There were lots of things that I wanted to do. Travel a bit. Write a lot. Meet interesting people. Be known as someone other than that-relative-of-yours-who-is-a-techie-right?. And the time to do that was fast approaching.

The orange star was the only thing left in the sky, and darkness was creeping up from the sides. The tunnel was nowhere in sight. A strange warmth and a sudden chill. And - bless my soul! - a feeling of euphoria! Curiouser and curiouser.

"Hallo!!! What you doing? GET UP!"

I stood up and faced the fat cop. He was stinking of urine and whisky.

"What you doing here? Huh? Where home?"

I smiled. It was love at first sight. Humanity was beckoning. Where was my home?

to be continued...

Yogasiddhi

2007-11-12T17:16:00.000+05:30

Hunt! Hunt for your food everyday!
Talk! Talk meaninglessly!
Work! Work your body to death!
Rip! Rip their hearts out with your actions!
See! See the white hair pushing you to your death!
Succumb to the vileness!
Die!
I am not them! I am not you!
I don't give up that easily!

I will ask you a few things,
And you will give them to me right now!
Destroy my past sins! Don't let them touch me!
Grant me a new soul - for I need no more grief!
Cleanse my mind!
Keep me in bliss.
Forever.

Yet another Bharathiyar translation. This is an excerpt from a song titled 'Yogasiddhi'. This piece starts with 'Thedi choru nidham thindru...'

Watch words

2007-10-12T21:56:00.000+05:30

Today, I decided to sleep with my wristwatch facing the other way.

Now, the dial is not luminous. It does not smirk at me like the painted clown mask at two in the morning when I am already seeing light sans the tunnel, Pandora be blessed. It does not go tick tock which, to me, is the heartbeat of the universe - the siren and the chugga chugga of the distant train being the sound of blood pumping through its veins. It does not wake me up at seven in the morning, shattering the cobwebs like a drunk horsefly. It does however tend to slip from my wrist down to the heel of my palm which often shocks my mother into a feeding frenzy so that the Lorus stays smack on my wrist. But I don't wear it when I am sleeping. No fetishes there.

So, you may be curious to know why I am specific about the physical alignment of the watch to my somnambulant self, when it does nothing but lie in nocturnal dormancy.

I hate it when someone tells me the time. It's like saying, "It is five in the morning. This marks the 2,09,970th hour of your lifetime that has an average of 5,25,600 hours. Go figure."

And when I wake up for that much needed glass of water after an evening of engorged intellectual debate over several pitchers of beer, I do not want to open my eyes to the mocking face of the Lorus which, I know, is sitting smugly in the light of its immortality.

Still Life

2007-09-02T21:42:00.000+05:30

There's an empty table next to me. It gives me the same kind of orgasmic feeling that I get when I see a blank piece of paper.

Who is going to come and sit here? What is their part in my life? What myth and legends; what stories? A girl, guy or a couple? A bunch of hyperactive college students? What are they going to order? Cappuccino or Latte? Cigarette or peppermint? What destiny brought them here, next to me, to share their stories with this literate voyeur?

The table speaks to me of a thousand stories. It is like an autorickshaw driver - with numerous anecdotes and an opinion for everything. It tells me of the time when sagging boobs rested on its top; of the time when it coughed smoke the color of ideas; of the time when it belched gorging on obscene kisses.

"What are you writing?" asked a pair of dark eyes from the corner. I conspicously pushed the piece of paper to her vicinity, willing her to read the fine print. A blink and she was lost in the mocha fumes. A haunting set of eyes. Too bad.

"Anything else?" asks the man with his hands. He is deaf and dumb - like the table next to me. I find myself handicapped. How do you say to this guy - "The coffee was terrible but I had lifetimes talking to me. Thank you."? I smile and so does he - going off to the kitchen to get me more of the ersatz.

A beggar nudges me from behind, sporting her drugged child and a collecting tin. I ignore her and continue writing about the beauty of humanity. Handicap.

The light dims as the golden orb above me turns impotent. "Nice day," says the table. "Not bad," I reply, propping my legs up. She turns silent, her cold grey eyes reproaching me for the affrontery. What can I say? I am not much of a conversationalist.

Pit. Pit. Pit pat pat pat patter patter patter - like diamond tears, the clouds relieve themselves. My lusty eyes feast on the white T-shirts.

"Can I borrow a light, mate?" asks the guy, hastening to smoke in the light of the rain.

How do you borrow light? It is free!

GIVE ME MY LIGHT BACK, YOU THIEVING BASTARD!

The table fills up and I leave. All this socializing is getting to me...

The fat lady's ballad

2007-08-23T13:18:00.000+05:30

Weird incantations spoken in a whisper,
Through the foliage the witch slithers on.
Darkness shrouds the night.
While the witch cackles at their follies.

Sleep leaves like a scared rabbit
And I wake up, drenched in sweat.
The seductive smile - it glitters in the night
While the witch eyes me with pride.

"Go away!" I shout
And she merely teases.
"Stay Back!" I cry,
While she hugs me to death.

Sweet surrender - and a bitter battle
Fire and ice rolled into one.
Smoke rings mate with my breath
While the witch kisses me.

"This feels good," I say, panting.
She carresses me with her disfigured nails.
"What is your name?" I ask,
"Maya," she says, dancing over my corpse.

For ardent fanatics of Bharathiyar, this might seem like a pathetic, dark reflection of 'Mangiyadhor Nilavinilae' song. Any similarity is completely intentional and not coincidental.

Acme of evolution

2007-08-17T13:55:00.000+05:30

How are you? It's been a while since I have actually talked to you! You know what I just realized? It is a huge thing so here goes:

I am a resident of a state that is one in 30 others in a country that is one in some 20 or so in a continent that is one in seven, surrounded by water that is bigger by 75% in a planet that is one in nine (or is it ten?) revolving around a sun that is one in millions in a galaxy that is one in billions in a universe that has more dark matter than galaxies in it.

So, what is all the big deal about? I mean, reading through my blog, I seem to have been rambling a lot of late. What is it about being a human that makes me such an asshole? I am an atom in a pimple in the ass end of creation. But all I can think of is I, me and myself.

What is this morbid fixation that seems to have suddenly entered all my posts? Where am I channeling all this dirty energy from?

Life has so far always given me a high. There have been ups and downs, but right now, there seems to be a huge void somewhere in there. And the void keeps gobbling up all the little wonderful things that are happening.

And do you know one other thing that I realised?

The star called sun had to form in the exact shape and power, and had to collate a precise amount of stones and rocks to form into planets, and this rock called Earth had to be in the exact distance (too far and it would have been too cold, and too near and it would have burned up), and it had to solidify at the exact moment (too soon and all the gases would have been trapped inside, and too late and the gases would have escaped leaving no atmosphere), and comets and meteorites had to bombard at the exact frequency to create craters where electricity had to fuse the exact molecules of oxygen and hydrogen to form water that accumulated in those craters to form ocean, and a tiny algae had to do the exact process of breathing in nitrogen and breathing out oxygen and the whole evolution had to follow a precise step in order for me to be sitting here in front of a computer, telling you how insignificant I am.

A huge play has been enacted - one spanning millions of years - so that I could be. Not so insignificant, I think. My glass is half full.

And there is just one final realization that I want to share with you:

My grammar is pathetic!

Mogathai Kondruvidu

2007-07-19T13:01:00.000+05:30

Kill the lust, or stop my breath
Smite the body, or banish the thoughts.
Discipline the senses, or demolish the flesh
You that does everything in all the worlds.

Destroy the bonds, or remove the burden of life
Cleanse my thoughts, or make me a corpse.
Oh, why do I have to depend on these mere mortals?
You that is the life force inside everything.

Will my heart not calm down? Will this deceptive body not leave me?
O Mother! Will the tears of devotion not flow?
In the flood that is your love, will this dog's thirst not quench?
You that is too precious to be uttered - the Omnipresent.

A crude crude translation of my favorite song of Bharathiyar - Mogathai Kondruvidu (Mahaasakthikku Vinnappam). To put this here in this toned down form is almost an insult to the great man - but I just wanted this to be here.

The boy from long ago

2007-07-06T12:11:00.000+05:30

The birds are chirping. The sky is mixture of blue and grey. The sun peeks out every now and then. There is a chill breeze that whips across your face. Except, of course, your face is not there.

There are no faces outside. All of them are getting a whiff of electronic breeze; the ears are strained for the whirr of the motor in the CPU; the eyes are feasting themselves on the dancing lines on the monitor; the hand lovingly grasps the mouse, caressing it and coaxing it to do beautiful things. Doggone with the wind. The wind is the past. So is the sunlight.

How many paper boats do you see on the puddles? How many kites stuck in the lamp posts? How many people figuring out the shapes of the clouds? How many stolen kisses under the tree?

Is this the only life that is out there? Sometimes, I just want to rip my shirt apart and wander in the nude - just to ruffle their ordered world a bit. How come we have imprisoned ourselves in this cage? Starched shirts, combed hairs, polished shoes - these are the shackles that bind us. Every order I obey feels like another turn of the key on the padlock.

And in moments like these - I see his face. The ten-year-old me, come to mock. He smiles gleefuly, holding an Enid Blyton in one hand and a lollypop on the other. His shirts are muddy and his knees are green. His tongue is a violent shade of purple. I hate that kid. I hate him for having given up so easily.

"What the f*** happened to you!" I shout at him. "You were supposed to rule the world! You were supposed to fly like an eagle. What the f*** happened to you?"

He smiles again, uncomprehendingly. The little rascal! How dare he give up on me? How dare he take the path that was trodden by so many? He was supposed to head for the woods, holding someone's hands. He had no right to lose that someone in the crowd. He had no right to lose himself in the crowd.

He jumps over a puddle, then comes back to jump right in.

"RPG," he said.

2007-03-26T16:59:00.000+05:30

So, a small hiatus. Wondering where I have been? Literally - in another world

The world of RPG. For the uninitiated, RPG stands for Role-playing games. It basically goes like this:

You first register on some RPG site and get a username. There is a public forum where different people from around the globe start various threads. you can either start your own thread or enter an existing one. The thread usually is a typical game of the fantasy genre - swords, knights, dungeons and dragons. You start out by defining the character and type in your character's actions and dialogues and the events surrounding him/her. Someone may (and will) respond with their character's response to the above-mentioned action. And it goes on and on, sometimes involving hundreds of players, spanning various lands and events. No visuals. There are rules, however. You can't act out-of-character (OOC); you can't do everything! (god-modding or mary-sue); you can't right away do magic if you are too young and all that.

It is an extremely addictive world. After sometime, the real world fuses with the RPG world. I even started seeing myself in the third person; my mind forming words in the past tense for my actions. Scary. And man, does it give you a high. You could be absolutely anyone you want - go anywhere - undertake quests - kiss sleeping beauties...

Why do people do RPGs? I got to interact with a lot of RPers outside the game and most of them had a very sorry personal life. Kids and teenagers living in trailer parks; going through some sort of mental trauma....Sad.

Why did I go? Initially, the main reason was to write. I love writing (especially this dungeons and dragons kind of stories), and I was curious. But once in it, I realised this was big! This was like a deep chasm - the one from which you cannot tear your eyes away but dangerous all the same. I once sat up till four in the morning, trying to kill the evil king Aemon!

Then I got thinking. What makes this RPG world real? Acceptance. Everyone in your story accepts you are the Dark Knight come to terrorize the town - and you are. Just like how everyone accepts you are Mr So-and-so in the real world.

And then, there was this nine-year-old girl (meggiethebest was her username) who wanted to play a game about 'hourses'. Her hourse's name was Penny. Poor girl, no one ever replied to her post. Only one did, and that too to tell her that it is spelt 'horses'. I just do not want to think about her reason to enter the world of RPG.

Call me crazy or weird or freaky or whatever - but this post is for meggiethebest.

Sunset - outsourced!

2007-03-19T09:31:00.000+05:30

I am sweating now and I can't breathe! You would too, if you see what I have!

My office is on Old Mahabalipuram Road - the road that meant a weekend of fun at Silver Sands Resorts when I was a kid. Now it stands for work. And more work. The road is a potholes haven. And towering IT parks make it as impersonal as ever. The sun bakes the people relentlessly.

The scene that I am about to describe happened at six fourty-five in the evening. As usual, I went to the pantry to pick up a cup of coffee and genially stood in the balcony. The view was breathtaking! Behind our office is a huge, dried up lake that spans acres. And beyond that is the Chennai skyline. Towering over all these was the huge, huge sky. The sun had set but its spirit remained in the form a wide band of crimson set low in the western horizon. Abruptly, like the painting by an impatient kid, the sky was a deep violet above the red. The two colors clashed splendidly, and the whole scene was watched over by the brightest Venus I have ever seen - my favorite object in the sky.

I stood there, drinking it all in with my coffee. I turned around with that stupid grin I have whenever I am pleased stupid and looked at a scene of absolute horror. There were about fifteen men and women there in that balcony, with their coffee and the optional cigarette - and every single one of them was doing something with their phone. A lot of them were talking; some were playing their favorite music (loudly); some were showing their favorite forwards to their friends; and some just held on to their cellphones so as to feel secure. Not one looked out. NOT ONE! But they did look at me - with horror. I had violated the code!

I was close to chocking before I was rushed to my cubicle. The sight of my screen soothed me a bit and the hum of AC brought me back to reality. My manager severely admonished me and asked me to stay away from the sky.

Sunset is something that happens to someone else. In a different land. The sun has no place in this world of steel and silicon. We are safe in our cubicles. If we need the sunset, then we'll outsource it. I had almost become an outcast, trying to enjoy the sunset. Never again! Never ever!

Ting ting.....ting ting.....Ahhhh.....!

I wonder why I wonder

2007-02-26T20:51:00.000+05:30

I have a little cousin whose favorite game is to keep asking why. Any tale I tell him, he will make sure that I don't get away with it easily. He would want all the details, all the nuances. I can't help imagining the catastrophe that would result if he watched our Indian movies.

The point is, he once had a conversation with his father that went something like this.

"Daddy," he asks as he settles himself on his father's lap in the car. "Why are we going in the car?"
His father, my uncle, who has an immense amount of patience and good humor when it comes to him, answers - "Because it's too far to walk."
"Why?"
"Because you wanted to go that ice cream parlor and it is way out."
He kept quiet for a while. Then, he suddenly asks, "Daddy, why is this a CD player?"
I, sitting in the car, was flummoxed. Why indeed?
His dad replies, "Because it's not a cassette player, that's why."

What a profound thing to say! Why am I? Because I am not you. Why is this world? Because we are in it!

My physics teacher once told me that if you kept asking why, you would leave the realm of physics and enter the murky zones of metaphysics and the even murkier zones of philosophy. Why is the earth round? Why is sphere the perfect shape? Why is there something called surface tension? Why should there be a God? Why should this universe exist? Why is it that we are here and not on Mars? You get the idea...

A case in point. I work in an IT firm. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. You and everyone else. The thing is, one begins to lose his identity when in such a firm. You are no more Mr or Ms So and So. You are Employee no. 132851. You are your ID card. You are your proximity card. If not for the card, you don't exist. All these common complaints, I am sure you've heard tons of times, which set me thinking.

How else are you known? By your name? But a name is just a different form of a number. Your ID. You don't exist if not for your name. Then, what's in a name? What's in an Employee no.? Who are we really? Much as I hate being an egoist (or is it egotist? Never could tell), the only real identity is 'I'. Not 'you', not 'her'. Only 'I'. I can visualize Descartes nodding his head in approval.

If that be the case, what are you to me? Or you a fellow 'I'? Can I ever think of you as a living being, when I sometimes feel you are all props in my stage? Will there ever come a time when I acquire this elusive 'collective conciousness'?

Bharathiyar - my mentor in several ways (for those of you who don't know him, he was a great tamil poet - a freedom fighter and a rebel) - once wrote a song that I will try to crudely translate here.

If all that is seen eventually dies out,
Then all that has been concealed should come into existence.
If that be the case, am I a dream?
Is this world a lie?

PS: The title of this post is actually borrowed from another great man, Richard P. Feynman.

I've packed my bags, I'm not ready to go!

2007-02-11T10:47:00.000+05:30

Regular followers of my blog, (the species that I place alongside with unicorns), would have relished reading the post before the last one. The one that tells you about my blissful state in Bangalore. Well, I've got news for you. I have been transferred to Chennai
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That long pause was there to let you get over the shock. That still isn't enough for me.

Now, Chennai. Well...Chennai. Frankly, I do not know how I got here. And that too on my birthday. God is seriously funny. And delightfully cruel. What am I doing here? I mean, I understand I am here to work but that can't be the real reason, can it? There must be some hidden purpose for Fate to have hauled me from Bangalore to here. I just have to keep my eyes open for any clues.

I seriously feel sorry for leaving Bangalore. What a riot it was! But then, all good things must come to a pause. I just wonder what my current hometown has in store for me. Right now, it looks extremely unfriendly and indifferent.

So, if you thought this post isn't anywhere close to my usual work, then blame it on this coastal city. (Incidentally, I haven't yet gone to take a look at the sea! Can you believe that?) And I think I will keep coming back more regularly to this space. Not much diversion, you see.

Au Revoir.

Knock Knock Knockin' on Heaven's door

2007-01-16T22:23:00.000+05:30

Okay, I know it's way past the new year but, people, you've got to give me time to get over the hangover (euphoria!).

My new year parties have always been less than glorious. When the world was holding it's collective breath for the new millenium, I was stuck in my grandmother's house watching a tamil movie at midnight. (Seriously!) And when the rest of my family was partying hard in Bangalore a few years after that, I was getting drunk on the terrace of my college mate's house, with five other guys!!!

But this time, I think I have sufficiently made up for all that by being in Goa!!

GOAAAAAAAAA!!!! Right up there with island of the lesbos in my mind! And I will settle for goa for the time being.

Drove all the way and back. That in itself must account for something. The road was...well...interesting. And the company was phenomenal. The music was great! Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison and John Denver and Billy Joel and Bob Marley! Rich company indeed!!

And then, of course, Goa...

Where should I start? How about the sun-kissed beaches? White sands? Breath-taking sunsets? Equally breath-taking and equally kissed babes? The endless parties? Oh, I could go on and on.

But the one amazing thing about Goa is anything, absolutely anything goes! My first day at Goa, sitting in a shack, sipping beer, and the bartender comes up to me and lowers his voice in a conspiratorial tone.

"Boss, aur koi mangtha hai? Weed? Smoke up?"

I looked at him! That was first time someone offered to get me weed in such a blatant fashion!

Anjuna Beach. The place where I have seen the best sunset so far. The sun seemed to gently settle down on the waters and suddenly explode! The sea was awash with crimson and azure. Wow! As I was looking at it, drinking the scene fully, the waiter of the shack came and stood next to me, looking at the sunset in a dispassionate way. He had his cellphone to his ear and was apparently speaking to someone. He suddenly leaned close to me.

"Boss, ecstasy mangtha hai? Ecstasy?"

I grinned at him in a stupid way. Nope. I had already found my ecstasy.

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door.......

You and I, in this beautiful world.....

2006-12-04T16:01:00.000+05:30

What a gorgeous day! What a gorgeous life!

Okay people, I am going to let you in on a secret. I am happy. Extremely happy. So happy I could personally kiss you all. I love this world.

You can picture me very clearly now. Sitting happily with a week old beard that's kinda fuzzy, my hooded t-shirt flapping gently in the breeze, the unwashed pair of jeans that's starting to look more interesting than a picasso masterpiece, my glasses slightly askew due to the repeated attacks on it by my three-year-old cousin, my hair closely cropped and looking like I just touched a live wire and the inevitable mug of steaming coffee going cold in front of me. If you think this isn't bliss, my doubts about raving psychopaths being the only visitors to my blog will be confirmed.

And the seriously funny thing is, I love everyone! I mean, absolutely everyone! The people that ask me to have a nice day after talking non-stop over the phone about credit cards and insurance policies (I still do not know how they get my number), the ones who stamp my foot really hard and when I look expectantly at them for five long minutes, come out with a half-ass excuse for an apology, the dogs who like nothing more than a sniff at my crotch, the women who think i am the next interesting thing to blue-green algae, and the dudes who forget my name for the thirteenth time. I love them all!

If there was one thing that I am glad about, it's my decision to come to bangalore.

The space, the songs, the company,
I am really havin a ball (courtesy: John Denver :))

Okay, there's so much to tell you but you have to watch this space. Now is not the time. Too much of anything is not good for the weak-hearted soul.

Love, peace and bliss people. I am so glad you all are here. Cheers!

The Gospel according to my little cousin

2006-10-27T11:32:00.000+05:30

Diwali! The Indian Christmas! And this year, I was the Desi Santa Claus!

Going home after earning my first salary felt like heaven. Laden with goodies for the whole family, I truly felt at peace with the world. And the look on my paatti's (grandma's) face when I handed a 1000 rupee note to her was, as MasterCard puts it, priceless!

But this Diwali was all the more important to me because I got to see the world through two completely different people. My 75-year-old grandma and my six-year-old cousin.

Scene 1:
My grandma has just received word that her pension arrears have been sanctioned and she is entitled to a huge sum. Somewhere in the vicinity of two lakhs! I am driving her over to a relative's place.

Grandma: kannappa! (That's how she calls me. She never calls me by my name, it being the name of my late grandfather!) As soon as the money comes, it will be your birthday. I will give you some money.
Me: Why paatti? I have started earning. Keep it yourself. Enjoy.
Her: Not like that. I want to give. Some for you, some for your sister. Then of course, to your dad and mom. Your mom has taken care of me for so long! (This coming from an almost typical Indian Saas!) And then the rest I will give to my sister's son. (This son has been paralysed from birth and is now around 25. Can't eat or bathe or brush by himself.)
Me: What about for you?
Grandma: What use is it for me? I will be dead and gone in a few years!(I frankly think most old people are fascinated by death. They never stop talking about it! Fetish, perhaps!)

Just like that, she was giving away two lakhs! And here I was, trying to figure out which person in the family to leave out of the gift list, so I have money to party later!

Scene 2:
I am taking my 6-year-old cousin on a 'bike ride'! Through the streets of Chennai filled with Diwali rubbish. Late evening, with 'Digital Calculator' and 'Pink Pongs' and 'Hot Girls' lighting up the sky. (These are genuine names of rockets!). She suddenly looks up to me and says, "I prefer things that only give out light. And lots of colors. I don't know why people like bombs so much. Too much noise!"

How does that MLTR song go?
The world's so wild,
but you've built your own paradise, Sleeping Child!

Another time, at the Marina. A beautiful afternoon, the sea in a hue of colors. Grey and green and blue playing with my mind. My cousin looks at the beach sand and notices the countless paper rockets and kites and balloon pieces on the sand. She then turns to her source of wisdom - her dad.
"Daddy, why are there so many balloon pieces?"
"Because, sweety, people sell balloons in the evenings and kids play with them."
She looks perplexed.
"But daddy, why do you need balloons here? You've got waves! What more do you need?"

My Diwali was made!

Bangalore Times

2006-10-18T13:24:00.000+05:30

Well, it's about time I wrote something about this city.

Where do I start? There's so much here I don't know where to begin. To me, ten years from now, Bangalore will stand for money. This is the place that has given me a job, and my first salary. This is the place where I realised ATM cards don't 'make' money. And credit cards can belong to me as well. There's so much dough here.

But then, for anyone else, I suppose it stands for the same. Let me just step out of the money field and look at Bangalore a bit objectively. What comes my mind when I think of Bangalore? Pubs! Of course! And then.....coffee shops, pretty babes, fashion dressing, software firms, advertising agencies, and of course, the traffic.

More and more I think of the things bangalorish, the more and more I am surprised that Bangalore doesn't have an identity. Not one person who stands for this city. This city will always be the 'other' city.

There's no 'old' Bangalore. A lot of things happen here and yet, it seems stale. Like one huge play being enacted every single day, with varying intensity. And people feel comfortable knowing that there is permanence. That is probably why this city attracts so many people.

Do I like it here? Let me see......Right now, there's isn't much of a choice for me. But given a choice, would I still stay here? Well, all through my life, I have been living in places where crossing the road was the principal source of entertainment. Places where the very idea of paying thirty bucks for a coffee beckons images of armageddon. This is a sudden and nice change! I like the pace here. Not fast, mind you, but customized. You want to go slow, just go slow. People just don't bother what you do! Probably the reason why Bangalore has no identity is because everyone's an individual here. To each, his own.

INR 12,615

2006-10-08T21:11:00.000+05:30

Here I am, again trying to write something because I have to. No writers' block this time. For the first time, I can honestly say I have been busy. Working!

Okay okay, i know you must be tired of hearing me say that but people, it feels so good. I got my first ever salary last week. Let me immortalise the number here so future generations can come and be enthralled!! 12,615!!!!! That's how much I got!!!

The other trainees in Wipro think this is a paltry sum. I look at them with a look that I reserve for worms and Himesh Reshammiya. Dude! Do you seriously think I am kicked about the amount?

I withdrew 500 bucks from the ATM the other day. With a card that has my signature on its backside. And when the money came out, I was close to choking! My money! All of it! My sweat and blood (Well, not exactly but I guess it will do:))! What a feeling!

There's a downside to this however. I just figured out everything costs money! I mean, even a small razor!! People just dont give ANYTHING for free anymore. They think I am loaded. I think it must show in my face.

Be that as it may, I am so happy! So happy that I can't even come up with a better entry to do justice to the feeling! But who cares! If you have any problem with it, I will buy you off! I AM RICH! I AM RICH!!! BUAHAHAHA!!!!!

Wanted - Me!

2006-08-24T17:32:00.000+05:30

Tomorrow's the big day. A day to change all days. A new phase in my life. A turning point. A - Alright, alright, I will get down to it. Tomorrow is my first day at work.

I am supposed to report tomorrow at the Head Office, Wipro Technologies. Yessir, that's my new address. And I have arrived here in bengalooru!

One amazing thing about starting work is that one feels so wanted. I had the chance to travel from Chennai to Bangalore by the Shathabdi Express. And let me tell you, there's no better way to travel. Normally, I wouldn't have taken the train. But the appointment letter clearly spelt it out, "The joinee is entitled to a 2nd class AC travel fare from his place of residence to the place of posting".

And sitting in that train, enjoying the benefits of Southern Railways' Catering at its best, I felt on top of the world. I may sound like a yokel but it was amazing. Not the comforts. I have experienced them earlier. It's the fact that I am worth this. It's the fact that there are people out there who are willing to pay for my ticket to get me across 300 km just so I can work for them. This feels good!

And so, people, a glorious chapter is about to start (i think) in my life. And I am sure I have all your love and wishes. Thanks a lot. And in case I don't have them, I shall choose to neglect that fact. Ignorance is bliss :)

Coffee with the Crowd

2006-08-13T20:55:00.000+05:30

Have you ever seen anyone sitting alone in a coffee shop? Now I don't mean the ones reading a book are talking into a phone or trying to write something. I mean the ones who are genuinely there just to have a coffee.

There is a sense of insecurity that weighs heavily upon most people when it comes to solitary outings. Add to it mushy couples and loud-mouthed college kids in the surrounding tables and you get one self-concious, crazed dude!

So, here I am, sitting in Coffee Day, alone, with Irish Coffee before me. Everytime I order Irish Coffee or Espresso, the waiters beseech me to reconsider. Or atleast, they warn me that it is black coffee. A guy in Barista went as far as to tell me, "Sir, it's only decaution (decaf). Won't taste nice!" I shall be the judge of that! De'caution' indeed!

To my right, a couple. Him smoking and her, watching him smoke, occasionally taking a drag herself. I am thinking they are conversing with their eyes. Not much communication otherwise happening.

To my left, two college guys, smoking to their lungs' content. They are taking turns talking into their cellphones. The lean one with the weird haircut (no, not me) speaks in a strained accent and style. "No de! I miss her and stuff. Last night we had a terrible party man(i think he means terrific, judging by what followed)! Neetha was doing something like salsa and moving her body and stuff (I would very much like to know what 'stuff' this Neetha was moving apart from her body). And I was like 'oh Man! This girl is great!' and stuff.....yeah, she was like his sister! I know de!"

The stout one with another weird haircut (what's with these weird cuts? Some new wave? I must be getting old!) speaks into his phone. He seems to be talking to his girlfriend 'cause I can't hear a thing.

Behind me, some loud mouthed girly gang. All talking at the same time. I don't want to turn around to see them. Might seem a tad too impolite. Anyway, none of them seems to be listening. "Guess where I went to yesterday? You won't believe! There's this amazing pub in residency road,-"..."Hey, that reminds me, there was this guy in the pub the other day looking at me like-".."Hey, did you see my new mobile? My dad bought it for me just yesterday. He-" and it goes on and on. Self-important. I am not sure if I do want to turn around.

All in all, I don't seem to be the only one alone in this coffee shop. And they tell me, 'No man is an island!'

Going down?

2006-07-04T22:36:00.000+05:30

There's something the matter with elevators. Something fishy is afoot.

I am sure you have had this feeling. You get into an elevator with someone, and all life ceases as the elevator moves. This doesn't happen with strangers alone. Even friends find it difficult to converse in an elevator.

But the problem doesn't end there. Try getting into an elevator alone. Don't conciously think about what I am going to say here. You will find that you stop communicating with yourself in an elevator!

So, what's happening here? Is it our premordial sense of claustrophobia that shuts our mind from attacks? Does this mean mankind isn't meant to ride on elevators?

I prefer the open sky above me. Not some caged fan with a note that says, "Eight people only!" I feel caged myself.

I remember elevators that appear in Hitchhikers' Guide. Vertical People Transporters, they were called. I wish we could have such elevators. That would break the monotony.

A final word. The exhaust fans in elevators don't work fast enough.

Confused Martian's Pneumatic Conjecture :
The probability of farting is directly proportional to the number of people in an elevator and inversely proportional to the openness of the chamber.

Chronicles of a laid-back, blissfully unemployed martian

2006-06-25T18:19:00.000+05:30

10 am : Wake up groggily to find mom hurriedly getting ready for work. manage to get coffee
11 am : wake up completely
12 am : decide to get up from the bed and read the papers
1 pm : change channels dumbly before settling down to a stupid special effects movie
2 pm : self-serve the wonderful lunch and eat till it comes out of the ear
3 pm : realise you are doing everything 'on the hour'!
3.15 pm : sit before the computer dumbly switching from one application to another
5.38 pm : sit outside waiting for mom
6.38 pm : after the fourth coffee, get down to some serious flirting on the cellphone
8.30 pm : first game of the day. no beer since mom's at home. just chips and water.
12.30 (i dont know if its pm or am, never could figure that out!) : second game. same thing.
sometime in the night : hit the sack, completely exhausted from doing absolutely nothing!

I have seen heaven. It's alright. A bit too boring though. What else is on TV?

Survival of the fittest?

2006-06-08T14:27:00.000+05:30

I am sure there were times when you wanted to be a child again. Oh, to feel wonder again! To feel unconditional love; to look at a rainbow for the first time; to cry unashamedly!

It is a curious thing - this 'growing up' that we all do. We grow younger as we grow old. And we grow old sooner than we expect, wishing we were younger. We hate people who take us for kids. We wish we were sixteen again, to feel the angst of teenage. Then we wish we were old and wise. We wish we were twenty five, to experience the independence.

What is the right time to be in? Now? Or should we be stuck with yesterday? What about tomorrow? what about the future?

There are times when you feel really let down. Not by others but by yourself. There are times when you wish you hadn't learnt anything. When you wish your mind could have remained simple. The layers and layers of complexity suddenly weigh tons. And to discern feelings and emotions is a pain. We build walls around ourselves, hoping to protect but ending up imprisoned. No matter how hard you try, those walls will never come down, just like the masks that we wear.

There is a name for this. Evolution. Or is it convolution?

One for the road

2006-06-04T10:30:00.000+05:30

Every person, at one point in their lives, should drive long distance alone.

It's not the speed. It's not the loneliness. It's not the danger. Not even the independence. None of these are the reasons. It's the unpredictability. It's the vibrance. It's the life.

College is over and I decided to drive from home to Coimbatore for a quick errand. That of cleaning up and vacating my hostel room. There is nothing melancholic about it though. My room is filled with four years of junk. I have forgotten what color my bed was used to be. Some pale color. Now it is in a color that is redefining the spectrum. The boxes are full of papers that I still can't figure out why I put there in the first place. And of course, there are slam books to fill.

The drive to Coimbatore was quite uneventful. It was quite hot but the road was empty and surprisingly great. I never knew my car could go up to 110. I never thought my car could go past 70!

The trip to hostel was...well...not disturbing but definitely slightly disconcerting. I have always considered myself a loner. I have lots of friends but no matter how close they get, so far, I have never let their departure trouble me. But this trip to my hostel changed that a bit.

I sorted through some of the junk and ended up sitting there in my bed for hours. Long lost photographs, permission forms for vacations that ended up being nothing more than a trip to ooty, doodles and sketches and notes in my books standing for the times that we had. I resolved to throw all those rubbish away.

On my way back, there was a steady drizzle. Like angels landing softly on my windshield. There was Bob Marley with the Wailers adding to the ambience. And the road was empty.

At that time, my life took on the shapeless form of the highway. A highway is dynamic. There is an ever-changing permenance to it. It is sometimes menacing, sometimes warm, mostly cold. It doesn't care. It doesn't show any love. If you respect the highway, it still doesn't care. It's like the sky. It just is.

And with that, I realised how amazingly similar life was. Life is unpredictable. No matter how careful you have been, no matter how closely you follow these investment and insurance and retirement ads, life has a bag full of tricks. Just when you think life has nothing more to offer you, it comes up with the equivalent of an eighteen-wheeler barreling down the road.

But the highway seemed to have taken a liking to me. No nasty surprises. No mean tricks. Just me, my car and the highway. I didn't go as fast as I did earlier. It's hard to, when you have a boot full of rubbish.

End of Days

2006-04-17T01:53:00.000+05:30

The end is near. No, I am not refering to apocalypse. I am talking about college. It's over, finally, and am I glad?

For some time now, I have been frustrated by the amount of small-mindedness that goes on in our college. And I so much wanted college to end. I felt the world was preparing something major for me, and that the curtains would rise once college got over. I am scared, thrilled, overjoyed and not even slightly sad.

True, I woudln't be able to hang out with my college mates, but I am not sure I can stand that anymore. It was fine while it lasted but all good things must come to an end. Familiarity breeds contempt.

I am scared by my way of thinking. What if I get bored with family? With someone close? If familiarity bred contempt, then intimacy would be a disaster! Or would it?

I may have mentioned this before : with a lot of people, silence is awkward. Only with those very few is that silence just right. And when that person comes along, words don't matter. It would be a case of 'I thought you so' instead of 'I told you so'!

Well, I am deviating from what I have come here to say today. It's au revoir to college. I have plans of doing MS but as I said earlier, Shit Happens when I start planning. So, I am just gonna sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. The road is still long. The night is still young.

Of martians and cellphones

2006-04-12T23:44:00.000+05:30

1100. Validity. Talktime. Top-up. MMS. SMS.

These are some of the words that have been newly appended to my dictionary. I have found out that the best way to keep a curious martian curioser is to give him a cellphone.

I tell you, cellphones are an amazing technology. And I hate them.

I dont know why I had this sudden craving for a phone. I don't have any close girlfriends right now to keep in touch. No pressing business that I need to stay up to date with. No particular urge to keep in contact with friends and family. Then why?

I guess that's a rhetorical question. I have bought it now. Succumbed to the Satan. Question is, am I going to change?

I like observing people, noting subtle gestures and writing about them later. Months from now, I am not sure if I will be able to look up from the display. Scary na? I have vowed to myself that I will not look at the phone when I am talking to someone. And I have vowed many times before.

So far, I am holding up. It still looks like a little box in my pocket. Heavens forbid when my life dwells in my pocket.

What next?

2006-03-26T11:32:00.000+05:30

So, what's waiting around the corner? Who is waiting to jump at me and say 'boo'? What going to happen tomorrow? What next?

The next second holds a lot of promises. And surprises. Some nice and some nasty. But it does have something. I have always lived my life that way. The minute I plan for the future, shit happens :)

Human beings are essentially flawed. It is a mistake that is obvious when you try to correct it. It is a law that stops you from finding out what really is that law. The classical scenario of the chicken or the egg. So, when that flawed being plans something, that is inherently flawed. Then why make plans at all.

Just chill. Have fun. Don't plan on having a particular kind of fun because you don't know what you're missing. As Stiffler says, "Let the good times roll!"

A chink in the block

2006-03-20T18:49:00.000+05:30

Yeah...I know...it's been a while.

Of late, I have never felt like blogging. I know I usually do not look at it as something that HAS to be done but to not have a spark at all! That is amazing. And frightening too.

This lack of creative outflow worries me a lot. For the past two months I have had more beers than I can count, more cigarettes than I can imagine, and more free time than I can fathom.

I guess i dont look at myself as a regular blogger but as a writer. And I guess I am going through a writers' block. Feels good to have one. Makes me feel like a real writer.

Anyway, looks like the block has opened up a tiny bit and words trickle out slowly. Not the best blog I have written but it will do. I guess it's a bit like reading a Chase novel when you have a readers' blog. Gets you going.

A touch of humanity

2005-12-11T17:15:00.000+05:30

I tell you, all this rain is not so much of a good thing.

Another day gone by with the sun setting without much of a pomp. I mean, it's okay to have rains once in a while, you know, just to loosen things up a bit, a touch of lethargy for the mass of people hurrying about everyday, not even bothering to look at the roses. But the damp sky, the wet weather, the dull faces, filled potholes and slush.....oh man! Soon, it gets on you.

Now, I have a slight cold. The most infuriating thing about it is that the sneeze is about to come, and then it doesn't. You have your face all screwed up and your eyes squinted, ready for a good, nice, long sneeze and then it doesn't happen. That is the worst sickness ever.

Anyway, that's not what I am here to talk about. I was just crossing the much populated Poonamalle High Road today, with the inevitable drizzle carpeting down on us all, when I saw this other guy trying to do the same. I didn't pay much of an attention to him. He was of the wrong sex ;)

Then, we both reached the corner of the road at the same time and I stepped forward a bit. He instinctively touched my arm, just at the wrist and checked my progress. I looked to see a two-wheeler barelling down the road. It zipped past us. I wouldn't have been hit if I had taken that step. We then crossed the road, and he walked off without a word.

I looked at him for sometime. He din't know me, I didn't even see his face. But, at that instant, I felt a wave of gratitude sweep over me. I know he didn't exactly save my life or anything but that slight gesture restored my faith in humanity. No matter how late you are, how much you want to get to where you want to go, you always must and will find time for others. We have never lost humanity. It has just changed colors. In this world where any form of physical contact is more an intrusion of privacy, we yearn for the touch of another soul. Not the physical touch. But rather the reaching out of one human to another. Long live the people.

A different world

2005-12-09T17:17:00.000+05:30

Ah...Chennai!

I swear I never expected to talk about Chennai's weather with a contented sigh, except probably on the return journey when I usually am glad to leave the place. But right now, it's 'Ahhhhh...Chennai!'

Before you read this, let me tell you I am not an insensitive lout. I know people have lost lives and livelihoods, that their loved ones are seperated, their beloved possessions all gobbled up by the rushing waters, rich and famous suddenly finding themselves in deep waters (literally).....all of it is making me feel more than sorry for these people. They have already gone through hell last year and now, this. There is something personal between the Chennaiites and the water.

That said, it is heavenly when you look down from the seventh floor of Alsa towers. The city wears a new coat these days. A coat of shimmering gray that softens the hard edges. Through the dull fog, the whole place looks surreal. Rain doesn't fall anymore. It drifts down gently and lands lightly on your fingertips, tentatively cooling a very small area the size of a needle prick. You rub your hands more often now in Chennai. And blow hot air at them. The breeze is what it ought to be in the beginning of December. Chilly with the memory of a night time in the Bay of Bengal. I never thought I would live to see this day. The only thing that needs to complete this vision of ethereal beauty is a canoe and some gentle stringing from the banks.

For those of you who still think I am an insensitive lout, I suggest you read, 'On running after one's hat' by G.K. Chesterton. Very illuminating.

I am staying for the next seven days. I may have to change my mind about the rains but right now, I haven't gotten out of the Ahhhh......

Memoirs of a memory

2005-12-02T10:33:00.000+05:30

The musty smell; cobwebs making wierd patterns on the roof; dust coating everything; and the ever-permeating tingle of age and antiquity - in my head.

Has it ever happened to you, when all of a sudden, your thoughts come from that part of the brain that you haven't seen for a long time? You can almost feel the magic lying like dust on everything. Familiar, long-forgotten sounds leap and grab our throats from once upon a time. Smells and sightings remembered from an age older than history.

It is weird, this room in my head. There are a lot of things here that I didn't know existed. Like that old glimpse of Jayadurga - my first ever crush - lying in that corner over there; the broken image of Herojet - my first cycle - clinking its bells from the other corner; the tattered page of Clucker - the comic strip that I invented long time back - looks about to break apart.

And of course, in the middle of all these souvenirs, lies my own innocence. The part of me that I decided to trade for knowledge, grinning at me knowingly. I think he says, "I told you so!"

I look at him yearningly for a minute. That was me, ten years back, full of hope, of happiness, of love. He is stupid, of course, not knowing there are vipers in cuckoos' nests, not knowing that he can't trust that many people, not knowing puberty, not knowing that twenty is a curious age to be in. Curioser than ten, anyway.

"You are an idiot," I tell him, with more vehemence than I wanted.

"And you are confused!" He says. Again, that knowing smile.

"I know so much!"

"Ignorance is bliss."

"You don't know how wonderful it is to be on the threshold of making it big in the world."

"You keep standing there and you're going to fall off the edge. It is not a threshold. It is a precipice. When was the last time you laughed with tears in your eyes?"

Of course I have laughed. Haven't I?

"See? When was the last time you wanted to DO something? When was the last time you felt you could change the world?"

"I am not a superhero!"

"But I am!"

With that, he turned away, trying to polish that Herojet. The talk ceased. I looked at him for sometime. This guy was seriously mistaken. I know a lot more than he does. I can carry on a conversation with a babe without having my tongue stuck in the roof. He couldn't. I can drive a car. He can't even do a wheelie in his Herojet. I am taller.

Well, this room is not all that fun. I think I will step out. Probably visit some other time, when he has grown up.

Blackout!

2005-11-14T19:31:00.000+05:30

I am sure this going to turn out into one of those things you laugh about looking back. But right now, I am shit scared.

This is how it happened:

Monday afternoon, 3PM. I was having a little siesta staying at my aunt's place...

The doorbell rings. Surprisingly, I am up at the first ring. Very strange!

I know it should be my aunt. I open the door and find her standing outside the iron grilled gate. I had locked it. As she says 'hi' and starts talking to me, I reply groggily as I am not completely awake yet. I unlock the door and place the lock near the stand. I unlatch the door and she steps inside as I turn around, still answering her.

......

Why am I lying on the floor? Why are my aunt and uncle shouting at me to get up? Why are my eyes closed? Why can't I f**kin open them!!!

I open my eyes with a great effort and find both of them bending over me. I am still in front of the door. And my head started throbbin' mad!

After some concerned questions and some quick rubbing at a possible swelling place in my head, they start recounting what had happened. It seems I turned around talking and I fell. Just like that. Thankfully, I had missed quite a few dangerous places. Like the sharp concrete corner of the stand, the rock hard iron gate, the door in front me. I should throw a party for my guardian angels.

And looks like I bit my tongue in the process. It still feels funny. Like a bit of my tongue is not quite there. That part of my tongue has turned into a deep purple. Like I have a perpetual bit of Black Currant in my mouth.

I am still wondering how or why it happened. Itsn't like I had a late night or I was stressed out or that I was high. None. Zilch. And the strangest thing is, I don't feel a thing except for the physical pain because of the fall. Curioser and Curioser.

But I am scared. What if this thing had happened when I was driving. Or in the loo, locked up? Man! When you start considering the what-ifs, you might as well give up hope and die.

Well, I still haven't done skydiving. I should do that soon. And bumjy jumping, and spelunking (whatever that is) and a lot of other things. Sheesh! And here was I, thinkin life was too borin'. I just got my wish. Next time, God, no catches!

Raindrops fallin' on my head

2005-10-26T11:18:00.000+05:30

More like pelting, actually.

Ah....it's raining. Finally. Here in Salem. It's been raining for a week now and I am enjoying every minute of it. Until the moment I decide to step out that is.

Sitting in the reclining chair, with a hot coffee on the side, PG Wodehouse on one hand and some hot bhajjis on the other - I tell you, it's heaven, Man! And when I look up, I can see our local hill - Perumal Malai - covered in mist, giving it a kailash kind of a look. A bit of rain romanticizes and dramatizes everything around. A bit, I tell you.

There is something to be said about being outdoors during a nice rain and getting sloshed by every damn car that passes. It is not nice! The dirt, the mud, the filth and the crap. Arrgghh... they make a paste that never comes off.

And the trains hanging on bridges because of the rain, buses cancelled, men and women and children dead and dying, power broken, telephone out of order -and to top it all - diwali ruined.

I remember the times when I used to keep the crackers and mathappoos out in the sun for it to get crisp and dry so that they flare better and pollute even better. And I remember how aggravated I get when it drizzles. And it always does. I don't bother about those crackers these days, but I still worry about getting out.

Rain is god's urine - my friend used to tell me in school. And I genuinely believed it, staying out of it. God's or not, it is urine. And then, I learned that it is not God's urine, but men's, when they relieve themselves from airplanes. Freaked me out. And then my cousin comes over for one glorious holiday, and he imparts the wisdom that it is not real rain but acid rain. That being the only technical term he knew at that time and he told me he could taste HCl or some such thing in the rain.

People tell you all sorts of stuff to keep you from enjoying the glories of nature. But let me tell you, go out and get drenched, sloshed and crapped on, because rain doesn't happen everyday.

But remember this. Rains are an alien conspiracy to get you out so that they can abduct you and do strange experiments on you. Wicked!

Nirvana

2005-09-10T21:29:00.000+05:30

hmmm....what shall we talk about?

Isn't it amazing how completely blank your mind goes sometimes? Wow! I mean, I don't have anything - absolutely anything - to say right now! Usually I have some smart ass comment or other for something but right now - Zilch with a capital zee.

I guess this is Nirvana! The absolute and all-encompassing state of nothingness. Funny. My feet are firmly on the ground. No levitation. No halo. Nothing. This is Nirvana to the core!

And what do you know! This bizarre state of nothingness is actually not blissful at all. It's irritating. A monotony that seeps through your fingers on to the words that you type. Arrgh.....

hmmm.....Hey! I know! Is daylight white or yellow?

hmm....may be I should go get some sleep. Rats!

Neurotic collage

2005-08-27T13:01:00.000+05:30

Responsibility - it's a sweet thing. No, really it is.

Final year is my favorite year. A year when I realised I could do a lot of things. A year when I found strength from within, when I am sure the whole world is conspiring against me. I am on the verge of letting my 'safe' world go, on the verge of escaping into reality. It truly is amazing. This rush of adrenaline that no scary ride can ever simulate. Life. It gets me on a high.

Never before have I felt an overwhelming sense of affection towards my classmates than now. The past week saw an unprecedented solidarity on our part and I am surprised that it happened. Now I know I am going to miss the 2002-06 batch of mechanical engineers - more popularly known as the 'Mech Maniax'. (silly, I know!)

I have been busy the past two months. A work that not many people believe demands two months. Ten minutes of animation in 3D Studio Max. But after the end of it all, I am super-charged. Finally, I have found something that I could do with ease. But the sad part is, there is not a soul right now who can truly appreciate it. There is not a person with whom I can share the exhilirating experience of creating a garage virtually and figuring out the story board. All I ever get to hear when I mention my work is - "But you know what I have been upto? You just won't believe the amazing thing that happened to me..." And I listen...

Everyone's important. Everyone's an individual. We have our desires and dreams; our accomplishments and failures; our view of a storm-laden sky. We need to share it. But there are those who would just not listen. They just won't recognise us as being men and women worthy of equal if not greater achievements.

Be that as it may, I have got you to pour out my soul on. Thank you so much for listening. Sometimes I wonder whether this planet is full of self-important deaf people!

Quickie

2005-06-20T18:54:00.000+05:30

I am playing this really cool game! How fast can you get a post out of your system?

An internet center is not exactly the best place to be blogging from, but I guess it's all in the head. (Which again, is quite a debatable place!)

There is a sick tamil song playing. And the most infuriating thing is that it seeps into my brain, down to my fingers, making them do unimaginable stuff &*$^*$#!

So...What shall we talk about? Physics? Theology? Alchemy? Angelina jolie? Possibility of 'intelligent' life on Mars? (Why're you lookin' at me like that?)

There are so much things to talk about! And yet, nothing! The silence between us is simply amazing. With some people, the silence is pregnant. With some, it is uncomfortable. Only with those very few is the silence just right.

So, college is back! The dudettes looking as horrible as ever over here! Man, I miss bangalore! Coming to college is like a harsh reality check. Not that I don't like it. It's just that after spending some time with family and friends, my classmates look like Neanderthals! And when you are in rome....

Well, that's the best I can do now. Not bad, huh? I hate writing for its own sake. But now, somehow, I feel good about getting this out of my system.

Well then, I guess I will push off. The songs are getting worse!

Nostalgia?

2005-06-12T11:12:00.000+05:30

It's fun to look back. I have just been through some of my old posts (another blog) and they make an interseting read - if I can say so myself. There are things you notice second time around. Things that may have been subtle back when you were a naive rookie, jump at you and hold your throat when you look at them in retrospect.

One learns a lot when one looks back. Only, none of that information is useful. I can fully well understand Calculus right now but it's five years too late in the coming. Experience is a comb that life gives to you when you are bald. And it throws in a styling gel as well.

Reading 'Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening' is an illuminating experience. The solitary walk on an untrodden road, the melancholic feel of the whole poem, the simile between the road and life - they never fail to enthral me. And never once does he look back.

You must never let go of your roots, they say. Back to the basics? I don't know. As the song goes,

There's nothing behind me
And nothing that ties me to
Something that might have been true yesterday...

Then why do I feel the pull? Why do I feel a tingling when the bus approaches Salem bus stand? From where did I get the sudden sprint as I round the corner for Indian Bank Colony? Why does my hair stand on end when I walk along Kaliamman Koil Street? Why do I stare starry eyed at my fifth standard Tamil teacher?

No matter how hard we try, our past will catch up on us. Is it a bad thing? I am still ambivalent about it. My aunt used to say that little kids must never grow up. Where is the innocence, she asks me. As I brood over the major mishaps that have been happening in my life for the past two months, I can't help but think what it would have been like had I been still a six-year-old.

Well, fourteen years ago, I was crying over a pencil that I had wanted but my sister had got. I was bitching about this cruel and unfair world. Same difference.

Hyderabadulu....blogulu

2005-06-10T10:04:00.000+05:30

Yay....Hyderabadulu...I am here finally. After the days of uncertainty, I am finally here. After a horrendous train journey that almost raped me, I am here at last. And what do I make of this city? Erm......IT'S TOO DAMN HOT!

It was hell in the train, sizzling in the railway station, fried in the car, roasted on the road, and half-dead by the time I reach the AC room.

We plan the most unlikeliest vacations ever. Earlier we used to go to Chennai for the summer. Well, there was lots of summer over there, I tell you. now, we have come to hyderabad. Thank god there is a different excuse for us landing here.

This place is vibrant, colorful and teaming with life. We stay at a place where only the upper echelons of hyderabadi society roam about in their imported cars. But once we come out, it's a whole new world. The perpetual din of a million people talking permeates everything. There is just enough space on the superbly built roads for our Maruti Zen to get through. The pavements are over-flowing and they encroach the streets.

Bright turbans, black veils, tailor-made suits, sickly fair foreigners in knee-length trousers and the ever-present mineral water bottle, little kids who reach only just upto my knee sipping kulfi, college kids - the fashion pioneers of hyderabad - tasting the world famous hyderabadi biriyani and smoking near the Charminar....this is what the city is all about.

And of course, when night falls, we have no intentions of sticking around observing normal life. We come back to our stronghold and visit the pubs of hyderabad. seen one, seen 'em all. Bangalore, Hyderabad, Madras, Coimbatore.....they are all the same when it comes to pubs. Guess we have found true integrity in diversity after all.

And i have picked up some telugu too. Nu anthe, naaku chaala ishtam. I love u all!

SPEED 3?

2005-06-03T22:04:00.000+05:30

UPDATE! UPDATE! UPDATE!

Keep up with the times! Don't get left behind! Hurry up! Hey can you hear me back there?

Where's the fire? There is a tomorrow you know.

Walking along MG Road over here in bangalore, i find people walking, hurrying, busy and indulgent. Even in the coffee shop, I see them with an intense look in their eyes. Not because of the girl sitting in front of them. There are no roses to stop and smell.

I know i havent a thing to do and it is unfair on my part to blame the world of speeding up. All those who say I am just too slow - I got two words for you. Actually one word. Or is it? Ah forget it.

So what if I stop going along with everyone? I get stuck up as a homo sapien when others are evolving? So what? They grow an extra head. Scary, I know.

People tell me I have this bored look on my face. As Calvin says, that's just my cool look. Laid back. Ahhhhh.......

What if everyone stopped rushing? What if everyone had, a hundred years ago. How about a millenium ago? We'll have no fightings and no war, and there'll be lasting peace on earth....or so,the song goes.

I am not too sure. The wars would just be postponed. As Ishmael says, human beings are essentially flawed.

Silence of the lambs - and bloggers

2005-04-30T16:38:00.000+05:30

Who's there?! Speak up, I tell you! I am warnin' you, I am armed!

*wakes up in cold sweat*

Where's the party, yaar? Where are the people? Where're the chicks? Where's the booze? Where's the grub?

I swear I must have missed the Big Briefing in Sky (courtesy Richard Bach)! Either I have forgotten the rules of this world, or they have changed.

Apparently, clause B of paragraph A in appendix 2A of 'How to blog on this f**kin' planet - Vol. 2' says: "Thou shalt not 'blog' if thou do not know anyone who 'blog'th"

Hmm. May be I should advertise? Probably keep clicking the 'Next Blog' button and post an advertising comment on every blog that says, "Nice blog! Oh, by the way, have you visited confusedmartian's blogspot? It's so cool.... I am the martian by the way!" Nope. Doesn't sound too encouraging.

I am not this guy who wants people around to ascertain confidence. I can do without crowd. But I don't like being alone. It would definetely feel nice when you've got people around to tell you you're great. Right now, I don't mind those voices that say 'You Suck'!

This should have been the most sloppily advertised blog ever! Five paragraphs of non-stop bickering, asking people to comment. I feel like throwing up.

Okay. Let's get things straight. You post comments, I'll give you the works, and nobody gets hurt!

War of the Sexes!

2005-04-27T18:32:00.000+05:30

When you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.

Wise guy! I tell you, it's not easy being a guy.

Men are characterized by their mule-headedness, their stupidity, their incoherence, in ability to face practical matters, and a complete surrender to the female species of this planet.

Men think from between their legs. No wonder many leaders have gone to waste because of women. Ceasar, Achilles (right?), Hitler (due to the lack of women in his life, actually) and good ol' Bill!

I am not a chauvinist. Don't get me wrong. I think women are the most amazing things the Great Lord ever did.

But all said and done, I go completely bonkers and incoherent and 'duh...' when I see a girl naked or even half-naked. When at that time, if she goes like, "Daarrling.....about that mink coat we saw today...", all I can do is nod sheepishly without having any idea what she is talking about. Our primeval desires overtake us and we are totally lost.

But have you ever wondered how many women inventors are there today. How many female astrophysicists and how many female researchers? How many women in Fiction or fantasy writing? How many poets? (or is it poetesses?)

We walk amidst the clouds and can't see the trees for the woods but is that wrong? Are women all narrow-minded or rather, too constrained to not be able to look up to the skies? Are the chains that hold them go further back than a mere hundred years? The bonds that hold them down can be shattered only by themselves, and yet, there is something in their bloods, their genes, a historic factor that inhibits them. Is this their fault or the rule?

Don't ask me! I am from Mars.

In the beginning...

2005-04-25T10:31:00.000+05:30

What do you remember early in the morning? When you have just opened your eyes, what do you see? Our dreams, they are but a collage of blurred images, tumbling over each other. Sounds from a world long gone by, they are heard from a conciousness much beyond our understanding. And as hard as we try to remember it, it slips away just as easily. Like trying to hold water in our palms.

And sometimes, these dreams come back to haunt us. Suddenly, they become clear and real. Deja Vu is not a feeling. It's a phobia. The fact that you knew what was going to happen and yet you were not able to do anything until the last moment tells you how helpless you are. Fate. It is not merely our master. It is our enemy.

Predestined. What is predestined? Hero meets heroine and they are predestined for each other. What a boring world! Why can't the heroine have a change of heart and go out with the villain instead? Nothing is predestined. We are what we choose to be. Man proposes and he himself disposes.

There! There's a good train of thoughts! Probably not the perfect way to start of a blog but hey, what the heck! But it lacks humor, doesn't it? I too am a victim of generalisation. Anything that has humor is not serious enough. Jesus! Have we all become such boring people that we disregard humor?

Okay. I am off. It was nice talking to you.