Dear Ekta-ji

Dear Ekta-ji,
I am hoping this letter is bringing you pink of the health. Actually, this is fifth letter I am writing to you. I hope you will take the notice what I am saying this time.
Now it is 11:00 in the night, the time I am writing this letter, sitting on dining table with empty plate in front of me. My two children are sleeping near the table also. You see, Kahiin To Hoga is running on TV and my wife will start the cooking only at 11:30. I am not knowing how to cook, and children are not happy with chai-coffee at night, so we must wait for her only. My mother gone to sleep, drinking one glass milk. Kindly, I am asking you Kahiin to Hoga timing ko shift kijiye, my children are not getting up properly for school every morning.
I am also hoping you will bringing back the old Sujal, my wife is not liking the new face he is wearing. My wife is thinking that plastic surgery is very common nowadays, and calling up all hospitals taking appointments so that she can also look like Kashish. She wanted to look like Kkkusum (or Kkusum? How many K I am not knowing), but she has also wearing a new face, which she is not liking.
Last week, I heard my wife is telling my neighbour Renukaji, that my sister and mother are just like Aarti and Savita-bahu from Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi. She is thinking that my family is not following sahi middle-class values, and she is doing plenty of ghar-ki-saaf without even a new saree every month. Now she is talking about joining political parties like Tulsi-behn. She is also checking behind bedroom door for other people when I am telling something private, because Komolika is always found behind bedroom doors in all episodes.
Please reduce jewelry on all actresses in Kasautii Zindagii Kay. With bank-teller job, I am not able to think even of paying Shekharji next month rent, my wife is asking me for the same necklace that Mohini Basu is wearing. She is also buying lot of Balaji photos and hanging around the house.
Ok. Now it is 11:30 and time for wife to make daal-chawal. I am hoping that you will think of this letter and make changes necessary.
Sincerely thanking you,
Hungry Husband
P.S - My son very interested in joining the new serial showing this month. He looks handsome, somthing like your brother. I am enclosing photo with this letter also. Please consider.

Blues...

As a grad-student, you know you're working too hard when...

• You come home and stick your lab-key into your apartment-door.
• You find yourself in some weird location on-campus and you're wondering how you got there.
• To finish-up with work, you skip lunch and take solace in the fact that you can satisfy your hunger with a candy-bar and coffee at 5 pm.
• You think of weekends as the ideal time to get your research-work done. (Other than weekday evenings after 6 pm, of course...)
• You don't remember the last conversation which was about something other than your research.
• Even when you do make conversation, you punctuate your sentences with terms like "iterations" and "convergence".

Liberation...

When Katie slapped the alarm off at 4 am that morning, she promised herself that all this effort would be worthwhile at the end of the day. Wisps of cold air seeped-in through folds in the blankets – subtle reminders of a last-ditch effort to hold her eyelids open. She was wrestling sleep now…

Somewhere in the drift, she could repeatedly hear soft, distant voices. She strained her ears, but they were just incoherent. The Kennel? Then, it hit her like a cold spray - The Fennel Club.

She jumped out of bed, in a whirlwind of dazed thoughts. Damn! How long had it been? Grabbing the clock at the bed-side, she realized it was already 4:20. How the hell am I going to make it in forty-minutes?

When Jake had tipped her about the event, it had made her day. He frequently ran these little errands for her. She didn’t really know why he did it, and she couldn’t see how he could possibly draw any benefit from all this either. After all, what could a scrawny sales-woman at a 5th-tier credit card company offer in terms of monetary benefits, when she could hardly stay afloat with a monthly rent of $350 for this run-down apartment?

Jake had mentioned that about 25 couples of the Fairway neighborhood were signing-up for a new membership at the FC. They were all old, but most importantly, they were rich, with nothing better to do with their time. If she could get a bunch of them to sign-up, her chances of a handsome commission were pretty good. She could really use the extra money, and it would definitely reduce the debt on her credit-card bills – on a credit-card with the same company that she now worked for. Sigh!

She also knew that she had an edge. The FC was also offering substantial benefits for new members who also signed-up with her company. By golly, she was not going to let this slip…

She started the coffee-maker, splashed her face with icy water from the sink and tip-toed into the bathroom for a quick shower. When she’d poured a little milk in the cat-bowl and stepped out of her apartment, she still had ten minutes to spare. Yanking the rusty door of her Toyota, she stepped in, cranked the motor and roared-away.

She was straightening-out a crease in her suit at the FC lobby when the first customers walked in…

Katie walked through the conference-hall doors with a sense of elation later that after-noon. Seventeen new clients! Even that nasty feline Melissa couldn’t do this well.

“Looks like you’ve landed quite a catch, Miss Sanders”, grunted Bailey, her lewd boss, looking at her over the frame of his glasses. “Seventeen is quite a good number indeed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bailey; it was sure worth the effort”

“You’ve set quite a fine example. It’s very gratifying to have such dynamic sales-personnel. It reminds me of my days as a young sales-man…”

Damn! There goes the lecherous prick with his booming success-stories… Just stay calm, and keep him happy. You don’t want to ruin this now…

After ten minutes of small-talk, he looked at the figures and snorted,”Now, for your reward. I’ll ask my secretary to fill the check out for you. At our usual rate of $20… So that makes a total of $340. Pick it up on your way by my office. Once again, well done, Miss Sanders”

“But Mr. Bailey, I’ve been told that any catch in excess of ten clients warrants a considerable increase in pay… As you can see, it’s definitely quite an effort. You said so yourself.”

“I understand, Miss Sanders, but considering that you’ve got those clients from the FC, where we already have an existing relationship, we believe that those clients would’ve approached us for a credit-card anyway.”

She was starting to lose it now. I won’t take this any longer. This time, it’s gone way too far.

“Look, Mr. Bailey, I’ve worked my ass-off to get this job done. I persuaded seventeen people to sign-up. Not two or three, but seventeen. I’m quite sure they have cards from six other credit-companies stuffed in their wallets anyway. And how did you expect to make such a sale like this without me? Oh yes, I forget. Your vinyl pamphlets that adorn some dusty corner of the FC lobby?”

She continued, “Honestly, I think it’s quite disgusting that you treat your sales-people like this. It’s been a pleasure working for you, sir, but I think it’s time to use my talent elsewhere…”

Walking out of the office building with a box of her paraphernalia, onto the crowded street that evening, Katie felt a sense of relief rush through her. She didn’t know what she was going to do now, but she really didn’t care. It’s time to look ahead…

Emotional Fractal...

Some examples of what computational sciences are truly capable of. Just to prove to all you people out there that science is an art

Old habits die-hard... Or so they say

It’s funny how little we know about ourselves…
What’s weird about this is that we’ve trudged around for so long, completely oblivious to this fact. Nasty habits that we’ve inculcated over time, the rude temper that erupts even in the mildest of circumstances, and yes, how we’ve never realized that ‘preponed’ is an illegitimate word. Sometimes, it takes a really awkward situation to make ourselves aware of all this.
For instance, my advisor once asked me if I could complete the work he’d assigned in two days. At that moment, I was preoccupied in trying to figure-out a way to manage my time, and I merely nodded. Now, picture me nodding a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ in one, convoluted motion! Seems absolutely comical, doesn’t it?

My advisor had this puzzled look on his face, “Is that meant to be a yes or a no?”

I had just realized how silly I must’ve looked.

Rubbing it in, he continued, “Or is that how you say maybe?”

Of course, it’s all a question of how we handle such a situation. We can choose to be embarrassed about it, and hang our heads in shame; or we could simply forget about it all and just move on. As much as I try the latter, the thought of such a situation never escapes me. Gets eroded with time, I should think. I always try to think of it as an opportunity to correct myself, and just maybe, it won’t happen again. But nevertheless, something new always has to crop-up, and then, there’ll be a new addition to my mental check-list.

These things tend to plague us with increasing regularity when we’re in a new country – sometimes like a rude-shock. Different lifestyles, attitudes, rules and numerous oddities. Oddities to us, that is. But perfectly normal to someone else.

Was lazing around one evening on the couch, laptop and all (so typically me), when this desi chap walked in through the front door. Hadn’t seen him around these places before, so I blissfully surmised that he was new to town. We were discussing his new work environment, and gradually got down to identifying his colleagues.

“Yeah, two Indians and three foreigners.”

Wanted to speak-out but held back. “Dude, in these parts of the world, you are the foreigner!”

The Story of my Divorce

The past week’s been quite significant.

When my grad-school plans misfired after graduating from college last year, all the walls seemed to be closing-in on me. To be honest, I really didn’t want to start working after I was fresh out of college, and now, I suddenly found myself staring down at this silly job-offer that I had on-hand. The pay was measly, the job-description seemed so mundane, and the only solace lay in the fact that I could work from home and maybe save a buck in the process. At the time, my plan was quite clear – I take the job, stay for just a year, and then quit. Period.

Sometimes I wonder if this mentality put all sorts of negative thoughts in my attitude towards this company and its people. I was already preparing to leave before my first day at work!

I’ve heard tales about how difficult it is to make that transition between the student-life and the corporate world.

“You complain about your professors?? Wait till you meet your boss!”

But I was too pre-occupied to notice. I was charting-out my exit strategy, carefully planning my escape. My new colleagues approached me with a sense of uncertainty, but then, who wouldn’t? Treating them like pseudo-enemies, I stayed reticent as well.

But as time wore-on, I gradually discovered their backgrounds, their interests, and soon enough, I found myself solving their personal problems as well! Office parties and politics, hallway rumors and hour-long lunch-breaks – all of these gradually seeped its way into my system. My boss, quite contrary to all claims, turned out to be a really laid-back guy who put no pressure on me whatsoever. I could instantly strike a rapport with him, despite our differences in age. But most importantly, he was impressed with whatever I did!

However, despite the rosy situation that I was getting acclimated to, I still had the idea of grad-school clearly in mind. Barely six to eight months into the job, I’d already found myself stagnating, and this was definitely not the situation I wanted to be in! Things started looking up when my second shot at grad-school turned out to be fruitful (at least better than the first time!) Late last month, I handed my resignation – much to the surprise of my boss. But then, I suppose he was expecting a fast-one from me anyway.

It’s been only a year since I joined the R&D department, and now, almost precisely to the day, I’m leaving. I returned my ID tag to the personnel department – the mangal-sutra, as they so affectionately call it. They’ve accepted my divorce-settlement.

And so ends one brief but eventful year that I definitely won’t forget.

PhotoBlog !

Straight back down nostalgia lane! So many memories flooding in!

And an ideal start to my first photo-blog. These snaps come from my trip to school earlier this month; for the annual alumni meet

The Gang with Gardner


With Ezekiel on Hesketh Pitch


Good 'ol School Flat


Looking for a meal!


Ruchi looks nostalgic outside Grade 4


Yeah.. We never made it to Grade 12, but this was the next best thing!

Sparkling Minds...

Smita* is a precocious little child. At age 7, she can solve problems in 10th grade-level trigonometry when other children her age are learning to add a couple of numbers. No one’s given an official estimate of her IQ, but it’s quite likely that she’s way ahead of the pack.

Anita* can recite the lyrics of over eight hundred songs spanning six languages. She knows them ad verbatim, and never, ever makes a mistake. In fact, she knows them so well that, when prompted, she sings all the songs in the film at a stretch – one by one.

But there’s a catch.

Smita can’t write – let alone hold a pen. She needs help to stand straight, and forming words from her lips seems like an impossible task. All the answers, albeit correct, are pointed out by her index finger. Anita, despite her extensive memory skills, doesn’t respond to questions posed to her. She merely repeats them. She’s easily agitated and gnaws at her palms in frustration, till they become raw.

These children are special, not unfortunate, but special. And they’ve been diagnosed with autism.

When my mother got an offer to work at the special-needs school nearby, it seemed quite convenient. She’d never worked professionally before, and her only experience in teaching comes from tutoring a handful of students that came for evening tuition classes after school. The pay wasn’t very good, but after twenty-odd years of serving the household with utmost care - and getting absolutely nothing in return, it looked like a refreshing new start. She was forewarned though. This was no easy task. She would have to deal with little children that have no coherent means of communication, become violent and agitated at the drop of a hat, and pop even the least edible substance into their mouths without a second thought. She decided to take it anyway.

She took a course in sensory integration, multiple intelligence and other aspects of this condition that we know so little about – despite the fifty-odd years of cognizance of the disorder.

Autism is a rare, severe condition that affects about one in seven thousand children, usually before the age of four. Reason for affliction – unknown. Different theories exist, including genetic degeneration, neural dysfunction, improper vaccination and even something as exotic as the “refrigerator mother” hypothesis, wherein the cause is directly related to the absence of significant affection displayed on the mother’s part during the formative years.

Usual symptoms generally include the inability to communicate and respond to conversation, absence of eye contact, repetitive behavior and retarded social development. But these children are by no means inferior in terms of intelligence. Those individuals diagnosed with high-functioning autism generally display a level of astuteness far superior to ordinary children. What impedes their progress is their inability to express their thoughts in a lucid manner. Words, if spoken, are synthesized with tremendous difficulty and even then, they sound monotonous and robot-like. Sadly, there’s no predetermined cure for this condition, and remedial measures vary widely from case-to-case.

Frustrated parents travel enormous distances each day to bring their children to school, and are constantly concerned about their child’s progress. They yearn for a normal life, and hope for miracles. Little do they realize that such a condition can never be alleviated. Tales of frustration are spun out by my mother each day – about how one couple adopted a little girl, only to find that she’s autistic a couple of years later. Makes me think about how foolish I have been, thinking about petty events and unrealized dreams.

Is there hope? Yes. There always is.

It’s just an obstacle. It was always there, and you knew it would stand there in front of you eventually. All you need is an idea to get around it. All you need is the willpower to overcome the notion that it’s insurmountable.

Just recently, Mom attended a seminar held by a mother who overcame enormous challenges to give her autistic son a life. He hadn’t spoken a word for almost all of his formative and teenage years, but one morning, he responded to a query by typing it in his word-processor on the PC. He eventually went on to write a book on his thoughts and difficulties, and to top it all, completed his undergraduate degree with high honors.

“So why did you take so long to communicate with us?” someone asked.

“All this time,” he replied, “I was listening.”

*names changed

The Vegan Life

Sifting through sticky, over-boiled rice and curry at the hostel mess in college a couple of years ago; I desperately needed something to divert my thoughts from this gooey slop on my plate. With over eight accumulated years of hostel food experience, I guess I can confidently parry any sort of bad cooking aimed at me. But still, why must I endure this for so long?

I notice my friend sitting pensively next to me, and I’m quite positive that he’s wondering how to tackle the concoction of crimson beetroot that’s looming large between him and his goal towards satiety. He looks up all of a sudden and poses a question, “Are you a vegetarian?”

I’m taken aback a little; now where did this come from??

I suppose a little bit of conversation at dinner-time should be a good idea, “Umm, not really. But I can manage quite well as one. Are you?”

“Yeah.”

Hmm… Monosyllabic response. So much for the attempt at conversation.

That gets me to thinking – I suppose being vegetarian is a way of life – the Vegan Life. For the newly-converted, it means a diet of strict discipline, and of course, the nobility of being part of a movement against cruelty towards animals. That’s fine by me, but I suppose it’s a matter of choice. It’s definitely healthy, and what’s more, I’ve read that it’s better suited to the human constitution (although I doubt whether we’d be able to survive on a diet of buffalo-grass alone). But the turn towards a non-vegetarian diet follows naturally from an observation of nature. By natural selection, the food-chain must follow a route wherein herbivorous creatures are consumed by carnivores to maintain stability. Eating meat never did any harm – it’s a good source for protein, (unless you’re campaigning for Soy Milk extracts) and so, it gradually insinuated into our diets. So much so that our appendices – originally meant to dissolve cellulose, no longer finds a place of useful value in our bodies. So why vegetarianism?

Well, the roots are many. Some religious, some pertaining to health, and some, just plain guilt. After all, how would it feel to be herded around; waiting to be consumed by a higher mortal? We’ve never had that situation cropping up, so why harp on hypothetical situations, isn’t it? Or perhaps, you’d rather be a Fruitarian, where the basis for belief lies in the thought that all vegetables were simply slaughtered. As for me, I just want a little variety, and so it’s my choice.

My friend and I delved into the topic gradually; pointless maybe, but a diversion nevertheless.

“Well, if nature is anything to go by”, I said,”I suppose we could turn-tables and hunt each other. After all, the dinosaurs did it…”

“Eww!! How gross! I’m trying to digest this muck and you’re trying to bring it all out again with your talk on cannibalism? Let’s just drop the subject, shall we??”

Yeah, I get the hint. So we picked up our forks and resumed sifting.

History's Wounds

I sketched this one way back in college, during my first year. Suddenly found myself with a lot of time one day, and spent a whole six hours doing it! And now, I present to you, the testimony of my patience. I’ve kept the title – History’s Wounds; mainly because I’d drawn my inspiration from an article in the Folio (formerly a magazine supplement in The Hindu) which had the same name. I leave it up to you for an interpretation.

Flavours from the East

It’s quite amusing when we refer to the Chinese cuisine here in India. Joints that serve such lip-smacking fare are ubiquitous to say the least, but little do we realize that the flavors which we’ve grown to love so much is nothing but dishes that have been customized to our taste.

It all starts right from the sign-board on display outside – now that’s pretty easy to synthesize. Just whip up a quartet of unrelated vowels and consonants, ét voila! You’ve got yourself a restaurant name! Chan or Wan or Ching – doesn’t matter. Just add the word “Kitchen” to the end of it, and nobody will notice the difference. (Hmm… I’d like to meet the wise-guy who that said that the Chinese name their children by the noises that empty vessels make!)

Some others take the safe way out. At least a little sense prevailed and they named their restaurants after a few well-known Chinese cities. (Yeah, we’ve all been specialists at geography!). Or better still; just post-fix the darn thing with the word “China” – what’s in a name anyway??

Menu cards at these places are simply hilarious! Only Calvin and Hobbes have got me laughing harder! And I’ve given up trying to classify the various spellings for the word Manchurian. But the one that takes the cake is the word Aamblet – wait a minute, isn’t that supposed to be spelt Omelette??

When it comes to the food, things become just too exotic to handle. The more confusing the name sounds, the more appealing it tends to be. And oh, rather than wasting our energy trying to pronounce that incomprehensible gobbledygook, could you please bring us the… uh… Man … Chow soup for starters? (Hey, at least I could read it!)

Take it from me. No matter how hard you try to dig deep into the menu card for something new, you’ll always end up ordering the same old “Fried rice”, noodles and yes, before I forget, the ever-present Gobi Manchurian. (My sister’s got a really funny story for this one!) What finally ends up on your table is a bowl full of rice drenched in calories, and some gravy-like side-dish that resembles engine oil after a major overhaul. In other words, they’re nothing more than vegetables or meat in a sauce loaded with corn-flour and spiced-up to a good degree – just the way we all wanted it.

Despite the entire travesty, it’s always fun to eat out and enjoy yourself doing it – even if it means having Chinese food, Desi ishtyle!!

Who's calling the shots??

Read an article today in the Deccan Chronicle which said, “Who’s the better actor? Sachin, Sourav or Rahul?”

Cricket in India is overtaking all other forms of worship, and how! It’s been that way for a long time, but its popularity has burgeoned thanks to our faithful weekend companion – the TV. Let’s face it – we’re not very popular internationally when it comes to sports, and the only pride that we can salvage is through the efforts of some individuals who’ve made it big on their own, with no significant support from the government. And now that we’ve found a few people who’re rising up the ranks, we put them up on a pedestal and forecast triumphs that they can only hope to realize.

It’s not uncommon to have someone in the corporate world asking a new-found celebrity to endorse their product, hoping to cash-in on their status, and hopefully, promote a product that’s deeply beneath its face-value. It’s well known that cricketers are pretty good at what they do, but also quite lousy when it comes to acting – very evident, I must add. But we can’t really complain, I guess. Mainly because we have only ourselves to blame.

Asking cricketers to act is a lot like asking mannequins to tap-dance. It’s something that, quite expectedly, doesn’t come naturally to them; but it’s also a form of additional revenue, and if you put up a bad show, who cares? At least the pay’s good.

I remember a time in college when we had invited the Vice President of International Business at TVS Motors to speak on the occasion. One question posed to him was, “What’s the role of Sachin, Sourav and Dravid in your advertisements?”

He parried the question in an innovative way, saying,”Their popularity works well with the hoi polloi, and it was only natural to pick someone who represents the brand-image.”

So why Sachin?

“Well, a common perception amongst fans of cricket is that Sachin is a very seedha-saadha guy. Whenever he goes out to bat and returns with a duck, the natural response would be – Oh! That’s too bad, but well, at least he tried. He’ll definitely score well another day.”

“But when it comes to Sourav, the equivalent reaction would be – Oh! Dada’s muddled it again! It’s his foolish temper that’s proving to be his downfall!”

I almost choked myself with laughter the other day when I saw Dada displaying his rendition of Shankar Mahadevan’s popular song Breathless for a telecom company. The superficial “Whew!” of breathlessness (Which was popular on the original song) after all the claptrap that he spewed out looked like messy icing on what should’ve been a fabulous cake.

How effective their acting prowess proves to be in the long run for sales, I personally don’t know; and I’m not a very avid cricket fan, so I’m in no position to judge either. But let’s just leave the acting bit to the King-Khans, shall we?

Fidelity

Furtive glances over clandestine telephone calls,
Unexplained absences and hasty excuses,
The eerie silence that prevails as night-time falls,
In my empty living room when you’re not home – again.

Doubt turns to despair,
Horror seeps in as my suspicions are confirmed,
When whispers in the air,
Seek my confused mind.

Who is he - this paramour of yours,
The one who can provide you with what I cannot;
The one who captures the moments that were once solely ours,
And what does he mean to you?

The colours in my mind are fading away,
The surrounds are going into a spin,
A thousand thoughts hammering on my mind,
I don’t think I can live through this agony again.

I understand that you only did what you wanted to do,
And I can only watch you fly far away,
But do pause to remember the man that once felt deeply for you,
Maybe you shall see that my fidelity knows no bounds.

A question of names..

Sunday morning – 11:00 am wake-up call, followed by coffee-on-the-couch, and the magazine section of the paper. But nope, not today. There was work to be done – ‘cause I had to get the student-loan situation sorted out. Pretty soon, Dad and I found ourselves staring down at ten sheets of the loan application.

“Enter parent’s name in full” – the question said.

Dad groaned at the thought, “In full??”

“Yup, you’ll have to write it out twice too.”

Well, the reason behind my Dad’s exasperation was mainly because his name is so long that it’s a mini-imposition in its own right – Pazhayaveetil Vijayakrishna Menon. He hardly uses his full name, quite understandably. Everyone refers to him as Vijayan, and his office colleagues have given up trying even that. They resorted to PV, which sounds a little gangster-like to me, but then, it’s all in the sake of simplicity.

A whole train of thought ensued in my head at that moment. Although the entire exercise seems quite cumbersome, each name is a work of heritage. It encompasses an entire lineage and a system that has survived at least a few hundred years without opposition.

Kerala is one of the few places in the country, and perhaps the world, where a matriarchal system is followed - where the women in the family were the ones responsible to carry the tharavaad (or family-name) forward. In my Dad’s case, the tharavaad would be Pazhayaveetil - “Old House” in Malayalam, when literally translated. This also originates from the term Pallasana Pazhayaveetil – Pallasana being a small village in the Palakkad district of Kerala. But most importantly, it’s his mother’s tharavaad. He inherited the same.

What logically follows is that I, in turn, would inherit my mother’s tharavaad, namely – Thekkinkaatil – “Coconut Forest”… Coconut Forest??? Sometimes, it doesn’t make too much sense, but effectively, it’s a unique mechanism that’s been working successfully - until my Dad left Kerala after his tenth grade.

Apparently, not many people can grasp such a concept at first glance. Passports, ration cards, and even the most innocuous application form.

- Let me get this straight… Is Pazh.. Pazha.. or whatever your first name or middle name?

- And if Vijayakrishnan is your middle name, then why do people refer to you in that way?

Over ten years of accumulated confusion culminated with the day my sister was born, when my Dad vowed to get rid of this trivial naming convention. No middle, second, third or twenty-third names. No initials, nothing. Just a plain first and last name; and it stays that way. And now, my Dad’s foresight is beginning to pay off. Just plain Sandeep Menon, no tags attached (thankfully!).

But in a way, it’s sad that as a generation, we’ve successfully managed to decimate a tradition that was always ours to keep. Pretty soon, this entire system would be forgotten, and maybe, fifty to hundred years down the line, we’d have people generating theses on how such a system existed once, and although extremely effective, somehow dissolved itself with the passage of time. (How’s that? PhD in Keralite Sociology!)

“Guarantor’s signature?? Now who’s going to vouch for that?”

I’m suddenly kicked back into my senses. Oh well, let’s get this horrid application over with!

Serenity

Standing at the busy street,
Drowning in the cacophony of mid-day din,
This incessant madness engulfs me,
Somehow, I must search for the serenity within.

Beads of perspiration glisten my forehead;
Gasps and wheezes punctuate my wasted efforts to regroup thoughts,
Rising drafts of searing heat,
Slowly carve out my last fragments of vitality.

These are weary days,
When life revolves around headlines and deadlines,
Temptations, frustrations,
And the mundane dreariness of schedules.

But then she appeared,
With a swiftness that almost shocked me,
And brought with her a fragrance so compelling,
That my senses seemed to rejuvenate themselves.

She caressed my hair,
And her touch flowed past my parched skin.
But to my surprise, she was gone again,
As quickly as she had come.

I returned to tranquility,
And vowed to remember this fleeting tryst, however brief;
But who is this heavenly maiden that I so fondly speak of?
She was the wind.

Gastronomical pursuits!!

Over two hours of perseverance, and with just one lap to go, Kimi blows his right tire! I mean, he’s done all the hard work, kept the competition at bay, and then, just when you get the feeling of triumph, KAPOW!! Poor ol’ chap. Maybe he’ll have lucky days later.

Well, that’s that. Switched of the telly, and pondered over what to do for dinner with my folks. Weekends seem to be the only time that my folks and I spend together, and now I’m wasting it all by watching the television? Oh boy… Things have to change somehow. Lately, we’ve had this silent understanding that weekend dinners should be spent outside. Just a small idiosyncrasy that’s slowly evolved into a weekly ritual. I suppose other people in this city have discovered this scheme too; ‘cause restaurants on weekends here are so chockablock!!

“Let’s try Gujarathi today!” my mom quipped.

Oh! Here we go again! Well, you see, it goes like this. Mom and Dad are die-hard Gujju foodies. Right from their days in Bombay and Abu Dhabi, I guess. Life revolved around thalis that are accompanied by yummy chaas, kadi, kitchdi, and oh yeah, before I forget, coin-sized piping-hot phulkas that taste so good only because they’re made so small and you have to gulp down at least four of them before you inquire about the curry that goes with it.

But to aggravate issues, after 20 odd years of real fun, we had to end up settling here in Chennai, where Gujarathi food is as common as Shepherd’s Pie in Seoul. Scourge we did; looked up the yellow pages, networked with friends, and at last, a few years ago, unearthed a dilapidated shack near Parry’s Corner that claimed to serve “authentic” Gujju fare. Now, I’m no connoisseur, and I know absolutely nothing about what real good Gujarathi food is supposed to taste like; but I do know that traveling over half an hour through rush-hour traffic to relish it is something bordering on fanatical. Well, the food was always nice; different, but definitely nice. And drawing on the vicarious pleasures of my parents’ palate, I was gradually acquiring a pretty good taste for this saccharine stuff. The ambience, however, leaves a lot to be desired. Been a while since our last visit to the shack, and each time we paid a visit, we vowed never to set foot on those premises again!

“Heard about this new Gujju place at T. Nagar”, she said, “supposed to be real nice.”

“Hmm… So what’s the place called?”

“Not too sure…”

“And where’s it located exactly??”

“No idea.”

“Well, I suppose we can build on that… Ask a few people maybe,”

And so we embarked on our expedition – target in mind, but with absolutely no idea about how to get there. Now, dancing on the gas pedals in T Nagar is anything but peaceful. Cyclists who behave like they’re tight-rope gymnasts – weaving through crevices between larger vehicles, are ideal recipes to heat up my Dad’s temper while he’s behind the wheel.

“Damn prick! How dare he…”

“Oh look!” I interject, “Parking space!”

That’s one obstacle that we’ve overcome, so now, let’s actually get down uncovering this place.

“I was told it was close to Saravana Bhavan”

“Yeah, right! There are at least three of them in this place!”

Parking at Panagal Park, we made our way through Usman Road and Ranganathan Street, and in Chennai, they don’t get any more crowded than this. Over half an hour of searching, and still no avail.

“My father, skeptic, rationalist, trying every curse and blessing”

(Nissim Ezekiel anyone??), but there’re very few things that can bring his temper under control. If anyone figured at least one out, do let me know! As far as I can see, the moron who said patience is a virtue, take a hike!

Apparently, a fruit-vendor on the street did notice a Gujju place, and he does remember that it was close to Saravana Bhavan, but wasn’t that on the Pondy Bazaar road?? And now, after walking at least 2 miles in sticky, humid weather (in the wrong direction, of course!), we finally discover that this place was just about 100 meters from where we parked! Umm, I finally taste success, literally.

Needless to say, the food was exquisite, and the ambience was nice too! (Thank goodness!). Overstuffed myself, and oh! No space for the pudding! Oh well, sometimes the best part of the journey is arriving, isn’t it?

Against all odds...

Scorching temperatures right from 7 am, these hot May months are pretty unrelenting here in Chennai!! With the shirt sticking to my back, I finally found some respite when I saw the numbers 46 on a decrepit green gas-guzzler heading down my way – the bus that I take to work. Been doing this for about a year now, each morning; the same routine.

Crowded bus… Damn! Isn’t there at least a minuscule gap that I can squeeze my lanky frame into?? Ah! Think I found it… This has got to be my lucky day! A free seat barely 2 minutes in to a drawn-out ride that usually lasts 45 minutes – if there’s a moment that can define short-lived delight, this must be it.

Was hoping to gaze around and maybe, just maybe, I’d see something new for a change. It looked a little awry at first, but this corpulent fellow standing beside me was alternating quick glances between two of his friends. Hmm…Quite a jumpy character. But yeah, I suppose people do behave that way. I realized only then that he was paying attention to what they were saying. But no, they weren’t talking at all. Just rapid hand gestures to convey something… a joke perhaps? I looked around a little more and before long I suddenly become conscious that I’m surrounded by them! Waves of gesticulations swiftly inundate me, and I feel like an Englishman in Kyoto.

My first attempt at dumb-charades was when I first learnt to communicate by hand-gestures. Sign-language to represent individual alphabets; so that I could literally spell out the clue in case all other strategies failed. It seemed trivial at first, but I never really gave it any second-thought. Now, all my attempts to comprehend what these individuals were trying to say seemed futile.

I’ve been told that the inability to speak generally arises from deafness; although causes may vary. I can only begin to imagine how frustration must creep into the minds of such unfortunate people. Life is still unfair. Yet, despite all the odds, disabled people seem to have accepted their way of life, and readily find solace in the other people who share their grief. I believe that their inabilities only encourage their longing to communicate. During my brief journey with these young men, I found a trait that many of us seem to have lost long ago – a whole heartedly genuine smile.

During my days in college, my roommate once told me that he had three rather unique visitors at home during the summer – a couple and their child. What makes it unique is that both the man and his wife were incapable of speech or hearing; but rather expectedly, their beautiful daughter was perfectly normal. Although this seems like a dismal story with a blissful end, it’s far from it. It’s sad to see that the couple can’t hear their own child cry when it wants to be fed, and yet again, like so many families before them, they would overcome enormous odds to achieve what seemed an impossible task.

Somewhere at a stop near the local railway station, the contented group of seven alighted and made their way towards a destination I can only cogitate, thus ending my rather ephemeral thought-provoking morning trip to work. Maybe these blistering days are not so bad after all.

Lo and Behold ! 'Tis me in full livery!

Promise I shall, of halcyon tides;
Fear no more... For with your trust, I guarantee,
An existence for all others to envy!

“Hogwash, you big fart!” I hear them say, “Does he seriously believe,”
“That he shall attain prominence, with a putative IQ that’s off the chart!”
“A predacious mantis with an ego so bovine,”
“And to match, wandering incisors and the nose of a swine!!”

Nay, said I, for you fail to see,
How much you stand to gain…
I proffer you emancipation from misery,
And excruciating pain!

“Preach your nonsense elsewhere, you lard-bucket”;
“For you shall find us hard to appease”,
“With your hackneyed remarks, bleached corporate gimmicks,”
“And downright corny limericks!”

Tarry a while, for there is hope;
I shall educate you in the prowess of charm,
So triumphant shall you be,
That you will have women in each arm!

“That does it, you pin-brained louse!”
“Retreat to the shelter of your remnant pride”
“Make your way back through the barrage of rotten tomatoes,”
“And take your final vows!”

Yup... This is me!