I solemnly swear I am up to no good

The Departmentalist, Part I

2012-02-08T22:50:00.000+05:30

I stepped into the great hall upstairs and saw darkness turn into light in an instant with the pull of a single lever. The long corridor led to the iron gates that opened into the secret row of rooms hiding the newest additions by way of Materials Science technology. Our steps echoed loud and clear as we made our way towards the gates. A solitary pigeon could be seen making its way from one end of the corridor to the other, clearly roused from its late evening slumber by this unexpected arrival. The gates opened with an unearthly din that prompted the pigeon to fly out of an open window and out of the building altogether.

Despite the general state of misery I found myself in, I couldn't help but feel excited about the kind of machines we'd get to see once the heavy locks of the last room in the row were brought down. The research scholar had a pensive look on his face, something that the undergraduate duo of my partner and I couldn't fathom the reason behind. He had been pretty enthusiastic about the whole venture from the beginning. On closer examination, his expressions reminded me of a veteran lion-tamer weary of his work and still apprehensive of entering the lion's cage.

There is a note of predictability even to anti-climaxes in such situations. It came as only a minor shock to the knackered undergrads that the sole occupant of the huge chamber that we entered into was a simple tubular furnace installed at a far corner along with a nitrogen cylinder. "Is that all? Is that the great Meta surprise you have been preparing us for?" inquired my crestfallen partner. A sinister smirk now flashed on the research scholar's face. In his defence, the only thing lacking in our project was a furnace treatment for our meticulously prepared samples. He was merely doing his job.

With that familiar sinking sensation in my stomach that I would give anything in the world to get unfamiliar with, we proceeded to take out the samples and place them carefully inside this beast of a machine.

The day of the BTP allotments dawned bright and clear, but some dark clouds could be seen looming large on the horizon. Our fears were not unfounded, just as we had feared. We ended up with Dr. VD, the newest nutjob in the Meta circuit as our guide. From the very beginning, we had a bad feeling about this.

It was with great trepidation that we had gone to meet him the very first time.From his reaction on seeing us, one could gauge that he couldn't care less about final year students or any final year projects, ambitious or realistic, that they might be embarking upon. "Keep showing me your ugly faces every few weeks till May and maybe then we'll see this through without major incident." People might find it hard to believe, but that suited us just fine. In fact, I was so happy with his perfect nonchalance that I even nodded an absent minded approval to a question he asked just as we were exiting his office. It had something to do with some conference somewhere on something Meta, if I remember correctly.

We had placed the samples inside the furnace and our bottoms on some dusty stools, braced to delay dinner by another 90 minutes. Even as we sat there in absolute silence, our minds were abuzz with a thousand worrisome thoughts. In this time of impending doom, the fact that we were inside the department at this late late hour, later than perhaps any undergrad had ever managed, was a mere footnote in the events of that remarkable evening. Were the furnace to complete the task assigned to it on time, our samples would be ready for analysis and our fates would be sealed forever.

There may come a time in my life when I am eagerly looking forward to present my experimental findings in an international conference being conducted by a not disreputable organisation, but this was certainly not that time. Why was I worried then? Well, because dear Dr. VD was dragging us along to this upcoming international conference by a not disreputable organisation, simply by holding a gun to our heads and making periodic threats of even worse consequences- like a satti in our BTP. Oh the horror. We had little choice but to comply with him, for the alternative was too terrible to imagine. And so we were working nights and days and late evenings and early mornings, so that we could go and present our work and thus bring such glory to the IITR name that previous incumbents were far too smart to take the mantle of upon their shoulders.

Quite clearly, I had become a Departmentalist now. I cringed as I thought that I am one of them now. A whole week in the company of fellow departmentalists in the port city of Bombay beckoned. The moving finger had written our destinies in stone and having writ, moved on to destroy other people's lives. There was naught we could do now.

That is not to say that I wasn't hoping of some miracle to rescue us out of this most peculiar predicament. I am a huge miracle-believer, although there isn't one instant of divine intervention I could point my finger at in this stricken life of mine. I had complete faith in the powers of the supernatural. I was almost waiting for the stars to move out of their positions, the earth and the moon to exchange theirs in one swift motion and the clouds to burst open upon this god-forsaken land on this clear but chilly January night. Because I seemed to be having an endless streak of ill-fortune in my life, and something simply had to give.

I sat staring intently at the furnace, but the indomitable machine chimed on. The seconds kept counting down and the temperature kept rising. The end, as they say, was nigh. For a miracle to happen in such a short while now would be akin to a third coming of the Christ.

My heart skipped a beat when we heard a small clunk from inside the furnace. The temperature rise seemed to slow down and suddenly came to a standstill, as did my heartbeat. We now stood up and stared at the machine in disbelief, daring not to hope that this was the aforementioned miracle in action. My heart started beating again, and dramatically quickened in pace when the temperature in the meter started falling. There was obviously something wrong with the furnace, and we were not going to find out what.

There was no way the plummeting temperatures could be good for the samples. Surely they were screwed beyond repair now.. surely? The sintering process was probably getting reversed as we stood watching! And if the samples were really screwed, surely there is no way in hell we were getting any results off them to present? Surely? This was too good to be true.

"What the hell is happening here?" Oh, the research scholar was back. One look at the grins on our faces and he knew that something terrible had happened. He rushed towards the furnace and punched some digits into the small display screen. This led him to curse out aloud, which sent an unprecedented wave of joy through our bodies. My partner and I high-fived behind the scholar's back and settled down on the dusty stools once again, gleefully watching doctor-in-the-making struggle with the many wires and switches of the god-sent machine that had spiraled out of our and his control.

We sat and discussed what seemed to be a last minute escape story to rival the rescuing from the gallows of Captain Jack Sparrow. But we had seen far too many false dawns in the past not to be wary of this being one too. So, some 45 minutes of holding our breaths later, when we saw the bloody scholar place back the abrasive-coated cotton sheets in the furnace carefully having made certain adjustments inside, the feeling-that-must-not-be-named reared its ugly head once again. And the worst was confirmed when we saw him turn around and flash that lovely old smirk on his face. The furnace had been resurrected; we were asked to place the samples inside and restart the sintering process.

It didn't take long for the temperature rise to regain normalcy. Contrary to what we had thought, the research scholar asserted that the steep fall that took place before would not have any undesired effect at all on the samples. The sintering process was back on. We were gutted beyond words and left looking like infernal fools for having believed that we had turned a corner, luck vise. After around an hour, as we took the impeccably sintered samples out of the furnace and packed them each in separate zipper bags, we knew that this was it. There was absolutely no escape possible now.

Oh sweet mother. They're sending me to Bombay.

A Year in Pictures

2011-12-31T16:00:00.000+05:30


The beginning of the year saw some of us quizzing aficionados make the long and arduous journey to the far east, where Messrs Lefty and Prondu lay in wait of sweet reunion. Although none of us were able to increase our state count, and we received unasked for blessings from the crows at every corner of the campus, Joka still proved to be a memorable trip. There is no way Lucknow this year can be as good, but for the sake of everyone, I hope it's better.

Not many weekends post Joka came this forgettable WONA trip. The camping location was almost exactly the same as the WONA trip made during the same time of the year in 2010, which would have been a massive bummer had I considered trying to enjoy myself. I will remember these 2 days for the treachery of friends, the breath-taking beauty of the mountains and getting to catch a fleeting glimpse of a female's bare back.

For some, Watch Out couldn't end sooner. The kids made sure they'd see us out of the door in the most unpleasant manner possible. All I can say is that I like to have toothpaste smeared all over my face during final meetings so that nobody can see it succumb to extreme sadness.

Prondu paid a visit to R just in time (conveniently) for Cogni. He couldn't prevent team PMS from sweeping most of the quizzing honours though. Ashesh Memorial brought further glory, making the masters prouder of the current batch than ever before. Final moolah amounted to near about 10k, most of which yours truly used to buy a 1 TB hard-disk, and the rest in repairing said 1 TB hard-disk.

This specimen of mediocre photography is a depiction of us watching the cricket world cup final inside CCD, even with mid-term examinations looming large in the horizon. India won the cup after a gap of 28 years, so it was worth it.

This was the absolute end, the photography session and chapo afterwards proving mere fillips in hastening the kick-out. I paid a wordy tribute to all my comrades, and settled down for the after-life.

Perhaps the highlight of the year. Manchester United became the most successful club in England by winning an unprecedented 19th Premier League title. I was in seventh heaven along with my fellow red devils, until the best team in Spain/Europe brought us crashing back down to earth with a demolition job at Wembley. Still made it a very memorable year. Glory Glory Man United.

The latter half of the year was notable for breaking free from the shackles of Facebook (despite watching The Social Network and feeling extremely sorry for that Zuckerberg fellow) and embracing an old but effective solution- twitter. The prodigal tweeter was back in town, and tweeps the world over rejoiced. Occasional blips, like the shark swimming above, were to be expected, but twitter came as a whiff of fresh air into my life and the lives of many others.

2011 will also be remembered as the 'year of the deluded'. This moron has often been ridiculed for his doubtful ethnicity and for showing a bizarre ignorance for technology as would be characteristic of a prehistoric primate; yet his one and only defence has been calling the entire world 'deluded', 'incompetent' and 'deluded' again. Long live his delusions, and may the people of this world long derive pleasure from taking the mickey out of him.

I decided to write GRE and TOEFL upon reading a report that said pursuing a Master's degree in the West triples or quadruples an Indian boy's chances of getting laid. Okay, just kidding. The real reason was the blinding confidence shown by professors and placement team alike in the inability of this MMED batch of 2011 of getting placed anywhere. Both tests were chastening experiences, with the latter making me doubt my very grasp of the Queen's tongue. I have since starting focusing on non-English speaking countries. It's much easier to fool them into believing you're better qualified than you actually are.

It was time to wrap up all our belongings from my house of 15 years and move into hitherto unseen territory. There were a lot of tears shed and requiems sung at this estrangement, but the pain of moving stung for a few days. Then I came to realise the sheer number of good looking girls who reside in Khan Market, and all was forgotten.

In a year of many estrangements, this one probably hurt the most- Nesci being shut down in an inexplicable move by the admin. As we sipped on the last dregs of our coffee, we were filled with sudden dread for the future. A nightmarish December was endured, with no friendly coffee-house present to cheer us during the dark days of no placement. Here is hoping Nescafe is resurrected come the new year.

P.S. I also got placed. Placement season being the depressing time that it is, the thought of capturing our suit-clad selves on the camera did not cross a single mind.

The Racist Joke

2011-11-23T16:42:00.001+05:30

Two metallurgists and a Chinese guy were taking a leisurely walk on the beach. All of a sudden, they heard what sounded like the muffled shrieks of a drowning person coming out of the sea. They screwed their eyes to look into the distance and found that this was indeed the case. Without wasting a single moment, all three of them removed their clothes and jumped into the water. As they swam and reached the bulky mass splashing and flailing around in despair, they realised it was none other than Subhrata Ray.

Together, they dragged him back to the shores. One of the metallurgists administered artificial respiration and managed to draw considerable amount of water out of his body. Ray coughed and started breathing normally again. Standing back on his feet, he shook hands with the Chinese guy and thanked him profusely. Then he turned around and shot the two metallurgists dead.

The whole point of this post was to redirect the reader to the WONA blog, where a recent tirade directed towards the Department of Dreams has generated quite the effusive response expected. I do so at the request of the 'Anonymous Crusader', who is leaving absolutely no stone unturned in ensuring that his identity remains a secret. He also owns this not-too-shabby blog that he keeps updating from time to time. You might want to check it out.

Limerick

2011-11-14T14:03:00.001+05:30

They came, they saw, they left
A little boy gently wept
It's not estrangement he cannot bear
Or the parting of friends so dear
It's money the bastards left him of bereft.

P.S. Goodbye Kondrews, Jetty, Pink, Ghiswa, KSP, Vikesh, Ahuja, Alpo and Sinan.

Mind Your Language

2011-11-05T15:54:00.000+05:30

Many times in the past have I sat and wondered if my grasp of the Queen's tongue would hold a candle to the mastery of those who speak it natively. People always told me taking the TOFEL exam might go a considerable distance in helping me answer that question. So that's precisely what I did, some two weeks ago. There was also the added incentive of clearing said exam in order to be eligible for applying to Institutes of Excellence in countries other than my own.

4 and a half hours of reading long passages that wrecked the bejesus out of my brain, listening to contemptible audio records of American profs lecturing at an embarrassingly languid pace, speaking to a computer screen that wore a constant but imaginary look of smug delight on its face and writing essays about Hari Seldon-knows-what later, I came out dazed, ever more insecure as to my English language prowess. It would have been infinitely better to live in denial (or hope) than subject myself to this terrible inquisition that a thinking mind like mine scarcely deserves (or needs).

But in the days and nights that followed, especially the nights, I was regularly haunted by images of being awarded a certificate of incompetence from a headless man representing ETS- a dubious distinction for someone who is regarded in some circles as a well-read man. Not just that- the two Maddus who wrote it along with me, true to their genes and IITR tradition, would pass the exam with flying colours and thus sprout wings and fly away happily to slave under the Obama administration till the end of eternity while I rot in a corner of my poor country. Maybe I am just not good enough.

What an absolute nightmare. No amount of encouragement from my friends, admittedly far less pedantic than me, could shake me out of this cloud of melancholia. But very often in times of despair, we take refuge in our own imagination. So I built a chimerical construct around myself in which I wasn't quite as rubbish as my horrific fantasies. I mean, come to think about it, how bad could I be? Who made the Educational Testing Service the authority on English language anyway? Am I not the author of a not-too-unpopular blog? Was I not the English topper in school? What about that Spellathon competition I aced in front of a drooling crowd of students and teachers alike all those years ago? Hell, wasn't I the ed-in-c of a none-too-popular news magazine till some time back?

My optimism was attaining dizzy heights now. That is when I realised I had misspelled TOEFL in the very first paragraph of this post.

Back to square one then.

P.S. For those who found even a modicum of interest in the above drivel, this discourse on his beloved vernacular by Stephen Fry would make them positively giddy.

P.P.S. Remember, remember.

Moving Day

2011-10-05T01:33:00.000+05:30

Just when you thought all your secrets from a dark and distant past were lost forever in your bottomless clandestine closet, out they come tumbling when in one fell swoop, your mother rips apart the curtains covering them and what was regarded beyond recollection comes hurtling back into one's consciousness. You would think your sibling of so many years would try to distract your mother and destroy everything before the proverbial cat is out of the bag. Then you realise the ludicrousness of the very thought and resign yourself to a weekend full of taunts and ridicule.

It was puerile scribblings that they found mostly, and the occasional colourless work of art. Pubescent pieces of poetry were gleefully lapped up, as were my infantile rants about playground failings and the inherent callousness of the fairer sex. I was deeply embarrassed to find that these journals from my childhood had stood the test of time and survived for long enough so as to rear their ugly head right when it was time to cut all ties with the house I grew up in. According to some of the entries, I was also a budding crime-solver as a kid. The astutely recorded catalog of clues and evidences along with my inferences following interrogations with the suspects bearing testimony to the fact.

But that wasn't even the worst part about moving. The worst part was that all the packing was well over when I reached town, only about in time to say goodbye. There could be a thousand relics or more that just vanished without yours truly ever getting to see them one last time. Mother did save a few things that she deemed important to me, like the school farewell graffiti shirt and an ancient birthday card from a very old friend. Good job mom.

Leaving was hard, an exercise involving immense self-restraint in the face of extreme sadness. It is at such times that women-folk unabashedly let the water works run free, while grown men adopt a veneer of stoicism, preferring to cry deep inside. And children, they don't appear to give a hoot either ways. I was fine on the whole, considering home had ceased to be the same for me anyway in the last 4 years. But that final glimpse of the empty house did give me a heady rush of nostalgia, as the 15 odd years I spent there flashed before my eyes and made me want to stay for a little while longer.

My Last Onam...

2011-09-09T14:31:00.000+05:30

...as a permanent resident of J-57/S-1, Dilshad Colony, New Delhi.

as an undergraduate student.

with the Kid.

without Damodaran (hopefully).

this year.

with Hari sir, Kiran sir and the rest of the pleasant Mallu-Matka crowd.

without payasam (hopefully).

as an unemployed young male staring at an uncertain future (hopefully).

On that note, a very swell Onam to all fellow God's own countrymen! May the coming year bring more Gulf money, more brandy and more rainfall to the land of the lungi.

My heart is painted black

2011-08-29T17:15:00.000+05:30

Suffering from absolute lack of occupation, I found myself in the doldrums. I meted out the same treatment to my facial hair as my blog, leaving both unattended for long. I lay awake in bed for hours at a stretch, thinking. When I deemed myself mentally incapable of embracing sleep despite being physically knackered, I sat back slumped against the hard wall and resumed thinking.

When my mind refused to get out of the metaphorical gutter and stay put somewhere useful, I took to taking walks around the campus and having coffee with sordid company. I stroked my beard from time to time and enjoyed the sensation of bristliness on my hard cheek bones. I watched football and read Dostoevsky and listened to rock. Then I started taking perusing the newspaper seriously. But soon, I was back to watching football and reading Dostoevsky and listening to rock.

Presumably, this was one of those plateaus where inspiration is loath to rear its congenial head by mere earthly wheedling.

That is when I stumbled across the song of all songs. This song.

And then I saw this, the tribute of all tributes to the player of all players.

This is where my search ended. After reading the following lines, I found myself in such an exalted state of existence that the ruin and damnation of the preceding days seemed nothing more than myth consigned to children's fables.

”When Roy Keane was in digs at Forest, his landlady said he could paint his room. So he did, walls and ceiling, all black. The only furniture was a mattress with no bed, and piles of Goal and Shoot! magazines. Clough called him in and said ‘you can’t live like that’, and he said ‘it’s the only way I can relax.’”

Wow. Stuff of legend. A truly sublime, breathtaking, mind-numbingly outrageous expression of virtuoso class I had ever seen. Here was the hero I needed. Hell, here was the hero I bloody deserved. I wanted to inherit the grim, focused determination and condensed human anger that made him such a Gladiator. Even Surreal Football considered him good enough to man a mission to invade the moon.

Just moments after I was stuck by this thunderbolt, I massacred 4 pesky wasps who looked to be in the middle of a leisurely afternoon saunter inside my room. I saw the wings of a fleeing 5th one catch fire and burn to ashes in the brutal August sun. The walls were spattered with the blood of the victims of my unprecedented Roy Keane-esque fury. No sooner had their carcasses dropped to the ground that they were swarmed by a million rapacious ants. Each clusterfuck faced instant annihilation by the brunt of the bottom of my feet. Sweeping away the carrion into the murky oblivion, I stood back and gloated.

And thus, just like that, I blasted my way out of the writer's block that had threatened to overpower me right at the cusp of the half-century.

If

2011-08-07T17:01:00.003+05:30

If you can empty secretly
The coffers of your own house
If you are unmoved
By the tears in your old folks' eyes
You have transcended, my son
Beyond the realms of mortal reprobation.
Perdition awaits
There shall be no redemption.

If you think the seconds
Shall stop ticking at your behest
And if you think this verse
Shall leave naught but its creator for worse
Yours is a deluded mind
And- what's more- mine is not, my son!

P.S. El Colorado.

Inconvenient truths I am forced to live with

2011-07-13T19:23:00.006+05:30

1. My two best friends in life are Liverpool supporters. Try as hard as I may to make my peace with this galling fact, their resolute love for Manchester United’s greatest rivals leaves more than just a sour taste in my mouth every time results go their way. I have lived through quite a few defeats at Anfield, not to mention suffered the smug looks on their faces in the immediate aftermath. Although my team has been infinitely more successful than theirs during our lifetime, savouring that success is just not the same without the good grace of Damu and the Kid.

2. I have been an abject failure academically. Not only did it take me a year more than I’d have liked to reach this place, I have also floundered with alarming frequency in the hallowed examination halls of the Department of Dreams. That I could not unleash the accrued consummation of my powers into either the Joint Entrance Exam or the Branch Change will forever rankle. The cataclysmic decline in grades that followed leaves me in an uncomfortable position that friends and foes alike fall short of fathoming. Mother’s constant reminders of opportunities gone begging act as a further harbinger of doom.

3. I am past the legal marriageable age now. But never before was I farther away from undergoing the complex transformation of coupling. All these years have provided ample evidence of the disgruntling fact that no young damsel would have me. Or have anything to do with me at all, in some cases. One could say that outlandish rumours about me not being the straightest of arrows around have contributed in some way towards tarnishing my image as a tamer of women. Not that anybody believes I was much of a Casanova to begin with. I am staring at the possibility of chronic bachelorhood here. It bothers me that my plight doesn't seem as bothersome as it used to once.

4. I am a year older than most of my batch-mates in college. Hell, I am a year older than he who refuses to shut up. A ridiculous state of affairs that I cannot do anything about. It is in times like these that I find solace in the company of Messrs Das, Anand, Shubham and Tau. This injustice can only be set right once we are all toothless septuagenarians, when the difference of a year or two would be about as apparent as mud in an unmuddied lake.

5. Watch Out is no more in my life. R will not be the same without Senate Steps, formatting and issue-chapos to look forward to. My evenings will be rather meaningless, and bakar with Deep, Krownoz and Haaris rather mundane without the future of the magazine to worry about. It aggrieves me to think what a gaping hole this retirement is going to leave in my life.

Until the Reseeing

2011-07-07T15:28:00.003+05:30

There are few things in life that bring greater joy than hearing from old friends. It’s all the more wonderful when the call arrives when one is least expecting it. More often than not, it is followed by a momentary pinching of one’s conscience- the fact that I could have been the one making this call to the other after what seems like ages- but it’s soon forgotten as long lost friends rejoice by engaging in fabulous conversation reminiscent of the good times of yore.

The beginning of any vacation is the time when I am subjected to a barrage of phone calls/text messages/online pings/wall updates about prospective reunions. A few such reminders from selected friends are the cue for me to get the message across to a few other selected friends. A jolly little group is thus assembled together, and everybody ends up having a jolly good time.

Nothing beats turning the clock back in style like this. The new developments in each person’s life serve to amaze and astound just as much as the fact that they have essentially changed little serves to bring about an inexplicable sense of pride and happiness. During such times, the participants seem to hear a voice deep within telling them it is such rare communions that they so cherish and live for.

I try tempting fate to delay the inevitable parting hour, but it always does arrive- never in a hurry, but just about in time. When friends bid farewell for the umpteenth time to go their separate ways, it is with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about the future. We might never meet again. But as long as the body breathes and the soul endures, we can never rule out another crossing of paths, which will again be a most precious thing despite the subduing action the elapsing years would have on sentimentality.

I hadn’t bargained on receiving news of the imminent visit of a former Master Baster so completely out of the blue. Having made my peace with the fact that I will never hear from or see him again, or even hear from or see someone who has heard from or seen him, this sudden arrival was like the coming back to life of Michael Jackson. Apparently, miracles do happen once in a while.

I joined with him at one of the habitually crowded Metro stations, from where we travelled to our favourite book-store in Delhi. It was incredible seeing that charismatic face again after so long, and listening to the trademark aphorisms that once enlivened bakar sessions aplenty in Azad and elsewhere. If only for a couple of hours, I felt as if he had never left- as if he were still the brilliant Ed-in-C everybody admired, and me, the starry-eyed fresher who listened in awe and sometimes revulsion to the elder I so desperately wanted to emulate but knew deep within I never would.

For his reputation as the best read man I have ever known, he came up with surprisingly few book recommendations this time- nevertheless, he did mention quite a few obscure authors that I duly made note of. The conversation throughout intrigued me more than it used to before, but it also told me that Dela hadn’t changed much.

When it was time to say goodbye, and Dela assured me it’s for real this time- unlike the previous occasions- a bizarre sadness engulfed me. A sadness that could have absolutely been avoided had I refused to meet him at all. I am only glad that despite the final handshakes and the nod of terminality, some part of me still believed that this farewell will prove to be yet another false dawn. And despite what Ramana Murty says, belief trumps hope.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Hadduland, Part 3: Closing Walls and Ticking Clocks

2011-06-29T23:23:00.007+05:30

Of all the Nizams of Hyderabad I have known, I think the noble family of Salar Jung would be among my favourites. They ruled the city from the beginning of the 18^th century till the time the country achieved independence. They also kept the people happy by the sounds (and looks) of it. More importantly, they contributed legendary artefacts and the like to the superb Salar Jung Museum, passing through the grand vestibules of which transports one to the fascinating world of medieval India, Europe, North America, Egypt, Persia et al.

I loved the Biblis and Veiled Rebecca paintings, the antique swords and daggers and guns, the dusty furniture and the majestic caricatures of emperors and empresses- but what caught my fancy the most was the delightful Musical Clock, or the British Bracket Clock as it was so intriguingly named.

For someone viewing it from a distance, it’s a rather ordinary model showing merely the time, beautifully sculptured though and somewhat larger than your average grandfather clock. The hour and the minute hands go about their business with such finesses as they intended, the 16^th century Englishmen. It is only on closer examination that the extraordinary nature of the clockwork unravels itself.

There are a couple of men crouched on either side of the top compartment, one a timekeeper and the other a blacksmith by the looks of it. The latter is tirelessly at work, true to the nature of his respected profession- he has been tasked with moving the sledge-hammer in his hands and hitting the rocks incessantly, signalling the passage of one precious second with every hit. It is however the timekeeper’s job that’s much more interesting and endearing to the 21^st century onlooker of this great gothic drama.

Five minutes before the clock signals the end of an hour, or indeed the beginning of the new one, the smartly dressed timekeeper comes out of a little door and metal rod ready in hands (evidently borrowed from the smith next door), waits to strike the gong that is fixed at the centre of the compartment. The hall where this exquisite machinery has been positioned starts getting filled with expectant history lovers at about this time. They just cannot wait for the timekeeper to enthral them all by sounding out the gong the exact number of times as the number the hour hand currently stands at.

Enraptured, bewitched no less, I kept my eyes glued to the Musical Clock and watched the blacksmith tick away the seconds to the hour-mark. A few seconds before the climax, there began playing from deep within this scarcely believable instrument a symphony so beautiful that time itself seemed to slow down. The hundreds who flocked the hall stayed motionless and stared at the timekeeper without batting their eyes. I did the same. But I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. The timekeeper started swimming before my eyes, and the only thing my mind registered was the successive beats coming out of the machine as if to entrance.

The gong struck one, two, three, four times. Something or someone inside my head jostled me back to my senses, and my eyes just about caught the timekeeper retreating back into his hiding place, preparing for a deserved break of 55 minutes. People applauded the mechanism and got to their feet to leave. I sat rooted to my chair, dismayed at having missed the timekeeper actually beating the gong.

I felt an unprecedented surge of affection towards the paint-brush wielding beer-glass juggling greasy-nosed jackass Abhinand Gopal, when he single-handedly salvaged our journey to Hadduland with one weekend of sheer genius. With his faithful four-wheeler and aforementioned genius at our mercy, we enjoyed the hours at the Museum as a starving Tam-Brahm would enjoy a healthy serving of tayir-saadam. Then, we found ourselves in seventh heaven inside the Zoo, surrounded by scores of multi-coloured tigers, flightless birds and deadly reptiles. Jaguars looked out of their cages at us with ravenous eyes, while the turtles, hippopotamuses and Himalayan bear stared lazily into nothingness from within their watery havens. The white peacock spreading its humungous wings was a sight to behold. The alligators were downright ugly to look at. We were quite sad to leave the place when the time came.

But we needn’t have despaired, for Gopal had Pista House planned for us- where I finally got something close to being the best biryani of my life. That we followed up the meal with surreally delectable chickoo and mango ice-cream at some secret corner that only this irrepressible Haddu knew about just formed the icing on the cake. There truly is only one Abhinand Gopal.

In the end, the time has arrived for me to bid this old city farewell. I planned to write about several more things, most notably about the sensational discoveries (both accidental and deliberate) one ended up making at the heart of national defence. Some other time that riveting tale.

It has been a pleasant Bummel on the whole. I shall be glad to get back, yet I am sorry it is over, if you understand me.

P.S. By way of lifting those last lines from JKJ's brilliant sequel to the Boat, I have astutely managed to tick off my list yet another of the several literary tributes this blog will act as herald of.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Hadduland, Part 2: Food for the Thoughtless

2011-06-17T19:31:00.002+05:30

Does the rolling stone ever tire of rolling down the slope? Does the gushing streamlet ever get weary of flowing merrily upon its path? Does the answer ever make a fuss about blowing in the wind? Does the cookie ever grumble before it crumbles? Does yours truly ever get fed up of devouring biryani after biryani, night after day after night?

PARADISE LOST

The pursuit of Paradise was set into motion when the commies could no longer ignore the counsel of them wise Haddu non-vegetarians. They reached Secunderabad without much ado; the way ahead proved trickier. Walking took them nowhere, and they settled for an auto-ride. After getting mugged of 30 rupees in broad daylight, they entered Paradise with a little change and lots of hunger to spare.

The quantity seems just about sufficient for two, don’t you think? I don’t see why they wouldn’t bring some extra curry though. Good juicy pieces these, but the rice might be a trifle undercooked. Too little of flesh in there as well; might have helped if this chicken had a larger and stouter leg. My verdict- my mother can cook better chicken biryani than this blindfolded and with her hands tied to her back!

Truth be told, I had had better biryani in my life. The magnanimous promises of Messrs Batulla, Gopal and Dinesh about this being out of this world fell flat on their faces. This was disturbing news indeed- the greatest biryani contrived by man was a myth. There was no greatest biryani- or wait- that must mean I have already had the greatest biryani of my life!

No amount of racking my brains could take me back to the momentous occasion of said masterpiece. After paying the bored waiter a really generous tip under the circumstances, we bid adieu to the mistaken legend of Paradise, albeit with a pledge to forever cherish the memories of gorging on the nth best biryani we had had in our lives. n being a thrilling variable of course.

BAKERIES GALORE

Perhaps in an attempt to salvage something actually precious out of this trip, we found ourselves filing into the Paradise Bakery right across the fabled biryani corner. One look at the varieties on offer was enough to make our mouths water. It is ironic that not more than 5 minutes later, our stomachs were rumbling a collective rumble looking at the remaining chocolate/butterscotch/strawberry on our plates, finishing which up seemed as daunting a task as hauling our sorry asses back to the hostel once the ordeal got over.

One can call it a lucky accident that we bumped into Karachi Bakery while strolling along the cobbled streets near Charminar, but the Kid assures me we had google maps and his flawless instinct to thank. We had more of the same chocolate truffle cake here, and marked out several items at this excellent bakery worthy of carrying back home to the expectant family. In lieu of our misadventures of last time, fate provided us with cake much smaller yet much more delicious than over-rated Paradise.

Mentioning the austere Baker’s Inn here would serve no interest other than a purely academic one, but it stands to reason that for a few depraved souls trudging aimlessly on a hot Saturday afternoon along the deceptively named Jubili Hills- the cold chocolate fudge slices did come as a draught of divine mercy.

SAUCERFUL OF SAMBHAR

While the spelling might be a bit dubious, there is no doubt that the Haddus are in love with the word 'baath/bhath/bath'. If the Wizard of Wank-over is to be believed, and he very well can be in matters concerning the gratification of the vegetarian stomach, it is quite popular in Tamizh Nadu as well. The several complex connotations of the word (all of which are worlds apart from the more regular meaning implying cleansing of the human body) somehow elude me. It behooves me to say that the only bath I am concerned about is a 'sambhar-bath'.

Imagine breaking your fast day after day after day by attacking crispy pieces of Vada floating about in a saucer of spicy sambhar, dipping said pieces in well-seasoned coconut chutney and then swallowing them like the famished primate you know early morning had turned you into. Quite something, innit?

I never get tired of that sambhar-vada. Neither do I find much cause to complain about lunch at the DMRL canteen, which is the same everyday- rice with lots of sambhar, plus a random mixed veggie dish of the culinarian’s choice. Cold curd goes well with the same. This frugal meal ensures that my appetite is well and truly whet for an evening of bird-surfeit.

MEN WHO STARE AT CARCASSES OF GOATS

Why restrict oneself to feeding only on bird-kind, I found myself wondering one day. Never before was a thought shared in such unanimous agreement among comrades. We needed no greater invitation than the sight of a few goat-cadavers hanging outside a Halal shop right in the heart of archaic Nawab-e-Hyderabad.

Prepared by pulverising the innards of a goat and seasoning the resulting gooey mess with selected spices, followed by several long hours of drying out in the sun- the Haleem is a truly exquisite specimen of Hyderabadi mastery that a non-vegetarian just cannot afford to miss. This once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for us was turned all the more memorable by the arrival of mutton biryani, which just about edges out its chicken counterpart in lusciousness.

Our newfound love for the lamb was expressed in every restaurant we went to following that. The bird had spectacularly fallen down the ‘pecking order’. I prayed for the souls of the countless fowls that had become my fodder, before pouncing upon the tender goat flesh that adorned my plate.

FILTER KAAPI

The trick behind making the perfect concoction is hidden somewhere in the deepest darkest and most inaccessible bowels of the planet. Despite the astronomical odds, I am positive it will be discovered one day. Till then, I have to make do with the relatively mediocre drink they serve 6 times a day here. After all, it is only the most sublime, extraordinarily succulent brew to have passed down my throat since the day I entered the murky realms of caffeine-addiction.

BUT I PREFER CHICKS... I MEAN, CHICKENS!

Chicken 65 and Hyderabadi Chicken, among other scrumptious preparations, threatened to win over our affections during a 4-day sabbatical from biryani. We were soon back on the holy staple though; no amount of tearing apart chicken pieces after digging them out of rice bowls could satiate our longing for flesh and blood.

We are all hyenas chasing chickens. We wouldn’t know what to do with them once we catch them, apart from devouring them at the earliest possible opportunity.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Hadduland, Part I: The Residency Conundrum

2011-06-11T00:37:00.003+05:30

As a kid, I lived in constant fear of my adopted grandmother- an elderly Telugu woman my mother had adopted as a second mother. With age came wisdom, and cognizance of the fact that she was just a lonely but extremely caring woman, and a harmless one at that. Scrupulous authoritarian though she was, the general tenderness of her nature quite often bordered on the vexatious- as did her propensity to offer one unasked assistance after another to her legion of adopted children and grandchildren.

That is not to say that I had to think twice before gladly accepting her residency proposal for my stay in Hadduland. A fellow named CS (one of her countless Haddu minions) was to arrange for the necessary accommodation for two. That was a load off my mind, and it was with little or no trepidation that we arrived in town and reached our humble stopgap dwelling situated right in the middle of the D.O. principality, and as far away from the heart of the city as geographically possible.

It wasn’t much- couple of beds, chairs, a desert cooler and an attached bathroom. The heat was oppressive, but the cooling not too shabby. The food was mediocre, just about edible enough to keep one alive- but an improvement over R any day. There weren’t too many people around, but the ones who were seemed rather nice people. There were good shops in and around the township- groceries, eateries, stationary, laundry, tailoring- but our needs were minimal. The bus-stop was right outside the hostel; but the work place, a leisurely 20 minute walk away at a place where no buses went. Life was as good as one could possibly hope for in unfamiliar territory.

That was when the trolls first made their presence felt.

We were given an ultimatum to vacate the room in two days, failing which we would face some unspecified consequences. This bolt out of the Hyderabadi blue was delivered to us by the grizzly old one with a scurvy moustache and a meanness of character that could be matched only by a Vogon ship commander. That wretched rabid toothy smile he parted us with haunted us all night long as we lay awake contemplating our next move in case the banishment threat came to fruition.

The natural reaction was to call CS- who naturally assured us that the afore-mentioned threat was one as empty as Liverpool’s Premier League trophy cabinet. Hardly reassured, we kept on our toes for the next few days. The lord of the trolls went AWOL, much to my astonishment, and a whole week was to pass before we would hear about the matter again.

He knocked on the door and growled his displeasure at still seeing us there. We promised him that we were on our way out, before sending another SOS call to CS. His voice sounded just as convincing as last time, only we weren’t convinced. Looking for alternatives was a painful job, and one we hadn’t anticipated at all. A chill ran down my spine as CS the Haddu genius laughed off my concerns and cut the call, thus condemning us to more sleepless nights.

Whatever diabolical intentions the trolls had, we would never know- for within two days, we voluntarily found ourselves out on the streets. Not wishing to join the ragamuffins sleeping on the pavements, and knowing better than to put our fate into CS’s hands again, we entered the most ramshackle building in the locality and implored the kind looking landlady for a room. She was only too glad to oblige. I already had a bad feeling about this.

There was no cooler, obviously- only a creaky old fan. Hard wooden cots sans bedding adorned the otherwise empty room- which with the excess of high windows gave us the impression of being more of a greenhouse than a place for humans to stay. Food was to be hunted for outside, while even drinking water was at a premium. And to defile the hallowed blog with an expatiation on the fascinating entrails of the necessarium is an exercise I would reserve for a ghastlier time.

This place is safe from trolls, the landlady who doesn’t speak a word of Hindi or English tries to assure us using symptomatic hand movements. The rent is frugal; she even ventures to promise us a slightly better room in a week’s time. We learn to make this pit of hell our inevitable everyday retreat and the work place, our eternal haunt.

Did I say pit of hell? Well, it sounds gut-wrenchingly grotesque, even to me, to say that we have spent quite an enjoyable week here! The sudden opening up of the skies and ebbing of the mercury helped, as did the timely arrival of nice soft mattresses and the discovery of a terrific Biryani and filter-coffee shop just down the road. Our fortunes once again seem to be on the rise-the growing optimism only strengthened by the excellent progress we have apparently made working inside the heart of national defence. But that is a tale worthy of another post.

The only problem we face now is the shutting down of the turnstiles as the adjoining church clock tower strikes 10. The kind old landlady and her kids are fast asleep by that time, and we are doomed to spend the night out with the friendly rag-pickers. But that is only if we are too shy to scale the locked gates. The Kid, my persistent partner in crime, complained that his ragged shoes wouldn’t be able to survive another mad scrimmage across the high obstacle. I am comforted by the thought that very soon, we would come to love that as well.

A Tale of Three Finals

2011-05-28T22:31:00.006+05:30

It was a tense day in Barcelona on 26^th May 1999, when three minutes was all that separated Bayern Munich from Champions League glory. They had played like worthy champions, battering treble-chasing Manchester United all the way, thus seemingly condemning them to taste bitter defeat at the biggest stage of them all. But romanticism was to be redefined that night. An improbable tale of resilience and triumph was to be scripted. When all seemed lost, Teddy Sheringham pulled the unlikeliest of rabbits out of his rather ragged hat, giving more than just a lifeline to United- giving them genuine hope of turning the tables during whatever injury time remained. But surely that was a ridiculous thought. Even Sir Alex seemed to think so. What Ole Gunnar Solskjaer did next will probably go down in history as the single greatest moment in a post-1968 United fan’s life.

Delirious players (including the unfortunate duo of Roy “captain fantastic” Keane and Paul Scholes who had to miss out due to suspensions) rushed on to the field and fell on top of each other in joy, while their stunned manager stood shaking his head at the sheer incredulity of what he had just witnessed. Fireworks lit up the sky, and the Mancunian section of the crowd could be found hovering perilously close to cloud nine. Manchester United had reached the promised land.

Half-way around the world, a ten year old boy turned in restless sleep. He scratched his head and made funny noises; but being too young to allow anything as frivolous as restlessness to awake him, he fell back into deep slumber dreaming of several red dots buzzing around like hysterical bees inside a honey-jar, smiling inadvertently, hardly comprehending the significance of the event he had just missed.

The boy, having aged 9 more years (but none the wiser for it), heard himself complain for the umpteenth time about the meanness of the rain gods in making the national capital so unbearably sultry at this time of the year. Turning the knob of the desert cooler to maximum, he settled down on the sofa and kept his eyes glued to the television set in order to get his mind off the summertime tortures. He was amused to see that it was pouring down in bucketfulls in Moscow, where the Champions League final was being played out.

He could barely contain his joy when Cristiano Ronaldo scored for United with a delicious header. A terrible knot was to form in his throat the moment Frank Lampard equalised, followed by the sudden surfacing of that familiar sinking feeling in his stomach that he knew so very well. The Drog got himself sent off in a manner not befitting a European Cup final, but even that wasn’t enough to assuage his fears. Extra time crawled to an end, both teams having survived a series of relentless attacks by the other. Penalties beckoned.

Cristiano of all people missed, and the boy banged his head on the floor in despair. His mother appeared out of nowhere in that unearthly hour and inquired about her son’s mental well-being. Maternal idiosyncrasies were the least of his worries though, as he saw CLLC John Terry walk with the confidence of a Chuck Norris facing a Lionel Messi in martial arts combat to take the final decisive penalty kick that stood between Chelsea F.C. and a first ever Champions League final trophy.

His eyes went wide with horror and then disbelief as Terry fluffed his shot wide and slipped like a toddler in the sodden grass, immediately proceeding to hide his face with his palms in a futile attempt to conceal his ignominy from the eagerly watching millions. Unable to hide his disgust, Roman Abramovich chewed some of his oil-mellow skin off instead of his nails. Anderson then coolly stepped up to slot his penalty in. Giggs followed suit. Nicolas Anelka hitting the ball straight at Van Der Saar seemed an almost inevitable twist of fate at this point. Bloody with delight, VDS raised his hands in the air and was promptly mobbed by his ecstatic team-mates, while bloody with relief, CR7 lay prostrate on the ground weeping his guts out. CLLC was doing nothing to prevent tears of shame from running down his embattled cheeks.

The boy dropped to his knees and waited for the sensation to set in. His mother, impervious to everything, urged him to go to sleep one final time before trudging away into the darkness herself.

Back in the present day, the boy is finally tiring of cursing his luck at having to miss the latest Champions League final the fairytale club he supports is playing in. In hindsight, choosing the dreary returns of an internship over homely pleasures, where one is naturally graced with a colour television and a Tata Sky special sports package to boot, seems to him a decision of astoundingly calamitous proportions. He will be spending match-time in the company of naught but his trusty laptop (technically, the Kid counts as company, but only technically), hoping against hope that United make light of his absence from the mob of spectators and go about their business with customary aplomb and pluck. It’s doubly difficult this time, but when has that ever stopped this team? He runs out of words finally, but hopes to return here soon if Manchester United succeed in pulling off what is being touted (not without reason) as Mission Implausible.

Life, the Internet and Blogging

2011-05-20T00:56:00.004+05:30

Far out in the unchartered recesses of the most unfashionable domain of the least popular kingdom of the World Wide Web lies the tiny unregarded Blogosphere.

Bang in the middle of this ever-expanding sphere is an utterly insignificant and alarmingly unfrequented blog, where the posts run so prolix that occasional readers prefer to play spider solitaire on their computers than linger long enough to finish reading.

This extraordinarily ordinary excuse for a blog came into being for no real purpose approximately 22 months back. Ever since, it has been surpassing all previously recorded levels of ordinariness with each passing post, rendering the web page an all the more insignificant assortment of meaningless kilobytes of information (out of the several meaningless zettabytes that make up the unimaginably vast WWW).

Of the gazillion homo-sapiens and droids taking sojourns across the Web on an hourly basis, maybe one in a zillion are aware of the existence of this blog, or indeed of the sordid blogger who goes by the preposterous half-modest half-brazen moniker of The Meek Kaiser. Even fewer are actually interested in reading through any new entries he might have made the terrible mistake of posting. Fewer still (if that is a number comprehensible to the human mind) know that the blog has thrived despite all the statistical improbability, and that the 42^nd post is now taking shape as the most absurd words ever spewed forth by the blogger in question adorn the web page he so adores.

The number doesn’t shock me one bit. If anything, there is an unshakable sense of disappointment about the fact that I haven’t raced past the answer by now. In other words, there couldn’t have been a more unremarkable time in my life to be posting post number 42 on the blog. That I was reading through DNA’s omnibus at the same time as the 42^nd loomed large isn’t by any means a meaningless coincidence, but it has been rendered precisely that for reasons that might dawn upon the reader if the italicised part above is dwelt upon with the seriousness it deserves.

I can however bet an arm, a leg and a couple of toes from the other leg that it won’t be. Not that it troubles me in any way. I have seen many a blog sprout out of nothingness and fade away quietly, mostly without the blogger suffering as much a solitary tinge of regret or nostalgia. The ones that endure (most of them can be reached by a single click of the links posted on the right hand side of this page) are a testimony to the tenacity and perseverance of the blogger, or in cases like mine, sheer lack of occupation and a bizarre desire to wax eloquent on bones of entirely capricious contention.

The semester has come to an abrupt end, but I’ll harp upon that later. Manchester United is now officially the greatest club in England, but I’ll revel in that success wordlessly for the time being. Also, Haddu-land beckons, and a seemingly less farzi intern than what the other Basterds have jugaaded. That will also have to wait for its few lines worth of blog fame, because this is the time for celebration- I am not sure of what exactly, or why- but 42 isn’t something that comes along every day.

Neither is 43 or 19 or 18001803333 for that matter.

P.S. My experience tells me that blogging is Mostly Harmless. That is not to say that the occasional occupational hazards of bruised egos and hurt prides are entirely unheard of.

His Last Bow

2011-04-27T22:12:00.001+05:30

The rule of Murphy’s thumb dictates that every long-running spectacle is met with an anti-climactically unspectacular end. Said dreadful thumb threatened to weave its way even into the Watch Out farewell- well, actually the series of farewells that ensued since that final meeting where we had waxed eloquent about the wonderful times spent working for the magazine.

The final nail in the coffin of my splitting of ways with WONA was put yesterday. With bereavement so severe, it often takes time for the appropriate emotional torment to set in. This was hardly the case with me though, for I could feel the pangs since early morning. The laughing faces that surrounded me through the photography session (rendered an utter sham due to the incompetence of the Pahadi shutterbug) and the subsequent valedictory ceremonies that concluded with the customary Dynasty feast (not a bite of which was left for me by the time I got done collecting funds) depressed me far more than their sad faces could have.

It was the realisation that I’d have no reason to be around these happy souls any more that knocked the stuffing out of my promise of keeping a stoic visage. But with the end so gallingly nigh, I took some time out of the bonhomie to let my mind linger a bit upon the truly extraordinary batch of individuals I had the fortune of being a tiny but not insignificant part of.

Apart from taking exceptional pride in the limitless reserves of knowledge withheld in his brain and flaunting it whenever and wherever necessary and unnecessary, Haaris Mateen also specialises in playing the multiple roles of inspirational leader, dutiful conversant and a beacon of hope in dire situations. Often found perambulating the campus in the company of Her Highness Deeksha Sood (newly crowned Empress of Watch Out by our imaginative fledglings), he is perhaps the only committed baster I would have no qualms in having as a friend.

The pride of Chinkistan frequently finds himself out of place here in extreme India, in the midst of those whose eyes haven’t suffered the same ridiculous sidelong elongation that is so common among people back home. That is not to say that he hasn’t got friends by the dozen- but then anyone who so relishes splashing cash around as if distributing seed-cakes to hungry hobbits could never be short of friends. When he’s not shooting aphorisms left, right and centre, Rajdeep Barua is almost always indulging in his one favourite hobby that serves as strength and weakness alike- taming the latest version(s) of photoshop while grappling with the countless obstacles posed by Windows 7.

I must admit, I rather envy Shreyas Krownose (or however else he prefers his adopted last name to be spelt as these days). The force is unnaturally strong within him. It almost seems unfair. He has a good CG- a very good CG in fact; his intern is in the land where the likes of Melanie Laurent stare back down at you from atop the wondrous Tower. As if that was not enough, he is the first person every youngster seeks advice from on anything remotely serious. A bloody hard worker whose astute jugglery with ghissing, formatting and Nesci bakar sessions seldom ceases to amaze me- this bugger is easily the most important reason behind the news magazine keeping in rude health the whole of last year. I believe a salute is in order for the maddu coffeebean-sucker.

About she-who-must-not-be-named, no amount of words is going to suffice. No kidding, for I had the most remarkable time working with her on the two most preposterous stories ever conceived in a Watch Out meeting. Over exposure to cribbity-crabbity did befuddle my mind for a bit, but it could only have been divine intervention that saved me from her devious clutches before it was too late. I am glad to have her as my friend, and needless to say, still enjoy the occasional online chat with Pippy Longstocking reincarnate.

Even a cursory observer of her persona would know that Gabbar’s laugh is much worse than her bite. It scares the living hell out of people, but I never held that against her. Suffering from that most unforgivable of maladies- obsessive compulsive ghissing disorder (with due credits to the person who came up with the term), she hardly endears herself to a grades-starved junta, but I wouldn’t dare hold that against her.

Nirupama K is a woman of a few words. She is also one of the classiest people I have known- classy in a detached but dignified way. May Haddu-land produce more such daughters, as well as sons of the PSR Akhilesh mould. Wit beyond measure happens to be his only treasure, but I admire him most for taking Yossarian’s words to heart- live forever or die in the attempt.

Mohit Sanwal and Somya Sheshank will ensure that the last year of my life in Jawahar Bhawan isn’t going to be completely devoid of WONA-esque class. This is perhaps too early to tribute the Webster and the Wastrel. Then there is of course Gursheen Kaur, who cannot be too fond of yours truly considering the only conversation I have had with her in recent months involved asking for money. The same goes for Khyati Rathore, but she strikes me as a more tolerant woman, and one unlikely to beat me up in any scenario.

Razak Gupta is another chap whose friendship I cherish, and whose fellowship I’ll continue to enjoy for many a DP to come. Anunaya Jha, Yasin Choudhary and Amandeep Singh have all been gems in their own rights- my only regret is that I could have gotten to know them better. Them and several others who graced the magazine with their incredible talents for some time before they found their calling elsewhere.

This end is just the beginning of a new adventure, one in which I feature only as a mute spectator. Exciting times lie ahead for the promising batch we have passed on the baton to, and something tells me they will not disappoint. But there comes a time when one has to let go that which one holds most dear to the heart. The way I look at it, this is good riddance as well. After 3 years of splendid fun, this batch is more than ready to call it a day. Leaving on a high isn’t a luxury afforded to all mortal men. I would struggle to find a better swansong than this.

Champions of the World

2011-04-03T10:09:00.005+05:30

That wasn't so hard now, was it? India just had to turn up to be crowned the best cricket team on the planet. As easy as demolishing the Pakis line-up while defending a paltry score of 260, the Indian batsmen annihilated the best bowling attack in the world and chased down a very similar score with professional machismo.

It was a sin to even dare to believe. When I remarked following the dismissal of our pivotal openers that India will still win comfortably, I was glared at and asked to STFU asap so as not to jinx it. I did precisely that. The rest, as they say, is history. I can see myself several years from now, reciting this tale to somebody's grandchildren- of how India won the cup because I STFUed asap. (Needless to say, I would also give due credit to the dew factor and Thisira Perera's incompetence.)

The feeling, which MSD and co. were struggling to describe in the euphoric moments right after the winning shot, was just surreal. That this event should happen at this day and hour is reason enough for me to die in peace. But I won't, not yet at least, because I figured something yesterday- were we, earthlings, to stumble across extra-terrestrial life in the near future, and were these fine creatures to organise an inter-galactic cricket tournament that would impart in the winners the supreme power to rule undisputed over the galaxy, surely Earth would send this knackered but bloody brilliant Indian team to represent it? To miss that spectacle would be a sin I wouldn't be able to atone for in my next 42 lives.

Finally, I cannot begin to express how important this cup is for the country. To say that the cricket team's phenomenal resurgence would inspire millions in their daily avocations would be a damn cliché. But for a nation that has bled for this bunch since heaven knows when- for the elegant and wristy batsmen, for the hard-working but flailing bodies of the fast bowlers, for the guile and deception of the spinners, for the helplessly languid fielders, through the 'tigers at home, lambs abroad' years, through the Indo-Pak wars and other man-made and natural calamities, through the dark ages of betting and fixing, and in the era where the greatest human being ever to lay his hands on a willow obliterated records for fun and made our lives worth living- this is sweet vindication indeed.

The sweetest perhaps.

World Cup Diaries: Fly You Fools!

2011-03-26T15:45:00.005+05:30

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Shanthakumaran Sreeshanth screaming raucously from the dug-out at the fall of Micheal Hussey's wicket.

If I were him (and I very well could have been, had my fast-bowling trial at the Malabar Cricket Club many summers ago gone any better, in which case I would surely have beaten him to that alluring spot of the only-crazy-mallu-in-the-national-team), I would be mad at my captain, the otherwise exceedingly lovable Mr. Yem Yes Dhoni. The man with an inexplicably brilliant intuition that often borders on the ridiculous (imagine throwing the ball to Jog Sharma when success in the inaugural slam-bang-boom-bam cricket tournament hung by the thinnest of threads) would surely have gotten some from my amazing repertoire of Anglicised Malayalam expletives that Shashi Tharoor would be proud of. After all, Sreeshanth isn't by any stretch of imagination a worse kind of fast bowler than the distressingly laggard Ashish Nehra or Jageera Dakait reincarnate Munaf Patel.

But since Sreeshanth's mother, like all good Mallu mothers taught him as a kid to put his country above everything else (except reality shows and rakish hairstyles), he swallowed the humiliation without a word of dissent and is now thoroughly enjoying his newfound stature as chief cheerleader and champagne bottle corker. This post cannot really justify harping on a non-participating member for too long, so I shall quickly turn my attention towards the legendary Picky Ronting.

You had your time out in the sun for a real good while, Picky. Picnic's all but over mate. It's time to pack up in your blanket all your prized belongings (which comprise quite an enviable assortment of trophies and medals, something Yem Yes would die to possess before he's sent packing himself) and make your bloody loathsome self scarce. You might have laughed behind his back when Sachin Tendulkar decided to walk, but guess who's having the last laugh now? Remember that lanky brute the Indians unleashed upon you in Sydney and Perth two years ago, the one who was called Ishant Sharma? Remember how he made you cry for your mommy, how you were a sitting duck before his piercingly precise bullets? Well, you should have known back then that your star had faded. Ishant wasn't even selected for the World Cup, what does that tell you about the rest of the Indian bowlers? And after the final Strauss that broke the Kangaroo's back last year and left your shell-shocked team to pick up the ashes, could the writing on the wall have been any clearer?

Arrogance has always been the Aussie way- it brought them such blinding success, and it is only just that it should bring about their downfall in such spectacular fashion. I have hated the whole bunch all my life. After the troika of world cup triumphs that took their superiority to ridiculous levels, my only wish was to see them fall before I die. And now that it has happened, ole Picky can fly back Down Under and either go hunting for Tasmanian devils in the countryside or go fishing for self-respect along with Shane Warne.

I have already presented my views on the West Indies cricket team, and anything more I say here will only be rubbing salt into their mortal wounds. Just like the Wizards of Oz, their delusions of regaining lost glory have swiftly been relegated to the after-life. They can enjoy the rest of the Cup walking along the beaches in Goa and taking pictures of fair maidens. The South Africans have been sent packing as well- no surprises there. Their latest exit from a big tournament can be said to be an almost perfect rendition of the art of going AWOL when it matters the most. Youngsters aspiring to learn how to choke need no longer enter into the tutelage of Darth Vader or Unabomb Kane. Any SA veteran who's been at a World Cup can illustrate it just as well, if not better. Messrs Pollock and Donald would be weeping their hearts out on seeing their successors live up to the outrageously high precedents they had set, while Hansie Cronje would be turning in his grave with envy at seeing the present vintage come such an emphatic cropper.

As true as day, England are just about to follow suit. We will then have the three sub-continental teams engaged in a deadly battle to claim the crown. That is unless the Kiwis turn into Ostriches overnight by virtue of some ancient Maori sorcery or India decides to emulate the Quixotic misadventures of their own ancestors, which would be a real travesty if ever there was one. If India wins, I wouldn't care whether Sachin gets his 100th 100 in the process or not. In fact, there would remain a certain romanticism about his career in every fan's heart if he were to hang up his boots at 99 centuries- much like the Last Don, whose greatness would hardly have been any lesser had his batting average actually made it to the three figure mark. And if he were to mastermind yet another Escape to Victory, Yem Yes Dhoni would definitely etch a permanent place for himself in the annals of Indian cricket, and in the Hall of Fame of celebrated captains who were rather more accomplished skippering than wielding the heavy willow (a list headed by Mike Brearley, the flawed genius who last spearheaded an English challenge at a World Cup).

Had it not been for a reinvigorated passion in the unofficial national sport, my dismal writer's block (for want of a better term) could have extended for a long long time still. As things stand, if the meek kaiser is seen in attendance on the night of the 2nd April, it could only mean 28 years turning to none.

World Cup Diaries: Kicked in the teeth

2011-03-06T17:49:00.002+05:30

In the world of sports, I find nothing more painful to watch than the fall of the mighty. When once unrivaled champions of the game get relegated to levels of mediocrity, the whole world sits up and takes notice. And they rejoice, because if there's one thing sports fans love to hate- it is the irksome monopoly of a single bunch of players at the top of their game. These fans eagerly wait for the leaders to implode, to come stumbling down the ladder and get replaced by new champions. But when the priceless vintage languishes in unknown depths, their once complacently appeased supporters are left disillusioned and almost heart-broken.

Take the West Indies national cricket team for instance. If any more proof was needed of the despicable state of affairs in WI cricket since the glory days of the 1970s, it arrived in the form of a scrape-through victory against a valiant Bangladesh team in the 10th edition of the cricket world cup. A bowling attack containing two of the fastest bowlers (Messrs Roach and Sammy) and the tallest spinner in the world struggled to bowl out the wonderfully adept Bangla batsmen, allowing them to reach the massive total of 58 runs. So terrible was the bowling that it would at times be almost a couple of balls since the fall of one wicket to fell another, while the outstandingly brilliant batting on display reminded the spectators of the batting of such legendary South Asian batsmen as Saleem Durrani and Abdul Riyaz. That almost every Bangla batsmen broke the duck while only 3 Windies bowlers were brave enough to come on and bowl further fortifies the overwhelming feeling of utter and comprehensive Bangladeshi superiority.

About West Indies' batting, the lesser said the better. Shafiul and Naeem Islam, visibly chuffed following such devastating exhibition from their ever reliable batsmen, lined up to bowl the opening overs, with a look in their eyes that suggested they would be showing absolutely no pity for the Carribean willow-wielders. The supremely confident and versatile Bangladesh team used half a dozen bowlers, each more lethal and terrifying a figure than the other. The WI batsmen huffed and puffed their way to the target with only a precarious 38 overs to spare, largely due to the thick edges flying off their bats into the boundary and the Bangla fielders being blinded by the bright Mirpur sun that has been known to cast doom for many a Sheikh and Haseena in the past. That the West Indians then celebrated wildly as if they had achieved the victory almost effortlessly just goes on to show the extreme levels of delusion they currently find themselves in the clutches of.

So the Windies left the ground as fortuitous victors, whereas their immensely talented opponents whose performance would be making India and South Africa quake in their boots right now left with their heads held higher than the distant clouds. A distraught Clive Lloyd was seen in the stands weeping inconsolably into the shoulders of Maninder Singh (of all people). In an interview later that evening, Lloyd expressed little or no hope for WI cricket as long as they are going to allow the opposition to slaughter their bowling and annihilate their batsmen like this.

How very depressing. There was a time when the West Indies cricket team, spearheaded by none other than Clive Lloyd himself was on top of the world, even untouchably so. Their super-human powers made them an unstoppable force of nature. India, England and Pakistan were poor excuses for rivals, living in constant mortal fear of the men from the Carribean. And look at them now. They can barely manage to pull one over a team of novices, many of whom were not even thought of during the time Lloyd and co. were obliterating their adversaries with brazen nonchalence. Unless they can swiftly create younger clones of Lloyd, Richards, Garner, Sobers, Roberts and Walsh, the West Indies will forever be lost in the wilderness of international cricket.

At the very end of my rant, I am faced with a rather philosophical question: how do I even give a damn if West Indies cricket rots in hell?

Watch this space for more.

Sweet Retribution

2011-02-09T20:11:00.004+05:30

They said we was the best thing to happen
Since sliced bread and deep-fried bacon
We could do no wrong, not one step misbegotten
For who knew? We could go forever unbeaten!
Then came the signs- not the first of their kind
Something did smell (what's the word?), rotten
A stutter that was now all too familiar
Caused hardly a flutter, for we knew for sure
We will never die, we will never die
We'll keep the red flags flying high!
So behind we went with the night still young
Parity beckoned with strikes but one
We ran, we fell, we got up and we ran
So far so good, 'twas all going to plan
The goal would arrive, inevitably so
And then would another, if not many more
We puffed our chests and held our breaths
Anxiety was but natural, even with a thing so certain
And time kept running- we got uncertain
Clutching at straws, hoping against hope
The comeback had taken a tad too long
And still we waited as we reached extra time
Lose at effing Wolves. A thoughtless crime!
Come on you reds, there is still time
Make not yours truly splutter up his rhyme!
Yet the ball was in perpetual divorce
The back of the net had left it for worse
And as I conclude my woeful verse
I am left gutted (absolutely)- no more words.

But wait, I say, halt on your tracks!
Although this time there was no comeback
I was left incensed, seething with fury
By the antics of (who else) the bloody ABU
Exulting as if clubwhatsitsname had won the darned league
For he knew precisely the way I would feel
The war'd still go our way, but what of the battle?
As quick as I could, I bolted out of sight
Enough, I say, of his witless prattle
Tomorrow again, will we not see the light?

We gathered once more in our homespun haunt
Prepared to hurl many a tactless taunt
'Twas time for revenge- for the hunter to be hunted!
The Bridge was playing host to drama unprecedented
Ladyman had presently switched alleigances
Bizarre (methought with a chuckle) - blasphemy! Cried the Dippers
Traitor! Judas! May you rot in hell!
Well this should be fun, I found me saying
Now if only the laggards would get down to playing
The ABU, confident, what a nauseating sight!
Shaky beginnings give him hardly a fright
"I know we'll win, we gots lotsa money"
Now doesn't it seem a wee bit funny
That Ladyman would miss their only real chance
The Dippers would slot one- a lovely glance
Rentboyz could scarcely believe their eyes
Rattled was the ABU, and rattled other guys
And so it ended, a narrow affair
Disbelief writ large on his countenance
Ladyman retreated to his brand new lair
A jig I might have broken into, or a happy song
For when there's despair, delight doesn't take long
"What goes around, comes around"
ABU (pride hurt) bowed his head in shame
Your classlessness now, did it come to any fruition?
For mate, don't you know the name of the game?
It's "Sweet Retribution".

Skin

2011-02-02T19:41:00.004+05:30

Up in the mountains, where the air is pleasantly cooler and there is an all-pervading levity, where the mornings are clearer and the streams a fainter shade of sky-blue, things seem to make infinitely more sense than back down here. Thoughts inside the head are not as bothersome, for all profundity is left languishing at the bottom. The eyes warm up to the bewitching spectacle of sunrise and the ears find music in every drone of the evergreen. The earth feels softer and the food ever so more delectable, its aroma filling the depraved lungs like water seeping into a punctured boat. With delights so many, the only thing that deters a hasty descent of blissfullness is the crushing awareness of loneliness. Friends are conspicuous by their absence. A tiny pebble that escapes the hands and hops along playfully on the surface of water, only to eventually drown into its unfathomable depths serves to make the bitter truth all the more powerful and irrefutable.

It wasn't all bad though. The melodrama of the preceding paragraph notwithstanding, my heart went out to the kids who tried to make a memorable trip out of a practical farce. I did find my peace with the mountain life- with the boisterous revelry of younger souls, with the incessant chatter of the effeminate, with balls and bodies flying around, with the unsavoury odour of high-altitude tea (made using lama milk) and with sleeping cuddled up inside tiny tents flanked on either side by fellow capricious males. But the nagging realisation that none of this even compared with the joys of last year kept me on my toes for every lasting second. That is not to say that nature itself didn't conspire to help overcome the mundane with unheralded exhibitions of skin- both tender and bestial.

It had been with utter dismay that we reacted on reaching a dead end following our laborious ascent up a treacherous series of rocks. Panting from the ordeal, we realised that it had been folly to take the left road at the very beginning of the path. The waterfalls were obviously situated at the end of the sister road, quite possibly far more treacherous than the present one. While people stood looking at one another with accusatory eyes for having been made to undergo this futile journey, there was a cry of surprise from none other than the Bugger himself.

Another small incline took us atop a little hill at the end of which lay a yawning hole leading undoubtedly into a cave. The dark and dingy cave was prudently deemed out of bounds, and it was hardly the reason behind old Bugger's excitement. For nailed to the ground right before the entrance of the cave was the majestic carcass of a leopard, or rather just the smooth, velvety skin that once covered its flesh. The innocuous leopard skin lying there like that was a real sight to behold, and definitely one of the last shreds of evidence proving that the land once used to be a safe haven for wild creatures galore. I half expected some savage beast to appear out of the cave and leap upon us prying strangers, but nothing of the sort happened. The head of the dead leopard pointed skywards and the two slits that once beheld a bovine pair of eyes stared back at us, as if suspicious of our intentions. We stood admiring this unique spectacle for a several unforgettable moments, before deciding to trace back our steps and turn towards the waterfalls this time.

The trek up to the source of pellucid aqua pura was a backbreaking one indeed, the path riddled with one life-threatening obstacle after another (angrily braying mules and the likes). When we finally came across a little pool of freezing cold yet crystal clear water, we decided to travel no further and immediately proceeded to dip our weary feet into its tingle-inducing insides. The sensation was a most pleasant one, but I was soon gaping in horror as some of the braver souls in our company threw caution to the winds and took a leap of faith into the pool. Most of them were dressed from head to toe, some of the foolish ones even forgetting to remove their electronic gadgets before jumping in. The cry of agony made in unison as the chill made contact with their skin rent through the air, but pleasurable moans and deep gasps were very soon in order. My skin shivered the slightest bit upon envisaging a similar spell of anguish and subsequent ecstasy.

After the sacred Himalayan waters had been befouled sufficiently by the combined dirt of all our bodies, we endeavoured to make a move out of the place. The best surprise yet was to greet us before we left, one that was the culmination of a series of events set into motion by the arrival of two lovely ladies at the pool. Several pairs of greedy masculine eyes moved mechanically towards the newest centre of attraction. As the two fair maidens went and hid themselves behind the rocks adjoining the pool, we broke free of our reverie and started making a move on.

Now, how am I at fault for having taken a slightly different route from the others along the pool (that nevertheless gave me an ephemeral glimpse of the scene from behind the rocks) and for one of the strumpets choosing that very moment to yank off her top, thus revealing the skin on the back of her body? Hormones might place the blame squarely upon my shoulders- I would still beg to differ. This did however give us a great subject for discussion on our journey back to the land of fully-clothed women and renegade friends. I defended my integrity quite valiantly all the way, but to little avail. The overwhelming emotion was still one of satisfaction- this trip hadn't been a total waste after all.

P.S. The title is a fleeting tribute to the peerless Mr. Roald Dahl. Without the many yarns that he spins, life would be a terrible bore and sleeplessness, an unexplored malady.

Hitherto Shalt Thou Come

2011-01-22T16:27:00.006+05:30

It is amazing how one can experience the entire gamut of emotions known to mankind, all in a single day. Primarily because of my fluctuating sentiments on the day and the sheer incredulity of the events that transpired, I am not likely to forget the 16th of January 2011 in a hurry. For a few young men whose sporting exploits had more to do with watching games on the television than actually exerting themselves on the field like the players they admired, this day was to mark an unprecedented victory of a sort they hadn't ever known before in their lives. But I refer to victory here in a deceptively metaphorical sense of the word- for victory was precisely what they were denied, in what has to be the biggest travesty ever to have taken place in the fair and just land of R.

It was a shock of sorts for me that Sunday when the gargoyle stormed into my room at the unearthly hour of 9.30 a.m. (when the Meta folk are all fast asleep and there is an unnerving silence in the air) and told me in excited tones that we were expected in the football field in half an hour for the first of our Intra-Bhawan matches. Frantically running around the wing, we banged at doors and woke up the players. A team was thus collected and marched away to the field, led by none other than the gargoyle himself. But they were all half-sleepy and riddled with self-doubts; kicking the ball around for fun amongst themselves in the tiny Jawahar lawns was one thing- playing against competent opposition in a big ground in a tournament of some importance, quite another. The gargoyle's pep talk was drowned by our laughter directed at his splendid vocabulary, but it served the purpose- we were ready to play and give our very best.

Much to our surprise, the first two teams we encountered were both relatively mediocre- made from an assortment of plump and lethargic matkas who looked like they were kicking a football for the first time in their lives, we hardly broke a sweat while dispatching them 2-0 and 3-0 respectively. A thousand chances were created in both the games, and it was only our bizarre profligacy in front of goal that prevented us from taking our goal tally to double figures. It was nevertheless a great beginning for us- admittedly, a sterner test awaited in the final, but we were well in the groove for it.

To my mind, the two teams we played against were there merely to make up the numbers, in what can only be a bid by our ever astute Bhawan Secy (the brains behind the tournament) to harp on the handsome participation in Intra-Bhawan events during his Bhawan Day soliloquy. Not that one finds a great deal to complain about when one is winning, but I cannot help but begrudge the Secy a little for the plethora of dubious decisions that went against us (his desperate lack of footballing knowledge notwithstanding, the Secretary doubled up as the referee in both our games). To cry foul would be to incur the wrath of the grand-master custodian of the tournament, and so we kept mum at the time. Little idea had we about the many atrocities he still had in store for us.

When we saw our challengers for the trophy reach the finals by playing half the number of games as we did, we raised some honest quibbles which were brushed away nonchalantly by Mr Secy. Knackered though we were following our two ordeals lasting 40 minutes each (however effortless the victories might have seemed), we had no choice but to face-off against the relatively fresher side that boasted of half a dozen inter-IITs in their eleven. We took many great gulps of water in anxiety as we watched these exceptionally skilled boys practice on the side-lines before the game, and knew we had our task cut out. Just as we assumed our positions and waited for kick-off, I shifted my gaze towards the referee (Mr Secy again), and I could have sworn that this is what the look on his face said: Hitherto shalt though come, but no further. A chill ran down my spine, the nip in the air hardly helping to alleviate my concerns.

This was the toughest battle yet, the toughest of our lives even. We could either buckle under pressure and surrender meekly, thus choosing the easier way out to end our agony, or we could stand up and be counted and prove that we are worthy contenders. And so it was as astonishing for us as it was for our opponents and the handful spectators present there to see how fiercely we competed- giving an eye for an eye, tongue for every waggling tongue, and tackle for tackle- we were playing out of our skins, only God knows how. We defended resolutely (I was in that very crucial and ever under fire position of centre-back), holding the play up admirably in midfield and releasing the troika of our attackers with great defence-splitting passes and long balls. It was as if we had decided that these were going to be the most important 40 minutes of our lives- we knew we wouldn't ever get a similar opportunity again- it called for a special effort, for something that would make the day memorable.

I felt an almost unreal sense of exhilaration within, as if daring to believe that this could be our lucky day. We were playing very well, surely it was only a matter of time? That is when the Webster shot in one of his characteristic crosses from the right flank and the Kid (of all the unlikely heroes) came flying out of nowhere to meet the ball with his wavy locks and guide it into the net. Our collective roar of delight comprehensively subdued the opposition's cries of anguish- contrary to all expectations, we were in front, and now it seemed to be a matter of seeing out the final few minutes before David would earn the right to point and laugh at Goliath. So we regained our composure and pulled ourselves together once again to keep them at bay. Time was almost up now, and every eye was looking expectantly towards the ominous figure of the Bhawan Secy, waiting for him to blow his cursed whistle and signal the end of the tournament.

But we went from ecstasy to heartbreak in a matter of just a few seconds, as the Secy's reluctance to pull the trigger granted a chance for the rivals to pull off a great Houdini escape act. Amidst bewilderment in having to play for so long (by normal clocks, the 20 minute second-half of the game was long over), the ref saw it fit to award a penalty to them; before we knew it, they were level with us and moments later, the Secy blew his whistle nice and long with a satisfied grimace on his ugly face. Our repeated pleas that the ball was nowhere near the defender's hands when he was charged for handball inside the box fell on deaf ears. Disbelief writ large on our faces, we went down collectively as a body that had suffered a fresh bullet wound on the chest, collapsing to the ground while our opponents celebrated as if they had won. The injustice of it all rankled as we braced ourselves for the penalty shoot-out, but we knew it was a lost cause now. There was little or no breath left inside us- never before would such a demoralised team have been asked to kick a football. They scored 3 penalties while we could slot only 2, and it was all over for us.

As we walked back in quiet dejection, leaving behind the triumphant lot to enjoy drinking champagne out of the proverbial cup, there was only one thought running through our minds- we had been robbed today. To win in such a manner hardly seemed to make the victors any less deserving of victory in the eyes of all and sundry, but not a single soul could revile us for lack of endeavour on the day. Our superhuman efforts had come for naught, it seemed by the referee's generosity towards our younger and more skillful conquerors. At that moment, we swore vengeance against the Bhawan and the wicked Secratary. Never again would any of us be blessed with another shot at sporting immortality, but we'll always remember how close we came to achieving precisely that on this particular occasion.

Bucket Full of Wishes

2010-12-27T16:31:00.004+05:30

Dear Santa

Did you know that at your home, the North Pole, the earth is actually flat and the diameter of the hypothetical sphere that our planet is, is the minimum possible? An interesting fact that we in India are taught as kids, though I'm sure you already know all about it. I am pretty sure that it was you who fed our scientists with all the bollocks regarding the Poles. I doubt if anybody who claims to know so much about the extreme frigid corners of the world has actually been there.

Ending my digression here (it's not much of a digression really, since I never began with my point), I shall come to the point. Greetings old man! Long time since we last corresponded. How are you doing these days? All that globe-trotting in company of your trusted reindeer would have tired you out, I guess. That is why I write to you today, for I assume you would have rested well on Boxing Day. Kids still love you, you know that? Which is quite remarkable considering that wikileaks accidentally leaked a report that happened to hint at the fact that you are not real. Now everybody knows that's a load of tosh. Good ole Uncle Sam duly responded by locking up ole Julian in the dark dungeons under ole Rockefeller's ancient mines.

Anyway, I really hope I have been good rather than bad. To tell you the truth, I haven't really had the time to judge myself, for this year just flew! Whatever happened in these 365 days is a blur to me. That's a bummer really, because I had a lot of expectations of 2010. I have however made the startling realisation that time flies out of control only during the summers. The frigid hell that you inflict upon us during the festive period (and it still doesn't even snow in my country) seems to slow every damn thing down, even time. It might be Rahul Dravid's batting or Sadhguru's drooling discourses that make me say that, but I'll be really grateful if you could do something about fast-forwarding vacation time and sending me back to the place I belong to (even though both of us agree that it's a foul place infested by foul folks), before I take a handful of my brilliant black hair by the scruff of their roots and yank them right out of the scalp. Oh, and while you're at it, could you please crank up the temperatures a bit too? It's just that I, who seldom falls ill, nay, who never falls ill, have been laid down miserably by an attack of a cold so mean and callous that breathing itself has become a terrible struggle. If it wouldn't be too much trouble for you, please do ask global warming to stop dilly-dallying and hurry up.

Meanwhile, I have little to complain as regards football, though I'm sure my good friends back in Great Britain are crying their arses off at the string of canceled games that followed the sub-zero temperatures. Have some mercy on them please, Santa. You wouldn't want to tick off the barmiest of your customers now, will you? So again, if it isn't too much to ask for, could you go ahead and under-heat the frozen grounds at least 24 hours prior to kick-off (unless they're playing at the Bridge, in which case a even whole week's heating would scarcely suffice), and not wait for lame duck human technology to try its rotten luck at pulling off the same? Also, the position our club from Old Trafford is in at present is beyond the wildest imaginations of the staunchest of supporters. Please let it remain that way. Since I've already become more of an Englishman than an Indian and incurred the wrath of my countrymen for the same, I would also consider it a wonderfully terrifically superbly fabulously fantastic favour if you could ensure that the holy urn remains in the Queen's country come January, and those bumptious fans from Down Under beat their own players to death with Kookaburra balls.

Before I forget Santa, I must tell you that I was the victim of a robbery attempt last week in Delhi. Now how cool is that? I just cannot thank you enough for breaking the bloody monotony of my bloody monotonous life by throwing me right into the middle of such a delightfully life-threatening situation. This happened when I was traveling to the Delhi Book Fair on one of those brilliant green buses that are now plying their trade on Delhi roads. I dealt with the blood-thirsty scavengers who tried to ravage my pockets with such consummate and unspectacular ease that the tale doesn't even merit relating in its entirety. It should suffice to say that I escaped from the ordeal without as much as a scratch. For the record, the Book Fair was brilliant as always. I missed not seeing Ruskin Bond though. Usually he's there on the first day itself, all smiles and shaking hands left, right and center. Do give him a longer life than what he's made for, won't you?

Let me tell you Santa, that was all the excitement I had in the last one month. And I have sinned these vacations- I have been flirting relentlessly with the dark side, on the darkest of dark fraternising places built for humans- Facebook. Sheer joblessness has driven me to commit this unspeakable crime. The Illuminati have woven a bloody web around me that is impossible to shrug off, that pulls me constantly towards their walls and gives them a free rein on my wall for posting anything and everything. The worst thing is that I am actually enjoying all this! What is happening to me old chap? Looks like only a quick reunion with my fellow Basterds can stem the rot. I can't let this sea of darkness flood into the stadium of light that I have built from scratch, so meticulously, brick by brick, with a little bit of help from my mates. You know this very well Santa- there's so much more philandering to do, more books to thud shut and throw into deep corners, more catching up to do on lost sleep, and more grades to fell. A trying semester awaits, I tell you.

Now the time has almost arrived for me to go back. It seems, for the very first time since the time I first went back to R, I am hesitating. Will my grades continue on this unprecedented downward spiral? It's not so unprecedented any more, and I should really have seen the fall coming. You obviously saw it last year itself. The biggest gift of all during the Christmas of 2009 would have been a forewarning of things to come. I think the warning must have arrived some time- only that I was foolish enough to miss it. Anyway, I promise to mend my ways during the coming year. This shall not be like the promises I have made on previous new years- nope, not at all. I seriously intend to bring about a change now. Soon, as soon as I am done with watching all the new stuff that I downloaded.

In other news, my brother is fast approaching his date with destiny. The journey that he embarked upon with such great promise several months ago is in danger of ending with a whimper. If it isn't too much to ask for, Santa, please give him some sense. Let not all the talent that the boy hoards inside go merely towards arguing with his brother and back-biting at his mother.

This was fun Santa, writing to you. Once a year doesn't do justice to it at all, I'm going to write more often now. I wonder if it gets lonely for you out there without a lady Santa. Don't worry, it's the same for most of us back here. I for one have as much chance of charming a woman as you would have of fitting into Emma Watson's Christmas gown. Sorry Santa, that was a cheap shot. Hope you have a really smashing year. Tell you what, I have been traveling by the same green bus every single day following that incident, and nothing of note ever happened again. So if it isn't asking for too much, could you please plant a couple of scabby pick-pocketers on the next bus I'm on? It's just that I would love to not go mute next time and give an earful to those who attempt to decamp after befuddling me.

That would be all.

The Meek Kaiser

Phoebe

2010-12-11T15:39:00.010+05:30

‘One step for a cat. A giant leap for kitty-hood!’ The Mandrill, moments after Phoebe’s first suicide attempt- a heroic two-storey leap of faith.

‘Dash that kitty, ungrateful brute!’ The Kid, frantically searching for his trousers, putting them on in a rather haphazard fashion and racing downstairs in the hope of reaching the spot and waiting to arrest Phoebe’s free fall.

‘Every dog has its day. And every cat has its bitch!!’ Bizarre but excruciatingly profound words of wisdom. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the Gargoyle has spoken.

‘She’s nibbling on your shoes again. She deserves a real spanking. Let me take her to my room and give her what she has asked for.’ That from the the Reticent Gogolo, speaking a sentence of such length for possibly the first time in his uneventful life.

‘Come kitty kitty, jump on our laptops, show them kittens why World of Warcraft is kitty’s play indeed!’ The insane Webster, inviting her to invade his new shiny keyboard with her hairy feline paws and take a leak on them shiny little keys if she felt like.

‘I dare ye kitty, I double dare ye! Relieve yourself one more time in my room and I will send you hurtling back to the ground floor!’ That would be me, well, retaliating for very obvious reasons.

‘I will ride her some day.’ The Gargoyle again.

‘She has got slits for eyes. Look at them, staring at me from beneath the mat. Oh no, there’s murder writ large on them!’ Madu has obviously been reading too much of the Oatmeal these days.

‘Help, help! She is going to jump again!’ The Mandrill, who refused to ever touch Phoebe’s furry skin with his bare hands, fearing that he might like the sensation.

‘What is this, her milk bowl is empty again?! Quick, call the mathematician, we need more milk!’ Shuklaji, Phoebe’s primary financier and occasional visitor. His place in the grand scheme of events can be likened to that of a butcher feeding the lamb senseless in preparation for slaughter-day.

‘Man, she is the sweetest thing. She is sweeter than paal-payasam and tayir-saadam. Did you say you need more milk? Pardon me, but I have reserved all my milk for other purposes’. Straight from the mouth of the ickle’ mathematician. Despite the sardonic nature of his comment, he is perhaps one of two people (the other being the Kid) who is in this with nought but only noble interests.

The Kid and his pussy

In order to dispel any doubts that might have crept into the reader’s mind by this time, I shall venture to reveal that this creature called Phoebe is indeed one belonging to the cat family. She had wandered into the Meta wing one fine evening, blissfully ignorant of the many dangers posed by the vile canines that roamed around the place at the same hour. The smiling Surd leapt in between cat and dog before the latter could do as much as flash a nasty grin at the little one, and thus we landed a homeless kitty to take care of. Not everybody looked at it as an irritable and unnecessary responsibility as yours truly did, least of all the Kid. He welcomed her into his life with open arms, effectively giving her a free passage into all our lives.

I raised the issue of giving a proper name to the kitty. (The Mandrill made the ludicrous suggestion that she be named Garfield) Beating stiff competition from such imaginative names as Sheela, Minerva, Smelly Cat and Mrs Bigglesworth (all except the last one came from my head), Phoebe won (again my idea!). Foul-mouthed lot that we were, and the mischievous prat that she turned out to be, seldom was she referred to by this name by anybody sans the Kid.

If I am to be a tad unreasonable here, I would put the blame for my bad grades on the kitty. To say that our lives completely changed following her arrival would be to make a gross understatement. People played with her all the ducking time. They fed her milk, brought her eggs and stroked her sleek neck and scaly ears and elastic underbelly. I had chanced to lay my eyes upon a rat some days prior to Phoebe's coming, and couldn’t remember seeing it escape from the cosy confines of my room. In such circumstances, I steeled myself to put up with the deplorable ways of the kitty, in the hope that she will someday grow up to become a strong and plump molly-cat who would then guard our doors and keep them rodents at bay.

As the days went by, folks grew really fond of her. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what all the fuss was about, but I let her live. The Kid woke up to her smiling face and adorable little eyes every morning- feeding obligations ensuring that his oversleeping days were at an end. Soon, he would be joined by a motley crowd consisting of the gogolo, the Webster, the Surd, Mota, Madu and almost always, yours helpless truly, in watching and marvelling at the antics of the little ball of fur, having fun with her for what everybody knew deep within wouldn’t be too long a time. Each of the lads assumed the position of the kitten’s fathers- 1^st father, 2^nd father and so on- while I, true to my nature, took up the rather modest and seemingly irrelevant mantle of being her Godfather.

The inevitable end came when it was time for all the fathers and solitary Godfather to pack their bags and leave for home, and the question of the kitten’s future was raised in worried whispers. With no option left but to set her free, all alone to face the dangers of the outside world, the Kid and everybody else did precisely that, with a very heavy heart, not at all sure if they would ever see her again. Me, well I had an awesome blog post ready in my mind. But yes, my heart was also welling with the tiniest trace of emotion for the very first time for this unwelcome little guest. I wonder if she will be standing outside my door to greet me when I am there to open it at the end of this month.

P.S. This is the first time that RG, Madu and Mota feature on this blog. I am eternally grateful to them. The usual suspects- led by the Gargoyle and the Mandrill- will always have my good grace.

Scandalous

2010-11-20T11:59:00.013+05:30

I happened to catch the gargoyle in a most peculiar posture the other day.

'What are you doing?'

My query was met with a stoic silence. The gargoyle's ears seemed to be shut as tight as his eyes were. There was a grave look on his face, pensive features almost giving way to some sort of expectancy. It was clear that he was waiting for something to happen. He sat with his knees crossed, his palms joined and in contact with his chin, carrying out as if with a great effort the heavy inhalation and exhalation of the very toxic ambient air in his room.

If I had to bet my money on it, I would say that he was meditating. And by the looks of it, he had entered a near comatose state of mind, wherein a living being is rendered oblivious to happenings around him. He might have been physically present right in front of my eyes, but his mind had wandered off far across the oceans into distant lands. He was dreaming of walking upon lush green meadows, listening to the gentle gurgling of crystal clear brooks as a cool wind brushed through his hair and the golden sun shone with a dazzling brilliance upon his face.

I rubbed the sweat off my right hand on my clothes and smacked him hard across his face. He sprang backwards involuntarily like a wounded animal and opened his eyes wide in the shock of the moment. It was an utterly satisfying sight, one that stays in memory for eternity, one that was followed by a kiss of the fingers and a grin for the ages.

To rid the poor soul of his speechless astonishment, I hit him again with a slightly rephrased question. 'What in the name of Sheldon Cooper's ephemeral libido are you doing?' He acknowledged the wit in my remark with an appreciative look that almost immediately gave way to his customary scowl. Brushing me aside, he re-assumed his meditative pose, inhaling deeper than ever and evidently straining extremely hard to dispel all thoughts of this unwelcome interruption from his mind. Intrigued, even annoyed by this behaviour, I stomped my foot hard on the ground.

'I am praying.' He was praying. I cleared my throat audibly to express a desire for more information. 'I am praying. I am praying to the heavens for good sense.' That made a lot of sense. One honestly cannot think of any better occupation that could keep an educated modern-day bloke busy. There was only one thing for me to do now.

'Mind if I join you?' 'By all means, comrade', pat came the reply. The moment he resorted to Marxist glossology was the moment I concluded that there was little hope left for the gargoyle. I nevertheless took my slippers off and perched myself upon a tiny semi-clean corner of the room, pulling off a tame imitation of what he was attempting. I closed my eyes and tried my best not to breathe in voluminous gulps of air.

Nothing happened for a good while. Enlightenment eluded me. Random thoughts hopped hither-thither inside my weary mind. Mingled visions of the past, present and future formed lucid and distinctly gray, and disappeared into nothingness the moment I started questioning their veracity. An hour passed like this, and more. I lost count of time. The sound of rats scurrying away somewhere in the vicinity reached my ears. It wasn't long before I realized that it emanated from within my stomach.

I braced myself for the inevitable break. 'Game for Baadshah, comrade?' A sudden exhalation followed; a much needed one too by the looks and sounds of it. 'Hell yes.' All that was left was to throw on a jacket and put the slippers back on, and off we ventured into the wintry night with the intention of engaging ourselves in the one activity of humankind's that does not involve thinking or straining of the mental nerves in any form- eating good chicken.

For want of a better post

2010-11-13T02:58:00.004+05:30

The whole concept of kauwagiri amuses me. To the extent that I couldn't stop talking about it long after its pioneers had traded R for exotic lands in pursuit of a living. It was more a self-assumed sense of responsibility to keep the sensation alive and help spread its wings in the expanding campus than anything else. But like it happens with all good things, the wheels that kept it rolling had to come to a grinding halt at some time, sooner or later. Skepticism regarding the institution of kauwagiri was at an all time high. Valiant though we successors were, there was nothing we could do to prevent a slow but certain death. Purists had a field day, bashing up the concept and slaughtering its bearers with the vengeance of the Bear Jew pounding an unwitting Nazi soldier to death.

To be honest, we successors were anything but valiant. Especially me. Krow nights came and went by, but the krows remained missing in action. Who was I kidding anyway? I never was a krow, and I knew deep within that I never could become one. Call me a spectator, an admirer of the flocks, a silent 'hidden in the shadows' perpetrator of the ideology that threatened to topple the world order- but ask me to sport cool shades, don pink shorts, grow a pony-tail and cover my head with a Keffiyeh, and I will just shrug my shoulders and shy away into the background. I was reduced to pointing wistfully at them flightless birds from a safe distance and reminiscing about an era of krowsomeness that was at its end. The blog was dying too, with our venerated krows finding else-what to occupy themselves than the passing juvenile fancies of their college lives. Heaven knew the insti junta was crying out for some new phenomenon that would blow their brains out. And I expected myself to deliver.

Then something unexpected happened. Like all unexpected occurrences in the past, it was called Thomso. Having known months in advance that the grandest Krow-night of them all was not even on the agenda this time, I felt any last hope I had of a revival fade away and die in my heart. Doomed to attaching a fitting R.I.P tag to Kauwagiri and resigned to watching videos of the triumvirate of Prakhya, Sreevalsa and Rama give their own terrific rendition of Hips Don't Lie in the final memorable escapade of the last of the krows, nothing could have prepared me for the arrival of the greatest mob yet of kauwas to ever grace R-land.

It was a predominantly feminine crowd, almost all of whom seemed to have forgotten their make-up sets at home. They crawled the campus on all three days, looking downright dreadful, walking with arms around one another, conversing in an archaic tongue that was once associated with the natives of the Goguryeo Kingdom. They eyed me as if I was the obnoxious outsider and they were the home team. Right from flocking every flock-worthy space on campus to dressing up in revolting costumes and fighting for stage space and time, our farcical femme fatales left absolutely no stone unturned in spreading their joy. Lip-smearing antics in the company of classless concomitants ensured that they were to eventually snatch much of the undeserved national limelight from Suresh Kalmadi and Mallika Sherawat.

I was chuffed. Kauwagiri was alive and kicking, after all. Those who missed Thomso 2010 would most certainly be ruing the fact, for it was the most economical yet obtrusive display of krowsomeness in the 21st century. It saddens me, as I bet it does all wannabe krows who were dreaming of taking R by storm next year, that this was in all likelihood the last of the Thomsos. But what gladdens me is the much-awaited homecoming of the real Krows. In fact, as I am writing this, the prodigal sons of R are setting foot upon the hallowed turf of the land they once called home- for one final hurrah- seeking their own Shangri-La. Krowsomeness of any comparable scale is scarcely likely to be witnessed here ever again. For want of a better ending, I shall refrain from typing any more in anticipation of a roof-top party that promises to be the scourge of many a teetotaler this fine wintry November night.

P.S. This post was originally titled The one with the wanton tags, but the author changed his mind after having attended the afore-mentioned roof-top party.

Quantum of Solace

2010-10-20T21:06:00.004+05:30

During one of my traditional vacation amblings around Connaught Place, I came across this book-stall that looked different from the others. The choice of books was far too exotic, the conduct of their seller too sophisticated- not to forget the nationality of customers being entertained. This particular corner on the street was more international than I had ever known it to be.

But to provide a contrast, I was there. And I was in pursuit of a very Indian book too- in fact, one too Indian to have a chance of finding anywhere in India. Or so I thought, before I saw the shining black and gold cover of Satyajit Ray’s Feluda from within the depths of the thousand or so neatly arranged books sprawling on a few square meters of ground. I had stumbled across the Bengali detective’s name somewhere recently. An intense desire to lay my hands upon the English translation of Ray’s fabled work had possessed me ever since.

I felt elated. Pre-mature emotion, I was to realise later. As I crouched down to grab the book, there appeared out of nowhere a giant shadow that encroached on to my body. I barely had time to turn around and see what obstructed the sunlight, when humungous hands, hirsute ones at that, descended upon the books and lifted the one I had my sights set on. The book-seller was at this phantom customer’s side in a flash, and I took an unfortunate tumble on to the heap of books.

As I got up and retreated a few steps in embarrassment, I saw the wily canvasser unleash his bag of money-fleecing tricks on the unwitting foreigner. I saw an exchange take place, of four hundred and ninety five rupees- an atrocious sum in my opinion, but one the man was only too glad to part with. He glared with greedy satisfaction at the book for reasons beyond all worldly comprehension. Then he turned to reveal all of his six feet six self, fair skin that had just about started to show some tan, a huge earring on the left ear and an amazing tee-shirt that read B.O.N.D. in huge block letters. Bodoni MT Black, size 48 was my guess.

I afforded myself a chuckle. Such tees are worn only by hippies and trendy young wannabe westerners in the city. Standing before me was what looked like a well-educated foreigner, holding a rare literary specimen in his hands, and yet he sported a vestment as naive and unimaginative as this. That wasn’t even a brand, for god’s sake! I moved towards him and tried to catch a proper glimpse of the book I so nearly had came to call my own.

He looked down upon me and said in a faint voice, “Great catch, eh?” The accent was distinctly European. Not British, sadly. German perhaps. My misadventures in the course of learning the language made me wary of making any attempts at conversing in Deutsche. I decided not to risk it. “It sure is, Mr Bond. Did you know that Feluda is the Indian Sherlock Holmes?” He met this with a shrug. That annoyed me.

“I must also tell you that you have been taken for a ride. Any person who pays even half of what you just did for this pirated book would be a blighted fool. Know what that makes you then, Mr Bond?” Completely taken aback, the spy who lived did not reply for a while. He checked the price printed upon the back cover and showed it to me. That was solace enough for him.

“Come on pal. Do you expect me to bargain with Indian touts and get away with it?”

I smiled. Just the moment I had been waiting for.

“No Mr. Bond. I expect you to die.”

The inevitable Post Script: Read this. Bond and the Centrifuge. Finally, an xkcd comic that I actually understood and simply loved.

Salvation Lies Within

2010-10-07T19:13:00.013+05:30

5 o’ clock in the morning used to mean a lot of things to me once upon a happy time. On most days, it meant staying cuddled inside a blanket in still persisting darkness; on others, waking up for an early morning game of football, following which I would be treated to a glass of lip-smacking carrot juice or the quintessential cup of steaming hot Madras coffee, on a seasonal basis. It used to be an exhilarating sight, watching from an almighty distance the first signs of the emerging ball of fire, while a chilly wind would blow, and standing atop the terrace, I would shake myself free of the last remaining cobwebs of sleep. The hour seemed anything but unearthly back then. And unlike other kids, I never really minded being woken up. The morning air would breathe fresh life into my lungs, and the world would seem ever so more beautiful than it invariably would later in the day.

I couldn’t recollect the last time I saw this godly hour with my eyes. That was when the night out happened. I found myself awake with the hour hand of my rickety alarm clock almost touching 5, trying to make sense out of a code that very obstinately refused to be made any sense of. The computer screen mocked at me, but I gazed back at it with unflinching intensity of vision. I felt far from sleepy; in fact, I felt sprightly and most eager for prolonged wakefulness. The work on hand was however distinctly dull and uncompromising- it refused to show any mercy for the weary tamer of slumber. The chirp of a single sparrow, one of the earliest risers brought back fond memories. Soon, the darkness started diminishing ever so slowly. The smell of the wet morning grass made its way into my room.

My reverie was broken by a thunderous kick on the door. It flew open as the Gargoyle walked in with a frothing toothbrush in hand, his eyes wide with the pleasant surprise of seeing me awake. A quick high five and a couple of lame metal-orgy jokes later, I was enlightened about the plan. There was to be a match, a competitive one, that of football. It was to begin in about 15 minutes’ time. The same old adversary that had proven itself unconquerable through several prior meetings had felt the desire to challenge us minnows once again. Perhaps they got a kick out of beating the hell out of us time and time again (purely in footballing terms), but a challenge was a challenge and one not to be given up on without a fight. That is unless you haven’t slept for almost 24 hours straight and are feeling very near to delirious at the moment.

I made a heartless attempt at arguing my case. To go and engage in a potentially draining duel would be nothing short of suicide. One horrified glance from the gargoyle was all it took to free my conscience of any such misgivings. My bones were quivering feebly, making me aware of the disaster of colossal proportions that I was courting . To hell with it. I went ahead to shut my laptop with a loud thud and jumped out of bed to stretch my stiff muscles. To even dream of abandoning my team-mates in this hour of great need would be a thoughtless crime, an unpardonable one at that. The gargoyle’s Nazi salute was preceded only by wide toothy smiles flashed at me from the small crowd that had gathered just outside my room. I felt an affection towards my mates that was enough to overcome any lingering signs of weariness inside. It was like the good old days again. We will play out of our skins today, I felt a savage pleasure in thinking to myself as I pulled up my socks and tied the laces of my distinctly battle-worn shoes.

The dew on the grass that percolated through the shoes to tickle one’s feet, the captivating smell of the early morning air and the immensely satisfying sound of feet kicking ball were the expected aspects of the whole adventure. What wasn’t expected though was the absurd final scoreline to the match that drove the pulverised enemy towards begging for mercy from their unfancied opponents. Yes, we handed out a real battering, with the sleepless yet not spiritless yours truly proving to be pivotal in the grand scheme of things. Five goals were smashed in with a solitary goal in response. We left the ground in a triumphant procession, thrilled to bits and happier than the happiest dogs in town.

The walk back to the dwelling passed like a breeze. It was as if I was floating- feeling nothing at all- as if the past several hours hadn’t even happened. No straining one’s eyes on the computer screen, no racking one’s brains senseless over meaningless codes and no running around the football ground in frenzied circles for well over an hour. Seemingly endless reserves of energy, one was tempted to think and elated to know. A quick breakfast and wash later, I found myself perched upon my bed again, staring at the screen with a phrenetic gaze that would have put Salvador Dali to shame. As I removed the charger from the laptop, I saw its entire charge drain out in just a nanosecond. To this bizarre occurrence, I reacted by standing up and giving a maniacal laughter the likes of which even Gabbar Singh could scarcely have mustered. Not everything was right with me, seemingly.

Then arrived the moment that knocked the air out of me, akin to a fierce basketball blow on the stomach. A crushing realisation of fatigue like never before, a burning in the eyes, a spinning of the head and a capitulation of the knackered legs. Every muscle in the body was in an instant screaming with uncontrolled pain, and every emotion seemed alien to the bearer, except pain. I was reminded of the fact that life is hell after all. The spoils of early morning were a distant memory now, like a blast from the long forgotten past. The world slowly went out of focus as I dropped down dead on to my bed, never to rise again unless absolutely necessary.

After the Eulogy

2010-08-23T21:53:00.003+05:30

Many years or a short while from now, when the final breath is knocked out of his chest and his limbs grow inexorably stiff, when his heart ceases to heave and eye-lids shut themselves close one final time, they might sing a song for him. They might pay tribute to the fallen warrior, mourn for the loss of a fine human being and chant a prayer for the soul of the faithful departed. Or they might say good riddance and leave the remains to rot in hell. They will speak something, good or bad, necessary or irrelevant, revering or damning the deceased, to remember him a last instant. The leave-taking soul will linger for a fleeting second that would stretch to seem like an eternity, in the ephemeral company of mortal friends, imploring a final heart-felt farewell, before existence becomes myth, life becomes null, and the final few syllables of the painfully composed eulogy escape the dry lips of the Second Speaker. For the First Speaker would be dead. The remaining Speakers might then wonder. What comes next?

It was the Onam of the year before last that Ashokettan left this world for the place from where there is no return. Till the very end, his face hardly seemed to betray any evidence of the 70 whole years of his largely untroubled subsistence, apart from a faint crease or two upon his wise old forehead. He was a man of tremendous wisdom, having an aura so intense and a face resplendent with such brilliance as was hitherto unseen, and a mind as sharp as the razor he wielded with such characteristic panache in his quaint little barber shop. The shop was a tiny room located in an obscure corner of Malabar Kerala, but it was big enough to contain within itself all the knowledge that had been imparted on the planet since the day of its inception. Every day, as the master assumed his position behind the revolving chair with his comb, scissors and blade, one hirsute underling after another would come and leave the place, only less hairy and eons wiser than before.

I barely knew Ashokettan, my opinion of him based on the many fascinating tales recounted by father to son, the father having been a protégé to the great man, as Beatrix Kiddo was to Pei Mei. His was the most recognizable face in the whole town; he was a friend to man and animal, the old and the young, the wealthy and the destitute. I visited him a couple of times myself, even shared a train journey with him (Damu, remember him?), but I never got to know him well. His teachings reach me as cast-off knowledge, in the form of paternal wisdom, for Ashokettan taught my father everything. The only time I regarded the true persona of the man, when I looked at him with veneration for the legend he truly was, he was dead. It is only the dead who we remember so endearingly, while happy memories and thoughts of that which could not be leave us hollow within.

It rent my heart apart that death should arrive to him so abruptly. It all seemed so unfair, the worst form of injustice there could be. I wrote a eulogy for him then. It was nothing exceptional. It wouldn’t have touched anybody’s heart, apart from maybe his own had he listened to it. A miserable song it was to remember the noble soul that had crossed the farthest of seas; it was but for want of a nobler deed in reckoning. And that was the final time Ashokettan ever troubled my consciousness. His praises were sung by all and sundry with me following suit, his exploits were looked back upon with awe and wonderment, his family consoled that no better father, husband and brother ever took birth in all of history, and then the great man, one in a million, silmaril in a sea of galleons, was promptly forgotten.

Loneliness of the long distance runner

2010-08-15T08:50:00.003+05:30

I have seriously lost the will to live this semester.

I do not wonder how Robinson Crusoe would have felt on coming back to civilization after years of living in the wild. Neither do I find it hard to imagine what an aquatic organism suddenly made to trade water for land as its home would have to go through. For I have seen worse!

A whole year out in anti-academic wilderness necessitated and escalated the need for the drastic measures I recently undertook. If I was to prevent the parents from forcing their presence on R-land, put to an end the incessant and mindless taunts of my fellows, and also take the first steps towards securing a brighter future for myself and any family that I may come to call my own, I had to start listening in class. And listen well, and hard, and scribble down as if with a vengeance everything that His Wordiness articulated upon during the course of his stay inside the classroom. Oh, the horror.

I made a promising enough beginning, but it’s all coming unstuck now. I have heard that one cannot go back home again. Also, I am realizing the hard way that there has to be at least an inkling of truth in the very popular assertion that professors’ drones can cause severe mental as well as physical torture. You survive the first week if you’re lucky, but beyond that, survival is more of a fantasy than a choice, and you end up cursing your prior fortune. The preacher’s resolve just seems to strengthen with every sign of weakness from your side. Clutching at hairs in hopeless anguish, banging of heads on desks and breaking of pens into several splinters count as a few such signs. For me, tolerance is well nigh impossible now. It could be just my department that’s at fault, or it could be just me- either ways, I might have to go back to being my old dubious self soon enough.

But of course, the charming tales concerning my department must not be restricted to a few deluded clowns alone who think they are the ones running the show. It is the department itself that is the brunt of most jokes- not the professors, not the students. I do not remember now how I found myself meandering along the long corridors of the dean’s headquarters the other day, but what I happened to see there was definitely not the desperate assurance that every metallurgist in town is seeking these days. Quite far from it. The cheap regard that the department is held in popular circles isn’t news to anyone, but this was as ignominious a show of indifference as one can imagine. And from the topmost placed authorities too! I wish I could explode with fury at the culprits’ faces and fight valiantly for the branch to receive due recognition, but what have I ever achieved to show that this branch is where I truly belong and that it is mine to defend and safeguard the interests thereof?

And thus my cup of academic woes runneth over, just like tea spilling out of a boiling kettle, and I fall into further despair. 3-1 is perhaps the grimmest semester one endures during life in R, and I can see very well why. If the initial few days were peaceful for lack of human activity, a damning disquiet has set in since the arrival of the usual suspects. Funny little three-letter words hang about on every person’s lips nowadays. If one of these happens to refer to a four-legged domesticated creature with furry skin and unquestionably eerie eyes, another, if you could be liberal enough to believe me, is formed by swallowing the last letter of the greyest colour known to mankind! Most reluctantly, yours truly has been driven now to consider his future with at least half the seriousness the matter deserves. I love my department more than anything else, but the day it does so much as guarantee one of a sure placement would be when Luis Alberto Suarez is given amnesty in that tiny African nation by the name of Ghana. But of course, I still love my department.

Then there is the insti itself that contrives in one way or another to shroud the most cheerful of its inhabitants in a cloud of sorrow and grief. Slowly but surely, they have eliminated our right to freedom of expression, right to humane living conditions and right to harmonious assemblies and constructive sharing of ideas. In fact, very soon, the right to unhindered movement of one’s limbs would be a long forgotten luxury inside this fast-Talibanising campus.

I can’t help but notice the near complete darkness that engulfs me now as Dell’s surprisingly reliable battery life urges me to continue ranting. I am sleep deprived, and I am going to bunk class today. It seems the ever ingenious insti has come up with a new game plan to give its students a real-time experience of life in Indian villages, the still thriving embodiment of the Mahatma’s real India. This involves suffering intolerably long hours of current cuts and internet restrictions. No net frustrates me, but indubitably a lot less than my skin reddening of mosquito bites and the intense humidity proving to me beyond a shred of doubt that it is indeed folly to take regular baths in such seasons.

I wonder when Big D’s office will be pelted with stones and his car set on fire. One cannot rule out the possibility of full-fledged student riots as well. I could do with some excitement in life.

P.S. As for the title, wait for Yuri Zhirkov's exceptional individual effort, here.

Work of Genius

2010-07-18T11:32:00.002+05:30

Inception: beginning, commencement, conception, start of an event or action, creation, development of an entity

Synonyms: initiation, provenance, provenience, genesis, germination, prelude, impregnation, invention, procreation, advent, wellspring, piece de resistance, work of genius.

I doubt whether I have known a movie director more imaginative and creatively brilliant than Christopher Nolan. After having been through the amazingly conceived Memento, chart-topping viewers’ delight The Dark Knight and that unprintable beauty The Prestige, you could hardly blame me for having waited impatiently on the edge of my seat for his latest to be released in the country. I read everything there was to be read about Inception and naively raved about the plot with fellow fans. The mind-boggling rating of 9.6 seemed to be a wee-bit over the top even for a potential Nolan screamer. But I have trusted IMDB blindly for the last two years and it is yet to disappoint me once. I simply had to catch Messrs Di Caprio and Michael Caine in action, preferably on the big screen before it was too late, for I was to leave for the Promised Land very soon. The window of opportunity beckoned and there was no time to lose.

I spent the whole of Friday in pain reading one status message after another praising the movie. Certain people I never knew to be much into movies were now seemingly over the moon, awe-struck and even lost for words in the genius of the creation. With the masses going almost hysterical over what was after all just a motion picture, there were calls for Nolan to be nominated for President. It was too much for me to sit and read all this while time ran out. I decided then that Saturday it had to be. Such a short notice meant I couldn’t gather any company, but that wasn’t to prove a deterrent. I shook myself awake on time (which isn’t the first thing on one’s mind in the summer vacations) and set off for the nearest Hall, having checked and double-checked the availability, timings and language of the show in the newspaper before leaving.

As I walked towards the bus stop, there was a moment when I came to a grinding halt on my tracks. The old Uncle’s words rang out loud inside my head. You bloody fool. Feeling utterly stupid and reeling with disbelief, I realized that I did not know the meaning of the all-important word that was the name of the movie I so desperately desired to watch. How could it be, that I had read so much and yet failed to reckon the significance behind this (admittedly) intriguing name? I tried conjecturing a satisfactory definition in my mind, racking my brains, working out the possibilities, tying up the loose ends- but all to no avail. Some kids I met on the way shook their heads when I asked for a dictionary. There are moments when I feel I hardly deserve to live. This might be one of them, I thought as I gave up on the pursuit and went my way further. Hence the delving deep into the meaning in the very beginning of the post.

I was still way too early to reach the ticket-counter. Only a handful could be seen hanging around the place, all young students having bunked classes to be there and now appearing to be in quite a pickle because of prohibition of school bags inside the theater. Just as I was about to join the short line for tickets, I saw two lads snatch back their money from the person at the counter and leave the place in a huff, swearing out in loud and explicit words. Highly amused by this and wondering about the reason behind, I stepped in line, only to see everybody else too disappear all together. Perplexed now, I anyway proceeded to take the money out and asked for a ticket. The counterman gladly started taking out one, when all of a sudden I noticed something odd in the poster of the movie hanging nearby. I felt that familiar sinking sensation in my stomach, and hastened to stop the issuing of the ticket.

“Excuse me. What language is the movie in?” “Why sir, it is in Hindi of course. That would be 125 rupees please.” “Wait a second. Are you saying that you are showing Inception in Hindi? Inception? In Hindi?” “It is indeed so sir.” He broke into a sweat as he said that. And I at that moment wished for nothing more than to wring that tiny man’s neck. I stared into his eyes with cold fury, and demanded an explanation. How could the newspaper get it wrong? Why would it fool innocent peaceful law-abiding sons of tax-payers like me? And for Prophet’s sake, why would they already want to put the movie up dubbed in Hindi when it has been just a day since its English release? The puny little man became punier in the face of this verbal assault and couldn’t offer anything in retribution. Devastated, I felt my world crashing around me as the unpleasant truth became clear and my anger gave way for despair. As I hung my head and turned to leave, the counterman tried making a last ditch effort to convince me to watch the Hindi version, saying it was even better than the original English one. What a genius. I could barely believe the nerve of the guy. I gave him a look that combined the best effects of deep loathing and moronic pity and left the place a broken man.

All seemed lost. There was no hope visible in the horizon. Time was at a premium, and I could only stand and watch it ebb away slowly and take along with it my final chance to grab arguably the greatest of the year on the big screen. But sometimes, settling for the next best option isn’t that bad a thing. Which in this case was a quick torrent search and download launch of a DVD-rip of whatever quality and whatever size available. Having been tricked even by torrents (which, I wholeheartedly agree with Krownoz are one of the greatest inventions of mankind in the 21st century) into downloading broken files and videos in alien languages in the near past, I live in constant fear the whole time it takes to complete the process, not at all sure if yet another sleight of the divine hand isn’t impending. So now I wait, with faint breath and an ever anxious heart, imploring the master for long due providence.

Meanwhile, the applause just seems to be rising higher every passing minute. To say that I would trade anything at all to be able to watch the movie as soon as possible would be to grossly understate the fact of the matter. I would do more than that. Although one thing I do remain sure of- however long it takes for me to get the chance, I will watch it and I will have this to say about the movie: work of genius.

A very late Post Script: The download failed me. But the cause was salvaged by the timely arrival of a messiah, a familiar old figure. A split second decision took me to a far-off theater. Two and a half hours later, I came out of the air-conditioned hall, shivering, dazed and at a complete loss for words. Work of Genius indeed.

Masters and Puppets

2010-07-09T13:50:00.004+05:30

Every evening, with just a half hour to go for dinner time, I would trudge down to the garage with a bucket of soap-dissolved water, a mopping cloth and the car keys in hand. The purpose to begin with would be to wipe out of existence every speck of dust that lay on the metal body and the window-surfaces; the result, more often than not, is a rather mediocre state of semi-cleanliness characterized by wet blemishes at several places. Car cleaning happens to be an art in itself, one to rival closely the more popular and less slandered art of driving. And I happen to be in the process of perfecting both; I would like to believe the latter part is going very well indeed. The former, admittedly, is an exercise in disaster, and one I am forced to carry out quite reluctantly.

For it is part of my father’s gospel wisdom that the first step towards becoming a good driver is to become a great cleaner. I revolted at this incredible paternal absurdity of thought, but soon realized that heeding those words was the only way to get my hands upon the keys. And so it was that the bucket and the mop became my most intimate evening companions during the vacations. Scrubbing hard at the soiled exteriors, I would gaze longingly at the driver’s seat, at the gear handle, at the steering wheel, and at the sprawling road outside that called out earnestly to vehicle and rider alike. My persistence would pay off once the weekend arrived- for Saturday morning would be when I am finally given the chance to don the cherished role of driving the car in full capacity.

I would jump on to the alluring seat, pull the seat-belt around me, adjust the necessary mirrors, jerk open the gear-lock and kick the vehicle into life. The rasping growl of the engine would be music to the ears; I would close my eyes and revel in its loveliness awhile, but not for too long, as my guru, my father, already having planted himself on the passenger’s seat, would commence upon the rather unattractive task of barking instructions none too politely into my ears. Taking a deep breath in, I would then put the vehicle into first gear and set it into motion- what follows is a sublime, dream-like movement set upon four smooth rolling wheels, like a feather floating on water or an Apollo craft gliding through space. That is until a rock, a bump or any similar stumbling block is encountered, at which point most drivers usually come crashing down to earth from their reveries, inviting scowls and hostile grimaces from fellow passengers.

But I learnt to avoid them blocks every time I saw one. I knew exactly to what extent the brakes merited pressing, how wide the vehicle needed turning and how far down the accelerator was to be stopped from further compression to keep father happy. I would always remember to signal on the indicator when required, and to overtake from the correct side every time. In fact, I became too good a driver in too short a time, almost to the point of wondering what came next after perfection. Which was a remarkable achievement considering how I used to go bumbling through awkwardly on the road with the four-wheeler, not too long a time back. My only bother was the presence of my father’s hand on the hand brake at all times while I drove, which I presumed was a measure of safety. I wasn’t sure if he ever had to use it to cover for some inadvertent blunder of mine, or if I had been clever enough to rescue such situations all by myself.

Sudden doubts started plaguing me. What if it wasn’t me who stopped the car just in time to escape bumping into that little girl crossing the road? What if my limbs weren’t the ones responsible for slowing down the vehicle right before it hit the monstrous pot-hole the other day? Was it my father’s expertise with the hand brake that caused all these thrilling escapades, all of which I had inevitably credited to my presence of mind and ever-growing skills as a driver? I could never know. I would never know, for I was afraid to ask him.

I have seen him smile at me following such moments of excitement, and praise me each time. He allowed me to think that I controlled every swerve and lunge that the vehicle took, that every creaking of its parts and every puff of its engine was in response to its true master’s call, who was really the man behind the steering wheel and not the one sitting beside him. I believed him, because I wished not to believe otherwise. And now I was afraid to ask him about the same as a mere matter of confirmation, because I was happy living within the bubble I had created for myself, with no short deal of help from his own self.

It’s a pity one can never rid oneself of such thoughts. What if everything that’s happening around me is a big set-up? Every event premeditated, having a mind of its own, luring me into assuming a false position as the guardian of my own fate? What if all my life has been nothing more than an enactment, with all the men and women I see around me actors donning varied roles that revolve some way or the other around me? Is there really someone pulling the strings on my life all the time then? Why is it that when there exists death and destruction everywhere in the world, I remain unscathed by it all, only tortured by the memories of fellows who are unwitting victims at the hands of a treacherous fate? Am I to just stand and watch while some omnipresent higher power decrees the course of my destiny, applying the brakes on my life or accelerating as it sees fit?

Will I allow myself to drift along the chosen current in this river of life, or will I build a dam on the path and follow a separate tributary of my avocation? Am I strong enough to take firm control of the steering wheel and wrench the hand brakes free of external dominion, speed away as my heart desires along the dreamy boulevard, and into that heartsome picture of the setting sun? Will my rambling, mind-addled self be remembered 100 years from now for doing that? So many questions, and precious few answers. To think that it all began with a dirty linen in hand. Strange are the ways of god, but stranger still are the ways of men.

Fright and Flight: A Prequel

2010-07-01T22:23:00.004+05:30

I listened helplessly to the periodic monotone emanating not very far off from the place where I crouched. I was afraid to get too close, for it was a sound of the foulest and wickedest nature. It was unmistakably metal striking on metal, causing the unearthly clamour that shattered the silence otherwise prevailing on the night. All kinds of wild images took form in my mind, and all sorts of conjectures took birth. The devilish racket wasn’t easy to ignore, for it seemed to grow all the time, rising in pitch every second, drilling deeper and deeper into my ears. It was unprintably dark and insufferably hot where I was, and I felt strangely lonely and powerless. Then I was rudely jolted into wakefulness by firm, steel-hardened hands I recognized only too well.

The relentless afternoon heat, redoubled by my proximity to the furnaces, had sent me into an unbidden stupor. I remembered not when I had fallen prey and drifted away. It was deeply embarrassing. I hung my head in shame in front of the commander, who passed me with a menacing look in his eyes. I noticed how soaked in sweat I was- my clothes were sticking to my skin, and my head seemed to be boiling inside the pressure cooker that my helmet was. And the metallic din could still be heard, just as clear as it had been inside my head. I caught the distant sight of a heavy jack hammer coming down hard upon an iron sheet, in the same periodic fashion that I knew. And wielding the hammer most uncharacteristically was a well-uniformed man, sporting glasses of a mysteriously dark kind and a crooked nose that gave his face an air of inscrutability. He stood up with his hammer as I watched, and stared at me awhile. A sudden bout of dust and smoke obscured my vision, and when it cleared, the man was gone.

I decided to drag my feet away to friendlier ends of the plant in search of salvation. As I walked through the dry barren lands, I felt my feet sink many inches into the sand. A warm wind blew, hitting my face like a draught of steaming water. I took my position next to the pit of slaking sand, and through my watering eyes, I took in all the enthralling sights from around the plant, both near and afar. The rolling mill was in operation, the long metallic rods snaking their way through the winding passages, everything as usual controlled by the two masked men, who stood on opposite sides holding heat-resistant tongs, enduring the red hot fury for a living’s sake. The furnaces that I had just left behind were spewing forth vicious fumes of a myriad shades, with the coal black of smoke being pre-dominant. One of the furnaces was upturned as I stood watching, and the molten metal allowed pouring out into the huge cylindrical ladle that had arrived just in time, held by long chains that extended to a considerable height. While on another corner, the continuous casting machine made its distinguishing sound, churning out fire-cut billets at the end of its rollers. Even from this great distance, fire-sword cutting was a sight to behold, and I stood captivated for a very long time. Then I heard the commotion.

Everything happened too suddenly. The first things my mind registered were the scuttling masses of shrieking people and the rising clouds of dust caused by a thousand scurrying feet. After that I saw what was behind the tumult. It was the ladle carrying the bubbling steaming metallic liquid that was swinging crazily from the flailing chains, totally out of the high-man’s control. It was moving in the wrong direction and at a very frantic pace too, spilling the melt here and there and threatening to let itself loose from the chains and go tumbling downwards. It was an intimidating sight, like nothing I had seen before. I regained my senses just in time to realize the ladle was making right for the place where I stood. I took a few steps backwards and braced myself to run with all my might.

But on the turn, I was met with an even nastier scene, one that sent an inhuman chill down my spine. The fire-sword had somehow broken free of its master’s sway, and seemed have a mind of its own. It cut through the metal fences as I watched, and kept moving forward with the endless rope that formed its tail aiding its frontward movement. It shot straight towards me, and I feared for my life. I had to shift my attention to the only place left for me to make for- the rolling mill. But my eyes were to encounter the most horrifying sight yet. A red-hot rod had broken away from its winding path out on to the dusty floor; still snaking, and rather gracefully so, it slithered its way silently towards the place where I stood- already surrounded by the blistering pit of slaking sand, the ever advancing fire-sword and the obstinately hurtling ladle!

I was cornered by mortal peril on all four directions where I stood. The only movement I could afford for my body was a gyration about the place where I stood, for I dared not move more than a foot or two in any way. If ever I had been in a more bizarre and desperately hopeless situation, then my stricken mind could not bring itself to remember it. The sounds suddenly grew thin, and the picture became hazier and gloomier. But away into the smoky horizon, a vision seemed to clear, that of a man upon the roof of the casting machine, squatting on one knee by the looks of it. It was the man in dark glasses, and he seemed to be looking right at my despairing self. I could not make out of he had a smile on his face, a scowl or a grimace, or indeed any emotion for that matter. Intriguing though the sight was, even disturbing, I had not much time before the potentially fatal blows of the sword, the snaking rod and the volcanic ladle reached me. It was some way of escape that I was seeking, some divine intervention.

I dropped to my knees and clutched at the hot sand, resigned to my fate. I let the sand fall slowly off my palm, in an impersonation of a death-clock that would stop ticking the moment life was knocked out of me. That wasn’t a matter of more than a precious few seconds now, I realized. I hung my head lower, my forehead almost touching the ground, when I heard a shrill whistle blow somewhere high up in the air. I sprang up on my feet and looked for the source of the sound. It rang loud in my ears, as if penetrating through the impending doom, threatening to overrun it. And as the smoke cleared and made way for the above-lying scene, my heart lightened with newfound hope.

It was a trolley coming through, hanging by chains to its rigid high-lying end, controlled by a person sitting inside a far-off transparent box. I saw that the controller, the master of puppets was none other than the man with the dark glasses. The sword, the ladle and the rod were ever so close to me, one of the three surely just moments away from overpowering me. But the trolley advanced swiftly, striving to reach me quicker than the killers did. It kept lowering, and I waited with bated breath and outstretched arms. I could feel heat waves from the slaking sand creep into my legs as I stood perilously close to the pit; the rod and the sword almost within touching distance, and the ladle only inches short of being directly above my head. But the trolley swam in before everything, and I grabbed at the chains with both my hands. With a rapid upward motion, it took me away into the dust-filled atmosphere. I hung on for dear life.

The impassive visage of the man in dark glasses became apparent now. I clutched at the chains tightly as he brought the trolley to a screeching halt and stared at my hanging form. A few mystifying seconds later, the trolley came back to life and I saw him maneuver it to go higher into the air. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sword, the rod and the ladle crash into each other and explode in the pit as I went higher. Not a single person near or far seemed to register my ascent. The plant was in unprintable turmoil. But I looked up to where I was moving, to the place I was being led to by the man in dark glasses. A small hole appeared in the tinned roof. The trolley carefully carried itself there and stopped so I could climb out through the hole. And without a second thought or a glance at the god-sent rescuer, I leapt into the vast blue sky, into freedom.

Death of an Apprentice

2010-06-23T23:54:00.008+05:30

Dear Mr. R,

It was my greatest sorrow to discover how eagerly you and your wife were awaiting the home-coming of your elder son. I regret to inform you that this is where your wait ends, with this damning letter, most abruptly and tragically so. Your son is never coming back sir, not until they re-perfect the long lost science of human alchemy. I think we can safely disregard that option based on the elapsed centuries of miserably failed attempts, with hardly a scope of any breakthrough visible in the horizon. My heart (and all my employees’) goes out to you and your family in this dark hour, and it pains me even more than listening to wretched pay-hike grumblings to be delivering you this terrible news. I realize you would be desirous of procuring your son’s body, a most meaningless exercise in my opinion considering that it would most certainly be charred beyond recognition. Efforts are on to uncover the corpse from the vast barren lands that make up the plant.

The cause behind the death is still unknown, but we have a vague idea of the many probable ways human lives could be lost inside the steel plant. You must understand, however heart-breaking such a thing happening to a mere apprentice on the verge of completing his apprenticeship should seem, that it is not entirely misplaced an event in itself. Steel plant mishaps are known to claim over 1 life every year. You can hardly blame us then for rejoicing the fact that I or my sub-ordinate or his clerk or indeed any of my precious labour-force will not be the doomed ones for this year at least. I do not deny that dying at the place I love with all my heart, the place that I call home, would be the stuff of dreams, but I wouldn’t like that happening any time soon.

Let us get back to your son. He was a bright lad, with an inquisitive mind to go with, but his became unfortunately a case of curiosity killing the cat. One could blame his adventure seeking soul for the tragedy, and a flagrant disinclination to heed the words of heads older and wiser than him. Why else would one set feet upon the frail secondary foundation that supported the multi-ton electric furnace, and stay so perilously close to the treacherous flames too? Or indeed, go anywhere near the inescapable death-trap that is the continuous casting machine, where the fire-sword cutting technique is employed for the smooth slicing of metals rendered scarlet by the heat of the furnace? The fire-sword, I take exceptional pride in telling you, is the closest humans have and will ever come to bringing the light saber to life. It can cut through hard metal with consummate ease, and when it comes to hewing upon a human body, the phrase ‘knife cutting through butter’ should provide a very good picture. I seriously doubt though that your son would actually die a death as tame as by slipping into a furnace containing furious frothing liquid metal at 2000 degrees Celsius, or by falling in the way of a passing fire-sword.

High-level drudgers tell me how the boy had a tendency of drifting too close to the edge of the terraces, no doubt to marvel at the sprawling mass of the underlying scrap iron storage, a sin I myself have been guilty of on several forgettable occasions. If indeed he tripped and fell, the pointed metallic pieces would have pricked into his skin at various places, making him a human embodiment of Iran’s infamous blood fountain (if the steep fall didn’t already smash his bones to little splinters). In that case, the bloody remains should be found lying buried deep inside the iron dump, courtesy the new metal supplies that are added to the site every minute regardless of trespassing carcasses. I cannot begin to describe how nightmarish a task clearing all the scrap is in the offing, not to mention the irreparable damage the mixing of all the blood would do to the quality and composition of the many bars, rods and sheets of steel that the scrap is destined to be converted into.

Death is an unbidden guest one has to entertain often, without any choice, and it is true that it shows itself in many devious guises. Possibilities infinite are running still in my mind- your son, never one to be trusted not to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, could have taken an unwitting shower under a leaky swinging ladle carrying hot molten metal inside. It’s unlikely that anything more than a handful of dust would be left of him then. The swinging magnetic carriers have been a mortal hazard for years now, and it might just be that your son was knocked senseless by one of them sometime during his many gratuitous amblings around the plant. And if he bore anything magnetic with him at the time, then his bodily mass might have easily been lifted off the ground and carried away miles into the smoky wilderness. I could continue elucidating upon more gory alternatives here, but something tells me the amount I have said already is knowledge enough for the young man’s grieving parents.

Forgive me sir.

Always yours,
Mournfully,
In woebegone commiseration,
The man in dark glasses.

Holmes' Home

2010-06-02T23:38:00.004+05:30

As the sorry excuse for an aircraft finally touched land 9 long hours after I boarded it, my relief was enormous. I could finally breathe again, and I felt the wretched constrictions inside my ears slowly subside. Dismissing the hostess’ dubious parting smile with a scowl, I gladly jumped out into the soft rain-bathed ground I called my home. The largely deserted airport did not dampen my spirits, for the overcast skies, cool breeze and swishing leaves were a treat for the eyes and music for the ears.

The walk home was long but pleasant. I was greeted by near and dear ones, young and old, men and women, alive and the ones not so who smiled down at me from large portraits and aged photographs. Tidings of the imminent homecoming of the prodigal son had swept across the town like a wave. As ever, the one refrain on each and every mouth was the same-

Holmes’ Home.

Yes. The one who they called the ‘country Sherlock Holmes’ was back in town on his annual ritualistic visit. He was back carrying all his wares, looking leaner and meaner than ever, yet evoking the same warmth and affection in his people as he was since the time he announced his arrival into the scene as top crime-buster, seven years previously. That, I remember with exquisite fondness, was with the effortless negotiation of the queer case of the missing mundus. Many an old grandfather had been victimized in this cleverly planned crime carried out by a bunch of Bangladeshi gypsies. Waking up in the morning to find every single piece of loin-cloth missing from their house (including, in some cases the ones they went to sleep in) isn’t a laughing matter, least of all for the beleaguered elderly.

News of the mystery was brought to me by a little boy, in exchange for a lavish share of lemon candies. I was on it in a flash. The league of extra-old men on knowing about this wasted no time in scoffing the credentials of the new teenage sensation in town. He was deemed to have little or no knowledge of the countryside and the people it beheld, and given no chance whatsoever of succeeding in his efforts. Nevertheless I, the much derided teenager, armed with a rich repertoire of deduction techniques (courtesy Christie, Doyle and Sethuramaiyar, the beloved Malayalam detective and my greatest inspiration in life) embarked upon the grueling challenge and did not rest until each and every mundu (albeit in soiled and torn-beyond-repair states) was placed in front of the victims, and each and every guilty gypsy was sprawled at their feet, begging for mercy, pleading for their lives. I walked away quietly into the sunset thereafter, ala El Diablo, and they recognized me begrudgingly as one to be taken with utmost seriousness. They christened me Holmes, and there was rejoicing throughout the town- among the young and the old, men and women, the destitute and the wealthy, at having discovered a shining pearl among the sea of gravel.

That, and the numerous cases that followed in the coming years are still etched deep in my mind. I remember very well the baffling case of disappearing rain-water, as also the cockney case of the featherless chicken (they were being constantly attacked by a savage pack of wild wolves, shattering the stillness and silence of the nights and breaking the villagers’ peace of mind. Needless to say, I drove them away). I gloat with satisfaction at recalling the consummate ease with which I had tackled the tricky case of tampering of the mangrove fields, not to forget the most bizarre case of the vanishing coconuts and jackfruits. Having benefitted by my brilliance some time or the other, grateful junta from all around had gathered together in a grand welcome organized for me.

Young lads and lasses (tiny creatures, midgets as Ron Weasley calls them) rushed forward and circled me with mind-numbing chants of “Holmes is here!”, Holmes has arrived!”. Girls in their teens and slightly older ones could be seen letting free their hair and getting embroiled in wild frenzied shrieks of my name. Everywhere, people were celebrating my return. Flattered by the demonstration, I proceeded towards my home, where several gallons of love waited to be showered upon me by the adoring grandmother and the doting aunts. Cries of delight followed me there, with an old uncle jumping in the air in customary amazement at my sight, mouthing “Holmes!” in a shocked guffaw. When the neighbor, a well-known hooligan from the streets and a close buddy of yours truly remarked “Holmes, you #*@#&^# (scandalous Malayalam expletives go here)”, I knew the whole town knew.

The world contains its fair share of villains, and I found my nemesis, the cunning Prof Moriarty of my story, crouching behind the walls, casting his malicious vision upon me as I was hounded by the affectionate masses left, right and centre. An Irene Adler was sorely missed though, very sorely. As my dear cousin (my right hand man, Watson in this story) remarked when all the hue and cry had died down, mystery and adventure had all but dried out in town. It was as if crime had completely vanished, uprooted from its roots and vanquished beyond revival by some strong invisible force. Retaining but just a tiny fragment of the fervour that gripped me as a young wannabe detective, I expressed a tinge of regret, but my aged mind, hardened over the years, made merry that things were quiet now and a peaceful vacation was in the offing.

And that was precisely what I got. The old magic of Holmes wasn't invoked, in a sad departure from tradition, but the battered body took some well-deserved rest and the famished innards received some much needed nourishment of chicken soup and fish steaks and sweet draughts of coconut water. Most importantly, the embattled soul was cleansed of all evil and memories of a forgettable year were flushed out. Alas, it was all too good to last.

P.S. I am back in the devil's kingdom, and I have a new objective in life-
http://internshipdiaries.blogspot.com/
Do not laugh. Please.

P.P.S. I just realized. It has been a whole year since I entered the arena. At this rate, I'll have 1100 posts in the next 50 years. Happy Bloggiversery.

Remind me not

2010-05-21T00:06:00.002+05:30

How long has it been? A month, or probably two. This prolonged sabbatical from Blogger was the last thing I had in mind while making my blogging resolutions at the beginning of the year. I remember I promised myself a post per week, no matter how busy or consumed by work I get. Some of the strangest days of my life are just past, taking along such moments which had I penned them down could easily have filled some of the most eventful chapters in the book of my life. Yet, I chose to shun this sacred space at the time, citing the most inexplicable of defenses. Moments can linger only for so long; inspiration can stay for only as long till the blogger chooses to ignore it. All that has passed; none of it is coming back, just as sure as the boisterous cries of a talismanic villager that will never be heard again at the Senate. Much sorrow do I have, and regrets too many. This hastily arranged post isn't intended to serve as decisive evidence of the meek kaiser's well-being and sanity of mind; neither is it meant to bore the accidental reader with this demented blogger's ill-versed whining. All I wish is to be back where I belong, and yes, make adequate amends for that kick which was so nearly delivered but never quite accomplished.

There is this friend of mine, a very good friend. He's a friend who is there for company when your heart craves for the chicken at Baadshah at the oddest of hours. One who will join you for bakar every time you are bugged of studying and looking for a break. One who is in your debt financially most of the time, a debt which you tend to forget because of something bigger that you owe him. Now this guy, he locks his door with a laughably tiny lock, and a nano-scale key to go along with it. He gives as much care to the key as Master Yoda does to grammar, and the consequences are hilarious. Losing the key every other day, he then has the lock broken with a sledge-hammer, only to replace it with an even tinier one. Subject to wide-spread derision and scorn, none of which seems to matter to him, he makes it a point to lose the next key before it starts getting too warm in his pockets.More than two dozen keys and locks were sacrificed in this noble pursuit of determining the brink of a man's patience.

It is with great amusement that I look at the man now, and what he has become. No longer does he lock his door at all. No locks mean no keys, and no keys mean he has no chance of losing them. So he keeps his door open when he goes out, as if challenging passers-by to enter and escape with his precious belongings. The only reason they might refrain from doing so is the obnoxious reek of the place that is sure to make an elephant drop dead. As our hero explains the implications of this brainwave to anybody who cares to listen, he expresses his deep remorse at not having thought of it much earlier. His many idiosyncrasies and eccentricities have assured him of legendary status among the inglourious lot of basters. Engraved on the bathroom walls and on many of the doors is his much revered name and his motif majestueux. He is a tramp, he is a pirate, but above all, he is a good man. And he left for home two days ago, silently, without any warning or even a word of farewell. The bereavement I felt myself succumb to was very much akin to a son's sorrow at losing his father.

Roorkee happens to be a queer place in many respects. It is a happy little town to live in, and it gives you memories plentiful to treasure all your life. But it has a tendency to make fools out of the wisest of men, albeit men who give too much attention to the touchier aspects of life. Cruel is fate to such men, and most heartless. Just when you think you are starting to like a person, parting bells would toll loud and clear in the background. Excitement fades away, and the sun sets upon one glorious chapter in the lives of all involved- you realize that very soon, the company and friendship of the few good men would become a thing of the past, stuff that exists only as sweet memories. Farewells aren't something I am ever too keen on attending. I dread final goodbyes, for the way they make the demise of something good so absolutely certain.

It is a real wonder that I am up to the task every time though- the hugs, the tears, the adieus and the wishful au revoirs, and the parting promises- each and every action is a measured one, distressing yet liberating equally. I can spend a thousand words and more trying to gauge my adulation and predilection for the blessed souls, and despair at their departing, but it all boils down to saying goodbye and moving on. Never again will a bunch so great reach the promised land that R is, and never again will a farewell bring such grief. Unless of course it is time for me to leave this place. I don't even want to think about it.

Good luck, and goodbye dear friends. We shall be parted a long while. But remind me not, for you will be truly gone only when you cease to exist in our hearts. We will meet again. If not in this life, then in the next one at least.

No rest for the weary

2010-04-02T22:56:00.004+05:30

It was as I sat brooding over the abysmal state of my academic affairs that it happened. A searing pain rent through my chest, as if from a close range bullet shot. I clutched at the spot tight with my hands, panting with sudden exertion and rubbed hard to make it stop. My breath came in desperate gasps, forcing me to start rubbing harder than ever, wishing all the time for this unwelcome grief to pass. I wondered what the reason behind the pain could be, having no memory of any toxic intake during the past 24 hours.

Now I was walking around the room, taking deep breaths all the time, rubbing firmly around the affected area, seeking forgiveness from Vegan Almighty for all the chickens I had devoured in my life. I debated calling up mother, but wisely decided against it. Still holding my chest with one hand, I rummaged through my medicine supplies with the other, trying to make head or tail of the many deadpan packets of Metrogils, Combiflams and Ranitidines strewn around. No good could ever come out of the attempt, and I debated and discarded the idea of calling up home for the second time in 5 minutes. I remember dropping down to my bed and curling up into a ball, biting hard at the sheets with my teeth, waiting for the pain to subside.

It seemed like the silent call of death from the land yonder. My feet grew numb and my head felt like it could burst any moment. The thought of dying such a ridiculously tame death so early in my life probably carried me through this unbidden assault. I hardly remember dozing off, and eventually losing myself to a morbid world of poison-tinged daggers, flame-throwing dragons and my greatest fear of all, whip-lashing professors.

Morning arrived and I woke up to the knowledge that I was severely under-prepared for the Test. My throbbing chest seemed to have attained some sort of normalcy; my heart had rediscovered the will to beat, and was doing so in earnest. The day had begun very well. The only thing that worried me was the possibility of yet another thoughtless crime that I could end up committing before long. For respectability’s sake, I gave the blessed class notes a fleeting glimpse before embarking upon the impossible mission with the confidence David had prior to his great defeat of Goliath.

The next part of this story takes place in the classroom that would be all too familiar to the readers of this blog. For the first time ever in my life, I prayed for negative in a draw of lots. The professor, with the entire attendance list in front of him was calling students randomly to the front of the class and firing questions at them. The Test, as it was called, although conducted in a hilarious manner failed to amuse the students. Simple mathematics told me that I had a 33% chance of becoming a target. Fate works in the strangest of ways at times, making a mockery of Asimov’s much revered Psychohistory and tossing all calculations into the trash. I knew not this fact at the time, and you could hardly blame me for the many imminent moments of anxiety.

Somewhere between those tense moments set in another bout of insufferable pain at the same old spot, several times worse than before. I was filled with unnatural dread as the black-board started swimming before my eyes, the prof’s voice reaching my ears as distant mumbling. Clutching hard at my chest, digging my fingernails into the wooden desk, I panted worse than a fish out of water. Impervious to my very apparent distress were a few dozen panic-stricken fellows who had eyes and ears only for the one man who called the shots. Blinded, and totally at a loss to do anything, I was reminded of poor Mr. Winston Smith as he sat vision-less in the dungeons, waiting for the predatory rodents to strike.

Student after student was called and dispensed with. The odds of my name being called any moment were shortening all the time. But the professor missed a trick or two in placing his trust on the passage of the fickle fourth dimension. As the mid-day bells tolled, he closed his register reluctantly and walked out, leaving behind a fortuitous few who had been spared the interrogation.

So I survive, to die another day.

Thoughtless Crimes

2010-03-20T17:07:00.011+05:30

The professor’s wrath knew no bounds

The attendance sheet was lost and found

Bloodshot Eyes stood numb with fright

And two dozen onlookers, whispering with delight

Three more were there, three of us

We sat in a corner without any fuss

Hardened soldiers, prisoners of war

We are spoken about in gatherings afar.

Relentless staring, eye-ball to eye-ball

Among the ruins, Bloodshot stood tall

Unflinching, he trained his eyes not to blink

A man of steel, one is tempted to think

The prof would soon high-five in triumph

Bloodshot would fall back with a defeated cough

The deed was selfish, the act was exposed

The thought criminals knew their end was nigh

A menacing finger flashed around the class

So he could count, and yes real fast

The heads of course, fell short of the mark

Trembling, he bellowed with venomous spite

The attendance sheet, in the mid-day light

Was torn to shreds, without a second sight

Fellow after fellow was sent cart-wheeling

Out of the room, and some straight to the ceiling

The triumvirate survived the mindless probe

The benefit mob wasn’t lucky though

Names were encircled with black ink

Attendances already, right on the brink

Now they’d pay a hefty price

Blighted souls, scarred for life.

Amused laughter and excited mutterings

Filled my ears, and my teeth stuttering

Failing to form words appropriate

To sum up this dreadful twist of fate.

Apologetic though I was, with solemn eyes

Old and steadfast, the brotherly ties

Showed us the reason of rising together, and going down

Prancing colours- blue, black and an unpleasant brown

Swimming against the current, the shore was reached

Remembering the past, the lessons she would teach

Of morals, of temperament, of unquestionable character

Somewhere somehow, lost in the process

Of growing up, harbouring a rebel

Right inside, when she would tell

The old man deserves some respect

Think about it, or you will regret

Losing your character for reasons unknown

Like a burning candle that runs out its course

I wish to die, only to be reborn

Like the sun every morn, rising from the east

But I will not change, not in the least

Once a crook, a villain for life

Befooling the gaffer, faking the strife

Shunning my books, partnering a crime

Oh dear lord, how I have changed with time.

The Tree of Beginning

2010-03-05T23:35:00.002+05:30

My ancestral house down in Kozhikode is a quaint little palace of sorts, flanked on three sides by vast expanses of vegetation and on the fourth by a square courtyard. A long and narrow path snakes its way right from the District Bus Stand all the way to the courtyard. This is the only way to reach the house, apart from another small opening towards the south-eastern end of the surrounding greens, which means the house is accessible only through cycles, bikes or foot. Beyond the boundaries that denote the end of the Mannodi House lie two other huge dwellings. The fields extend over twice the area, and the palaces are grander and ever more lavish. The cosmic nature of the stretches is reflected in the difficulty in viewing the nearest house even from the top floor window of Mannodi's. But the clear blue skies seem all the more closer when looked at from the courtyard or the adjoining fields, as do the gurgling far-lying streams through the woody camouflage whenever they overflow during the monsoons.

Over 100 years old according to the gospel wisdom of my grandmother, Mannodi House has endured a lot during its century long tenure. Built very much like all other traditional Malabar abodes of the time, the several tiny rooms, winding passages and wooden staircases make for a picture of pleasant mystique and old-world charm. A small hall towards the western end opens into a long passage, where the kitchen lies right in the middle portion. My visits to the place in and around the kitchen where the women-folk of the house are known to flock in great numbers have been few and far between my umpteen stays at the house. Through the bars of a window lying towards one extreme of the kitchen, one can behold rising from strong, deep-lying roots an enormous tree, swaying this way and that, multiple branches opening up and spreading out from various points, the end hardly visible through the small window. Whenever my eyes would fall upon the tree, I would rush out of the kitchen and run through the passage towards it, always stopping with a start upon reaching the foot of the gargantuan monster that extended its reach high into the open skies, almost touching the twinkling stars on a fine moonless night.

The tree is faintly visible from the upper floors of the house where I used to spend most of the time during my vacations. It formed a truly imposing figure, intimidating me all the time, yet drawing me closer through some strange power residing in its many roots and barks. As an unwitting child, I would always frighten away from its sight, my heart filled with awe for the larger-than-life giant that seemed to cast an evil shadow over the house and all its inhabitants. With growing age, my fear gave way to intrigue and a distinct sense of the unknown, of the misunderstood that would grip me tight and bind me in a curious knot. I noticed that although people all around it grew old, irrevocably losing their youth and energy, and welcomed new lives into their lives, the tree remained the same as ever, scarred, battered and bruised at several places, swaying and dancing in the wind yet holding its own against everything. I started shedding my apprehensions and spending more time sitting beside the tree, not afraid to touch and even lean by it on occasions, very frequently reclining on the huge bed of roots with a book in hand. What depressed me most was the total lack of enthusiasm concerning the majestic wooden fortress from all the other members of the house.

But the endearing grandmother, seeing my starry eyed devotion and increasing respect for the great tree decided to tell me the remarkable story behind it. My jaw dropped to the floor and eyes grew wide as saucers on hearing some of the facts- like its age being the biggest mystery in the Mannodi family ever, bigger than even the case of the dwindling rice supplies during the British conquest of the 20s. She said the tree had always been there as far as she could stretch her frail memory back to, and my gandfather's veneration sometimes exceeded my own. She said it wasn't always so tall and strong- like everything else in this world, it had its own humble beginnings; growing up from a short fledgling plant to become the towering embodiment of Tolkien's legendary Ents of the middle ages. Heavy rain, intense heat, monstrous winds and human greed- the tree had survived everything, growing stronger all the while; ultimately evolving into a compelling guardian of all creatures residing in the land it called its home.

The tree, I realized, speaks of origins. It speaks of a time when my great-grandfather was a little kid, when it's actually symbolic of an ancient period that came ages before. A time when the earth lay bare, devoid of all life-forms, silent beyond the darkest realms of the universe. The seed of life dwelt within the heart of the tree, giving rise to life as we know it to exist today, the tree acting as the supreme creator of the world. It has endured eternally, watching the mountains rise from nothingness, rivers and oceans flood the parched lands, great landmasses move and adjust against the water bodies, glaciers and snow-caps melt away before its eyes and man evolve from being an incognizant primate to what he is today. The tree has seen everything, and its wisdom surpasses the grasp of humanity in every sense possible. The wizened tree still exists to watch over its children, to provide us inspiration in times of need, to show us the long and weary path that will from hell lead up to light. It is the tree of wonderment, of a fascination so fortuitous, of enlightenment so divine that all teachings and whisperings the world over are rendered futile in its exalted presence.

I will visit the tree again this summer, and it will be standing there steady as ever, smiling from its great heights at the return of its prodigal son, spreading its leaves and branches in a fatherly embrace. It strikes me as nothing short of miraculous that my grandmother shouldn't have a single strand of white on her head as she enters the 90th year of her life. The tree, seemingly a lot older, has many cuts and stains to show of its years; yet, its heart and spirit remain spotless as ever. The tree of beginning, it is the only entity I'm going to see remain unscathed by time till the day I leave this world.

Wordy World and Wordless Me

2010-02-28T13:06:00.001+05:30

Being whispered about in piteous tones inside the classroom isn't a very pleasant situation to find one in. It cannot be avoided beyond the point the heartless departmental professor decides to announce your test scores in class, showing a total disregard for the damage customary with such an exercise. This fine morning in the department, while respectability established itself as an able ally for most, I wasn't one among those lucky folks. One-tenth of the maximum possible marks was what I had managed, and I could be counted in the bottom 5 percent of the class. Astonished gasps gave way to amused laughter around the classroom when the prof made the damning proclamation; though not unexpected, this was very much like a cold knife running through my heart. My disbelieving eyes, fixated on the number written large on the paper had to be momentarily stirred to focus upon the jeerers; an imaginary display of flashing the finger at each and every face was pleasure enough to tackle this unwelcome aberration. My returning gaze did nothing to change the score; my ignominy was absolute now. Ever grateful to the much maligned concept of relative misery in the institute, being on the other side for once proved a bitter pill to swallow. This fatal failure of my academic faculties rendered me totally incapable of speech, and the next one hour of the class was spent in such absolute silence in the company of other fellow mourners that Signore Amerigo Bonasera himself would have kneeled before us.

It wasn't until late in the evening that the forlorn took a turn for the cheerful, and it couldn't have been arranged any better. A classy innings of routine nature was in progress by the greatest one of them all, not very far off in the land of Gwalior. Purposefully busy, yours truly had been following the game on cricinfo, feeling every pulse and nerve of the battle, always coupled with an overwhelming sense of deja vu- this innings wasn't any different from the countless others by the man with far too many international runs to care about. The pursuit of the prolific Saeed Anwar's long standing record (no offence meant to Charles Coventry, but it was still Anwar at Chennai that rankled me the most) has been bravely undertaken by many in the past 10 years, almost to the verge of successful completion. Supreme confidence though I have in the little master's abilities, I was pretty sure this innings was again going to end up in disappointment- he either tires out right before the final hurdle, or inevitably runs short of time. But you never know. I knew this much- I wouldn't be able to forgive myself for missing an event of such colossal proportions if it was indeed going to happen. When just one score separated him from the landmark and 7 overs still remained, I had little choice but to make a dash for the TV Room.

That the master would leave it right till the very end to conquer the final frontier was owing to a combination of factors involving our own inspirational captain as well as the fielding team's indisposition to allow him adequate strike. There was never a time before when MS Dhoni would have found himself being chastised by his own people for showing a sudden irking tendency to plunder boundaries off every ball of the over only to cap it with a single off the last delivery, and rival fielders appreciated to this measure for stopping an MSD boundary and allowing the great man to come on strike and take a shot at immortality. When he eventually got there in the final over- time, the great healer took all liberties to slow down and come to a grinding halt. The wind was knocked out of our chests, every existing human emotion became unreal and alien; the only things found moving in the world that had been swiftly rendered motionless were the great one's hands going up and pointing towards the heavens. The world soon recovered its guts, and was back on its feet jumping and dancing around wildly, hugging and falling over each other, and swearing out loud in words of pure unbridled joy and unmatched happiness. I found it hard to shake off the freeze- my feet rooted themselves to the ground and I experienced speechlessness of a different kind. While people around me went hysterical in light of the sheer magnitude and value of the achievement, I was in a position where nothing short of a Himalayan effort could bring my larynx back to life. Eyes unblinking, focussed solely on the portions of the television that were visible amidst the deluge of air-borne masses, I realized a total loss for words was the best possible way to react in a situation as sublime and extraordinary as the present one.

The euphoria lasted till around midnight, when I finally found myself reclining in bed after a long day of swinging fortunes and unsolicited intervals of quietness. A phone call at this time made me realize my throat wasn't done dysfunctioning for the day- it was downright useless now, out of service in totality. No sound came as I tried exercising my vocal cords; my throat was sore beyond words, and certainly disinclined towards the use of any words. What a time for a throat ailment to strike. It pained me a lot to keep the bemused caller hanging, but he soon hung up by himself.

I sat alone in my room reflecting on the incredible day that had passed, about life, the universe and everything else in general. These periods, where you shun any company for lack of being able to speak, are best for such reflections- I opened up my heart to the ever-sceptical and self-contradicting part of myself, and made such confessions I'd think several times before revealing to the world. Things had to be kept under wraps for the time being, I admitted to myself. Besides, I might very well be chasing a dream too fantastic and improbable here, something that is very unlikely to come true, yet something that will keep me afloat at nights till the uncertainty around it is shattered.

Till then, I could bask in the glory of the master's mastery. And look towards the future with glittery eyes and great expectation- because things always have a knack of falling in place, in a fitting way they are meant to be. Let destiny take its natural course; I know I have already scripted mine and engraved it on stone. It is just a question of waiting for the question to be asked.

I think in beginnings and endings and I like the feeling they bring.
I wish I could always feel so good.
I wish the correct person calls me next time around.
And I hope I can blurt out the deepest contents of my heart with whatever voice and audacity I can muster.

Last Man Standing

2010-02-21T15:00:00.004+05:30

I knew something was seriously wrong when I saw the long stretch of the Jawahar Bhawan B-Block corridor bare, entirely devoid of human life, a deathly silence hanging in the air and the ineffective tubelights rendering the area darker than a cemetery on a cold December midnight. I opened my door to the slow yet eerie creaking of the rusty sides; throwing away my bag and shoes, I picked up the set of cards and exited again. The empty corridor seemed to mock at me once more, as if challenging me to kill the darkness by lighting a candle, to break the silence by blowing a trumpet and most of all, to revive the guts of humanity lying dormant within the realms of the wooden doors. I knocked for the attention of my nearest neighbour, the Infantile Incumbent, a testosterone loaded juvenile, but he was the sort who never answered your knocks, being either hopelessly in the clutches of enticing sleep or with his eyes and ears fixed (literally) to his laptop, cutting out all routes of communication with the outside world. Worth a shot was all I could console myself with, moving ahead to my nemesis, the Senile Gargoyle's (SG) room. Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage; this particular door happened to be utterly incapable of holding prisoner even the various repulsive odours and objectionable sounds that were presently emanating out in free rein. A weak knock that I mustered was answered by a weaker 'Buzz off, I'm studyin'!'. I refused to learn from my second failure on the trot.

My next destination was of course the pathetic little mandrill's room, the most unwelcome place of abode in the entire corridor. I knocked with utmost respect on the spotless door- it opened in a flash, and the mandrill appeared, glaring up at me from his 4 feet tall stature. The pointed nose, the freshly laundered clothes (strongly reeking of an excess of surf-excel blue) and the same greasy spectacles greeted my eyes; not for nothing did I call him Wormtongue/Smeagol whenever I grew weary of the primate allusion. I left unsurprised, unflustered by the encounter- I hadn't expected anything better than 'I've gotta study man, TS ain't more than 3 days from today!!". He shooed me away with a wave of arrogance, which I had already turned my back on, recognizing a lost cause when it danced stark naked before my eyes. The Geek and his faithful minions residing on the L-wing could do nothing but shrug their shoulders helplessly at the closeness of the present to the proverbial 11th hour, what with just a little more than a couple of days remaining for the Tempestuous Slaughterers to start sharpening their axes. Engaging in a friendly game of the best battle of the cards invented by mankind was quite out of the question at such a time. I cared not to visit the Mathematician's room, for he remained blissfully oblivious to even the 'P' of Poker in his small world of numbers and equations.

The other faithfuls in the Lord's Legion had planned an even greater disappointment for me. While I could hear one of them snoring quite audibly from inside his room, the others were seemingly off in the pursuit of eye candies, ambling around the perimeter of the campus, and some, most ignominously, out studying in that hateful pantheon they call the Reading Room. Not a single person was ready for the game that had kept us occupied every single minute of our free time till about a week back. The cards suddenly seemed very heavy in my hands, and I had an urge to drop them or better still, fling them away to the heart of the adjoining CBRI. Disappointed, I trudged back to my room, stumbling through the dark corridor and resenting the thrice-a-semester phenomeona that was about to dawn upon us sooner than I'd have liked.

I planned to make a bonfire out of all my question papers, especially the departmental ones that had agonized me the most, to burn them to pitiful ashes which I could then throw into the Solani. I settled for the next best option, which was tearing the papers apart into many pieces with great vengeance, and flushing away the shreds in one of our legendary Jawahar Bhawan lavatories. That done, I wondered how I would go about spending the rest of my evening, the first vela one in almost two weeks. Much to the sorrow of the many story books lying around my table and the several gigabytes of unwatched movies lying in my laptop, I picked up the long neglected pack of cards and once again, set out in search of my poker buddies of yore. As I stepped out of my room, a blinding light scorched my unwary eyes, the light that signified freedom and liberation from the bondages of tutorials and text books. Elated, and keen to put firmly behind me the trials and tribulations of the afore-mentioned phenomena, I lumbered along the very same trail as the unsuccesful one of the week before. Unfortunately, all doors remained as closed for me as ever, the Incumbent alive but preferring not to get up from his bed, the Gargoyle hurling expletives at me from across the other side and the mandrill could be heard making noises that resembled Golem's hissed whisperings of wild delight at being re-united with his precious. The Geek and everybody else were also shut up inside their rooms, the smooth flutterings of the plastic cards as I played them around in my hands hardly managing to divert their attention from their laptops to the despairing soul hovering outside. Yes, a new sensation had gripped every frustrated inhabitant of B-block, Jawahar Bhawan, something that was just waiting to explode once the TSs got over.

Governor of Poker.

This absurd sounding game had unbelievably captured the imaginations of Poker-smitten creatures all around a 100 metre radius from my room. The virtual version of our constant relaxation resort, the game involved wagering with real money (virtual of course, but real notes and coins as far as the scenario inside the game was concerned!), winning over different cities, to be eventually crowned the master of masters, or the Governor as the ridiculous name indicated. This outlandish encroachment by the darned Flash creators on my life meant the only source of social entertainment I had was taken away from me and most cruelly, only from me and from none of the others. Because I could pledge my beloved biro on this, I was never going to fall into this virtual trap- I would never commit such sacrilege towards the inventor of the great card game, although most astonishingly, my own guru the Gargoyle was among the very first ducks to be shot on the neck by GoP. I felt like the shepherd of a few thousand misled sheep, my heart going out to each and every one of them. The cards once again seemed to be burning a hole in my hands; I backed away to my lonely retreat yet again and snuggled up with The Girl In Blue, another promising Wodehousian classic, something that would help me overcome the trauma caused by the many eccentricities of my dear friends.

The Last Resort

2010-02-02T13:05:00.012+05:30

A man travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it.

- George Moore (The Brook Kerith: A Syrian Story)

Waking up early in the morning is always an insufferable pain. Especially during the winters, when the mere thought of pulling out of the blanket and stepping on to the cold floor makes you retreat further into your shelter. You wrap the rug all around your bulk, holding on to it tight in fear of sudden disappearance. A few blissful moments later, realisation of the extreme lateness of the hour strikes and the rug has to break away, inch by inch, like a woman planting a final kiss on her lover’s grave. Absolute hell follows; the temptation to fall back and slide into the heavenly confines you just abandoned threatens to overpower you. You shrug off the feeling with difficulty, shaking and trembling all the time with the blatant exposure to an intense cold you knew not existed outside the realms of your safeguard.

It’s all a blur afterwards; half an hour later, you find yourself dressed, combed, well bathed if it wasn’t too cold, and all set for class. This is when you finally feel invigorated, rejuvenated after all the negative energy imparted into you by the bed and the blanket, devil’s tools for the gullible mind. There is a spark in your eyes, an earnest sense of adventure in your heart and a buzz inside your head that speaks of a great day lying ahead. Coats and ties, caps and mufflers, school-bags and water-bottles, fresh socks and shoes are all taken care of in a flash. This is when you remember you are going for class and not for a picnic on a summers-day. They deal in books and notes and papers and pens there. You make the most startling discovery of the morning at this time when you realise you can’t seem to trace your favourite pen anywhere.

***

The table was set; the players were ready. Six greedy pairs of eyes looked at the immeasurable amount of wealth lying before them and yearned to possess it all. The pack of cards were arranged and seemed to be calling out to nestle into the hands of a dealer. Early fortune favoured the Smiling Surd, and he was chosen to start as the dealer. A dealer coin was demanded to be placed in front of the dealer, marking a distinction between him and the others. Silver keys, 10 rupee coins, stolen hairpins, shiny spectacle cases and detached jacket buttons all paled in comparison with the sturdy, gleaming and truly exquisite piece of weaponry I held in my hands. Several times mightier than any bleeding battle-sword in the entire world, my pen had to face the ignominy of having to play ball with half a dozen vultures threatening to tear apart anything and everything in their near vicinity if the roll of the dice went the other way. It wasn’t long before yours truly, the proud master of the gritty little writing tool, became too engrossed in the ensuing game to notice its shifts and reallocations. I faintly remember a long-haired mandrill walking into the room and snatching the pen out of the dealer’s hands, replacing it with a filthy ancient looking comb that made everyone dread the dawn of dealership upon them for once.

***

Time is of essence; you have the option of daring to enter Mr D’s class without a pen in hand or to go searching for your precious biro before it gets too late. You decide to make a dash for it, and barge into the suspected mandrill’s room. Pulling him out of his peaceful slumber and grabbing his collars with one hand, you exercise the other to plant ferocious whacks across both cheeks. You bang your forehead on his, punch him brutally on the stomach and knock him out senseless in less than 15 seconds. The mandrill lies in a shocked stupor as you raid his room, flinging all his belongings here and there, emptying the cupboards and drawers, ripping apart blankets and sheets and upturning tables and pencil stands. As you hold your head and pull at every strand of hair in utter despair, when you see the letters S.G. written in what looks like human blood on the wall. A searing pain shoots through your tortured skull as you punt past the dying creature and rush towards the Senile Gargoyle’s room. You bang into the door head-first, swinging and kicking wildly at it, taking an uncomfortably long few seconds to notice the humungous lock hanging outside. There is also a hand-written note stuck to the door which says, “No Newspaper from Tomorrow”. The Gargoyle had captured the pen through his defeat of the valiant mandrill and made swift his escape.

***

I was gutted. Dismay and disbelief washed me over in entirety as I commenced upon the slow and painful walk to the Slaughter House, dreading the onset of doom and disaster in my life.

The classroom was unusually warm for a January morning. But the real heat I felt was of the sinking feeling in my stomach for having lost my greatest treasure. I had assaulted the mandrill and left him to rot in hell for no joy whatsoever. The Gargoyle would die a brutal death once I lay my hands on him. I would knock down all his monstrous teeth with a single blow of the sledge-hammer I borrowed from the mandrill. I would rip him apart limb by limb and feed the mortal remains to the rancorous mongrel next door. I would gun him down with a thousand vicious bullets and hack his body with a vengeance and cold fury seldom seen or heard of in history. I would burn down corridor after corridor of human inhabitance and torture every single incompetent fool who failed to respect the splendid work of writesmanship I was known to display with the help of my only precious.

Mr D’s booming voice broke through into my revengeful trance. The bald head, the wizened shoulders and the deadened eyes of the old man reminded me of a dim-witted toad from a popular fairy-tale of yesteryears. What would I not give to break an egg on his head and make a dash for it to a place far, far away, with no professors, gargoyles or least of all, pesky mandrills? A momentary impulse caused me to put my hands into the front pocket of my bag; a chill ran down my spine as I made contact with a cold yet very familiar object. Deafening silence drilled into my ears, and even before I drew my hands out, I knew I had reached home.

Shades of Grey

2010-01-10T14:00:00.002+05:30

The 10^th of January dawns upon us as another arctic cold day. With chilly winds to complement the harshness of the single digit temperatures, human activity is at a premium. People prefer to stay cuddled up inside the shelter of their rugs and the simulated warmth of their rooms; the comfortable bed becomes a tough spouse to betray. A single ray or two from the seasonally demure big ball of fire reach the frozen land for a precious few afternoon minutes. While heroic souls might take this opportunity to get out in the open to take on the freeze with their bare hands, the timid ones refuse to leave their refuge claiming this to be God's way of mocking us mortals with the supreme power he wields when it comes to climatic control. Many manage to spend their winters in literal hibernation, while others suffer the frigid wrath of the almighty. Taking baths becomes an impossible proposition, the daring ones being mostly termed as foolish rather than brave. The world remains shrouded in dense fog and cruel mists for 16 hours a day, adding a total lack of visibility to the growing list of icy felonies.
Can one imagine going out for a game of football in such weather? Exposing one's limbs to the gruesome cold blasts, risking oneself to violent body contact with the likes of stocky pigs and raging bullocks, and leaving one's eyes and noses to be trampled upon to start watering like anything? Unthinkable for weaklings like me, but it is happening in crueller circumstances in a continent far, far away from the tropical country India comes across to the world as. Arshavin and Rooney can pull of the incredible act any day, but it is the greatest test of courage and character of any man to even dare to do something of the sort. The Himalayan Explorers' Club was established in some God forsaken era for fostering the very same spirit of adventure- to prepare the meek and fallen souls as warriors of tomorrow, to help them endure anything and everything the heavens throw at them. I am proud to say that I was part of this great venture for one whole wonderful year, before better sense prevailed and I shifted to literary circles. But that year was way more rewarding and insightful to my maligned soul than my well-wishers would make me believe.
Videos showing insanely audacious treks out in the deep frozen ravines and steep slopes of the Himalayan ranges were enough to give me goose bumps. There is never a chance in eternity of me embarking on a similar endeavour, but that is not to say that the still frames didn't inspire me for all their worth. I could feel a head-rush and a sense of euphoria watching the death-defying tricks unfold right before my eyes. I could clap and applaud my heart out as the explorers would conquer one obstacle after another, teaching us the very valuable yet severely understated lesson that nothing is impossible in life if one sets his heart and soul into achieving it! I was certainly learning stuff and shedding my fears- and the cold winter did not seem all that intimidating now. Next thing I know, I have signed up for the 40 km long Annual Cycle Race- a once in a year celebration of the adventurous force that resides within all our souls, ready to be summoned in one's hour of need. The chilly January morning had to matter not when it was a question of showing your gallantry, and of course, securing your grades for the 3 credit course.
I am still gutted to think that I came a total cropper in the race. In a race including a couple of hundred participants, what position could be deemed reasonable? Below 50... or at worst, in the top 100? And if nothing, at least finish the damn kilometres and reach back on time to be acknowledged as a man smart enough to complete the competition with his pride and honour intact? I came second to each, getting nowhere near arriving back to the starting point on time, and having to be rescued more than once from the perilous hands of gross misfortune and the treacherous UK terrains. Considering that only a couple more fellows suffered the same ignominious way, I am assuming my position will go down as something in the late 190s. My cycle disappointed throughout the trek, breaking apart in the face of the simplest of challenges on its pedals or tyres, proving to be an utterly useless companion for a man in desperate pursuit of glory. The dumb vehicle rots away to silent death in the Bhawan stands as I write. My father was expectantly in his humorous elements on hearing my story. As funny as it sounded to all that I cared to recite it to, I felt I had suffered a crushing blow to my spirits by failing so miserably to overcome the bitter cold as so many others had. I remember I had withdrawn myself to my warm cocoon and refused to indulge in any winter activities thereafter that involved exercising my stiff limbs.
I came to know last week that it was that time of the year again- the Grand Race was to be conducted once again. 200 more head-in-the-clouds competitors would have battled it out this morning to beat the intense cold (which is crueller and rougher than last year) and emerge victorious. While they were at it, I stayed wrapped up inside my blankets typing out this post, silently envying the adventurers, quietly dreaming a fast fading dream. I wasn't foolhardy enough to embarrass myself again this year, but I am not thrilled about that. The last victorious race that comes to my mind is a 50 metre long pick-up-the-ball race that I was part of some dozen years ago. I have been a complete failure in sports and adventure ever since- the HEC experience just making that absolute. The sportsman's spirit that I treasure in my heart comes unstuck every time I enter the arena. I detest myself for my failures, for my cowardice, for my inability to defeat the elements when they are all stacked against me. I completely abhor my present state of academic existence, hating my books and longing for the field all the time. Yet, as finish this post, I come back to my senses and stretch my stiff muscles, preparing myself for another long nap snuggled inside the blanket, hoping to visit the sweetest Theatre of dreams, running into the ground at Stretford End in the company of the Devils of yore, set to blast a screamer into the back of the net that will send the spectators into millions of frenzied ruptures.

Se7en

2010-01-03T16:22:00.001+05:30

The chilly morning air stabbed like daggers at my exposed face as I stood in near absolute darkness awaiting my bus. Unrelenting as the weather was, the usually reliable bus too seemed rather elusive and uncharacteristically not on time. After half an hour of wiling away in the wilderness, 7 o' clock saw the arrival of the vehicle that was to bear me back to R land. I waved goodbye to my father and boarded the bus, recognized by the number 3220, a multiple of 7, I noted in my mind. The bus started with a jerk and sent me tumbling down with my luggage, the conductor helping me regain control and immediately proceeded to lighten my wallet by a cent and five rupees, again a multiple of 7. I moved ahead and seated myself in the first of the seven free seats I saw, in the seventh row from the front. Heaving a sigh of relief, I placed my bags around my seat and settled myself into a comfortable sleeping position. The journey was a long and unbearably cold one. Throughout, I couldn't help but notice the seven different lights attached to the roof, the seven times the driver had to apply sudden brakes to avoid hitting passing vehicles because of the fog, the seven times the conductor got up from his seat to march through the bus for tickets, and least of all, the seven times I sneezed during the journey after catching a dreadful cold. I saw the bus cross the Seven Seas Hotel a few kilometres ahead of the Meerut Bus Stand, the huge billboard adjacent to it proclaiming that it is open on all seven days of the week, all year round. I ate for 42 rupees at the interval and left a 7 rupees tip for the bewildered waiter, taking back a rupaiya for a reason I couldn't quite fathom at the time. The bizarre journey ended 7 hours after I climbed on to the bus, and I refused to take a rickshaw because the rickshaw-wala stoutly refused to accept a single rupee less than fifteen.

Seven is magically the most powerful number. The number's attraction lies not in the least in its brilliant symmetry or omnipresence, but in a far greater truth that exceeds mankind's grasp. My fascination began only after reading The Half Blood Prince, where the seven Horcruxes depicted a concept that was awe-inspiring and overwhelming in some respects, showing the immense sorcery of good and evil held by a seemingly harmless number. I was captured immediately and soon started realising that life could get nowhere without the sacred number. A casual conversation with my father revolving around the number revealed some shocking facts, most impressive and common of which were the seven sacred steps that bind man and wife in holy matrimony for life. Kings of lore were known to keep 7 different wives at 7 different places (apart from countless keeps in countless other places, I must add). Seven was and still is considered the most crucial number in astrology, and plays a decisive role in making or breaking the fortunes of millions who believe in the science. Performing religious rites seven times, using seven priests for the same, applying seven as an important factor for division of land, property and wealth and worshipping it more than any other number have been an integral part of Indian mythology and culture.

But 7 has presented itself to me on occasions and circumstances in numerous. The seven eastern sisters are the nation's pride, and boast of beauty unmatched by the rest of the country. Contemporary separatist movements threaten to split the heavenly states and spoil the sweet symmetry, but the number continues to survive as it has done so stubbornly for ages. Nitrogen happens to be the most abundant gas in the earth's atmosphere, and is characterized by an atomic number of 7. Being of such vital importance to all life forms, the number has preserved its utility and given it the physical and chemical properties for the same. Who can forget the Seven Wonders of the World, superb specimens of man's efforts to match the Almighty in his prowess? Our own countrymen had to play spoilsport by pushing for an eighth wonder, but I can hardly dare complain if the monument in question happens to be the mighty Taj. Now that I mention it, 7 as a factor played a monumental role in the construction of the historical palace. Seven is known to have chillingly cold and life changing consequences in the Holy Bible, cropping up all too often, and making it without any doubt the most significant number in Christianity. Needless to say, entire civilisations over the course of history have been shaped by keeping in mind the great symmetry in applying the number to mathematical structures and divisions.

Closer to my heart are some other instances of Seven, the ones that are the real reason for my veneration. Manchester United F.C. has produced special players aplenty in the past hundred years. As a distinctive mark of brilliance, the number 7 jersey has traditionally been dedicated to the very best among each lot of special players. George Best, Bryan Robson, Eric Cantona, David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo- the list is impressive and reeks of sheer genius and talent. These are all players who have been among the best in the world during their peaks, the pivots around which the Devils' teams over different periods of time have revolved and tasted success. Seven automatically qualifies to be called the favourite number of every United fan. But I am not done yet. Popular fiction and ageless classics haven't been lagging behind as far as the number is concerned. The seven dwarfs in Snow White and the seven rings for the Dwarf Lords in the Lord of the Rings are just two famous examples, apart from JKR's horcruxes of course. Lust, Gluttony, Avarice, Envy, Wrath, Sloth and Pride- recent Facebook quizzes will tell people about the seven deadly sins, an ancient truth celebrated in a movie dedicated to the very number I am deifying here.

As I draw to a close, I look back upon what had prompted me to embark on this exercise. All the glory of two semesters was buried in mud in the subsequent semester, as a result of which I am a Seven pointer now. Yes, a seven pointer. Painful though the fall has been, I realise this is what I always wanted, to be closer to the magic number, to be counted among the multitudes who form the seven point something junta at IITR. I am in perfect peace with myself now- the turmoil of the past has been erased with no lasting memory; the heart is finally in the right place. The number makes the strongest of mortals kneel to its supremacy, and rewards those who accept the very fact. I have begun the journey into the land of the mighty. The number shall aid me in my own quest to match its magnificence.

Walk of Life

2009-12-20T13:06:00.001+05:30

The Uttarakhand Bus Transport Service has never been very popular among students for its exceptional customer care. The buses are mostly a hundred years old, awfully dirty from the outside and almost always reeking of repulsive odours. Torn and severely damaged interiors, a grumpy old conductor and a resurrected devil of a driver atop the wheels complete this charming picture of perfection. During every travel, one has to contend with an unfortunate crowd of co-passengers, eccentric and hostile in every way possible. The countless potholes and depressions on the National Highway 58 do take a severe toll on your body, and the journey always seems to take much longer than the warranted 5 hours. Forever swaying this way and that, the bus bumping and crashing at every step, horns wailing and tires screeching all the time, and worst of all, the sudden applying of brakes that make your head bang into the railings to shake you out of the accidental sleep you had fallen into; can you blame them for promising you the ride of a lifetime?

I must admit that despite all odds, I have started to become quite fond of these bumpy rides. None of these problems deter in any way the eagerness I possess every time I am about to board the bus. Whether I am homeward bound or destined to reach beloved R-land, journeys in both directions give me more reason for joy than grief. So it was with extreme pleasure that I undertook the dreaded expedition so that I could feast my starving eyes upon the campus I had left behind. The weather this fine day was simply beautiful- the breeze, pleasant and not too chilly, with a slight winter sunshine to go along. And R seemed to be the same faithful old hamlet, as earthly and home-like as ever, welcoming me with open arms into its joyous bosoms. When I had done enjoying the visual delights around the campus, I couldn't help but notice the disgruntling lack of human life or activity. Most of the people were off cooling their heels at home, while the remaining few were into either Placements or Cogni, and it was anyway ridiculous to expect anyone to be awake at mid-day at such a time of the year.

My errand at R-land comprised of the relatively menial task of procuring a Recommendation Letter from a Professor in my Department. I realized soon upon reaching the dep. that the beauty and magnetism of the campus was not meant to exist inside the buildings, for my journey had brought me within sniffing distance of the horror that is the announcement of Grades. Now, I have never been apprehensive about academics in the past, having always been a reasonable student of the Sciences. A look at the grade-sheets mercilessly stuck to the notice-boards confirmed my worst fears and finally brought me crashing down to earth from the lofty pedestal I had occupied for the past few months. This mighty fall from grace was abrupt and shocking, yet not entirely unexpected. I was guilty of giving in to the lighter pleasures of life at IITR (prefaced by solemn vows of sobriety) that when engaged in without restraint can prove to be quite a dampener on academic results. And so it did. This semester saw me falter dramatically at every step, hitting one roadblock after the other, frustration and annoyance slowly but surely creeping into the system. Where history bears testimony to several of my last minute revivals and spectacular comebacks on the academic front, there were none to be this time around. The downward spiral extended until the very last day of the semester, wrecking every single subject to the worst possible extent, dismantling my fortress brick by brick and rewarding me with the lowest set of grades I had ever feared of achieving.

I was reminded of the Red Devils' stunning defeat at the Theatre of Dreams to the insufferable Scousers bang in the middle of a purple patch last season. As outrageous and utterly disgraceful as it was, we did recover to go on and win the Premier League. Losing a battle did not get in the way of the greater plan, which meant victory in the war. An inane analogy it might seem, but I have taken solace from the fact that my plunge need not necessarily indicate failure of the grander scheme of things. A blow though it definitely is, redemption is not far if I set my heart and soul in it. Just like the winter blossom struggles through the cold, grumbling and whining all the time, yet always hanging in there through sheer grit and determination ultimately giving way to a most lovely spring, I will have to wither this storm and focus my energy on bringing back home what I know rightfully belongs there. It is a question of picking up the pieces, starting from scratch and swimming against the treacherous current that threatens to derail my dream, rising through the ashes like many heroes have in the past. Till then, I can curse my bad fortune, and sorrow over how fate had finally caught up with me and sent me stumbling on the tracks. Your voice was all I heard, and I get what I deserve.

Meanwhile, I bade yet another farewell to R-land and mounted the indomitable vehicle for the umpteenth time in the last 2 years. The prospect of undertaking the journey again after a couple of weeks, reaching back to the promised land and commencing on a resuscitation battle have kept me on my feet ever since coming back home. With a chocolaty Christmas and a promising New Year on the cards, it's hard to remain pensive for long, amidst the company of family and friends. As is the custom, I shall hide myself in a dark corner of the house soon after finishing this post, and start preparing my list of X-Mas wishes and New Year resolutions, reminiscing on the trials, tribulations and jubilations of the 19 Christmases gone by.

Wedding Reunions

2009-12-14T12:01:00.005+05:30

I stood staring at the grand entrance hall with the uneasiness of an uninvited guest. The decorations were immaculately done; the holy communion of the uniting souls was being celebrated in no small measure. A huge banner screamed out their names for the benefit of the entering people. I saw fire-works shoot into the night sky forming a beautiful spectacle, causing a thunderous applause from the junta. Booming loud music could be heard emanating from within the Hall, the standard melodies one has grown accustomed to hearing in weddings. I turned my head towards my mother, beseeching her silently as to why she had brought me here. I was led into the gaiety with none more than a stern eye from her and a helpless gesture from my father. I sighed and braced myself to endure a few agonizing hours of the Great Indian Wedding- the first one I was attending in a long, long time.

As I had feared, I knew not a single person inside the wedding hall. All around, people were busy talking with each other, families were greeting each other and exchanging news of the time that elapsed between their last meeting at the previous great wedding, and a bunch of little children were busy conducting their own little conference, discussing matters that concerned but a galaxy far, far away from the wedding hall. Soon, my parents found their own people and quietly abandoned me. After they left, nobody else seemed to notice me at all, and it suited me well. I went over and sat down at a corner seat, with nothing but the dull music and the reverberating merry banter to occupy myself with. I wondered for the umpteenth time what had prompted me to accept mother's proposal to vent out my vacation boredom by attending the wedding festivities of some people fairly anonymous to me. If nothing for the sumptuous wedding supper on offer at least, I consoled myself. Immediately craning my neck over to search for the food, I saw several servers walking around with delicacies in their hands, little titbits to serve as appetizers before commencing on the actual meal. I helped myself to all the non-vegetarian delights (that's what I was here for), and ate without any hindrance. Well, the food seemed worth the trip, and I decided to make this evening as memorable for my olfactory glands as an occasion ever was previously.
I was half-way through my third chicken kebab (which was like nothing I had eaten before) when she arrived. It had been a long while since our last meeting. She was tall and fair and graceful as ever. As always, her long hair had been tucked in neatly between her shoulders. I remembered the birth mark on her left cheek very well. Showing utter disrespect for the chill that prevailed in the night, she was adorned in clothes that befitted a warm June evening more, but attractive nonetheless. She smiled happily at someone, and for a moment I was hopeful. Then, I saw her pass right through me and walk over to some friends on the other side of the hall. With watering eyes, I made a quick attempt to swallow the chicken piece dangling from my mouth and with it swallow my implausible fantasy. Last I had heard of her, she had graduated out of some engineering college, landed herself a decent job, and now reached what her mother mournfully used to tell mine about, the marriageable age. The customary sigh and shake of the head followed for me. I was settling down to finish my chicken when someone slapped my back and made the chicken piece fly out of my mouth. Truly red-faced now amidst a dozen gleeful watchers, I turned around to look at my assaulter. Of course, she had a brother, and I should have expected him to be here. Then I remembered it was him that I used to be good friends with, and I had met her through him. He was smiling broadly at me, an impish grin displaying his delight at meeting me. We shook hands and exchanged all kinds of news that had occupied us in the 4 year period since I last saw him.

'So the rumours are true. I should have known, there really is an IITian in our midst tonight!' I passed away the comment with a nonchalant smile and a shrug of the shoulders. We discussed random things, enquiring about the welfare of each other's family and friends. But after some time, what he said left me gutted. The tone of his voice dipped tragically as he went on to talk about unfulfilled dreams and an utterly depressing life. I could hardly blame him, as apparently, the rather unknown Arts College he studied in wasn't any bigger than the wedding hall we were sitting in! I hadn't the heart to tell him that not even a single department at IITR could be fitted into this cramped space, but he already seemed to know that. A very sad and painful discussion ensued thereafter. He embarked on a monologue about the supposed failures in his life; he wasn't such a touchy guy when I had last met him. I carefully steered the conversation away from the topic and went about enjoying the food instead. This guy was someone I used to play cricket with once upon a happy time, when we were kids and the future was best left uncertain and un-pondered upon. Remarkably though, it all came back to him and he soon stopped brooding. We had quite a few laughs recounting many memorable incidents from the playground, and remembering all the comical characters we had been with during our childhood. We used to be lynchpins of our cricket team, me the reliable opening batsman, he the tearaway fast bowler who terrorised oppositions, and a fearsome hitter down the order. Together, we had achieved many victories on the cricket ground, celebrating the days of our lives as only children without a care in the world could. Sadly, our academic pathways bifurcated at a delicate point, and he was unable to replicate my exploits on this field.

Later on, I had to suffer the embarrassment of being introduced as something of a wonder to many a spellbound parent, who could only dream about their kids going to IIT. Poor devils, they had no idea whatsoever about life on the other side. There came along a middle aged woman who grabbed me and held me fondly in a motherly embrace. She was teary eyed while saying that she had last held me in her arms 18 years ago, when I was very little and hardly old enough to remember anything of it now. I was quite astonished on hearing that, but what followed further left me grief-stricken. She had made a mark for herself abroad, and led a comfortable life now, with the downside being that she hadn't been blessed with any kids of her own. As mother was to tell me later, she simply adored children, and always used to be around the house during the first two years of my life.

It was soon time to bid farewell to my friend of yesteryears, and catch a final glimpse of his sister who had unsurprisingly stayed aloof of me, apart from the slightest of smiles towards my rather eager face, more out of pity than anything else. But that is a different story all together. My previously jaded mind was now caught in turmoil of mixed emotions, somewhat pleased with meeting old acquaintances; yet there was a lingering gloom in my heart over how things had turned out for them. But the only thing that occupied my mind as I walked out of the hall was that I hadn't caught even a glimpse of what the bride and groom looked like, whoever and wherever they were among the mass gathering.

Father's Day

2009-12-06T15:24:00.011+05:30

It was a day when even the prospect of a facile examination kept me occupied and glued to studies for hours. Reading and re-reading the stupid set of notes took up a lot of my time, and I failed to notice the time fly by. Midnight came and went, and I welcomed yet another seemingly inconsequential day of my life with the excitement one usually reserves for tests which pop out of the air at all the wrong times. Desperation led to quick completion of the course and bed followed. The date and time were still as meaningless to me as any other day of the week or indeed the year had been. I had hardly managed to settle down inside the rug and close my eyes shut, when the alarm clock blasted through hell into my consciousness, breaking the deathly silence of the early winter morning, kicking my arse brutally out of bed in its customary fashion. A none too impressive exam and an afternoon session with the butchers later, I was back to square one, opening up the notes to launch yet another survival battle, the only solace being the off day that followed next. Friends came and friends went, exchanging tidings of misery and woe with which all of us were well acquainted by this time. Bakar sessions happened, dates and times were repeatedly discussed, the wrong end of November giving way to the right end of December, being quickly followed by the best time of the year, the Christmas period- I registered every single thing without a hint of recognition of what the whole scheme had intended to fulfill. Another midnight threatened to overwhelm us; the 27th day of November was dying out into nothingness like a candle melting away out of existence after serving its purpose well.

That is when Father decided to check upon the progress of his son in his quest to attain the Degree. The phone call hardly caught me unawares- this was a daily ritual, the Parents would dwell upon examination matters, appreciate and reprimand yours truly in equal measure, wander thither-whither in the conversation and hang up in due time. The 2 minute chat with Father gave me no indication of anything being out of the ordinary; but what followed completely caught me off-guard, sending me crashing down beneath the deepest crevices of the earth’s surface straight into hell. That I had completely forgotten one of the most important days of my life seemed unbelievable. The brat made every effort to rub it in as hard as he could, and Mother made no small issue of my severe moral infringement. My limbs went numb for the ensuing 60 second onslaught- I had never felt so low for a long time now. I managed to squeak a few ‘Sorries’ and ‘completely forgot’ and ‘totally busy with exams’, but my defense fell flat on its face. It was no surprise when I heard Father reclaim the receiver, silencing my tormenters and taking up matters in his own hands. I wished him the most sincere ‘Happy Birthday’ ever, several times in between repeating all the previous excuses, literally readying myself to throw down at his feet in penance. The heart-warming laughter I heard from the other side has been ringing in my ears ever since. Of course, I hadn’t expected Father to act any differently; to him, it was a small matter of little significance in the grand scheme of things (my Degree, bro’s studies, Mother’s taking care of the household), birthdays are but just an unwarranted reminder of growing years and waning powers, and I was anyway too engrossed with academics. The last part isn’t exactly true in entirety, and I considered myself as guilty as bro had accused me of being, if not more. The phone-call came to an end with Parents’ final re-assurances and bro’s cruel account of the many delicacies they had enjoyed on this special day.

Like many other times in my life, this particular incident occupied my mind every night the following week, all the time reminding me of my unforgivable yet utterly human crime; Father’s act of instant forgiveness only propelled him further towards his already acquired divine status. Of course, the human in me further contrived to cook up newer excuses- I was after all a forced resident of the college hostels, staying away from the family was bound to induce such memory losses; I would surely have remembered in due time. Moreover, I had a deal with the brat (I would love to abuse him with fiercer words, but as it turns out, we happen to share the same blood, and this is where I draw the line) to remind me in time before such important dates dawned unannounced upon us; his little joke with me has left me riddled with guilt and shame of a magnitude I hardly knew I could feel. I couldn’t help but admit to myself of how ungracious a son I have been despite everything my Parents have done for me- the whole account of which will run longer than the longest epics the world has seen, yet take an entire lifetime to fully comprehend and put into any words at all. In my 20 years of life, I could only repay them through my studies and little gestures of love and kindness towards family and friends, and indeed, trying to do everything I could do to make them proud of myself. I have a mountain to climb yet, a vast ocean to cross before I even start considering myself a true son- which is what I aspire to achieve, more than anything else in this life. There are moments when you experience a sublime high; when Parents tell you how proud they feel to have you as a son, when they commend you for all your triumphs and accomplishments, forgetting the sorrows and thanking the almighty for the joys you have provided them. But again, there do arrive such moments of desperate lowliness, those which are self-inflicted but which leave you with much to ponder about, questioning your commitment as a good son. The ultimate quest in life is to rid oneself of such moments, to repay your creators in such a manner as your destiny shall permit; the world shall stand up and acknowledge such a man as the divine one himself. I know it’s hardly a sin to my father, but I hope to be a better son from now on.

52nd for Father, 36th for Sir Ryan Giggs two days later. Some people are evergreen; let us carve their names in stone- their immortal souls shall rule our hearts for ages to come.

Stiff Upper Lip

2009-10-08T12:08:00.006+05:30

By the standards of some of my most regular blogging colleagues on campus, it has been a long time since my last post, which was a very verbose one. One is always hoping for the magical inspiration to strike one moment and culminate in a really brilliant post that will win hearts all around. Ever since my return to (R)ookie land more than 2 months ago following an insanely long period of extreme idleness and unemployment, these moments have been tragically few and far in between. One of them gave me my best effort thus far, but the following one, I am convinced, sort of undid all the good work. Nevertheless, against all odds, and with utmost disregard for the lateness of the hour, yours truly is back, and can scarcely contain his frustration and anger at certain events that have transpired in the time period referred to. No previous post of mine has come forth merely out of instantaneous and uncontrolled outbursts of emotions, the reserved and phlegmatic character that I usually am. The forthcoming post is inevitable though, and for the first time I can say that I really intend to send across a message, a very serious one.

Football, you bloody beauty. I would hardly be doing justice to the very brilliant group of Greek soldiers, many centuries prior to our age, who were struck by a sudden impulse, no doubt born out of sheer blood-thirstiness and cold-heartedness, to start playing a most innovative game of kicking the severed heads of the slain enemies with their foot as far as they could, if I say that football is simply the greatest game ever invented. In desperately clichéd language, I would blurt out with intense passion that I have always loved the game, loved to play it, loved to watch it on television, loved to discuss it with friends, and of course, worshipped every single footballing God like I would never worship any deity in my grandma's puja room. Moving on to my present agenda, I falter at the beginning. Bursting out with words to say, that is the time I am always left helplessly speechless. It is my love for the game that made me pursue this venture, and I shall not stop when my destiny deems to dictate otherwise.

One frequent question I have always been queried with, nay troubled with, nay nay tortured with is why on earth do I support a football team as disgusting, as disdaining, totally revolting to the human mind, nauseatingly snobbish, and inconveniently bastardly as Manchester United? As far as my near and dear ones, my close friends, my respected elders, my gurus, and even my worst enemies could conjecture, I was a man of perfectly sane nature, a person with rational thoughts on the way of the world, a totally sound and sensible guy and reasonable to the extent of being called a wise young lad. That such a serious anomaly could afflict my otherwise normal brain struck the people as intriguing, concerning and sometimes, worthy of being laughed at. To all those rare once in a generation geniuses, I have just one thing to say: Up yours, fuckfaces. Come and meet me personally, and I shall retort with words of a far more heinous and foul nature, words I deem unfit to appear on my blog. To each his own, the sagacious lot would say. Totally agree my friend, never heard a more logical thing in my life, thank you, I would reply. Truth be said, and it shall be without fail tonight, the matter goes very deep, much deeper than any sage or blasted hermit could comprehend its depth to be. People who believe in love at first sight would love to shake hands and display their cheery approval to me. Love for a phenomenon, for an object, even an international football team, it just happens. There are several factors responsible, most important of which are of course, footballing in nature. You love some players, you like their style of play, you like the people associated with the team, you are awed in respect for the team's seemingly legendary history, and most importantly, you seem to have found that missing spark in your life with the advent of the team. Whenever they do well, your joy knows no bounds, you revel in the glory that is rightfully the players', enjoyed without bias by the large chuck of people who constitute what we call the fans. Their sweat and blood is all that matters, all that gives you the satisfaction of enjoying the great game you knew you could play, but wouldn't. Defeats and disappointments of course shattered you to bits, left your heart in smithereens, brought you crashing back down to earth from the Sirius proportions you acquired at the time your team could hardly put a single foot wrong. You still love the team. Your heart still bleeds for the same bunch of champions you admire and take so much pride in supporting and cheering. Make no mistake, and I speak to all the fake fans here, you people can never get a shred of what it means to support a sporting team and stick by their side both on days when the sun shines really bright, and on dark and gloomy days when the suns remains hidden in a far off alien galaxy, cowering with fear of the fiery black clouds. The greatest feeling in the world, the best by a long distance, and I mean it when I say it.

It has always been Man United for me, the indomitable Theatre of Dreams, the impregnable fortress that our beloved Old Trafford is and shall always remain. Red Devilry has come very naturally to me, I have taken to it just as fish to water, or one Haddu to another. History is littered with such names as Sir Matt Busby, George Best and Bobby Charlton, legends in good measure, people who have made Manchester United what it is today. How their beautiful football and management has captivated us for so long, made strong believers out of a pessimistic lot, given us hope where none seemed to exist previously. Sir Alex Ferguson. Is he God? Tell you what, he might very well be an even higher power. Whatever I will say about him here will be the height of cliché-ism, I shall refrain from commencing an oft-repeated banter. He is the greatest football manager on earth right now, he has made ass-kicking teams out of a bunch of promising youngsters, over and over again in the past 23 years, and he will be remembered for eternity as the most rightful claimant to the top spot in Football's Hall of Fame. There is another small matter of a legendary midfielder, the epitome of commitment, the wizard with the most magical pair of legs ever seen. SIR Ryan Giggs. Take a bow, master. There shall never be another to eclipse your persona. You are my idol, the person I look up to, you are God in your own right. We have had Roy Keane, Eric Cantona, Paul Scholes and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Scores of others, faithful warriors, eternal champions. Manchester United is the greatest football team that has ever been. Everything about it suggests the same, you can't help but jump head-first into the Red Devil bandwagon.

As fiercely as I would back the team I support at all times, I expect my rival fans to do exactly the same thing. It might strike me as ridiculous for a person to be supporting teams like Chelsea, or worse still, Liverpool, just as it happens with my rivals concerning me too. I have a stance on football, about how it is supposed to be managed and played, about what is the best way to strive to win trophies. This has been built up on the basis of years of dutifully following the game, my dedication towards it unflinching throughout. I assure my friends, I have been following international football since the dawn of the new millennium, and European club football since 2003. You shall never find my arguments lacking basis or a strong background. The important point under consideration goes as follows. When I became a Red Devil for the first time, United was struggling to reach even the 3^rd position in the Premier league, and was nowhere close to winning the Champions League. But my heart was set on supporting this very club, standing behind every single person belonging to my beloved team. And when we finally started winning, in 2007, we made it a hattrick of titles. We were undisputed champions, winning even the Champions League in between, proving ourselves as one of the greatest in Europe. And the enemy's wisdom promptly found the reason why lunatics like me were supporting this world-beating club. Because they are victorious. Glory is theirs for the time being, and hence they are the club to support. Bullshit, I say. Such accusations hardly hold any water, they just go about to show the envy and spite being thrown around by the disgruntled losers, gutted and dismayed by Man United's unprecedented series of triumphs. It gives me pleasure to know their jealousy though, it's an important point scored over the enemies. Forgive me for quoting Dumbledore here, another of my childhood heroes; Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. Point of Information, to be specially noted by the jury.

Some people support clubs because of brilliant stats and previous records. Some fall for the money and the glamour. Some do it merely to annoy their friends. And some, admittedly, have very valid reasons to pledge their support. I shall respect them all here, as a show of solidarity and an attempt towards reaching a truce over a war that should never have been raged. Love one team, hate the others, express yourselves anyway you want. Just never dare to toy around with legends. Never utter a single word against their class, you shall be smothered to death with a deadly pillow in your own bedroom in front of your mothers. This is a warning to all those who wish to fight with me for this reason. Chelsea will remain money sucking losers, their captain a poor footballing joke, and their owner simply a grievously mistaken conception. Liverpool shall remain a team that talks big, keeps talking, and shall always keep talking. Let them show some results now. Of our legendary local rivals, the lesser said the better. We all have our reasons for love and hate. Let us all take a solemn pledge here never to screw with greatness without having the strongest of reasons, the stoutest of defenses possible. Let us enjoy the great game, let us be reasonable rivals, let us have judicious discussions, and let us all quit as a merry lot.

I was born with a Stiff. Stiff Upper Lip.

The Crownless Shall Be Proxy King

2009-09-11T00:42:00.006+05:30

Nutcases who call themselves professors have made it their business to torment students during an hour long session they call lectures, deriving sadistic pleasure from the same all the time. What’s worse, the blighted souls who seek to relinquish themselves of the anguish by bunking off the lectures, run into what is called attendance shortage, something the Profs like to inflict upon their victims if they haven’t had enough of torturing them during the allotted hours. More often than not, students are forced to suffer the persecution till their endurance is stretched to the hilt, and they can’t take it any longer. This is the point where they decide to throw caution to the winds and ditch the bloody lectures all together. Nevertheless, their hearts are always under turmoil in fear of the dreaded ‘S’ word, which eventually gives way to the more terrifying ‘B’ word, which is, for many, a point of no return. At times like these, they desperately seek a messiah to redeem them of their precious attendance. For the benefit of this despairing population, Proxy Kings took birth. The very first one came several years ago, just around the time of the great depression, when the student community decided to take the attack to the teaching community. Ever since, there has been no looking back; a phenomenal growth has been seen both in the number and actions of proxy kings. 9 years into the 21st century, proxy calling has been revolutionized, and ground-breaking techniques have exploded into the scene. Proxy Kings have invaded the classrooms; attendance shortages are a thing of the past. Much to the shock and disbelief of others, yours truly has been the prodigal Proxy Kaiser, albeit not a meek one at that.

One month into the first semester, I was recognized as the man worthy of being King. Though initially apprehensive and full of doubts, I later realized that proxy calling came naturally to me. I started with the easiest of Profs, old bozos with attention spans of not more than a few seconds and eyesight fogged by years of blabbering. I could easily answer the roll call for at least 3 or 4 people in a class, without the prof getting even the slightest indication of any misdoing. I gradually grew in confidence, and added new dimensions to my new found talent, and tougher Profs started falling prey to it. Keeping a straight face while answering, producing sufficient voice fluctuations and most importantly, staying out of sight of the professor were key aspects of this business. The torturous ways of the professors meant that I had every reason not to attend the classes I detested the most; but I still attended them, and gave proxies aplenty with aplomb. Proxies became the driving force for me to turn up every morning to the slaughter chamber they call the Lecture Complex, and the attendance part was what I waited for the most. To know that I could befool the prof so easily gave me immense satisfaction. Very soon, I was a man in demand, and my skills were constantly summoned by many a classmate. There are several factors one needs to take care of before attempting proxies. The number of proxies’ matter, so one needs to chose between his friends, keeping in mind the relative placements of their names in the roll list and the shortage they are in danger of falling in. Of course, the prof under question matters too; he may be a total dimwit, or some really stringent guy looking out for each and every face in the crowd and registering them in his mind. The latter provides a great challenge, which makes the end result all the more satisfying when the proxy is carried out successfully. Of course, I was a perpetual student of the art of proxy giving, evolving all the time and raking up a huge reputation for myself in the classroom. ‘Baadshah’ and ‘Lord’ are just some of the names coined for me by the grateful junta, and ‘Ghissu’ was conveniently forgotten.

I will never go as far as to say that proxy calling is an easy task. It is always fraught with danger, and only the audacious can venture into this territory. Proxies can often result in comical and embarrassing situations, and sometimes put the protagonist in a lot of trouble. I can vividly recall two occasions in the last semester when I was caught (almost caught, the King is never truly taken prisoner in this game of lies and deceit) giving proxy to a very dear Sardar friend of mine. There is a very thin line between bravery and foolishness, and I breached it big time on both occasions. The first one was when the lady prof under question stared incredulously at me as I stood my ground maintaining that I am indeed a Singh and not a South Indian as she insisted I looked. The incident sent the students into peals of laughter, and the teacher was forced to give up on me and move forward. I wasn’t as lucky in the second instance; the nasty prof didn’t take my little joke kindly at all. I was blasted around ignominiously and became the laughing stock of the classroom. But fortunately enough, the prof seemed to suffer from short term memory loss, as he couldn’t even remember the incident when I went to apologize at the end of the class. I was shaken, but the remarkable escape spurred me like nothing else for many future proxying endeavours. Proxies never ceased to come, I continued to dazzle and it reached a crescendo when I was inducted into the ‘Hall of Fame’ of Proxy Kings from R-land(a fabrication, but a recognized one at that). Now, I have mastered the art for all its worth, and eagerly await new challenges. More than the need of the person, it is about achieving a moral victory over the prof, the torturer, the tormentor of an innocent lot. He remains helpless in the face of my extraordinary competence and dexterity; hoodwinked and dumbfounded, he occasionally resorts to verbal onslaughts on morals and values. I give two hoots to his hypocrisy, and get on with the proxy business all the more enthusiastically. Needless to say, I was never more proud in my life than the time when my most dedicated disciples started giving brilliant proxies themselves! I was glad to see that I needn’t worry about my own attendance now; I could now bunk classes whenever I wanted, and a proxy for MK was bound to arise from silent corner of the classroom. An indomitable proxy family has now been established- together we shall rule the classroom, rule the insti and rule the world.

Today, we have reached a point where not a single class passes without its share of proxies galore. People get caught, get screwed by the professors, but their determination remains unfazed. As long as such people exist, proxies shall never attain stagnation; students will keep the shortages at bay and profs will keep getting fooled. But for me, proxies mean a lot more than that. It is the single most symbol of student camaraderie and liberation. It’s a source of hope, of trust, and of the feeling that togetherness and unison can win you any battle. I can say with conviction that the sense of accomplishment and extreme gratification that I feel after a proxy is unmatched, even by academic or literary accolades. I have always put a lot at stake for putting through a proxy, and shall continue to do so for the rest of my student life. I salute proxies, and I salute all Proxy Kings.

Post Script: This post is a tribute to all the Proxy Kings on campus. You are all awesome, and I am proud to be part of the awesomeness.

Post Post Script: 42 away from 50. Long way to go.

The Newspaper Man

2009-07-29T15:38:00.001+05:30

He prowls the holy abode of the great Pandit in semi-darkness, keeping himself shielded from prying eyes all the time. He walks with an eternal stoop, wearing big size 11 shoes and clad in black Afghani vests and a lungi round the legs. He smokes Ganesh Beedis with unabashed panache, and sneezes very frequently while walking around the bare corridors in the early morning chill. Another one felled by the pigs, I suspect. This is where my Sherlock Holmes like power runs dry. He might have a moustache like Raj Kapoor, a squeaky voice like a mouse and… no hair on his head. I can only speculate on these details. But one thing is for sure- he is the quintessential vigilante. The guardian of this fort of impregnable knowledge and supreme wisdom. The keeper of a secret so sacred and dangerous that it is imperative for him that he guard it more than his own life. He is never seen or heard- but his aura lingers long past his departure. He is an incognito. Nobody knows his real name or identity. The guards shudder while speaking about him. They warn me that trying to encounter him physically would be a fool's errand. As I write, a shiver runs down my spine… the handwriting suffers because of my trembling hands. He is invisible. He is omnipresent. He is the fallen hero who has arisen from long beset sleep in the 21^st century. He is… The Newspaper Man.

An average day in my life begins with reading the newspaper, or at least glimpsing the pages once when getting late for a class. One year of living in this godforsaken land has taught me that reading the Times of India is an exercise in futility. Being the Delhi edition, I suppose it should cheer me to receive tidings from back sweet home. The news is incomplete, two days old and too less to satiate my bulletin-starved self. That is when my father advised me start reading the Hindu. He reads both the papers daily and refers the latter for students like me. The Hindu being very popular down in God's Own Country, plus the added incentive of getting to solve the brilliant Hindu Crossword(yes Damu, TOI CW goes way above my head!) made me crave for the paper that very instant. Of course, this wish of mine could only be fulfilled when the Man is given intimation. The Newspaper Man. I tried to recollect meeting him. The very first day, he had dropped TOI in my room on being told by some friend of mine. I had never met him, then or henceforth. This called for me to wake up early and tell him in person. For three consecutive days, I roused myself from blissful slumber at 6…but he remained eerily elusive. And I began to get a taste of the many intricacies and eccentricities associated with the Newspaper Man. I kept receiving TOI, and people all around my wing kept missing him. Five minute drifts into blissful sleep, and a quick visit to the loos proved to be my undoing. He seemed to be waiting to pounce upon the slightest indication of wavering attention on my side, to throw in the paper and vanish on the spot. I ran around the floor in frantic search, wondering whether he had jumped off the railings and was leaping from one tree to another to cover the same region as I was attempting on concrete floor. The chase got me nowhere, just intrigued me further. These funny incidents shrouded with thick layers of mystery have occupied my jobless mind ever since the first day of my return to Riddle-land. I got to know from the junta around my room that no one had actually ever seen him. He had submitted himself to human service without any questions or answers- I doubt whether he will reveal himself at the end of the month for collecting his funds.

Legend has it that he rises once in every 500 years to check on human beings. He might be the Almighty's messenger spreading the message of peace and love, or Satan's favourite devil out to create unrest and havoc among innocent beings. Whatever his intentions are, the Newspaper Man arouses the same fear and awe in the hearts of helpless mortals as the Naked Man, the WONA Man, the Horny Man, et al. I wonder if I'll ever be able to meet him. If I'll have to read TOI for the rest of my life. If I'll have to live with the mystery ununraveled forever. For men may come and men may go, but the Newspaper Man will live on forever… freaking out one IITian after another, living under covers, operating secretly for a purpose that he alone knows.

Stairway To Heaven

2009-07-17T17:21:00.004+05:30

I was standing in a very dark place. So absolute was the darkness that nothing seemed to exist around me. The only sound was that of my deep breaths. An enticing smell lingered in the air, like a freshly lit aggarbatti. I stretched my hands forwards and groped for physical contact, but made none. All this made no sense. I couldn’t remember how I got to this place. Something was amiss somewhere. I knocked at my head, and rubbed my eyes. But nothing changed. I pleaded for light in my heart. All of a sudden, I was blinded by the brightest of flashes. It came from above my head, from some mysterious source. I staggered a little, but composed myself. It was the finest of rays of light, like what is seen between two clouds camouflaging the mighty sun. It was a ray of hope in this dead space, and prompted me to look around. I seemed to be in an empty dungeon, with nothing living or innate occupying it. It was in all senses the epitome of emptiness. The smell and the thin light provided my only companions. I looked around myself, turning my head in all directions and searching for answers in the void. Suddenly, in the distance, I saw the thin outline of a staircase. An old-fashioned staircase with beautiful railings and intricate carvings on the steps. This bizarre sequence of events intrigued me no end. The only thing to do at this point was to climb up the stairs and see what lied ahead.

I walked slowly towards the odd stairs. My footsteps echoed loud and high. As I reached the steps, I saw a board right aside the lowest pedestal. The board read- Stairway To Heaven. I looked up, but the stairs seemed to last an infinite distance. The end was nowhere in sight. But the sign was encouraging. I started climbing up. And up and up and up I went, and kept going. After an eternity, I finally saw another light- this time a floodlit area, an inviting sight. I walked into the radiance, and felt its brilliance enrich every bone of my body. My tired limbs were revived, and my heart was buoyant with joy. I had just walked into heaven. There was a meadow, with beautiful trees and chirping birds and a river of the purest water flowing. It was a sight to behold, and I realized I could only be dreaming this. But I soaked in the grandeur, running through the grass with my arms wide open. At the distance, I saw a bench, brilliant red in colour, invite me into its comforts. But then I noticed a man come walking from behind and seat himself atop the bench. He waved to me and beckoned me to him. Delighted at finding human company, I ran towards the bench.

The man was old, and dressed in completely white vestments. He had a friendly smile, and looked vaguely familiar. He stood up as I reached and held me in a tight and warm embrace. Intriguing though it was for me, I let him be. ‘I have waited so long to meet you, son.’ I smiled at him, still mystified about his identity and purpose. He put his arms around me and said, ‘Let’s take a walk, son.’ I started walking with him along the banks while the beautiful river gurgled past us merrily. My mind went back to all that had happened in the last hour or so, and I felt perplexed beyond explanation. The old man was still smiling. Perhaps he could answer my questions. He would know what was happening to me. ‘Dear Sir, you seem to have been expecting me, but I fail to recognize you. What is this place? And what are the dungeons below? What am I doing here?’ At this, his smile broadened further, and I was left flustered. He looked up into the sky and said slowly, ‘Alas, that is not for me to answer, my boy. The answers will reveal themselves to you when the time is right.’ I was baffled even further, but he continued- ‘I want to let you know son, that I am very proud of you. Keep working hard, and you will keep reaping the rewards.’ This fatherly advice was a pleasant surprise, but I still found no reason why he should tell me that. He ruffled my hair with his fingers, and then walked away from there. I thought of following him, but some invisible force seemed to root me to the ground. He disappeared, and the scene around me started changing. The trees transformed into book shelves, the grass beneath my feet became hard floor and the river ran itself dry by falling down a giant waterfall. My eyes lost focus and head started spinning; a bed appeared beside me and I lost myself to its depths.

I woke up a content man. Free of any burden, and strangely feeling pleased with myself. I went about my jobs with new found vigour. Later that evening, I was looking at the calendar on the wall, and my eyes fell on a portrait hanging aside. Something shifted in my mind, and sudden realization stuck me. I looked at the painting of my late grandfather in amazement… for he was the man from my dream! Shocking it may seem, but I had somehow not recognized him earlier. How could I have, the great man passed away even before my birth. I had never known him… just heard about him from my father. Most incredibly, I had seen him in a dream- this has never happened before. His appreciation of me, and providence of a good future, though heartening, seemed illusory. This fact will strike the superstitious like my grandmother as miraculous and a call from the Gods. As for me, a dream is a dream, though this one was certainly out of the ordinary. His face looked ethereal in the old portrait. For the moment, I felt closer to the heavens than I had ever been before. May his soul rest in peace.

Poster le Manuscrit:

Remarkable though it may seem, the contents of this post scream the truth, and only the truth. With of course, slight modifications to suit the readers, with satisfying ramifications, the author hopes. Resemblance to real life incidents is most unfortunate.

The Dark Side Of The Moon

2009-07-05T10:46:00.005+05:30

The past two months have fortified my forebodings into crushing realities. The glories and triumphs of an ancient period of my life have been lost and forgotten forever. As much as I would hate to accept this, time has moved on. Sweet memories occupy a corner of my heart, like doused flames, but wishing for them to re-ignite would be living in a fool's paradise. As my brat of a brother takes particular pleasure in pointing out, I have grown old. Not only in physical strength, but mental sharpness too. So much for being an IITian. I have quarreled with him over this just like the old days, but somehow, the fights seem to have lost their intensity. Family friends and relatives have taken pains to describe how I have changed in appearance- lost the boyish charm I once possessed. The lean and mean figure and the deep baritone are unwelcoming traits. The ignominy was complete when I saw the kids from around the locality just walk past me with nothing save a stare. I noticed how much all of them had grown; expecting the same consideration in return was naive of me. The streets, the crowded roads, the markets, the parks and the people failed to recognize me- I remain a pale shadow of my former self.

To free myself from such a predicament, I decided to give playing cricket with the local gang a shot. Once a master, a leader of men, I was already being considered a spent force before taking the field. But among the sensible lot, I still retained my old aura. They had high expectations of me, remembering how the mK of yore used to hit sixes at will. My divine reunion with the cricket bat was prophesied to work like magicke. Very tragically, my wizardry failed me badly for once. The first game saw me being bowled on the very first delivery. I could barely see the speeding ball as it raced past my defenses. The following games weren't any better. Any time I heaved at the ball, it would bring me agony with a sharp pain in my back. Running while both batting and fielding was an exercise I couldn't complete without my breath catching up in violent gasps. The muscles of my arms and legs were soon screaming out for oxygen. And in the only over that I had the misfortune of bowling, the ball was carted around the park for sixes and fours. My comeback to the world of physical sports would go down in history as the most disastrous ever. The lads spared a smile for me, and nonchalantly invited me for a game of football the following day. I wisely refused, not willing to lose any more of my self-respect than I already had.

My pleasant demeanour concealed the anguish I carried within. The cricket bat, once a faithful weapon, mocked at me, a fallen warrior. Even Mom laughed at me; her explanation being that picking up a bat after a gap of 3 years was bound to be a painful experience- the fingers would have forgotten the sensation it used to be so very familiar with once. I could only sigh and accept the fact, and watch from a distance as the youngsters made merry on the battle field that used to be my Fort Tender once. My brother proved to be the wrecker-in-chief of my dreams of retaining lost glory. He defeated me in a game of chess for the first time in living memory. I bribed him into keeping this knowledge secret, but somehow feel like mentioning it here. Things took a turn for the worse when I started losing in carrom-board too. My pride was at stake, and I challenged him to Scrabble. The idiot shooed me away with the air of a man who had already proven his supremacy enough. I was left reeling under the shock, and licking my highly embarrassing wounds. I did not try to propose battling on computer games, for I never was much into them and it would only add to the discomfiture. I heaved a long sigh, and shook my head in acceptance of defeat. My brother patted me in mock sympathy, and suggested I go back to reading books. My old self would have retorted back with venom, and perhaps proclaimed that an IITian could afford to be a loser with games- which are not meant for the intellectual anyway. But I bit back this childish reply, and went back to sorrowing in solitude.

Life is very cruel indeed. The glorious time of my life called childhood had slipped away into the abyss. The care-free, jovial, good for nothing soul I had once been existed no more. Greater responsibilities have arrived, mindsets have changed. Bats and balls and racquets and boomerangs have been replaced by pens and books and everything digital. What would I not give to turn back the clock for a single day, revel in self-indulgence once more. To be the kid I used to be- to run around the street bare-chested in the rain, to climb on the school benches and rule over the classroom with a single wave of my hand, to swing from monkey-bars and jump as high as possible, and to blast the cricket ball into submission once again. Incredibly amateurish cravings of a deranged soul, one would think. To accept the fact that those days aren't going to come back ever will be to resign myself to a miserable fate. I try to find joy in the lesser pleasures of life instead, remaining ever conscious of the wonder-days of the distant past, which remain etched in my heart for eternity.

Football. Bloody Hell.

2009-06-29T14:49:00.001+05:30

So it was time for the final. Following an upset and a near upset, we now had the showdown between a top team and an unfancied one. Their extraordinary defeat of the European Champions notwithstanding, I expected USA to be totally outplayed by Brazil- a team with astute skill and class abound. But the tournament had given enough warnings for one to be drawn into naive and premature conclusions. US were having a dream run after their awful start, and promised to give the South American champs a run for their money. As the clock struck midnight, I perched myself comfortably upon the sofa, and prepared for another thriller of a football game. May the best team win.

The action is about to start. The anthems are sung, and the teams displayed. Brazil have mostly the expected side, with Maicon, Santos, Kaka, Luis Fabiano and captain Lucio being the key stars. The US team is largely alien to me, but as far as I had seen, they mainly depend upon Donovan, Altidore and Fulham striker Dempsey. No surprises from either side, and the players take the field.

0':The refree blows the whistle and thus begins what promises to be an exciting encounter. Brazil make first move, and are all over the ball. US are taking time to settle in. Brazil produce a lot of attacks; its a Maicon show in the first few minutes as the right back makes scores of crosses which the forwards waste away.

10': The South Americans are shell-shocked, as USA score against the run of play! A gentle cross in from the right wing is gently tapped towards the goal by Dempsey; Julio Ceaser dives wildly towards his right but misses. Against all odds, US have drawn first blood. The Yankies celebrate but quickly refocus on the job at hand. Brazilians are shaken, but keep their composure. They make a string of attacks courtesy the resilient Kaka. Robinho and Fabiano continue to miss; US defend with panache and keep threatening on the other side too. 20': Brazil looks slightly unsettled. They are trying their best, the goal is still to come. But they haven't panicked; they know its just a matter of time. USA have their tails up, even their expressionless manager Bob Bradley is looking on with eager anticipation. Riding on an unexpected stroke of luck, USA lead 1-0.

27': Wonder of wonders, as USA score again!! Brazil manage to give away the ball while on a promising attack, and US produce one of the best counter-attacks ever seen. Its Donovan and Charlie Davies who exchange passes, and with hardly any defender to guard the Brazilian goal, Donovan shoots across Caeser and into the goal! US players and staff on the sidelines are delirious with joy. The exasperated look on Caeser's face says it all, as coach Dunga looks on with fury. As play begins again, the Brazilians know they have an uphill task ahead of them. Feeling slightly drowsy a few minutes ago because of the lateness of the hour, I was suddenly wide awake, blinking at the screen with disbelief. Is this the same team which had lost comprehensively to a below-par Italy and Brazil themselves earlier in the tournament? I was lost for words.

38': Brazil had their backs to the wall, and champion teams have a knack of overcoming such situations with consummate ease. But they seemed to suddenly have lost their confidence. They gifted away the ball far too often to the US, which resulted in further dangerous attacks from them. 2-0 was already an almost unassailable lead; another goal and it would be curtains for the Brazilian challenge. Brazil worked desperately on the ball, going forward very frequently, but somehow, the back of the net continued to elude them. USA had a spring in their steps, but they couldn't afford to be lax at all against the former World Champions. If Brazil were to make a comeback, it would certainly be a most remarkable one. All the best to them.

45': Its half-time, and the score remains 2-0 to USA. The Brazilians walk back with drooping shoulders and long faces. Their coach is in a pensive mood; no doubt he has a hiding in store for his careless players. Meanwhile, the Americans are elated beyond belief, and march back with the confidence of a team which seem to have done enough to grab hold of the coveted cup. Its time for a toilet-break for me too. As I complete my visit to and fro, I pray for a Brazilian comeback. That would surely light up the night!

45'40'': Cometh the hour, cometh the man. The second half has barely begun, and Brazil get a goal back with only their first attack! 40 seconds into the 46th minute, and Luis Fabiano blasts in with the most beautiful of turns. So, its not all over for Brazil yet. Its 2-1 to USA now, and the US have to pull up their socks. Play resumes with Brazil desperately trying for another one.

60': A long sequence of attacks from Brazil result in nothing more than a controversial disallowed goal. The ball appeared to have crossed the goal as keeper Howard pushed it out; but the referee showed a deaf ear to the Brazilian protests. This one would be a controversy if Brazil ends up short. Nevertheless, they persist on their attack. Santos and Ramires are substituted by Barcelona centre back Dani Alves and Manchester City forward Elano. The intensity of the Brazilian attacks are on the rise, without much success though. Its still 2-1. USA survive.

74':GOAL! This Brazilian team is scripting a fairytale comeback! Kaka shoots in a wonderful cross from the left flank, which is kicked onto the cross-bar by Robinho, but then headed into the goal on the rebound by Fabiano. Its his second goal, and Brazil have equalised. The US defenders can't believe it; Howard is livid at their incompetence. The smile has been wiped off Mr. Bradley's face, and Dunga on the other end heaves a sigh of relief. The Brazilians celebrate, but they know the job isn't done yet. Its 2-2, and a final cannot get anymore exciting and nail-biting than this one. On to the final 15 minutes. This has indeed been a splendid game of football, hardly expected in a Confederations Cup match. Both teams are fighting tooth and nail, and its going down the wire with the two locked at even-stevens. Totally worth the money for spectators. And it is adding some of the missing excitement in my vapid life. Got bless the great game. I have my eyes firmly on the TV screen as both teams battle with never-before seen intensity.

85': Bloody hell. They have done it. Turned the match on its head like only a few have in the past. Accurate corner kick from Elano, and brilliantly headed in by inspirational captain Lucio. The crowd are in a frenzy, as the Brazilian players, manager and staff converge on each other in raptures. The Americans on the field and on the sidelines are distraught, disbelief writ large on their faces. Tim Howard and captain Carlos Bocanegra cut dejected pictures. So much for the threat of an upset. The Brazilians know they are almost there, its just a few minutes left now. 2-0 down at half time, they have come back most remarkably to go 3-2 up, and now have almost sealed the victory. The Americans have been very shoddy in this half, and perhaps got complacent having the lead. They make a desperate lunge into the Brazilian half with hardly any time left.

90'+3': Its all over! The Cofederations Cup belongs to Brazil, the worthy captors defending their crown. Their final few threats thwarted by the Brazilian defense, USA have self-destructed after being so comfortably up. The Samba Warriors are in seventh heaven, as they break into a victorious jig. The crowd is on its feet, applauding the players for the scintillating display. A fitting end to the Pre-World Cup tournament, Brazil have announced to the world that they are ready for the sort of dominance that they were once characteristic of. Its all thanks to Kaka and co. for playing brilliantly and showing their true class when it mattered the most. Disappointment for USA, but kudos to them for playing so well throughout.

So Brazil it is, the Confed. Cup champions! Glory be La Samba! An utterly satisfying spectacle for me. The sounds of joy and elation could be heard loud and clear. The revelry and merrymaking was thoroughly deserved. Brazil have added another trophy to their repertoire of footballing exploits. A deeply engrossing and gripping tournament finally comes to an end. Football never ceases to delight me; to many more a footballing legend in coming years. Amen.

Of Vanquishers and The Vanquished

2009-06-25T12:06:00.002+05:30

There are times when the the most formidable of teams are annihilated by opponents mediocre and unquestionably pedestrian. Things, going smoothly as anything one day, can suddenly go so awfully wrong that one is left pinching himself in disbelief. It inevitably happens, and it happens to the very best. Every street dog has its day; more often than not, at the expense of the rich and pampered canines. The United States Of America, the leading nation in the world on almost all counts except certain sports, have shown they aren't far from acquiring the missing piece of their mosaic. Stumbling and stuttering one day, struggling against teams ordinary and a shade below them, they have turned giant killers, stunning one and all by coming up with world-beating performances against far more superior and technically adept oppositions. None bigger a casuality than Spain, the aura of invincibility surrounding the Los Campeones de Europa punctured with the gentlest of pricks from the unfancied Americans. The beautiful game of football has thrown up yet another of its incredible vagaries. Unpredictability and uncertainty rule the minds of players, coaches and administrators; even the strongest of teams can seldom afford to undermine the prowess of the opposition- a changing trend which augurs brilliantly well for the world of sports.

The Confederations Cup, contrary to my initial apprehensions, has been quite entertaining and fully worth the time and money dedicated. And the overwhelming sensation is from the upsets galore. Mighty Italians were the first to fall; embarrassment has come as swiftly as glory in 2006. Delightful perfectionists once, their much celebrated defensive play has come a cropper in the past year. It was a pain to see the aged stalwarts huffing and puffing while in pursuit of the ball, the Egyptians one day and the Brazilians next running away with it. Playmaker Andrea Pirlo gave a wonderful exhibition on how not to take free kicks- his shots always flying over the top or around the edges of the post, or at times tamely falling into the waiting arms of the goalkeeper, or simply hitting the opposing wall. Italy persisted with him for every free- kick and corner kick, but the veteran always flattered to deceive. Ambitions of leaving his long-time club AC Milan for greener pastures(read Chelsea) seem misplaced in these times of woeful form plaguing club, country and self. He didn't get any help from his team-mates either. Cannavaro and Zambarotta looked tired, Buffon listless at times. Camoranesi, Gattuso and the likes tried in vain; Rossi showed flashes of brilliance, but overall, there was a sense of resignation in the demeanour of the players. This debacle would have hurt the World Champions a lot, as they look set to face an early exit next year in the face of serious challenges from brilliantly improving teams around the world. The Egyptians started with a bang but went out without a whimper. This was the day which turned the cup on its head, remarkable 3-0 defeats meaning the US and the South American champions Brazil qualify for the semi-finals. The dramatic capitulation by Egypt came just days after they had managed to inflict a hard-earned defeat on the Italians and stretch the Brazilians to the very end in a game where they displayed exemplary spirit and resolve. People singing their praises till then, made mockery of their over-confidence in playing against the US. Pride comes before the fall, and the Pharaohs realized this the hard way. They went home himiliated, heads bowed in shame and pangs of regret piercing their hearts. Hopefully, they will learn from their mistakes and seize the moments better next time. The other group had no major surprises, with Spain and South Africa qualifying without any major discomforts. Now, a lot was expected of the Africans, playing at home and looking to prove themselves as worthy hosts of the coming World Cup. They didn't set the stadiums alight with their display, but played reasonably well, their only defeat coming expectedly against Spain.

But it was the first semi-final which was to create the biggest furore in the tournament thus far. The Spanish juggernaut, seeming impossible to stop till then, was brought to a screeching halt by wannabes USA. A screech which was heard all the way down in Madrid. It was baffling to see the Spanish players struggle like this against a team which is, at best, an average opponent. Not to take anything away from the Americans, but the way the Spanish players missed opportunities by the ton, they had only themselves to blame. The Spanish team is arguably the best in the world- outstanding strikers up front in Torres and Villa, midfielders of the calibre of Xavi, Fabregas and Xabi Alonso, and Puyol and Sergio Ramos at the back. Not to mention the titanic presence of Iker Cassilas in front of the goal. That every trick in their bag came to nothing against the defense minded USA is as heartbreaking as it is surprising. Chances that went begging would have on any other day resulted in goals aplenty. Spain had to fetch the ball from the back of their own net twice- Cassilas and his defensive personnel were guilty of blunders very uncharecteristic of a team of such class and calibre. The Americans held the Spaniards on a frustratingly tight leash, of which they could never cut loose. I could feel the agony that reflected in the eyes of Xavi and Ramos and co. It was desperately disappointing. For once, el jugadores just couldn't conjure up the moments of magic which personify a champion team. A FIFA trophy continues to elude Spain, and they remain one of the greatest under-achievers of all time.

Very cruelly, I was reminded of the similiar predicament that Manchester United F.C. found itself in some months ago. Having played a faultless season till then, they lost to Liverpool by a margin which shocked the Old Trafford faithful into silence, and then followed up with another disappointing performance against Fulham. The reason behind the dramatic dip in their form and fortunes was something I couldn't quite comprehend. The greatest of men can get cold feet at times, and it intrigues me no end that they should so very often. Battling against all adversaries and coming up trumps is the hallmark of champions- one can call United worthy champions for riding over the storm and ultimately winning the league title. But what would the great game be without its occasional share of earth-shattering upsets, when everyone starts talking about revolution and the shifting of power, only to be silenced by the very group of men they had written off. It is sad that we won't be able to witness a Spain-Brazil classic final, but one has to commend the United States for playing out of their skins and shooting for glory in their bid to craft themselves a place among the elite lot of the beautiful game.

While I wait for the next semifinal, I wonder if another upset is on the cards. If I were a punter, I would bet my money on Brazil winning the Cup. True to their repute, they have played remarkably well till now. Kaka and party have mesmerised onlookers and won everything, but so had Spain before bumping into USA. Brazil have South Africa lined up; they will be wary of the threat that the Africans pose. Under normal conditions( the sun and the moon are in their correct positions, and the earth is still rotating about its axis at an acceptable rate), Brazil ought to breeze into the finals and then towards the cup. But the glorious uncertainties of the game are what make it worth watching. May the best team reign supreme. Adieu.

Gratuitous

2009-06-11T14:33:00.001+05:30

I lay with my face down on the cold floor, staring into nothingness. The eerie silence around the dark room made my breathing sound profound. My motionless body could have deceived an onlooker into believing I was lying dead. An hour passed. Maybe two. No external stimuli could manage to lift me from my pitiable state of existence. The absence of any human presence will strike the readers as perturbing. I am not married. Far from it. Parents have abandoned me for good. Brother is away on his quest to conquer the world. My condition is merely of academic interest to him. Dead or alive. All that matters. Friends. I am not sure where I left them. I have many. Yet nobody to turn to in my hour of need. Hour of need? I guess, a tonic to revive my battered soul is what is needed.

A rat scurried past me with the air of a person in a hurry to complete an impending task. Probably carrying food for his family. As it ran by, I felt a smirk cross his whiskered face. First signs of madness. Even the puny rat found my situation hilarious. A nice tale to share at home with his wife and kids. I couldn't believe myself. The crap that just went through my mind. This was self-destruction. I was biding my time. For what, I wondered. The world doesn't need me anymore. Why not, I wondered. Am I not brave enough? Smart enough? Intelligent enough?

I suddenly remembered. My cousin down south thinks I am intelligent. She had told me once, many full moons ago. I had felt flattered. But it had been ages since I called her. It was high time I talked with her and her little boy. How old is he now? 2...3? My memory failed me. I had a purpose now. The phone call. She might be wondering if I have forgotten her. She has always called me before exams and wished me luck. She was one of the few people who believed in me. It took a herculean effort to pick myself up. I staggered a bit, but balanced myself. Opening the curtains, I was momentarily blinded by a flood of sunlight. Hope resurfaced in my barren life. I moved towards the telephone and picked up the receiver. I started dialing the number from the telephone diary. I stopped. I stared at the receiver in disbelief. There was no dialtone. The phone was dead. Slamming the receiver down and breaking the phone into a thousand pieces might have helped ease my frustration at the time. I resisted.

I had woken up from my lazy stupor. It was foolish to go back to that unenviable state. I contemplated taking a bath. But it seemed pointless. Nobody will mind me staying unclean and unshaven. The house was deserted. I was lonely for good measure. I dragged my heavy feet and moved towards the kitchen in search of sustenance. The breakfast smelled good. Mother never disappointed on that count. It disappeared in a little over 5 minutes. I was full. The living room provided my next destination. A single scan of the room told me that the television would be the only suitable option to pursue. I perched myself upon the sofa and switched on the TV to be greeted by a news channel. There wasn't anything happening in my life. But there was a lot happening elsewhere. I was just about to know. A smart newsreader with a radiant smile welcomed me to the best news channel in town. With a sigh, I braced myself for the upcoming onslaught.

First up was Sports news. My favourite kind. Big-shot winger had decided to leave Manchester United. Real Madrid had thrown in crazy money. Mr. Perez was bloody with happiness. And the prodigious player celebrated the 'historical' achievement with a night out with a notoriously popular hotel heiress. Rumours of a link up were running hot, which the duo have stoutly refused, claimed our newsreader nonchalantly. Meanwhile, thousands of common people in Spain protested against the big-money acquisitions given the present threat of recession. Mr Perez gave two hoots to their rants. The reader ended on an ominous note announcing that more big signings are on the radar for Madrid, courtesy the unflappable Perez. The second coming of the Galacticos. Good for him. At least he is happy. It won't last for long. Cricket news brought back familiar heart-ache. National heroes have most shockingly turned villains overnight. Fatigue, loss of form, absence of hunger to succeed. No crying over spilt milk, I thought in my mind. She seemed to think otherwise.

She moved on to national news. Movie star caught in a wrong act. Disgraced for life. Reactions of shock and anger galore. Family announces unconditional support. Claim he is framed. 'Bold' maid comes out in the open with the crime. I didn't know what to make of it. This unpleasant disclosure was a real scandal to cash in on for the channels. After an efficiently spiteful narration, our hostess entered the arena of politics. Not a topic I particularly enjoy, but I persisted. The new government was facing problems from across the border and within. The opposition party lay in tatters after a string of resignations following a shameless blame game. Congressmen retorted with unsuppressed glee. Politics never disappointed me. The single-most source of disgrace and embarrassment towards my country. The ignominy was complete when my native state entered the fray. The Leftist CM was being ostracized for his party's defeat and pressurized by the opposition as well as his own people to give up his seat. Poor guy. He gave me the impression of being an honest man caught amidst an incorrigible bunch of power-seeking idiots he called his party mates. God save him.

My patience was running dry when it was time for International news. Obama was as always the standout performer. His legendary exploits while in duel with a fly seemed to amuse a lot of people around the world. The most powerful man on earth was humbled by the tiny creature. Somewhere something shifted in my mind. Moving on, North Korea and Palestine and Pakistan didn't fail to grab their own share of the lime-light. Yet another bomb explosion, yet another curfew imposed, and countless lives lost. Nothing new there, I said to myself without so much as a blink of the eyes. Racial attacks were freaking out Indian students Down Under. Even the TV channels had lost count of the number of victims. Yet they reveled in blaming the big country for these outrageous attacks. Protests were on in full strength against the tyranny. "That's quite a week we had, folks. To relieve your minds of these strenuous matters, we have our Entertainment segment, made especially for you! Get ready for all the hot news from around the E-Circuit." With this, the charming host signed off. This was the cue for me to switch the box shut. Entertainment really wasn't my thing.

I stretched my muscles and yawned widely. That was all the current affairs, in a nut-shell. My mind wandered towards a few things. Indian politics was in a real mockery, as it had always been. But tell you what, the international scene wasn't very rosy either. Rapists and murderers were everyday news. They were like time fillers to the news channels amidst more important stuff. Crime was running hot. The anguish on the face of the victims could hardly be missed. The country was burning. Humanity was in turmoil. A thousand problems would meet my eyes the moment I step outside my house. Yet, all I could think of caught in this hideous state of abject listlessness was my own lack of ability to occupy myself in the vacations. People were out there working. My parents, first and foremost. Come to think of it, even my brother was studying. God knows what my friends would be up to. My life was wasting away in front of my own eyes. I needed to change its direction and stop it from getting sucked into the deep abyss of time. There was plenty of stuff to do. I could go out for a walk. Better still, for a movie. Call a friend along, surely he would be suffering just like me. Or I could read some great work of fiction. It used to be my only pastime once upon a time. Hell, I could start a blog! Write something interesting to capture the imagination of my friends and invite their reactions. Life is too short and precious to squander away like this. The secrets of the world begged to be unraveled, and I was game for it! To give fresh impetus to my dreams, it was imperative I take a bath first. I proceeded towards the bathroom with a victory song on my lips and the flame of hope burning bright in my heart.

............... .................... .........................

Two days later: The hard, cold floor provided familiar support to my useless lump of mass. The overwhelming feeling was one of emptiness and isolation. The last thing I remember before drifting off into disturbing sleep is observing a spider work fervently at spinning a web for itself on the nearby wall.

Paradise Lost

2009-06-02T11:02:00.001+05:30

The smell of the morning rain on the fresh grass felt like heaven. The sound of the birds was music to the ears. The sun rising from the distant horizon was a sight to behold. The mountains far-away stood like majestic sentinels to the pristine land. The coconut trees swayed to nature's very beats. The vast expanse of blue above my head reminded me of paradise on earth. I was back in Kerala.

I felt a plethora of god-sent emotions as I walked through the greens. The cows grazing at one end, little kids playing around them without a care in the world, and beautiful women picking vegetables for the afternoon meal from the nearby fields. This heart-warming picture was simple yet perfect in essence. I opened my arms wide and felt the wind ease through my hair like the running fingers of my beloved grandmother. Nature was to unveil yet another of its miracles when I was about to turn back- a pond filled with crystal clear water and home to half a dozen angels of such enchanting beauty that I was transfixed on the spot. It was surreal. Dream-like. Out of the world. Heavenly. I suppressed an instant urge to take the plunge and soaked in the charm from a safe distance. The mermaids splashed around in the water,oblivious to my presence. At this moment, I was a musician about to deliver the most melodious of ballads. An artist about to paint a sublime picture. A man experiencing the almighty at work?

I smiled to myself and got up. The walk towards home would be a long one, but certainly worth the effort. My mind and body, heart and soul had been to heaven and back. An year had passed since I felt so sacred. The journey home is always the longest, but takes you to your ultimate treasure. The heart is lively again; the spring in the steps is back. If only for a few days of joyful indulgence, away from the mind-numbing business of technical education. The years gone by, and many more to come will leave me with many memories to cherish- of walking through the fields, running on the beaches and reveling in the happiness of being in what they call, God's Own Country.

Priyappetta Suhurthe(P.S.) - Greetings to all. This is Arun Kumar, finally committing the grievous mistake of entering blogosphere, with a highly over-glorified description of my native land. It is imperative that I drive the attention of my friends towards the inconvinient truth that is hidden by the glorious land. In the 21st century, not even the innermost of villages are averse to industrialisation. The smoke and the dust on the roads remind me of the air-polluted city that is Delhi. Tourists enjoying a house-boat ride through the popular back-waters remain oblivious to the tons of liquid and solid waste that flow beneath their feet. Over-population, an evil plaguing the entire nation, exposes its ugly face in trains and buses. I vividly remember one particular train journey where I was forced to travel standing for 4 continuous hours- amidst the noises of wailing children and shrieking hawkers! It seems the gods and the devils of another world share common ground in this land. No place is devoid of ills; making the most of the boons and finding solutions to the banes is the way to go forward. A month long visit to Kerala is a necessary feature of my yearly itinerary, for a few days of being away from the chaos of the big city. I sincerely hope with all my heart that this source of salvation for my weary soul is not snatched away from me by forces which are more unnatural than natural.

A humble beginning. An honest confession,driven by joblessness. The first of many to come. Read it, condemn it and appreciate it in full measure. Always, yours truly.