The Collector Of Broken Things

I remember my days as a child - a time of brightly coloured walls - through fading memories in sepia.

I'm a collector. It's not a hobby as much as a neurotic disorder. Throughout life, I've been a victim of overflowing cupboards and jam-packed drawers, simply because I cannot throw stuff away. I think it's because I cannot completely dissociate an object from the memory it is linked to. If I throw something away, it feels like I'm throwing away an event of my past; like I'm allowing it to be forgotten. And that is very depressing indeed.

Today I was rummaging through my almirah grimly, preparing to, in the worst case, empty it out, having submitted to the latest ultimatum that mom issued. A bittersweet search ensued, as I tried salvaging memories which were so desperately trying to run away from me forever.

I performed my usual trick of shifting stuff from one drawer to the next, from one unreachable crevice of the shelf to another spot where it would stay hidden for a few more months. The reasoning behind my absurd actions is something which eludes me - as the need to look at these objects and reminisce about the past never arises, unless I'm told to throw them away.

But every time I look at lucky pencils from historical examinations, torn-up tickets and broken relics of first-dates, certificates which will never be useful to me anymore, drawings and sketches from kindergarten, nearly-unidentifiable faded photographs, and birthday presents from the last decade, I am filled with a sadness - a sadness which tells me that these times will never come again; that these useless objects are the only things which preserve these spectacular memories.

And when I look at the wall, just behind the fridge, I notice the spot where I once used to stand-up upright as my brother measured my height with his Nataraj HB pencil. This was done ceremoniously week-after-week until I finally stopped growing, or perhaps until that one-week when we forgot. And then, I remember that corner of the wall where he squirted pomegranate juice, because the fruit amused him.

Even the thought of leaving this home alarms me, for it is not just a home, but a cauldron of memories.

Because without these objects, I will only be left with brightly coloured memories of fading walls in sepia.

Girl, why did you change so much?

The turn of the millennium saw me in standard five, as a gawky kid with over-sized spectacles matching an over-sized head. And as we all know, fifth grade is a turning point in any kid's life. I found it no different, as having returned to India after four long years, the system of making the boys and girls sit separately on opposite sides of the class was new and confounding. More disconcerting however, was the fact that talking to people of the opposite sex was no longer a punishment but a privilege. In fact, I vividly recall some fellows coming up with random excuses so that they could leave our table at lunch and spend a few minutes with the giggling girl by the window.

In science class, the teacher was talking about Entamoeba Histolytica when I found the guy seated next to me staring at the window - at least, that's what I thought at first. Doing a double take, I realized that he wasn't, in fact, looking at the big boys playing volleyball outside... He had somehow locked eyes with the girl in the front row, who was struggling to keep her head constantly turned at some eighty-seven degrees. "Snap out of it, man!" I said to him. To no avail.

Those were the days when hearts could be won with nothing more than a smile, or a soiled note which said "1-4-3" on it. Those were the days when you could poke a girl with a pencil or hit her with a box on one day, and have her fall in love with you the very next. 'Love' was a word which came so easily to our mouths. It was then a word which still carried meaning.

Fast forward - five years: The world was quite the same, except you couldn't hit girls any more without being branded a boor. 'Love affairs' didn't scandalize anyone anymore, but somehow whenever you wanted to talk to a girl really badly, you would be searching for all the right words. And then, they would never come out. Still, those were enjoyable times, made even more fantastic by the plans and strategies we used to come up with to win her heart!

Most plans failed, but some did succeed and V.G. Siddhartha ended up making a truck-load of cash. In fact, as the years ticked by, Cafes' earnings went up exponentially... as it was no longer socially acceptable to enjoy a Pepsi and a Vegetable Puff while standing outside 'Royal Bakery' with her. No. The grander the place you took her to, the happier she felt.

Enter college and there was still some semblance of normalcy in this world... In engineering school - and especially in IITs - girls come in really, really small numbers. But then again, humans are made in two sexes for a reason, I suppose. And so, even though society contrived to make it as difficult for us as possible, you always ended up finding that one perfect someone. Well, a whole lot of us acted upon the feeling, and a vast majority of us failed. And some people I know didn't even get started, as society by now had established so many rules, restrictions, ethics, morals and so many other things I don't even know the names of, that made even the approach an impossibility.

I found that people were no longer as 'easy' as they used to be before. They had changed - well not entirely, definitely not from within... But now, there was layer after layer of 'personality' shrouding what she really was. My god, it was difficult! But there was still music in the background and lights in the air when everything about you knew that she was the one for you.

And now, I have spent the last one year outside college, in strange cities, stranger bars and the strangest place of all, Facebook. This one year has destroyed the world as I knew it not so long ago. In March, last year, I remember deriding my neighbour when he said that 'love' is an act of the hormones and that there is no place called the Heart. Today, I'm ready to go back to him and apologize, for I wholeheartedly agree. Last year, I held so many notions which so many girls would have called 'romantic' and so many guys would have called 'gay'. I've shed all of them today.

The world is not the beautiful, life-affirming song we once knew, but a bitter dirge taking us a step closer to the end. We are afraid to say those three beautiful words because we know that commitment isn't something we can give to the person who means the most to us in the whole, wide world. Besides, it's not about love any more!

Watching the full yellow moon hide behind the Cumulus or taking a long stroll on the sands by the seashore mean nothing anymore. It's more about how much vodka you can load her with, or how you can smoke ganja together. It's about glitz and glamour these days - how high up in society's ladder are you? Let me tell you this - the girl, a few rungs lower, will most probably accept your proposal.

Tell me, if people really believed in romance and love, would they need you to buy them ten tequila shots before they go down with you? Or would it matter what power you wielded over people and how much money you had?

You know the world is coming to an end if you can't even get you heart properly broken.

Arabian Knight - Part One

As an escape from the usual codswallop I usually have you read on this blog, I bring to you this story from the land of Djinns and Flying Carpets. Below is a true account of what happened on September 23rd, 2011.

Part One: Fine Print

Schlumberger's 'Field Engineer' job profile is one of the most exciting jobs available to any person who calls planet Earth home, so it isn't surprising when you get your visa around 30 hours before D-Day H-Hour. An oil-man is expected to have nerves of steel. So, even when the ticket arrived just a few hours prior to take-off, I hardly shuddered (much unlike mom, who was completely in a soup). But as I've come to understand, even the seasoned oil-man can be rattled every now and again.

What happens when you don't read fine print, you may ask... My answer: It all depends upon what the fine-print says. If it says "Ensure that your passport has an ECNR (Emmigration Check Not Required) stamp before going to the airport", it just might be worth paying attention to.

With packing half-done at 1230hrs and my flight scheduled for 1745hrs, I was cutting it fine already. That was when I re-read the informative email. I cooly reached out for my passport and checked it with an air of nonchalant ease; all was fine and pretty soon, I'd be over the sea and far away, I thought. As I turned to the second page, I was met by the following words:

"ECR (EMMIGRATION CHECK REQUIRED)"

As you see, the Emmigration Check is in place to protect the unskilled Indian labourer from exploitation in other countries, especially in the Gulf. It shouldn't be much of a problem, I thought to myself. Since I had procured myself a provisional degree from Indian Institute of Technology Roorkee, I couldn't exactly be classified as unskilled. And besides, I wasn't going to Abu Dhabi to work; it was just training.

All the same, when people around you hyperventilate, it sort of rubs off on you. Soon, there's collective hyperventilation, mass hysteria and pandemonium in general. Dad's contacts at the airport told me on phone that I had a fair 50% chance of clearing the EC. Dad getting worried, ordered me to zip my bags as they were and head staight for the airport. It was 1:15 pm.

Part Two: Telephone

Reaching the Chennai Domestic Terminal insanely early (at 1345 for a 1745 flight), I was met by a few officials who studied my passport carefully. They told me that there shouldn't be any trouble in Emmigration. In fact, if the flight was from Madras, they said that they'd be happy to ensure that I get through EC; however, since it was from Mumbai, they said that I'd have to talk sense into the officials there. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

My flight was scheduled to land at 1945hrs at Mumbai and the international flight to Abu Dhabi would take-off at 2115hrs. So, having checked my luggage straight through to Abu Dhabi, I relaxed over a coffee in the Chennai Airport Lounge. One never knows how time moves when you're in semi-sleep mode - so, after a while, I checked my watch again: 5:30. Why am I still not on the plane?

"I'm sorry sir, your flight has been delayed. It will depart at 6:30 pm," said the suave Jet Airways official who I wanted to punch. Controlling the impulse, I asked innocently, "Does that mean that the landing will also be late?"

"Oh yes," he said, happily.

"How do you plan to get me on your flight to Abu Dhabi then?"

"What flight?" he asked.

"Jet Airways to Abu Dhabi. It's at 9:15."

"Oh, that! I'm sorry sir... You won't be able to make it. Why don't you take tomorrow's flight?" he asked me, as if he was offering me tea in place of coffee.

"No, no... I need you to get me there, somehow. Anyway, I've checked my luggage through to Abu Dhabi," I pressed.

"That's not an issue. I can get your luggage off the plane," he retorted, gleefully.

"I'd like my luggage to stay where it is. Get me there somehow... Make your other flight wait a few minutes for me if needed! Isn't that why I've booked myself into Jet Airways both times??"

He told me that it'd hardly be possible.

Seeing that an impasse was reached, I telephoned the ever-helpful HR hotline at Schlumberger (SLB) which no one ever picks up. As usual, no one picked up. After a few minutes of frantic searching, however, I managed to reach somebody in SLB who transferred me to the bilingual travel agent who had booked my tickets, Mr. Ismail.

Mr. Ismail was furious with Jet Airways for their callous attitude. "How can they do this?" he asked me, righteously. "I don't know," I said. Meanwhile, the Jet Airways official told me that he'd fly me to Bombay if I was willing to undertake the risk of missing the connection and being stranded in Bombay. He assured me that Jet Airways at Mumbai wouldn't be helpful (unlike him) and they couldn't care less about one more passenger being stranded in their mammoth airport. He asked me "Are you ready to take the chance?"

Next, I talked to Ismail again.

"How can they do that!" he yelled. "Main bhi dekhta hun aapko kaise chordke jaate hain yeh log! It is their duty to take you," he said. When I relayed the message to the Airlines, "Who is your stupid agent?" they asked. "Who books two flights so close together? He seems a little soft in his head," they said.

There was only one way to resolve this! I dialled Ismail's number and handed the phone to the Jet official and told him, "Talk." He picked up the phone and began talking. He paced up and down as they abused each other as politely as they could and I noticed that they were close to discussing the issue at hand. Five minutes later, at 6:17 pm, he ended the call, threw me the phone and ran towards the tarmac through the boarding-gate. "Hey, what did you guys decide?!" I yelled. There would be no response.

As a normal person would do, I called up Ismail to find out what decision they had reached. The phone was still ringing when the announcement came loud, "This is the final boarding announcement for Mr. Anirudh Arun for flight..."

Oh crap. Okay, I'll take the chance, I thought. To Mumbai...

(Read 'Arabian Knight - Part Two' for more)

F*ck-Ups Among Other Things

Seeing the drunkard of hadduland traversing the streets of Chennai isn’t something which one would call a rarity, but it isn’t commonplace either. So, when he announced his presence to me over the tele, I was quite glad… Soon, the venue and time of the rendezvous were fixed and with the car at my disposal, long distances daunted me no more.

Having completed a few chores, I called the aforementioned friend and told him that I’d meet him outside the gates of CLRI. And I did, after scouring the streets a little bit. So, with ‘Maine Banaya’ in the shotgun-seat, I decided to drive up to a decent bar – establishments which are as difficult to locate as Dragonballs.

All the same, I located a very respectable sports bar in Thiruvanmiyur and since the day was yet young, we expected no crowds and hence special service. Alas, the only beer he had was a Budweiser 675mL which cost a whopping Rs 290. Allowing logic to prevail, we touched nothing and left the place in peace.

“I’ll take you to another bar, man,” I told him. “Don’t worry, it’ll be much cheaper. But a lot less classy…” He nodded in eager agreement and I began the drive towards the slightly-seedy establishment.

Let me tell you up front that as a driver, I’m neither a zipper nor am I a vroomer. So, I don’t zip and vroom through the roads. Dodging the mean pot-hole might be something I’m yet not a master of, but my weaknesses end there. I am not a frequent driver either, so I’m still wary of the wheel: I’m not overconfident, see?

So how did the man walking alongside the car on my left manage to get his left foot underneath my left wheel? The question will remain unanswered as most important questions are, but the result was obvious. Blood.

One can drive in all the traffic in the world… It’s the pedestrians who fuck everything up. So, an onslaught ensued. While Rathish accompanied the man to the nearest hospital, which was luckily in clear view, I tried negotiating a tough U turn at a T-junction, which elicited questions like – “Dei, otta theriyuma? License irruka?” The incessant barrage of questions ceased only when I waved the RTO’s certificate in their faces!

I ran to the hospital to witness more blood. Then saline solutions, anaesthetics, sutures, analgesics and anti-tetanus injections… And then X-Rays. Well, I didn’t see anything wrong with the X-Ray and I can swear the man’s foot was perfectly fine. But he was in pain and perhaps the doctor wanted to make hay while the sun shined. So, I coughed up the cash.

And as my dazed luck would have it, the people involved would speak nothing but Telugu… So, I watched like a mute, illiterate idiot while Rathish and mom tried to make them see sense. What sense? Well, I don’t know.

In the end though, I’m left with one lingering feeling – that of pity. While I helped provide him with the best possible treatment, I cannot help but wonder what dastardly tricks fate plays on us. Two perfectly innocent beings going their separate ways – when this happens! It’s not my fault, but I’m not going to drive again… Not for a very long time.

P.S. Thank god we didn't touch that beer.

Important Conversations

" The point is, there may be three or four big choices that shape someone’s whole life - and you need to be the one that makes them. Not anyone else." - Mr. Wyatt, "After School Special", (Season 4) Supernatural.

There's nothing profound in the above quote; it doesn't say much we don't know already… But it's a line each one of us requires to hear from time to time. Without these rather meaningless reassurances, life would become unfathomably difficult. But I digress from the topic – the sentence which contains unquestionable truth.

These are the decisions which shape our lives, the difference between what is and what will be. They make all the difference between today and tomorrow. These decisions usually result in conversations, which are more often than not, highly unpleasant. Creamy, sugared dialogues aren’t usually the ones which take us to the land of our dreams.

Dissatisfaction is one of those special feelings humans are almost perpetually capable of… And it is this dissatisfaction with status-quo which throws us into that ‘I must change this’ phase. Although what needs to be done is generally slap-across-the-face obvious, we’re filled with trepidation before the final step. What happens if the whole thing implodes, destroying even the meagre happiness we currently enjoy? Is change really that essential; can we not live with it? Is the land on the other end of the bridge really what it promises to be?

In fact, we are so full of dread and angst that hardly can we muster the courage to take the final leap. We rehearse carefully, in our minds, how we will phrase our sentences and our questions – and we chisel these into perfection. Just when satisfaction is a step away, the complexity of the situation becomes completely apparent! What response will I elicit? How will I react to such a response? In the end, it’s all an intricate game of chess – and we’re all bad chess players.

When the moment comes, you are very aware of your epiglottis, now a massive flap blocking the larynx. Compared to the situation you are in, you’d hyperventilation really comfortable. Beads of perspiration run down your forehead and settle on your eyebrows as the first syllable begins to form on your tongue. And then you try to look at it from a third-person’s viewpoint at it all seems rather laughable. And then, you want to die.

It’s now that the conversation begins. You’re in a trance and you realize that the well-rehearsed conversation in your head has been thrown to the winds. Autopilot. You’re saying things so easily and you wonder why it seemed so difficult to surmount. Every setback you face in the dialogue, you wave away nonchalantly, and each point you win seems unimportant too. You wonder why you attached so much importance to the conversation in the first place! The words flow smoothly and the only person who is thinking before talking is not you. And then, you part ways in peace.

Ten minutes later, you try to remember what you said, the words you used, the points you made… You ponder about the impact your words had. You stomach is filled with cruel acid and you pray that it all ends well.

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 Problem with Football Fans...

I am not an expert on football and these few paragraphs can be forgiven as being written by a mature n00b who is just getting to know his way around the beautiful game. And since it is a fact that I have followed Joga Bonito closely for but the last year and half, I shall not profess to know much more than you, which in all probability I do not. But I shall also take this as a chance to be vocal about my abhorrence for all other people who have grown into football pundits overnight!

I had never given much thought to the lines I first came across on Murty's blog - "Opinions are like feet. Everyone has a couple and usually they stink." During this time of the year, the odour is particularly putrid and rotten. This is the time of the year you hear the - "How can you watch this World Cup dude? There is no Brazil or Argentina..." And then the chums chiming in - "There's no Messi! How is this a football World Cup?" And then, it get's worse. If the football were made of ferromagnetic material, then Messi's feet are two magnets; this doesn't necessarily mean these magnets did anything great in RSA! So it makes me want to puke when someone shrieks - "OoooOOoh! Messi... Whatta player... What a shot!!" - when the little master has barely touched the ball.

These are men and women who snigger at you when you shout at the top of your voice, exulting when a goal is scored... Or when you curse the ref harshly and desperately throw up your right arm as though the referee, on seeing you from inside the TV, will dish out a few Yellow cards! On the other hand, I find people trying desperately to learn Mesut Oezil's spelling in German (with the umlaute) by rote only so that they can make a witty comment about him at a lunch conversation the next day! I don't mind it that much really; if only they managed to keep it at this much wit. But then they soon start correcting you. Wrongly. Fernando Torres invites more and more insult as days pass, while it is quite clear that even the great David Villa cannot play in that central striker's position profitably for Spain; he needs to drift in from that left-side. I shall refrain from saying more as it will be an act of egoistic hypocrisy.

And it isn't because of profound soccer knowledge or detailed statistical analysis that I make yet another prediction, but because I feel that I can do most of what an Octopus can. And since I'm riding on a wave of luck, I shall make as bold as to say that Spain will win this World Cup, in spite of making the task a million times harder than it ought to have been for them. And to all those out there who have never watched a game and yet shoot your mouth, "Shut up."

P.S. Yes, Holland deserves to be in the Finals.

One Constant in Relentless Change!

It was dusk and the sun turned bronze from radiant gold, peeking out from behind the gentle Cirrus which was splattered across the eternal canvas. A cool wet breeze carrying the occasional grain of sand blew landwards purging heat and assuaging pain. It would be evening soon.

I saw two children being led carefully through the sands, as though being introduced to the Bay, by their grandmother – although it would be very lenient of me to say that they were indeed ‘being led’, and soon enough poor old Grandma had no control of the children as they boisterously somersaulted over each other and threw fist-fulls of sand at each others’ face. After feeble initial protest, the old lady gradually grew despondent and helpless, after which she swore (imitating the great Bheeshma) to the God of the Sea – “I shall, never again, accompany these two children to the beach, alone.” This seemed to work miracles on the impetuous duo and almost magically tranquillity returned to the shores of the Bay of Bengal. I smiled as I saw two guilty looking children and one exasperated Grandma departing, to catch an Auto, together.

As I continued walking along, I saw a group of kids in their later teens playing beach-football. This was not uncommon as beach football was one of the most popular sports played in these parts. Most passes were played in the air and the curl of the shot was often aided by the wind, playing diabolical tricks on the hapless shot-stopper. I looked down and I noticed no more fine patterns and designs drawn by the fine hand of the wind; as all intricacy lay mutilated - bearing testimony to the savage struggles for the football. I jogged past the kids who were bellowing as loudly as their larynxes permitted. Soon, I reached the jogging track.

I witnessed a melange of people here – the twenty year old whose life seemed all but directionless, seated with other twenty year olds who were equally lost, discussing the futilities and pleasures of life, pausing only to take in the occasional stunner; the young gentleman who ran incessantly down the track, wincing as his muscles pumped battery acid, all the while listening to music streaming into his ears through his new iPod; the middle-aged man who walked down the side-lane hand-in-hand with his new wife as they planned their new universe; and the young man or old boy who was madly in love with his hot girlfriend.

I was getting tired and thought of retiring to the nearby Barista, which offered ambrosial delights for a fortune, leaving the customer a few notes lighter… Or maybe the nearly awesome Food-Court called ‘Planet Yumm’ which was the favourite haunt of children of all ages… I paused ephemerally by the group of gossiping old men so as to tell them the time, only to almost be bundled over by an irresponsible pram.

By now, the Sun was no longer visible and the sea seemed to be the beacon of light. The surroundings began to drown me as various elements began to coalesce. The sky was blue, green and violet all at the same time. A distant ship twinkled bravely as the world around me began to succumb in a conflation of immaculate grandeur. I was so lost in the spectacle that I almost forgot who I was!

The infant in the pram, the child with its grandmother, the teenage footballer, the old boy with his new girlfriend, the young jogger, the middle-aged man with his wife, the old gentleman in a veshti asking for the time – were all one person. And I am Time.

The Other Side

Even as I write this, I find myself in a satiated state of semiconsciousness; a state which the enlightened would call near-nirvana and doped would call half-stoned. I find myself unable to shift postures too easily. In a way, I feel confident that I'm writing this with my brain. And not with my heart (unlike the previous time I applied ink to paper) which slumbers peacefully in an idyllic clime unfamiliar to Chennai brought about by Lady Laila.

May 2009 will be remembered for the Grand Scrabble Days, where the Farmhouse in one last attempt to make its mark on wonderland forever played its great gambit. It was a welcome measure as much as being a pointless exercise, seeing that the guest was to play against the likes of the soft Southpaw and verbose Velociraptor. At least it blocked out the change which was upon us, however ephemerally, and those few Cautley hours promised to stay on forever. I exited sophomore year fully conscious of pain - pain of having to carry my laptop a few GB heavier in movies.

May 2010 will be remembered. I don't know for what. There was no scrabble and in the absence of intellectual distractions, George Lucas' 'There is no passion; there is serenity' becomes obsolete. And a clear month prior to indulging my brain for the eighth time ever in the very hazardous end-sem rote, I broke down to emotions. I got plain morose and saturnine in my last work and I don't know whether or not to chastise myself for that last indulgence. But, it was relief. And ever since, I haven't known how to feel about the great Goodbye.

The last week lasted a day and the Hour-hand seemed to outrun its Seconds' counterpart. And it seemed as though I was trying to reach out to all those things I had missed so far. Be it the random trip to Ravindra in the pretext of searching for a cap or the Jan Shatabdi I almost missed, the experiences were outlandish. The hardest part though was the inability to convey through the English language what can be best described as an emotional implosion. Luckily, Silence seems to be the best way.

The Watch Out val, the great Lit dinner (which proudly maintains its chivalrous superbia), the last EDC 'party', the Yaadein pages I meticulously filled after having mocked it at first, sessions where I tried explaining what sentiyaap meant, even the Cogni culmination meet... Maybe this is how I'll remember the May of 2010. As the Dreamwalker Diaries so aptly puts it, Roorkee started as a mistake. I think it's the greatest mistake of my life. Hadn't it been for that omnipotent sheet I filled in IIT Madras, I would have missed out on condescending blobs, supersurds, extortion specialists, jobless somnambulists, Gunda-buffs, loveless tigers, reptile kings, kings of kings, air-guitarists, 8mm-collectors and others who I'd love to have known better! The thought simply alarms me.

Half an hour has elapsed since I began writing this and I find myself in that same lucid lull. So this is how the greatest goodbyes are said. In silence.

A Tale of Two Cities

Aeroplanes amaze me. Three hours and bang! Everything has changed. The gradual change of climate is simply done away with, the intermittent linking cultures obliterated and landforms simply restructured. All the while, you are sitting unawares wondering why that simple Vegetable sandwich cost so much.

I am home now; and I am glad. I have accomplished the task of enduring a day of wandering through the length of our country, only to find myself astonished yet another time by the immense diversity of our nation. While Gandhi employed the steam engine on his tour around the land to comprehend the sheer magnitude of cultural wealth India possesses, I am sure he would have been far more bewildered had he taken a flight like I did, thus highlighting these stark contrasts. Here is a tale of two cities (I omit the town) which I encounter, three hours off each other; each time I take the ride home.

The massive cash inflow into the DDA’s coffers is only apparent in the speed at which the pillars rise. The Commonwealth Games have given Delhi’s development a mammoth boost which, all going well, must give the Capital infrastructure close the World’s best cities. The weird aspect however remains the fact that the mighty Mughal capital has waited until 2010 to grow into a global city. I have often wondered what Delhi-ites were doing prior to their magic-Metro. With an abysmal bus-service which is known to kill more people than it transports and immensely congested roads inhabited by colossal vehicles, I’m amazed people even worked!

On the other hand, the land of the Tamil people has been rather supportive to its growing population. With an impeccable bus-service and omnipresent autos, albeit charging exorbitant fares to the unwitting Northie, coupled with much less clogged roads as compared to any of the other Big4, it has never been a problem to traverse the lengths of the seaside city. Another fact is that each area of Chennai is more-or-less self contained, something I never saw during my ephemeral life in Delhi. Call it Boon – owing to lesser travel necessity – or Bane – as each man sees so much less of his City, it remains an intrinsic fact.

With mighty pillars, strong and bold, each overpass seems to underline that power which Delhi so much wants to flaunt. Malls rising out of every nook and cranny; retail chains spreading like Virus; and more asphalt, steel and cement, only make apparent the Capital’s urgency to let go of those chains which restrain it. These, however are also those ropes which link Today with the past. Delhi is letting go.

On the other hand, the maritime city, 20^oC warmer, is hell-bent on holding on. The outlook is cautious; and though development will not be overlooked, no one seems to be in a hurry to shed the present image. Malls are few; the few stand tall. Anything built overhead is with miniscule pillars, built as excuses for Flyovers. Buildings rise, not as cement monsters but behemoths of steel and glass. Rayban, Ferrari and Gucci are taking their own time trickling down the rungs of society; much unlike 1000 miles away, where Connaught Place boasts of a mini Manhattan - people trying all too hard to don the image of the quintessential New-Yorker. But the cautious outlook down South borders on bourgeois, leaving me reeling in alarm.

While T-Shirts and Jeans have become unisex themes of Delhi, Chennai finds itself yet a melange of tees, shirts, saris, salwars, jeans, trousers and veshtis – maybe not the collegiate dream. While Delhi has jumped into hyperspace drive; still the temple of the Theist, Chennai somehow seems to encompass the past, present and the future, . IT corridors have slashed open the newest avenues of growth and the coast may soon serve as the Auto-hub of India, while Parthasarthy and Kapaleeshwarar shrines and the Santhome church will forever remain the heart of Chennai.

NCR is growing at light-speed, breaking every record it sets; but as a friend aptly pointed out – 75% of Delhi is well-developed, great; but 50% of its people still suffer for bread. I’m uncertain about the below poverty ratios of Chennai, but the far fewer less endowed settlements are evenly spaced out, clearly visible to the naked eye; not latent. However, the steps taken both here, and there, are encouraging. The Delhi Metro has me overawed, but I cannot imagine life without my beloved ‘29C’!

I’m definitely against Karunanidhi in his unintelligent calls for protecting what he calls ‘Tamizh Kalacharam’, but maybe there is something in me that wants to hold on. This is not a sermon, and I do not preach. Neither approach is better than the other, neither easier to accomplish. I shall terminate with Anthony’s great words – “Take thou what course thou wilt.”

Madman's Lull

As the three lines on the top of this page indicate, this blog, or any blog for that matter, as you ought to have realized by now, is but a reflection of the author's life, acts and opinions. A reflection rather distorted by constant recall, mellower or sharper; but a reflection, nevertheless. So this month long lull on the blog-o-sphere directly translates to a long and painful calm in the real world.

Being in one of those ineffectual states where one cannot do anything even if he wanted to, I have watched rather quietly, the reordering of the right-side blogroll. Even as he resurfaced, a certain knotted-mind was keen to observe the compulsive need of a blogger to keep track of everything post-worthy. Well, let me tell you - I was keen too. But try as I might, nothing! For once, I thought there was nothing blog-worthy. These tranquillized states are, luckily, few and far in between, but when they come, they hit you hard.

Pessimistic, I have been before, but seldom have I breached certain boundaries. So I advise the weak-hearted to proceed no more! Because the story of the lull begins with a stark realization, which strangely (and thankfully) has eluded me two-and-a-half years.

I reached R as a rather ambitious kid with (what I thought then) rather pragmatic dreams of achieving great feats during my four years in a college which then boasted of so much history. I had no unrealistic expectations and I was probably one of the most content fucchas in those days, beaming away at the green environs and the dazzling dome. Joining a handful of groups and making sincere endeavors to exit the wonderful realms of Metallurgy, yours truly was on course for greatness. Or so he thought.

Soon the rose-tinted glasses faded into a rather depressing brown and the brisk walk became a sapping drag. One wonders what changed during these three years though it is obvious that such periods of retrospection are but passing phases. All the same, what happened to that romantic who dreamed of being the master of all trades? Where are have those dreams been safely tucked away? Will he ever rediscover that lost zeal?

However content I am with the way I have gone about my responsibilities and initial commitments, something still eludes me. The void. Hence, that lull? I did get the branch change. I have done most things I wanted to do in college. But now, it all suddenly seems futile!

Call it an error of judgement or a madman's rant, but my initial discernment now seems rather irrational, faulted and unsubstantiated. The branch change only lead me to another branch I feel few emotions for. Classes which once held meaning have become hours for E-Book reading and correcting writings on desks. Professors who once carried words, if only so little, have now become mute puppets. And so many activities, I have been part of, so meekly crumble in front of the rudimentary 'How did it help me' question. It reminds me of that one question a certain condescending chap quotes every so often.

This great nothingness however gave me time to think. That - coupled with a week spent in Chennai and three great hours of conversation with a lovely lady aboard the IndiGo flight (which terminated in me asking her name) - may have just given me answers. The disgruntled youth who bounded south returned with rekindled hope. To give it another shot. And it seems to work.

Yesterday was probably the longest day in my R-life and I enjoyed being omnipresent on the campus. Call me weird, but I rather enjoyed being prised away from these computer based indulgences and similar irrelevancies. Work seemed to have become desirable once again. Today, attending just one class but listening to every word the prof taught was a new high. Albeit most words flew over my head, the simple pleasure of knowing that I still can 'listen' was great. I realized that, maybe, it is wrong to see what one gains from each and every action of his! Maybe you should just go on as long as you enjoy the process. And may be it's only fair that we give everything a chance.

The King Of Chocolates

Dad had just returned from Jubail that month, after having given life in that behemoth prison, fondly called Saudi Arabia, a shot. For Aashrai and me, who were still young and carefree back then, it was dad coming home! We couldn't see the long term effects or the great work paradigm shift; we were perhaps too young to realize the consequences of this decisive step in our lives. On one hand, it was decided that day that the remaining of my schooling would be done in Adyar, in Chennai, in Madduland... On the other hand, dad coming home meant lots and lots of goodies! I remember that that was when I got my Sony Playstation II - which, most inexplicably, is still in perfect working condition, stashed away somewhere safely below my Tele and DVD player in the TV cabinet. The most unforgettable aspect of dad's homecoming, however, were the chocolates... Ferrero Rochers and Toblerones in tonnes, Snickers, Bountys and Mars in scores, Hersheys in its various forms and a gazillion more- in a rainbow of chocolate hues soon littered our shelves. They would serve well to satiate our sweet tooth during the next few months.

Amidst this great pile of swell chocolates, there was The One. It is most strange that I must forget the brand of this chocolat de la chocolats (maybe bro remembers; I must ask him) but we both knew that it was The One. The one chocolate to rule them all. The master Yoda of the Jedi order, the Bruce Wayne of the Batman series, the Tolkien of 20th century writers. So, bro and I forged a gentleboys' pact that we would both share the dark chocolate delight in equal proportions and, as average human psychology would dictate, we decided to the best for the last.

Days passed and then weeks. Weeks cohered to form months, and every day we had a chocolate bellyful, always staring longingly at the shahanshah, albeit never yeilding to the dark temptation. Soon, we were almost out of all other chocolates and our stomachs sensed the coming of the legend, and made way. D-Day came with astonishing rapidity and the first rays of the sun woke up bro, and he in turn, very faithfully, woke me up... And then we ran. We ran to the kitchen cupboard and opened it greedily thrusting our arms into the open shelf, groping and yanking at whatever was in our path. Unfortunately, we could find nothing but dried fruits, nuts and worthless Good-Day packets! Where had the awesome one gone??

After a few anxious and fretful moments of franctic search, we gave up. The good part is neither of us suspected the other of having taken it - the pact had been sealed. So going up to mom and granny, we enquired as to the whereabouts of the quintessential gift from the land of the arabs. Mom was quiet, but then granny coughed up the tale. The previous day, the tiny tot of a kid which lived next door had come over and had sat itself on the sofa. Apparently, it acted famished and had asked grandma for some food... Soon, it asked for chocolates. Morbid as this tale sounds, it did happen. Grandma searched and found only one chocolate remaining. Unwittingly, granny handed it over to the twit which subsequently scampered off to prey on its next innocuous target.

We have all heard of cliched quotes like 'Opportunities knock only once'. But never once did I give such sayings a second thought. Until that fateful day. Procrastination is sin, deferral - a blunder. Planning is but a futile exercise. The punishment for all these - the glowing hope vanishes, leaving you empty and desolate while you wonder, in retrospect, why you pondered so much when it ought to have been a spot-decision - spontaneous. Then again, on retrospect, everything seems so simple and all your mistakes seem glaring. But was it so obvious in the first place? Why didn't we eat that chocolate the day we saw it? Why did we believe that by postponement, we could make the event even more special? Why?

The answer, now, seems so simple; and yet so elegantly, it flatters to decieve time and again! Why we postponed making a meal of that chocolate is the same reason you defer making a phonecall to someone important. It is the same nagging feeling which frightens you everytime something important is going to happen. The longer you postpone eating that chocolate or making that phonecall, the longer it continues to remain a dream... and not something you goofed up badly. You long to make that moment special and perfect, when nothing can go wrong. You wait for that moment when everything is as perfect as they will ever be. Most regrettably, such a moment will never come, as 'perfection' as a concept is flawed. That perfect moment doesn't exist, and things will never get brighter than now. Shilly-shally does nothing good. It only means giving up before you even started. A walkover. A paradise is lost, never to be regained.

The most upsetting part is that time, being the healer he is, lets you forget these wounds and lessons and forgive your past actions. Soon you accept these losses as a part of life and fall back on the 'It was never meant to be' quip. However foolish it may sound, this is how the human psyche works. That day, that kid next door was trying to teach me a lesson. But have I learnt it?

A Rain, A pig and A Lot of Wet People

The ‘Retreating Monsoon’ is a phrase few people inhabiting the northern plains might come across, much less comprehend. And for a southerner from these parts, it would be nothing less than ‘bizarre’ if he encounters pellets fall earthwards during the month of July. Nevertheless, he will welcome it.

Well, this monsoon has taken up many a strange way as compared to its fathers and ancestors. Arriving earlier than usual, it gave the farmers and Met department great hope… Ever since, it has dilly-dallied causing heat waves in the northern half and supplying water to the Coromandel. It was only when the Met Dept said that there will not be rains in Delhi until the fall of June, did the rains respond a week before the ‘due date’ ergo not altering the ‘Met is always wrong’ paradigm.

Insofar as I have ascertained, employing the limited resources and zeal at my disposal, tedium sets in during the wee hours of the evening, at the demise of the afternoon hours. Hence, it was with the noble intentions of allaying boredom that I headed off for the beach at 1700 hours IST – my usual time. Many had failed to arrive that day citing various strange and untellable reasons. I was nevertheless joined by a fellow beach-faithful going by the name of Pramod (hereafter ‘P’ for ease) and another school junior.

Even as I plonked myself on the marble parapet, I stared up heavenwards carefully noting the garrison of grey vertically overhead. “Dude, it’s going to rain,” said P. The other lad seconded him.

“No man,” I reassured. “Don’t you remember tenth geography? Sea breeze, da!”

They nodded conceding to such infallible logic. The clouds would blow deep into land and leave the sands unscathed, bone-dry… I smiled to myself – the wonders of nature and their simple scientific explanations – high pressure to low pressure, presto!

Plop. One of the largest globules I have encountered in my 19 years of existence fell on my wrist. Even the soundest hypotheses have fallen and mine, apparently, didn’t even make the ‘sound’ cut. Anyway, I stood corrected as we ran for cover in a vast stretch of plain shelter-less sand. The nearby Barista had already been taken by people who had anticipated the rain, much unlike the Meteorology Dept. We ran further towards the only fathomable shelter – a food-court ‘Planet Yumm’. Alas, many others had a similar idea and the poor waiters inside were having a tough time finding standing place for themselves!

In a great stroke of luck, under the illumination of a stroke of lightning, I discovered a shed towards the rear of the building. Rushing forth, we were the first to avail sanctuary under the 4 square metres of asbestos. I recall distinctly, saying, “Hey, this looks like a cattle-shed!” Yes, soon enough people aped our feat and sought shelter under the very same 2 by 2. What was worse, they now used me as a barrier between themselves and the splashes off the tarmac! Soon enough, it did resemble a chaotic shed of livestock.

We realized the urgent need to evict the excessive population. It was perforce then, that we set our plan rolling…

For starters, I sneezed loudly enough to wake up the nearby dead at the crematorium. Then the other two were quick to turn away and hold their breath before P yelled, “ENNA DA? (What da?) Don’t sneeze! You’ve got SWINE FLU… There are people around!!”

Oh yes, it eased the crowd out a bit while others threw us dirty looks and whispered among themselves… The ones with an IQs above fifty over hundred stayed on, I guess. However, the rain had concluded its first bout and what lingered on was nothing save puddles, wet sand and the petrichor… Do I love rains or what!

The Thirteen Rupee Travels – And More

Prologue - I've spoken about this gazillion times and yet, I feel I owe this experiance a lot more. So, disbelievers go away, but I assure - you will miss a lot... (Lot of what?) Anyway, since people are so jobless in the holidays, I'm sure one can spare time enough to read, once again, the story of my Thirteen Rupee Travels. So, here it goes... one last time.

The Earth felt white hot as I seemed to have reached the ends of the inhabited world. A blast of hot air seemed to boil the ground. His putrid breath lingered- ominous. Even, as in reflex action, my breath did cease… For I shalt not breathe Ammonia, Methelene Chloride and the likes. Nay, I shall find sweet Oxygen and only then will I rest!

‘Orchid Chemicals and Pharmaceuticals Ltd’, established in the year of the Lord 1992, is a company of great repute – and it has, I concede, lived up to its name until now, to say the least. And seeing signposts indicating ‘Orchid’ some 20 kilometres from my beachside abode, I took heart – ‘Quality and Comfort’, could I ask for more? I had wondered how lucky I was when I saw those majestic (when inside; from the outside – the adjective would be ‘monstrous’) buses plying the roads. These illusions kept me going, a fuel of some sort… It was 1^st June 2009 when truth finally dawned upon me!

It was that day when Providence decided to switch sides and how! The day when I would realize that the ‘Orchid’ sign 20km away is but the R&D Center and the plant I ought to go to was actually 42km from home; the day when they told me that their buses weren’t meant for trainees; the day I, being as naïve as I was then, accepted a project instead of observing my way out of the plant.

Soon, I was a regular visitor of Phase 25 – DMF, DMAC recovery section – the plant which is, as you might have guessed seeing how lucky I have been, the farthest unit from the main gate. My initial exponential learning curve (accompanied with, ‘This guy is from IIT!’ murmurs) reached saturation and I felt e^x had just been divided by some extraordinary number! Stagnation is never a pleasant experience, but put it together with a Chemical Industry and lack of company – Presto! You’ve brewed the most destructive concoction…

Well, I do not gloat when I say that I DID manage to solve the problem given to me, trivial though it definitely was NOT. This, using a subject I haven’t yet studied and I began, for the first time, contemplating a future in Chemical Engineering. But such joys are so often short lived, and the absence of things to do got to me fast. I began to wonder (and mentioned this to a friend or two) about how ‘Dolce far Niente’ had ceased to hold. The fact that I barely stayed in the factory for 3 hours at a stretch may speak for itself – but people failed to notice the effort behind the 3 hrs… the 2 hour travel either way on 13 Rupee bus tickets. I have a collection of these tickets now – a file full of them!

As in most stories, this one has a nice ending too. Albeit the solution, we have suffering… Albeit the suffering, a solution does exist! Scoff if you want to, but those idle times, which can be painful indeed, were no longer as idle… as I scaled the columns, and at a 50 foot height, simply stared at the sky – taking shelter behind a heat-exchanger or two. Backwaters at a distance make you forget that you still wander within the boundaries of an industry. And birds, I realized, inspired me as they did quite the same thing – sit and stare. Well, this joblessness was beautiful and 13 Rupee tickets were made worth the while…

As I walked away leaving the two mighty chimneys astern, the bright sun hid behind the cumulus gathering – which I noted were coloured in deep grey. The tree canopy notwithstanding, a first drop fell even as I stared heavenwards. It was not just Oxygen I had found – but a whole new side to life! I walked keeping true, readying myself for the two hour trip back home – with ‘Rain drops in the sky…’ – of the Colonial Cousins, on my lips…

Food, Fun, Frolic... It's Frikkin' far!

A very long time after my last post, I chose to write again... But even as I start typing, I notice my fingers have become stubbier and my shoulders have broadened a bit. The highly overdue change in diet came on the 13th of May and ever since, my body has been greedily accepting everything that was being fed to it! Albeit putting on a couple of kilogrammes, I wouldn't call myself flabby; forget 'fat'! Just 'healthy', maybe... And then I wonder how I looked before I got here.

Multitudes of chocolate, regular doses of caffeine, some marmalade sandwiches, truffles, souffles, croissants, doughnuts, Bagels and very authentic and delicious local cuisines later, I wonder why I would ever go back to R-land! Even that dreadful drink at Costa in Terminal 1C at Delhi had tasted heavenly then! Why, I think the 'fodder' (so say the labourers who eat there) they provide us with at my intern is way better than Friday special at the mess!

My intern is going pretty well and coming to think of it, I'm actually learning stuff. But more interesting than visiting the Vacuum Distillation Columns, I've met some pretty decent people (not as interesting as the people Jetty has made 'friends' with though) out there who really make it worth travelling 90kms everyday! The travel is hell on Earth, I assure you. Now that I have trudged through the first 10 days, I'm looking forward to the next 15 to fly by.

Actually, it's been keeping me busy off late. Initially boredom filled my heart and I wished I hadn't left R-Land and all... But then, my Other Life kicked in. School friends, the intern, T20, movies, family, holiday trips and more friends have made it much more interesting. Even the weather has gotten a lot more pleasant now - not that humid. And yet, a spur-of-the-moment decision made me tell the barber, "Yeah... Shave of the hair." The rest, as they say, is history. Ksp and Dela have company. 

I've found a lot of time to myself too, these holidays. All Virgos enjoy time to themselves. Time for retrospection. Time for planning. Time to think... I've done all that. Retrospecting the past few years of my life has made me happy in general and the 'few' drawbacks will be addressed by my future plans! I've also had time to get back to writing (though, not posting) poetry, stories and random texts...

I appreciate Real's urge to reconstitute the Galacticos though I think it's sheer madness. Once bitten - twice shy, I'd say. They don't think so. Last time so many stars got together, they flopped after one season. Only time will tell.

Hope everyone is having as much fun. Cheers!

LATE EDIT: The world is NOT a wanna-be! At least not here, not now... For the record: I adore Dosais, Vadais (note the spellings) and Rasam rice among others!

End

This is the end,

My only friend - The End.

The joy and elation of Eleventh and Twelfth seem far off and hazy now. Those were the days when people were actually overjoyed. Ecstatic as they were, celebrations were wild and varied (and weird) and complete. I saw people take immense pleasure in simply catching up with those lost hours with dear old Morpheus. I saw people play 'Condition Zero' without some twelve hours without break. And when I saw people running through the library (some sort of a victory lap) with the sole motive of disturbing others in the house of knowledge, I realized that I had seen everything! But those phantasmagorical (parrdon its frequent usage, Dela) times seem a distant history.

It seems to date back to as far as the day when a certain Chronotron came to my humble abode in Chennai asking for advice for filling his JEE form, as far back as the day we designed the first WONA teaser for the first yearites' recruitment, as far back as Thomso - when it was happening and maybe even the time when I had just joined the insti. Two years,I have spent here and it already feels a lifetime. R-Land feels too dear and I shall forever regret leaving it when my time comes. Why, I regret leaving it even now, even for these two months... though home seems to be an inviting prospective. Holidays may be fun but it is only for that much time. Later, the drab humdrum of life sets in gouging out that last ounce of excitement and rendering even those fun moments useless. In other words, to me, holidays are a harbinger of boredom.

I put my act together this time however, to fight this boredom. I shall not succumb! Part of my preparation included getting as many movies as possible from the Velociraptor's infinite collection of movies (1 TB is infinite enough for me). One last time, I dragged my lappy along to visit the Farmhouse. A few hung moments later, my computers 160 GB were full and yet... I felt so empty. It was only then dawning upon me that this separation was not just temporary.

As a silent watcher of the scrabble game in which 'Granule' was the greatest word (though the points didn't say a similar story), I silently reflected upon the times bygone. Happy days when I was still carefree, when I didn't think such a time would come.... These holidays aren't as simple as the end of college or a summer break.

When I started packing for my Spicejet trip back home, I noticed the words etched on my trunk - ANIRUDH ARUN - 070607 - BTech Metallurgy. I still remember that day - like it was only yesterday. Like I have only just entered my sophomore year. Time is strange and time is cruel. Things of the distant past seem so near and yet, things just bygone seems eons ago! A discussion about the various developments in the literary world with the Lord, the Chronotron, Master Lefty, the Infidel, the PiSRA and the Complex-Analyst later, we decided it was time to leave. As I left, the only words I had were, "Bye Lefty. See you in November." So simple the words, yet so heavy they felt! A warm handshake with Lefty and a hug from Rapu later, I was off for S7.

Had I been alone then, the story might have been considerably different. By no means am I soft and mushy at heart but this was something else. I did not know these people as well as I ought to have known, and yet the burden of separation was so profound. The Exodus has come.

It set me thinking about the one year which lay between now and the time when we'd have to part with another beloved batch... There were no signs of rain but Petrichor penetrated every corner. Had it not been for the comrades who shared that walk along with me, the droplets would have fallen.

Time is cruel, as I've already said. Wonderful times pass by in a jiffy and bad hours simly crawl by... But Time is a healer and most importantly, Time goes on... Time doesn't wait for any one. (as Lezz and Hari Haran seem to have so aptly put it) We get our chances just once and its only just that we take them then and there. I've already felt like I've lost so much... So many opportunities... Yet, nothing.

But then again, opportunities take many forms. If not this, then maybe something else. So, I await the test of time. These holidays may very well turn out to be great. For one thing, I've got an intern - my first. I really hope that I like it. As for the other things I await, the UCL finals (even after those shattered dreams, third time in a row) and more importantly, the FA Cup. IPL seems to be a time-filler of sorts finally, though it has clearly flattered to decieve. With hopes for good times ahead and with an inventory of some cult classics, I hope to fight boredom and conquer that elusive 'enjoyable holidays'.

But for that, I really need to get some sleep. And catch the bus tomorrow at eight. So, adieu Roorkee. Au revoir, fourth years. Catch you in a couple of months, the remaining of you lot. Cheerio.

Of our elaborate plans, the end

Of everything that stands, the end.

But maybe this end isn't going to be so sad after all.

Elephants Can Headbang - Stories From Mallu-land

Its been long since I made a post... I acknowledge the fact. I also realize that there have been a myriad incidents around me which I could have and should have posted; but everytime I start, there are more such incidents and I decide to put them in too... And now that I have an overflowing bank of these, I had better start posting before they slip away into oblivion.

First things first - Why such a caption? It's because - they do. I do not like uploading videos (especially since I'll have to transfer them from my HandyCam to my Desktop and I'm really lazy to go about doing that) but if anyone wants proof I have 2 minute clips of a number of pachyderms who think that they are in a rock-concert. Head-banging, neck-breaking, tap dancing (elephants crowd-surfing, anyone?) - elephants do love shaking-a-leg and that, I mean literally.

My trip to Kerala, a vacation-cum-temple tour, was definitely eventful - especially towards the end. Because that was the time I reached the much talked about Kochi Airport (no points for guessing who talked about it) hoping to catch a glipse of 'India's own Heathrow' - as I was told. Well, the outward appearence was goodish and for a moment I actually believed that it was the quintessential Indian aerodrome. But they quickly made amends. First, I found one boarding gate pad-locked (there were two in total). Alright, that's not my concern, you'd think. But wait till the rest - Once I reached the gate once the boarding call was issued, I realized that the van was not yet there... The flight was already 2 hours late! Irked by the possibility of further delay, I went to the Airport Authority to ask him what was causing this 'new inevitable delay'. 

'Where is the bus?'

He retorted promptly - 'There is no bus...'

'What??!'

'Ya, there is no bus... Thats your plane.' He was pointing at a distant aircraft, some half kilometer away!

Yes, I walked.

And there went the transcendent airport. The flight turned out to be good though, (maybe it was because I no longer held any expectations) and I won a 3k watch on a scratch card. A high point of the hols, no doubt. In fact one of the only highs in an otherwise plain vacation.

Making a post on ancient history (read : a month ago) is a gargantuan task as it becomes difficult recalling the nuances which actually lent flavour to the happening. (No wonder autobiographies make boring reads!)

Thomso came and Thomso went; and along with 'The Happening' came many more worth-writing-about stuff but I can't just cram it all in here. Jumbo-posts are never good. So I guess I'll have to save that up for later...

Happy Diwali to all! (Mine's pretty boring here...)

The Chosen Ones...

I was in 10th grade then... It was mid-summer and we were out on an excursion (one of those few times a teenager is conned into believing that he has finally gained the much anticipated "freedom") to Mysore...

Well we made the usual stop at the Palace(some guys seemed to be totally awestruck by the splendour of the 18th century emperor's palace... But I was more keen to get into some shade to avoid getting sunstruck) and a few other places including the evening shopping trip(Which the girls went ga-ga about; Which the guys simply detested.) The itenary for the next day morning said "Chamundi Hills and the Chamundeshwari temple". Well, me and a few of my friends were getting pretty annoyed by the way they kept carting us up-and-down without any place to rest, forget having fun. But well, you can't do much in that situation. So there we were, in the bus, early the next morning waiting "eagerly" to see the Hills...

Having alighted from the bus, a teacher told me that we would be visiting the temple first. As we walked towards the temple (which felt like all of a mile, in the blazing heat) an old lady approached us. She held each of our hands and saying that god would bless us, she handed each of us a lotus. We were bewildered at first. Why on earth would some arbit old woman come up to us and do such a strange thing?? Then I noticed that some of the girls who were just getting off the bus had seen the incident and they seemed pretty puzzled too. One of them, a friend of mine, asked - "So what do you intend to do with those flowers?" Not wanting to admit that I was puzzled too, I said - "Look! we were chosen from amongst this large crowd... God has selected us." My friend, by chance an Anirudh himself (actually it wasn't by chance... You see I have 3 friends by the same name as mine (all of them were there)) says -"We're the chosen ones" Quickly my other friends seconded him.

As we made our way into the temple, the thought of these words clouded my mind... Could we really be the chosen ones? (I'd been watching too many movies at that time I guess) But what must I do with the flowers?? Common-sense told me that I should offer it to the goddess inside... And then perhaps, I could sit back and say - "Take thou what course thou wilt." (I can't be sued by W.Shakespere, can I?) But, my mind being filled with the thought that I could possibly be the Messiah, I totally forgot about the put the flowers as offering and brought it out...

We sat by the temple steps wondering what the implications of our actions could be when suddenly I saw that old woman again, walking towards us... This was my chance-I would, at once, ask her what it was all about... She spoke first however-"Naa ungalukku poo kuduthirenthene. Paisa enga?" (I had given you people flowers. Where is my money?) We didn't know what to do... After all we weren't the chosen ones, it was just a new sales tactic! She even managed to bring the rest of her family when we said we wouldn't pay... It was only with the help of some of the peons who accompanied us that we managed to escape unscathed from the hostile territory. Ofcourse, we couldn't help but notice a few girls giggling as they passed us...
But I swore to myself - "Never again, in any circumstance would I ever be chosen for anything (however godly the task seemed)"