Silence - It’s one of the world’s best virtues.

Being silent is an art in itself, and I happen to be a master of that art. I’m basically a silent person. I’ve never mastered the art of being loquacious.  I just can’t go on to talk for hours on end. Whenever I talk, I convey my points as briefly as possible and end with a majestic full-stop. That doesn’t mean that I’m proud of being silent. I would ideally love to talk for hours on end. In fact, there was a point in  time, when I used to talk more than what I do now. But then, something happened… something snapped within me, and I lost the ability to talk.

It happened one fine morning. One day, I wake up and I realize that I’ve lost the ability to talk! It’s not like, I went mute or anything. I could technically talk. Voice would come out of my mouth, I could utter syllables, alright. But my communication was just essential. I suddenly became brief in my conversations. My conversations were short (and not necessarily sweet).  That was when I noticed that silence was a part and parcel of me. I’m inherently a listener. NOT a talker. I could listen to people talk for hours on end, but if you ask me to talk for a couple of hours, I’d go mute. I just can’t do it!

I’m not exactly proud of being silent. In fact, I detest it. I envy everyone who talks a lot. Which means, I envy most girls. They just manage to dig out topics out of the blue and go on to talk, talk and talk. Whew. I would LOVE to do the same. Sigh!

Next comes the issue of what to talk. That’s where I’m stumped again. I’m not exactly full-of-beans. If you thought I was a walking-talking Encyclopedia Britannica, you couldn’t be more wrong! They say, “Known’s a drop. Unknown’s an ocean”. For me, ‘unknown’ makes up Pacific Ocean and Atlantic Ocean combined. I often feel a bit deprived because of my lack of knowledge. Can’t say that I’m not doing anything about it. I’m reading my way to glory. Hoping that content will solve my quagmire of not being able to speak up when I want to.

Despite not being able to talk volumes about what I like, a part of me loves being silent. I prefer listening to people talk, rather than the act of talking. Listening is good. Everyone talks, few listen. I’m quite a good listener; I listen to friends’ problems for a living. When you listen to people, it makes them feel happy. They feel important, because there’s someone to listen to what they  have to say. In fact, there’s a friend of mine who’s exactly the same.

I guess I’ll find it a tad too hard to break my mould of being silent. But in a way, it’s made me a good listener.

Let’s see where silent listening takes me to…

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3. Life blog

Life hasn’t exactly been a bed of roses for me. Especially over the past month. The going just got tough all of the sudden. Before I knew it, crisis loomed large and engulfed me in a veritable storm of sorts — a storm that’s quite likely to stay on for a long long time.

This isn’t the first time things have gone bad for me. I’ve lived through worse situations. Can’t say that I came out unscathed all the time. Each bad phase has left an indelible scar. Some scars still hurt, pain bringing back memories from the past. Each bout of pain has one startling similarity with its predecessor — the element of surprise. But that’s the beauty of life, it hits you on your belly right when you’re gaily indulging yourself.

One thing I’ve realized while swimming through a vast ocean of problems is the potency of optimism.

Optimism is a powerful sword that can cut through life’s many adversities with ease. It’s a rejuvenating principle that charges you up, and equips you for the worst while expecting the best. Optimism is all about seeing opportunities in every problem. Yes, every crisis is an opportunity in disguise. Even the most seemingly-dismal of adversities could turn favourable in the long run. But how often do we realize this? We fret more about our problems, doing little to solve them. We beat about the bush in careless mourning, wasting valuable time instead of taking control of the situation to make our ends meet.

Being positive when the going gets tough helps us focus more on our problems. Just believing that greener pastures aren’t far away is all you need to do. Trust me, happier days aren’t far away. All your problems are temporary, it’s only a matter of time until they ward themselves off. Days, weeks, months or years later, you’ll look back at your problems and smile at how silly they were. Nobody can make a lock without a key; likewise, every problem has its solution. To smith the key to your lock, you’ll have to mould it with patience. And patience has a direct relation with a positive attitude.

As someone rightly said, the happiness of your mind depends on the quality of your thought. Negative thoughts pull you down, deep down into the ditches. Positive thoughts lift you up, high up, onto the pedestal of happiness and inner peace.

So, be positive.

Like me.

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

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

I beg to differ.

Dude, Good Samaritans are alive. And kicking.

Now, if you’ll allow me to elaborate…

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

Until a nasty pothole wakes you up from the reverie.

Dad woke up too.

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

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

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

Something was wrong with our car.

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

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

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

I had to replace the flat tire myself.

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

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

I took the job with open arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was not there.

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

The three of us were let-down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Credits:  Fr. Stephen MSC

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“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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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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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!

No related posts.

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.

Related posts:

1. The Inheritance of Loss

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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1. These Grannies!
2. Kowdiar Lights: The Call!
3. Customized homes for life

Last night, a lot broke up at home:
Mom’s shattered cutlery was epitome;
The car-windshield and dad’s chart,
Left no trace like my foundered heart.

Money would replace the losses,
All but one, which was still in musses,
The broken heart shall take its time,
Yet, it shall tick, weak and sublime.

My heart was always brittle,
It always fell prey to battle,
Layers of flesh and bones,
Couldn’t stop the pelted stones.

I foresaw the onslaught,
But all precautions went naught,
Ignoring the aftermath at bay,
I gave my heart away.

I blame none but myself,
Fighting eventuality itself,
I lost out, and nearly killed,
The heart which now stands tilled.

I pop pills to blind the pain,
Wearing plastic smiles to attain,
Much-needed closure and faux joy,
Contrived, like a child’s battered toy.

Someday, into the future,
I shall rise, aroused and mature,
Then, I’d beam and past, now interred,
I was sure shaken but not stirred!

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