Coping with/ through randomness...

The human brain is not wired to accept randomness. It always seeks a causal link to everything. The brain needs a link which tells it "If event B happened, then it was caused by some event A." Hence, we see stock analysts pontificate confidently on TV that somebody sneezing in the USA caused Infy's shares to fall, or newspapers confidently stating that India's import bill increased because a camel fell into an oil well in Saudi Arabia. In other words, our brains constantly seek out 'patterns' and 'causes' even when none exist. This is also the reason that a potato with a trunk-like protrusion suddenly becomes a 'Ganpati' to be worshipped.

One of my most liberating experiences was when I learnt to accept randomness. I am not fully there yet, since millions of years of evolution, and twenty plus years of religious brainwashing, cannot be undone just like that. But at least the recognition of the idea that things can happen at random, and there need not be a specific reason for something (good or bad) to happen to me, has helped me immensely.

Of course, being that coldly rational being has not endeared me to people who would rather prefer to assign a reason to everything. Especially in highly emotional situations.

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My father passed away a year ago, on this day. August 12. A date that will forever remain etched in my memory. He was 61, a diabetic, but with no serious ailment. He was walking around, chatting with people, living the normal retired life, to his very last day. And then, one day I leave for office, and come back and he is no more.

I don't know how a normal human being reacts to such an event. I sometimes doubt whether there is such a thing as a 'normal' human being. I saw people cry. I saw them rally around in support. I saw my mom completely break down, then recover, and then slowly slip into, what I suspect is, depression. And I hope she'll come out of it eventually.

People also started assigning causes.

Some called it karma. The actions of his previous birth.

Some consoled us by saying god calls those who are dear to him quicker, and hence good souls meet their end early.

Some doubted the efficacy of the priests who had conducted the Shashtiabdapoorthi, since doing the pooja was accompanied by an 'ayush homam' which is supposed to ensure a long life.

Some hinted that we may have missed doing some ritual, and hence had incurred our ancestors' wrath. And accordingly suggested that we should consult some astrologer and remedy the situation.

Some suggested that our house had bad vaastu, since he passed away within 2 months of us moving home.

And so on. And so forth.

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The only way I could cope was thus:
What is the probability of a person dying once he takes birth?
One. Nothing is more certain in life, than the fact that it will one day end.

By focusing on that cold, logical part, I coped. That, and the acceptance that randomness is reality.

Aided by a realization that a person may die, but his ideas, the values he stood for and his memories live on.

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There are times I wish I wasn't this pragmatic robot. That I had shed some tears. That I had blamed karma, god, vaastu or some such entity. Or clung on to the hope that the soul goes to heaven, and all is well after that.

Unfortunately, I can't unlearn what I have learnt. Knowledge is a curse.

Ignorance, truly, is bliss.  

To the man who taught me everything - II...

Conversation with Appa, last year:

"Why do we do 'devasham'?"

"Our scriptures tell us that not all of our ancestors' souls would have found a new body to move into. So, in the belief that the wandering hungry souls may get some peace, we invoke their name and offer food to a brahmin."

"Don't tell me you believe that!"

"Well, I don't. Not in the literal sense."

"Ok. Let me rephrase my question. Why do you do 'devasham'?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes!"

"Ok. It's a bit long winded, so bear with me. You see, life is a maze of activity. We are constantly running around, chasing one dream after another. What is it that you guys call it... ah, a rat race. Unfortunately, in this mindless chase for more and more things, we tend to forget what really matters. People don't have time for their family, even the ones we share a home with. And hence, it is but natural that people gradually forget their ancestors. Maybe, the annual ritual is an attempt to help us remember where we come from, and to spare a moment of gratitude for the ones on whose shoulders we have stood to come this far."  

"Well, in that case, there should be a better way of remembering our forefathers. Not calling an already well-fed pot-bellied brahmanan and plying him with food, and seeing him waste half of it by setting it aside because the taste doesn't suit him! I mean, all I know about Thatha is that he died when you were young, and the only time we seem to mention him is when we do this devasham once a year."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know what kind of person Thatha was. Was he jolly, was he serious all the time, was he kind, was he strict with you,what were his views, how much freedom he allowed his kids, what were his beliefs, his values, the basic qualities that make a person who he is... Maybe I am rambling here, but isn't it strange that I don't know anything about the person after whom I am named?"

"Well, I could tell you all that. You just had to ask. Now, coming back to your point on devasham, what would you have done in my place?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought it through. But I am convinced that there is a better way of honouring a person's memory than what you are currently doing. Like say, pick the qualities that you admired in that person, and try to live up to his ideals. Maybe, do some charity in his name, at least the poor people would genuinely offer their blessing rather than some vadhyar who is more interested in the dakshinai. I am sure, if I put some thought into it, I can come up with more ideas."

"Hmm... You should. After all, I have never forced you to do anything. When you get a chance, you can do things your way. But I am too set in my ways and too old to change my way of doing things. Anyways, let me tell you more about Thatha..."

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Appa would have been 61 today. But he gave me my chance much sooner than I expected.

I have had enough time to think on the topic of honouring his memory. And I haven't come up with any earth shattering idea. Makes me realize that it's always easier to pontificate than to practice. I would welcome any bright ideas you come up with.  

So I decided to put into practice at least the two points that I had come up with when I was debating with him.

For one, I'll pick one of his qualities and try to live up to it. This year, I pick PATIENCE.

He had infinite patience. I have never seen him get angry. Never ever. So, that's my goal for this year. Not to get angry. Or irritated. At least this year.

And two, I did some charity in his name. Nothing too significant. But it's a start.

After all, we all have to start somewhere, it's the only thing we can control, because we don't know how or when it'll all end.   

HALF TICKET

"Do you realize that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we're kids? If you're less than 10 years old, you're so excited about aging that you think in fractions. "How old are you?" "I'm four and a half!" You're never thirty-six and a half. You're four and a half, going on five! That's the key. You get into your teens, now they can't hold you back. You  jump to the next number, or even a few ahead. "How old are you?" "I'm gonna be 16!" You could be 13, but hey, you're gonna be 16!"
 - popular quote attributed to George Carlin, though some people dispute it

Long, long ago, there lived a boy of twelve who, like all boys his age, couldn't wait to get into his teens. Except this boy wanted to grow older faster than others, because he naively thought that growing older automatically meant growing bigger, taller, stronger. It's another matter than two decades (give or take 2-3 years) down the line, he would realize that growing older simply meant growing fatter, balder and lazier, and try to stop the process. Unsuccessfully. But we are getting too ahead of the story. I mean, we are not some Ekta Kapoor soap that we start taking two-decade leaps! So, getting back, the reason our boy couldn't wait to get older (and taller!) was because he was unusually short. Not a dwarf, mind you, just shorter than almost everybody in his class.

And he was constantly reminded about his stature, or rather the lack of it.

By friends who made fun of him in the playgrounds by throwing the ball just out of his reach. Or refusing to pick him in their team whenever they had an 'odd' number of players, thereby making him the 'common' which meant that he got to bat last, but had to field twice and could get to bowl only the 'baby over'. Which, if you haven't realized, is the worst situation to be in, especially since one of the only two bats on the ground was owned by the boy.

By grumpy old relatives who would make him stand near the door, draw a small line above his head, and remark disapprovingly that there has been no change since the time he visited them 3 months back. Quite like those grumpy old equity analysts who expect growth every quarter.

By his teachers, who made him sit on the first bench and stand at the head of the queue in the morning assembly. While all the vertically endowed bastards would be having fun at the back of the line, our boy had to stand at attention, raise his hand very straight and couldn't afford to goof up on a single line of the "All Indians are my brothers and sisters..." without incurring the wrath of the PT Master and his cane. Thankfully, he had a reasonably good memory which helped him escape the cane.

By the disgusting taste of Protinex, and Chyawanprash, and the ache in his legs as he stretched to reach the pedal of his bicycle after some misguided advice that raising the seat on the cycle would increase height.

Two decades (give or take 2-3 years) down the line, he would realize the being short had a lot of advantages. Like being able to fit comfortably in the side berth of a train, the front of a small car, the economy seat of an aircraft and most importantly, the ability to lie down and sleep on the back side seat of a Qualis. But again, we are going too far ahead of the story. So, we get back.

So, to put it shortly (ouch!), he hated, detested, abhorred (and other synonyms that I can't think of now) being short and wanted to grow older, as quickly as possible.

One day, the boy and his mother set out on a long train journey to Bombay. It was still called Bombay then. And they settled in comfortably, and the boy got into his favourite upper berth and plunged headlong into the 1 Tinkle and 2 Champaks he had. His mom had strictly told him that they would not be buying any more books for the trip and he should read them slowly, taking breaks in between to admire the scenery outside. The boy simply nodded and got back to the exciting adventures of Shikari Shambu. When one is passing through the arid landscape of Andhra Pradesh in the summer with just dusty, brown mud fields to see, only his mom could have conjured up the imagination to call it 'scenery'.

Anyways, the ticket checker comes along, and the boy's mom hands him the ticket. The ticket checker looks at the ticket, then looks up, and asks mom "Half ticket? How old is he?"

The mom replies, without batting an eyelid, "Ten"

The boy blinks. His mother never tells lies. And has taught him repeatedly never to tell lies. In fact, she had this wonderful way of narrating the story of Harischandra, making even the unfortunate king who lost his wife and kid and had to slog it out in the cemetery sound like a hero worth emulating. To repeat, emphatically, his mother never tells lies. Except to myopic ticket checkers, as he now realizes.

The ticket checker looks up, squints a bit and says "he looks older." Well, maybe the old man isn't all that myopic after all.

The mom replies "I am telling you, he's ten."

"I AM TWELVE, AND IN 2 MONTHS I'LL BE THIRTEEN!", the boy wants to scream. In fact, the boy is screaming inside. For the first time in his life, someone has looked at him and said "he looks older." The boy wants to jump down from his berth and hug the old man in the black coat. But he's afraid that they'll take him away for not having a 'full' ticket and lock him up. And so, he keeps quiet as the old man walks away, looking unconvinced but deciding against making a scene of it. Something dies in him that day.

He never understood, why his naturally honest parents, deemed it okay to hoodwink the system for a paltry train ticket (or rather, half of it!). Maybe because it was really a stretch on his father's salary to buy two long distance tickets. Maybe because, at the end of the day, his parents were only all too human, and not mythical kings from those stupid stories.

The boy is now grown up, although he never really grew tall. And as his father turns 60, and he logs in to IRCTC and clicks on "Senior Citizen" and books his father on a 'half-ticket', he smiles with a perverse sense of pleasure. After all, he has waited years for this moment.

Training, Reflections and other mundane stuff...

We are just back from a 3 day training workshop in Lonavala. And before you, like some of our friends, begin to think "Wow, Kiruku's company sends him on nice training sessions to picturesque locations, they are so employee friendly", please note that the company would want to recoup its investment in this 'resource' as they deem to call us, and is training us not out of the goodness of its heart, right?

Our attitude to training has always been a little less than positive in the sense we see it as yet another KRA for the HR department to tick off more than for it to have any life-altering impact on us. Hence, we are usually skeptical about such programs. That is why we were pleasantly surprised on this one. The difference here was that the trainer had no pretensions of being a life-change guru. And that in itself, is a refreshing change from the many charlatans that one has been subjected to over various stages of one's corporate life. We particularly detest the ones who have no clue about the kind of work we do, and bring their cookie-cutter solutions from any number of how-to books, and promise to change us from the loser we usually are into some sort of superhero. Our trainer started off by saying "I can only plant a seed. It's up to you to nurture it. After all, it's your life." So, an 'A' for setting expectations right.

Whenever we are attending such workshops, we are reminded of a quote from George Bernard Shaw which one of our professors (in fact, one of the few we have met who had this other-worldly ability to indulge in self-deprecating irony while sarcastically putting us down with wry humour) used in a class: "Those who can, do. Those who can't teach." And that is why we were happy that the person who had come to preach actually practiced it elsewhere, and hence knows what he is talking about. So, another 'A' for not being pretentious.

While the workshop touched on a lot of things (a 'B' for lack of focus?) like understanding one's strengths and weakness (bleah!), presentation skills (useful), having difficult conversations (interesting!), emotional intelligence ('inspired' by many books of that genre, nothing original there for folks who have read those), giving and receiving feedback (cookie-cutter terms here), the session that had us thinking (and still has us thinking) was the one on 'values', getting us to focus on the things that we considered 'most important'. While not filled with any blindingly original insights, we feel it was timely given how we increasingly seem to be lost in this routine of work, forgetting why we are doing it in the first place. And given that one of the key points repeated ad nauseam was "Pause and Reflect", we feel we need a lot of pausing, reflecting and other introspecting to determine what exactly is important to us. And what we plan to do to tick off the right boxes.

Of course, it is entirely possible that, at the end of all this intellectual m-word we won't use here, we come up with zilch. Or something like, we are happy doing nothing. Entirely possible. But at least, we would have reached that conclusion after giving it some thought. Thinking is something that we have neglected to do lately (except when discussing the purpose of life with drunk friends and concluding that it is to procreate and further one's genes). Time we got around to it (the thinking, not the procreating!).

You know you are getting into the 'Uncle' stage of your life when:

All your sporting icons are retiring and you are disdainful of the new 'kids' on the block. All the dream girls from your teenage are now playing mommy roles, and your new dream girls are all  younger to you!

You meet a younger cousin after almost a decade and tell him "My! How tall have you grown! The last time I saw you, you were this small!" You tell the same cousin to concentrate on his career and to focus on what he wants to do with his life, when all he wants is to have a friendly chat about the above mentioned dream women.

You cannot see your own toes, and cannot tie your shoe-laces standing up, and you attribute it to 'prosperity'.You can see more and more of your forehead when you look into a mirror, and you attribute it to 'wisdom'. Speaking of which, you are reminded of 'early to bed and early to rise..." and conclude two out of three isn't bad.

You no longer dream about making billions, becoming great or changing the world. You console yourself that it takes great maturity to come to terms with one's own mediocrity. You smile patronizingly at teenagers who still dream about making billions, becoming great and changing the world. You hope they'll nurture their dreams better than you did.

You find toilet humour juvenile, and practical jokes silly. You are fed up of puerile puns, random rhymes and even  average alliterations. You come to appreciate subtlety in everything, and irony is now your favourite form of humour. Tragically, you can't come up with any ironical statements, and so revert to silliness.

You try your hand at fancy video-games and embarrass yourself. You start thinking how much simpler life was when playing Pac-man and Super Mario. You wonder when video-games became so violent. You tell yourself that you are too old to play video-games anyway.

Your friends no longer come to kick your ass to mark your birthday. And you are thankful for that because you are worried about back pain.

Your friends start getting married, and having kids. You congratulate them in a very polite manner, instead of expressing your condolences at their loss of freedom in your most colourful "you are so fucked, da!" tone.

You write boring blog posts like this to celebrate your birthday. Instead of other boring posts. Thankfully, some things don't change!

Aaru mudhal arubathu varai...

The Kiruku turned 6 yesterday. Like last year, I was again too busy to commemorate the momentous occasion.  But blogs, like people, grow up and become more mature, and hence don't throw tantrums when their birthdays are forgotten. Even if the blogs are written by people who refuse to have anything to do with growing up and becoming mature.

Six years is a long time. Especially for a blog. Even more commendable, in this age of competition from other social media like facebook and twitter. My PJs now find their way into twitter (while we are at it, do check out the ones following V. Anand's win tagged as #ChessPun), and my other short rants find their way on to facebook. Like Test cricket and classical chess being taken over by T20s and Rapid tie-breakers, the leisurely blogpost is being taken over by 140 character tweets and fb status updates.

Unlike years ago when I had too much time on my hands and this crazy urge to spew forth on every topic, I rarely find the time to devote to what has been the longest-lasting hobby of my life. Other than cracking really bad PJs which I used to do even when I didn't know what a blog was. But this is not about me. This is about Kiruku.

A birthday may not be the best time to talk about endings, but I have been tempted to kill off the blog (Don't tell Kiruku though!). Especially since I seem to have developed a writer's block more serious than that of George R R Martin (When is the next book coming out, btw?). What has prevented me from taking the step is the occasional burst of inspiration which takes the shape of one more senti post, one more lame rhyme, one more pun-filled look at the world.

Friends whom I started blogging with seem to have abandoned their blogs. As they get busy with their families, and start making plans for putting their kids in school. People who wrote far better, people who unlike me had something fresh to say each time, people who actually took time to polish their posts to make them look good... suddenly found themselves worrying about mortgage payments, car loan EMIs and vaccinating their kids on time. On top of worrying about coming ahead on the rat race.

In a way, Kiruku's solitary march mirrors my life, as I run out of single friends whose houses I can crash into unannounced, down a peg or three, and pass out on their couch. Friends with whom an impulse weekend trip can be planned. Friends with whom I can have profound conversations about the purpose of life, the importance of money in it, and whether Asin is proof that a Creator exists...

These days, I find myself worrying more about the Europe crisis (damn the Greeks!), the Indian GDP growth slowdown (damn the Indians! oops...) and whether I'll have enough cash when the EMI cheque hits the bank. Everybody has to grow up, whether they like it or not. Stupid blogs and crazy bloggers included.

But when we are too busy growing up, we miss the chance to crack a joke, think up a crazy rhyme or simply rant to our heart's content. The reason I have not killed this blog is in the faint hope that I will manage to find the time to do all this. If not today, then tomorrow... or the day after...

It's bad to finish on a sombre note. As my namesake hammed, everything requires "Happys Endings".

So, sing a raucous "happy birthday" to the Kiruku, wish that he lives for an eternity, and please go out of earshot before you crib "what a cheapo! not even a return gift!"
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PS: May-June are months filled with milestones. So, the mood is likely to be a bit introspective for some time. But like a hangover, it'll soon wear off and we'd be back to inane PJs soon enough. 

Making dreams come true...

His friends never understood his obsession. Most people who knew him still found it strange that he would continue to penny-pinch so much even after getting a nice job. They'll never understand.

It was almost 20 years ago. When the boy was sounded out by the Chettiar Paati for climbing the wall and dirtying the newly white-washed surface. He went crying back to his mom, who had no words to console him. His young mind developed a secret desire, though he had no means to get it.

It was reaffirmed for 10 years when there was no one to question him hitting a wet tennis ball again and again, leaving tell-tale signs of dirty splotches against the wall (freshly white-washed or otherwise). And the feeling was so good that it only strengthened the desire that this should go on. But things were not meant to be. Things are never meant to be. A lesson he learnt pretty early in life.

The desire grew deeper when he spent a year in a 8' x 12' room that was a class-room by day. When sleeping late on a weekend was not an option because he needed to wash and clean up and leave the place before the class started at 9 am. And when the bedbugs in that flea-infested mattress started bothering him, he would just join up 2 desks and plonk himself on it. Only to be wake up early the next day because the class would start.

Things improved when he moved to a larger place, but space was still a luxury with two other friends for company. Noisy neighbours were his only grouse, as he set about juggling two exams and 3 teaching assignments.

Fate (or Murphy?) put him in a b-school where even the hostels were cramped spaces. Where the number of people to the number of bathrooms ratio was almost 12 to 1. And since the one thing that irritated him was people knocking on the door while he was on the pot, he decided to sacrifice 15 minutes of sleep for a peaceful sit-down.

He spent another 5 years, moving from place to place, surviving landlords, haggling brokers, hostile neighbours who didn't want bachelor boys staying nearby, all the while nurturing this dream.

And finally, after a year of searching, and almost giving because the scourge of black money plagues this country's real estate, and constant cribbing on this very blog about it, he finally realized the dream. A house of his own. A small one, a costly one, but still something to call his own. Unfortunately, he is too old to climb walls or hit tennis balls against them.

And as he sat worrying that his tenants might dirty the freshly painted walls, he realized that the ghost of the Chettiar Paati was coming back to haunt him.

Life sure has a funny way of making you grow up into the very person you hate.

Mcleodganj - III

Continued from Part-I and Part-II:

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As hinted by SK in her comment to the earlier post, Day 3 was the day of enthu people. The bug hit us first, when we defied our own expectations and woke up at 6.00 am to watch the sun rise. Well, all except RK, who had ended Day 2 in ‘Signature’ style. Yours truly had too, but then the prospect of welcoming the Dawn sufficiently enthused one to shrug off the alcohol-induced sleepiness and actually get out of bed that early.

Our ancestors were a wise lot. Unlike the modern day religious nut-jobs folks who keep preaching without having the ability to ever come up with anything original, one can sense genuine wonder for the miracles of the Universe in the writings (or rather, the sayings, since they weren’t written down until later) of the earliest Aryans. It reflects both of the majesty of the sight of dawn breaking, and on the imagination of the person observing the same to come up with something like this:

“We see that thou art good: far shines thy lustre; thy beams, thy splendours have flown up to heaven.

Decking thyself, thou makest bare thy bosom, shining in majesty, thou Goddess Morning.”

Dawn was called Ushas, and was frequently depicted as a "beautifully adorned young woman riding in a golden chariot on her path across the sky". Another of the hymns refers to her thus:

“Gone are the men who in the days before us looked on the rising of the earlier Morning.

We, we the living, now behold her brightness and they come nigh who shall hereafter see her.”

Men may come and men may go, and the relentless march of time shall continue, made joyful by the breaking of the Dawn every day. I couldn’t come up with anything poetic (I restrict myself to silly limericks), but I immersed myself in the calm of the morning, as the sun’s rays slowly changed the snow-white of the mountains to a shimmering gold, as the birds woke up with a chirp, as the dew in the grass slowly licked my feet clean, and I felt immensely thankful for just being alive. It was one of those moments which cannot be described in words.

One of my quirks is that I can quickly degenerate from such a contemplative mood to my usual goofy self. So, I reverted to striking silly camera poses, which MT and SK happily clicked to make up for the non-entertainment no-show of the banana-milkshake bhang.

After an hour of going trigger happy with their cameras, they left me and lovely Ushas in peace once again, and I sat down on a bench cross-legged and closed my eyes, and pretended to meditate. I have never found out what it is about holidays that makes one re-evaluate whether what one is doing is what one wants to do. Is it the time one has to stop and reflect, is it the place which induces deeper thinking, or is it just crazy wishful foolishness? Sometimes, I wonder if the quest for meaning is quite meaningless.

As I was sitting there thinking such profound thoughts, I heard a noise and found that one of the pre-Rig Vedic ancestors was staring intently at me. My mind went: “Does the monkey know that it is my ancestor?”, then “Is the monkey sitting there wondering “does this guy know that I am his ancestor?””. I soon snapped out of my meta-stupid phase once I saw the monkey eyeing my sneakers that I had taken off for my barefoot walk across the lawns. I quickly snatched them up and went back to my room.

***

We  went to Palampur market area, had a hearty aloo-parantha-with butter breakfast and then brain-stormed on how to while away the last few hours of our all-too-short vacation. After negotiations with multiple cabbies, we settled on one who promised to show us all the local sights and then drop us off to Chakki Bank where we were to board our train.

I don’t know if it was in his nature to be talkative and cheerful, or whether in spite of our negotiations we had committed to a princely amount of cab fare, but our man displayed all the enthusiasm of a Duracell bunny as he first took us to Sherbaling Palpung Monastery. There was some group prayer meeting going on and it was very colourful and had some wonderful music (bells chiming, drums beating and chanting) and I quite liked the fact that they allowed people to drop in and take pictures of that. A refreshing change from no-camera-not-even-your-shirt-go-in-a-dhoti rule of Kerala temples.

We found some Tibetan kids, one of whom was very cool about being photographed while his brother displayed all signs of a paparazzi-weary celebrity. We also came across one super-cute kid whose style is best seen than described: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCiCBFbx0Aw

From the monastery we decided to head to this place called Neugal Café which was highly recommended by the locals there. En route, our cabbie decided to take a detour to show us a suspension(?) bridge built in honour of a soldier I think, but I was too hungry to listen to his guided tour while he went “hamara farz banta hai ki aapko yahan ka sab kuch dikhaaye.” Anyways, we landed at Neugal Café and had our first disappointing meal of the trip. Less said about it, the better. 

***

All good things come to an end. So it is with wonderful meals. Even more so with happy vacations, and all one comes back with are good memories, some colourful snaps, and in some cases, an infuriatingly long three-part blog post.

How I wish this vacation continues...

Mcleodganj - II

Continued from Part-I

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From Naddi, we took a bus to Bhagsunag, a unique temple with a swimming pool in front of it! In its defence, the water appeared cleaner than Dull Lake, so I guess, if the hypothetical God forced me to take a holy dip at the pain of gouging my eyes out, I’d rather jump in to the pool than the lake. The temple also has a sign which says “pracheen Shiv Mandir” prompting us to wonder whether the sign was placed when the temple was constructed itself in the foresight that it will survive many eras.

For all my skepticism about the gods, Shiva is my favourite. A deity who is usually stoned and high, can put up a mean dance and is destructive to boot gets my unflinching vote. But we skipped the temple and went in search of the essence behind the deity, to the infamous Shiva café. My co-passengers (for this para, they are not my friends!) were not too enthusiastic about getting bhang for our bucks from this trip. It took a lot of persuading, a temporary detour to cool off by dipping our feet in the ice cold water, and a promise to act funny and spill out all my secrets after getting high to convince them to tag along. It was a long climb, and even I was getting tired of it. Let’s just say that we reached the place, found a bunch of kids staring into space, and picked up a glass of bhang lassi, which tasted like banana milkshake and failed to give any sort of levitating feeling. If I had a third eye or even a Veerabhadra to order around, I’d have burnt the bloody café to ashes. Total disappointment! Although on second thoughts, I don’t know if it was the café owner who fooled me, or the friend who gave an order for milkshake when my back was turned and told me it is “bhang lassi”. I guess we’ll never know since neither of them is likely to confess.

On the way back, we stopped at German Bakery (another must-visit place according to many online accounts), and ordered pakodas. We must have been the only idiots who would have ordered pakodas in that place, since they took an hour to get it by which time we had lost all enthu for the snack. This was followed by dinner was at a place called Mc’llo, and I quite liked the place. The place wins the award for having the most enthusiastic waiter I have seen, making me suspect that he was the one who had had the bhang.

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Day 2

Since we had covered most of what Mcleodganj had to offer on Day 1 itself, we decided to act a bit lazy and thankfully got out of our ‘checklist’ mode. So, a nice aloo-parantha breakfast with a huge blob of heart-attack inducing butter was followed by general walk-around, and a repeat visit to the Bhagsunath temple and another session of freezing our toes in the water. Now, I am one of the most tone-deaf persons around, but I am a big fan of the sound of water gurgling through the rocks, and I could have spent another week sitting there. Another thing I am a big fan of is splashing cold water on my friends, but we are mature old people now and so I decided to behave responsibly (it had nothing to do with the fact that the bugger was holding my sweater as a protective screen and I didn’t want to lug around a wet sweater!).

Attempting to splash water when I still had my sweater...

Reluctantly, we left the water spot and headed towards Namgyal Monastery. It is a beautiful place, and has some stunning paintings of Kalachakra (or something similar sounding), but what I really liked was the all-round views of gorgeous mountains with snow-white tops and green valleys. We also met a really charming old man who gave a most disarming mischievous smile and asked where we had come from, and was really surprised to know that four of us came from four different cities in each corner of India. As is the norm, we (or rather, the camera experts) clicked snaps of everything interesting and that included the old man.

After yet another sumptuous lunch at a place called Tibetan Kitchen (the meals formed a very important memory of this vacation, and hence the repeated references), we took a brief walk in time to reach the spot for a breath-taking, stop-in-your-tracks-and-forget-everything-else view of the sunset. The sight of that ball of fire, slowly turning from a bright yellow to a warm orange as it slowly sinks behind the mountains is a memory that I will cherish for a long time to come.

And with that, we took a cab and proceeded towards Palampur.

(to be continued…)

********************************

PS: This is turning out to be lengthier than I anticipated, and I hope to finish it before I grow tired of putting this down.

Mcleodganj - I

We are in a cheerful mood today since we are back from a nice weekend break in Mcleodganj / Dharamsala. As we have done in the past, we will duly document the trip in a few (ok, more than a few) words, partly for our own nostalgia trips sometime in the future, and partly to remind ourselves that we do need to take more such breaks. As some of you may recall, we use the ‘royal’ we (or the Bihari ‘hum’) whenever we are happy.

The genesis of the trip started in yet another mail written to our friends screaming “I NEED A BREAK!” in the middle of some really frustrating week. Considering that most of our weekends have been wasted in house hunting, and strenuously avoiding bride hunting, we were most assuredly in need of a break. Not just any 2 day back before you even started break, but a slightly longer one. And so, we mailed, proposed places, rejected them, held conference calls, negotiated over how many days can we take off and at one point, it looked as if this project will also stall like the many others which preceded it. But by some miraculous coincidence, 3 perfectly sane, well-educated, smart, professional people agreed to trade an eminently enjoyable long weekend for spending time to go on a trip with… ME! Makes us doubt the part about their sanity and their smarts. But what the hell, off we were, to the place of the Dalai Lama.

We landed in Delhi on Thursday and took a train to Chakki Bank. The train journey was made interesting by the fact that there were some 120 people sitting in the 3A coach that was clearly meant to seat half that number. And we (this time, I mean myself and the friend RK i.e. 2 people) had 1 reserved berth between us. Let’s just say that the TTE didn’t budge, and people in Jallandhar and Udhampur are still laughing at the memory of seeing two rotund guys trying unsuccessfully to fit into one 'side upper' berth. But we managed to reach Chakki Bank without incident, slightly groggy and promptly took a cab to Mcleodganj. And reached the Bhagsu at 6.30 am, only to be told that since the check-in time is 12.00 noon, we couldn’t be given the room. Whatthe! So, we placed our luggage in the room taken by the 2 other friends (let’s call them MT and SK, and let them choose whether they want to identify themselves with their blogger / twitter profiles) who had reached earlier, and set off for a walk.

Only to be greeted by pleasant visuals of snow-capped peaks in the distance glimmering in the early morning rays. And air which didn’t smell of sweat and smoke. And greenery all around, as far as the eye can see. Truly Magical!

Our agenda for the vacation was very simple: Do Nothing. Except of course, eat a lot, laze around, chat and read a bit. And crack a few bad PJs. (The last item was only on one person’s agenda). So, we had a nice breakfast at the roof-top of a place called Jimmy’s Kitchen. Chocolate pancake (I like to indulge my sweet tooth at vacations… and at all other times) and French toast, with a majestic view of the mountains to go.

Most Indians vacationing in India have a minor flaw: they are what I call ‘checklist’ tourists. So, instead of soaking up the place and drowning in the majestic beauty of it all, they hop from one ‘must-see’ place to another, ticking items off a list which they would have copied from the some travel blog / journal / magazine. The routine usually consists of going to the place, creating a loud ruckus, littering a bit and posing for pictures focused on themselves while the really beautiful mountain / sunset / beach is hidden behind a group photo of all 27 people in the joint family posing together. I take this detour in my narrative not to criticize my countrymen, but to admit that we succumbed to the check-list mentality briefly (thankfully, without the loud noises or the littering).

And hence we set off to St. John’s church (chapel?). A nice, lovely stone building with stained glass windows and wooden ceiling, with tragic blots of ugly electric wires and weird white lights hanging about. It was Good Friday, and there was a sermon going on. The priest said “He sacrificed himself so that you may be absolved of all your sins” and I happily decided to commit some more sins by eating some more (gluttony) and lazing around (sloth).

From there, we caught a bus to Dal Lake (note, it is not pronounced like the food, more like Dull Lake). I still think they got the pronunciation right and the spelling wrong. If that rectangular hole with stinking, stagnant, green water was a lake, then my house in Mumbai is Buckingham Palace. There was a board that helpfully said people take a ‘holy dip’ in the lake, so I guess their collective sins made the place so dirty. If only the people had realized Jesus had already taken their sins. Poor, misguided souls.

And from there, we went to Talon De Naddi (or something like that). For a wonderful lunch again in the open with views of the mountains, mildly distracted by the cootchie-cooing firang couple in the next table. I am not judging, but the lady had her hair dyed pink, something that made my heart sink (Rhyme!).

(to be continued…)

     

Dear G

Congrats and welcome to the family. We may seem a bit weird at first, but as you will soon find, we can be fun in our own way. Especially the one you are getting hitched to, my little cousin M (ok, not so little since she's only six months younger, and we'll drop the cousin since I treat her as my own sister). She has a talent of making friends of any random person before you can say 'Dale Carnegie'. I remember her visiting our place when she was 7-8 years old and suddenly, I started to know people whom I hadn't even realized lived in the same neighbourhood. And, even though she left after a stay of hardly 2 weeks, they kept asking about her for years.

As her brother, and your future friend, I have some stuff to tell you. If you ever gift her chocolates and see her gobbling it all up in one go, don't blame me. It so happenned that her dad had bought us 3 Cadbury Dairy-Milk chocolates, and while me and S (her brother) ate ours at once, M decided to eat one small square piece and kept the rest in the fridge to enjoy it at leisure. Well, all I can say is when she came back after an hour outside, the chocolates were nowhere to be found. I am not saying we ate them, I am not saying we didn't, they may have 'evaporated' in the fridge, but all I know is that we got a firing and she decided to adopt a policy that valued immediate consumption over saving up for the future, which probably helped her understand the Americans when she went there.

Btw, while we are on the matter of gifts, don't get her any dolls either. She had an enviable collection of pretty Barbies (am ashamed as a guy to even say this) and one slightly mean looking large doll. Well, when we were kids, we had rented a video cassette of the movie 'Child's Play', watched it late into the night, and then went to sleep with our minds full of terrifying images. Again, I am not saying I picked up her doll and placed it next to her, I am not saying I didn't, but all I know is the she woke up next morning, turned and saw a doll next to her first thing, screamed loud enough to wake up the entire apartment complex, and the next thing I know, all the dolls she had were being donated to charity. The poor kids were very happy since they had obviously not seen Child's Play.

She tells me you sing very well, and you know what, she could have been a good singer too. She had a good voice, she had the enthusiasm to learn and for once, I decide to accept some blame. Every time she returned from 'paatu class' to practice, she found one more unearthly accompanying voice grating along "Saaa Reee Gaaaa Maaaa" till she decided that she'd rather sacrifice the possibility of becoming a good singer in the interests of the sanity of the everyone concerned. But then, I did ensure that you will be the undisputed singing champion in your family, and you can thank my wonderful foresight for that.

There are so many memories to recount, and I don't want to bore you with all of them. Besides, if I tell you all the stories now itself, we won't have much to talk about over the beer that you have promised me.

Take good care of her. To borrow a line from that stupid sitcom, "You guys are getting married and I couldn’t be more thrilled for both of you, but as M’s older brother I have to tell you this. If you ever hurt my little sister, if you ever cause her any unhappiness of any kind, I will hunt you down, and kick your ass!"

Regards
SRK
*******************************************************
PS1: G, I had partially drafted this post before I came down for the engagement, now that I have met you and found that you are a nice guy (and not because I realized I couldn't kick your ass), you can ignore the last para. But I was serious when I wrote it.

PS2: To the rest of you who are scratching their heads wondering what on earth I am blabbering about, well, my little sister got engaged to G and I am sort of excited. Or at least was, till she made me sit through a whole day of saree selection, debating the merits of 'copper sulphate blue' versus 'mazhil kazhuthu (peacock neck) blue' versus 'maroon with gold border'. The very tragedy of it all cannot be described in words even by the best of the writers, forget about yours truly.  

I... huff... did... puff... it!!!

Once upon a time, about 5+ years ago, I noticed something for the first time... lots of people were putting a somethingrandom dot blogspot dot com under their signature. And me being the type who reads stuff if there is nothing else to do, I clicked on some of those links. Some I liked, a lot was pretty ordinary, but something inside me told me, "maybe you should try this too..."

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Once upon a time, about 5+ years ago, I noticed something for the first time... lots of people were getting up on a perfectly sleep-worthy Sunday morning with nothing better to do than run from one end of the town (ok, technically middle of the town) to the other end. What got me interested was the goody-bag which at that time contained goodies worth more than the cost of registering for the thing.  And me being the type who would  never pass up a free lunch, I found this very satisfying. I decided to register from the next year, but something inside me told me "I am never doing this..."

*****************
And so, since you are reading this, you know that I did start a blog. And soon filled it with all sorts of crap. Lots and lots of it. I wrote if I was happy, I wrote if I was sad, I wrote what sounded like good humour to me even if others wrinkled their noses at the inanity of it all, I wrote verse and worse, I wrote if I had something to say, I even wrote because all I wanted to do was say something. I started marking blog birthdays, and made new online friends through this. The writing was erratic in both its frequency and its quality, but I wrote because I loved it.

*****************
I registered for the half marathon for the first time in 2010. The marathon guys had grown smarter and the goody-bag had stuff worth much lesser than the fee. WTF, I thought, I have already overpaid, and I am not going to make this worse by actually running in the event. Cheats, damn it! And so, the bib was handed over to a friend who did the honours. Don't tell the marathon folks though, I hear they don't approve of it. I did not register in 2011, since the arbitrage was lost and I was not going to throw good money after a bunch of revital tablets and random hair gels. I mean, whatever happenned to the cute water bottles man? I registered again in 2012, egged on by friends who showed way more enthu than me. Damn them too. 


*****************
Writing is essentially a lonely habit. People may form a like-minded circle online, become part of cliques to scratch each other's backs and plug each other's stupid posts, but you don't get together in groups and decide to write on some topic (at least I don't). For an asocial person like me with few friends, who doesn't meet people unless forced by either the opportunity of having some good food or imbibing some spirits or by the general attractiveness quotient of the members in attendance, writing was a natural hobby. I loved the way I could sit in a corner of my room and pontificate on the random stuff, poking fun at the world at large. I loved it even more when some people (few but more than enough) were as lacking in a social life as me and decided to read and comment on the stuff. The point of this rambling paragraph is to somehow connect the declining frequency of posts here to the fact that now I stay with my parents, and get enough entertainment from pulling my mom's leg on all matters divine.


*****************
Running is a lonely sport. People do form running groups, they get together to motivate one another to go the extra mile, but at the end of it all, it is just you and the road, and maybe some music (which doesn't interest me much). But strangely, it never appealed in spite of me being asocial. That's because I was also extremely lazy. To the point of ordering in lunch and dinner instead of stepping out when I was staying alone. So, on the rare occasion that I did engage in any physical activity, I liked to do it in a large group. But my idea of having a good game meant carrom board and lately, poker (without the money, I am a conservative Tam-Brahm when it comes to gambling). The point of this rambling paragraph is to somehow get the idea across that in spite of running being a sport made for loners like me, I didn't quite get the hang of what joy could there be in putting one foot in front of another for hours on end.



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Life is not to be measured by milestones crossed, it is about the fun you are having that you don't even notice the milestones you whiz past. I have firmly subscribed to this pop-psychology in recent years, and went from a 'I-have-to-get-first-rank' grades obsessed person to 'Sab-kuch-maya-hai' guy. I even wrote a post about the secret of happiness being about the ability to reduce the gap between what you want and what you have, and it being easier to reduce what you want than putting in effort to increase what you have. But some milestones I do like to mark, like birthdays and blog post numbers. And I am glad to announce that THIS IS THE TWO-HUNDRED-FIFTIETH POST in this space. *Bows and waits for applause*


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Running is all about milestones. Their very presence helps you push yourself to jog those extra few steps. And a guy like me, who has a very high opinion of his physical prowess in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, needs milestones to remind him about the gap between reality and wishful thinking. I tried practising for this event, very sincerely sometime in October-November last. The very first few mini-runs resulted in shooting pain through the shins (apparently they are called shin-splints or something) and I happily retired hurt thinking "who wants to run anyways?" I tried to practise in December, but a combination of long working hours, an oddly dipping temperature in Mumbai mornings and my legacy laziness ensured that the snooze button became the most used feature of my phone. And then, I promised myself "I'll get to the start line. Walk through the sealink, enjoy the view, turn around and catch a cab." So much for positive thinking and visualizing about the finish line. 


And so it started. I jog, I lose my breath, I slow down and walk. I jog again, runs and repeat. I look for short milestones. At least jog from this advertising board to the next. And so on. And walk. And walk. And walk. First, the fit guys race past me and I happily give them way. Then the attractive girls race past me and I feel mildly voyeuristic. Focus. Focus. Not on the babe dammit, on the next step. Then even old uncles and aunties waddle past me and I give up.


I reach 6 km in the first hour, and I calculate like a typical accountant, 10 minutes per km means I can do this in three and a half hours. Then, miraculously I pick up pace, and do 7.5 km in the next hour. And suddenly I think, hey maybe I can do this within 3 hours. I race past 15 km in 2:15 and that's when Murphy laughs his patented evil laugh and I get cramps. All of a sudden, toes curl up involuntarily and putting a step ahead gives me the shivers. The sun is up, people from the sidelines are shouting out cheers and I am telling myself "Can't give up now. Earlier, it made sense to quit. Not now. Not after 15 km. Walk, crawl if need be, but finish the damn thing." 


I get some ice pack from a helpful volunteer and pause to soothe my calf muscles. My legs start to behave like Manmohan's cabinet and refuse to listen to their head. At 18 km, I hardly feel my feet. At 19, no sensation below my knees. And then, I buck down and keep walking. Till the magical board "1 km to go" appears. That gives my legs a new lease of life. I walk faster, and when it says 500 metres to go, I attempt a jog. A slow jog. And before I know it, I have completed something that I didn't think was possible for me. *Bows and waits for applause again*
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And now, next year, aiming for a sub-3 hour show! And reaching 300 blog posts.


Move over, make way, here comes SRK! :D

A lesson in Economics...

For the extremely jobless people wondering where your trusted kiruku had vanished, let me assure you (and simultaneously disappoint those who were rejoicing about the silence here) that it was a temporary break caused by one of the following (guess which):

1. I moved to a new place and have been too lazy to get myself an internet connection;
2. I have moved in with my parents, and have been busy being pampered with home cooked food and great conversation, and hence have not found time for the blog;
3. I have been very busy work-wise closing multi-million dollar deals for building the nation’s infrastructure, bringing light to a billion lives;
4. I have run out of ideas to post on.

Anyways, there has been an idea for a post which has been germinating in my mind for quite some time and it is time I inflicted it on all the three people who still check this space for updates.

*******

It all started one evening when my mom, in one of our usual after-dinner chats on the not-so-usual-non-marriage topic, asked “I want to join a chit scheme at the local jeweler.”

“Oh, what is this cheat scheme?”

“Not cheat scheme, chit scheme! We join a chit system, where we agree to pay, say 5000 rupees, to the local jeweler for 12 months. At the end of every month, there is a draw, and if your name comes up, you don’t have to pay any longer, and you get jewels worth Rs.60000.”

“You mean, if your name comes up in the very first month, you pay only 5000 bucks but get jewels worth Rs.60000?”

“Yes.”

“And if your name doesn’t come for the next 12 months at all?”

“Then, at the end of the year, you get jewels worth Rs.60000. Either ways, you don’t lose money.”

“You lose float…”

“What is float?”

“Never mind. It is the interest you’d have earned if you had put in 5000 bucks every month in the bank. No, that doesn’t make up for the lottery. There has to be some other catch…”

“Why do you have to doubt everybody? This kind of scheme runs in every jeweler’s shop across the country.”

Now, dear readers, take a pause. A brief background of yours truly is required. I am a banker. And we don’t trust anybody. Part of the profession. Plus, we know that there are no free lunches and no risk-free super-normal returns. 

“No, how does the jeweler make money?”

“By selling his goods.”

“That is his normal business. How can he afford to give away 55000 worth of jewels just like that? How come he does not run out of money?”

“He does not give away. There are always some or the other people joining the scheme, and so the jeweler does not run out of money.”

“You mean, he takes money from you to pay someone who is already in the scheme? And then takes money from someone else to pay you when your time comes?”

“Something like that…”

“You just described a Ponzi scheme. Or rather, the US Treasury nowadays…”

“What's Ponzi?’

“Not what, who. An old swindler. Never mind. Just tell me, what happens if someone else doesn’t join the chit scheme some day? How will the jeweler pay you?”

“It never happens. People always join the scheme. People in India will always buy gold!”

“True enough. But why would they buy gold from this jeweler? What if some competing jeweler attracts them with some other chit scheme?”

“Every jeweler has his loyal buyers. They usually come back to the same guy once they are happy with his service.”

“Even so, why put in money in a Ponzi scheme? Why not pay the jeweler in one shot when we need to buy gold?”

“We have always bought gold like this. We were not MBAs with fancy pay to buy gold in one shot. And we trust people. Besides, what’s wrong in saving up gradually to buy gold?”

“Ok, why not save up in a Bank RD, where at least we know the money is safe?”

“Because at the jeweler, you might get lucky and have your name come up in the first month!"

“Ok, how does this lucky draw work? Does he invite all the chit scheme investors on a particular day and draw the names from some box like they show in those TV shows?”

“No, he draws in his shop, I don’t know when."

“Wow, you want to put money with an unknown guy, in a Ponzi scheme, where even the lottery is not transparent? Somehow, I am a bit uneasy.”

“Ennavo po! You are always negative. Always doubting people. Forget it, I’ll not join.”

“I didn’t say no. All I am saying is, when you take a leap of faith, don’t do it blind.”

“Forget it. I don’t want to discuss this further!”

*********

I don’t know whether my mom learnt a lesson in economics. But I learnt a very important lesson in psychology. 

It doesn’t matter how many times one says “there is no my money or your money. It is ours, and you can choose to spend the way you want. Just because dad’s retired doesn’t mean you have to check with me for every penny spent…”, if one doesn’t practice it. Even if the venture is not economically sound. Especially if the venture is not economically sound. 

Because only if you let people you care about lose money and not worry about it, will they ever feel free enough to take the money you give them and treat it as theirs.

********

In closing, a good economics student knows to win any argument. Rationally. But a good psychology student knows which arguments to not get into. Emotionally.

What does money mean to you?

What does money mean to you?

I have often struggled with this question. As a child, despite my parents' best efforts, I was acutely aware of how this mystical thing wasn't present in as much abundance at our home as at some of the others. I had all that I needed, but not everything that I wanted. And believe me, I wanted a lot. I wanted a new bicycle because the neighbour's kid had one. I wanted a video game, again because the neighbours had one. I wanted a colour TV with cable connection, not the old B&W one in which you could see DD1 (and some grainy images of some other channel provided the wind wasn't blowing too strongly and shaking the antenna). I wanted to go on all the school excursions. And I got most of these too. I still don't know how they managed to do it.

Growing up, one of my dreams was to be a millionaire by 25. Stupid, I know. In spite of having a father who didn't measure himself by how much he made. Or probably because of it. I kept hankering after money. Still do.

And then, I grew up. At least chronologically. Got myself a bunch of useless degrees. And one pretty useful diploma. Which landed me into a decent job. Reached my first million at 27. Two years late, and in rupees, not dollars. And realized that a million is pretty much useless in a world where people talk in crores. Should've accounted for inflation, damn it! I make almost 10 times of what my dad made while he retired. Yet, I never saw him complain about money, while I crib about being underpaid. He traveled two-and-half-hours each way for over 8 years to get to work at his age. I crib about a half an hour commute, and wish I could stay closer to work. Which would require more money. Some people never learn. In spite of having the best teachers at home.

Most parents attempt to teach you through long, boring lectures. And never manage to get the message through. Thankfully, my dad wasn't one of them. He didn't preach, he showed by example. Like resigning from a job when asked to cook the books by the management. Without another job in sight, with a wife and 2 kids to provide for and loans to pay. Like never padding up expense accounts merely because the company is paying. Sometimes, I wish he hadn't been so frustratingly straight-forward in his life. It would have made it much easier for me to come up with fake rental and medical receipts. And save up on taxes. But he taught me that sleep doesn't come easy on a mattress filled with cash.

My dad officially retired today. After many months of me and my mom nagging him to do so. There were no farewell speeches, no exit interviews, not even the symbolic wrist-watch that most companies give as an inadequate thank-you for all the time you devoted to them. But he walked away with the love and respect of his colleagues, people who'd genuinely miss his presence and his advice. If I could walk away with half that respect when my time comes, I'd consider myself very successful.

So, what does money mean to me? It means, at last, I can confidently ask my dad to sit back and relax and enjoy life. And tell him not to worry about money anymore. It means the world to me.

Yet another stupid poem...

Sometimes I really wonder why

Instead of simply flying by...

Why do you rush towards me

Are you so blind, can't you see

That if you touch me, you'll die...

Yet you come, on a prayer and a wing

With that lovely tilting tune you sing

But you've surely seen the others

Some of them even your brothers

never exit from my deathly ring...

So, in all this heat, I still shiver

back and forth, for you I quiver

not only 'coz of the winds that blow

that away from you, I move my glow

I don't take life, I am a born giver...

But, my dear, you are my life's only cause

with all my buzz, you still made me pause
And that's why, oh beautiful glowing fire
I choose to make you my funeral pyre
coz in love, there is neither gain, nor loss...
***********************************

PS: So many fire and moth poems in the world. Surely, there's room for one more crappy one?

Say Something...

I wanted to write a long and senti post.

But then I realized that sometimes, some things are best left unsaid.

And more importantly, when you say nothing at all, you convey everything.

Some things never change...

Long, long ago, a young boy refused to go to school. The place scared him. It was filled with strange kids, some who bit him and some who pulled his hair. He felt lonely, surrounded by so many strangers. He told his mom that he hated the place and didn't want to go there.

She explained to him, patiently, that it is actually a nice place. That he will learn new things. And make new friends. And will soon grow to like that place. Like it enough to spend more and more time there. She told him that she would always be around, waiting under the big tree in the playground. And the moment the bell rings, she would come and take him away from there. And so, he would wait, patiently, much after all the other kids had left, all by himself, for the one familiar face to appear by the window. Some days, the face would be late. And he would sit there and think to himself, "I don't want to be here."

His mom tried harder. She explained that there was no choice. Everybody goes to school. Everybody had to. Only then could he become a 'big man', and go to office like his father. And be able to earn money to buy chocolates. He didn't understand what money was, but he liked the idea of getting chocolates any time he wanted.

And so, he tried to like the place. Until one day, he did potty in his pants. All the students laughed at him. The teacher made him stand outside the class. And then, at that very moment, he decided that come what may, he would not go to school anymore.

So, the next morning, when his mom laid out the neatly ironed uniform and the nicely polished black shoes, he refused to wear them. He ran away and hid under the cot. But he was no match for his mom. Moms are always smarter. All she had to do was say "I see a cockroach in there" and he came scurrying out like the creature she had just mentioned does when you spray insecticide in a hole in the floor.

And then he fell back on the only weapon that young kids have. He bawled. And bawled. Loudly enough to alarm the neighbours. But his mom was having none of it. And so he was dragged, kicking and screaming and wriggling in her arms, and was deposited in the classroom.

Over time, he came to like the place. He made friends. He played catch-catch and hide and seek with them. And even learnt to pluck boogers from his nose and happily put them in his mouth. They tasted weird, but it was nice because everyone on his bench was doing it. And he did well in his studies too, which pleased his mom.

Many years went by, and he grew older. And older. But he never grew up. People want him to face his responsibilities, get married and 'settle down'. He has already decided that he hates this 'settling down'. But he knows that he has no option. He knows he can't run away from it forever.

Deep in his heart, he knows he should resign himself to mediocre 'maturity' and only hope that things will go well. And he'll do at least half as well as he did in that other school.

But he is a fighter. While Time keeps dragging him along, he refuses to go quietly. And so, he is being dragged, kicking and screaming and wriggling in its hands, into this school called 'maturity'. One year at a time. And Time is winning, since it has made him cross one more year. Little does Time know that this time, he has made up his mind much more fiercely. And he is no longer afraid of cockroaches and can't be tricked out of his hiding place. And thus, he will not grow up and face his responsibilities.
*********************************************************************

PS1: Little does he know that Time always wins this battle. But he lives again, to fight another day. And another year. He'll live some more, and then merely exist. But till such time, cheers folks. And wish me a not-so-Happy Birthday

Conversations with Mom...

Warning: Long. Not boring though. 

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"An auspicious thing happenned today at the temple. I inadvertently spilled some kumkumam!"

"Ayyo, that's being clumsy, not auspicious. And I thought spilling vibuthi condemns you to a thousand years in hell. What about kumkumam? Better start chanting Rama-Rama 1008 times!"

"Stop it! I am fed up with your mocking all our sacred rituals. Anyways, don't tell me you don't know that this signifies that a kalyanam (wedding) in the house is round the corner."

"Is it? But isn't Adi too young to get married?" (Note: Adi is my younger brother, in his final year of engg.)

"Ayyo, you and your stupid jokes. You know very well I am not talking about Adi!"

"Who else then? Aren't you a little too old to get married? Besides, what will poor Appa do?"

"One more stupid joke and I am never talking to you again."

"Ok, ok. I know what you are hinting at."

"And?"

"No"

"But you are 28 now, and it is high time we started looking. Vela velaiki ellam nadakanum" (translated to "all things should happen at the appropriate time")

"Life is not a checklist with a schedule, with items to be ticked off one by one at the so-called right time." 

"I am not saying it is, all I am saying is, everybody gets married. And the sooner you do it, the better it will be." (Gentle Reasoning)

"I am not everybody. I am not saying I will not get married, but I am not saying I will either. All I am saying is, it is not something I'll do just because I have reached a certain age, or because it is what everybody else does."

"What exactly are you trying to say? Either you want to get married, or you don't."

"For now, I don't"

"And I am telling you, you'll end up a lonely old man and then regret it." (Mild threat)

"Maybe. But it will still have been my decision and I am perfectly willing to live with the consequences. Rather than get married for your sake and ending up blaming you if things don't turn out well."

"But what will people say? Everyday, I have to listen to people saying that I have not fulfilled my duty. People will say I am happy to live off my son's money and hence am not finding him a bride." (Emotional Blackmail)

"People can say what they want. I cannot live my life based on what other people think. When I was struggling, the people did not come and solve my problems. And there is no your money or my money, but let's leave that for another day."

"But we do live in a society, and you are not an island in yourself." (Back to reason)

"I am not, nor do I wish to be. I am happy to interact with the people that you refer to. I just draw the line at making life choices based on what they think."

"Is this what education does to young people. One fancy degree and you think you are above all rules?" (Rebuke)

"Yes. We learn the golden rule: he who has the gold, makes the rules" (I wish I had an equivalent of the chat smiley :P to do over the phone, but the best I could come up with was a "Prrrr" sound).

"It's not your fault. It is written in your horoscope that you will be this kudarkam pesum kundamandi" (ok, folks, hard to translate that... the best I can come up with is nonsense spouting rebel).

"Glad you brought that up. Don't believe in horoscopes either. So, assuming I do decide to get married at some point of time in the future, I am not tolerating any of this horoscope bullshit."

"How else do you expect me to find you a girl?" (Exasperation)

"You mean, you can't find me a bride unless you use a horoscope?"

"Yes"

"Brilliant, that kind of solves my problem. So, if I understand you correctly, what you are saying is that I can say I am willing to get married, but I will not accept any horoscope. Which means, you can't find me a girl, but the fault is now yours and not mine, because I have consented to getting married? Wow, I am liking this."

"Yes. It's all my fault. Anyways, what's your problem with horoscopes?"

"I just don't believe in them. Simple."

"It doesn't matter whether you believe in them or not. They work. And therefore, we'll follow them."

"Well, tribes in Africa might have a ritual of sacrificing a goat to their tribal god to ensure long lives for their husbands. So, irrespective of whether you believe in them or not, why not cut off a goat's head tomorrow in the name of Appa's health?"

"You and your stupid analogies. We follow our customs, they follow theirs."

"And all I am saying is, horoscope matching is your custom, not mine. You got married by referring to a match-planets-in-a-chart, doesn't mean I am going to do it."

"Ok, you don't believe in them. But what if the girl's family wants to match horoscopes. Are we supposed to say no?"

"Precisely. I am not getting married to a girl if her parents decide to choose their son-in-law based purely on the time and place of his birth, which itself might not have been accurately recorded to begin with. Plus, you will discover some girl is of this inauspicious star, or has chevvai dosham (manglik?) etc. I refuse to judge a person based on events that she had no control of."

"Sigh. Forget horoscopes. Will you say yes, if I find a family which doesn't need to match horoscopes."

"Wow, we did not see that coming. I thought you said you cannot find me a girl if horoscopes cannot be shared. Now I need to come up with some new excuse. Give me some time."

"I knew it. You are absolutely incorrigible."

"I want to marry for the right reasons. Because I like someone, and more because she likes me. And likes me for who I am, not for how tall I am, or based on what my skin colour is, or what my eating and drinking habits  are or how much I earn. And the way I see it, this arranged marriage process usually has those as the primary filters. Besides your mumbo-jumbo planetary chart, of course. And then, they discover that the tall, fair, pure vegatarian, teetotaler, six-figure-salary-earning mapillai who had all patthu porutham is actually a closet wife-beater! Brilliant I say."

"In that case, you should have found a girl yourself. We would not have stopped you!"

"I should have done a lot of things. Like become a millionaire. Learnt to swim. Developed an ear for music. Watched Rafa defeat Federer at Wimbledon. Taken you on a world tour. The reality is, I haven't done those things and I have learnt to live with it. So, you also please learn to live with the reality that your son is useless when it comes to this particular area. Ok, got to go for dinner now, take care."

"What's for dinner?"

"Same old Jeevan Boarding. Kind of bored of it, but few options here. And you know I am too lazy to cook."

"See, if you get married, you will get a nice dinner at home. No need to go to the same boring mess every day"

"Good night."

Stubborn, isn't she? Unfortunately for her, I inherited the trait. Which is why, we are at stalemate for now. Incidentally, the only kind of mate we agree upon.

The more things change...

Usual disclaimer: Slightly long post. Personal. And boring.

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Ten years is a long time. The world changes a lot in that time. People change. I did too.

In 2000, I was a gawky teenager, just about coming to terms with the fact that maybe Bombay is not such a bad place after all, and that I would be stuck in this place for a long time. But I wanted to run away from this place if I could afford to. Mettupalayam was becoming just a fond memory.
In 2010, I am no longer gawky (at least in my mind), no longer a teenager (except in my mind), and now Bombay is my favourite place. I guess I will be around here for a long time, but I still want to run away from this place because I cannot afford to live here. And Mettupalayam has become just a fond fantasy.

In 2000, money was scarce, but the needs were far fewer. 27 rupees was all it took to get a monthly railway pass from home to college, student concession included. 50 bucks a week was the allowance, and 40 of that was saved. I skipped movies, I skipped outings, and was this nerd who sat in the library all the time. The guy who the girls called Gandhi and was only remembered four times a year, on the eve of every exam, for his notes to be photocopied. I did not have much fun, and I always thought that was because there wasn't enough money.
In 2010, money is no longer scarce, but the needs have multiplied. I avoid the trains as much as I can, and cannot dream of saving 80% of my income anymore. I still skip movies, I still skip outings, and am this nerd who sits in office all the time. And while I do have other worthy notes, with Gandhiji's toothless smile, photocopying them is a criminal offence, and hence, the girls no longer have to undergo the trouble of being nice to me four times a year. I still don't have much fun, but I know very well that money can't buy fun.

In 2000, I was the 'role model' in the family, and in college. Yes, the same guy who was pointed out in gatherings and referred to in conversations which went "see, how chamathu he is! Why can't you study like him?" Chicken was dirty food, alcohol was yuck and God was the all powerful and omnipresent being whose help was sought for everything in life. I felt happy, not knowing that my cousins, and my friends, secretly hated me for being that asshole who always did his homework and never bunked classes. Sigh, you can never please everyone.
In 2010, parents keep their kids away from me if they can, since I am prone to advising them to have as much fun in their college life as possible, and not be the asshole that I was. Chicken is still dirty food (since I much prefer the prawns), alcohol still makes me puke (only sometimes) and god is just a figment of human imagination. I think those kids love me now, but the parents secretly hate me for having been chamathu when required and now acting to the contrary, leaving them in a hard place when it comes to scolding their kids. Sigh, you can never please everyone.

In 2000, the internet was something one did not usually bother with, email was disdained upon since it did not convey the warmth of a handwritten letter, and chat meant an hour catching up with friends at the tapri over a cutting chai. The only experience of the internet was from those sessions spent in shady cybercafes, surreptitiously sneaking at scantily clad models. Ok, sometimes, not even scantily clad.
In 2010, I cannot imagine life without the internet. The warmth of the handwritten letter has been replaced by the warmth of the overheated laptop. Chat sessions over Gtalk with multiple people, finding out what's happenning in people's lives on facebook, and knowing what people had for breakfast on twitter seems normal now. And yes, I still scour the net for the scantily clad models sometimes.

In 2000, the world was a wonderful place teeming with possibilities. When one could dream of being a millionaire by 25. When one could open a business magazine and picture oneself in a nice suit, being interviewed. When one had no idea how one would do it, but the sea facing bungalow in Malabar Hill wasn't ruled out completely. I had no clue about a lot of things, but the outlook was optimistic.
In 2010, the world is a challenging place, teeming with hurdles. When one becomes a millionaire and discovers that it is not a big deal after all, and one should have at least dreamed higher. When one opens a business magazine and thinks "I would never want to be that jargon spouting idiot when I am 40". When one has a fair idea of what it takes to own a sea facing Malabar Hill bungalow, and has ruled it out completely. I think I have figured out quite a few things, and that has made the outlook cynical.

In 2000, I was a loser.
In 2010, I am still a loser.

The more things change...

Of Home Visits, Closet Outings, Bigoted Priests and other random stuff

And, almost 10 days after returning from a very nice, very fulfilling (stomach-wise) home visit, I decide to pen it down... extremely long, mostly random, definitely boring, largely personal, but then, the whole purpose of this blog is to look back at all this 5 years down the line and chuckle at how silly I was...

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This was a trip filled with nostalgia... the first wave of nostalgia hit as soon as I landed and saw a cut-out of Kalaignar, Varuga Varuga nu varaverthufying me to the land of the Ulaga Tamizh Manadu! The second wave of nostalgia hit when I got into the bus to Bhavani, and listened to random songs like "Sendhura poovae..." and "Devadhai pol oru penn ingu vandhadhu thambi, unnai nambi." And 33 bucks and 100 km later, I was home!

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Within half an hour of reaching home, my brother had downloaded all the games that I had taken from here on a pen-drive (for the record, NFS, Cricket 2007, and most important, MK4!!!) and we settled down to a good old Mortal Kombat session. And I won! Haven't lost my touch! Btw, we have a computer at home now. With internet connection. Progress. Prosperity. Or as my mom puts it after watching our MK4 sessions, paithiyakarathanam!

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I spend a weekend attending a friend's wedding. Third wave of nostalgia. Meeting school friends after almost a decade. Memories of sitting in the same bench together for 12 years come rushing back. Sigh, why did I not keep in touch? The old bugbear, laziness. Must make amends.

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The first round of 'meeting relatives' begins. And the usual question tumbles out: "When are you getting married?" The funny thing is, they are convinced that I actually want to get married, but I am too shy to tell my parents and hence, they tell my mom "Avan apadi thaan aparam aparam nu solluvan. Nee paaka thodangu." More than anything, they are worried I'll find a girl from 'some other caste'. I wish. 12 years in Bombay, and I have come up with zilch. Or actually, three whiny V-day poems. Sometimes, I think my relatives think too much of my capabilities while the gals in Bombay unfortunately don't. They really need to switch their opinions on the subject of SRK's general attractiveness, if you ask me.

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The whole week at home is spent in a simple routine: Wake up, have breakfast, read the Hindu, try to solve the crossword, give up, read books, pull Mom's leg, bear with her pulling mine with the dreaded "marriage" question, lunch, siesta, read some more, MK4 session with bro, eat dinner, sleep. Aah, if there is Paradise on Earth, it is here, it is here, it is here!

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Actually, have to elaborate a bit on the "pull Mom's leg". I finally came 'out of the closet'. No, not that I am gay. That might still have been accepted probably. But I am something worse. A non-believer. Blasphemy!
To her credit, she did accept it with more calm than I gave her credit for. But I can see it makes her queasy. I told her I take the occasional drink and she was ok. I told her I dig the occasional chick (the feathered variety on the plate, not the tight jeans and high heels ones), and she was ok. But this religion thing makes her fret. I ask: "Payyan kuduchu kuttichevuru aanalum paravallai, aana pora pokula govinda govinda sollite ponum nu oru aasaiya?"
She smiles. And says "One day, you will believe." One day...

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She also tells me that the kovil gurukal told her that it is written in my jadagam that I'll be this kudarkam pesum kundamandi. I am more concerned as to why the gurukal has been looking at my jadagam. And get into one more discussion of if and when I get married, I will not allow horoscopes to be looked at. I will be starry-eyed, but only about the girl. Not about whether her fifth house has Guru or Shukran. Or whatever they see in that!

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And after 5 days of such kundamandi talks, Diwali arrives. And I happily gorge on the sweets, the omapodi, the muthusari, and as a reward for all this er... divine food, I submit to visit the temple. The temple is actually a nice one, being on the banks of Cauvery. Plus, it has this legend, which is nice to read about till you actually come to the end of it (not in the online version, but it is inscribed in the temple). Which is that, after a British Collector is saved by the Goddess, he wanted to thank Her, but the wise men decided that he is an "alien" after all, and can't be allowed inside the temple. So, they make three holes in the wall from which he can have darshan, and the holes are still there. The temple priest proudly points it out. I am disgusted. Your God(dess) didn't discriminate when she went to save the guy, but you act holier-than-thou by not allowing him inside, and now, you are proud of that legend? Sigh!

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The temple visit has 2-3 more incidents. First, I bump into this really caste-obsessed priest who, admittedly in good fun and because he knows my parents well enough to joke with them, playfully tells them "Why don't you shift to the agraharam? Why do you want to stay in the midst of all the shudras?" I don't know if my shock showed on my face, but he did lay off that topic soon enough.

Only to get on my case. "Eppo Kalyanam?". I smile. I have learnt that while some of them are really matchmakers, most of them ask it as a matter of polite courtesy. And that smiling and saying "All in good time, by God's grace" usually shuts them up. I don't mind calling upon God to get out of such squirmy situations.

And then, we meet another gurukal. Who asks me my 'nakshatram'. Which, like Karna in the Mahabharata facing Arjuna, I forget at the nick of time. Damn. (But, you should note that I do remember my mythology). A brief lecture on how one should remember one's birth-star. So, before this gets any more embarrassing for me, and more for my mom since she is known around the temple as a very devout lady, I quietly slip away and sit on the steps leading to the river. And admire her in full flow. If there is anything remotely divine about that place, it is the majestic flow of the river. But that is just me.

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And then we go to Bangalore (ok, Bengaluru) to meet cousins. Awesome time. Made even more awesome since this time it was my sister, poor lady that she is, that was facing the 'Eppo Kalyanam?' heat.
And like the usual sadist that I am, I joined in. Took an issue of SruthiVani, which is this really Mallu mag which happens to have half the pages dedicated to matrimonials, to shortlist eligible mapillais for her. Probably only of Tambrahms or something. Which reminds me, if you are a single, Tambrahm guy, between 28-30 years of age and living in and around Bengaluru, get in touch. Engineers preferred. :)

One look at that SruthiVani thingy and I can definitely say I'm not getting married. Not unless they really invoke the '1000 lies allowed' clause. All the potential brides want tall, handsome grooms. (although I still don't know what's wrong with the short and pudgy ones?). With clean habits (does the fact that I sometimes drink my vodka neat count?). And God-fearing (maybe, just maybe, I can print Dog-fearing, and they'll think it is a printing mistake. While I'd have told the truth. The same way Yudishtira said the truth to Drona about Ashwathama. See, I do remember my mythology! Maybe that'll count for something!).

Need to write a post on why I am extremely uncomfortable with the concept of 'arranged marriage', but then, I have said it before and I'll say it again, it is the socialist solution for guys at the bottom of the desirable pyramid like me, who'd otherwise remain single (happily?) in a ruthless capitalist-style 'date, propose, marry' society...

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And that concludes the home visit report. Boring? Don't say you weren't pre-warned!