Lest We Forget Goa

Like most self-respecting Maddus, I don't dance - at least when I'm not inebriated, I don't. However, that's where my similarities with the stereotype end, for I don't sing either - not for the public at least. So, when the lady at the bar asked me to sing karaoke, it was only obvious that I'd decline.

We had come to Goa for a whole lot of things - bikes, beer, babes, beaches... Karaoke, however, began with a 'K'. So, the bearded one just said "One Budweiser, please" before the blonde waitress bothered us any further. And thus began our story at the second bar of my first ever pub-crawl.

Rounds of vodka, rum, gin and fenny can do weird things to your head. All the same, yours truly was clever, as he had switched off his mobile phone and taken out the battery, lest he should fool around with it and end up as a fool the next morning. A few more beers were thrown in by the courteous waitress, about whom someone commented - "These foreigners are so pleasant, man! Why can't Indians be like them?"

I cannot vividly recall all the happenings of that night - but I certainly remember poring through a song catalogue, complaining about the randomness of the list and Pink Floyd's conspicuous absence. The senti one, who was thoroughly hammered by now, suggested that he's return to Goa in December if they promised to get new songs. Drunk people are particular when it comes to such matters, but they're not finicky. So we sang.

My cacophonous rendition of 'Hey Jude' quickly put Jetty's utterly horrendous 'Yesterday' (which sounded more like Bieber's 'Baby, baby, baby') to shame. The lady was there to rub it in: "You told me you wouldn't sing!" she said. "Well, I wasn't drinking then, was I?" was my deft reply.

Jetty continued to hog the title of 'worst singer ever' with consummate ease, even as the bearded fellow sank into a conversation with the waitress.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Zena," she replied.

"Like the Warrior princess?" he ventured.

"No. With a 'Z'," she smiled.

Sadly, their romantic chat was shredded apart by Jetty's 'Yellow Submarine'. The chorus was insane, with Jetty convincing the rest of us with irrefutable logic that we all do, indeed, live in a Yellow submarine.

Soon, it was time to leave, so we could reach the next shack. The bill came and we paid. As we left, the waitress ran after us a hundred yards just to say goodbye. After all, I've never tipped like that in my life!

Off My Bucket List

Some of my fondest moments in Watch Out News Agency, and thus on campus, involve staring at the old tree which the wise old dog speaks about so highly. I’m sure most people who have stared in wonderment at the old tree’s majestic upper-branches will empathize with me when I say that the profoundest of thoughts jump out of its withering bark.

I’m quite certain campus Wi-Fi jumped out of it while it was a few rings younger and maybe co-ed hostels will emerge one fine day, as most of us fancifully dream. But usually, staring results in – The E&C Tower. What to do with the E&C tower? How to blow it up? How to throw oneself to the Gaon using the mighty concrete tower as a giant trebuchet? And so on…

While the greatest ‘Rank’ I’ve written would involve ways of getting oneself into SB and staying there undetected, all other spots in my top ten list would have something to do with the mysterious phallic structure. Fucchas, year after year, are bedazzled by the brilliant Main Building and baffled by the weird tower mastering the slope. And seniors leaving the institute inevitably harbour one unfulfilled dream – “Damn, I never scaled it!” Well, I did. (Albeit with a few score others)

Having gone four dry years, I’ve scaled it twice in two days now: courtesy Cognizance 2011. The fifteen story climb is an arduous one – but like in all great treks and pilgrimages – totally worth the effort! The summit has something for everyone: While flying paper planes off the top never occurred to us when we stared at the tree, the bearded one’s ‘Dragon’ demonstrated what fine aerodynamics must consist of. Gelf’s own multiethnic jackass spotted Kerala on the horizon and the Shutterbug was busy capturing anything and everything under the sun (including the sun itself, which, he very intelligently realized, was a few feet closer).

For me, it was about what R has always been about.

WondeRland lies in full brilliance in front of my eyes in uncorrupted pristine splendour. I watch the people, who have meant so much to me, scamper about like tiny ants disappearing into the trees. The sun drowns us in radiant ochre. And I understand why I’ll never stop loving this place.

Ei8ht

The coat of arms catches your sight in all its magnificent gold and glittering red. A few moments later, you catch yourself gazing achingly at sun-dried brown and mildly striped white. Despite the dazzle and the intoxicating essence, you realize that the experience may not be as wonderful as someone once told you. But Novelty is a cruel friend, and Novelty won't let you go that easily.

You try to do it like them, but you fail miserably... There is not suavity or elegance like what you saw on television, as the powerful substance enters you. You cough and you wheeze. Your vision blurs and you stumble. But do you give up?

As you soon discover, Time is a panacea and your feet rediscover the firm earth below. So you try again, and this time harder. The fumes rise mightily and overpower your feeble body. You are part of it now, as it is part of you. But you don't like it... Not just yet. No.

Somehow you manage the third, to the amusement of some of your friends. This time you feel so much more in control and you realize that it has always been about the mind, from the very beginning: you wanted to conquer that searing stem. And now that you have, you could let go but it has endeared itself to you.

The fourth drag is followed by the fifth and then fresh air floods your lungs. Your hands are numb as they hang loosely by your side, like those of a puppet. A cold breeze, an inky sky, rustling leaves, burning stem, and you are alone... The Universe comes to an end: No longer do the dogs bark; the full moon appears painted on a motionless black screen; the air is stagnant; the waves hang in suspended animation; you freeze. The rhythmic ticking of the clock breaks the silence.

You put your lips to the filter for a sixth time and the world jerks into sudden motion. The dogs hasten after one another; the moon is partially covered by the racing cirrus; a blast of icy cold wind blows away the ash; the waves crash against the rocky shore; and cold noxious fumes enter your lungs. People stare at you in awe, like the way they would stare at their favourite movie hero. But you are unaware of all this, of course.

Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride: Seven is your ticket to the almighty heavens. Dreams become real in this world, everyone is happy and you are their king. Sorrows in this world ebb away into the infinite and anger is a forgotten pleasure. It is the hardest world to leave, but everything good must have an end. And this does too.

The ring of burning red is very close to your fingers now and you feel it feeding on your flesh. But you don't want to stop now. You want to push the high: thus comes the eighth drag, and your lap of honour. The hot fumes cloud your mouth and you gasp once again. You know that it has ended but you will never want to leave. You will want to stay here forever. But you can't do that. You cannot have more. You must let go. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight... You must let go now!

And so the last puffs of smoke leave you. Forever.

The Old Man & The Pot

The mud track took one last turn around the hill, and a smile vanquished the last of those fretful lines upon his face. The boy, tired as he was, was finally nearing the end of his almighty quest. The meandering road had taken him through several villages and shanties, over treacherous rope-ways and some insanely beautiful scenery. But he was glad that it was all over now, for his legs: they were pumping acid; and his vision was blurring from fatigue. And thus, he threw himself around the bend with whatever energy was left in him, unconsumed.

Voila! The sight he beheld astonished him as much as it bewildered his senses, for beauty in its most consummate form can hold one in a trance forever; he held the vision in veneration and fear. The trees were taller than many mountains he had seen in his life and they were richer than the richest of kings. Snowflakes, like little stars, floated down through their almighty canopy into the bursting stream which ran down the hill. And in front of him was the most queer looking house, made of logs and bricks and stone - and yet it didn't look out of place.

He was rejuvenated by the glorious sight and he felt like he could run all the way to the house. For it was for the house that he had undertaken this perilous trip once again. Memories of his previous encounters with the wizened inhabitant of the house flooded his thoughts. It had been two years now...

* * *

"Welcome, welcome..." the old man had said, stroking his flowing beard. “What must I owe this delightful honour to? Not many lads come by these days," he had sighed.

"N… nothing sir..." the boy had stammered. “ I am merely an admirer of nature... and a lover of unadulterated beauty.”

"Oh, come now... Let me boil you some tea," the man had said, as he ushered the boy into his austere dwelling. "But you don't have to lie. I know why you have come. I know why all boys come!"

Then he had meticulously boiled the tealeaves in a large kettle and he had returned to the boy's beside only when he carried two mugs of tea.

"Sip on it when it's hot," he had commanded and the boy had obeyed. All of a sudden, he had found himself fully strong: renewed. The old man then posed the question: "Now that you are better, tell me... What are you willing to trade? I know that you have come for the Pot."

"Trade?!" the boy remembered himself faltering, shocked by the old-man's deduction.

"Of course... A trade! It's only fair, isn't it? And how is it you don't know about the trade?!" He had asked. The man seemed menacing now; no longer friendly and definitely not affable. "The pot isn't free of cost. What will you give me in exchange for the pot?"

"I have some gold...?"

"GOLD!" He had laughed, but without mirth. "You can keep that! It is worthless to me. I am looking for something far more precious."

The boy had stayed silent. The old man had played this game far too many times to lose at it. He always won. Every lad eventually gave in! They all knew that their lives would remain miserable without the pot. It was their only way out!

"You know what it is..." he said, slowly. “I know you lead a wretched life! You have nothing more than a pocketful of gold... You believe Life is unjust to you and you have come to me. But you have something I can trade the Pot for..."

The boy had stared mutely.

"Your dreams, your heart! Your soul..." The man went on. "I am willing to trade."

"My heart is mine to keep and mine alone to give. One cannot forcibly claim it. My dreams serve me as an infinite staircase to eternal glory... If you want me to trade that, you are fooling yourself sir. I might be poor, destitute, distraught and ill-omened, but I'm willing to walk back home empty handed. There will be no trade today. Now, will you give me the pot? Or must I walk?"

The man had then smiled, like he had smiled before. "Bravo, boy! Bravo..." He had cried, for never before had he listened to such words. People, usually, willingly submitted. “For you lad, free of cost!” And he conjured a small earthen pot out of thin air. "Just promise me that you will never trade. Otherwise you are not worthy of the Pot."

* * *

The boy was once again at the door of the strange tenement, and he stood on the threshold staring at the large oak door. He had once sworn to himself that he would never make this trip again. And now, he was here. He had promised never to trade, even for something he valued as much as the pot. His life had dramatically improved ever since he had sipped some of its magic. And Life had become fair and beautiful and lovely and grand. For two long years, he had ruled his world, but now he found his pot empty. He felt things would go awry once again. He was afraid: afraid to lose it all and return to square one. He felt now like it was worth a trade.

Suddenly, the door sprang open. But there was no old man this time: in his stead was a little boy.

"What do you want, friend," he asked to which the traveller replied that he had come to see the old man.

The boy looked sad now, and he replied: "You have come to meet grandpa! If only you had come sooner... He forgot to take his daily sip yesterday. I'm afraid he's no longer with us!"

The traveller stared aghast.

"Yes," nodded the grandson solemnly. "Grandpa used to sell Luck."

The Temple

I drove a long while yesterday, pleasantly surprising myself each time I threw the car around a bend with casual ease; for I have reason to believe that Driving, like Language, can be forgotten. Today I was bursting through the streets once again, though not equipped with the Swift this time around, as I found myself seated precariously on Mom's 50cc Kinetic - empathizing with the way Lord Ganesha feels when he sits on his mouse. Helmeted - not by choice, I stared through the vizor at the way Chennai's greatest road contrasted the erstwhile empire and ancient megalith with modern day towers.

I was on a mission today: an impromptu decision and a whimsical moment, which lead to the beginning of an insatiable urge. Being filled with the improbable melange of piety and desire, while all the time acknowledging the fact that neither could live while the other survived, I decided that it was only prudent that I nip it at the bud. And I embarked upon the pilgrimage.

I haven't been to the shrine for a while now and I felt that the Powers might chastise me for my ignorance, condemn me and relegate me to the desecrated world. But then I have always believed that the Lord is forgiving. And I continued on my trip, with expectations reaching their acme as the temple came into view. Like all temples, there was nothing blindingly brilliant about the exterior, for temples need not boast their existence. They merely need to exist, and people will come.

I stood in awe as I stared at the resplendent medieval facade, tattooed with the number '1844', which seemed to stare back down upon me, as if demanding, "Where have you been all these days?" I bowed my head and putting my right foot forward, I stepped across the threshold. A chill ran down my spine as I reminded myself that I was finally reunited with the lord in his abode, after all the missing years. Every aspect of the place left me amazed: the careless nonchalance in the way the angels presented themselves to those who cared to come, the meticulous and overworked attendants and the overwhelming mix of people who prayed by my beside.

No number of hours could suffice in such a place, as I tried placating a hurt ego - convincing myself that there was still time for redemption. I left the shrine a few hours later, as a greatly enriched man. And I swore to return as soon as fate and time permitted me to. And thus I exited Higginbotham's - the oldest bookstore in the country. And the finest, needless to say.

God bless Abel Joshua Higginbotham.

The Song Remains The Same

Clear the desks; pull some chairs
Stash the bucket in the shelf…
Shroud the books; slay the sheets
Get up! You’ve got work to do.

Hoard some cash, be very tight
Do not buy and do not give.
And then all! Splurge it all…
Fling it all: Y’ know when to.

Let the windows give away
And let the sky come bursting in
Making way for endless fumes
Of smoke of evil and endless joy.

Grab the caps, light the flares
Get the speakers out once more
Let the cake come, when it must
Fix the old bulb up tonight.

Draw out crapes ‘n streamers encore
And write the names upon the walls–
Splashes of paint and sparkling text
The magic canvas is a glittering hall.

Revive the jukebox from days forgot’
Relive those old joys born anew
Reset the table; Repeat the song
Renumber the spirits alphabet-wise!

Get the knives and spoons and forks;
The dinner is ready – delectable, grand…
Steady the staircase – that infinite one
Which will take you to heaven tonight.

Keep the phone nigh – at hand
To answer all those midnight songs.
Now set the beat and up the heat –
And wait for Earth’s complete round.

Don’t forgive but do forget
All that past that wasn’t right
Indulge! Rejoice! Promise! Ascend!
There will be a party tonight!

Of Ticks and Triple-Stripes

There aren't too many things which can conjure up such great prominence in such a short span of time like a simple check-mark, an innocuous M or a half-eaten apple! I wonder at times whether one could have ever foreseen this present day world even as recently as a decade ago. 'Free Enterprise' - the Americans would call it; socialists would denounce it as a diabolical plan to ruin mankind - but the bottom-line remains that Capitalism has come to rule the urban world.

Now, let us not fool ourselves here. India is not a mixed economy; even if it is now, it won't be in another decade. Our leaders have embedded their faiths in individualism and competition almost as firmly as Uncle Sam. While Obama is being denounced as anti-American for telling his people the positives of community-service and selflessness, India's demagogues talk about economic equality of the people while pushing through deals for one mall after another. Where is the scope for equality when you ask the Indian pushcart to combat an International Retail Mammoth? Of course, you will give me the argument that greater competition leads to a pursuit of excellence and hence a better India. We could continue this debate for a while, if it weren't for a fact that this isn't the point I'm trying to make!

I hardly care for the 'Is capitalism correct?' debate if it wasn't for the fact that it causes so much pain. There was a point of time when people actually cared about service quality, product calibre, durability, return for money, warranties etc. Nowadays, these are thrown to the winds in exchange for one simple thing - a logo.

It is truly disturbing that someone should choose shoes with three stripes on them knowing only too well that they are greatly overpriced when an equally good pair, if not better, can be bought two stores away. Why doesn't one squeeze a few oranges instead of piercing a pack of Tropicana? Why do you buy a McBurger for nearly a hundred rupees when the Tikki at a Nescafe joint tastes a million times better? Why are people desperate to show off a Macbook when it's quite apparent they are rather incapable of understanding Apple's OS? Why does logic fail?

If only everything can be solved in a completely intellectual manner! But proving a point to society and flaunting expensive useless accessories, sadly, are beyond the realms of intellectual pursuit. Brand loyalty is for morons... I'm not saying the concept of branding is useless as a whole; but I'd have it limited to where it makes sense. This has plagued me for a while now, as I find myself being sucked into a hopeless struggle against myself. I would like to think that most people today recognize this problem but are afraid to admit it, even to themselves! I wouldn't have written about this today, if it wasn't for yesternight's visit to HRC - Mumbai... An experience I am still confused about - for I am unable to understand if I enjoyed the experience or whether I thought I did!