Shallow Mal

The Long Mile

2011-08-04T17:57:00.000+05:30

I wish I had a penny every time I wanted to sign up for a gym. And since we are on the topic, maybe a fistful of dollars for each time I actually ended up doing so. Not that it would amount to much as compensation, for studies have proven flab loss having a disproportionate and upfront impact on net worth. So when my office offered a gym, gratis, I knew the neighborhood health club entrepreneur could count on one less absentee benefactor.

My system, meanwhile, works like clock-work. Every few years the auto-defrost kicks in, and every gram must go. At least that is the signal that the looking glass tries to convey, gently. As in, the cup cake shape my torso would have attained, thanks to well, cup cakes. And the going would be ruled by any of the food pyramids available in every conceivable cuisine. Only this time, the portions would reduce to the level of ‘caviar on the side’. The pi•èce de ré•sis•tance, of course, would be the pumping of iron.

As slow starvation leads to melting of the love handles, by some cosmic connection, I begin to notice fine works of print and outdoor adverts. Ahoy, a shapely figure, not a bead of sweat in sight, plodding to nowhere on a treadmill. Mr. Olympia grimaces nearby, veins a-popping, a dumb-bell his only ornament. This, and one visit to the machine shop where all this is made possible; enough to debit salary account by a small fortune.

But this time, it’s Office Gym to the rescue. The only catch would be the location. Stuck as it is at one end of the cafeteria, now it was only a question of stuffing before or after calorie burn. The only visit to that end of the building got me a membership; this time there was nothing else for MasterCard®. Now the proof of my new found lifestyle is the gym ID attached to the office card. As if the extra few ounces swinging from my hip would manage to work on my abs, if not my conscience.

My desk drawers have since been cleared for the much awaited arrival of gym shoes and related paraphernalia. I have even begun turning up early to office so I may swing by the gym late evening. Two weeks now, it’s still swing and miss. I do manage two daily visits to the cafeteria, yet not the last mile to my first gym session.

Next Monday. For sure this time. I guess.

Elba

2011-07-05T14:38:00.001+05:30

The act of turning up, showing you care, call it what you like. I always left it to others to pander to Karma; my contribution limited to the monetary. I will oil the wheels and even wipe it down for you. But don’t expect me to walk along side as you provide for. I left an ‘air-lock’, a kind of safe distance from the ill fortune I might have been spared. Rather execute an online fund transfer than face the humanity eking off it. From experience, I’ve realized that it saves me from sleepless nights and unhappy thoughts; a knot in my gut which never goes easily.

Or a nameless face I am condemned to remember.

Regulation close cropped hair, ill fitting hand-me-downs and an air of resignation. Not very different from the rest of his brethren, some laid out on iron beds, corporate benevolence branded on each bedstead. The air was musty with the heavy odor of cheap floor wipe, only the light rustle of sheets as slight frames shuffled on and off. None betrayed much emotion; ennui perhaps. Also, they were used to do-gooders gawking at their state.

I’m sure he’d seen better days. Pater Familias, a career, grand kids even. What might have passed, I shudder to think. For time evidently flew with fortune, leaving in its wake waning years at a desolate senior home. A face wracked by time, an eye unseeing. Gaze fixed into the distance; at what was or would be I knew not.

His grip was firm, head tilted to compensate. It would be awkward being seated next to him. But all others were taken. If it were any consolation, I was not the only one seeking indifference. I passed on a pack of cookies making its rounds, and swallowed hard as he folded hands in gratitude. Almost immediately he livened up, as if in me he found a familiarity needing no introduction. He spoke. In Tamil, a language I barely followed. Of people and places, I suspect visited only in his dreams. In a tone, steady and polished, save for the one time it faltered, as he mentioned a town by name. He did not resume until his lips had stopped trembling.

I wonder if he noticed me nodding all along, all at sea translating, and wishing being elsewhere. No more than an interloper from the other side of the tracks, seeking to offer solace by mere presence. Unable to linger with a handshake, for fear of remembering how it felt. Speechless, dense, a voyeur devouring a sight he might never find himself in. Self-assured that the constants in his long, pointless life were indeed safe from Fate.

Then maybe, he never did mind. For while leaving, grip firm as ever, I managed to pick his parting words.

“Son, it’s not every day someone visits”.

Most Rats Die Outdoors

2010-11-10T23:38:00.002+05:30

Splayed over the living room rug, like a toad awaiting vivisection, I peer into the long lost corners of my living room floor. A world of perpetual dusk, doomed since the straddle of furniture over it. Evidently, few have ventured here, even less set sight upon. An ecosystem unspoilt by broom or mop, the natural mustiness makes this home to creatures that send my spouse on hysterical shrieking spells.

I might have liked to mention that, precisely in those moments, she resembled a teenage groupie tickled by the sight of a favourite movie star. Replace spider/rat/lizard with Pitt/Cruise/Hanks. You get the picture. But then, discretion being the better part of humour, I desist. Being of the tactical bend of mind, the better half opts to booby-trap every nook with rat-kill. That sure went well. That is, save for a tell-tale whiff of eau de rat, source unknown.

Thus, the man of the house finds himself on the front, more like a Private doing Dubya’s bidding in Iraq. Ducking dust bunnies and stray cobwebs, a flashlight in one hand, broom in the other. Vainly hoping to sweep darkness and dust away in equal measure. The beam rolls on, leaving the dust bunnies at the mercy of a sideways punt/drag onto a scoop. The scent gets stronger. Now the space ensconced at the junction of long sofa & ornate bureau sees light.

A rather tidy dust bunny catches my eye. Almost immediately, a near blinding burst of stench catches my senses. Eyes water. It burns like a punch to my nose. An expert turn of my battle axe follows. Stubborn. One more, as I try and inch closer. Just then, the supposed bunny spins around to face me. Resting on my chin means the jaw may drop no more. I manage a gasp. For at that point it was as if I was the one stunned by the light; a reddish reflection from the twin headlights of the rodent.
Now, I am all for chores, and small rodents, especially the stuffed variety. But I never bargained on an animal safari of this sort while serving mandatory weekend husbandry.

Another prod, but not before I’d worked on my posture. No longer prone, I was up on one knee, upper body contorted to level with the rat. In this advantageous position, flight was not an option, it was reassuringly guaranteed. But it still seemed all of this counted for no more than a rub down for the little punk.

As I lower myself to take another look, a dull grey fur ball whizzes past, bisecting the living room and headed for the farthest corner. Didn’t miss by much, the broom doubling as projectile. Expertly launched from the commanding heights of the nearest chair, attained a fraction of second earlier. I disembark, go the other way, hoping to take the animal (on a hunt, remember) by surprise. Or at least, leave enough space to bolt, just in case.

I need not have bothered. At the doorway to the next room, a little away from the curtains, Mon. Rat lay in repose, a slow tremor of the feet as the poison finally caught up. Its last gasp spent in the rush from darkness to light. Way to go, Sundance Kid.

Long after the body is interred to trash, I carefully put away the tools of the trade. As I dispatch the rat-kill to the top shelf, I spy a helpful hint on the carton: "Most rats die outdoors"

It’s 5 'O clock somewhere

2010-11-08T17:44:00.000+05:30

Six pairs of hands stare down from the wall, all tied up in various states of separation. Their faces united in their banality; a city name and flag pin is all that distinguish breakfast at London from sundown in Sydney. Pity, but the prime movers of a business model would have but little personality to share. Oblivious to the many minions, collared to monogrammed blue lace dangling a non-descript access card, racing them at every turn. Doors open. They sweep through. Unbeknownst, so does time.

A siren might have been the prop for Means of Production. But, here we make do with lot less dramatics. Of course, we are not hoisted onto a caged car down a barely lit shaft. Seeking veins for precious, while letting ours waste for nothing. Washing with our sweat what is no more than rock, for the sparkles belongs to somebody else. Neither do we emerge, awash in soot, grime, and early twilight, to the accompaniment of a wailing siren. Nor is the emolument a fistful of dollars, black lung and a lifetime of under achievement. Yet, the more things change..?

There are bills to pay. And few amongst us are destined to sing, soldier or create acts of beauty (and survive on the pension). So we head for the mines of this millennium.

Here, the ceiling is high, the Lumens set to light meters and the air monitored for bacterium. Murals, birthday lists, and at places, faux graffiti. The mice on the wheel are sated, flush and needless to say, dispensable. The job is monotonous, mind numbing & venal. Hazards of the Industrial Revolution reinvent themselves.

It is our souls that are mined of their creativity, often leaving behind a hollow, long drained of its precious lightness. For many, it’s a waste land that no rain may revive.

The wheels need to keep turning, at any cost. By the way, I’m off at 5.

Water Under the Bridge

2010-07-02T14:27:00.000+05:30

It must be said that the most pivotal moments of our lives often occur in the most mundane of settings. No drum-rolls, no cheering crowds. An envelope slipped under the door, a terse phone call, first born cuddled against the chest. For a moment that denotes liftoff, the culmination of a seemingly endless countdown, there is no voice-over, much less a sonic boom. No joining of hands, as you the truly takes a giant leap on Fate’s hoist. Alas, O Fortuna might have been just right as accompaniment.

Some might have come sooner. Or so you wish. All your dreams were spun for a spring time. A lot flattered to deceive, yet eventually spring does arrive. For real this time, and you are all about to live the time of your life. “About time”. Yet, a passing thought, a whiff of a what-if. Surely you realize that the winds of fortune don’t do your bidding. Though rankle it does, over time that passed. Forks on the road, left behind, for want of.

It is a slow realization. That a lot would, or already have, changed forever. And at times, for only you know the truth, a sigh escapes your grateful yet weary soul.

Did someone say ‘half-empty’?

I of II - A Twenty Year Sentence

2010-03-02T16:13:00.001+05:30

The grocery aisles, all awash in tube light, crisscross over a few hundred square yards. Not a soul in sight, being a dull mid-week afternoon. My sweaty palms grease the push cart handle, empty but for assorted knickknacks. The air conditioning has failed me miserably. I feel an embarrassed burning around the ear lobes and a rush of blood to the jowls. In addition to a nauseating static, all I sense is the aching thud of my heart. I feel parched. An in-store promo chimes in the distance. For its déjà vu, at the corner of Staples and Salsa.

Those eager eyes have always been the give-away. Still crowned by increasingly arching pencil stroked eyebrows, contemplating the small print on a pickle bottle. The hair, held in place with a sport band, has the odd grey that might have escaped your habitual left-handed smoothing. Your choice of ear rings haven't changed yet, generic silver trinkets of course. You don't ever seem to give much for accessorial fashion, do you? Sporting a miniature duffel bag that was passé for the 90s, and I'm afraid to say, this decade as well. Maybe you'll try the next! I catch the delicate profile as she moves on to peer over stacks of half-price Colombian, much like me, out of place in that aisle. I spy crow-feet, or maybe I don't. Small faced Citizen on your wrist; as is your fashion, should be ten odd minutes ahead. Got you earlier to class, so you claimed. Faded denim, crumpled cotton. You still carry grunge as it should. Lightly.

Two decades and half way around the world later, memories flicker away. Youthful fancies had shriveled and crumbled in the harsh seasons that followed me into later youth; your memory but a bittersweet reminder of an innocent, carefree time. When, smitten and at a loss of words, I proposed, via snail mail. At the very mature age of 17. You were considerate, to haul me aside one memorable evening, even while declining. Must have been hard, considering the prospects this no-job, no-spunk, mealy-mouthed avatar had offered. Since then, I’ve been around, you know. Navigating the shallow social prerequisites of college, more college, jobs, and then, family.

Do I say 'Hi'? That was always easy; it's the follow on conversation that I stumbled on. Or should I let her and the moment pass; that'd be easier and time-tested. What I knew I couldn't do any more is stay there, frozen with stage fright. Twenty years, God. I ply a resume that trumpets my calmness and communication skills. All lies.

I make my move. A half-turn. The other way. My life can do with what it had, or never did. My heart, whatever, could not take a snub. Not from her. Some memories are best left untouched, unrevised.

Just then, she moved too. Sans cart. Right my way.

II of II - The Fountains of Miramar

2010-03-02T15:56:00.001+05:30

A quizzical look, followed by that lopsided smile. She stepped forward briskly, side stepping my push cart, with a loud, pleasantly surprised "Hey". I mumbled something to the same effect in return. She grabbed my arm and almost gave me a hug, giving me a once-over even as I recover poorly from shell shock. A torrent of queries followed. Of her friends, some common, most I had never noticed back then. Note to reincarnating self; pay attention to beings accompanying, yet not including amorous interest. Of places she left behind. Of chumps that went for my friends, still my friends, chumps nonetheless. She smile on their mention, a chuckle a split later. I might know what that was for, oh dear. I spy a sparkle in her eye.

For all that I left unsaid, it seemed she'd the most to share. Almost catching up for lost time. Eagerly waiting for answers, prodding when I groped for names, an old affliction. Even a sly poke at the little chubby I had become. She spared the baldness, thankfully. I dare say I got to know her more in those few minutes, than ever I'd done before. It wasn't crow's-feet by the way, my eyes might have aged. The odd silver strand does her some credit too.

Of course, 'how have you been' is no question. But since you ask, do I mention the numbness, the drift, the unkempt beard kept only as long as I could take the teasing? Sighs unseen and sobs, a few? Life threw greater twists in your wake. I stopped remembering out of preoccupation, so to speak, and not because I didn't miss you any less. Not that I've wondered about what would have been. Those ghosts have long hushed; too busy completing the chores of life. Am I happy? Sure. What else would I be.

We reached an awkward pause, as I fumbled without anything more to say. Then it popped. Not, I swear, by design. "I missed you". I groan inwardly as it slips past. Twenty years to say this. Half a lifetime to inherit the earth. I wish all would go away. I so badly wanted my life from a quarter hour ago.

The lines harden around her eyes, the lips purse. I feel my eyes moisten, a tingle on my nose. What have I done? She winced, and then straightened herself. As if reeling from a jab. Now intently peering at my face, she’s probably toying with the idea of just moving on. Regretting ever stayed. I cannot but find my sorry self looking down, pinching my palms, fighting tears, pain, anger and years of whatnot. All I can manage, as a mid-life crisis-ridden grownup, is a blurry sounding "Sorry". "I must go now", I add.

"I know" she said. I look up. A slow, weary smile creased her lips. She seems to have aged a bit. A shadow falls across her face, as her eyes look into the distance. She sighs. I guess it's been all about me, all this time. And at that moment, I wished none of this happened. The single silver strand has raised itself, only momentary; the long fingers on her left caressing it out of sight. “You haven’t changed”, she chuckled. Or grown up, for that matter. We say our goodbyes soon after. I'm an invitee to a dinner.

I lug my carry bags out the front door. The fountains at the mall entrance gush skywards, dancing to a hummable symphony playing somewhere nearby. As their mothers watch, toddlers scoot around in the mist. A rainbow plays peek-a-boo. High amongst the spray muddying the west bound amber and purple Florida sky.

I am parched no more.

That Queasy Feeling

2009-11-30T17:57:00.000+05:30

The drone is relentless. There is no respite. I have to endure this, make it to the other end at all costs, or else. Playing by the rules all the time. No, it's far from easy. The end, or any temporary lull, seems far away. Only broken, at times, by an inevitable slide into an unfathomable blackness. Soothed by the dimmed light and faint chill. Yet, the wake up leaves me a quiver, numb. I can take no more. The mind wanders. It’s just as well, for the insistent whine tugs at the very threads of my being, my reason.

But, it's only a fleeting rescue; I am dragged back from self-imposed exile. And this time there is light. Too much of it, actually. The presentation done, so-and-so from the Quality department has decided to defer to the audience. An audience drawn from various divisions, only now united in their misery. Of the two dozen in the room, my gaze finds a couple or so groggy faces reluctantly coming to terms with the waking world. Only the machines survived unscathed.

The wheels in my head attempt to turn. Good luck there, buddy. My synapses had long gone cold. I did no harm. Not to deserve this. But 'mandatory' is an awe-inspiring word, enough to cow most into submission. Masochism you might say; otherwise who would want to join a bunch of strangers in a dimly-lit room for a 3 hour session, bordering mental. A time slot post-lunch is definitely not for the sleep deprived. Add to it the pièce de résistance, the tenets of Quality in Management, cast in Power Point. Delivered throughout in a sepulchral monotone, you'd half expect to hear a muffled sob or two in between. Considering the long line of souls damned to suffer in silence, a collective wail would have been more appropriate.

Now Queasy is the kind of department which really put the moan into Monday-morning-quarterbacks. Upholding a tradition from the Dark Ages, where the Torquemada elicited more than a few moans from unfortunates deemed to be outside religious tolerances. In footballing terms, always late into a tackle, while showing no intention of playing the ball. Worthy of a straight red on any pitch. The blind tripping up the sighted with their cane, then claiming reparations. The differently gifted attempting to level the playing field. I could drown QD in high praise. Then a little more, just to make sure.

The spinmeister, impressed at his handiwork, the sight of a class rendered brain dead, has switched tack. It's question time. Three and four letter acronyms (there's always a Q somewhere), fly forth. I keep up by lip synching with a handful of eager beavers out to impress on the front row. Goebbels would love to know whether the session has enlightened and uplifted our hitherto meaningless lives to the ways of the Zen, and the arcane art of Preventive Motorcycle Maintenance.
Why, of course, if you say so.

We troop out in silence. Another batch awaits their turn on the outside.

Condolences are in order.

Turning on a Dime

2009-11-13T18:27:00.006+05:30

I stare at the sole of my shoe one more time. A variously dimpled, furrowed and carved landscape, the output of a multi-million dollar R&D-Marketing effort. Surely deserving the hefty wad I paid for that boot. The other boot cost about the same. A grey, white & blue "FX System", no less. Promises of reflected sporting glory, masquerading as a leather and foam engineering feat, aspiration cost much exceeding its value.

All to send me skidding across asphalt left with no more than a faint memory of moss, from rains two months old. My coop rises in sight, twin towers souring the scenic evening sky. Easy viewing, now that I rest on my back side. Adding insult is my neighbourhood’s latest addition, a fine lady of mysterious ways, staring me down through hazel eyes. To retrace, the brand new tread swept my feet off under me, nearly upending Her Grace out on her daily saunter. Fervent apologies were met with the kind of sceptic vibe only a certain Bush-WMD deserved. An intro I did not fancy. The resident Harry Potter groupies leave their whatever-kids-do activity and gape in unison. I wish Bumble Bore or whatever would appear and make me otherwise. The juveniles from the other end of the lot sport a resigned indifference. No likng fav shu hv2 rotf lyk dis. Unkind are the ways of this world.

Buyer’s remorse set in just as a nerve in my right ankle remembers to throb. Rooney, of the hauntingly vague look, at home with ManU and any on-pitch brawl, sure had me convinced. His life-size poster at the mall revealed not a strain as he motors away in his new laces. More evidence of vagueness, I presume.

I wonder if "FX" was designed for an 85 kilo blob with a lately suspect centre of gravity. Definitely not when he decides to traipse down a flight of stairs, and spin around at the landing. Not at this age, his gyro too rusted on the way past 30. Maybe in this age, I should tweet about skipping a few stairs, and then wisely use the elevator. Not too long ago, there was a lightness to my being. Literally. A sport shoe would readily complement my figure, a compliment to gauntness. Accessories shown did suit standard equipment. Unlike now, when they look more like leather vases, from which sprout twin shoots, coalescing into a jelly flower in full bloom. Technically, ‘Approaching Tubby’. The same might be said of Rooney, but a punch-up I’m in no shape or mood for.

As a kid, in his world of shoe-shod make believe, I used to be champ. A toe-poke suited to a Bergkamp. Ballet steps at backyard badminton. Sunday cricket attracted the ‘Azharuddin-at-point-with-slouch ‘persona. My trusted swoosh/stripe/affordable graphic giving wings to impressions gained from magazine covers, TV and fantasy. Ersatz with heart.

Now I’m up on one knee dusting the remnants of my pride. Redoing my laces elicit something of a sigh/grunt; any more toe touch & my flab is squash. Note to self: Let them know how much I’d appreciate Velcro. A fraction more moping later, we are up and about. The looker left a faint trace of parfum. The tykes are back to scream n’ shout. The juveniles, more like the World Union of Cool Football Jerseys, are on a passing game. One of them runs, traps, pivots and let fly, all in one go. Turning on a dime.

Been there, done that.

At 34 and Lycra

2008-12-30T22:08:00.014+05:30

Here I find myself, again. Same old 4x4 cell, twin hooks, opposing mirrors, infinite images of mine in views not available elsewhere. Not much to complain though; even the predicament I find myself in seems eerily familiar. The sight is far from promising. From the top, a gene pool that has fueled multiple fronts in Male Pattern Baldness. A societal DNA that encourages newly weds to binge on the good stuff; layers of jowl, chin and belly not seen since birth. Now the ignominy of having to discard clothes no more than a few months old. My missus patiently awaits me on the outside. I need to break the news gently. The 34" pair she had lovingly picked, is no more a zip and clasp case. I feel a sigh coming.

Ground O is the midriff. Once skinned to the ribs, now flubber cushions the bones beneath. The railroad that ought to take YKK upstate, lies asunder. A sharp and prolonged exhalation might help, but the twain never get close enough to spirit the rake away. So here I stand, stripped to the jocks, retching and huffing as the blob that passes for abs refuses to sink the last few inches of some prêt-à-porter. The last mile to the clasps now a mile too far, the once smartly laid out trouser now no more than a gaggle of folds below my knee, like the lingering scar of a filariasis attack.

Yet truth is difficult to swallow, for with it I injest my pride as well. So I play a game of "what-if". My mind races as I factor-in inter alia gym jaunts, skipped meals and a lower ferment intake well into the next quarter resulting in a receded waistline, thus justifying the foresight to invest (heavily) in trousers that would be a wraparound, as and when it fit well. I am sure that would not be a problem; just a wee matter of ridding myself of love handles. This pair is, after all, meant for me. Provided, of course, it fit. Or even let me breathe without squeezing my innards to a third.

The logic is compelling. Lehman, my brother. Now I feel ya. You sold mortgage that never fit, praying the user would fatten himself to justify affordability; I buy garbage that never fit, hoping to thin to justify affordability. Something about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

The PYT plugging the brand stares down from the low ceiling, a well held pout matching a figure made to slip in like a glove. The ranch hand she has managed to clamber onto doesn't look too bad either. Get a room, you two.

Decision time. I wonder how this would go; would I splurge on vanity of a time and shape no more, or retreat against the reality that stares back at me ad infinitum? Do I sensibly buy the corduroy that, in addition to being simple to operate, might even double as a mainsail, or else picture myself reinventing into a lean mean 34, the erstwhile booty size of yours truly.

I surrender. Too many well intentioned "buys" line my cupboards. I had long since given into the very unglamorous world of stitch to size. The world of ready-wear as alien as hair care. Yet, missus proposed, hence this return. I exchange the old for a new and wider; my wife sports a grin, the salesman a I-told-you-so. As I step back in, ready to clothe my fate, the associate beckons. "You might like this Sir", and thrusts another pair onto my arm. "It's Lycra, stretchable".

True. It does. 34", and fits like a glove. I feel alive.

The pair stuck to the ceiling can go fly kite.

Gold Finger

2006-08-23T17:00:00.000+05:30

For somebody who, according to reliable sources including own Mom, is beyond the marry-by date it's quite a slow revelation. The wooing game (Senior Division) is a lot complex, and there aren't many ladies out to play. And so you tread carefully. The heart ages, you see.

Consider this. 5 people on a boat. Ok, forget it. Real life scenario. And I can't swim either. You take a fancy. The fancy happens to work alongside. Bad idea to have that kinda fancy whenever 'work' and wherever 'alongside' appears.
If 'outed', the awkwardness can be appalling. So you let it be. For there is indeed a joy in coming to work, staying there, and hoping to return the next day. Now when did that last happen to you. Rains and bombs notwithstanding, the sky has never been so azure since late 1990. And anyway it's your little secret. You go out with friends, you offer her a seat. Out to lunch, you make sure your beau gets more than the fair share. Even if that means your friend, the office ogre, is driven to tears. Smoke less, so you stink less. Crossing the road, stop, stay back. Never, ever, offer a lady your help to cross a road. Ah! Wisdom. That comes from being the other side of the 20s. That, by the way, is the problem. All this coming from an early-30ish, early baldish, lately romantic, gets a wee bit awkward.

It starts with little more than shared loathing. At something (which is good), or each other (which is better). As time goes by, your heart starts to pick sides. Now, this ain't the heart from a decade and half ago. It doesn't skip too many beats; hence you miss out on the vital signs of a coming meltdown. You don't sweat and stammer when you meet the other. You've been there before. You bet so has she. Like I said, you let it be. The only outbound signal would be an excess of parfum. And in my case, a very well groomed mien. (Honestly, my idea of oil-control was always a quality gasket. Until I discovered this lil' blue bottle of goo that cost as much as four litres of petrol, and promises great mileage for my mug).

So you dress up. And dress down. It's not easy picking a color, or a contrast. From "how-would-they-bear-if-i-don't-wear" to "how-would-I-look-in-beige-n-blue". A sartorial revolution is underway. Your friends might smell a rat, though you might explain it away as DKNY. Your ogre friend is especially suspicious. That's taken care of with an extra bowl of noodles. Smooth. The bottles multiply, only now the fermented brew is given a good run by the Skincare 2-3-5 Glycol types. And you thought it went into antibiotics. Life's clear, so's the skin. Yet it never seemed so complicated. The greeting, the chit-chat, the gossip. All the same, yet you feel an edge. A lingering smile, a stolen glance. When caught during either, the old pump for once lost suction. You still let it be.

It's only been few months. Cursory enquiries confirm status as single. Now there is this movie. And there are these friends. Rid the latter and catch the movie, with you-know-who. Dual risk. Latter don't want to know either. Also you don't want your objet du désir to say non. So you decide to trust Ludlum and his 'busy street is best for a kill' credo. 11.30AM is madness at your end. Therefore you slip out. Again, it's quiet on the other wing. So you slip in. Saunter upto the cubicle. And watch her watch spreadsheets.

Mint green. Her favorite color. Pony tail. Colored nails. Well dressed. Good reason to up your FMCG spend. Then you notice something you never caught before. A gold ring. The possibilities are enormous; enormous enough to crush the rest of the week. Maybe month and year. Her fingers are strumming on the side of the monitor. And you are disoriented trying to fix the location of the damned yellow metal.

She spins around. You instantly recover with a toothy grin. A priceless smile in return. Nothing much is spoken, other than that you're there to meet a friend and hence dropped by. Goodbyes later, you can't smother that silly grin on your face. All the way to A-Wing.

It rains outside. But the sky remains blue.

The ring's on the index.

Chicken Run

2006-03-16T21:14:00.000+05:30

In healthier times, H5N1 would be nothing more than a poorly formatted chemical formula, inviting a sneer from any Chemistry teacher worth the salt. And Tamiflu the pandemic afflicting thousands as Anna's (no, not the gal next door) latest flick threatens to hit theaters in TN. All this until now; for the chickens have turned bad long since. As the Health Dept. sends in the bunny-suit cavalry to whack'em chickens, I am left to ponder the feathers long gone.

Sunday evening, as usual, involved a session with a trusted Sony Remote™ on the couch (wrist/biceps), followed by more of the same on the bean-bag (yawn/snore). Then I decided to reward my worked-out self a worthy treat. What follows may not be for the chicken-hearted. A call to the local take-away elicits an enthusiastic recital. Only this time the Louvre had opened sans the Mona Lisa. The bunnies seemed to be doing a good job upstate. Not one bird in sight. When enquired, I could almost feel the resigned shrug from the other end. The mandarins have deemed to term it culling, which essentially is hunting birds on a large scale. Just a thought, but this might be a half-decent legal defence for celebrities caught game hunting with no more than the 007 permit.

As the menu drones on, I am shocked and awed from an ambush with no less than a non-veg non-chicken menu involving a sum total of Aries, Cancer & Pisces. Ah, the wannabes of la carte. Fillers from Page 3 of the menu, reveling in their right to final consumption. Same old, same old. Some really are. It's not often that this product line has same day production and consumption. They are usually left to stew in their own gravy, much like Chivas... ok, let's not go there. It cannot be a happy time when P3 people (I quote the PeTA motto "they're human too, you know, kinda") head to Front Page. Overpriced, overdressed and overage, many an unsuspecting mistake style for substance. Poor man’s Fugu, as it were.

So when I finally insist on the seemingly non-existent birdie, the Maitre d' flips. It's as if no chicken ever was curried at Dipali Restaurant & Bar (of course they're French. Brandy is served). ‘Omerta’ of the F&B world I guess. At a loss for words, I let my friend pick the edible. It’s never been easy being chicken. As a species it’s mightily pointless and passé being eaten without baiting either a taboo or at least a yuck in some form or the other. This species after all is mass market chow, even the odd vegetarian playing out his/her idea of a wild swing with a C-Lolipop (“rarely, only at parties, you know…”). Again, no mortal is ever born under the sign of Rooster. Except in the Far East maybe, where the choices at the local take-away would surely reinforce your faith in exterminators.

So it concludes with a bird that's always 'dressed' and eaten. The human equivalent of waxing. The pain being fleeting and final for the feathered; some doughty humans actually pay for the job. Done alive, the latter lot are no chicken. 'Good enough to eat' being expression of choice for both. By an odd twist of genome, chomper and chomped now face the same Pearly Gate.

Someday when we are all done fixing that ‘name-as-number’ virus character, we could reacquaint ourselves. After all, we appreciate your good taste.

Never Heard you Sing

2006-01-04T20:00:00.000+05:30

I am told you can sing. Quite well too. A voice that finds pride of place at your office's every gig. The rhythm struck a chord, and the face rang a bell, with someone I know. Why, oh why, is it always someone else?

The news broken to me by that old friend in a matter-of-fact monotone normally reserved for half-time scores, lunch orders and such. Quite something for someone who cannot appreciate, much less spell, subtle. The only give-away being a momentary sideways glance, away from Goodison Park left flank, expecting perhaps live emotion never seen on TV. Well it's been 10 years. Blast from the past emoticons happen to Balaji people. Sensing more drama on screen, my Chum the Considerate peered right ahead. Leaving me with an old dusty bag of angst.

That you be even mentioned a good decade or so after we last met is not the surprise. Fact that my friend spotted you & remembered, is. Tragedy is, I remember too. Since it seems to be open season on me, the farce would be that you would know next to nothing about all this. That's how it always was; for only I was to know you, the converse never meant to be.

I never set out to be the romantic with nothing but soliloquys to get by. More like a dramatist's after-thought to jive up the leading lady's beau array. Alas that's what I ended up as. Because at 16, a fragile heart is a very common ailment, considerably reducing the sufferer's immunity to romance. I am too old to even try and recollect what, when, where & how it all started. We never spoke much. The courage to do so was beyond me; a lump in my throat that summed up all that I ever wanted to say. Little more than a civil greeting, smile or a warbled mix of the two ever got past my lips. Either way I got a cheerful reply, oh and that lopsided smile. I conspired to have more and more of the same; early turnout at classes, loaned stationery, so on and so silly forth.

Not that my pals had fewer ideas. The posse had many a scene concocted, lines drafted, an ambush setup. All for the lead to flee in a fit of hyperventilation. A spectacle which, I dare say, held a whole generation in thrall. Those were days when time seemed to stand still, at least I believed it would go on forever. Until one day it was time to go, and all was lost. Just like that.

Now I'm older, balder, none the more wiser. The quiff I sported for your viewing pleasure long lost to the ages. And I definitely used to be quicker. Yes, I can smile at the follies & fancies of a beautiful time long gone. At least, at most of them. But for someone who yearned to be everything to you, who staked his heart and whatever that is a teenager would propose to do, I knew so very little of you. Surely you were a lady more than that fragile smile, dainty satchel and clipped-down hair. I miss not knowing you.

Not that I regret the road I did not take. The times we never had. Not until now.

For I never heard your singing voice.

Thinning Red Line

2005-11-05T14:00:00.000+05:30

It wasn't unexpected. Tempus Fugit. When the ringer went off in the middle of a rather hectic day, I wondered if anything was wrong. Lost in the churn of a big city, any transplant would recognise the shudder that welcomes an unexpected call from hometown. Followed by the relief when a familiar voice sounds anything but urgent. My friend of two decades, all cheer as always, salutation censored, life ho-hum etc. And as we meandered, he lowered the boom. Marrying in a month. Convincing him of my inability to get to his wedding wasn't pleasant; even less would have been the state of the poor souls overhearing the colorful epithets he lavished me with in response.

Long after the day had wound down, I was still wondering what I was left with. It still seemed not too long ago, when heading into a weekend was more akin to a plundering horde. Too many of us, and too few of everything else, as in glasses, cigarettes, tickets, seats in a cab and of course fine women. You might call it a long bachelor party, until the least likely of the crowd decided to take the plunge into familydom. It remained a party through many of the regulars falling away, as if autumn was upon this single oak. Much like a picnic where one of the crowd decides to stay back at the hut. Until now, that is. For now it's down to the last man. In danger of sounding vain, but, it seems I am the man.

Surviving those dreaded weekends. Picture this. No one to fight with over the remote, all fine crystal and no griping, no gossip to swap (meaner n' fleshier than the sista variety), none to finish the punchlines. This time the joke's on me, it seems. And forget it, there's no chance in hell that anyone of the married crowd would join you. Statistically, population and sample converge. It used to be true for lovers, robbers and footballers that they should never go back (to their last beau, heist or club). Add the wedded gent to the list, for fear of being lynched. The gent walks the long and narrow whilst the new sheriff holds the short and curly. Finally, only a better half busy with a promised parenthood seem to draw the old firm back around a table. Whenever that happens, its like ol' times. Almost. With atleast one among us deciding to make up for the Vegetarianism, Prohibition, curfew, no-late-cable, no-cigarette, no-exposed-torso and other assorted shackles ordained by the dame back home, with a bingeing trip which would bring a tear to those who witnesseth. Ever more misery if the newly (and only fleetingly) emancipated forgets the barf-bag.

So it ends, seemingly sooner that it started. The lady does return cradling the pinkish coo-magnet. Work beckons. While I fend off queries as "So you're next, eh?" with as much civility that I could muster. At times it seems the married are in an ethical dilemma when faced with a singleton; to coopt the latter seems the only solution available. That's why you are faced with otherwise rational friends trying to play matchmaker for you: "You know there's this lady in my office, a mallu you see...". With the lady of the house chiming in with "It's about time for you..", with a finality that would eke a shudder out of the Grim Reaper. Duck, dive, scoot. Never easy changing the subject to "Ford has a new car.."

Meanwhile, winter gains on the oak. Let's see how this one goes. The neighborhood punk has recently switched from 'Yo, dude' to 'hi, uncle' as greeting. That cannot be good. I shall embrace vanity, just once, by mentioning 'Lion in Winter' in passing. Spring cannot be far away.

As it stands the drink is warm, the chips are cold, and the food is chineze. If it's not upto you to join me, then it's just cheers to me.

Good thing I get to keep the remote.

Playing Somebody's Game

2005-09-04T15:00:00.000+05:30

I wonder how our memories get stirred. With nothing more than a wisp, a long stretch of dominoes come tumbling down. Or why would anyone want them to be. For they force us to look at ourselves in the mirror, for what we are, all that we wanted to be, and all that transpired in between. At the end of it all, it’s up to us to painstakingly rearrange those dominoes again.

So there I was, oblivious to the impending total-recall, as the interviewer leaned back and passed the mallet to the compatriot. Now I just had a mildly unpleasant Q & A with Domain. A carefully deadpan face, buttressed with Teflon; no emotion seemed to stick, and I'd no idea if any of my spiel had an effect. Over to HR. Now anybody worth his/her CV would tell you that HR is not, repeat not, to be taken lightly. Their seemingly inane queries are borne out of centuries of scientific enquiry, and are not to be dismissed as boilerplate.
Even those that go like:

"You're from Kerala, so what are you doing in Bombay?"
Gratuitous Answer: To find a job, you moron.
Gratuity Earning Answer: My skill-sets demanded a certain profile...blah.. blah..

Dour sounding Techie & Intelligent looking HR is how corporates play Good Cop/Dud Cop. As in:

God: Go build a boat. And put two of every species in it.
Moses: Yes, my Lord.
HR: Why no shave?
Moses: Lord, I've found one mule already.

So it came finally, like a pebble skipping over water, "Who's your favorite sportsperson?" (Please note the gender neuter. How very equal op). I would have jumped for Isinbayeva (any time, from 5m high) or for Federer (will kill for backhand). Slowly arching forward, I mentally removed the Domain Guru tape & inserted Team-Builder & Affable Employee tape. Good to go. Hit Play.
But very oddly, and at that very inopportune moment, I lost auto-pilot. As my mind shuffled & blinked, I realised I had an awkward situation to handle.

For genuinely, and that's not meant for job interviews, I had a favorite. Very much a favorite. Too long ago, and may be too unfashionable to mention. Even my memory seems too grainy and distorted. Ivan Lendl. Around him revolved all my childhood delusions of grandeur. He was my famous double, what I wanted to be. Rather, what I would be. Destined for glories in lands I'd never been, in a sport I could only watch, winning adulation I could never imagine. His days of glory, made mine; however wretched that might seem. I copied his walk, sucked in my cheeks, and ridiculously tapped my badminton racket against my soles before serving. I read and re-read his comments, his outbursts at Court No.1, and secretly fantasized trying that during PT. I mourned when he lost at Wimbledon; twice over.

Late 80s meant Tennis was more like Disney cartoons; appears rarely, and happens only on TV. A TV called DD, and nothing else. In spite of state broadcasting, I still stalked my Doppel. Color pages of Sportstar. More DD. Over Grand Slams. Fidgeting through News Breaks and Parliament blah. Praying that on the other side of the interminable wait, I find Gaunt Face hale, hearty, and a two-set lead. Patting sweat off his brow with his wrist band. Cool. So do I.

Not that there weren't others who mesmerized this impressionable mind. van Basten, Socrates and Wilander no less. But loyalties are bound in blood at the age of fourteen, and mine was not meant to be any less. It was never fashionable then, what with the likes of Becker & Edberg around, but I stuck with it.

Somewhere along, I grew up, and made my peace with obscurity. Then Lendl retired. I never became a fan again. My racket still finds the soles of my feet, though.

Yes, HR. For once, I speak my mind. Never mind that I had to repeat the name twice; HR mistook him for the Tsar.

Should have played tape.

On a Water Break

2005-08-05T17:00:00.000+05:30

"Water, Water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink" was always the plaintive wail of the indiscreet who let himself be ambushed by a State Gazetted holiday celebrating/mourning somebody, but definitely damning Bacchus. Now, he might have aired plaints of his parched palette in dialects never ever found in parchments. At other times of ill fortune, he also might have questioned the mystic standing of his Luck (no Lady this, quit owin' to the swearin'), referred to farm animals in passing (esp. the cute, little, pink type), as also to the One above, inter alia. All in the rush of things. Never intended as blasphemy. Until the said mallu realised how much he'd offended his Almighty, and as events unfolded, how severely His patience has been tested.

For one who hails from a land which entices tourists to turn up to watch it rain (all from nations where water does fall down from the clouds), the thought never occured to me that all the perceived ingratitutde & wanton griping would attract a particularly watery retort. In football lingo, a yellow for simulation.

So, while I wait for the travelling press-guy (nope, not the satellite dish, live-microphone, bozo trio; only guy with hot iron on wheels) to return my pale(d) orange bedsheet which shall henceforth be my garb matching my new found spirituality, let's reminisce...

For a July, this year seemed like more of the same out here in B'bay. Loads of dark clouds, but nothing to show for it. Until, the 26th. As a mere pawn at the hands of the pissed-One, I had to be at BKC on that day. To give you a topographical refresher, BKC consists of just around half dozen steel-glass buildings that pass for India's Shanghai, perfectly nestling on a vast area of land reclaimed from the sea. Picture dying mangroves & filthy creek, with legal skyscrapers and illegal hutments on either side. If I had to drown, this had to be the place.

It got better for me. For till noon of that fateful day, I was in the basement of one of these buildings minding my own business. Oblivious to the clouds that had long turned bad, with high winds to boot. Basement, for God's sake. Every viewing space from Ground to Seventh has heads bobbing in & out, making predictions, cancelling options, running for the door.... and all the while I am in the well-lit, well-enclosed basement killing time with the day's paper; knowledge being power. In the basement wondering why I carry that umbrella around so much; so uncool.

Aww, that was the turning point in the rush to the pits that was the next 24 hours.

Events unfolded, or rather went for a goddam toss, in no time. Starting with a rather innocuous sounding query from the janitor at 2.00pm as to why I wasn't headed home. Home?. What the..? Up the stairs to the Ground Floor where I joined 100 other spectators in gawking at what I could swear (at it, even today) was but a sheet of water pouring from somewhere up. Now BKC floods if you leave a tap running; this wasn't meant to flood, this deluge had a particularly homicidal approach that had me scurrying to... where?? Good chance trains are out. And buses that barely funnel into the narrow lanes opening into BKC would be just too crowded. So, let's hit the roads. Ok. Cool me retrieves bag, umbrella (!), and newspaper (for the ride home) and rushes into, The Devil's Water Park.

That was the last I saw of the sky. For the next half-hour I was pinned into my umbrella by a wind that had me pirouetting in knee-deep water, all the while fighting a losing battle against getting wet. The water, was everywhere. Climbing fast. So were the populance. Everywhere, and seemingly headed nowhere. And the water level maintained its steady climb. It had long risen from soaking my ankles to threatening my trouser pockets. Then it hit me. In the rush, I had left my mobile in my hip pocket. Brave young thing let out not a whimper before hanging up on me. I could see water inside the screen. The first casualty of the day was buried in the inner folds of my bag.

Travel from that point on was quite a blur. Bag held over my head, like a surrendering brigand, I trudged till the speed and volume of the fluid (with enough filth to give microbes a flu), simply put paid to my hopes of reaching home that day. I wonder if the water reached my brains, but it surely threatened my stubble before I found myself being hauled atop a bus, in the process allowing myself two rather unpleasant immersions in the swirling waters. My fellow travellers numbered around 50. So space was at a premium. You nod off, you fall off. That's 12 feet to the ground, or 2 feet to the current. Oh, yes. Lest I forget, the buckets from the heavens never emptied once. So with umbrellas open, and strangely getting wetter than if I hadn't bothered to, I spend the night on the roof of a red bus. My teeth chattering away in Morse. And myself contemplating the futility of Life, and the godforsaken Met dept. At first light, I moved out. Crawled home almost 4 hours later, wading through waters ranging from neck to elbow depth.

Did it all make me wiser? Surely. The rains are still on, but I've given up on carrying my umbrella. What's left to wet anyway? Moreover, the vedas claim that the ethereal is kinda teflon. Only the corporeal is uncoated e.g., my dead mobile was corpor, so Ericsson could ring in the Kronor; whereas my Faith is ether, hence the following:

Caught in the middle of the swirl the following morning, I wondered whether it was actually a good idea to leave my perch atop the bus. Out of somewhere a hand shot out. Calloused, grimy, decidedly of one who works in the innumerable nameless iron shops that line LBS. As I stood there wondering whether I had it in me to trust both my luck and a stranger, the only thing that tipped in his favor was his decidedly earnest confidence. Not what I'd in plenty, when faced with four feet of water running at forty miles an hour. He took my arm and plunged in, and I was sort of water-skied onto higher ground, where awaited still more hands and eager help. While I splashed onto land, he was headed for the next leap of faith.

From one migrant to another, thanks a lot.

Dud on the Dance Floor

2005-06-30T22:40:00.000+05:30

It's that time of the evening. The crowd melts away from the bar, and singly or coupled, swing towards the makeshift dance floor. And there I am, holding onto my near-empty drink for dear life. In prolonging that drink to the latest sip (or evaporation, if it comes to that), and hence the ritual visit to the dance floor, lies my key to self-preservation. Any interested party urging me over could so easily be deflected by a wave of the glass and a "li'l drink remaining... be there soon". For I can't dance. Not to save my life. From this ringside seat, reserved for the pitiable, I get an untrammeled view of the swaying masses of rhythm-haves and yes, that pretty thing from Accounts apparently auditioning for MTV Grind. As I artfully down another shot of poison, here's one to the naturally deselected.

So let's talk about the sore dancers, the rhythm-less creations, the ones that God's Wisdom and not his Grace sent down. The ones normally left alone (and best so) at dance parties. Two left-feet they call it. But whoever has attempted dance would tell you (if you don't know already), it's not the feet dammit! It's that your two hands too get in the way of your self-expression. As also a certain disconnect that creeps in as soon as you have to attempt anything wilier than foot tapping. For want of a better excuse, the blame lies with our genes. And the far-Southie misses the Jiggy strand.

As for cultural conditioning, it's only fortunate that being a Mallu I don't have too many brethren in moviedom to set the bar. And therein lies salvation. Mallu stars can't dance. And salivation too. Mallu starlets can sure shake their booty. But then, I digress. "Wow, you dance like superstar M___", therefore, is not meant to be a compliment. It's only mallu male-bonding in a twisted sense. The genres of dancing out there are but two: (I) the walkabout where “character-actor” star & nubile starlet ‘recite’ the song, struggling to make it look as ‘normal’ as crooning on a bus could be, and generally get it all done with, (II) an attempt is made by “commercial” star and underaged starlet to go head to head with non-unionized extras from Chennai. What follows invariably prompts Mallus in mixed company to gingerly reach for the remotes; there are enough horrors in our lives already.

Historically, there are fine dances that originated in Kerala. Most of them, Ladies singles or Ladies group. Picture that dusky lady with hair tied in a floral bun, head tilted by its weight. Crowned with a fine smile that launched a thousand fleets, all headed the other way. Incidentally, it’s not the considerable amount of oil in South Pars, Khobar or Kirkuk that drove our menfolk onto the Gulf, hitching rides on catamarans, camel-trains or Air India (listed in order of safety). It’s the inconsiderate amount of oil in her considerable hair. Ya Sidi, it’s cruel, but God is Merciful. The Gulf carries her faint aroma. Only you have to dig for it. And she be blessed. But no man, she do no cha-cha. Neither do her friends. Because all her dances are performed rigor mortis. Around an oil-lamp, to complete the picture. The sort Egyptians would have performed minutes before stuffing a mummy down the side of a pyramid.

In the meantime, none for the gentlemen to stretch their legs with, to jolly. Even the Scots do their own thingy while bag-piping. (It is this sad state that drove the barren souls to grape-nectar, popularised as Brandy. Parched as I am, let’s not go there.) Barring maybe, Kathakali, to which let me say just one thing. When you dance with a large skirt and all that paint on, don't you still expect the gals to fall for anyone but the bare-chested drummer out in front. For an ethnicity that celebrates a harvest festival, there is as much joy in our dances as Mr. Baby facing Customs at Kochi Airport.

Unlike our agrarian northern brethren. Who need no more than a stick popping on a drum to throw both their hands (and one leg) up, and do some early-Harappan calisthenics. With the feet alternating to aid lower body circulation. My historical research suggests otherwise: that was how they lined up to surrender. The moves came along to cut the boredom. The prevalent thought of that time being 'how many times would you give yourself up, no fight in any case, and all with a long face?' Cheerio! Look, even Genghis can't gag his grin.

I still can’t really figure out why I cannot dance. While I contemplate the dignified reticence of my ilk, my friend from the North seems to have solved his tax filing worries; I reckon he might even find it a lot more fun than usual. Coward.

But why mope, while there's enough drink to go around. Next weekend I will try Scotch and see if it works. But will anyone want to dance with a guy wearing a skirt?

To The One I Left Behind

2005-06-13T23:00:00.000+05:30

You were not supposed to die. My friend. I am all of thirty, and so should you be. Though I suspect you were a year or two older. Overaged brat. For you had a silly beard in Class X, if that's what you could call a rash of facial hair, when we never had one; now that's a dead giveaway. You would have gone bald too by now, while my superior genes shine through in their brave albeit receding lines. And fat, for that's what you were in school. That truth I never told you, for fear of an aching butt.

Our 'golden mile' is still much the same. Just the way we left it. All the way from Women's College to "Red Bag's" house. (By the way, the 'baggie' is married with two kids, I'm single & the kids ain't mine, thank you so). Same old twisting lane, with nothing but empty balconies staring into it. And, as before, after the gaggle have sashayed by, it's just that same old prof peering over the green gate as the world passes by. Now, how the hell does he have more hair..? Maybe I'll just call him a dirty ol' man, and make my peace!

Whenever I pass by, I make sure I take the scenic tour. On foot. Not for the birds, but for the memories. Every corner, every fork, all those sights, sounds and the gossip. Stay long enough and they all come up swirling.
I know you wouldn't agree, but the ladies of our time were a class by themselves. Oh, to be fifteen and hopelessly in love. With all of them! I would not take names, and I deny in advance all those link-ups your sick mind is throwing up. Oh, and remember how we signed truce with the threesome - the 'nancies'. Not easy considering the number of chalk pieces expended in pretty much one-sided artillery barrages. Now, don't be a whiner when I tell you that they whipped you good in your only foray into a game of Scrabble. Your triple-word effort being "Mices", which was one mouse too many in your vocab. Yuck. I had to miss three tuition classes for two weeks to escape the sniggering lady-bugs.

We did become good friends through college though, and may be a little more with Ms.Spex. Yup, that's another story. Now don't wonder, why all the women. Of course, because that's all you had on your mind. Except maybe weekends at the old Dutch fort. All the beach to ourselves, and some spicy gossip to go around. So much fun that used to be; and surprisingly, sans tobacco & liquor!

I moved out not long after we last met. It was not easy to accept, and in a way I needed to put some distance between me and all this. I did all that engine-study, as we had planned, and much more. For the kind of job i got into, all that seems ridiculous now. These days I meet up with my folks once a month. Time flies. It's never the same without you, or for that matter, "that-moped-gal". Gotcha there! Her dad being a fat cop never dimmed your enthu for her.

Now it's only a long trudge, to and from work. Throw in a few hours for food, sleep and a 100 channel TV, I live a full life. It all seems like yesterday, like the lingering taste of icecream soda from the corner shop. Ah well, those folks sell instant lotteries these days.

Did all this end too soon? Is growing up a prelude to parting of ways? Like when you left. As if you knew then, as I've begun to accept now, that those were the best days of our lives. Leaving on a high. Maybe we are wrong, maybe we would have had bigger and better, but those days will never see a re-run.

Yet there was so much more we could have had. To grow old together. With memories to cuddle and losses to mourn. Not gone when we were fifteen. There must be some mistake.

One of Us

2005-05-28T00:45:00.000+05:30

"So in the Libyan fable it is told
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
'With our own feathers, not by others' hands
Are we now smitten"
(Wisdom of the Ages - Aeschylus)

Haven't we caressed those scars left within and without and wondered of the hands that smote, the words that marred. How we tried to fend them off, but unkind words cut the deepest. Awash in shame and loss, we realised what a lonely business life is turning out to be. Not that help was not at hand, it was just out of grasp. Too proud to seek, we rolled with them punches. Now as dawn breaks, and we caress our bluish jowls, we realise what we should have always known.
It's the swipe from the one you knew, the closest, that has cleaved the deepest.

Then there are the ones amongst us, soaked in self-righteousness, offering to lead us, the astray. Advice not reckoned for, or solicited. As smearing a burn with scent, the foulness lost for the injury to worsen. The same act plays out in various garbs all round. The woman violated, is offered neither solace nor justice, but the antipathy otherwise reserved for the suicidal. As if, unbenknownst to her, she tempted woe upon herself. Or the commoner, wronged by the mighty, served nothing more than a pious dose extolling the 'hand of fate'. We wonder for a moment whether it is the perpetrator or the placebo that has caused the most harm.

What we'd give for us to be with nobody but ourselves, none to confer with, none to intrude. The vast expanses within that would sponge up all that's thrown at us.

For deep within ourselves lies a well-spring of content. Of hope. Virtues that have healed us many a time before. As they would this time too.

We wash our souls with it, and live, to fight another day.

Chin up.

Soldiers Never Die

2005-05-18T22:30:00.000+05:30

In each one of us lies a patriot, waiting for the opportune moment to literally charge out of the trenches, take the battle to the enemy, and eke glory from amongst the gore. As early as a dimple-cheeked child, knocking imaginary enemy jets out of the summer sky, to an eager youth when Defence Entrance exams symbolised a coming-of-age ritual. Essentially, our early life is spotted with grand fantasies of battles wherein we would fight, kill and earn a gallantry award, most preferably non-posthumous.

But as adolescence turns to youth, and the truth begins to dawn that one would never fly a MiG outside PS2, or command a division other than Regional Sales, we make our own compromises. No, we don't settle for the Coast Guard, but Infosys would do just fine, thank you. In fact, that is pretty much the story of our lives. Small compromises. As life goes on, we don't dream much of charging out of the trenches as before. Though, not as much as scalping a rail ticket from , what else, the defence quota. Or a Chivas from the canteen. Maybe we would watch our kids make the season-finale cameo at the NDA exam. Rousing. Boys would be boys. Worrying all the same that your kid might actually make it.

Finally, when somebody else's son who chose to wear green fails to make it home, you say a silent prayer; as much for the departed as your own offspring.

It is not that personal loss makes one a greater patriot, or that love for a nation should be confined to the ones shouldering arms. Yet our earliest memories of loving one's own nation is colored by stories of valour, honor and lives lost for the same. With perspective and age we may question such a singular approach, yet deep inside we are all soldiers. Plodding at our lives, inconsequential as they might be. For we don't love this land any less.

We are only glad that they fight on our behalf, and relieved that they are taking our place.

How would soldiers die, for aren't they reborn in each one of us?

Three Times Lucky

2005-05-16T21:00:00.000+05:30

tri·fec·ta (n.) : A system of betting in which the bettor must pick the first three winners in the correct sequence. Also called triple.

From portals plugging anything from jobs to partners, to the matron angling for a "suitable boy" & the school counsellor evangelising the future. It's the same path to salvation for everyone. Graduate in Engineering, followed by a
Postgrad in Management. A plum job being the bonus. A jolly trio that rule our destiny. The ones to pull their cards right, by genes or means, are afforded the awe once reserved for the privileged. The rest, branded as also-rans. Fawning masses, who clearly missed the bus. And woe befall the one born with not as much ambition as the go-getter.

What chance does society offer a 'differently' abled child? The one the Gods did not favor with a scientific bend. Or a knack for numbers. The Lesser God whose children turned out with talents far removed from what the mob demanded. From experience, very little. Countless are disgorged from innumerable technical schools, and many were simply Shanghaied into it. Peer pressure or regimentation, they are the lost generation among us. Accursed to a life-path imposed on them by those who should have known better.

Ours is a society that has decided for itself that being a qualified engineer with no sense of science is eminently preferable to being a natural artist with a heightened sense of color. A world where acquired knowledge, acquired at any or all costs, should stump the gifts born with. With no shelter from the searing competition, these are allowed to die. Killed, in some cases. In later life remembered only as an afterthought. Sometimes carefully tucked into the last para of our Resumes, duly accounted as "extra-curriculars"; for even the emperor needs a jester. Ensuring that this officious piece of paper says as little about ourselves as we could allow it.

There is only space for achievers here, and the trifecta take the first row. Four years of singular devotion to exams and grades qualify them to end up in the same basement.

At code shops. At Process floors. At work.

That being the final badge of recognition. For it's not the love of Mechanics that drove us to JEE, it's the moolah. Chem to Civil, let the good times roll. And the second pull from the deck is our card to the next heaven. Two more years, and
promised land. Another life achieved.

Matters to none whether he could have felt a color, rhymed a poem, or lead the meek. For no one gave him another chance. To be himself.

This is our generation of underachievers. Blessed thrice over.

The coming of the lifestyle fascist

2005-04-30T06:27:00.000+05:30

And so it has been legalised. Coming right on the heels of the Thought Police deeming live dances vulgar, maybe we should have seen it coming. Did I put Thought, Police AND Vulgar all in the same line? The hapless victim at Marine Drive probably never suspected the purveyors of virtue to be so heartless.

As some worthy put it, it's the dress sense.

Let's only discuss legally sound issues then. The first "it" in all this.
The right to live, breed and raise a Ghetto. It used to be called an enclave, with a well rounded 'e'.
Well, that's what it used to be. Until they decided to extern any undesirables from the vicinity. And beyond. And the highest court in the land deems it legal.

So much for Equality & Fraternity.

Do we really live in a free country? Is freedom the right to choose one's neighbor? As happens in Mumbai, the ones with the same culinary tastes. Or religious denomination?
Are we a nation of racists? (A reality check would be to have a chat with any foreigner, preferably an African national, out here on scholarship. They'd tell you what they put up with. Everyday.) Does fraternity mean comparable color, creed or denomination ?

The most disturbing trend is the increasing acceptance of such exclusivism. From the endorsers of vegan to the disciples of the jet-set healer. From the opinionated regulars on the news, to the silent majority going about the daily drudge. Once the breeding ground for the naive, misty-eyed socialist, the upper-class nowadays finds instant gratification and solace in social herding. Their herd only reviled the social climber and the sans culotte, but these days it has plumbed to the level of ethnic and religious profiling.

It's as if we have resigned to the fact that there exists untouchability. And our lives and that of those around us would be better off so. It is as if our lifestyles, our faith, our gods have preordained our lives to such an extent that the rich should look further than pelf to prejudge his fellow schmoozer; no honor among thieves one might say. While the poor is accursed to his ghetto as long as he is poor, and the millions in between have no voice to anguish.

Is this the Shanghai we are aiming to be, or the West Bank that's there for all to see.