“With great power, comes great responsibility.”

-      Uncle Ben, Spiderman

27^th July, 2007 was an idle Saturday – just another random weekend. That night, I was peacefully having dinner, watching T.V. The two ‘events’ are quite synonymous in my lingo. That is, if I’m having food, I’d also be watching TV; a routine that has never wavered. An action movie was being aired on Star Movies. Being a hardcore action-movie addict, I staged a mini-revolt to gain control over the remote control, and firmly established my supremacy by switching channels. The movie was about a commando operation. Eyes transfixed on the television, I finished my rice, and had proceeded into the final (but most-preferred) item, the FISH – incidentally my favourite dish. Like any artful epicure, I salvage the best for the last, and I was waiting expectantly for this last bit. Exactly when I was done munching the last piece of ‘choora’, it happened.

The world around me blacked out.

It was instantaneous and spry. One moment, the room was well-lit, the very next microsecond, darkness prevailed. Well, I was the least shocked at first; I leaned back on my chair unperturbed. The delicacy of the choora still lingered in my taste buds; the laws of optics take some time to sink in…. My taste buds relished the taste of the choora I licked the last pieces from the plate. Power cuts are quite frequent in any part of Kerala. Even with the government canceling ‘load shedding’ as a part of its populist measures (forcing the State Electricity board to the brink of bankruptcy by ‘buying’ electricity at exorbitant rates!), such occasional power failures are common. They could be as short as a couple of seconds.

I wasn’t aware of the term ‘worst case scenario’, was I?

One second, two seconds, ten seconds… One minute… Ten minutes… the blanket of darkness reminded me of the deep dark black holes in outer space. Silently remembering that verse in Malayalam about the virtues of darkness: “Velicham dukhamaanunni… Tamassallo sukhapradam!”(Light symbolizes sorrow, darkness is bliss!), I walked to the sink and reluctantly washed my plate. I’d missed a crucial part of the movie, and I had to see it once more. In torrent we trust!

The power seemed to have no intention of coming back even after an hour. I decided to call a spade a spade and started another exciting (duh!) game of ‘Nature Park’ in my Nokia. ‘Nature-Park’ing was getting on my nerves when a lovable friend of mine seemingly guessed my situation and called me. After some 15 minutes my Nokia threatened to switch itself off, relentlessly showing a ‘Low Battery’ sign in 4096 jarring colours. Harried, I explained my situation. Bidding a quick good-bye to my friend, I gave the Nokia its peace, switching it off.

Another half-hour found me ‘plugged on’ to my new ‘UNIS’ mp3 player (Gifted by a globe-trotter cousin who’d bargained it for a measly $20 from a vendor at Changi Airport, Singapore). But even my music-addicted self was chivvied hearing ‘Californication – Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ for the hundredth time. Psychic spies from China did try to steal my mind’s elation. My heavy eyes drooped down and I couldn’t stand the call of slumber any longer.

The sun-rays seeping in through the open window curtains stung my eyes as I opened them to greet the Sunday. My Rivoli watch mutely announced that the time was 7.20 AM, too early, by my standards. Sleepily I woke up, expectantly looking up at the fan, which contrary to my expectations, stood motionless. I toggled the bed-switch for good measure, but the fan was idle as ever. Enraged, I trudged to the toilet and brushed my teeth. The power should be back any moment, or it would have returned at night, and they’d have switched it off momentarily for maintenance.

When your dad’s a top honcho in the state electricity board, power cuts should not commonplace, ideally. Now, ‘ideal’, like the Carnot’s engine, is a paradox of unthinkable proportions. Dad couldn’t care less. My query met with rude-rebuttal – wasn’t I aware of the hundreds of employees who burned the midnight oil just to ensure that I got my weekly dose of ‘FRIENDS’ without fail? Dad’s rhetoric questions stump me without fail. Reasons behind the sudden blackout were still in the dark, if you’ll pardon the pun.

Dad’s reluctance to inform the local authorities (“they already know and they’re working on it!”), forced me to fish up the number from the directory and call the electricity office. That occupied me for an hour. The

‘Engaged’ tone was music to the ears. After a while I even assumed that the announcer female’s voice was sexy. (I wasn’t aware of speech processing algorithms back then, but some treble in the crackly voice did reveal ‘feminine tenderness’).

‘They’ must’ve come up with the “perseverance pays” proverb in the late eighteenth century (I couldn’t google, to confirm). But Edward A. Murphy prevailed over the over ‘them’ with his eponymous law. Everything that could possibly go wrong went wrong, that day. Needless to say, I couldn’t connect to the electricity office and I’d finally realized that the announcer was actually a male on ‘voice-drag’. My mobile phone died of low battery. I didn’t have any books to read, the one’s I’d borrowed from the library were returned only the day before. Dad’s laptop had run out of charge too. My camera didn’t entirely disappoint, but the low battery sign flashed on the LCD after a couple of macro shots with flash. It didn’t help that my room’s design-defect exacerbated the temperatures; I was melting from head to toe! Rivulets of sweat oozed steadily through every inch of my skin, and my temper was about to flare!

Worst day ever?

Looking back, the 28^th of July, 2007 was a day I’d never forget in my entire life. Not because of the lack of power and the numerous inconveniences it hence effected; it was one of the best days of my life. : )

Well, at least, not until that very moment – when things were utterly wrong. It was noon and the temperatures soared. I couldn’t bear it any longer and I scampered to the terrace. I had to get some fresh air. I rested myself on the parapet, under the shade of a coconut tree which loomed large above. A gentle breeze soothed my scorched body.  I closed my eyes.

As I made myself comfortable atop the parapet, I didn’t bat an eyelid. For the occasional onlooker, I was either a lunatic sleeping atop a dangerously-risky parapet-wall (one minor turn, and collapse – sudden death) or an actual corpse. Neither was I asleep, I couldn’t be more agile and active! Despite the apparent inactivity of my body, I was in deep thought. It was a while since I took some time off for myself, and those moments with myself was much-procrastinated bliss. I let my train of thought derail and my mind wander. It was such a wonderful experience, letting go of strings of inhibition, observing kites of thoughts fly high in the cloudy vast expanse of my mind. The kites magically dispersed the clouds away. As I woke up, an intellect of the sun shone high and bright in the clear blue sky of my mind.

It was 5:00 PM. Four hours had passed since I climbed onto the terrace. I observed an enriching sense of calmness within myself, as I walked down with a wide grin on my face. I sensed joy, exhilaration and peace.

More importantly, that was the day I realized my true calling lay – in literature.

I marched down the terrace, back to the living room – my tummy rumbled after all the contemplation. I hadn’t had a morsel since breakfast. Dad and mom were watching TV.

The power had returned.  :-)

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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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07:00: Routine, early-morning-nightmare-wake-up-call. Mixed emotions. (Extractors? Daniel Cobb ‘stealing’ from me? I wish!)

07:02: Ctrl+Shift+Del “Nightmare”. Rational thinking + Obnoxious Optimism. Back to sound sleep.

08:30: Ear-splitting abuses from dad finally shake blissful sleep away. Oh btw, Dad’s my personal abuse trainer.

09:00: Breakfast. Mostly Dosa/Puttu/Appam/Chappathi + Chammanthi/Sambhar/Potato Curries. (Google ‘em if they don’t make sense to you) Gobble ‘em all up until the tummy’s brim-full. *bliss*

09:15: Get Online. Check the status of last night’s downloads. Watch ‘em flick(s).

10:00: Boring flick. Time to attack Facebook/flickr/twitter/StumbleUpon/Digg/Posterous.

13:00: Oops. ‘Tummy rumbling weak and thin’ with hunger! Lunch!!!

14:00: How I Met Your Mother! Sweet!

14:30: Back to sound dreamless sleep, which doesn’t pause Ted and Barney who pursue another caper.

16:30: Incessant ringing of doorbell. Mom’s home! Barney’s ‘awesomeness’ is on pause.

16:35: Mom’s loud observations about her son’s sanity. She’s right, as always.

17:00: Back to HIMYM after a hot, refreshing cup of tea/biscuits.!

21:30: Dinner time! Time to un-learn Barney for parents’ sake.

22:00: Back online to Google Talk and social media. *chatter chatter*

23:25: Green with envy as friends narrate tales at their new workplace. *Rues joblessness*

00:00: Schedule movie downloads.

00:15: ‘Nuff talk for the day. Back to work!  HIMYM resumes!

Somewhere between 00:30 – 04:00: Sleep!

Cest la vie!

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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!

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It’s been a week since the demise of Malayalam music director M.G. Radhakrishnan.

Image Courtesy: mathrubhumi.com

Brother to singer M.G. Sreekumar, Radhakrishnan was a stalwart in the Malayalam Music scene. His tracks had the simplest of tunes. Yet, they would capture every bit of your aural presence and take you to another level. The down-to-earth music director started-off composing music for the All India Radio. After the success of many songs he pioneered for the radio (including a popular radio show teaching music for listeners), he was invited to do the music for the Malayalam movie ‘thampu’. Soon, offers came pouring in, and Radhakrishnan churned out mellifluous tunes for many movies including ‘Manichitrathazhu‘, ‘Agnidevan’, ‘Devasuram‘, ‘Advaitham’, ‘Ananthabhadram‘, et al. He’s bagged the state award twice for ‘Achaneyanenikkishtam’ and ‘Ananthabhadram‘.

I’ve forever been a fan of the musical maestro. I find immense solace in some of his tracks, in times of despair. My favourite MG track is ‘Sooryakireedom‘ from Devasuram – a haunting song that talks about the transcience of death and the uncertainity of life. The news of M.G’s death came a day late to me. M.G. is one of my favorite Music Directors, right after Raveendran. I actually had plans to interview M.G. for the papers, and a friend had even given me his contacts. In that context, the news of his demise pinned me down with despair and shock.

I could not help but offer my tributes to the maestro who has continue to amaze me with his tracks. Here’s my cover a favourite M.G. Track.

Song Name: Vande Mukunda Hare.

Movie: Devasuram (1992)

Singer: M.G. Radhakrishnan

Vande Mukunda Hare | Music Codes

The video of this song has Oduvil Unnikrishnan‘s character (Peringodan Shankara Marar) bids his adieu to buddy Mangalasseri Neelakantan (Mohanlal) – A feudal landlord,who stands wounded and decapitated after an ambush. Marar can’t bear the sight of watching his once-healthy mate now in tatters. The lyrics of the song make references to mythology: Kuchela is bidding goodbye to Lord Krishna, who meets death by a stray arrow after the destruction of Dwarka.

Rest in peace, Radhakrishnan Sir. I know I haven’t done justice to your original rendering, but I’ve tried my best here. We’ll miss you!

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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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It’s been 15 years, and like old wine, it’s getting better by the year. The fest, today has reached the pinnacle of popularity, competing against its own history for perfection.

Presenting LA Fest – the inter-school cultural festival by Loyola School, Trivandrum.

LA Fest was the brainchild of Loyolites of the 1996 batch. Young minds, tormented by a barrage of nerve-wrecking academic pressures badly craved for a break. They, along with their English teacher, charted out a plan and presented a proposal to the then Principal, who, after skepticism, gave the go ahead. Since then, there was no looking back. Each year, the fest would evolve to a totally new level. A festival whose total expenditure came down to less than Rs. 10,000 during its inception, LA Fest stands mighty tall with almost twenty times as much money pooled in, this time around. The USP of this festival is the fact that it’s manned entirely by students; everything from minor technicalities to major responsibilities of the stage. The students of 11th and 12th grade toil together for months to make this event stand out. There’ve been many clones of LA Fest, but none have come remotely-close to the original.

The events at LA Fest are unique. Each year, there’s a new event, along with five fixed events (which have evolved along the years too). The events being Harmony (Group Song), an audio visual quiz, LA Persona (The prestigious Personality competition), Dance o’ Mania (Group Dance) and Block n’ Tangles. This year has a unique event called Frenzy Frequency - which is about a team managing a Radio Show (complete with an RJ and his/her sidekicks) on stage. All events are pioneered by the students themselves. Special care and attention is taken to ensure the quality of  all the events – depicted by the sheer fact that the innovative events/ideas brought out by LA Fest are hugely adapted by the others.

Participation by alumni of the school is also a forte. For each LA Fest, senior Loyolites flock to the school by hoards to help the guide the kids with their events. LA Fest has been graced by the presence of celebrities too. Today’s superstar Prithviraj was a participant in two LA Fests – he remains to be the only person to have won the personality contest (LA Persona) twice. Cine-actor Abhirami, has won the Miss LA Fest title.

The fifteenth edition of LA Fest is taking place today (3rd of July, 2010) at Loyola School, today. Watch this space for updates.

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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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Happiness is bliss, but the quest for it often isn’t. Broadly speaking, the very purpose of life is happiness – we live our lives to stay happy. All our deeds are directed toward happiness. However, dire situations in life block this emotion from within. Alright, life isn’t always a bed of roses, but drowning oneself in the wine of sorrows is pointless.

Such occasions demand instant happiness – quite like a painkiller. Here are ten effective tips to inject sorrows out of your system in a short span-of-time. I can’t ensure cent-percent success, but I’ve been a guinea pig myself and these have worked like charm:

Here goes:

1. Talk.

The simplest key to happiness; find a buddy and talk! Anything and everything – your blues, your pains; even a flimsy Tintumon joke would do. Once a healthy conversation (preferrably a long-one) is over and done with, you’d be back to your happier-self. This works even if you’re an introvert, in which case, you should get the other person to talk to you. Side-effect: hefty phone bills.

2. Do your thing.

What’s ‘your thing’? Everyone has his/her obsession that makes him/her happy – it varies from person to person. If you’re into books, dust open that elusive book from your shelf and glue yourself. If music is your mind and soul, listen listen to some soothing Floyd. Or worse, if you’re that bookworm who’s obsessed with studies, try formulating a theory of your own and verify it yourself! Your ‘bad mood’ might make you feel skeptical about your ability to pursue your passion when you’re down, but that’s just a negative thought. Give your passion a try, and you’d find yourself smiling again as you successfully go about doing it.

3. Put yourself into motion.

Wake up lazybones and give thy booty a quick shake. Don’t slump down in despair, instead, give your entire system a boost of motion. Add a tinge of motion to whatever you do – if you’re reading, try walking about. Add a momentary briskness to your gait. Pump faux-energy to your voice, take a walk outside; even climb up and down your staircase for good measure. Some energy’s goanna do you good!

CC Credits: samikrc

4. Be a good-samaritan for a change

Drug your evil twin and try doing something noble for a change. Pass along a gratifying message forward. Cheer up a buddy, donate some money for a needy person or feed a hungry child – do your bit to make the world a better place. Just a small gesture shall bring a smile to your face.

5. Talk about your good deed

There’s no harm in publicizing the good deed you just did. Beat the drums about it; reverse karma ensures that once the word is out of your mouth, happiness shall fill your tormented mind.

6. A walk to remember

Don your walking shoes and take a walk across the street;  especially so if it’s morning. Nothing adds more positivity to brain cells than a good walk in daylight, swear researchers. If your climate so allows, make sure to bask yourself in the bright morning light. Also, try walking the talk – find a walk-buddy and ‘walk-the-talk’. A happiness-high shall sure ensue.

7. Task out the task

Have a long-pending dentist appointment? Remember that library book whose fine has now run into hundreds? Take up minor daily chores that you’ve procrastinated over time. Assign priorities and complete them. Once each bugging chore is off the list, your mind shall heave a progressive sigh of relief, ushering in a rush of spirits.

8. Spread the love

Spread the warmth of your love as you meet your loved ones. Text that friend you haven’t heard from in a while. Give your girlfriend/boyfriend a pleasant surprise. When you share your love and care, your buddies shall reciprocate and you’d feel wanted yourself. Even an arbit ‘take care’ goes a long way, longer than you imagine.

9. Imbibe knowledge

Known is a drop and unknown is an ocean. A few gulps of the unknown ocean shall flush out needless negativity from your system. Find an area which you’ve been dying to know more of. Google/Wiki it and treat yourself to nuggets of information. Trust your intuition on this – these new nuggets of info should be upon something you actually have a penchant for. Enlightenment has its effects.

10. Fake happiness

A li’l plastic smile does help at times. Researches have proved that even artificially-induced smiles help boost moods. This, ideally, should be the last arrow in your quiver and is sure-shot success. Laughter therapy is a variant of fake happiness; so fake a smile until you feel real joy. What’s more you’d look your best with that pretty smile on your face, and you’d present yourself as approachable to people.

Happiness is infectious. Once you’re out of the blues, make it a point to spread your joy! Remember, love only multiplies itself as it spreads. And enjoy it while it lasts – do try to make it last longer.

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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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