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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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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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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First year of college.

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

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

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

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

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

The purse was empty.

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

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

P.S.

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

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

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

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“I want Marlboro!”

Raghav’s words were loud and vigorous enough to scare the living wits out of Sushil and I.  Raghav was Sushil’s friend. The two of us were on our way to CCD after a particularly tiresome day. That was when  a slightly-overweight guy in blue Reebok tees and a queer gait, suitably accompanied by a a steady stream of smoke bellowing upward from his mouth approached us from the opposite side of the road – Raghav. Chaddi buddies, Sushil greeted Raghav with a bear hug (only before grabbing the smoldering cigarette from his mouth and discarding it – much to Raghav’s chagrin) and reprimanded him for smoking publicly in his area!! Image problems, yes!! Now, if you didn’t know, Sushil,  Raghav and I are the biggest hypocrites Planet Earth has seen till date. You’ll know why, soon enough!

Now, it would be a gross understatement to call Raghav an ‘addict’ – he’s a class apart! A ‘clean’ guy until a few months back, his addiction was spurred by jobless days at an equally jobless internship at a company that offered free cigarettes even to passing visitors! Since then, there was no looking back. He’s tried all brands, lived even with tiny butts of used cigarettes when severly afflicted by the melt‘smoke’down ( fund-shortage due to cigarette bills amounting to thousands!), and even perfected all those astounding tricks of smoke-exhalation you see on TV. Yes, the world’s first professional smoker with a GPA of 9.2 (yeah, studies were always Priority #1! )

Until lately, Raghav too had a squeaky clean image at home, like Sushil. Only to lose it by succumbing to his addiction. Unable to suppress his withdrawal syndrome, he went out to get his daily puff and finished a whole pack in a matter of minutes, inexorably forgetting to disguise the acrid smell! His mom was quick to identify the odor and he had to vow that he wouldn’t take another puff.

The vow was broken the very next day, as he conveniently got himself a ‘Wills’, on his way back home after dropping off his sister at a reputed IIT coaching centre near CCD. That was when we met this dude. He mouthed the sudden urge to have perhaps the world’s most popular brand of cigarettes – his favourite, for the sake of stress release, he said. The mention of  ‘Marlboro’ set the ball rolling.  Sushil was a carbon copy of his chaddi-buddy, sort-of. But he hadn’t smoked in a while, and his image was still intact. He too wanted to get a high, and with firm resolve he seconded Raghav and proclaimed the mission – The Quest for Marlboro!

The term ‘quest’ in this context might seem hyperbolic, but yeah, Trivandrum is a very sleepy town, if you didn’t know! One still had to go the long contorted route to get a piece of ‘decent’, branded stuff. We didn’t know where to start off, but we were sure to find what we wanted, Kowdiar was the place to be in! We thought we’d start off with the melting pot of  ‘hanging-outers’ – The venerable CCD!

We’d barely walked over to CCD, when Sushil found this pack of guys smoking, standing next to a car. Before we could do anything, he ran over to one of  them and asked:

“Dude, you studied in my school right? Isn’t your name Sidharth?”

Sid: “Yup, that’s me. And hey, long time bro! “

Sushil: “Dude, where in TVM would you find a Marlboro? Pretty damn urgent!”

Sid: “Just head over to Grand Bazaar, at Style Plus. You’d find your stuff! All brands under the sun… you name it!”

Sushil: “Thanks a million, dude. You’re a lifesaver!”

I could see Raghav’s face light up in glee. So was Sushil’s. Thus, we walked through Belhaven Gardens (yea, the pee-place! ) and walked over to Devaswam board junction. They knew about the pee-story (which, ironically happened hardly a few days back) and were pulling my legs. I did my best to divert their attentions, non-smoker that I am. Pro-debater that Sushil is, he started quoting from “Thank You for smoking!” and other pro-smoking stuff. I had to shut up!! The dog’s tail would forever be curly! (പട്ടീടെ വാല്… ).

After a few minutes of walk, we reached Grand Bazaar. By now, Sushil had lost all his initial gusto for fear of image. Even Raghav had lost his courage, as a result of which, I had to lead the pack into the store. To my friends’ glee, there, all those packets were stacked right near the counter, by the wall! They were ogling at them the same way the three of us stared at this hot babe at Belhaven Gardens! Marlbro, Davidoff, B&C… all of ‘em were there, stacked in neat plastic-coated packets.

Raghav was far from satisfied, though. The packet that read “Marlbro” had a subtitle which read “lights”. As the name meant, it didn’t have the ‘kick’! He started a semi-fight with the salesgirl over the lack of Marlboro and even pleaded with her. By now, all the customers were staring at us! Sushil, with his ‘image’ problem, coaxed the dude into buying the Davidoff. Then again, our stingy Raghav tried the sales girl to sell him just a couple of loose cigarettes. The lady was visibly angry when she said no, so Raghav and Sushil shared money and bought a Rs 110 – 20 cigarette Davidoff packet! This is how it looked:

Sushil and the davidoff: Yeah, smokers die young. These guys never understand!

Anyways, we ran out of the store after the purchase – only to realize another folly. There was no lighter/matches to light the cigarette with! Raghav went inside again in search for a lighter but alas… The classic ‘water-water-everywhere’ scenario! A belligerent  ’പെട്ടിക്കടക്കാരന്‍’ (shop keeper) came to the rescue with ‘kadak’ matchsticks. Then came the problem of  ‘where to smoke’. The ‘Jaggus Kitchen’ right opposite to Style Plus was the answer. It housed a baskin robbins too! However, the very ‘friendly’  rates forced us to retreat – to a nondescript by-lane! (I was reminded of the ‘pee ‘incident in the recesses of a similar lane!) Then, like cannibals feasting on human bodies, they ripped open the packets and wildly picked up those objet’ d death!

Luck clearly wasn’t favoring them even now. Lighting up the matches was a hard job – the wind was blowing high and fast. Sushil now made up stories of how he lighted cigarettes amidst high winds. Surprised at the magnitude of that blatant lie, perhaps, Lord Vayu pulled the winds back and the cigaretted were lighted. It was fun to see the dudes exhale air!! Raghav and Sushil had very distinct styles of blowing smoke rings in the air! Sushil’s lips contracted to a very funny form as he did that – was damn funny!! Now, both of them started the next part of the bluffing saga. Sushil started by boasting that he’d smoked 40 joints, straight. Raghav wouldn’t agree. He countered by saying that his personal record was 50… LOL!! The bickering continued for a while until I intervened and solved it. After smoking a cigarette each and sharing  a third piece 50-50, the pack was shoved back into Sushil’s laptop bag and we walked back to CCD.

Then came the problem of where to store the packets. Both of them wouldn’t take the packet home, for fear of parental detection! Finally Raghav chose to keep the packets in a consensus, after wild plans including loosely selling cigarettes at 5-apiece!!

After walking both the dudes back to CCD, where they smoked away the remaining 17 pieces in the packet, I walked to the bus stop. I reiterated my forever-philosophy in mind. If the dudes don’t control their habit, they’re sure goanna learn the hard way…

Smoking is injurious to health!

P.S.

The incident is real, but names are changed to protect identities and ‘images’ of certain ..ahem… very respectable people!

Related posts:

1. Kowdiar Lights: The Call!
2. Smokers Die Younger
3. Halloween Express for awesome costumes

‘Kowdiar Lights’ is a two part series. As the name inexorably suggests, the series is about some  stuff that happened over the past week during my visits to this very posh part of Trivandrum City called Kowdiar. For dummies, Kowdiar is home to  countless chicks, some of the richest people in the state, super-awesome roads (by Trivandrum standards, that is!) and of course, one of the worst Cafe Coffee Day‘s in India!

The gold plated needles of my Bosch watch glistened under the evening ‘Lights of Kowdiar’ (which have a special aura thanks to the ‘international’ feel of the place – Golf Links residents will know better!). 3:50 PM, it read. I was twenty five minutes early to my ‘appointment’ with Aravind – Ol’ buddy and one of the most brilliant, talented and humble guys I’ve ever known! I’ve been his fan for a while, and when he invited me for a ‘treat’ at CCD that day, the last thing I could do was to resist. I thought I’d be late as always for the treat, but like bolt from blue, my post-noon Computer Networks lab session was canceled. Ergo, I was free (and jobless) by 2 PM! Despite stringent attempts to kill time by choosing a birthday gift for a friend and browsing through random magazines at the public library, I couldn’t do much to solve my joblessness quagmire. Thus, for the first time in years, I reached somewhere on time ahead of time. Half an hour ahead.

Within no time, the jobless monster resumed attack in full swing. I criss-crossed the wide avenue in front of CCD countless times, faked calls, fired texts and what not! Tough luck, the usually packed CCD was near-empty and there wasn’t a single good looking girl inside! Besides, I was out of cash, ergo, I couldn’t go in alone. To cut a long story short, I was harried, haggard and ultimately pissed-off like the proverbial ‘water-water-everywhere-not-a-drop-to-drink’ guy, when I got this call.

Nature’s call.

It all started as a ‘pressure variation’. Going by the good ol’ Boyle’s Law, I decided that Volume would be inversely proportional to pressure, and ‘devolumation’ (now, don’t look that up – it’s just another random word!)  could wait, for the volume will decrease with pressure. Not for long. In a couple of minutes’ time, the pressure mounted to unmentionable proportions, leaving me at wits’ end! Along came clarity of thought and a stingy teaspoon of truth – Boyle’s law was applicable only for gases!! I had no other option, but to let go of all the pressure through a very healthy outlet!

CCD had a loo, but getting in would mean sacrilege, considering my precarious finances, for I would have to stay there once I got inside! Naturally, I followed my instincts and did what any human being would resort to – I ran in search of clearance, right into the nearby lane – Belhaven Gardens. The surreptitious signboard beguiled me into assuming that lane to be poor man’s colony – an impression suitably flushed out (if you will pardon the pun) by a swanky BMW SUV parked near an equally surreptitious house! There were people everywhere, the houses were posh and tall with large boulevards – each sporting a minimum of two overpriced sedans! I’d be  kicked in the arse  straight by PC408 at Museum Police Station if I’d pee here! My mind was blank, and I ran. Or rather, I walked at a brisk pace. Running was out of question, a wrong step would lead only to involuntary release of all my body toxins, and that was the last thing I wanted!

Somehow, escaping pregnant glances of passers-by, I slipped into a sublane. Perfect place, I first thought. Relieved, I’d barely opened my zip, when I saw this mini lorry parked at the other end of the lane. The driver opened the front door and jumped out to  smoke a joint. He was walking towards me. Cursing lack of privacy, I resumed my pursuit further through this sublane, ending up in Devaswam Board Junction. Much to my relief, I noticed a tiny bride-type road at one corner of the junction. That road was the one few people would give a second thought about. With all might my self control would permit, I ran towards the decrypt lane!!

All hopes of peeing there was dashed by a makeshift teashop swarmed by a motley crowd, at the mouth of the lane. I hadn’t seen them before, they weren’t there!! How in the world could they apparate into that area at the very opportune moment?!

Without losing faith, I clutched my bag and casually walked inside the lane. There might be a way out! (<– Pun)  Sweat was oozing from all parts of my body – not just because of the tiresome sprints from Kowdiar to Devaswam Board. My mind was blank and eyebrows contorted in painful scorn, as my body shivered with each step. This was the ultimate test of self control. I thought I’d just let go then and there. An inner voice was the only guiding light, now! I walked for about a hundred metres and reached a tiny bridge, surrounded by some undergrowth. There were houses flanking my right side and the left side was a solid stone wall.

Finally!

I heaved a sigh and unzipped my fly. I took my mobile from my shirt pocket and held it in the right hand, mouthing a a voiceless conversation just to avoid an embarrassing situation, if any passer-by were to poke his nose into my privacy! As I was about to relieve myself, a crumpled old figure walked towards me through the other end of the bridge. I froze. She, presumably, couldn’t see that I was about to pee, thanks to a melange of foliage right in front of me!  Gradually an casually, I turned ninety degrees, phone carefully clutched to the ear and pretended a phone call. I didn’t give another glance to the old lady. As I saw walk by me and get ahead with the corner of my eye, I didn’t waste another moment!

I swerved faster than Schumi’s Ferrari and peed into the foliage like a madman!!

That was *THE* BEST peeing experience I’ve ever had – an enjoyable process that took almost thirty seconds to complete and made me lighter by a kilogram or so! I closed my eyes in deep relief and zipped my fly, only to hear a muffled voice and open up!

It was a fseven year old kid, peeping at me through the iron grilled windows of his house – the kid was laughing his arse off, he apparently had been witness to the entire incident!

I smiled an embarrased smile to this ‘PeePal’ and ran back to Cafe Coffee Day!

The woods were lonely, dark and deep, and I had people to meet!

Related posts:

1. Kowdiar Lights: The Quest
2. The woman in red
3. Dream on!

5th March 2008, 4 AM

My biological clock woke me up, surprising me with its promptness. Earnest efforts to forgo the ‘bio-alarm’ and drift-back to sleep thwarted, I had no other option but to get back to the laptop. It was the big day. Sindhya Chechi (Senior at college, almost-real-life sis, confidante, best-friend) and I were doing a Paper Presentation at TKM College of Engineering, Kollam. Conjura ’09 had an assured prize money of Rs 8,000/-. Bankrupt that I was, I jumped at the chance, further enthralled by the possiblity of a trip with my dearest sis!

It’s hard to get me away from the computer screen, a complaint lodged by parents and friends alike. Modifying our presentation for the umpteenth time, the sidebar clock of Windows Vista reminded me that I just had an hour left to get ready, pack-up, reach Thampanoor and catch the 7.00 Kollam Train. Ten minutes and bingo – I’d brushed, bathed and shaved. I took another two minutes to gobble up four odd dosas and hitched a ride in Dad’s bike to Sreekariyam – the nearest junction.

Another five minutes and Dad sped me up to Sreekariyam. There was a fast passenger, all set and revving up to leave. I asked dad to stop then and there. Dad didn’t. Or rather, he couldn’t. He had applied the brakes, but the bike refused to stop. It decelerated, yes. But the rate was far from what one would expect from standard Bajaj 4S champion stuff (which is too low by industry standards, again!). Out of the blue, an auto appeared on our path and dad drove the bike straight into it.

No, we didn’t collide into the auto. The bike screeched to a halt way before we reached it, as dad did some superhuman effort to make that happen. In all my hurry to get into the bus, I jumped out somewhere mid-way from the slowing-down bike in a bid to run behind the moving bus. Partly from the velocity of the moving bike, partly from the braking action of the bike, partly from the weight of the laptop and my bag, I lost balance and fell squarely onto the road- my body skidding away, balancing myself on both arms.

One quick look and I noticed the grotesque injuries on both palms of my alms. I’d also lost a lot of skin near my elbow. Interestingly, nothing at all happened to dad, who bore a ‘Didn’t-I-tell-you-not-to-go’ look which genuinely pissed me off. Dad took me to our family doctor who lived nearby, but unfortunately (or fortunately) he hadn’t arrived. Dejected, I took out my cellphone to call up Sindhya chechi to inform her that I won’t be coming, only to stare wide eyed into my mobile. My cellphone display got shattered to smithereens in the accident!! The poor ol’ Nokia 3110 was in my shirt-pocket as I fell and the display hit the tar road. With the weight of my body acting upon it, the screen too got shattered.

Before dad could notice the damage, I said something which I think was among the best decisions of my life.

“Dad, I’m going to TKM, anyhow.”

The presentation was something that both of us- Sindhya chechi and I, spent quite a lot of time to brainstorm and develop. It was no easy job. We both felt that ours was a technology that would metamorphose the world! We had to make sure it’s seen and heard everywhere!

Realizing that my dad’s temper was usually succeeded by a blitzkreig of expletives, I’d almost closed my ears. Surprisingly, dad went pensive for sometime and nodded his head. I couldn’t believe it! Before dad could change his mind, I rushed to the bus stop and boarded a bus to Thampanoor. Both palms of my hands and the wound near my elbow were bleeding. My trousers also got torn near the waist due to the impact of the accident. Trickles of blood oozed through both my arms. Unmindful of the pain, I borrowed a guy’s phone and told Sindhya chechi that I’d be late. It was 6.55 already, and there was absolutely no way that I would reach the station on time. I didn’t mention the reason, though. I knew she’d say a flat no if I said I just had an accident!

The benelovent bus driver depressed the accelerator only momentarily during the fifteen minute journey. Lo and behold, I reached Thampanoor by 7.05 in a span of just ten minutes. Washing my hands at a hotel wash, I walked to the railway station. My phone rang to the ‘Saathiya’ tune. Sindhya Chechi‘s ringtone. And, I could still make and receive calls – the phone wasn’t  fully dead! The situ wasn’t as bad as it then seemed.

Chechi announced that she’d be near the sort-of temple near the station. I walked up there. I accidentally told her about the accident on phone… damn it! When we met and as she saw the blood oozing from my palms, her cute smile morphed into a teary-eyed stare. I couldn’t bear that sight! As expected, chechi began protesting – fully apprehensive of the trip. Chechi’s mom, who got to know of the news from her daughter, also warned us not to go. But I stuck by our decision. Emboldened by my resolve, chechi too followed suit. We’d missed the train, which was crowded anyway. So we proceded to the bus stand and caught a fast passenger to Kollam.

The journey to Kollam was an extremely pleasant one. With chechi by my side, and her comforting words for my support, I felt no pain, literally. Blood hadn’t clotted, and still oozed bit-by-bit from my hands. Meanwhile, calls started coming into my broken handset. Mom, who didn’t get a picture of the accident almost cried. Sindhya chechi’s mom was in the verge of tears, subtly chiding our decision to go and providing me with a host of handy, useful wound-tips. I handed over the laptop to Sindhya chechi, who edited the presentation to add a few finishing touches.

We got out at Chinnakkada, Kollam and started fishing for a good hospital to dress my wounds. Someone suggested a St. Mary’s Hospital that was nearby. It didn’t take much time to locate the tiny but clean hospital. Both of us walked into the casuality. No sooner did the pleasant lady doc see me, she summoned a nurse who seated me by the couch and dressed me up. I also got a tetanus shot. Meanwhile, the doc was asking Sindhya chechi about the accident and stuff while she was clarifying about the exact location of TKM and the buses that would take one to the place.

That was when the doc asked that question.

“ഇയാള്‍ തന്‍റെ ആരാന്നാ പറഞ്ഞേ?” (What’s your relation to this guy?”)

Without any qualms or second thoughts, chechi replied:

“എന്‍റെ സഹോദരന്‍ ആണ്.” (He’s my brother)

For a moment, the gaffe didn’t strike her. Chechi was my senior at college, and not my real life sister! (Although I badly wish she was!)

Before she could clarify, the doc asked again:

“ഇളയതാണല്ലേ?” (Younger brother, eh?)

“അതേ. എന്‍റെ അനിയനാ.” (Exactly, he’s my younger bro!)

She didn’t bother to change our ‘relation’. Thus, the doc officially proclaimed us brother and sister!! It took quite some effort from our side, not to let out that smile! Even the lady who gave the medicines didn’t spare the ‘sister’ remark. And we didn’t want to change that! Both of us were too happy at having received official-recognition… Lol!

Anyways, we crossed the road and boarded a private bus which took us to TKM in maybe fifteen minutes’ time. Meanwhile, all the passengers kept staring at me and my hands. They’d stared all through the Kollam journey too, but I was too wary to bother. But this time, I’d both my palms in bandages – that too, similar looking ones! Since I was wearing a full sleeve shirt many couldn’t see the wound at the elbow. Anyway, I explained a simpler version of my complicated accident to all those inquisitive travelers. I just said that I fell from a moving bus! And that’s what I’ve been telling to most of the people ever since!!

TKM College.

TKM looked more like an over-sized mosque rather than a top engineering college of the state. There were huge hoardings of Conjura erected all along. Flex boards of Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who’d inaugurated the conjura logo the previous week, abounded. Too much internal publicity, if you ask me! Anyways, we had to chip in 150 bucks each for registration. It was almost time, and after a quick fresh up we went to the hall, waiting for the presentation to start. To our utter dismay, there was this dude from CET – an ace presenter with a tongue and topic to match. He was sure to win! We didn’t lose hope and decided that we’ll put our best foot forward.

Once, the CET guy had concluded, Sindhya chechi tried asking a question, but was badly snubbed by a judge who categorically ruled that participants couldn’t ask questions!! Duh! We waited for two more participants to conclude and did our presentation. It was okay. Sindhya chechi did her part, followed by mine. Oddly enough, we noticed a queer expression on the judges’ faces. This female judge started laughing LOL style, when I mentioned a very valid point. Now, I got very VERY pissed!! With all that and more, we overstepped our time by some 15 seconds. Then came the Q&A part. We did answer fairly, but unsatisfactorily. Having done spectacularly successful presentations in the past, both of us were thoroughly dissappointed. I’d spent over five hundred bucks from my personal funds, badly injured myself in an accident, and still we spent all our energy to come to a far-flung college by bus with the sole aim of crowning the first place. And we weren’t even close to winning! All the sleepless nights and eye-strained research gone awry… bah!

It took a gargantuan effort from Sindhya chechi’s part to bring me back to my normal self. The pep talk proved good and we drowned our sorrows over cups of tea at the TKM canteen. We knew we didn’t stand a chance, but still thought we’d go and get the participation certificates at least. The CET guy had won hands-down, and as expected, we didn’t figure in the top three. However, to our surprise, as per the points tally, we were the second! But we lost out just because we’d exceded the time.

I was jack’s extreme sense of dissappointment.

Again, Sindhya chechi’s pep talk! Seriously, within minutes, I was smiling again – cracking dumb jokes. Hitching another bus to chinnakkada, we walked to the railway station in order to catch a train home. As we walked, a cripple sat somewhere on the footpath. He was the quintessential begger, he didn’t have palms on both his arms. Judging by our ‘standard’ he raised his voice in entreaty…

“Ammaaa…”

Then his eyes fell on my injured and bandaged palms. He quipped:

“രണ്‍ട് കൈയ്യും തല്ലി ഒടിച്ചല്ലേ?” (They broke up both your hands, didn’t they?”)

Sindhya chechi didn’t stop laughing for over ten minutes. After five minutes or so, I too gave in. The guy had some sense of humour, yes!

After a long walk, we reached the railway station, talking about God-knows-what. I really enjoyed the walk. Walking-the-talk is great! I opened up a lot, laughed at the arbit jokes we cracked, emphathized with chechi’s fears and enjoyed the whole experience. Since all trains were full and our dwindling finances didn’t permit extra expenditure, we diverted to the bus stop next to the railway station. A Fast Passenger stopped within five minutes and we got inside.

The return journey was the best part of the trip. We talked, talked and talked like never before!! Both of us were chatterboxes with similar interests and schools of thought. Either chechi would be talking or I would be blabbering. We didn’t have time for a pause. Even though I felt sleepy due to the exhausting walk, chechi’s words shoved it off. We didn’t notice the clocks tick. Before we knew it, we had reached Trivandrum! Once we touched down, we started another inventive game. Either of us would mention the name of a celebrity and the other person had to mention what he/she thought about that person in a word or two (or three). It was very funny and very surprising because, 99% of our opinions matched!! Wow!

We de-boarded from the bus at Thampanoor station. It was just 3.45. I didn’t have the key to my house, so chechi invited me to hers. Chechi’s mom, who’s more like my real mom, was like at my situ. I was immediately ushered in, fed food at gunpoint. She forcefully cleaned the piles of dust that had accumulated on my palms with cotton and gave me trillions of practical tips that would expedite the healing process (thanks to them, my wounds healed within just a week!) It was almost 5 when I left the place. Chechi dropped me at dad’s office in her car, and as I bade her good bye, I could almost feel a tear in my eye.

Only if I had a real sis like her!

God, don’t make me an only-son in my next birth… Puh leese!!

P.S.

The post-accident look! (On Neethu‘s request! )

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