School life Vs The rest, etc.

nostalgia...

Which is that period of life that you will cherish till you die? “School Life”, would be the unanimous answer. I beg to differ. Call me a black sheep in the herd, but I have plethora of things that don’t go in tandem with the rest of you. What are you going to do, outcast me?

One of the reasons why my school life falls short of the first spot in the long list of enjoyable phases in life, is because of that word which frequented the nightmares of everyone that age – ‘Home-work.’ Planning ahead to select the snack you will eat while watching a football match during a weekend is the best I can do. Scheming a modus operandi to pass the calculus exams the next day or picking the best person to copy the organic chemistry assignment from, is definitely not my cup of tea, coffee or whisky.

Getting up every morning, rushing to school after bath and breakfast(both have literally stopped appearing daily in my life), encountering the empty basketball court(which we usually use to play cricket), the empty stairway(which used to buzz with activity once upon a time), empty park(home to swing-cricket, a patented Udyogamandal school sport), and a group of uniformed girls and boys piling on a rainbow of assignments to be completed in 15 minutes is not a pleasant sight.

Many guys would consider a co-ed college with the male-female ratio as 1:3 as the closest thing to heaven. When you get suspended for admiring a girl( in the trrrrrrrrrue sense of the word), the heaven image gets tarnished in a second. It is as good as Anna Nicole Smith nude and horny in front of an impotent man. Against all odds, I had fun like never before. Lack of pretentious displays of attitude being the main cause - due to the lack of proximity of the opposite sex.

A chained dog is more dangerous than a stray one. This is applicable in humans too. The opposite poles attract, and here too they attracted with vibes and vigour. A few hearts broke at first, a lot many followed. A very few survived; but fun it was. An attendance shortage with a record breaking 23% should substantiate my claim – a renegade’s dream.

Exams came and went unnoticed, like the hero’s friend in teen movies, with a loud ‘I came, I saw and was ignored’ written all over their faces. I claimed another instance to fame with a miraculous, fastest ever exit, from the exam hall. ‘Gone in 27 seconds’, they called the phenomenon. A few of my friends consider this achievement as a direct reflection of my unscrupulous life; the paper if you remember, was ‘role of ethics in the society.’

I came across the wonders (not listed in any book of records, quite sadly, I must say) called cigarettes and liquor during my graduation years. They were branded evil(what a sinful thing to say!) during school days. This is just one of the few lies taught to us; damn the education system. How untrue our text books were, I ponder as I walk down the memory street (I am tired of using the ‘lane’) with a cigarette in my hand and a few drinks in my belly.

‘Girls are god's worst mistakes’, a popular belief until the 10th standard. The line loses all its credibility as you enter college. Moments of joy and innumerable disappointments that even Shakuntala Devi’s math genius will fail to keep numbered. In large probability, your first kiss – a smooch to be precise, is very much likely to happen (this is in a purely conservative south Indian context- for all those who chuckled and thought out loud, ‘what about the DPS mms clip?’).

Motor bikes – a faster, flashier and a noisier version of your school day mode of transport was also available. Bicycle bells cannot even scare mice away, air-horns on the other hand, can disinfect a jungle.

A great bunch of innovators for friends, ready to venture into the unknown, brings some zing in contrast to another bunch who head home at 5 in the evening to finish the math assignment. Journeys to as far as the center of the earth, or to be honest, as far as your motor bikes would take you when run on fuel that is entirely dependent on the perpetually limited capacity of your wallet, are memories that remain.School life was an unforgettable phase of life. But in the long run, like in the movie ‘eternal sunshine of the spotless mind’, if I were to chose one to be erased from my memory, I’d erase school.

Arguments are not welcome, coz this is a blog.

The fourth ' W '

rain, rain, go away...

It was from one of my friends that I had come to know that Bangalore was called the land of 3 ‘W’s – namely Weather, Wine and Women. However, he seems to have forgotten the months October and November while he made the statement and with it, the fourth and a very prominent ‘W’ – Water.

Cometh the months of October and November (my first in Bangalore), the fourth ‘W’ pours upon you with all the vigor and mercilessness of Mother Nature. The elements have this way of giving us human beings a wake-up call as if telling us – ‘You guys are so helpless.’ The humbling effect – that is what I would call it.

Rains in Bangalore, I have noticed, have this weird habit common among the vampires and similar creatures. They strike you close to sunset. They strike you just hwne you are planning on having a heavy dinner after having skipped you lunch; just as you are planning to down two gulps of whisky and sleeping tight. They strike you with equal ferocity as the above mentioned nocturnal creatures and leave their marks behind; much bigger than those two little puncture marks ‘the Count’ leaves behind.

I left Delhi supposing Bangalore to be the place where good weather resides alongside the crowded IT industry. The realization that Utopia exists only in books glared at me on the day I went to give my third interview in 40 days. I had hardly left home with a printed set of my press ads (as advised by a wise man from Euro RSCG) when the first signs of doom showed up. Airport road for all its beauty and the long stretch doesn’t have a single shelter for almost half length of the stretch. When it rains, the mouth that was full of praises for the road turns to one full of words that have been avoided from the English Dictionary. As a result, I stood under a tree, which was not opaque enough for my comfort, covering my head with a bag (borrowed from a friend, who was sleeping peacefully unaware of the torment I was putting his bag through…) and in the process, drenching every bit of drenchable material that was in it. Finally the sun smiled, a rather wry one. I raced to my bike, not bothering to wipe the seat dry with my bottom, which couldn’t have helped it any way. I sped. In less than 3 minutes, I was stranded at a traffic signal, with nowhere to run or hide.

I reached the infamous Brigade road and was a moving spectacle to the by-standers, all of whom were dry and well-sheltered. I drove into what was a private parking space. Seeing my pathetic state, the human being that was the guard did not make an effort to stop me. Nice him. I rewarded his humaneness with a cigarette which was promptly lighted and shamelessly shared. When you are shivering, etiquettes are not the first things on your mind. I called up my interviewer, cribbed about the trouble I was having with the rain, and delayed the interview by half an hour by promising to be at the office as soon as I won the battle with nature.

Another thing I need to mention about Bangalore is the number of one-ways. Surprisingly, they are not visible to the maverick riding a bike on a sunny day heading to a pub that is home away from home. When it is raining heavily and when you aren’t sure of your destination, the one-ways are more prominent than ever. I parked my bike, knowing well that it would be easier to swim than add a 150-odd pounds’ vehicle to my misery. I walked through knee deep water for half an hour and with the assistance from some helpful Bangaloreans, managed to get back to where I started. I have been in Bangalore for 2 months and I realized that I was where I had begun only when I saw a familiar Bajaj Discover.

In an hour, I reached Opus CDM, a turbid sponge and half an hour late upon half an hour delayed. The interview went well despite my ‘merman’ looks and shattered pieces of my press ads(which for one moment resembled shattered dreams). The rain was at its peak by the time(in accordance with the vampire characteristic I mentioned earlier) I left the Opus office.

Bangalore is full of surprises. You never get back to the place you have started from, by taking the same road back. Numerous one-way menaces await you on your trip back. I had to take a road I had never taken to get back to my place. There were water bodies everywhere. Two wheelers either side of me were breaking down or making wild noises as I passed them on my bike. I was rowing my bike more than I was driving it by that time. I was closely following one of those PYTs and to my distress, her bike was sidelined by the waves caused by a huge inconsiderate SUV that passed by. ‘Bloody Snob’, I murmured, as the only thing that drove me on the flooded roads was taken away from me.

The mechanics had their shops closed and had gathered on either side of the troubled waters. Newspapers glorified them by calling them ‘Samaritans’ who were acting saviors to the ones in distress. It might sound cynical, but to me they were no more than vultures waiting for their prey. You can see the glint in their eyes the moment your bike showed symptoms of breaking down. I survived the vultures and the flood, thanks to Bajaj Auto Limited.

The endeavour that would make Gulliver’s efforts trifle, came to an end after two of the longest hours of my life (the ride under normal conditions would have taken hardly 20 minutes). I opened the door to my house and literally fell in. My roomie turned back, looked at me from head to toe, smiled sarcastically and asked politely, ‘Were you caught in a Tsunami?’ Little did he know that he was ‘this’ close to the truth.

a phony tale

the devil in a grey dress

‘Pick up the phone. Pick up the f****** phone!’ I heard the shout at least three times before I realized the origin of the oracle. It was my phone, it was my voice, it was in my pocket and it was ringing!

My phone is a Nokia 7650. I bought it a month after coming to Bangalore and I did not buy it at an antique shop. Didn’t I just read your mind? I had a Nokia 2300 phone when I was in Delhi. Unfortunately, a fellow passenger took a fancy for it and before I knew, he took more than just a fancy. I was left stranded and phone-less.

National Market near majestic is a shopper’s paradise - that is if you are a master at bargain. Other wise it is as good as going aboard a pirate’s ship with a crate of gold. Naveen, my shopping companion and senior from school, was boasting about his vast experience in the ‘art of bargaining’ gathered during his seven year reign in Bangalore as he dragged me through a congested alley. There were shops on either side selling things that ranged from a thumb-ring to a home-theater system. The shopkeepers looked as if they wanted a piece of me as they extended their hands towards us - supposedly waving, but slightly more physical in nature.

There it is, or rather, there they are – an unending line of shops selling mobile phones. Let me be frank, I did not take Naveen along for his bargaining skills (for I am a great bargainer myself); I took him along because my knowledge about mobile phones was limited to – ‘a portable species of phones which reduces in size every 2nd month.’ My eyes were scanning the whole place, and honestly, they did not convey much information to my brain. Naveen took hold of the opportunity and started off a highly jargonized conversation with the shopkeeper. He was talking about the camera configuration, the internal memory, Bluetooth (hey, I thought Bluetooth was used in computers), Infra-red(WTF?) and loads of other things which took turns in sounding Greek and Latin to my ears.

‘Dude, how about this one?’ My eyes leaped out of their sockets at the sight of the ‘thing’ that he held in his hand. Love at first sight literally. As I checked out the camera on the phone, my eyes leaped a step further out. I did not even bother to bargain. I bought it.
For the next half an hour, the owner of the phone(me) was completely ignored by the prospective user of the phone(Naveen, as it seemed to me) Excuse me reader. At this point I would like to bring to your attention the fact that this is a second-hand phone. This model is not available in the market anymore, and it is one hell of a job to change its outer casing. All of these facts, expect the first one, were not imparted to me by my enthusiastic friend, who had by now discovered every possible nuance in my phone. He further persuaded me to take a ‘Hutch Connection’ simply because he had one and he could make calls from one hutch phone to another at a lower rate. How interesting would that be. Chatting away to glory with a guy who was my roomie, whom I saw for 12 hours everyday. The higher STD rates and poor connectivity were incentives which I would later be aware of.

‘You paid 5k for this Iron Box!’ are not exactly the words you like to hear when you proudly present the phone before your room-mate. I tried to repeat everything the shopkeeper had told me about this amazing gadget. ‘So what’s the big deal? You have got an Iron Box with Bluetooth connectivity and a 1.1 mega pixel camera,’ was the prompt reply. I walked to the balcony, with an ‘I don’t give a damn’ look,’ and made plans for my inaugural call.

‘I can’t hear you!’ replaced ‘hello mom’ as the first words spoken into my phone. I rushed to the kitchen (the quietest place in my house) and replaced the ‘I can’t hear you’ with ‘How are you mom?’ I asked her to call me back as I have been a miser all my life.
The call never came. After half an hour when I picked up the phone, the message on the screen read – ‘3 missed calls.’ I had just discovered the first of the shortcomings.

The camera however was a stunner. Wow! That is cool, I thought. A week later, the camera started losing its eagle eye and showing its true colour. I was knee deep in thick shit. Wait a second! I have Bluetooth and all that jazz. Let the camera and the speakers go to hell. I still have got my Bluetooth working perfectly. Bluetooth came into the act two weeks later. It accepted comwarrior.sys (which I initially thought was a game from a good friends and which I later identified as a virus from a complete stranger) which in turn impregnated my outbox with innumerable picture messages.

2 months have gone by since I was transformed from a prince to a pauper. Quoting my friend – ‘I am left with an Iron Box that is deaf, dumb, blind and with a viral infection.

A pair of naked feet!

where r the slippers?


The most insignificant of things strike you as insights to life at the most unexpected moments. For e.g., when your office has choked you out with hours of boredom and you land at a snack bar. As you munch through your potato bun, half way through your third cigarette in 7 minutes, sitting besides a half empty bottle of mango juice; that is when the insight passes by you. For all the Holmesian observation, you might not notice it. Surprisingly, it is the Watson in you who catches it. It is a pair of feet – bare feet. It belongs to Muniyamma, the sweeper at my office.

As they ventured through the stony terrain unhindered, they threw me a gaze, an audacious one. They said, ‘hey tough guy, what are you staring at.’ I choked. The smoke I had inhaled had nothing to do with it. It was a thought that flashed my mind, which transformed into a sigh, clutched my windpipe and forced a choke out of me. It moved me. The ever-smiling old lady, in her late fifties I assume, with her equally old feet – I somehow felt a spark. I do not know what or how or why. I sat there for another half an hour before I walked back to my office. My legs were loose and my mind was heavy. It was on a spree, a meaningful yet a wayward spree.

I had to get her a pair of slippers. I have decided. I feel a sense of accomplishment on merely the thought. I had tea on the terrace just to talk to her, and stealthily take a visual measurement of her feet. She speaks Tamil and I speak Malayalam. We communicated in neither. I asked her the question –‘Why don’t you wear slippers?’ I do not know whether she was offended, but I did not care. I wanted to know. She was waiting for her next salary to buy them. I do not know whether it was an honest reply. Whether she considered a pair of slippers a luxury rather than a necessity. She got up and ran off to the kitchen as if the sky would have fallen otherwise. I sat there for another twenty minutes. I walked down to my office and started writing. I took a break in between for lunch. I couldn’t eat much. I will buy her a pair of slippers tomorrow. I stopped typing.

Uncomfortably Numb

the lights are brighter...

I ran up the stairs, 2, 3 or 4 at a time; I felt nothing. I avoided my room in the hostel and its unsuspecting inmates and raced to room 302. A Gujarati friend of mine, the only guy who knew what I had been up to, greeted me with a wicked smile and a string of abuses.

I sat on the bed, legs crossed. As if they wanted to obey the bible of all deliriums, Floyd, my hands had started to behave strangely like balloons. They were raring to be freed, to swim across the oceans with blue whales and giant squids.

A million things passed my mind, though I did not keep a count. I wanted to see it. The ‘It’ that was mentioned in books, movies and friends’ circles. The lotus. The bright red lotus in empty space - a literal translation of ‘Shoonyaakaashathu Chenthaamara’ in my native language. I closed my eyes, imagining that the ceiling had blown away and empty space, or so it seemed with the smoke infected Delhi skies, was all that was between the sighting and me. I saw it, it was bright, it was hanging in space, but it wasn’t red. It was yellow, blue, green and orange. The colours were not symmetrically arranged and looked more like the paintings I used to do in my third class. A lotus it was, unmistakably identified by its shape, in full form. What is the thing with lotuses? It is probably because I am an Indian that I saw a lotus. Lotus being our national flower frequents our flowery thoughts all the time. If I were a Chinese guy I would have probably seen a chrysanthemum and would have seen a rose were I to be a Brit. Or would it be a Lily?

All the world, I remember Shakespeare saying, is a stage. What was I waiting for? I decided to perform. As I started my singing endeavour, I realised that my voice was tremendously deep and powerful and shared an equally strong resemblance with that of the ‘High Hopes’ chap; yeah our very own David. The words I uttered paced themselves slow enough to allow me to contemplate the power of every word. They echoed of the walls and hit me like cannonballs – but, they caused me pleasant bruises in place of painful ones.

The bliss was torn apart when Tanny made his entry. If I call him a mama’s boy, he might sue me on the grounds of mental abuse and so I refrained myself. The urge was there. I had to bully the chap. The urge took a superlative form as soon as Tanny broke into tears. His little brain had smelled a rat. He did not know what the size or stature was, but he knew it deserved a few tears at the least. He broke into a gallon of them. The next thing I remember is a multilingual foray of abuses that questioned every one of the principles he had on food, water, career, religion and cricket, embedded in his malleable mind. With an invigorated flow of tears, he fled shouting, ‘This guy has gone mad.’

I returned back to my bed, which by that time had become one made of feathers. I experienced nirvana. It was a sadistically hysteric euphoria. Wow! I opted for a change and landed on my face on to the bed. The bed of feathers had just turned into one made of thorns. I felt as if I had been crucified in a horizontal position. I felt the nail that was connecting my forehead and the pillow. The blood stains however, were missing.My friend asked me repeatedly to get up as he had enough of my histrionics. Little did he know that I had little intention and further lesser ability to do it. My state had just attained an involuntary status. I had become uncomfortably numb.

I puked till I saw green – bile that is. At one point during my puking cameo, I remember seeing a black mass, which I thought was my liver, going down the commode. I slept for 17 hours straight after that. When I woke up, I felt like Rip Wan Winkle, only less old. My classroom, I later learnt, was a much peaceful place that day. I guess the broth missed that extra cook.