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

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

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

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

The bike did not start.

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

The bike didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.S.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bottom Line

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

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

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

CC Credits: durai101

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

Within a few minutes, Arun hit jackpot:

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

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

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

Okay, trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CC Credits: artofthestate

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

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

The plural of ‘someone’ to be precise.

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

Now, were they kissing each other?

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

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

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

Clean bowled.

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

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

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

“Oh, athu shari.” (Hmmm, I see).

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bottom Line:

Real story, altered names.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The waiter looks back at them in amazement

“Pardon, sir?”

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

The waiter gets the point and:

“Sure sir. Please take your…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strike One.

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

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

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

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One month.

It’s quite a long time period in a human life-span of about seventy years. Yep, 1/840th of an entire lifetime, pretty big, going by the numbers, huh?

Before I write any more crap about the significance of one month in life, you’d have come up with a reason why I mentioned a month which such emphasis. Yeah, it’s been a month since I blogged. Nope, it’s not the exams – normally, exams bring out the creative in me, as I’ve said a couple of times in this space. I’ve written the best of my posts battling university exams; I’ve even come up with the idea of writing a book, couple of years back, during a similar exam-season. But this time around, a certain mental block engulfed me. I simply couldn’t put pen to paper (wrong imagery in a digital age). Normally, I just had to sit down – the words would be flowing. But this time around, it simply DID NOT HAPPEN! The reasons are too far-fetched to delve into; for a while, I thought I was a simple person, an open book of sorts. But the past month, gave me insights into how complicated a person I am. By experience, I had gotten into the habit of making the simplest of things complicated (and vice versa, albeit occasionally). Procrastination, MY BIGGEST FLAW, was eating me up, slowly and steadily. A month was all it took, to kill my creativity and to get myself messed up – in ways more than one.

Nevertheless, the past month – marked by an extended study leave and my last (regular) university exam of Engineering, was eventful.

Fun

Doing nothing , when you’re supposed to mug tens of thousands of pages is an interesting experience. In an ironically-screwed-up manner of speaking, that is. Each day of mine would be characterized by obscenely-late waking hours, that would be as late as 11 or 12 AM. The hangover would a tad too much that I wouldn’t even be able to concentrate before the books. Diversions were the order of the day, and I fell prey to them. My friends-circle (or triangle, which is closer to reality – cause, technically, a circle is a figure with infinite vertices, which is rather far-fetched) provided much-needed solace in the mean time. Had some of the best times in life, during the past month. The month was indeed a wake up call, in terms of friendship – it was a paradigm shift of all. I saw new people enter my life, and some of them are inseparably close now! Of course, ‘loss’ – the inheritance of which, is etched in my mind as the biggest of life’s lessons. So I’m cautious this time. I should be wary of losses, but I’m hoping against hope that such a situation shall not arise.

Introspection

I got plenty of chances to introspect back at life. It’s a fun thing to do – watching yourself live your life in third person. Like a movie. I owe the replay to Vinnaithaandi Varuvaya – which was a virtual rewind of my life. Watching it three times, set off a saga of rewind. All those good times, all the moments of joy, of sadness, of euphoria, of pain; they “flashed before my mental eye, in a bliss of solitude”. History is all about learning from the past  - and I realized where exactly things went wrong. Some of my mistakes were are irreparable – but, they grounded me, and I realized the value (and the joy) of making mistakes. I understood the ‘connect’ – there was an irrevocable connection between every incident of my life. Each occasion, each living, breathing moment had a meaning. I had found my purpose in life – I am Happiness Evangelist. Spreading happiness to the world around me was my calling. I just LOVED seeing a person smile – perhaps God’s most beautiful expression among living beings. So, I’ve made my decision – I’m going to bring smiles to the people around me – I don’t know how, as yet. But I’ll sure figure out, in the long run.

Depression

Depression seems to be my steady-girlfriend; compensating (even bolstering and complimenting) my lack of real-feminine company. The cliche talks about the idle-mind-devil’s-workshop nexus; in my case, it’s a giant factory of sorts. The Devil has actually had too much of a field day in my mind, which has ensued in huge huge bouts of depression. The God-given power of hiding them before the world under the veil of a smile is a talent in itself – but it ended up draining me. By the time, I opened up floodgates of emotions, it was too late. These days, every other minute of  idle time would end up ushering in untold depression. The not-being-able-to-blog part ensued from the death of creativity was an added blow. Hence, I did my bit tackling the depression monster – and it was a fight quite well fought! Depression was always at bay, ready to pounce upon, and I had to be alert all the while. In a way, facing the depression monster was an experience by its own right.

Happiness

Yep, if depression’s my girlfriend, happiness would be my best buddy, personified by a few good people called F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Not the TV show, REAL buddies, if you misunderstood. They were there, period. And they did what they were supposed to do. Love them for that. Enough said.

Reading

My biggest hobby till date suffered an onslaught this exam season. Didn’t read much apart from regular acad stuff; couldn’t even glance through the newspapers. Hence, my general knowledge was at an abysmal low. Yet, managed to catch upon old favourites like ‘The Kite Runner’  - re-reading classics is always a pleasure. Caught bits and pieces of other books in my repository. Was good.

Social Networking

This was one activity that I repeatedly indulged in, over the past month. Which means, I was consistently online in gmail and Facebook. And I tried tweeting more occasionally after a while. Since I’m not into heavy duty apps in facebook like Mafia Wars/Farmville, et al, usage of the social networking site was mostly for status updates/photo uploads/comments et cetera. Meanwhile, I started a fanpage for ‘I chose the red pill’ and recorded a staggering 229 fans in a matter of two weeks. Huge record for the blog and personally for me. Thanks a trillion for the support, guys. You may join the fan page (or rather, ‘like’ it, in new fb terminology) by clicking the widget on the sidebar – only if you are a fan, that is.

Writing

Journalistic and Creative Writing pursuits were mostly absent during the month. I couldn’t devote time for ‘The Hindu Metro Plus‘ – of which I’m a freelancer now. I mean, I HAD all the time in the world, but, well… it just wasn’t possible. Blame the procrastination. Nevertheless, I did my maiden translation job. Rehashed a series of articles in Malayala Manorama Online; translated articles originally in Malayalam to English. That was pretty much the only writing assignment.

Acads

Last, but never the least – they too did occupy a lion’s share of my time. Especially, towards the latter days of the gap. Hectic exams found me nerve-wreckingly tensed. Yet, they weren’t as hard as I’d expected them to be. After a while, I did manage to get down to some tough-nut studies. It was hard, but I did manage to surmount procrastinational tendencies – can’t say I wasn’t entirely successful. But I guess I shall reap the benefits of perseverance, albeit minimal.

Looking back, the break was perhaps necessary evil – it was meant to happen. This blog is one of the few good things that has happened to me  (it actually tops the list). Leaving it astray for a month was a hard decision, but that decision proved wrong. The facebook fan page was enough testimony – and that has given me my dose of inspiration and motivation. I can’t assure frequent updates till eternity, but I shall write as much as I can, even more; for all those who care to read.

This post is dedicated to everyone, who’s come here and had a dose of the red pill. You guys give me my blood, I’m alive today, thanks to you. And I shall keep writing, as long as I’m alive.

Love,

Hari.

P.S.

Some of you have complained about this blog going down every now-and-then. Apparently, it’s a server side issue. Hence, I’m moving over to a new server. Hiccups with the site are expected. Kindly bear with ‘em. I chose the red pill, will be up online, in 24 hours time.

Related posts:

1. A RELUCTANT break…
2. Break free!
3. Remember, Remember the month of October…

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!

Related posts:

1. A page from my dream diary…
2. Kowdiar Lights: The Call!

Classrooms – the rightful abode of modern education, worldwide. The word brings in a plethora of assorted images to the mind of any adult who’s been through school/college. High aired ceilings, black/white boards, an assortment of educational aids and paraphernalia that includes ergonomically designed furniture with slant panels for easy writing and niches for bags .

Apart from these usual suspects, there is another entity common to all classrooms worldwide. It doesn’t show itself at the outset. You’ve to keep your eyes open to see it. But once you get a glimpse, the discreet quality of this item metamorphoses into a totally different one. Into something glaring and in-your-face.Your reaction would, essentially, be binary. Either you’d grope all about your torso, as you roll over the floor in in-suppressible laughter, or you’d find your face quell up all red, in deep anger. There’s a worst-case scenario – you could even be transmogrified into a living-breathing straight-face smiley!

True, the graffiti that adorns all our classrooms are universal paradigms of modern art, with oeuvres of shock-value to boot!

Image Courtesy: Good schools Pensylvania

The reasons behind such works of art are myriad, but the key lies firmly in the locks of youthful exuberance. The human mind, as they say, is a receptacle at its best, in the heydays of youth. From suppressed rage and existential angst to mind-numbing boredom rooted from lack of satiation, the causes are numerous. Kindled by the blitzkrieg of incomprehensible knowledge, imparted through droning voices, floodgates of inscrutable emotions are let loose. Having waited long for the cue, forearms bustling with raw talent transform, cheap ball-point ink into two dimensional objet d’ art. Ta dah!

There’s a strangely common feature among all such works of art. Despite the spontaneity, despite the supposedly-amateurish feel, there is an innate professionalism in these works. Hidden deep down in the most illegible of graffiti, there’s angst and passion, and that makes it original. Unlike toilet graffiti, which comes out of an urge to deface a public place, classroom graffiti has nobler intentions. It’s more of an outpour and rightful employment of the freedom of expression right enshrined in the constitution. Most graffiti are texts. Abuses top the list, followed by names, nick names, crushes, love-you lists and the like. Some even engrave rib-tickling jokes. The common writing instrument is the ubiquitous ball point pen (blue/black). Whiteners are also prefered for the exclusive ‘contrast’ effect they provide. In times of need, even pencils fill the void. Dividers and compasses serve the purpose with an irreversible ‘engrave’ effect.

The lesser minds (or higher authorities, as they so self-respectfully term themselves) aren’t quite enamored with such graphical brilliance. Their craniums fail to interpret the dexterity and the artful panache of such works of art. For them, the full blown proclamation of ‘mech-spirit’ emblazoned in stylish font is but gibberish. The spectacular curves of female anatomy magnificently compressing three astute dimensions in two, is pornography! Phone numbers, “call me” signs, email ids, nostalgic farewells, historic proclamations, in-your-face truths, defamation of lesser mortals, – all are absolute sacrilege! Once discovered, a red alert is sounded. Heads roll. Codes of conduct are imposed. Notices are read. The random victim is pulled up and grossly fined.  Inexperienced local painters, armed with low quality sandpapers and cheap, glossy distempers devastate hours of careful craft with pale, staid disfigurement. The entire room – benches, desks, walls, stare back at you with a pale blankness. An absence, a void, as if beseeching for more graffiti.

The nameless artist is never deterred  by such acts of forced-removal. He displays his wares in the classroom canvas, within days of the gagging act. Soon, many more are inspired, and normalcy is restored. The classroom is a full-fledged art gallery, once more. The lecturers, blissfully unaware of the art-gallery metamorphosis, due to the discrete nature of the act, go about doing their duties, until a very deviant artist portrays a rather outrageous piece of art (a laughably poignant piece, for the students) that suitably enrages the guru.

The cycle repeats itself, and hopefully will, for the rest of eternity!

P.S.

23 days without posts – yes, I had an eventual month. Very bloggable. BRB with a post on what actually transpired.

No related posts.

Grannies – sweet old ladies with their seemingly-odd mannerisms and unending love – all of us adore them! They mean a lot to us! Despite the entire hubbub about lack of respect/care given to the aged, grannies/grandpas enjoy a special status at most homes. Unlike what they show in the movies/TV shows et al, we don’t show the door to our grandparents, as far as I know. At least my parents and a lion’s share of adults shower a lot of respect and love to their parents! Actually, there’s this friend of mine who virtually refused to eat food for an entire week over the death of her beloved Grandfather – she (and her family) were so shell shocked at his sudden demise – such was the attachment  she shared with her grandpa.

No, in this post, I do not intend to talk about the cruelties meted out to senior citizens. I’m summarily against such acts, yes, and I’m all for showering love and care to the elderly at home (not at decrypt, money-minting ‘old age homes’!!). As the title suggests, I’m focusing on grannies in this post, or more specifically, a very special trait shared by all grannies, a very feminine trait apparently forced upon to them by God almighty, ostensibly embedded in all their genes as they popped out of their mothers’ wombs. Frankly speaking, this trait is not just restricted to the elderly, but it becomes prominent in old age, due to some inscrutable reason – perhaps due to some enhancement in mental capabilities or even sheer joblessness.

It’s a proven fact that Grannies virtually win hands-down, when it comes to GOSSIPPING!

As I said, even modern science is at a total loss to explain this phenomenon! Perhaps, some anthropologist should do a research paper on this topic. Check out any home at any part of the world, grannies would be a long step ahead of other female residents in the family when it comes to gossiping! They’d get all news hot-delivered and they’d be the first to break it to the other younger members of the family. There’s some inter-granny communication mechanism to facilitate it. Perhaps, grannies develop invisible antennae which use some intracellular data transmission algorithm (with speeds that kick the shits out of even TCP/IP), transferring data at speeds to the tune of many Gigabits per second. Had it not been for the reduced efficiency of the ‘data-transfer’ (yes, like in Chinese whispers – the listener ‘receives’ a message that lacks the slightest resemblance with the ‘transmitted data’), they could’ve used it for the next version of Internet!

I wasn’t aware of this Inter-granny Communication Protocol (IgCP – for all your geeks! ), until I heard my sister’s experience – which was indeed astounding, for want of a better word! Her experience  wasn’t exactly one in a million, a fact assured by multitudes of similar incidents narrated by other acquaintances. Needless to say, my sister bore the brunt of a very devastating IgCP transmission and it took me an hour of talk to console her. Whew.

The story goes like this. Lachu a.k.a Lakshmi (my first cousin) goes to visit her best friend Gayathri, a day before she leaves to Chennai for higher studies. Now, Gayathri (a.k.a. G3! Yes, crazy nicks! ) is Lachu’s best friend. That is, if you see one of them alone, chances are that, the other person would be somewhere in a hundred square metre radius, anytime. So close, they were. They lived close to each other too; a fact that forever bolstered their sixteen year old companionship!

Needless to say, most of G3’s relatives have camped at her place, taking turns to ‘bid her goodbye’ (read: ‘lament her absence to the point of no-return’!)  As Lachu hopped into G3’s room with her usual freewheeling charm, three grannies were competing to cuddle/kiss/pinch-her-cheek/caress-her-hair/advise her. Poor ol’ G3 was totally dazed with eyes rolling, as if in death row! Lachu’s arrival was too pleasant a surprise for her that she broke away with all her might and ran over to her buddy in capricious joy. That was when this salt-and-pepper haired granny curiously eyed Lachu, and beckoned to her with a smile. Servile and respectful that Lachu is, she goes to the granny and sits by her, at the place previously occupied by G3 and gives that charming sweet variant of her smile to the granny. This granny happens to be G3’s dad’s mother’s uncle’ aunt’s oldest daughter’s niece’s cousin, btw. Meanwhile, G3, exasperated, realizes what’s about to transpire and tries to warn her buddy, only in vain. The prey had fallen in the trap!

Granny: “Hey, you are Lakshmi right?”

Lachu (surprised): “Yes!”

Granny: “And you’re from the Earath house, near that Gopinathan Nair’s house?”

Lachu (dumbfound): “Yeah ammumma, you are right. I’m…”

Granny: “Your mom is Shobha no, and your dad is in the Gulf. How’s your sister doing?”

Lachu is now truly out of her mind, for this ammumma is from another part of the state and is visiting G3’s house for the first time! She has all the news in her fingertips! Whoa!

Granny: “Don’t you know Gopi?”

Lachu: ”Gopi?”

Granny: “Yeah, that’s right. Gayu mol’s (G3) cousin Gopi? The guy who’s doing his MBBS in Bangalore?”

Lachu: “Er… yeah, I do. I’ve seen him once or twice.”

Granny: “You guys talk a lot eh?”

Lachu: “Er… Not rea..”

Granny: “You guys did a party together when he touched down last year?”

Lachu (now totally aghast): “NNNOO…”

Granny: ”Oh, I guess you were great friends (<- special vocal emphasis) until a while back right?”

Granny 2 : “Hey, she’s blushing!”

Granny 3: “I think she’s sweating too! ”

The fourth granny concurred to the opinion of her compatriots, while the first was now clasping and caressing Lachu’s right palm, casting menacing glances. And to add fuel to the fire, Lachu’s mom entered the room at that very opportune moment. She too stood surprised at all the ‘allegations’.

It took some very spirited tactics from G3’s part to extricate my poor ol’ sis out of the situation! The fact of the matter was that, Lachu barely knew this Gopi guy. They’d met at some random marriage reception and they’d exchanged pleasantries as they sat and ate together – that was a year or so ago. Some granny had noted them sitting together and yes, and urban gossip legend (in IgCP, nonetheless) was born!  And my poor ol’ sis – she lost all her alluring charm for two days straight!

So, the next time you see a calm and placid granny, take a closer look, and ESCAPE! They’re ninjas in disguise!

Related posts:

1. Kowdiar Lights: The Quest

It’s not everyday that you get to see the flashes of innate talent that amaze you beyond conventional benchmarks of surprise! You aren’t just blown away by amazing feats of passion and paragon – you stand stupefied and dumbfound at such wondrous talent closer to genius and perfection, and that too from 20-21 year olds!

It so happens that some of my best buddies have come up with such magnanimous works of art that I couldn’t help, but blog about ‘em! These kids are of my age. And all of them in their final year of engineering at the esteemed College of Engineering, Trivandrum. You can’t call them novices or amateur’s. With their maiden works of art, they’ve literally had the entire town talking about them…

Without further ado, let me present before you – The Latest Pirates and Synth!

The Latest Pirates

Six spirited Electrical Engineering students – Harisankar SA, Chaitin, Dileep, Shivan, Sidharth and ‘Ponni’ (I don’t know this dude’s real name. Or rather, no one does! ) a.k.a. Arun A, made quite an impact with their ‘Pinneyum Palavattam‘. With a bang, they’ve come up with another pioneering adaptation of the “Unnam Marannu” song from ‘In harihar nagar’. The entire song is remastered and fully re-scripted with College of Engineering, Trivandrum (and the entire city of Trivandrum), being the background. The video is very cheekily titled – In Engineering College.

Trust me, one look and you’ll concur. It’s SO MIND-BLOWINGLY AWESOME!

Even professional comedians from TV would find it hard to match up to their perfection. Kudos, guys!

Check out more videos from these pirates at: http://thelatestpirates.jimdo.com/

Synth

Synth was the brainchild of a coterie of music lovers from CET. Subu, Anand, Sandeep, JK and Navaneeth, with help from Minu, Rameshwar, Jishnu and Anand, released their maiden album. Haunting themes, mellifluous voices and fantastic songs. One attempt at listening to any one of their tracks and you’d totally fall in love with ‘em all. Another fantastic band, which has already drawn rave reviews from all over town!

Here’s a track from Synth:

Synth | Upload Music

Check out Synth at http://synthmusic.jimdo.com/

Feel free to promote the work of these young artists!

Related posts:

1. Sagar Aliyan’s Suppli | Another one from The Latest Pirates
2. Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides – Review
3. Daily Blunder | For want of ‘change’