For a while, Journalism was my dream career.

It all started with ‘We the people’ – the famous talk show from NDTV 24×7.  I started watching the show on my English teacher’s recommendation. Barkha had a lot in common with DP, or so felt my twelfth-grader-self. Like  every other hat-tip from the teacher, I took her words seriously. Soon, I was hooked into the show. The way Barkha interacted with the audience, the way she carried herself and the way she articulated… only a journalist could put herself across that way. I wanted to be like Barkha.

The adulation for Barkha had me worshipping Prannoy Roy himself. Without realizing the fact, I was gradually getting addicted to television journalism. From Anderson Cooper to Larry King, from Spencer Kelly to Rajiv Makhni, from Rajdeep Sardesai to Arnab Mukherji, from Nikesh Kumar to Venu; I knew (and respected) them all.

By the end of 2006, even as I deliberately fell prey to the booby-trap named ‘Engineering’, I yearned to be one among my idols. I wanted to be a a journalist.

Before I knew it, Engineering was over and I was as clueless (and jobless) as I were before joining Engineering. Even the CAT dream – which kept me alive for long, went awry. That was when the idea of journalism shone before me once again. A job offer from the fast-growing regional-web-portal beckoned me with both arms. The pay wasn’t great – even call center employee friends of mine made more. Not that I cared. Miniscule as it was, I wanted the pay. I had the occasional expense to take care of, and it was far more than what I needed.

Before I knew it, I’d  become a reporter.

As the proverbial cliche goes, I swept cleaner than the average-new-broom. I knew for one that it would take years to sculpt a Prannoy Roy. At least I was doing what I was passionate about; I was writing to my heart’s content. Google Analytics said that 20% of this web portal’s viewers were from America, Europe and the Gulf Countries. The world read what I wrote.

My first news story was about the absence of buses plying through a particular route in the city. I researched a lot for my first story. Reticent by nature, I struck up a conversation with as many people as I could, for ‘perspective’. From autodrivers minting money from the situation to schoolchildren directly affected by it, I spared no one in my quest for the ‘perfect story’. At the end of the day, I offered myself a smile as I noticed my story adorn the front page in the web portal.

I loved my job. My coworkers were the best I could ask for, fun-loving and friendly. Office politics was unheard-of. Everybody was friends with each other. We even had a ‘Chief Fun Officer’, who would be in charge of fun-activities, planning many a lighter moment. I adored fellow-members of my editorial. Our editor was a man with the heart of gold. They were like my siblings. We would even hang out after a long day’s work, discussing life, politics and literature over cups of tea.

We had the weekly editorial meeting where each of us discussed our stories. Our accolades were explained to us, and our mistakes were pointed out. It was a learning experience with a difference. The editor’s words evoked a feverish passion in us; it was his call for us to go that extra mile. Many of us followed suit, the others faced the music.  Each of us had our respective ‘beats’. We would write stories about the particular beat, on days assigned to us. Meeting deadlines was the key. Then there was number of stories — we had to write a certain number of stories a month. Explanation would be sought for, if the deadline was not kept. If you strive and set the bar high for your peers, good for you. You stand the chance of getting an appraisal. It was competitive world out there.

Quoting my editor, I was the quintessential ‘armchair journalist’ — a term I learned to loathe. I hated large public gatherings — I was always left solitary in the crowd. The lack of a vehicle proved an obstacle to travel to places far and wide, for reporting.  I found myself in a spot. Despite efforts from my part, I couldn’t arrange a vehicle every time, and that had me relying on buses. I learned the bitter lesson that a story ceases to remain a story, once it has passed its time. Journalism for me was a race against time. If there was a function or a meeting, I had to rush to the venue in a jiffy. I had to fish out my (dysfunctional) camera and click pictures (The portal trusted the photographic skills of us, poor reporters). I had to filter relevant points from truckloads of crap; I had to find points amid mindless rhetoric.

Who said Journalism was an easy job?

Each journalist carries a bulky-baggage of responsibilities and expectations. In these days of new media, anyone can be a journalist; you just need to have a solid eye and a strong pen. But the buck does not end there. The challenge lies in putting across what you see/hear to the masses. A journalist weaves the story for a reader. How/What the reader perceives depends on how the journalist puts it across – the responsibility is tremendous, I realized. Journalism is all about getting yourself noticed. If you didn’t have it, you lost it. What? The eyeballs.

All good things must come to an end. I’d had my share of journalism, and it was time to move on. As I walked out of my (erstwhile) office, collecting my last paycheck, I did feel that smack of pain — the pain of eventuality, the pain of leaving something you love…

I miss being a journalist.

But I’m a writer. NOT a journalist.

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I’ve been in a dilemma ever since I was ‘enfranchised’  - The dilemma of choosing the right candidate.

Image Courtesy: lakelandlocal

I’m a sucker for elections. They bring out the news-junkie in me. Normally, I wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about politics, but the ‘citizen’ in me gets a wake up call the day they announce elections. I used to closely follow elections be it local, state or even national right from childhood. I’d keep myself glued to TV and keep myself updated about election proceedings. The democratization of internet made things easier for me.

When I collected the Voter’s ID card (which had my name misspelled and my address wrong), my hands trembled in excitement. I didn’t mind having a wrong address or a wrong name printed on a prestigious identification document — I was too ecstatic to notice.

But the ecstacy didn’t last long; I now had a major responsibility on my head — I had to choose my leader. And my vote did make a difference. Now, that unnerved me. I was never a man of quick choices. I had to analyse things down to the last detail before I take any decision. ‘Voting’, essentially a ‘decision making process’, wasn’t really my cup of tea, I realized.

Before I knew it, I was part of the process – The 2009 General Elections had arrived. But thankfully, my constituency was endowed with an intelligent and charismatic candidate and I heaved a sigh of relief. The elections were over, the candidate I voted for won and went on to be a Union Minister. I was happy.

Only until the dates of the Local Body Elections were announced.

Now, I was in a fix.

Especially considering the fact that I do not owe allegiance to any political party as such.

Technically, choosing the ideal candidate for a local election is way easier than the same for a state or parliament election, since the representatives would be friends or at least acquaintances. I knew one of the candidates, the incumbent – she knew me from childhood and used to strike an occasional conversation with me when I was a kid. Apart from her, I hadn’t seen or heard about none of the candidates before. Hence, I thought I’d make an informed decision.

Thus, I commenced the process of background-search.

The brief stint with journalism helped. In classic Tehelka style, I conversed with as many people as possible, in my quest to find the right candidate. I had narrowed down on three candidates, avoiding many of the independants. Independant candidates were either people with deep pockets trying to evade tax, or jobless passers-by trying their hand at a political career.

Mine being a ‘women’s ward’, all candidates in my ward are females – and three of my ‘choices’ were poles apart. From a ‘practicing lawyer’ (read: jobless housewife with LLB) to a ‘people’s mascot’ (read: yet to pass tenth grade), the spectrum was quite wide, indeed. Despite the differences, I couldn’t reach a conclusion regarding whom to vote for.  Conflicting opinions, conflicting evaluations… If one candidate had a good point, she would have a vicious negative too. If another candidate had good track record, glaring allegations of corruption propped up.

The end result? I was as clueless as a third grade kid as I woke up on the election day.

All the research and the thought-process went astray. I wasn’t this confused when I started. I’d have made a better decision, had I not gone for the lengthy evaluation. Lesson Learned: Too much information spoils the vote.

As we stepped foot into local government school, I slyly asked mom:

“Who’re you voting for, Amma?”

“You know who, mone,” Mom smiled. Mom was going to vote for her friend – the incumbent candidate. I decided to follow suit. After all, this person was educated, young and had enough experience ‘representing’ our ward before. We waited outside the voting room.

After Dad and mom cast their votes, it was my turn. Excitement and patriotism filled every cell of my body — it was my ‘responsible citizen’ moment. I airily walked in, flashed my ID Card (even though they didn’t ask for it), got my finger ‘marked’, signed. The lady at the desk pressed a switch. A beep button emanated from the Electronic Voting Machine. It was all set to receive my vote!

Picturing myself as Ranbir Kapoor from ‘Rajneeti’, I walked to the EVM in slow motion. I could hear the Mortal Kombat Theme playing in background. ‘Choose your destiny’, I almost heard that weird voice giving me the options, as my eyes focussed on the gleaming-white panel of the EVM. It was time.

I pressed the button.

The beep sound was music to my ears. My vote was registered — I was a certified ‘responsible citizen’. Treating myself with a smile, I gave another look at the EVM just to see the red light blinking near my candidate’s name.

The light didn’t blink.

Is the machine faulty? Has it been tampered with? I’d only seen reports of widespread rigging on tv, as I was stepping out. I was enraged. Why do responsible citizens like me have to suffer all the time? I’m going to file a complaint with… OMG.

A light did blink. Another light.

It was the second light from top – the light beside that candidate whom I’d eliminated from my list.

I wasted my vote.

If it weren’t unconstitutional, I’d have ransacked the whole room that very moment. My face turned red — I could actually feel the heat in my cheeks. I was a  criminal. I wasted my vote. I WASTED MY VOTE!

I looked helplessly at the presiding officer. She glared back at me. I asked myself, could this be a mistake with the voting machine? But I knew the answer myself. It wasn’t. I pressed the wrong button, in all the excitement.

Dejected, I trudged out of the room. Another person walked in, as I stepped out of the door. I felt envious – that guy’s going to make the right choice. I was not.

Dad and Mom quizzed me about my vote?

I remained silent. I had the right to do so. Secret ballot.

P.S.

The results came today. The candidate I vote for won – by a miniscule margin.

Yours truly is King Queenmaker.

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It was exquisite.

Soft beams of light seeped in through the frosted glass, like water dripping from a corporation-tap. Reflecting on the milky-white tiles of the bathroom, the light strayed about the four congested walls in infinite loops of Brownian motion, making the bathroom fittings seem gothic in a bohemian glow. He wasn’t sure whether it was Brownian motion or not; physics was his Achilles ’ heel – precisely why the physics professor at the IIT coaching class chucked him out, four years ago. He smiled at the thought – he had come a long way since then.

“Why’re you smiling dude?”

Sujoy’s voice echoed – floating through the psychedelic notes of Floyd.

Pink Floyd is sex.

Being a virgin, he couldn’t be sure – but if his more experienced friends were to be trusted, yes it is. The songs did something to men (and women), or, why else would two (perfectly heterosexual) friends light up in their toilets?

Why else would he, of all people, decide to light up, at all?

CC Credits: Pratheesh Prakash

If there was anything about the world that he hated – it was the cigarette. He could stand alcohol – he hated the smell, but drunk dudes were fun. He didn’t mind those of his friends that smoked up, they went on to win quizzes and debates, despite acting weird at times. He even got himself to forgive his pedophile of his friend, who proudly publicized his ‘conquest’ of the teenaged cousin, amid glory – he would probably rot in hell. But the cigarette…

Heck, no.

It all started when he first caught his dad in the act. He was a toddler, back then and thought his father was doing some magic trick by ‘eating fire’. Confident of repeating his dad’s amazing feat – he tried ‘eating’ a rolled-up newspaper with the other end on fire. He didn’t get himself singed thanks to a vigilant mom who went on to counsel her child, rather unparliamentarily. At the end of a passionate ‘one to one’ – the child emerged with tears in his eyes, countless cane-marks on his thighs and a hatred for the ‘tiny burning cylinder’.

As he grew up, he learned how deadly ‘the burning cylinder’ was and realized how badly his father was addicted to it. The last thing he wanted was to lose his father to gruesome mouth/blood cancer . He even devised an ingenious way to force his father into kicking the habit. The very next day, his mom scampered onto the terrace, having heard his father breaking into a vicious coughing spree. He smugly looked on as his mom rubbed his teary-eyed father’s back;  tobacco when ingested with chilli powder gives interesting results, indeed.

From then on, his dad made it a point not to leave his Wills packets unattended.

Time sailed on, and life changed for the smartass pre-teen who now grew into a young man caught in a time-warp. Life just wasn’t happy-go-lucky any more. He flunked life’s tests, the same way he flunked despicably in exam. By the time he was 21, he had gotten himself beaten-up, was abandoned, lost his lady love and had gotten himself killed nearly-twice. Yet – he stayed himself clear of the ‘sutta’, which now even had a tribute-song of the same name to boot, all set to lure him.

At the end of the day, Pink Floyd won, where ‘Zeest  – the band’ lost.

Lip service from Sujoy didn’t hurt. There’s just one life (Sujoy was Christian and didn’t subscribe to rebirth) – why waste it depriving oneself of the many pleasures and possibilities it offers? Some pleasures may slow down life’s timer, but old-age is pain. Be a man.  Die in pleasure. Die happy. Die young.

Sujoy’s logic was undeniable.

He felt his body shiver as realization drove deep in. He had been through enough already. He had successfully repelled plenty of the worldly-vices (but fell prey to many others). Yet, life double-crossed him. Now the ball was in his court. His arms trembled – he even felt the world around him vibrate in resonance. Heck, he could even hear a buzz that grew louder in intensity with time – must be the resonance in action, he thought. The vein on his forehead twitched. Rivulets of sweat soiled his shirt. He stretched open his right arm (which was now trembling flailing incessantly). Revealing one of his classy smiles reserved for special occasions, Sujoy gingerly placed the Davidoff on our dude’s palm.

Davidoff Lights – It was slender and long. With great difficulty, he maneuvered his thumb, ring finger and little finger to push the cigarette between his index finger and the middle finger. He had half a mind to throw that despicable killing machine down and crush it with his feet. But…

“I… I gotto pee.”

The Forrest Gump moment.

“Be my guest.”

Sujoy ushered him into a ‘palatial’ restroom. Slamming the door behind him, our friend rushed inside. Opening the toilet seat, he lifted his right hand high in the air, and aimed the cigarette at the pot…

He had played the role of Chandrasekhar Azad in a school tableau – where he aimed a (fake) revolver at a group of attacking police officers. The cigarette was the sole bullet in our Azad’s revolver  – and a white ‘pot’ of cops silently returned the stare. Back then, the ten-second tableaux won him the first place, but that day, he ‘enacted’ the scene for good ten-minutes. Then, like Azad, he drove his ‘bullet’ into his head.

Into his mouth, rather.

A concerned Sujoy, forced the door open to see the newly-christened Azad gaze blankly back – donning an unlit cigarette between his lips.

Sujoy flashed his ‘classy smile’ the second time, that day.

Soon, Sujoy’s Nokia 5130 Xpressmusic acquired position beside the shaving mirror – duly playing ‘High Hopes’ from Floyd. He shoved a bucket aside and sat on a chair brought from the dining room, while his friend made himself comfortable on the toilet seat. Sujoy conjured a lighter from nowhere and flicked it. The reddish-orange flame swayed like a belly dancer on trip.

“Let’s light up together, shall we?” Sujoy winked. Our friend bent down with Sujoy, aiming his cigarette to the flame. “Carefully man, A forest fire’s the last thing I want,” Sujoy took a dig his friend’s perennially-unkempt hair. Our man barely noticed the snide comment. His eyes were transfixed at the tip of his cigarette – which now made contact with the flame. The edge of the cigarette smouldered in an eerie glow. Tobacco and nicotine burned.

A moment late to notice Sujoy withdraw his lit cigarette, our friend pulled his head back. He looked up at Sujay, who seemed to be sucking the cigarette like a kid enjoying his frooti. A couple of seconds later, he withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a long trail of smoke. Having inhaled some of the smoke, he coughed badly – he loathed the very smell of cigarette smoke – it always made him cough. He wondered how it would be when he had the real thing.

Noticing his friend eyeing him quizzically, Sujay played teacher. “Look, first inhale through your mouth, as if the cigarette were a straw,” he took a drag. After blowing a (longer) trail of smoke, he clarified: “Then, inhale through your nose – the smoke has to get to the lungs. Otherwise, you’d be ‘mouthfagging’ which is the smoker’s equivalent of masturbation. You don’t wanna do that, do you? Now blow out the smoke, like what I just did. Try!”

Now our dude nearly had a heart-attack – he was so sure he had one, cause he hadn’t seen his heart beat this fast till date. Nevertheless, he mustered all courage, and took a deep drag at the cigarette, closing his eyes, half expecting himself to collapse due to a long bout of coughs. Having trapped the ‘smoke’ inside him, he opened his eyes.

“Now, inhale,” our friend followed Sujoy’s instructions and took a deep breath. He was so sure he’d cough away for the rest of the day, just because of this single drag.

Turns out that he didn’t.

As he inhaled, he felt something happen to him – a peculiar sensation took hold of his head. It wasn’t a bad feeling. On the contrary, he felt real good – a ‘ring of pleasure’ formed around his forehead, around his eyebrows. He felt slightly dizzy and elated.

Our buddy had the first ‘high’ of his life.

“Dude, you’re a bag of surprises – I expected you to lay writhing on the floor. But, look at you right on the first drag itself! Awesome man!  ‘High’-five,” the Barney fan in Sujoy lifted his left palm, but never got the return five.

Meanwhile our friend took another drag. And another. And another. As soon as this cigarette got over, he lit up another one.  He went on to smoke six cigarettes in a row, until he felt like vomiting – he felt as if some virus had infected his entire system, starting from his throat. He stood up, only to find that he couldn’t balance himself properly – he felt so ‘high’ that he thought his head hit the ceiling, only to realize the pointlessness of that PJ he just made up and smile involuntarily.

The sick feeling was at its peak, as he dumped his sixth cigarette into the closet. He thought he’d vomit any moment – smoking was indeed a bad idea. The high felt good, but the ‘hangover’ wasn’t quite appealing. He drunk six glasses of water, and had his second breakfast for the day from Sujoy’s place. Only then did the tendency to puke pass.

As he bade good bye to Sujoy, he renewed his pact  – he wouldn’t touch another cigarette for the rest of his life. Ever.

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

The protagonist of this story died of lung cancer, thirty six years later. He was a chain smoker, known to smoke at least three packets a day. He’s survived today  by his wife and two children. The man spent the last few years of his life in deep agony. Yet, he regularly used to sneak away for a secret puff. “I won’t touch another cigarette,ever,” he promised to his wife moments before he passed away.

The staff nurse found two packets of cigarettes and a lighter from the man’s clothes, later that day.

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They say good samaritans are a dying breed. At least, you don’t see them on the road every other day. Maybe, it’s a necessary-evil, courtesy: Kalyug. Or, the society has become so selfish that we don’t really give a damn about the world around us. Even as millions die of hunger, we live luxurious lives, unmindful of the harsh realities around us.

We are all hypocrites. Even good comes with a shade of grey. ‘Purity’ is euphemism. Or rather, thus spake pessimists.

I beg to differ.

Dude, Good Samaritans are alive. And kicking.

Now, if you’ll allow me to elaborate…

About twenty hours ago, we were driving through the State Highway one, after one of our periodic native place trips. I was behind the wheel. Since dad was on a nap (read: no more backseat driving!) I let the speedometer hover around the 100′s. On a smooth road, high speed driving is bliss.

Until a nasty pothole wakes you up from the reverie.

Dad woke up too.

A shower of unparliamentary words followed. I promptly remembered to filter my ‘infant ears’ from all the verbal filth that was hurled at me. In the process, I missed out on the ‘advice’ he offered. But what the hell, I never pay heed to advice either. Rules are meant to be broken and advice has a permanent seat in my mind’s trashcan.

Anyway, the backseat driving resumed and I drove on, grumbling.

Fifteen minutes later, I felt something amiss. A knocking sound emanated from the rear of our Indigo. There was a periodic jolt too. Even my mom, who was sleeping to ward herself off all the abuse, woke up with a start.

Something was wrong with our car.

I didn’t need dad’s (unparliamentary) instructions to pull over. I alighted and checked the rear. The right-rear tire of our car lay deflated, like a wilted flower – or a shot-down balloon.

Dad glowered at me. It was the pothole, which was a bit too steep with sharp edges. It did hurt that I was driving at an average speed of 100 kmph, while the mishap occurred. Apparently, the sharp edges of the pothole wedged into tire, causing a deep gash.

Despite being an atheist, my dad believes in karma. “What you reap, is what you sow,” he said. And that was a hat-tip in management lingo. I had to undo the damage I did.

I had to replace the flat tire myself.

Now, I have a serious problem. Whenever someone mentions a task to be handled, I volunteer with gusto, without realizing what it takes to get the job done. I realize my folly only half-way through the task. By then, the damage would’ve been done. Precisely what happened in this case.

I’ve seen enough flat tires and I’ve even helped one of my uncles out to repair a flat.

I took the job with open arms.

I opened the rear-boot to fish out the ‘stepney’ (oh btw, this word is an Indian English gem – don’t use it outta the country, mind you). To my chagrin, the rear boot was stuffed with an array of bananas and other agricultural produce. (Now you know why make frequent trips to our native) I shot a pleading glance at dad who was calmly puffing away his second cigarette, and talking on the phone. Mom stood a neat distance away, glancing through the ‘vanitha’.

Cursing my luck, I started off, lifting bananas bunch-by-bunch.

“Enthengilum sahaayam veno?” (Do you want any help)

I was taken aback by the sudden query in a voice unfamiliar. I made an about-turn to see a dark old man, clad in a white shirt and dhothi glancing partly at me and partly at the flat tire. I was reminded of an old poem – ‘Two tramps in mud time‘. This guy reminded me of the tramp. Trying to act like the narrator of the poem, I politely nodded,

“Kuzhappamilla. Njaan cheytholaam.” (Na, it’s okay. Thank you.)

“Nannaayittu keeriyittundallo.” (It looks like a bad one)

Is he deaf? I thought I made myself clear – I didn’t need help. Ego took the better of me.

“Athe. Chettan mechanic aano?” (Yes. Are you a mechanic?)

“Alla. Aa stepney edukkumbo sookshichu edukkane…” (Nope, but do handle the stepney carefully)

Before I knew it, he volunteered himself, lifting bananas from the boot and placing them towards the side, so as to get the stepney. My ego died, and I was certainly not complaining.

Dad noticed the guy, and came over to see what’s happenning.

Meanwhile, both of us lifted the stepney tire and placed it sideways. Dad fished the ‘jacky’ and screwdriver from a recess hidden in the boot. I removed my watch, un-tucked my shirt and switched myself to ‘Mechanic mode’ (with due apologies to ‘Enthiran‘).

Our visiting ‘mechanic’ knew his ‘mechanics’. He helped me place the ‘jacky’ underneath the car,

“Jacky alpam side ilottu matti vaykku – illengil silencer il mutti balance thetti veezhum.” (Place the jacky carefully lest it slip and hit the silencer. The car may fall down, losing balance.)

With his instructions, I lifted the jacky. Meanwhile, our man fetched a piece of rope from somewhere and removed the wheelcap of the flat tire. The tire screws were super-tight. With some effort from our part, the screws came off and we gingerly removed the tire. The gash was deep. Dad glowered at me again.

“Ithu nannaakkaan ichiri paadu pedum.” (Repairing this is gonna cost me a lot)

Ignoring dad’s dig, I continued work, fixing the stepney in place. The visitor was prompt in helping me out:

“Athra cash onnum aavilla saare… Koodi poyaal oru noottambathu roopa.” (It won’t cost a lot, sir. 150 rupees, max).

Finally, after 20 minutes of arduous labor, the tire was back in place. I unscrewed the jacky and placed the flat tire onto the rear-boot. We reloaded the luggage later on. Noticing that my hands were all dirty, the man took me to a nearby construction site where we found some water and washed our hands.

We returned to the car. I couldn’t help but smile – I would have had a tough time, had it not been for this man. He was just a passer-by and had no obligation to help us out. Heck, he didn’t even know who we were – we were strangers to him! Yet, he found time for us, and did his best to help us out – and he did a good job too! Especially with a novice like me ‘at the helm’. I turned around, to thank the man with all my heart.

He was not there.

We looked all around, but he went missing. It was as if he had vanished into thin air – he left without a good bye.

The three of us were let-down.

“Sho. Ayalkku enthengilum kodukkanamaayirunnu,” (We should have given him something) said Dad.

“Ayaalude peru polum chodichilla. Enthu nalla manushyana,” (We didn’t even ask his name. What a nice person), Mom too was disappointed.

Overcome with gratitude and disappointment, I just could not speak.

The nameless man did a thankless job. He got nothing – he did not ask for it. He soiled his squeaky-white shirt and dhothi for three random strangers who were stranded by a flat tire. He was certainly not the healthiest of men; yet he strained himself to help us out.

Would you do the same, if you were in the old man’s shoes (He was barefoot, btw)?

We all live in our little cocoons, enjoying the little pleasures of life. Maybe we should learn something from the nameless man – a true-blue ‘Good Samaritan’. Reaching out to someone in need could be a thankless job. God almighty might not bless you with the luxuries of life, by doing so. Sometimes, you might not even get a ‘thank you’ in return. But a small step goes a long way.

And the satisfaction it brings in, quoting the MasterCard ad, “is priceless.”

Photo Credits:  Fr. Stephen MSC

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My blissful sleep was rudely disturbed by the ear-piercing “chirp” of the calling bell. My bedroom’s upstairs, and located right adjacent to the calling bells. Yep, you heard (or rather read) it right – ‘B-E-L-L-S’. There are a total of three calling bells at my place, two of which are ‘strategically’ placed above my bedroom-door. There’s this obnoxiously-loud bell that chirps (well, literally, if the sound(noise) emanated a cuckoo is “chirp”) at a few hundred decibels. Now, our chirping bell has its switch at the staircase and it successfully serves its purpose – to rudely shake me up from my slumber! The bell is the last arrow in mom’s quiver to get me downstairs. She’d press the switch for minutes on end, until my tympanum explodes to smithereens. Needless to say,  the arrow was spot-on.

Exasperated at having missed-out my afternoon-nap, I grouchily hobbled down to mom. It was about five thirty in the evening; my tummy grumbled and mouth watered as my biological clock sounded its alarm. Coffee time! The mental reverie of expected evening snacks brought me back to the high. Only to be thoroughly disappointed - we’d run out of milk and I was instructed to go get milk from the friendly-neighborhood grocer. Worse, mom wouldn’t pay me! If I wanted coffee, I’d have to get milk with my own money – mom rambled on about responsibility. I shrugged; Mom wins hands-down. I fished a hundred rupee note out of my jeans pocket and trudged out in pursuit of my evening snack.

I didn’t quite notice it until I opened the door. I was too preoccupied with my thoughts to bother. But then, it was so obvious, and I did notice it, albeit late:

A pigeon rested atop our Maruti! :O

Quite a sight, it was. A pigeon is not the first thing you expect to see on top of your car, especially when you’re still hung over with a two-hour nap. (Inception? I momentarily searched for my totem! ) It wasn’t one of those pretty-pigeons that you see in period movies. Mostly dark, its wings and beak were the only white parts of its body. Cliche talks about snow-white pigeons that delivered letters proclaiming love. But cliches were a far cry for our friend; she could barely fly. Dark pupils stared at me from its orange eyeballs, as it hobbled atop the car to catch a glimpse of me. The pigeon wasn’t magnificent, but it had its elegance.

Unable to suppress my awe, I gingerly moved towards the car. The pigeon had noticed my presence, and it moved away from me with quick, stuttering jumps. But I was too fast for it. I rested my body on the Maruti’s side-glass and reached out to the pigeon with both arms. The bird made no move to flutter its wings. Curiously enough, it ceased the unsteady hobble and paused the stuttering motion. It stood still and stared at my eyes, as I stared back. I gradually edged my hand forward and patted the tiny bird on its head. It didn’t move a feather, evidently hurt. It looked tired and it could certainly not fly. I reached out further and reached the pigeon with my palm, gradually lifting it. It was shuddering now, rocking its tired claws hither-thither. A part of it wanted to fly away, it was probably scared of me – for all it new, I could well be a predator. Sensing its fear, I eased the grip and moved slowly to my veranda, and rested it upon the concrete-granite platform by the side. I removed my hands from the bird. It still didn’t move a muscle. With its innocent eyes examining the red-granite floor and the plants behind it, it peered around the new environs. It walked about in tiny steps, nay, jumps. The bird seemed to trust me with its life, its body made no rapid movements. It looked calm, and there was no visible external damage to be seen. I first assumed that its wings must’ve been clipped or something, but no – the pigeon was about to fall as it missed a step near the edge of the platform – it fluttered its wings in full bloom and got itself back to position. I was both intrigued and endeared.

Taking care not to disturb the bird out of its idyll, I rushed into the kitchen and brought mom out to the veranda.Incensed that I hadn’t purchased the milk, she didn’t believe me at first, but I cajoled her out, and made her see the pigeon for herself. She was a tad too endeared than I was. The motherly affection took over; before I knew it, she was back with a few grains of rice which were carefully doled out to the birdie. But our chic was gracious enough not to accept the offering; it moved away from the grains, the tiny tummy was probably full. In the meantime, neighbours were informed and soon my verandah was a makeshift-menagerie. Dad,  who announced his arrival from work with a groan, dog tired, dumped his files to join the commotion. The pigeon was a mini-miracle that couldn’t be missed.

Soon, speculations were high in the air. How (or why) did the bird came over? Why isn’t the bird eating?  Is its tummy full? Why is it greyish-black and not white?  All questions were left unanswered. Some consensus was conjured-up on the arrival-reason though. The ‘injured-hurt’ theory (dad used some logic to put his point forward) won hands-down, beating ‘divine intervention’ (mom’s idea) and joblessness (yours truly). Neighbours were equally ecstatic about our visitor. They took turns to touch and caress the bird. The kids were super-excited – Aravind, a third grader, pulled its wings, scaring our bird into a momentary frenzy, in turn making its captor cry. It took a chocolate to pause the tears of the little ornithologist; he maintained the theory that the bird ‘bit’ him despite the lack of visual proof. The bird peered back at us, inwardly smiling at all the hullabaloo.

It was 7 PM, when the neighbours had left and I finally went out and bought the milk, an hour and a half out of schedule; not that I was complaining. I was pleasantly surprised when I returned, The bird-that-would-not-eat was now belligerently-pecking at the grains it once ignored! It was still seated atop the veranda-platform. I tiptoed close to it and watched. No sooner did I approach it, the incessant pecking halted, and the bird turned to me. So birds value their privacy! Interesting. I shrugged, delivered the groceries, and ran back to the drawing-room window to check  Li’l Ms. Pigeon out.  As expected, she was eating to her heart’s content in our absence. I called my parents and showed them the phenomenon.

All of us were beginning to love our uninvited guest who was turning out to be a bag of surprises.

After some brainstorming, we decided to allocate a safe shelter for our new tenant. The verandah-slab, on which she was still perched, wasn’t exactly safe for an immobile bird. We reached a consensus on building a temporary shelter for our bird. Now, there’s an attic (more of an plastic-roofed terrace guarded by metallic-grills) at my place. We decided to lodge the pigeon there. Dad brushed up his engineering knowledge and conjured up a makeshift-home from an old computer monitor cover. Mom gently grabbed the bird and took it to the terrace. Suprisingly, the bird cozied up to my mom, not showing the slightest attempt of protest. I smiled.  :) A pitcher of water, and more rice grains were brought, and the ‘shelter’ was affixed on the sunshade within the attic. Our little pigeon had her own home, complete with a tiny door. Yes, she could go out and grab some fresh air if she so wanted.  The pigeon seemed to love its new home – it resumed pecking the tiny grains, gobbling up water from the tiny pitcher, fully aware of our presence, this time. We were all happy. The pigeon was here to stay. The three of us dispersed. Dad returned to his laptop and files, mom rushed back to her cooking and I returned to facebook.

After dinner, I thought I’d pay our buddy a visit. I simply couldn’t get enough of her! I’ve always wanted a pet, but refusal was all I got whenever the request was made. When I was in the eighth grade, my uncle had gifted us an Alsatian pup, and it was an offer my dad couldn’t refuse. I was overjoyed! But the days of joy didn’t last – good ol’ Robin died a tragic death. Since then, I’ve been craving for a pet. Perhaps the li’l pigeon was God’s gift. The more I thought about it, the more joyous I became. Even though the pigeon wasn’t exactly ‘adopted’ as the ‘resident pet’, I had already done the honors in my mind. I actually was on the lookout for a good name for my good old pigeon.

With an involuntary smile pasted on my face, I opened the door to the attic and stepped out. I didn’t switch on the light, it was bright enough – full moon day. Besides, the light might actually disturb her meal, for, the flurouscent lamp was adjacent to her shelter.

“Chinnu kutti!” – I called out to the pigeon. No, that wasn’t a name I’d fixed – ‘Chinna’ in Malayalam/tamil means ‘small’. And our PYB (Pretty Young Bird), was tiny and small. So…

**BOOM**

A muffled ‘thud’ and a scamper.

Must be one of those coconuts – our attic is dangerously close to a coconut tree, and the roof routinely-suffers from the fall of stray coconuts.

I moved towards the sunshade. Curiously enough, the ‘shelter’ was missing from the sunshade. Duh! Did dad remove it or what? Dad has this fetish of ‘arranging proper things at proper places’ and he wasn’t exactly enamored about the sunshade being our bird’s abode. He was the one who suggested it in the first place, cause he couldn’t stand bird-crap on our marble floors, but he didn’t feel it was right too. He must’ve shifted the ‘shelter’ to someplace else. I decided to find out on my own. I got back into the hall that led to the attic and switched on the lights and returned, humming a mock-James Bond tune. Investigation time!

I paused on my tracks as I stepped into the attic. Before I knew it, I’d stopped humming too. My fists loosened, my eyes dilated as my heart started beating faster.

Something terrible had happened.

The makeshift-shelter lay collapsed on the attic-floor, along with the steel pitcher. Water was splayed across the floor, along with grains of rice. Tiny black and white feathers were spread out in different parts of the floor. There was a long, oval shaped, red stain on the floor, formed by droplets of blood, fresh-smeared.

The pigeon was missing.

My heart missed a beat. Panicking was not an option, though – it was quite obvious and there’s no turning back. The ‘thud’ noise was that of an escaping animal (a cat probably). The bird was too weak to retaliate, and…

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

I slowly trudged downstairs with trembling arms, to break the news to my parents…  What else could I do?

P.S.

True story. Down to the last detail.  :-(

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I was on a drive with my cousin – he was dropping me off at a nearby bus-stop. Tech-support (one of my odd-jobs) lasted till late night, and Kowdiar (where he stayed) was three buses away from my place. Since I fixed his computer for free, Aravind annan (as I knew him) was obliged to drop me home. Now, Aravind  annan is my eldest cousin – he’s the oldest amongst us cousins in dad’s family and he works for the railways. Quite an intelligent chap, his bald head gives me caveats about my impending coiffure (or the lack of it). The twenty-year age-gap we had, made sure that our conversations were mostly intellectual, even bordering on the spiritual – we shared a passion for intense spirituality. We didn’t quite share a rapport that I enjoy with cousins of my age – he’d be the last person I’d confide in about my encounters with the opposite sex, but we were friends nonetheless.

We were discussing nuances of Vaishnavite tradition as annan drove, nay, dragged his Maruti Alto in sluggish thirties. Fourty was his speed limit, a couple of ravaging accidents in his younger years being the reason for the vigil, not that I was quite enamored by it. I was left with no choice – necessary evil. Annan‘s  foot spared the accelerator of its misery as we neared PMG Junction – a crossover square that connected our road to NH-47. If thirties are sluggish, tens are, well… a full f***ing stop! I rued my decision as my cousin calmly chanted a mantra to prove his spiritual point, manuevering the gear stick to First gear. That’s right, we were traveling at ten kilometers per hour in a virtually empty junction, at nine thirty pm. Insanely-crappy! Exasperated, I gave up on my argument, and glanced longingly at the empty road, brightly lit with halogen lamps. There was a statue of Subhash Chandra Bose right at the center of the junction with a circular grass-skirting. The night-lights added an aura to the towering Bose, and the beautifully-trimmed grass added a glistening aura to the martyr, making him seem…

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

OH. MY. GOD.

I’d given Janice quite a run for her money with the series of exclamations, but I had to do it.

I just saw the prettiest female I’d ever chanced upon, crossing the road by the statue!!!

She was exquisite. Clad in a floral white salwar adorned with blue petals, she was breathtakingly-pretty. Her face was unblemished (marvelously-ravishing actually). The two-second glimpse I saw, gave me visions of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. Perfection personified. Her flowing hair was the best part – it ran till the waist, and she repeatedly used her forearm to set it right, while her left hand managed a leather bag. Her expression was intriguing – a petulant impatience shrouded in put-on calm.

She was the one. And I needed no further thought to get that into my thick-fat head.

Meanwhile, a few things happened simultaneously. Never a multitasker, I broke all records of intelligent-thinking; and mustered up a plan to get talking to the female. I shook my cousin from his Vaishnavite reverie, gesturing at the bus that had just reached the stop – it was a direct bus to my place. Thanking him profusely, I opened the passenger door and bolted, waving him a cursory bye. Annan was actually glad that I dropped off early, the car’s fuel indicator hovered near ‘E’, and he wasn’ t exactly minting money at the railways; he swerved (at 5 k.m.p.h) and left –  humming  (a vocal carcass of ) an Ashtapathi.

The girl (woman actually) was roughly 25 m away from me. And by some divine grace of God, she still stood transfixed, she seemed like one of the cautious ones – waiting for the road to be totally empty. Interesting quality, I mused. In a few seconds, I caught up with her, and stood beside, waiting to cross the road with the lady. I turned left and took a closer look at her, and she turned to look at me. My vision still stood me in good stead – by God, she was THE prettiest! And she was tall – our heights ‘matched’. She could be older, but what the hell! Saif Ali Khan is my hero!

Then, she, nay WE crossed the road. Turned out that she wasn’t looking at me earlier, she was checking out for incoming vehicles to the right side, so that she could cross safe – but that did help! I wasn’t aware of the surroundings, in my mind’s eye, I was planning my wedding with this Goddess! Lost in fantasy, neither did I notice the direct-bus leave, nor did I observe the man donning a dark helmet on an old CD100 SS, waiting by the bus station. We were centimeters apart, and my arm did brush her palm once – and boy, that was electric! By now I’d started making love to her in my dreams as my conscious mind was searching at terabits per second for the best pick up line.

As we neared the bus stop – which was right-opposite to where we stood, I walked closer to her – God alone knows how I mustered courage to get my shelf self to get to talk! But I had to do it – I wanted to make her mine, then and there, and no force in the world could stop me.

Or so, I ass-u-me-d.

Surprisingly, she was walking away from the bus stop and me, towards the left, whereas the stop was on our right. Puzzled, I followed her – now I was behind her, probably a foot or two away. She gradually reduced her speed as she approached the parked CD100SS. I too followed suit. The man on the bike lifted up his helmet vizor and smiled, which she did not acknowledge . Before I could put a further step forward, she got on pillion and the man fired up his bike. They sped away. Taking my dreams along.

I did get a quick glimpse of the man on the bike -he stood underneath a sodium vapor lamp and I saw his face clearly, he was grossly unattractive. And surprisingly massive too. Who was he? Could be a brother, or maybe a  friend. A (boy) friend? A ‘customer’?

All adrenaline drained out, I trudged about the bus stop, dejected.

And I continued ‘dejecting’ for about one more hour, till eleven a.m. – no bus to my place as in sight. Finally, I had to get content with an overcrowded fast passenger, for which I had to pay extra. As I hit home,  I ended up hating public transport too! Parents’ mandatory back-home-abuses later, I retired with a heavy heart.

I found solace in Pratheesh‘s constant refrain:

2010 is our year, and we’ll be happy forever!

No related posts.

Question.

Have you ever had untold affection to a person you’ve never seen or known personally?  Allow me to make myself more clear.

Has a situation ever happened to you wherein, you feel immense affliction to a person who perhaps doesn’t even exist anymore?

Your answer, in all probability, might be negative. Mine would’ve been too, until I got to know  of this person who changed the course of my life altogether.

My biggest regret in life, right now, is that I was unable to get to know her despite her physical proximity. In fact, I’ve even walked by her house umpteen times, but my eyes failed me – they simply did not notice her. Yes, she was so close by, yet, I was unaware of her existence. I was blissfully incognizant of the simple pleasures of talking to her, of getting to know her, of lying on her lap, caressing her soft skin, of kissing her beautiful cheeks and hugging her tight; and most of all swimming in the ocean of her unending love.  The vagaries of fate can only be shurgged off by inscrutable intricacies.

The sad fact is, this person died a year ago, on July 25th, 2009.

She’s my grandmother (ammumma) – one person I’ve missed out on, in my 21 years of pointless existence.

CC Credits: calamur

I’m in no way biologically related to this gem of a lady. Nor have I seen her or talked to her. All I know about her is from detailed accounts by my buddy, who is the lady’s actual grand daughter. It might all seem strange at first. My friend speaks volumes about her grandma, from the time I’ve known her. An expert narrator herself, I was intrigued by such words of acclaim – it just seemed to good to be true. Then one day, I got to see the photo of the grandma. It was a pic taken inside my friend’s house – ammumma was sitting on a sofa, her eyes staring intently at the camera. She wore a white saree with a purple blouse. Her back was slightly bent and her palms and fingers were entwined in a unique knot. Ammumma’s soft wrinkly skin was golden and each hand had a gold bangle each. But the sheen of the bangles were diminished by th radiating brilliance of her wrinkly skin. Her hair was mostly white, with patches of dark in between and her oval-shaped head was bent towards her right side. Her face didn’t share the golden sheen characteristic of her arms, it was slightly ashened – perhaps by old age. Then I looked at her eyes – two shallow moist pools of kindness. Her eyebrows were partly closed, depicting jet black eyeballs, unblemished by age. Her eyes had a smile, a smile that portrayed deep, pure  love and kindness. The eyes were flanked by grey wrinkles and an aquiline knows. She was smiling a gorgeous smile, even with her false teeth. No, it wasn’t exactly a smile – it was a bit of conversation captured in time by camera. It was as if, she wanted to communicate something… to me.

I stared at the pic for a few long moments. Before I knew it, I was weeping. Tears flooded out of my eyes. I was caught unawares by a lady whom I’d never met, and she’d communicated something deeply mysterious to me. It was a moment of realization. It was a moment of truth. This lady, was  a grandmother I never had. My ammumma!

Different people have different penchants in life. My ammumma knew just one thing. She knew to LOVE. She gave herself to the cause of spreading love to her near and dear ones. She spread it the way a fisherman would spread his nets into the ocean. With a heart purer than the purest diamond ever made, she never said an abusing word to anyone – even a monstrous witch of a daughter in law, who asked for the last of her ornaments when she was on the death bed. At times, one would see an M.K. Gandhi avatar in her – she wouldn’t even complain when her teacher used to physically beat her black and blue, as an 8 year old kid! Even at the worst of moments, she would hold her head high with dignity characterized ironically by its subtlety and strength, quite evidently.

Intelligence was another feather in her cap. She was a hardworking lady – starting her life early on in the oppressive ‘twenties, she worked her way out of a discriminated education system, and went on to get a Bachelors in Education (now B.Ed) and retired as a DEO (District Educational Officer) – a high ranked post in Government Service. Major achievement for a woman born in British India, into a financially impoverished family. She was strong, stoic and resilient – she weathered the loss of her husband (who was her center point in life) and her elder son (who succumbed to alcohol just five months before God called her). She had a special place in her heart for my friend – who was her eldest grandchild. She tried her best not to show her ‘extra love’ to her, but she just couldn’t. My friend was loved and pampered in a way even her parents or her dear sibling(s) coudn’t offer. Despite a seventy year old age gap, ammumma was the only person who could truly read my friend inside out! One look at her troubled face, and ammumma would understand what’s bothering her. This wonderful lady was concerned of and loved everyone except herself, and loved them all more than her own life!

She was an excellent cook, and a wonderful conversationalist. Even when she was over 80 years old, she would indulge in philosophical conversations. Even as memory failed her, she resorted to all possible memory techniques so that she could just wish her grand-daughter on her birthday. She would splurge her entire pension on gifts for her children and her loved ones. She used to be an exponent in playing cards. But even as age failed her memory, when she would forget which card she bluffed for, she would gracefully accept defeat. Even when playfully mocked for all the blunders she made (thanks to old age), she would retort with playful anger and a lovely smile. No person could afford not to love her – such was the extent of her affection. She was the universal mother – kids from across the neighbourhood would flock to her, just to be with her and her husband (when he was alive). And, she was the official information keeper – she used to meticulously write minutiae about how her children grew up as kids in a diary, with dates! She even treasured recorded copies of her grandchild’s first words – such was the extent of her love.

Yet, every thought I have about her pains me greatly. The sorrow of being unable to even catch a real glimpse of such a wonderful lady, it kills me by the minute. Every moment spent in her memory sets in cascading pain and sorrow within the portals of my mind, apart from longing. It perhaps requires immense luck, even to get acquainted with lady of such attributes. I’ve mentally adopted her as MY grandmother! And for every moment of life, shall I miss her presence, which I missed only by the quirks of fate!

I wish I could sit next to her and listen to her insightful words in a quivery, throaty voice!

I wish I could hold her arms, and lie on her lap.

I wish I could cry out all my blues to her and enjoy the feeling as she would matt my hair.

I wish I could eat at least a morsel of the wonderful pickle and delicious ‘ari payasam’ that she prepares.

I wish I could smell her wonderful, gentle smell!

I wish I could run my hands on her thinning hair!

I wish I could hug her tight and kiss her on the cheeks, as she caresses and comforts me!
I would go on wishing, despite realizing that it’s all futile. I recreate what I was unable to see and experience in the portals of  my mind – that, perhaps is my way of coming to terms with an unacknowledged loss! In a different perspective, my pain might be pointless and farcical. But, I do believe in angels; and here’s one such angel who shall terribly be missed!

I pray to lord almighty, at least in my next birth; allow me to be born as my ammumma’s grandson!

P.S.

This is for all you skeptics.

You might be wondering how pointless it might be to pine on, for a person whom I haven’t even met. You have a point, there. And I might be romanticizing about what I feel about the person. But I believe it’s much more than that – I believe it’s all an invisible connection. Probably, this is the way I’m wired. And I needed a human being in my  life ( like my ammumma) to complete myself. This post is my way of attaining closure!

Related posts:

1. To G, with love.
2. First Love.
3. Puppies, chocolates and love… a tag!

Those of you who’ve seen me on Twitter and Facebook, would’ve noticed statuses about an imminent All India Tour that I’d embark upon. Even though I kept mentioning it every time, I’d kept details under the covers. Thought of making it public in a whim.

Yeah folks, I’m off to Tata Jagriti Yatra 2009 – A journey spannning 13 destinations, 18 days and 7000 km of travel all across the country, with 400 people on board a special train! The journey’s organized by the Jagriti Sewa Sansthan, in association with Tata Sons. Throughout the journey, we’d meet some of the most eminent entrepreneurs in India, who’ve made a difference in their and others’ lives with their work. Hundreds of India’s highly motivated youth (with some participation of international students) between the ages of 20-25 and experienced professionals, with age above 25, join up on this eighteen day national odyssey. The aim is to awaken the spirit of entrepreneurship – both social and economic – within India’s youth by exposing them to individuals and institutions that are developing unique solutions to India’s challenges. Through this national event,  the youth of India are inspired to lead and develop institutions both nationally and within their communities.

I’ve always wanted to make a difference with my life, but sadly, such a thing never happened in my 21 years of existence here. I heard about Jagriti yatra when a friend of mine got selected, but he couldn’t make it due to exams. I’d decided then and there, that I’d board the Jagriti Train this time. I applied for the Yatra this time, and luckily got selected. It was a euphoric moment – and ever since I’ve lived half-a-life, expectantly awaiting the commencement of the Yatra.

Today, the wait gets over. I’m boarding my Mumbai train – The journey starts on 24th of December, at Mumbai. I’ll do my best to continually blog about the Yatra – the train is specially equipped and has round the clock net connectivity. So keep watching this space for more updates as to how I get enlightened myself!

Wish me luck, guys!

Related posts:

1. Hello from a 9400 km train!
2. The Inheritance of Loss 2.0
3. Seminar on Blogging @ FOSSMeet 2009

Common Admission Test -  arguably,the holy grail of all entrance examinations in India. Any CAT applicant will have to jostle with some five lakh odd applicants to vie for a seat in the prestigious Indian Institutes of Management, which would open doors to six figure salaries, cozy lifestyles and what not! It wasn’t the cozy lifestyle of managers that endeared me to the CAT. I always had the entrepreneurial dream. Owning companies, commanding minions working underneath me, being in control of a full-fledged company – my delusions about the future were always big. A close interaction with an  IIM alumnus of a  senior- at- school boosted my morale and bingo, I was another IIM aspirant! Back then, I was just a wide-eyed twelfth grader, mind you.

It’s been four long years. And I’m taking the holy grail of this exam, tomorrow (December 5th, 2009).

I’m writing CAT at CMR Institute of Management, Kalyana Nagar,  Bangalore, while all my compatriots are writing the exam at centres within the state of Kerala. Paul (The President of Uni-Y) and I had no other option but to opt for Bangalore. The new system of online CAT required us to book slots for test venues and procrastinators that we are, we delayed the booking process and finally got ourselves fixed at the Bangalore slot on fixed December. Paul’s brother, who works in Bangalore, offered us solace and housing. A trip to Bangalore would be fun, we thought, and till now, things are just perfect.

I booked the ticket to Bangalore in the Bangalore Express (Kochuveli – Bangalore), using IRCTC’s online booking facility. Since even the booking process was procrastinated to the last minute, we had to opt for the costlier ‘Tatkal’, but got our confirmed seats in the said train. Paul had a lab exam on the D-day (December 3rd), and he said he’d come directly from college. Paul’s buddies were to bring his luggage to the station, while he’d directly arrive at the station. Contrary to my normal routine, I was pretty-much punctual that day. By 3.30 PM, I’d reached the Kochuveli station with my cousin who dropped me at the location in his bike. The train, which would leave by 4.05 PM, was already ‘parked’. I started my wait for my fellow-traveler.

Twenty five minutes, no sign of Paul! I panicked, totally. Punctuality is one among Paul’s few weaknesses. Since he was already this late, the chances for him making it on the dot were depressingly-low, I realized. I tried calling him, and after a few harrowing minutes of inactivity, he responded reassuringly that he was on his way. I called up his friends to inquire about the fate of his luggage! Apparently, they didn’t know a clue about the luggage! Now, that was a cause of concern, for, even though I was the one who booked the tickets online, I’d asked Paul to take the print outs of the e-tickets. Which means, if Paul doesn’t arrive, I can’t board the train either!! As I ran to the corridor of the station, I saw a calm-as-usual Paul, riding into the porch of the tiny Kochuveli station with his friend Nithin, bag in hand. Yeah, the din of the station had actually caused a communication gap when I called Paul’s friends; I was actually mistaken.

We boarded the train and rested ourselves on our coach – S2. Seats 67 and 68. The coach seemed empty. I checked out the reservation chart, and realized that female presence was, as-always, infinitesimal . Shrugging, I walked back to my seat and flopped  myself onto the seat. Suddenly, I felt a jolt of pain on my left knee-cap – an excruciating one! I felt my knee cap slip towards the right for a split second; for a moment, I thought all was lost. I was reminded of the knee-cap dislocation I suffered five years back, as a result of which I was left bedridden for  over a month! Before the wave of depression overpowered me, the situation corrected itself. The knee cap relocated automatically to its original position, and I heaved a sigh of relief. My cousin (who’d boarded the compartment to see us off) and Paul, didn’t notice a thing, though. However, ever since, my knee has had this slipping tendency. I really hope it wouldn’t cause me a problem!

The long winded path!

Moving in the train!

The train left the station on the dot, at 4.05 PM. Conversationalists that we were, the two of indulged in totally myriad conversations about totally random topics. What began with Paul’s viva-screw up on that day’s lab exam moved over to jobs, placements, and finally global issues! Despite being conversationalists, we ran out of topics in two hours time, and Paul was soon dozing off, listening to this ‘Best of 90s’ album in his iPod touch. Meanwhile, I tried a hand at reading the rest of ‘Shantaram’, my latest pick from the library, and found myself following Paul’s example. I was woken up by a sleepy Paul, musing how the colour of my orange t-shirt had suddenly turned green – an illusion caused by some weird out-of-the-box dream! By now, it was 8.30 and we had reached Ernakulam. People started trickling in by now, and a few people had populated the compartment. We resumed conversation, and started discussing the intricacies of Photography, only to be joined in by a silent onlooker guy who happened to be a student at a Bangalore film institute. Perennially-curious Paul got some doubts on long-exposure shots cleared. We got down at Ernakulam and bought some Parottas and chicken curry for supper. Carrying on with the supper-conversation, we failed to notice our co-passengers hungrily glowering at our window side seat to have food. It took a prompt-but-stern reminder from a young man sitting opposite to us, to return our civic sense to us, as we courteously stepped aside for them. After an hour or two of phone calls, we decided to call it a long night. Paul flopped onto his top-floor berth, as I lay listening to Paul’s iTouch on the lower berth. In the meantime, a young lady and her cute kid assumed positions in the seat opposite to us, filling the compartment. For a while, I watched the cute antics of the kid, pausing music. After calling up my best buddies once more, I slept at around 11:45.

Paul sleeping on the train!

I woke up at around 6 AM to watch an unusually-demure Paul, indulging himself in silent musings – it was quite a sight! He resumed being himself, when he saw me wake up and we went about performing the morning duties. I had to lend toothpaste to Paul, who forgot to take  his toiletries. We corresponded with Paul’s brother Koshy chettan, who asked us to get down at the KR Puram railway station in Bangalore, instead of the Bangalore Central Station. By now, we’d passed the Karnataka border. My phone got switched off due to excessive usage, and I had to rely on the train’s charging unit to get it charged. But even that seemed futile. All of a sudden, I couldn’t make calls! I had more than 350 rupees balance, but still, no call would connect. Messages weren’t even being delivered. Another flabbergasting moment! Despite many attempts at switching my mobile off and on, calls simply refused to connect!! Thankfully, I was receiving messages, which kinda softened my plight. I tried to reassure myself by enjoying the Karnataka scenary, standing by the door adjacent to the charging unit.

We got down at KR Puram by 8.05. Indian Railways decided to make the train punctual for a change, it seems. My knee problem kept resurfacing occasionally as the two of us trudged towards the exit of the station, clutching our heavy bags. We rested ourselves by the ticket reservation block of the station – that lay by the road. Paul’s brother said he’d pick us up in a jiffy, while we waited. I feasted my eyes on the Bangalore city. The first thing that caught my eyes was the traffic. The city is TOO congested! Beside the KRPuram station, there’s a newly built flyover, and we could see the choc-a-bloc traffic slogging along. The city hadn’t changed a lot from my previous visit four years back. True, there were bigger buildings, and the traffic just got ten times as chaotic – but the ‘Metro spirit’ and the hectic lifestyle was still intact. Typical to any Indian city, we could see cows walk by in idyllic peace, carefully dodging the deranged city cars and volvo buses – even they had gotten themselves adapted to the city. Adapt or perish!

Koshy chettan made quite an entrance in his dazzling Karizma. Long hair, unshaven face, he was the ‘cool’ Bangalore techie, a handsomer version of his talented brother. Koshy chettan’s friend Nithin chettan had also come along to pick the two of us up. After a quick trip through the congested Bangalore roads, we reached the apartment that would be our home for the coming three days. The apartment was new and modern, but lacked furniture. Four chairs, a couple of tables, and a plethora of electronic and electrical appliances including four laptops, a pc, iPods, Television, Home-theatre and everything you’d ever need. To top it all, the place was fully WiFi! Heaven! \m/ The apartment was home to Koshy chettan, Nithin chettan and five other techies – all of them working in companies from Samsung to IBM. The average salary here was a cool forty grand. I couldn’t help but wide-eyedly adore all of ‘em. As we reached, the techies were in various stages of wakefulness and readying-up for office. Some hadn’t yet woken up, due to some  heavy duty ‘night outs’! All of them knew Paul from descriptions by his endearing brother. I got myself acquainted with them, and bade them goodbye as they left for work one by one (bearing a kilo each of axe on their torsos! ).

Day 1 at Bangalore was mostly about sleep. Yeah, we had the entire day to while away. We watched a couple of movies on TV, surfed the net for a while, and got a good day’s sleep at the crammed up mattresses in the three bedroom flat. The chilly, and comfortable Bangalore weather only added to our moods and appetite. Breakfast and Lunch were from Kerala hotels in the vicinity. The food was very relishing and refreshing. I ran into Nikhil Narayanan during lunch, which was a pleasant surprise in itself! I’ve known Nikhil (Quizzer-AWESOME blogger- വന്‍ സംഭവം) from BlogCamp – he works as a consultant in HP, at a TechnoCity nearby. Nikhil looked all haggard (probably from overworking) – even he seemed happy to meet me. Since he had other engagements to take care of, I got his number and bade him goodbye.

Meanwhile, a disastrous incident happened at home. There’s this cousin of mine living with us – the a$$hole stole numbers of female friends from my phone and stalked many of them up, introducing himself as my friend! It took a quick heads up from my sis to enlighten me about the situation, and I did necessary damage control, including reporting the matter to my parents. Though the issue was solved, it remained a splinter in my mind, only to devolve itself into a nagging headache as I woke up at 4.30 PM that day. Soon, claustrophobia seeped in and I felt suffocated sitting in the apartment. It took a lot of reassuring words from friends to cheer me up again. Finally, steadying myself up, I went out with Paul’s brother and room-mates for dinner at another Kerala restaurant. I got back home, fully satiated by the food. After an hour or so of small-talking with the techies, Paul and I hit the sack.

And if you failed to notice – It was the CAT eve and we hadn’t even bothered to open our books once!!

To be continued…

P.S.

Could’ve written it in a single post, but as you can already see, this has become too long! Stay tuned.

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If I’m asked to define myself in a word, or more precisely an adjective, I’d call myself a dreamer.

Ever since I was a kid, I used to have these dreams. The phrase ‘dreamless sleep’ is mostly alien to me. I don’t have a sleeping problem, per se, but I’d see some dream or the other every night. And I’d wake up with a vague memory of it. If you ask me about nightmares, well, I’ve had my share of them too. But when compared to the ‘dreams’ I see, they’re way less in terms of numbers. True, I’ve had many dreams(nightmares) that have actually left an indelible scar  in my psyche, having scared me to the point of nausea. But some dreams, they’re nice – even awesome and rib-ticklishly-funny. Sometimes, I’d see these dreams play before me in technicolor as I wake up, almost like a recap of a cricket match. Sometimes, these dreams themselves wake me up, and I’d actually think that I’m living the dream – another reason behind the name of this blog (The Matrix – Neo).

This happened yesterday night.  I was brushing up my PHP and stitching up the new theme on this blog. There was this major glitch regarding the blog-post-listing on the main page. It was actually clashing with a few JQuery calls in the gallery and I was trying to change the layout of the index page. Two hours straight in front of the PC, and I was totally haggard. My eyes were drooping. Without even bothering to switch off my monitor, I flopped onto the bed, and in no time, I was fast asleep. Before I knew it, I was in another dream!

The Audi Q7 rolled forward smoothly. ‘Smooth’ was the key word. You just needed a flick on the steering wheel to change direction. So were the gears and the brakes. I was more than thrilled. I could see him adjusting his brand new Ray Ban glasses from the rear view mirror.  The toussles of  his white turtleneck were frayed, and he matted them with his left hand, in a gradual rhythm. His right hand had a BlackBerry curve that he gingerly held to his right ear. The resounding nasal voice mouthed perfect, accent less English. Oddly enough, this man had a strikingly similar attire when I met him the first time. The same confidence, the same resounding persona, the exuding elegance – Prithviraj was still the same person I’d so wide-eyedly interviewed as a freelancer for a national newspaper. Ever since, I’d keenly followed the actor’s rising and due to some quirk of fate, I’d become his personal assistant today! We were taking a week-long break after a month-long shooting and had were on our way to this popular hill station called ‘Malshej’.

As we drove on to our destination, which was pretty-much close now, I felt my hands throbbing in trepidation. It was my first attempt at the Q7. Usually, the actor himself sits behind the wheel, when only the two of us were inside. But this time, for some reason, he handed me the keys to the car and seated himself in the back seat, as we left the shooting location to Malshej. Perhaps, he needed a rest from the tiresome day.

Suddenly, something happened.

It was a disturbing vibration. A very disturbing one, that is. I could feel my whole torso resonating to the tune of it. It emanated from the left-pocket of my cargoes. A vibrating mobile? No way, my mobile was actually in front of me. Prithvi had this high-end hands free system that synced with the car audio. I’d placed my phone in its dock. Besides, the shaking-sensation was too intense for mobile phone vibration! The vibration emitted a faint, quivering buzz. Even Prithvi noticed the sound and eyed me quizzically through the rear view mirror. I shrugged and placed my left arm on my left pocket. The object was solid, and the intensity scared me momentarily. But I fished the rectangular object out of my pocket and gave it a quick glance.

It was, as I had suspected, a mobile phone. A dark Nokia E72. My phone was a Samsung Star, and  I’d no idea how the E72 came in my pocket.  but someone was calling! The phone continued ringing (vibrating). The number flashing on the screen looked vaguely familiar. It took me a moment to identify the number It was a close buddy from college days!! The surprise at having seen a random cellphone in my pocket evaporated immediately, at the happiness of seeing her call. It’d been almost a year since I’d talked to her. Ever since, I’d been with the actor, I rarely had time to socialize. Was this her idea of a surprise? I grinned quite involuntarily as I picked up the handset. From the corner of my eye, I could see Prithvi’s expression change. His eyes dilated and his eyelids were almost popping out of their sockets as his mouth constricted in a perfect ‘O’. That was when I glanced back towards the windscreen.

I didn’t have time to react. The speeding MAN Trailer Truck was only a few inches away from the bonnet of the Q7.

I wasn’t fully aware of my surroundings as I woke up. My phone was clutched to my hand. My mind was a mess. It wasn’t fear, I wasn’t entirely terrified, so to speak. I was groggy, and before I knew it, I searched through the contacts list and dialled my friend (yes, the one that had called). I still have no idea why I did that. Perhaps, I actually thought she’d called me then and there. It was very very involuntary!

She did pick up the phone after a few rings. I didn’t even give her time for a ‘hello’.

“Did you call me a few minutes ago?”

She: “Hi, er… No, why?”

That jolted me back to my senses, kinda. I was ashamed, and almost blushing. My watch discreetly announced the time too. 12:33 AM! Since she was a gem of a  person, she didn’t fire me and all. She actually sensed that there was amiss and was talking as if everything were normal. I apologized to her for disturbing her in the middle of the night, bade her good night and flopped back onto the bed. It took me six hours of sleep to get the hang o things. All the while, my PC was on!

At this rate, it won’t be long before I sleepwalk all the way downtown!

P.S.

If you thought that was weird, brace yourself! I’m weirder than what you can possibly imagine!

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