There’s this friend of mine, Ganesh (name changed for anonymity’s sake). He’s a school-college-buddy and lives near my place. We’ve known each other for over over sixteen years now. He’s a guy I adore and admire a lot, mainly for some of his principles which he holds strong. Even though fate’s played some nasty games with him, he’s come out of all adversities bearing a characterestic smile on his face (and a tika on his forehead – our friend’s a devout ‘Shiv-bhakt’).

Like me, Ganesh always depended on KSRTC for his transport needs. That is, until he secured a well-paying job. He decided to put an end to the qualms of daily-commute by buying himself a good motorcycle. And he had no second thoughts about the model – he went for one among the best bikes in the market – The Yamaha R15 Limited Edition. Now, there are only a thousand of such bikes in the market which upped the oomph factor of the bike.

The sudden step-up from mundane commuting to stylish biking was a shot in the arm for Ganesh. He would flash his new toy, zipping through the crowded streets, showing off his beauty. He was too humble to flaunt his bike. Yet, his babe was the object of our collective envy. Ganesh handled his ‘babe’  with utmost care. He would wash and clean it every day, following every rule in the owners manual down to the last dot. In fact, he was obsessed about the R15, albeit in a healthy way.

One fine morning, Ganesh was all set to leave for office. He had an early appointment that morning, hence he’d woken up early to give his bike its daily wash. Making sure that every part of the macho bike gleamed like a new pin, Ganesh mounted his stallion. It was time to hit the road. Turning on the ignition, he pressed the start button. The familiar ignition rattle was music to his ears.

The bike did not start.

His faithful warrior always responded to the first attempt. Ganesh tried again. The ignition-noise emanated again and died down. He tried again. And again. And again.

The bike didn’t respond.

One of the few cons of the R15 is that it lacks kick start. Ganesh remembered his friend recommending him Pulsar 220 because of the same reason. He’d then decided to go against his friend’s advice. Ganesh wasn’t worried. It must be a temporary problem, he decided. He thought he’d wait for a while and try again.

He waited, and tried another hand, to no avail. No matter however hard he tried, the bike failed to respond.

Beads of sweat started pouring down from Ganesh’s forehead. He was running late for his appointment. After a few more tries, Ganesh threw up his hands in despair. He kept his bike back into the shed and took a bus to office. He was fifteen minutes late for his meeting, and his boss was certainly not impressed. After an abnormally-long day, Ganesh reached home, tired and panting. Before he retired to his bedroom, he pulled the bike out of his shed and tried another attempt, in vain. Dejected, Ganesh decided to call it a day. Bikes always have starting problems, he reassured himself. It’d be alright by tomorrow.

For the next two days, Ganesh switched back to KSRTC for his daily commute. Day-in and day-out, he would try starting his bike, only to stand dejected and depressed. How could his brand new bike fall ill despite his careful attention? Machines have the same indiscretions as do humans, he realized.

The very next day, he decided enough was enough. Ganesh called the nearest Yamaha service center. The mechanic said he’d drop by that evening. Ganesh was relieved. His baby’d be back in action within no time, he told himself.

The mechanic promptly arrived, that evening (on a Yamaha RXG, nothing less). Brash and young,  he was a Rajnikanth-worshiping chap, oozing ‘style’ in every movement. Humming a Rajni song, he gingerly unveiled an array of spanners and started work on the bike. He examined every part possible, trying to start the bike every two minutes. The ignition would sputter, and then stop. For a brief instant, the bike made a slight ‘vroom’ sound, much to Ganesh’s excitement. But then it died down, as soon as it started.

Fifteen minutes later, the mechanic stood up and took a stretch. He took a casual glance at the bike’s right side. Suddenly, he fixed his glance at one point. He beckoned Ganesh towards him. His right index finger pointed towards the side of the bike. Ganesh saw it for himself. No sooner did he saw what the mechanic pointed, a smile, or rather, a sheepish grin developed on his face.

The mechanic had pointed his finger at the petrol knob of the bike stood pointed towards the ‘OFF’ position. Ganesh had switched off his bike’s petrol knob in all his punctiliousness to keep his bike ‘perfect’. How in the world would his bike start, when its petrol was turned off?

Ganesh looked at the mechanic, who was now grinning back at him.

“Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. This is MY third time,” he smiled.

P.S.

This post is written as part of the Close Up “Fire Freeze” Contest. Check out their Facebook page, where you can post your own stories. Pour your experiences here as comments. Set the ball rolling.

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Jobless or ‘jobbed’, I love Harthals! <3

The Harthal, as you know, is a mass-impasse imposed upon the populace by a group/political-party (or even a random Kanjirappalli Kariyachan) to protest/support/enjoy/rejoice/burst-crackers-for/dance-away-to-celebrate/booze-up-to-commmerate [citation needed]  an issue. The issue could be something as puny as the new government rule that would pull the plug on crores of ‘extra-earnings’ accrued by ‘important people’, or even something drop-dead serious, like the death of a friendly-neighbourhood-mongrel, for instance. The size and proportion of a harthal is as variable as the harthal itself – it could cover a rather huge geographical area like the Oolampaara Metro, renowned for the global H.Q. of Intellectual Stimulation Center™ (ISC), or even a comparatively-tiny place like the sleepy-town of Kochi.

I simply can’t comprehend why people strongly protest Harthals – aren’t you people too happy about a free holiday? Years back, when I was at school, Harthal meant celebration – sitting idylically at home was fun; especially so if the harthal did postpone an exam are two. The Harthal was, is, and shall always be a God-given boon: an ill-prepared exam postponed was joy forever! As I moved to college, things weren’t much different. But I’d have to say that my batch wasn’t very lucky, most of our exams happened on the dot; but we did have our share of ‘Harthal joys’ during our first and second year. Along with internal-strikes, Harthals stood for fun and frolic!

Alright, that’s me. I know most of you are still pissed about having lost precious working hours to this ‘monstrosity’ – and I know for a fact that you ARE NOT jobless, for a fact. So let’s get into your shoes and analyze how Harthals are actually advantageous:

• Reluctant Breaks: Indians have a reputation of being a hard-working-populace. Half of all successful prostitutes, janitors, sweepers, construction workers and beggars overseas owe their roots to the our nation. These hardworking men and women toil their asses off (in some cases, quite literally), to earn their daily bread (or Vodka, for that matter). Such committed workers who work ‘hardly’ for the uplift of their Motherland should be provided a sabbatical, for myriad health reasons. Researchers have proved that constant physical exertion is on the rise. Modern adage seems to comply with the golden words: “Thou shalt die with a belly well fed.”, quote modern philosophers. In such extremes of physical torture, an occasional one-day break does only good.
• Banking A peep into the arbitrary government office and you would stand awed at the dedication and commitment depicted by our ‘babus’. Apart from their daily duties of duly ‘glancing through’ files (whose super-fast ‘transfer-rates’ put Teracopy to shame), our Babus seem to have taken the banking system under their folds. A very secure parallel banking system has been established thanks to concerted efforts over the years. The system has reached such levels of popularity that it’s quite an open secret these days. However, this system of banking involves one-way transfer. The customer can debit money through secure cash-processing machines under office-tables. (S)he gets decent rates of interest (which are at par with Islamic Banking, if not more) and that too in the form of myriad benefits. This parallel banking system has reached such massive levels of popularity and success that Private sector banks have started grumbling about deficits. Harthals are a boon for private sector banks, crumbling under the yoke of the parallel banking system (whose deposits go a long way to sunny Switzerland). Since more Harthals would mean more shut-down for these ‘parallel banks’, Private sector banks can heave a rightful sigh-of-relief.
• Too much work doesn’t just work ! The mentality of overseas Indians have crossed the seas and spread wings among their counterparts in good-old-motherland. India Inc is working ‘hardly’ these days! So ‘hardly’ that the word ‘hard’ has lost its very meaning! As they say, too many cooks spoil the broth, and too much ‘work’ (including parallel banking) ends up spoiling the broth. So much for more holidays.
• Booze ‘em up! A recent trend in the country is the widespread adoption of teetotalism. India is the country of the Mahatma, who stated that Alcohol is the biggest evil our nation has faced (Gandhiji has had his share of booze in his childhood, nevertheless). Thanks to widespread negative publicity by numerous A.A.s, alcohol sales have hit rock-bottom, today. Liquor baron Vijay Mallya is in the brink of bankruptcy and is rumoured to have auctioned stashes of his old Playboy magazinesor a paltry $5 billion, for want of liquid cash! Insider sources point out that Harthals are prompted by secret agencies (which have a nexus with Liquor companies like  Kingfisher); the sudden holiday comes as a huge-blow for the hard-working-average-indian, who, in order to kill satisfy his workaholism – goes to the nearby state-owned-beverages outlet and boozes to heart’s content. Inventive idea, huh? But then why would the government declare dry days during Harthals? The forbidden-fruit demand-supply principle. To sell something quick, kill the supply and increase demand! Our leaders aren’t as dumb as they seem.
• Television Viewership Let’s face it – television viewership is dwindling! Reality shows are seen as the last straw for TV channels in a bid to survive the blitzkrieg of new media. Once they go out of fashion, many television studios shall go bust. The Harthal is a boon to both the viewer and the Studio-Manager in this case. Studios dangle the carrot of newly-released flicks (bootlegged, in the case of local, operator-run channels), and the bored-out-of-his-mind  viewer jumps high to gobble it up. The studio gets its TRPs and the viewer smiles at his Rs 200/- of Multiplex Money savings.
• Bonding initiative Let’s face it: Assbook, Farkut and Shwitter have killed real socializing. We don’t get to meet real people – let alone our family members. Harthal spreads out a wave of universal joblessness that we’re left with our dear and near ones to have some kickass face-to-face conversations. Harthals also mean empty roads, streets and avenues, leaving open some very interesting possibilities for PDA (and more).
• Harthals heal the world! The Harthal is our very own innovation to get right back at Global warming. No automobiles, no factory fumes and no pollution for twenty four hours straight (not considering extra trillions of tonnes of human excreta that clog the sewerage system). Means of transportation are restricted to walks or even cycling – the best way to kill some calories and lose some flab.

If you’re still cribbing about something that the high court of Kerala has banned, you might want to sign this petition.

Bottom Line

Style of writing and ‘content’ inspired by FakingNews. *Respects* to Pagal Patrakar a.k.a. Rahul Roushan. You rock, dude!

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This post is cross-posted from the Tata Jagriti Yatra blog. I’d written the post during the yatra, and it was published in the blog, back then. Looking back at my archives, I thought this post is worth publishing. You may find the original post here. There’s another post of the same name in this blog – a post that dates four years back. Even it’s on the same lines. You might want to check it out here.

I’m no stud. Plagiarizing the title of Kiran Desai’s booker-winning piece wouldn’t make me one either. I’m that random guy you’d find on every other sleepy, small-town in India. I’d be sitting next to you on the public bus, sipping tea (aptly paid by a couple of borrowed one rupee coins) by a chawl, or even aimlessly roaming about on a crowded city road. “Another brick in the wall.” as you (a.k.a. ‘the stud’) might put it. You’re welcome; your gratitude for my praise is duly accepted and acknowledged. And before you brush my compliment off, dismissing me with the ‘brick-wall’ figure of speech, let me shed some more piece of info, buddy. I’m a tad different. I’ve this not one among these regular red bricks you see piled up by construction sites. I’ve a distinct shade of orange.

It took me a nation-wide train journey to fully comprehend the implications of my difference – A journey, which not only made me bankrupt and awakened me to the point of enlightenment. Bankrupt, because the organizers snubbed out my humble pleas for sponsorship and I had to bust my life’s savings for it. Enlightened, because even though I’m penniless, I’ve found my calling, and I’ve learned hundred times more than what they teach you at those B-schools.

Apologies for the digression and the hyperbole – but then again, you might’ve had an insight into the nuances of my simple mind. And allow me to get back to where I started off – the booker winning book’s title. I plagiarized the title because it was the phrase that made the most sense to me, given the chaotic circumstances. With your due permission, I shall elaborate on what actually transpired.

Okay, so to cut the human excreta, this train journey which instilled high hopes in me, not to mention romanticized notions of the country, was marked by the four letter word L-O-S-S. Materialistically speaking, I lost more than what I gained. Did you hear the song about a raspy-voiced guy singing about the things he’d lost in the past seven days? If not, shame on you. Feed yourself some staple food from your country’s watched movie industry, st-ude (st-ude = stud + dude, for further references). And since it’s been exactly seven days into this ‘Yatra’ and I’m sort-of maniacally-obsessed by the song, being the random movie-obsessed guy that I am, I thought I’d make the fact public, just like the raspy-voiced guy.

It all started on day 1, with an irreparable tear on my brand new Alen Solly shirt. Obnoxious optimism (with due regards to Mark Twain), made me attribute the primal loss to bad karma. With the smile back on my face, I leaped onto the train and set off. Then on, virtually, there was no looking back. Each day meant the loss of a new item. My favourite Nokia 3110c, my toothbrush, an unopened Reebok tee, an IIM Bangalore watch, my towel (lost to laundry), countless pens, medicines, and God-alone-knows-what. When I say the list is endless, it actually is.

It’s bad. Or rather, it’s *insert-expletive-here*. Each day, you wake up to check your purses, bags, and pockets, only to realize that you’ve another lost item. And the panic starts. You feel the trepidation in your arms, which is surprisingly infectious. Your arms, legs and your entire body, in that order, feel this blitzkrieg of adrenaline. And then, you start foraging. Your mind’s eye rushes through your memoirs of the past couple of (awake) hours, tracking your (invisible) footprints. And then, like the Na’avi from Avatar (watch the movie, if you haven’t), you leap off in pursuit. You overturn all the bags, books, blankets, soiled socks, stinky towels, and every other thing that blocks your line of sight. At first, your roommates are empathetic and willingly join-in. But with time, they realize that this is cest la vie for you. And then, you’re at the butt of ridicule. Progressively, you disappear into the ambiance as a lone maverick being, showing proof of your existence by making periodic appearances at the announcement desk beseeching the announcement of your latest loss.

If serious doubts about my optimist claim have started cropping up in your mind by now, chill. The sole reason why I never stop my search is because I know I’d find my stuff someday, somewhere. And yeah, I’ve already found most of them. Yet, each day beckons to a new loss, and I’d have to balance the pursuit of loss with the pursuit of inspiration, which I admit, is quite tasking. Yet, it’s no daunting task.

‘Cause if a brick like me can multitask, so can a stud like you! ☺

P.S.
If you find some of the items that I’ve mentioned anywhere around (not necessarily in the train), do give me a buzz. I’d certainly appreciate it, not just verbally.

Bottom Line

I actually ended up finding everything I lost on train, while plenty of others didn’t.

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This friend of mine and her buddies were house-hunting in Hyderabad last weekend. Damn-serious they were, for,  the company they’d just joined would give the accommodation for just two weeks and one week was already over. They had to find a new place for themselves in a matter of two days. Not one, but two apartments actually: seperate flats for the guys and girls. Not that the guys had problems with sharing rooms – actually they unanimously proposed the idea earnestly, only to retract their statement after physical abuse by one among the feisty ladies.

Since the six of them were saving up for their downpayments – they chose to walk; and they did criss-cross half the city of Hyderabad on foot, in the brutal sun. Only, to rest on the steps of a defunct escalator at a ramshackle-mall, which they rushed into so as to escape the blinding heat. Haggard, exhausted, and dissapointed – the six of them aimless stared at the unfinished ceilings of the mall in despair – all their leads were bad, either the flat was too expensive, or the place was unclean, or the area was bad: Classic devil-deep-sea.

CC Credits: durai101

Shruti, gathering all her energy trudged herself to a nearby bookstore and returned with a copy of ‘The Hindu’, with its weekend edition of ‘Property Plus’. She’d bought the paper to ‘productively utilize’ her free time (the CAT classes showed). The Property Plus was a useful freebie; not for Shruti though. Tthe quintessential reader-chick, she opened the editorial page to confirm whether N. Ram shared her opinion on Maoists.  Meanwhile the others gobbled-up The Property Plus, marking eligible property ads for consideration.

Within a few minutes, Arun hit jackpot:

“Guys, check this one out!!”, he exclaimed. “You girls are going to love this one.”. The girls grabbed the paper and fought for eyeball-space. All except Shruti, who was still trying to date N. Ram. The girls seemed to share Arun’s opinion, if the ad were to be believed, the flat was truly above par. The deal-clinching part of the ad was: “Rents Negotiable.” Keerthi hooted with joy, involuntarily. Now, the hoot scared N. Ram away and Shruti glared at the girls from beneath the glasses. “Let me see.”, she snatched the paper from the girls. She took a moment to find the ad. Meanwhile, the girls had actually booked the flat in their minds and were eyeing Shruti expectantly- her ATM receipt showed a balance of 350,000 – the girls needed a coaxable-world-bank, all strings-attached.

“What the Fish?!”, Shruti’s croaky voice exclaimed. The girls leapt with joy; half the job’s done!

“Are you guys nuts?  Or are you just out of your senses?”

Okay, trouble.

“But, what’s wrong with this house? It’s so perfect, it’s  3BHK, it’s at a nice locality and has flexible rent. What more do you want? A bloody big palace, with your 350 grand bank balance huh?”, Rakhi retorted. This bitch had to lose it at the opportune moment, bugger.

“Didn’t you guys read this ad properly? Do you know a thing or two about Vaastu? !! Are you guys even living in India? A house needs to be built according to Vaastu rules, and if it isn’t – the occupants are doomed! This house lacks it – in fact, the owner has admitted in this ad that this house has Vaastu Complaints! Oh, probably the house was too good that you goodie-too-shoes fashonistas overlooked that bit!”, Shruti snapped angrily, pointing her fingers at the ‘Vaastu’ part of the obscurely-placed ad.

Rakhi leaned over and squinted to see that part of the ad. No sooner did she see the ad, her brazen expression shifted to a wide grin.

Soon, she Rakhi laughing uncontrollably, tears were coming out of her eyes and she was laughing too hard to talk, despite the best of her efforts! Puzzled, the others leaned over and took a good look at the ad. In a couple of moments’ time, they too joined in the laughter-spree. Shruti turned pink in anger.

“Is this some sort of new prank, assholes? Laugh, laugh! Bah, very funny!”

“Read… the… ad… <guffaws> … you… DUMBASS!” – Prithvi managed to gulp out just as much before he resumed laughing.

Shruti grabbed back the paper and took a better look at the ad:

Apartment Near High tech city.
3 BHK, 1026 sq.ft
Good Interiors, A/C, Vaastu Compliant
Negotiable Rent.

The girls booked the apartment the very next day – Shruti chipped in her share diligently. She doesn’t have any ‘compliants’, this time.

Oh btw, Shruti doesn’t flaunt her vocabulary and her CAT preparation a lot these days. All freshers in the company make it a point to offer their ‘compliants’ to Shruti, whenever they pass by.

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My uncle made a sudden announcement that he’s migrating to the U.S. of A, to the family’s surprise. His company posted him overseas with a pay that’s equivalent to ten times as much it’s worth in motherland. Despite the odds, especially the countless diplomatic hassles, he decided to pack his bags and live the american dream with his wife and daughter (my cousin), who was a five-year old back-then.

Three months of red-tape-dodging later, the three of them took a  flight from ‘namma ooru Bengaluru’ to ‘The Valley’, in pursuit of the much-cliched ‘American Dream’.

The flight was bumpy and it took  little Karthika (my cousin) six visits to the loo just to get ‘settled down’. Aunty and Uncle were excited about the trip, but Karthika wasn’t. She bawled all over the place when she heard the news of departure. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving  her buddies at Sacred Heart’s School. And besides, she’d come to love Bangalore. She just couldn’t let go, yet her parents didn’t take no for an answer.

Twenty Three harrowing hours later, the trio landed at SFO (San Francisco Airport) – they were supposed to land at the San Jose Airport, which was closer to their destination – Palo Alto. Sadly, a storm turned things around, literally, that is. Now, that was a huge blow for uncle, cause he had his company car waiting at San Jose. SFO was over twenty one miles from their destination. The driver had been informed of the change, but it would take at least three hours to reach SFO (which was over 35 miles  from SFO, and the storm made driving hard). Uncle, Aunty and Karthika had to wait in the passenger lounge for hours. The jet-lag was killing them, and they hadn’t taken enough woolen clothes. To make things worse, temperatures neared sub-zero and it was snowing heavily outside. Karthika was seriously pissed – but even she was too tired for tantrums; she struggled to cope up with the cold, under four layers of woolen clothing.

CC Credits: artofthestate

The USA was new to Karthika. A whole new world of people who were either too fair or too dark. It was so clean, swank and modern. Every square-metre had some beeping/gleaming electronic gadget attached. She stared open-mouthed, with an emotion that was part-awe and part-fear. She observed every nook and corner of the airport, trying to read signs in English – she was already familiar with the language; her teacher at school was American, and she’d already learned ‘the drawl’ from her. She could read and write well-enough for a five year old. As she was observing the red neon signs on the wall opposite to her, something caught her eye.

‘Someone’, actually. Not some-’thing’.

The plural of ‘someone’ to be precise.

Two people stood close to each other, beneath the neon sign. The man was clad in a tee shirt and shorts while the female wore a sleeveless blue tank top. Strangely, they didn’t seem to feel the cold at all. And they were doing something to each other. Karthika squinted. She moved forward, braving the cold, and eyed closely. The man seemed to be biting the woman’s lips. No, he was eating something from her mouth – she couldn’t be sure. It was gross! For all she could see – the man’s mouth was inside the woman’s. Perhaps the woman was hungry, and the man was trying to feed her? Aw, no – that shouldn’t be the thing.

Now, were they kissing each other?

No, Karthika reassured herself. People kiss each other in the cheek. Her dad kisses her on the cheeks before they go to work. Her mom does that too, when she’s playing with her. And she’d seen Mohanlal kissing his heroines in Malayalam Movies they show on Asianet. They must be doing something else, she decided. Two minutes later, they didn’t seem to stop and Karthika felt sick staring at them. She turned around only to see another couple in the act. And another. And another. She even saw a man, biting/stucking another man’s lips/tongue (ewww). Karthika’s tummy did a back-flip. She ran to her mom who was trying to find some sleep on her dad’s shoulder and rested herself on her mom’s lap.

Aunty woke up, and caressed her arms lovingly on Karthika’s head. Karthika’s query caught aunty unawares.

“Amme (Mom), What are these people doing?” (Pointing to a kissing couple).”

Clean bowled.

“Molu (Daughter), er, that’s the american way of greeting people! In America, you kiss a new person when you meet him/her. Much like we shake hands in India.”

“Oh, so they are kissing right? I thought so. But why are they kissing on their mouths? Why don’t they kiss on the cheeks like us?”

“Er… Er… I guess, that’s the American way of kissing, molu.”

“Oh, athu shari.” (Hmmm, I see).

Karthika failed to notice the beads of sweat that had accumulated on Raji aunty’s forehead, as she nodded in understanding.

Later on that day, they reached Palo Alto and they were ushered into their cozy apartment. The jet lag took a toll on the three of them, and they spent the entire day sleeping. Workaholic that he is, uncle left for work at 6 AM next morning. Aunty woke up soon after, and set about exploring their new fully-furnished home, awed by the profusion of gadgets, (especially the kitchen). Karthika took her time, and walked about their new apartment. She enjoyed the ambiance - and loved it even more, noticing the projection TV with countless cartoon channels. Meanwhile, somebody knocked the door, and  Aunty opened it. Next-door neighbours had come visiting  - A lovely black lady Michelle, and her son Tyler. Aunty ushered them in with all charm she could muster, silently-glaring at Karthika who was too busy with Spongebob Squarepants to notice. Reluctantly, Karthika had to switch off TV and attend to the guests; she knew the what the outcome would be if she didn’t comply! Perfunctory conversations later, Aunty eyed Karthika to talk to the guests. She hadn’t uttered a word, and she was dreading that moment; partly the reason why she glued herself to TV, not acknowledging the guests. She simply couldn’t get herself to do it. But now her mom had commanded her, and there was no escaping from it.

Taking a deep breath, Karthika got up from her sofa, gingerly stepped forward, and walked to Michelle and Tyler. She paused before for an awkward second, as Michelle held her arms out to her. Tyler, a six year old, beamed copiously at Karthika, who returned the smile.

Before Tyler knew it, Karthika went over and kissed Tyler, straight in the mouth for ten full seconds!

Michelle’s eyes nearly popped out. Aunty had her arm on her head, silently calling all the Gods she knew, red with embarrasment. Tyler was in a daze, he kept staring blankly at Karthika whose smile now morphed into a puzzled expression. She stared at her mom and asked innocently:

“Amma, I was just welcoming Tyler, ‘the american way’, as you’d told me at the airport!”

Bottom Line:

Real story, altered names.

No related posts.

A name’s the most primary identification mark of any person. It’s one of the only entities about us that’s both intensely personal and unabashedly public. It’s something you take pride in (not always, but in general) and hold closest to your heart – and it’s also that piece of info about yourself that you’d willingly share with almost every other person you acquaint with. Your name says a lot about you; it signifies your caste, your religion and even your persona: Often “You are what your name means!” (Okay, that’s an inaccurate hypothesis and I’ll elaborate why).

Now, all of us aren’t exactly in love with our names, are we? Many change names in the course of their lives. The reasons being social (change of religion, marriage), astrological (Think Numerlogy and astrology), or even personal (sheer hatred of your weird name). But our names have been lovingly bestowed upon us by our parents, and changing your name would mean, changing our identity altogether, won’ t it? And in these days of inane red-tape, a name-change would mean countless forms, corrections, modifications and what not! Changing what you’re called, just once, can be such a pain in the ass, right?

How would you feel if you you had a new name each day?

Here’s an anecdote. Rewind 54 years.

1956. Picture a village in Rural Kerala. A kid is born into a fading aristocratic Nair family. Now, the once-prosperous Tharavaadu is in the throes of total destruction, thanks to economic mismanagement and a profusion of Legal Troubles. This kid is born as the youngest in a family of 8. Now, this family has a huge disparity in terms of ages, best explained by the fact that the kid’s oldest brother got married when the kid was one year old! Way back in the ’50s, being the youngest kid wasn’t as cool as it is, right now. The kid’s parents were too busy managing his seven siblings and their own troubles,  to give him a second look. His mother didn’t have enough time to even breastfeed the kid. What’s worse, the kid did not have a name, even when he was two years old! He was too small an entity to be considered, when the landlord father of his was losing acres of land and his imported Ford to a slew of court-cases!! Heights of bad parenting, if you ask me.

By the time the kid was three years old, the family was impoverished, more or less. Most of the property was in dispute – the sole lifeline of the family was a ten acre rice-field, and some cattle. The kid-who-had-no-name wasn’t even encouraged to eat three meals a day, let alone go to school. He had no issues with the lackadaisical attitude of his parents, however. Too mature for his age, he learned to mingle with neighbourhood kids and enjoyed his life, blissfully unaware of the troubles around him.

One day, a group of middle-aged men and women marched into the Tharavaadu. They were greeted by the kid’s mom with trembling arms. Were they officials from the court, all set to attach the only property they had? They coterie of well dressed people turned out to be teachers from the local Government school. Apparently, the school was about to be closed down due to lack of attendance, and there was an DEO (District Education Officer)-inspection due. The teachers were hunting for kids to substitute  ’real’ children so that the school wouldn’t get decommissioned; their jobs were at stake. While the teachers were explaining their predicament to a now-relieved mom, our kid marched into the courtyard, clad in a loincloth-style knicker, happily playing with a discarded cycle tyre – his only toy. As soon as he entered, this lady teacher pounced upon him immediately, the way a lioness would perch upon a zebra and bribed him with a bunch of toffees. The kid munched a toffee for the first ever time, and boy, he loved them! Within a few minutes, a deal was fixed. The kid would attend school whenever an inspector came to school, and he’d get free meals as a gift. The kid was too satiated to relent – milk, countless toffees and nourished WHO-sponsored meals were a welcome relief from his daily-porridge.

The very next day, he set off to school donning the new ‘uniform’ the guests had bestowed him with. Walking four kilometers, criss crossing rivers, and jumping fences, the kid finally reached his destination. Tired he was, but sweet promises of delicious milk and meals kept him going. No sooner had the kid reached school, he was ushered in by a peon, and was rushed to the lady teacher from yesterday. She had a bunch of kids of various shapes and sizes beside her. The teacher smiled at him, and examined a list. Then she gently told him:

“Monte peru innu Mohandas ennu aanu ketto? Aa inspector attendance edukkumbo ‘Mohandas’ ennu vilikkum. Appo kai pokkanam ketto. Ennittu namukku kazhikkaame?”

(Your name today, is Mohandas. That inspector will take attendance and he’ll call ‘Mohandas’. Raise your hands then. After he leaves, you can have your lunch. “)

The kid happily nodded.

Soon the inspector was in class, and called out the names. He must’ve been astonished as to how tiny a kid Mohandas was – he did frown at seeing a seven year old who was more of a three year old, but he let it pass and moved on to the next person. ‘Mohandas’ rushed after class to have a satiating meal. He loved his school!

Then on, the kid was a sure-pick whenever inspectors attended class. Each time, he’d be attending a new class, sporting a new name. “Vijaya Kumar”, “Raghavan”, “Krishna Kumar”, “Rajeev Pillai”, “Shekhar Nair”, “Peter Simon”, “Adel Aziz” – he’d gotten used to being referred to with new names. As the kid was six years old, he’d attended all classes and division from the first grade to the fourth grade – and he enjoyed it! Soon, he’d deliberately attend classes, seating himself in different classes each day, choosing a new name for himself; the school was perennially-underpopulated, so no one really cared. The teachers loved him, he’d saved their asses plenty of times, and the kid was too good a student for his age. He was doted upon, and got to drink plenty of WHO-certified milk, subsidized by the U.N. The kid was fat and healthy as he turned 11 – a far cry from the impoverished, knicker-clad three year old. With time, the kid developed a strong penchant for studies. He loved science and math – and he excelled in the latter, thanks to a Mathematics Professor of a brother who enjoyed passing on lessons to his sibling.

Years passed, and the kid had reached tenth grade (fifth form, as it was called, back then). He still had no definite name, but his ‘names’ were narrowed down to five or six, maybe. The date came to register for the SSLC Board Exams. The kid went to the teacher in charge of examinations – who was new to the school. When he approached the teacher, she asked the kid for his name. Now, that question was quite a googly for our buddy, no one had asked him what his name was, till then! He was referred to by his classmates by whatever nickname they chose for him, and he never really bothered about it till date. The realization stuck him hard! He did not have a name to himself! For the first time, the school’s most brilliant student could not blurt out an answer to a question posed by a teacher.

Noticing his silence, the teacher looked up from her register and quipped:

“Oh, I know you! You’re Ramesh Babu! I taught you the other day at class. Sorry, I forgot you.”

That was the name he’d assumed during the previous inspection; this teacher was taking the class whilst the inspector came over. She did seem to have a good memory.

Before the kid could answer, the teacher wrote down ‘Ramesh Babu’, onto the register. The kid finally got himself a name.

The kid’s mom was about to return his hall-ticket back to the post man citing the absence of a ‘Ramesh babu’ in the family, when the kid rushed and grabbed it from the postman. He wrote the SSLC exams and passed them with flying colours. He did well for his Pre-Degree and went on to be an Electrical Engineer at a reputed Engineering College. After working in different companies all across the country, Ramesh joined Kerala State Electricity Board as an Assistant Engineer. His quest for knowledge spurred him to take an MBA while he was working. Now he’s a Chief Engineer at KSEB – widely respected and honoured, even by the Hon. Minister of Electricity, in Kerala.

The kid who had no name happens to be my father.

Bottom Line:

“Fate, it seems, is not without a sense of irony”.

- Morpheus (Lawrence Fishburne), The Matrix Reloaded.

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The Latest Pirates – my movie-making buddies from College of Engineering, Trivandrum, are BACK, with a BANG! Check out the new video from their ‘Pirate cove’, “Sagar Aliyan’s Suppli’ – a humorous introspection into the Engineering student’s closest companion – the Suppli.

Check the video out, guys:

P.S.

To know more about these pirates, check out their website: http://thelatestpirates.jimdo.com/ I’ve blogged about them before, in this post. Incidentally, my first published article in The Hindu, is also about them. Find the article here.

Don’t forget to leave your comment here!

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I owe this ‘blunder’ to my friend Lokesh (name changed for reasons obvious).

Lokesh is not exactly the best of my buddies, but we’re certainly more than casual acquaintances. He’s a fun dude, and his sense of humor is obscene (<– pun). Loku, as we know him, enjoys quizzing the way he relishes successive pegs of Absolut Vodka. He has all the information under the sun (err… he’s close, really) in his fingertips. Which means, he knows enough about worldly vices too, if you know what I mean.

So one fine evening in Winter 2009 saw Loku and his buddies roaming about the byzantine streets of Bangalore. They’d hit Bangalore as part of a mandatory-act of the ‘engineering’ drama – The Industrial Visit a.k.a. IV. All engineering students who mouth cuss words (that would put a B grade villain to shame) at the higher authorities, profusely thank them for including the essential IV as part of the course. “Practical Theory’ was the original idea in policymakers’ minds. But the students effortlessly twist the ‘guidelines’, using gaping wide-loopholes, hence converting the IV into a full-fledged excursion. Thus, we have students visiting Doordarsan Kendras in Ooty, Garment factories in Goa, and even Tyre Factories in Bangalore and Mysore; conveniently avoiding hundreds of better-equipped ‘industries’ in the neighbourhood. A few well-versed souls toil their ass off to actually visit the industries, while the others diligentlypursue other satisfying activities that involve alcohol and practical ornithology (yes, the IV is all about putting theory to practice!).

That evening, Loku and his two buddies were back after a healthy does of both. Practical ornithology was a success – they had actually caught a couple of ‘birds’ by their wings. One ‘bird’ even flew to them; they assumed her to be a dove, but she was actually a hawk in dove’s feathers! The trio ran for the sake of their (sex) lives, to Brigade Road, from where they had  ’healthy’ shots of Vodka (Absolut, nonetheless – all sponsored by Rich Loku!), from a pub. It was ‘high time’! Now, when Loku is high, he comes up with out-of-the-world ideas. Legend has it that, Loku’s main project (which got featured in the papers) was a result of his post-inebriation brainwave. Such an outlandish plan struck Loku’s brain as soon as he his cronies alighted from the pub. Sober and steady as Ayyappa Baiju, Loku narrates his plans to his buddies, who agree without a second thought. Without much ado, the trio get themselves into action!

Their first ‘target’ was the famed KFC outlet at Brigade Road. The dudes barge into the counter. Loku takes lead and petulantly ask:

“Eda p***** mone…. enikkoru chicken roast thaaada m****e!”

Which is  Malayalam for: “Hey mother f**ker! Get me a chicken roast, you as*hole”.

The waiter looks back at them in amazement

“Pardon, sir?”

“Chicken roast!!! Ninakkonnum chevi kettooodedaa tha***li?”

The waiter gets the point and:

“Sure sir. Please take your…”

Before he could complete his sentence, the trio laugh their asses off and escape!

Mind you, these folks spoke in such a calm way that the receptionist DID NOT understand that his parents (and ancestors) were being severely ridiculed!

Spurred by the spectacular success of their gag, these folks  tried it out successfully at nearly half the shops in Brigade Road. They’d get inside, order/inquire something in “nice” language, and before the proprietor/waiter/receptionist/salesperson could respond, they’d laugh their asses off and escape, while Mallu-shoppers would join the laughing spree. The salesperson would require an explanation from the nearest Mallu to get a remote idea about how their parents (and their forefathers) were being ridiculed at the trio. By then, the trio would’ve taken their onslaught to another shop/retail outlet.

After a spree of gags, these folks returned to their hotel by auto. They successfully employed the gag upon the auto driver too; but he was luckier, he at least got paid, unlike plenty of hapless others. Clinging onto their tummies in a bid to control raucous laughter, falling over each other, the inebriated trio trudged into the hotel’s reception to get their room-keys. It was about 9.30 PM and the rest of their batch mates had already arrived and settled into their rooms. Loku, the self-proclaimed ‘gang leader’ placed his arms expansively over the reception counter and winked at his buddies. One last attempt of the gag; they got the cue, winked back, and donned the same innocent expressions that beguiled hapless Kannadiga shopkeepers. Loku put forth his best performance yet,

“Eda panna kazhiveri po******mone, can you please give me the keys for room 204?”

(You bloody motherf***ker, can you please give me the keys for room 204?)

His buddies had already started guffawing, hands covering mouths; Loku tried his best to control his laughter, trying to look serious.

The receptionist  instinctively and reflexively cocked his eyes up from the computer monitor, to face them:

“Enthaada paranje??!!!” (What did you just say?)

Strike One.

Unofficial statistics say that 40% of Bangalore’s populace consists of Malayalees. The laws of probability went against Loku’s gang, the waiter proved to be a Malayalee, and he understood EXACTLY what Loku had said.

Before anything  untoward could happen, they bolted. Loku and his buddies were screwed – they couldn’t go to the receptionist. The nab had the keys and they didn’t have any spares with them. If they faced him, they’d be beaten up black and blue for sure, and would certainly not step foot into their hotel room. For over three hours, the trio hid themselves at the parking lot, shivering in the winter cold. They returned at 12 AM, making sure that the mallu receptionist had left home, and obtained the keys from the late-night-duty receptionist. Loku quietly asked for the keys (in slow, careful English, this time), and quietly trudged to their room, shivering.

These days, Loku makes it a point NOT to speak in Malayalam, if he’s out with friends.

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This is a live-update post. You get the updates as they happen. The live update is over.

The day itself started off on a sour note. Well, as a matter of fact, for the past couple of years, no day of mine has started off ‘sweet’, but generally speaking (i.e. in comparison with others), this day was particularly gross. Woke up with a volley of abuses from dad (who actually caught me by my throat in intense anger ). And dad, who had to go to office early, forgot his room’s keys. He calls me up as I’m about to leave college, barking orders to bring him the keys. Since the situation was urgent, I was allowed (albeit reluctantly) by my mother to take the Maruti 800 (unused mostly, thanks to the Tata Indigo). I dropped mom at her office, hand-delivered keys to a furious dad and entered college, 30 minutes late.

Till then, the day wasn’t as bad. ‘Cause I was actually happy. We had a ‘Demo week’ planned. And today is would have been the ‘Paandi day’, where every single guy/girl would come, dressed up as a ‘Paandi’ (for the uninitated, a ‘Paandi’ is a typical guy/girl from the state of Tamil Nadu, characterised by dark skin colour/loud clothes/loud-mouthed tamil). And I had all my ‘costumes’ ready, and had even worn my flashiest, loudest orange shirt. I’d also taken my semi-aviator Polaroid sunglasses and hidden dad’s worst lungi, and burmoodas for ‘effect’. I hadn’t worn them yet, but I soon would. Or so, I imagined.

The first shock came as a message from my friend Mithun – “Da no demo today.” I got it as I walked to the class, parking my car precariously in the ‘parking lot’. Enraged, I decided to bunk the class, and headed to the library. Chatting up with friends from the electronics department, and after writing a couple of autograph books, I returned to my class. Two hours were gone, and there was seriously no point in sitting in class. Yet, something forced me to sit in class as my staff advisor strode in. Alright, she’s a lady with whom I’ve some VERY huge problems. Nothing personal, but she’s been screwing me up in every possible way, since the very first month of college – the principal reason why I hate college so much. This lady comes in, and puts to display her appallingly-bad sense of humor, only to get forced-half-smiles, and that too, from just the ‘teacher-pleasing-girls’. “Warming up” done, she gets back to the board.

Meanwhile, I get a late delivered message from Mithun, citing the absense of teachers in class. I couldn’t help but smile at the late delivery. As I bent down, reading the message, I heard a voice call my name:

The lady had caught me.

“What are you doing?”

“Ma’am, I was …uh… checking my book.”

Lying comes naturally to me.

Intelligent that she was, she strode over to my seat, as I hid my mobile within the recess underneath the bench. She bent over, took the phone, and muttered ‘advises’ about not lying and crap. She strode off back with my mobile, and hid it within her Distributed Systems text. My 9k worth Samsung Star was reduced to the status of a bookmark!

I was counting each moment, as she taught, and wasn’t paying any attention to what was going around the class. The star was my most priced possession. It is a part of my body – and I felt amputated without it! My mind raced, searching for excuses. But still, I had a belief that I’d get my phone back. As the class got over, I rushed to the teacher. She was adamant. She wasn’t going to return my mobile, whatever be the case. I pleaded and went down as much as my ego did permit. She did not. And before I could say anything else, she stormed out of the class.

I’m so screwed up! Which is why I’m blogging.

The main issue, is I’ve to call up my mom from office, and hence I’ve to communicate with her. And, I’ve been texting friends about some personal problems – one sight of the messages would be enough for serious misunderstanding! Luckily, I’ve the strict no-porn policy, thanks to which I won’t be affected by such problems, if the lady tends to check the phone. But if my mom calls, I’m seriously doomed!

Right now, I’m wondering what to do next. Hopefully, I’ll get the phone back. Hope is the keyword here.

Will keep you posted.

A lot of interesting things happened after that.

So, I walked hither-tither, peace of mind lacking. Classmates offered words of solace, but none could console me. Finally, I took the desperate measure of actually writing a letter to the lady, pleading for the phone – yes I actually wrote a full written request, only to tear it down, realizing the very futility of the act. To add on to my pain, it seemed that the teacher had magically disappeared from the environs of the college! She was nowhere to be seen. Exasperated and utterly demoralized, I trudged back to my class, only to notice that lunchbreak was long over and another lecturer had gotten into the class. She, being a guest-lecturer (hardly a year older than most of us – some of us were actually as old as, or perhaps older than her!), was correcting answer sheets of the series exam in class, letting us free to do whatever we wanted. I was let inside, and no sooner did I rest my ass on the bench, I flopped down into deep, tired, sad slumber. Only to be woken up by colleagues who directed me to the piercing eyes of this teacher, that were transfixed upon me. I was summoned by the lady, cause my paper was being corrected. I went, dreamy eyed, and asleep, sat on the first bench. She realized I was too sleepy to even open my eyes straight and entertained my request to wash my face. As I got back, my paper was corrected and ready. Another failure, duh! I grudgingly collected the paper only to learn that I had actually gotten very good marks (and that’s not a very common thing for me).  First shot of happiness for the day. Woohoo!

Revitalized by the sudden shot of inspiration, I went downstairs to the staffroom to plead about the phone to the teacher. To my bad luck, she still hadn’t apparated. Rumour had it that she’d gone home, and if such be the situation, I’m practically doomed. I was on the verge of tears – well I’m an emotional person, and guys don’t cry. Had to take up a superhuman effort to hold ‘em back. I had to go and call my mom from office, and she couldn’t be informed of the situation, whatever be the situation. My mind shuddered even to think of the occasion if mom’d place a call to my phone. Trudging with a boiling pot of a mind, I reached class again. Friends realized that I was seriously off; their soothing words did quite a bit to lift me up. Soon class was over for the day and I walked out of the class. The lady was nowhere to be found. Some guys had to show their project’s progress to the lady, who happened to be their project guide. So I waited along with them. Along came news that she was actually teaching in a class – I heaved a sigh of relief when I heard that. No sooner, I called my mom and asked her to leave, cause I had to meet the lady. Didn’t mention that part to her though.

Thus started the long wait.

Now, she’s (in)famous for teaching extra-time. Hence, our wait got extended by ten more minutes and finally, she showed up. After dealing with her ‘students’, I went to her.  Thus started an exasperated grilling session. Grilling is too mild a word for it; it was actual verbal demoralized. My legs were pulled and tied up in the ceiling – such was the state of mine. Yet, I forgot my ego and stooped down as much as she wanted me to. I pleaded her, trying to make her understand my plight. Finally, she compromised, saying that she’d give me my phone, if  I buy her Dairy Milk. Guess what, I was so broke that I had to forgo lunch that day. And a lot of bystanders (including classmates) now joined in, supporting her. I was a lone wolf, fighting against a crowd of marauders. (

In the end, she gave me my handset. It was ice cold from the a/c. And the message which I had opened, while she’d confiscated my phone, was intact. Which means, she hadn’t used the phone. My sole saving grace. Plenty of missed calls and messages. Answering them, I walked back to the car.

One thought/decision was engulfing my mind, as I trudged away.

I WOULD NEVER USE A MOBILE PHONE IN CLASS ANYMORE!!

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First year of college.

My Basic Civil Engineering exam was due that day, at noon. I was on my way to college with my trusted travel partner – KSRTC. (Don’t have many human ‘travel partners’ yet ) I was already late and hence abandoned the usual policy of choosing nearly-empty buses only to cram myself into a choc-a-bloc ”Thiruvananthapuram’ red. Five minutes into the journey and I realized what huge mistake I’d made. There I was, clutching a couple of Civil Engineering texts on both hands, with a huge backpack on my shoulders – crushed from all sides by an unruly mob fighting tooth and nail for personal space. I’d an entire text to read, but for fear of my dear life, I could neither open my texts, nor keep them back in the bag – for, both actions would result in irreparable damage to myself from all the ‘churn’ around!

Meanwhile, the conductor came ticket-mongering. After a superhuman effort, I managed to push away a fat man standing on my right side and fished out my purse. A 100 rupee note – its sole occupant silently grinned back at me. Screwed, the conductor guy is goanna swear at me. Yet, without a tinge of hesitation, I passed on the note to the condcutor, who, without looking up from his ticket-machine, issued me the ticket, pocketed the money and walked away. Thank God, I mused.

Soon, the bus reached a nearby stop – ‘Pongummood’, from where, my buddy Praseeth (batchmate at college) got in. He started his usual speech about how unprepared he was for the exams and how he’s goanna fail. He had no idea about the principle of Leveling, which was the only concept I’d learned well. He entreated me earnestly to explain the concepts to him, for levelling problems were the easiest way to score 10 marks in the essay. Realizing it as a way to revise what I’d learned, I started off, unmindful of the crowded environs. After a while, Praseeth’s sharp intellect had picked up the entire method and he was repeatedly mentioning how easy the whole method was. The bus had reached Pattom Junction and we were just a couple of kilometers away from college. He took a cursory glance at his watch and muttered that we’re really late.

Before I knew it, he’d opened the passenger door and pulled me out of the bus!

Praseeth, not always a punctuality person, was a tad too hyperactive today. He ushered me into an auto, and pushing his lean frame inside, commanded the auto driver to take us to college. He silently assured me that he’d foot the bill and that he wasn’t too enamored about crowded buses. Using the time to discuss other portions, we reached college in a few minutes’ time. Both of us alighted, and I took my purse to pay Praseeth – yeah, I’m very stringent about sharing, so I thought I’d share the auto-cost with Praseeth. I opened my wallet and fished for money.

The purse was empty.

Shocked, I took the purse and re-checked ever recess and niche. There were perhaps a few coins that amounted to Rs. 5/- not a penny more, not a penny less. Dumbfound, I kept searching, meanwhile Praseeth paid the money and was walking over to the classes. After some wild goose chase, I realized my blunder.

Dad had given me Rs. 100/- in the morning. I gave it to the conductor, from whom I did not buy change, thanks to the auto-sojourn and my absent-mindedness. There I was, broke, penniless and smiling inwardly at myself! Yet, I gathered myself and wrote the exam. Ironically, there was a leveling problem (of the same type I’d explained to Praseeth), and both of us got it right. After the exam, collecting all coins I could gather, I caught a  bus back home and didn’t mention about my debacle to a soul.

P.S.

Six months later, the results came. Praseeth scored a neat 80 for the exam while my mark was an okay-ish 68. And I heard him proudly proclaim to his buddies:

“You should’ve studied leveling man! I knew the answer to the problem when I saw the question – that was the only thing I’d studied and I got whopping 20 marks for the essay!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

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