First Kiss

You never forget it. And I dont either. Because sometimes, Its the only one you got. After reading Ganja Turtle's blog on our long-gone quizzing life, my wheel-chair bound memory galloped into a staggering sprint. There is so much to write about - winning, losing, swearing, whooping, hi-fiving, nail-biting, disgracing, elevating. So after carefully treading through the lot, I decide on this narrative, one of the earliest quizzes when Ganja and I partnered.

Back in the spring of 97, when ganja turtle was lean-and-mean with a 3.14-pack abs (you really have to see it to believe it. But I would advice that you try it on an empty stomach) and I was slowly learning the ropes in the quizzing profession adjusting to an unwashed jeans and hawai slippers, we left for coimbatore to participate in an intra-college fest called Confluence hosted by GRD college. Those were the days when the rest of the world always thought that madurai was a black hole fit only to release new vijayakanth movies and the natives were equipped with a Standard Issue sword three feet in length which was used to end disputes amicably. Some conceded that we might be able to spell the word "quiz". So, when we cleared the prelims and made it to the finals, we wouldnt be surprised if our prelims paper was double-checked just so to make sure.

As is a tradition in most college quizzes, the quizmaster had his own favorite team, whom I would call bunchajokers for want of a better name. We largely went unnoticed. One would expect that all this seemingly insulting techniques would make us roar and get pumped up. But since the ganja turtle couldnt care less and I care even lesser, we still remained with that half-doped look.

Now, I would like to give a brief peek into our long-running relationship with Dame Luck. When we wink at Dame Luck for a harmless coffee, she doesnt stop at turning us down. She either calls her body-builder brother or Assistant Commissioner father or kicks us hard in the solar plexus. On our better days, she does all three. That day just happened to be one of our best days.

The quiz was turning out to be predictable. Bunchajokers giving the right answer, the whole crowd applauding like they won a lottery, the rest of the teams fighting for the second place and we falling back upon "Pass" as the universal answer. Half-way through, we were still admiring at the big egg we had against our name and Ganja was losing it. Now, those were the times where I was out in the team for nothing more than moral support and chat company. If Ganja wasnt going to answer, the quizmaster might as well move to the next team. But since he doesnt know all that, he proceeds with his question. Something I suspect he asked to help us get on the scorecard. "Long, Fine, Short. If you add the word 'leg' to all of the above, with which game would you associate the phrases to??". They say when you are about to die, your whole life pans in front of your eyes. When you are in the gutters in a quiz, you forget your own name. With Ganja refusing to even hear what the quiz master says, I took the liberty to give it a shot. Three fateful seconds later, I gave him an answer. "Football". Freeze. This is a landmark moment. One I could proudly write as a note and pass for a valid reason in commiting suicide. Imagine being bred in a cricket-crazy country. Imagine remembering all useless cricket statistics about Gary Sobers having the record for the highest score in a maiden century. Imagine talking for hours about cricket with all your friends. Imagine associating "Long leg, Fine leg and Short leg" with football after having a mental breakdown in front of a crowd of good-looking coimbatore chics. Do you feel like mail-ordering me a shotgun ?? The collective "oooohhhhh" from the audience touched new levels in the disgust-meter.

With absolutely no respite, the gruelling quiz went on with us adamantly refusing to get on the board. When all hope was lost, Dame Luck, who had previously beaten us to pulp, turned back and gave a teasing smile. As every quizzer would know, a question that you would love to crack always goes to the next team on the list, thereby making it go through the longest of orbits before it reaches you. Usually, the team just before you in the list cracks it in the last second and leaves you heart-wrenched making you dive headfirst into alcohol after the quiz gets over. "Who was the first Indian sports personality to be signed by Pepsi". I lifted up my head like a man who went hungry for 1 week would do when he hears the word "gruel". "Sachin" (God, let this come to me). "Jadeja" (You know how much this means to me). "Pass" (There, There, Easy) "Time's up" (keep it coming, keep it coming) "Azhar" (I am not asking for a win, Just save us from total disgrace, will ya) and "American College, you have an answer ??". Summoning up all my energy, I muster "Kapil Dev". Freeze frame again. Moment of truth. Dame luck now gives a shy smile. "And finally", says that megalomaniacal patronising buckethead quizmaster "american college gets on the board. give them an applause people". For the first time, I realised an applause isnt pleasant all the time. Sometimes its like someone accidentally caught you when you were blabbering your girl friend's name in the sleep. Embarassing.

But what this meant was Ganja had finally woken up from his slumber. I think the fact that I answered a question would have made him seriously think about life, universe and everything. In any case, that meant that Ganja was back in the groove. In other words, everyone better run for cover. Suddenly, the entire scene changed. With a blistering rear-guard attack, Ganja brought us into contention for a podium when the rapid fire round started. Every other team, which had looked like hotshot cowboys, had to stand aside when big-daddy revved up his sixshooters. Ganja went murderous. We stacked points. The other teams gasped. Dame luck just beckoned us to sit with her on a big mahogany table for dinner. At the end of the carnage, We were tied for the first spot with bunchajokers and the contest, which was a no-contest until Ganja woke up, went into a tie-breaker.

The tie-breaker is Dame Luck's favorite round where she throws a stilletto at us and proceeds to watch us die slowly. Tie-breaker. One question. Winner takes all. With all the infinite amount of wealth displayed by the organisers, they forgot to get buzzers for the quiz and so it was upto good-old "raise your hand first". "If A is Alpha and B is Beta, What is E". Two hands went up in the air in unison. That smug-looking bugger in bunchojokers and Ganja. "Ah, I think bunchojokers went first. I am sorry American College", the know-it-all quizmaster had a look in his eyes which said "get it over with guys, a team from madurai in the finals in itself is too hard to handle, them winning will be catastrophe". Smug-looking bugger gives his answer without a hesitation. "Gamma". There. Freeze frame. Reality strikes. All the hard work, down the drain. So near yet so far. Always the bridesmaid, and never the bride. Another day at work. Dame Luck's Coup-de-Grace. The quizmaster had a look on his face like he got a pile-drive. "Thats Incorrect. And the winner is ....American College, Madurai". If I were to weigh the incredulity in his voice in Gold, I could buy Fort Knox twice over. I also remember counting exactly six pairs of hands clapping. All our classmates who had disowned us after my "football" answer. The rest of the crowd was busy acknowledging the existence of Madurai in the Tamilnadu provincial map. Dame Luck hadnt deserted us. She had given us a peck on the cheek.

As me and Ganja walked down the stage to raucous screams demanding us to throw few whiskeys for the night, I told Ganja "Cool da .. But i wish if we had cracked it than winning it by default. He should have asked you the question.". Ganja, in his drawly voice says, "But I didnt know the answer".
"But .. But .. You raised your hand, you moron".
"Yes, I did".
"What if he had asked you the question ??"
"We would have lost", said Ganja, matter of factly.
Freeze frame. Dame luck didnt give us a peck on the cheek. She gave us a full-blooded, deep-throated, french kiss.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

The old shoe

Lord Hanuman moved Mount Sanjeevini without breaking a sweat. Yes, he had to cleanup a few demons on the way, but thats another day at work for him. I just had to move from one apartment from another and I think I broke a few ribs.

The idea of a new beginning and all that rosy imagery was there. But what I had failed to count was for every rosy beginning, there usually was a lousy ending. With one room-mate having successfully waltzed his way back to India and busy distributing sweets to eligible women, it was upto the two of us to bring in any semblance of the house having had only human beings as inhabitants. Blessed with an older room-mate - which means a higher level of wisdom and a sense of keeping a half of the house clean - meant that there was only one room that needed intensive care. Mine.

The biggest war-torn province of any house is the Kitchen. Considering our adventurous spirits in the culinary area, there can be times when it can look like someone used the washing machine instead of the blender and spewed food all over, but not always. Gives a nice colorful look, but breaks your back when you have to wipe it off. The amount of eateries left uneaten would have made a grand banquet dinner in somalia. Sweet, sour, spicy, bitter. Snacks, bites, cereals and cakes. Juices, cordials, shakes and ice-creams. And I still havent gotten to the doughnuts and cookies. Gowrava prasadhams come second in stature.

After having two room-mates who singlehandedly (pun intended) revived the american economy and were indirectly responsible for a vault in the american GDP, all that we got was boxes. Big brown boxes. Amazon, Best Buy, Circuit City, CompUSA, Sony Style - the whos who of american shopdom was lying belly-open in cardboard inside our apartment in astonishing numbers that I could actually ship myself back to India in them. Thankfully, banana skins and orange peels were disposed from time to time.

A few cut fingers courtesy the grill in the kitchen, some ripped off nails courtesy the surface of the hopelessly stained shower-room, an irritated eye with copious tears courtesy an overactive cleaning liquid which took its job a bit seriously, you would be forgiven if you think I was a disgruntled war vet. Equipped with tonnes of wisdom that will eventually be forgotten after this post, I stop for a minute and think of the people I know doing this for close to 60 years now without a single sigh. I think of myself complaining about the temperature control at work. I stop thinking because all this is too philosophical for a monday morning.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Thank you folks

If this site is still rated PG and is not full of tarantino-esque vocabulary, If I still havent bought that Uzi and made a sieve out of a select few who have "screwing up someone's life real tight" as their motto, one would have to thank a few folks who do the unpaid job of acting as anti-depressants. Ms Harrison, Dickenson, Waters, Knopfler, Fenley, Page & Co. Rock music, or for that matter any form of western music, is seen as a stream of music where you have to dope to listen to music, get a tattoo of a mythical monster on your arms, ride bikes, date leather-clad chics and most importantly worship the devil. To break that myth and get people started on listening to good music, here goes a list of songs that are truly greats, in every sense of the world. If someone, anyone, gets an interest, I think my job is half done.

I wasnt born listening to this music. Ganja Turtle has seen me scream "18 till I die" and "backstreet's back allright". But then, courtesy a lilendian (who is a actually a pretty big indian), I was cleansed. What follows is a list of songs which you really have to make a effort in hating. There are thirteen songs, each by one band who have stood the test of time. 13 Songs in Arunthur's Dozen.

1. Sultans of Swing - Sultans of Swing - Dire Straits
When it comes to Knopfler's vocals, there are two schools of thought. One says knopfler sings, the other says he talks. But when it comes to his guitar, there can only be one school. One that agrees his guitar talks better. My first song that didnt involve a bunch of boys crooning about love. And what a song at that. A live version has Knopfler rubbing shoulders with Clapton. That is like Hitler and Mussolini teaching Criminal Sciences.
A-side: Money for Nothing

2. Time - Dark Side of The Moon - Pink Floyd
As volunteers of this new generation, one of our chief attributes is procrastination. Right from snuggling deep inside the sheets in the mornings (which is okay) to checking online communities and posting on flame wars (which is not), we procrastinate. One way to wake up and get a life is to buy a brand new shovel and ask your best friend to hit you hard in the head. A safer way is to listen to Waters singing "Time". That is a wake up call that would work even on Kumbhakarnan.
A-side: Another brick in The Wall

3. Won't get fooled again - The Who
A hard thump from the drums, an electric riff, topped off by the always-hyper pete townshend. A song that rips apart anyone who promises a revolution or a new beginning or any of that happy bullfeces. "Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss". One tight slap on the face. Maybe they should play this to the Dravida parties in tamilnadu. Dont bet on anything happening with them though.
A Side: Sparks

4. Hard day's night - The Beatles
It takes great innovation and hardwork to make a whole generation go crazy and run behind your songs. It takes harder work to pick one song out of a whole list of chart busters. I have to settle for Hard day's night purely for the adrenaline in it. From start to end, Starr (one of the lesser populars in the band, for whatever reason) keeps up the beat with lennon oozing love in his lyrics, my favorite beetle George and everone else's favorite Paul bringing up the rear. If your girlfriend likes a ride on the wild side, try this. Its on my list anyways ;-).
A Side: Yesterday

5. Take it Easy - Eagles
Imagine the bright blue sky. Imagine a cool, but not cold, breeze blowing across your face. Imagine the sea to one side and a park on the other. Throw in the setting sun. Pedal your bicycle. Let go of the wheels and close your eyes. Be one in the nature. Wait, there is something missing, isnt there ?? Just add "Take it Easy" somewhere in the picture - playing inside your head or on a player or in the nearest cafe. Adds a fresh new flavor to the whole setting.
A Side: Hotel California

6. Purple haze - Jimi Hendrix
Ganja is crude. Hashish is outdated. Cocaine can be dangerous. The easiest, quickest, safest way to go on a high is to buy a nice pair of headphones and play Purple Haze. The riffs by the left-handed Jimi Hendrix are not of this earth. Definitely. When he screams "Excuse me, while I kiss the sky", it feels exactly that. Just dont listen to it from a terrace without rails.
A Side: Voodoo child

7. Burning for you - Blue Oyster Cult
In the days of Hip-hop and Rap, a song which doesnt cuss you and your family is a bonus. Expecting it to serve any purpose is a joke. This song serves two purposes. Apart from a racy number by bloom, it also helps if you dedicate this to your girlfriend who is just going to read the title and fall flat. I cant guarantee the girlfriend going p-l-o-n-k, but I can guarantee you playing the air-guitar shaking your head like you just found that it is there for banging.
A Side: Dont fear the reaper

8. Highway Star - Deep Purple
Rumour has it that once when God misplaced his bow and arrow, he was so distraught and walked into a recording studio, Looked at something that looked like a weapon, picked up a guitar and turned up for a recording. The result: Highway Star. Move over folks, I listened to it live.
A Side: Smoke on the water

9. Jailhouse Rock - Elvis Presley
No song list can be complete without The King. People say a thamizhan cant keep his posterior to the ground if he hears "tappanguthu". Jailhouse Rock is another of those cant-keep-me down numbers. A cut here, A slant there, A jerking knee here, A shaking hand there, A sideburn that almost touches the chin, A crop of hair right in between your eyes and some magical vocals. That should do some justice to the song. Throw away all your trance-loving friends and check out the real deal.
A Side: Hound dog

10. Cocaine - Eric Clapton
Guilty pleasure. Again, you are left with a thought if it was clapton who was drugged when listening to this song, or was it you who is stoned because of listening to this song or is it both of you ?? But then, you dont bother because as long as you are high, nothing else matters. A song to listen after coming back from a hard days work, sitting on your couch and loosening your tie. As clapton himself says when you got bad news or if you want to kick 'em blues, Cocaine.
A Side - Layla

11. Roadhouse Blues - The Doors
One genius per song is a good mix. Two makes you feel heady. Thats exactly what a rendition of Roadhouse Blues does. Jim Morrison on the vocals, Ray Manczarek on the keyboard. You could just hitch a ride to The Elysian Fields with that. Morrison writes one of the most pragmatic lyrics of all time. "The future is uncertain and The end is always near". Ah, its great to be pessimistic.
A-side: Light my fire

12. Susie Q - Credence Clearwater Revival
All bryan adams/bon jovi/MLTR/Marc Anthony fans, take a number and stand in the queue. Here is a song that tells love the way it is supposed to instead of asking the girl to paint your love or asking if you have you ever really (thrice - that is very important, gives an emphasis you see) loved a woman. The lyrics in Susie Q are simple, straight, precise and to the point. "Say that you will be mine, baby all the time, susie Q". Isnt that all it boils down to ??
A-side: Bad moon rising

13. When the Levee breaks - Led Zeppelin
You hitched a ride to the elysian fields with two geniuses in one song. Try 4 now. Page, Plant, Bonham and JPJ. Such songs happen once in a lifetime, and if you are blessed, the band exists when you are alive. Bonham keeps a heart-pumping rhythm from the opening, with page freaking out in his regular style, and JPJ, as an exceptional bassist prowling in the background biding his time and keeping the song alive and Plant joining in with a drawl in his voice. Makes you understand why god gave you two ears in the place of one.
A-side: Stairway to Heaven

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Sin V

There is a thin line between a Gourmet and a Gourmand. And it is pretty okay to cross it once in a while. Really, Kevin Spacey or not, It is okay to indulge in good food because that it is its purpose. With so many exotic cuisines abound, this blog, for a change, aims at giving the Gourm(and)et prior notice of what s/he is getting himself/herself into before ordering the "Soup of The Day". It can be embarassing to scream one's head out like I did after ordering "french onion" and finding an egg in it. (Go on, spill your guts laughing). However, this should not be misconstrued for some kind of assurance by this blog that it would provide useful info at any point of time in the future. That being said, let us cut to the plate.

If you are bored to death, you can watch Animal Planet or go to a Zoo or go to a Cambodian Restaurant. If you are a non-vegetarian and you just snort at this, be rest assured that the menu will make you think you are a practicing vegan in comparison. Crab's claws, Squid's eyeballs and Frog's legs are okay if they are on the white basin in a genetics research lab, not on the menu and definitely not on my table. Usually, when I think the menu isnt good, I order a milkshake for fillers. This time, I didnt because I am not Indiana Jones to be okay about having an eyeball for dessert. Thanks to the waitress who looked at our faces, read the lines, gave a wry smile and let us out without a question.
Minus: A menu straight out of the wild
Plus: An experimenter's dream

For moderately spicy food, music that tells you the origin of many a song by hindi music directors and some gorgeous looking waitresses, hit a lebanese restaurant. With most of the dish names sounding curvaceous (Fasolia, Balila and Tabil - I have a feeling these were already used in some thamizh song), and most importantly __all__ vegetarian, it comes down to getting the right combination and enjoying the other bits. Dont worry about the protocol, I remember spreading all the dishes on my bread and eating it like sandwich.
Minus: Curvaceous all right, but the names of the dishes could be more universal. It feels bad when a beautiful waitress giggles at your hopeless pronounciation of the dish.
Plus: Veggie folks, rock on.

For that cattle like feeling, visit an ukrainian restaurant. My salad had a tonne of lettuce. My friends "Kiev Cutlet" had two tonnes of lettuce. My main dish had, guess what, lettuce wraps containing carrot and beetroot. Each wrap the size of a cricket ball, and three of them at that. With our intro of "we are new to russian cuisine" to the owner of the restaurant, and him looking at our plates eagerly, all that we could do was to put a broad smile, make a few "hmmm... thats good" reactions and graze the table. After answering a "you guys enjoyed it" with a thick russian accent by saying "you bet", I felt one with a Jersey Cow. A perfect hangout for Vegans, Pacifists and Eco-warriors.
Minus: Check if you have grown two horns on the way out. It is a distinct possibility.
Plus: Even the water tastes like vodka, or say they say.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Big Bang

"Congratulations Lews. The Ingtar-Lews comet is on its expected trajectory and in around 15 minutes, we would have it crashing into the planet Klendathu as we predicted. With the complete obiliteration of Klendathu due to the impact, we might get some answers to how our universe was even formed. We are going to be part of history Lews, in fact, we are history", said Ingtar, the head-professor of the institute.
Lews was not thrilled. "But sir, what if....", said Lews in an angry tone tearing the paper of the notebook in which he was writing.
Ingtar took his seat in front of his panoramic terminal which would capture the comet making contact. "What if what, Lews ??"
"What if there is life ?? We know we can divert the comet with our weapons. We know we could've did just that with just one directive from our institute, but we didnt. What if there is life that could be saved while we are trying to televise a comet crashing into a planet for some unintelligible scientific reason ?? ", said Lews. The voice that Ingtar heard wasnt the the voice that he usually heard from Lews.
"Unintelligible did you say ??", remarked Ingtar. Ingtar didnt want to lose patience on his best graduate student."My boy, science is everything. science is anything. science is nothing. Let me ask you this. Did you observe the reports given by The Galactic Conqueror on the planet's composition??"
"Uh .. yes".
"Do you think any lifeform would actually prefer to live in that atmospheric conditions, considering the percentage of the poisonous gases ??"
"No".
"Then what makes you think there could be life on that planet, Lews ??", queried Ingtar. He was not going to give up on Lews.

"I do not know, but something tells me there could be life on Klendathu. something. Just a gut feeling", a nervous Lews said toying with the piece of paper in his hand which he had rolled into a ball. He did that when he didnt know what to do next.

"Impact in T Minus 3 minutes", chirped a recorded voice.
Ingtar was now at his educative best. "Son, you are reading too many science fiction novels. They are all-fiction-no-science authors who didnt have a glimpse of Klendathu like we did. What makes you think there is some other intelligent life form out there ?? If there was one in any of the other planets, dont you think they could have tried to talk to us ?? Dont you think we would have visited any planet which had inhabitable conditions and searched for life ?? I suggest you turn to your monitor to watch the impact, you wouldnt want to lose it for your life", said Ingtar, now turning back to his terminal.

"Impact in T Minus 2 minutes".

Lews was still looking pointedly at the paper ball. What Ingtar said made sense. In a way. If there was some form of intelligence, they would have definitely made contact with them. When Klendathu was discovered, and named after one of the great nebulan gods, it was noted for its absolute uninhabitable atmosphere. Life was simply unimagineable in those conditions. Maybe Ingtar was right. Maybe he wasnt.

"Impact in T Minus 1 minute".

"I wish I knew what the people of Klendathu called their planet in their native tongue", said Lews looking up. Ingtar swivelled in his chair. Two of his hands still turning the right controls on The Galactic Conqueror, while his other two hands were cupped together to indicate he was thinking. He looked deeply into Lews' eyes, all six of them, and said "mmmm .. maybe third rock from the sun ??". Ingtar laughed thunderously at his own joke.

Impact in T minus 10 seconds.

Lews opened the paper ball in his hand and looked at his drawing. An image of an hommonus from klendathu, like they show in the movies, with just two hands, two legs and two eyes, holding hands with a femmenus, again looking physically similar. He sighed and took a deep breath. The pure nitrous-sulfur filled his lungs. He shivered at the thought of having to breath oxygen for a living on Klendathu. He looked at the drawings. "I am sorry. I really am". He threw it into the dust bin.

Impact in T minus 1 second.


Credits
========
Eugene M Schumacher
David Levy
Robert Jordan
Robert Heinlein
Bonnie Turner
Terrie Turner

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

VancouBrrrrr

Someone rename this place to that. It is cold. Yes, Alaska is colder but am from chennai where anything below 10degrees celsius is "unusual" and 3degrees is inhuman. 0degrees is only theoretical. When the rest of the city walks with just an overcoat, you are advertising the fact that you are a tourist when you are wearing that skull cap and a pair of woolen gloves. If some paranoid cop is around, you are probably advertising that you are a planning a bank robbery with that skull-cap pulled so close down your scalp. But Thanks, I'd rather dodge bullets than getting partially paralysed.

In certain circles, I am called Rob Mckenna. I think I have the inherent capability of awakening water spirits wherever I go. But this time, the water spirits just didnt wake up. They performed a full-fledged orchestral symphony. It was bright and sunny until the flight reduced altitude into seattle. And then it rained. It rained like God was engrossed in the latest episode of "Kolangal" and forgot to shut down the garden hose. Right from the moment we landed in seattle uptill the time we came to vancouver holding our lives between two arbitrary lanes of the Interstate 5, trying hard to avoid aquaplaning (which I have read only in books) and gruesome death by roadkill (which seemed like reality at one point of time). It was like someone was deputed with the sole purpose of sitting on the top of our car and pour buckets of water on a regular basis. Whoever it was, did it exceedingly well.

But the clincher of the trip was three apparently unconnected events.
A. Me and my colleague deciding to save some costs for the company and deciding to share a room.
B. The stewardess asking more than once if we needed one room or two.
C. Me trying to figure out places to visit in Vancouver and Google sardonically including www.gayvancouver.net

We insisted on having separate umbrellas to walk in the rain.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Cultural Tsunamis

The biggest challenge in adapting to a foreign country, apart from having to adhere to road rules and desist from mindless littering, would be handling cultural shocks, said a few of your well-wishing acquaintances. "Heh", say you, rather haughtily.

In-flight, when you saw the lady next to you order some whiskey to go with her dinner, all that it had was a familiar ring to it. Matter of fact, It was so familiar that one could've mistaken it for a hang-out in chennai. When the girl from the window-seat crossed your seat, with atleast one piercing done for every 5-square-thumbs of skin, it felt very normal again. Back home, even we are moving from ears and noses to till-now-unexplored areas like tongues, eye-brows and belly buttons. Cultural shock ?? That was not even a mosquito bite.

That clean shaven guy holding his girl friend by the waist and playing an interesting game of guessing what she had for breakfast without having to ask her ?? nah, whats out of the ordinary there ?? Havent you seen people do this in pubs before ?? Another clean shaven guy holding a guy by the waist and playing a similar interesting game, ah well, not that you have seen this regularly, but as long as they are okay, it shouldnt be anyone else's problem. A mild "woah" and nothing more.

At the gym, a newspaper hits you in the eye. Someone who tries to read a newspaper for news is going go to be slightly disappointed with that bunch of papyrus. With more than 50% of it filled it with advertisements for liposuction, breast implants and escorts services, it more than just hits you in the eye. All that it entices out of you would be a mild shake of the head. Shock ?? Fat chance. A quick glance into the supplement given for TOI would say we are headed in the right direction with promises of weight reduction and complexion enhancement within weeks.

As you finish your run in the treadmill, ruminating all this, you sort of feel proud that you havent been hit by anything as remotely as a culture shock. A lack of other things to feel proud about makes this all the more important. You feel at home anywhere you go. You connect with ease. You are a cultural monolith. You are neither shaken nor stirred. Surprisingly, You are not a vodka martini either.

Then you notice that the shower-room in the gym has walls only on three sides and a flimsy curtain for a door. A curtain. A white curtain. A strand of cloth which someone could accidentally lift, take a look, say a polite sorry and visit the next shower and leave you in tatters. You also notice the relative ease people are in at seeing a fellow-exerciser in bare-minimal garments. In a track shorts and tee-shirt, you are overdressed for the occassion. You have two choices: You can pick yourself up, give a smile as if you entered this place by mistake, stink all the way to home. Or be a part of the crowd (in other words: strip), enter an unprotected shower-room (in other words: run the risk of being scarred for the rest of your life), prove to the world that you are part of the shower-room culture and leave with your newly acquired "cultural monolith" title intact.

Tic-tock. Tick-tock. Tic-tock.
A one-mile walk back home laced with sweat: Bearable.
No more bragging about "connecting with all cultures": Acceptable.
Chastity unharmed: Priceless.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

No Point Everyone

Yep, our price has fallen badly. Yep, 1/3 of the earth is land and 1/2 of that land if full of software enginners, so much so that you feel like living in 1984 where everyone is as unique as everyone else. But if you look below the surface, there are still perks at being a software engineer.

One of our greatest powers is the the power to spread misinformation. Sivya Dingh needs an heart transplant ?? A mail that needs to be sent to 10 people within 10 minutes to avoid 10 years of bad luck ?? Microsoft giving 10cents for every recipient of this mail that would buy a cotton candy for a poor child in somalia (of course, with a malnourished somalian kid's picture attached to it) ?? Some poor man suffering from an itchy syndrome which can be cured only if this mail reaches a million recipients ?? Fear not, the software engineer, with his evergrowing address book filled by friends, friends-of-friends, friends-of-friends-of-friends and god-knows-who-they-are is your savior. One mail and it spawns off another 10, each in turn spawning off another 10. You do the math.

Being a software engineer gives you an incredible opportunity to play know-it-all. Imagine a crowd with lot of young women you would kill to impress. Imagine a few suave gentlemen in their best evening dress sweet-talking their way through the crowd with their overpowering knowledge of Literature and Music. Imagine you staring at the stars waiting for your fairy to come down from there. Sucks, doesnt it ?? Fear not all that is required is to spot another bewildered software engineer. With a few knowing glances, a quick message of subterfuge is delivered and they close in on the kill. What follows would be a session of "use your favorite keywords" that would leave everyone else in the crowd gasping for breath, seeing the sheer intelligence of the parties involved. While instantiating a container instance in a .net framework, does one have to continually debug the kernel threads, so that throughput is optimised and turnaround time is minimised or should one ignite a daemon process to monitor the hardware diagnostics from panic-ing ?? The crowd shudders at the depth of knowledge. The gods throw up looking at the quantity of horsesh*t.

Being a software engineer also saves you from having to invest money in a new wardrobe. These days, there are a few that companies double up for Gap/Levis/Duckback/Chudarmani/Viking.
Listed in DASNAQ ?? Release a t-shirt.
Selected as #1 in an unheard-of survey run by a magazine where the company has a controlling interest. Release another t-shirt.
Need a message to boost the morale of people in the team, no, we have had enough t-shirts already, make it a jacket.
We have become an ISE-MMC level 6 company, was it a jacket last time ?? Make it a sweatshirt this time.
Thankfully, they all remain at the periphery of the human physiology and are usually designed with such incorrigible colors, unsuitable sizes and gratuitous messages, you can safely shove them in your trunk without feeling guilty.

Have an awesome restaurant in mind, but your purse looks ultra-thin ?? You need to wait only until the next invitee comes from offshore. The software engineering industry proves that There Is Indeed Something As Free Lunch, giving us our only chance to visit the oberois and TGIFs. To show them a taste of India is what we say, to check out that new restaurant which had glowing reviews is what we actually mean. As the visiting chap sheds tears, partly over the spice and partly at their fate, we gorge on the choiciest items from the menu - in descending order of price.

Last but not least, It gives us the golden opportunity to play arm-chair critic. Sitting in the comfort of an a/c cubicle, with an ergonomically designed chair, and unlimited internet access - the next best thing is to pass judgement on all and sundry. Our favorite pastimes being "Politics is a gutter" (but we dont vote - we take time out to enjoy the holiday after weeks and weeks of monitor-gazing), "India will never improve" (ah, the exchange rate - how i love thee), "Education of children is a priority no one seems to understand" (CRY ?? what is that ?? Isnt it the art of shedding tears ??), "I hate people publicly displaying affection" (and that is strictly applicable only until i find a girl). The keyboard warrior needs no reason to fight, he only needs, by definition, a keyboard. So much for freedom of expression.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

The Way We Do It

A san-franciscan likes to surf, he has the amazing pacific knocking at his door. A new-yorker likes to party, what place better than the big apple and its clubs. A madras-ite loves to eat - sundal, dosa, pizza - anything that could have possibly been on a menu works fine. A coimbatorean, well, actually they dont do much - what can you expect from a town which has a few houses on either side of a national highway ?? The same can be said of a madurai-ite, but by those who know only about the madurai meenakshi temple. But beware, the madurai-ite has some hobbies up his sleeve. We, ladies & getlemen, love watching movies.

"Eh, we also watch movies. What is the big deal", you ask. I presume you are from coimbatore or madras. Always on tenterhooks. Yes, everyone watches movies. On the fourth week after its release. After booking the tickets through the internet, taking the best seats in the theatre. Watching the movie in pin-drop silence. Getting old. Yawn. What is the big difference between this and knitting a sweater ?? In madurai, we choose a firebrandish style of watching movies. Watch a movie on day #1 or go get a life. That was our Code.

We havent heard about reservations in madurai outside the railway station. Seriously. Reservation is a symbol of the snobbish bourgeoise who prefer to sit at home sipping their lemonade and turn up at the theatre 10 minutes before the bell, while the hardworking proletarian sweats outside the ticket counter to be slammed with the "house full" board in his face just when he puts his hand inside the counter. All this because he doesnt have a computer with broadband. Bah.

The first thing one needs to change is the mindset. You are going to a movie, not a date. So cut that designer shoes and branded shirt. People come there to watch Ramya Krishnan/ Khushboo or Amala or if its a telugu dubbing movie, all three together. (There, you now know am a fossil without having to resort to carbon dating). An old jeans, hawaii slippers and a wrinkled tshirt are a man's best friend. Remember to look absolutely local, but dont cross the thin line between "downright badly dressed" and "i am a black marketeer".

Once you hit the ticket counter, remember all those wildlife videos you saw on NGC and Discovery and how survival of the fittest is indeed a globally valid and fruitful idea. Remembering those WWE videos and some sumo wrestling videos would also help. If you are claustrophobic, dont remember it. It might just save your life. Remember the power of gravity, people who are climbing in the roof __will__ fall. Remember the power of murply, when they fall, they will fall on __you__. In tune with the proletarian way of life, the theatres in madurai send out a message of brotherhood. There are __no__ classes of tickets. All tickets cost the same and people get to sit __anywhere__ in the theatre (of course, with the obvious exception of the projector room - see, i know you are from either madras or coimbatore. very cocky). Compare this to the following rant by a filthy-rich man with an extended family, who comes late and interrputs you with this, exactly at the time when the villain makes a challenge to the hero and our star delivers his punch dialogue: "Hullo, C-17 to C-29 nambil ki ticketu. Jaga jaldi kalli panleinna nambal theatrekarana koopidraan". ("seat xx to seat yy are ours. vacate, or we will call the theatre folks" in a certain accent only too familiar to people back at home). Marx and Engels - Your dream lives on and it lives in Madurai.

After all the hardwork, I enter the theatre and now, I have multiple choices to pick up a fight. I can step on someone's foot repeatedly, I can bully someone into conceding a chair so that my entire gang can sit together end-to-end, I can throw my legs on the chair in front and expect him to understand, continue the fight I started in the parking lot or can settle scores with the cricket captain of the team that beat us last week. To add to this already-simmering cauldron, the theatrewallahs switch off the air-conditioner (assuming it was there to begin with) which makes me loosen two of my shirt buttons and pull the collar behind, thereby looking like my parents' worst nightmare in flesh and blood.

When the movie starts, the theatre erupts. For just about anything. Did some star appear on stage ?? No, it is just a title card with some arbitrary name of some unheard-of supporting actor. But who cares ?? Erupt again. Make him feel good if he is in the theater. At this point, all I can hear is the deafening noise of whistles and all I can see is the dark silhoutte of rectangularly cut lottery tickets in the screen. Someone just set afire a cube of camphor on his palms and is running to the screen. One can see two cans of milk ready to be disposed. The audience is so possessed that even Father Merrin would think twice before stepping in.

You sneer at the uncivilised lot. You think an endurance race could be easier. You are suprised at the obvious lack or order. You think movie watching is an art only enjoyed by the elite. "Eek, is this a movie show or some sort of tribal ritualistic dance" you ask. I would love to give you a well thought out answer. But you see, the camphor is already up in the screen and the cans of milk are emtpied coz just now my thalaivar (leader) made his appearance singing "Naan autokaaran autokaaran" (I am an autodriver) and i really need to get going for my group-tappanguthu (another symbol of universal brotherhood where the dancers and dancer-nots synch in perfect harmony - also a tribal ritualistic dance too, you are indeed prophetic - you should be from either madras or coimbatore). Go on, watch a movie making sure your crease doesnt get wrinkled and you dont break into a sweat. Good luck with that and So long.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Walk in the Park

Skydiving - Cant fly - Check.
Whitewater rafting - Cant swim - Check.
Mountain climbing - Vertigo - Check.
Offroad biking - Too clumsy - Check.
Camping - Can sit still and do nothing. Aha.

Exactly my point of thought when we decided to camp for a night in the yellowstone canyon area. Off we go, with a stove, some readymade chapathis and a sweat shirt. After all, what more do we need to camp than some like-minded friends and a pack of cards ?? You think a 14-hour drive one way would scare me ?? or maybe the subzero temperatures of the night ?? Not a chance.

But I have to confess nothing prepared me for the title of the book which I unfortunately picked from the village store. "Death in Yellowstone" by Lee Whittlesey. Mind you, not plain deaths, but death by accidents and, most notably, foolhardiness. Accidents happen, they are designed that way. Foolhardiness happens, I am designed that way. A peek into the book reveals the numerous deaths of campers caused by grizzly bears. And as a final touch, recommends some further reading about how else you can get killed - overexposure to cold grounds, accidentally stepping into sulphuric acid and being bitten by wolves. If i was mogambo or van helsing, i might have enjoyed the last two.

The lady at the campgrounds was very helpful in giving us directions, hints and tips about how to handle the night. She could've left it at that. But she had to give us a map which showed where we were camping. Our camping spot was the last spot in our strip, with the whole of the jungle to our left and macabre-named highway, called the beartooth highway, running right next to it.

Setting up the campsites looked easy when we saw the others prop up theirs. It looked very easy when we read the brief instructions on the camping gear. It didnt look easy when we set our tent up and it looked like an egg. Lesson #1: Insist that atleast one geometry expert accompanies the camping party to ensure that a tent looks like a tent.

After nailing down three of the four nails deep into the ground, so deep that at one point of time we thought we might have to leave the tent behind, we find that the fourth nail cant go in since the fourth corner is a rock. Lesson #2. Check all four points before you start showing your physical prowess with the nails. Lesson #2.a. No matter what, dont drive the nails too deep. You might end up discovering petrol if you go any deeper.

The other three look around for someone to pull out the tent, and presto, there is only one around who is doing nothing else than giving directions. And off I go to tug the nail off and b-a-m, the nail doesnt move an inch, but i tear up the tent. Lesson #3 Dont let half-brained oafs near sensitive material like that.

As the sun set, everyone around us brought out the heavy duty stuff like caps and gloves. We laughed at their precautions. Later, the campfire died. The others got even. Lesson #4: A freezing temperature means __a freezing temperature__. That is why they call it __a__ __freezing__ __temperature__.

As my teeth start sending out telegrams to all and sundry, i see one from our own camp draw out his woollen gloves and another take out his monkey cap. The cozy smile they gave still looms large. Never in my life, i thought i would miss my monkey cap which i got back in school, to help me handle the cold in India as i go to my early morning tuitions. I remember throwing it away because it wasnt helping my looks. Now, relax, that was the time when i didnt know that nothing can help my looks, but anyways, thats beside the point. Lesson #5. Robinhood was right. You got to steal from the rich and give it to the poor.

As the temperature dropped like a startup's stock, the chattering teeth became even more erratic. But no, i didnt come here to chicken out. Bears, Cold, Cozily clad friends, Freezing feet, Chattering teeth, Numb hands, Rugged grounds - All they can do is watch because when I decide to do something, I do it. By staying out in the cold and sleeping in the ground, am sending out a message to all of those who are fighting to stay in the game. If I can do it, so can you. Nothing is impossible, it is only a state of mind. A fall in the temperature and a sharp stone in the ground are just too tiny to shake my resolve. I came here to camp, and camp I will. I came here to battle the elements, and battle I will.

Then it got colder and I slept inside the car for the rest of the night. Anticlimax, yes. But this blog is no hot & sour soup for the soul.

Camping - Unfit - Check.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Hope Springs Eternal

Few days back, the online version of Hindu had the CBSE class X results on the first page. "Girls Shine Again" it reads. "Again" ?? Why "Again" ?? As if there ever was a ever a break from this trite.

Kindergarten is only a hazy memory. Anycase, we had time only to cry after parents dropped us at school and to get scared when the anglo-indian teacher appeared with dotted-canes. So "A" grazed past the rest of the guys to be teacher's pet and first rank holder, all by telling people A is for Apple and B is Ball while intelligent guys were left wondering why isnt A for Audis and B for Benz.

Elementary school was supposed to make us wise. We ensured that it was only "supposed" to do that. Scientifically, it has been concluded that the much-prevalent jewellery craze in the opposite sex begins at around 6 years of age. Since pendants and diamond rings are saved for a later date, to be delegated to some bumbling chap after 15 or so years, the nearest the women could get to were badges. Shiny, well polished badges that read "class pupil leader" and "first rank". "S" was upto it. I remember her telling in the class that she wanted to be a collector. She definitely did a good job collecting lots of such badges. Guys, Nah. We were busy eating kulfis and playing duster cricket. Who wants to wear a badge anyway ??

Middle school was worse. It was double trouble. "JF" and "JM" were so studious that the world really had to try hard and keep pace with them. Now this is the time of our lives when we start getting imaginative and write reams and reams of answers in the hope that the paper's weight atleast gets us through. Even if we had managed a tonne every exam, we wouldnt have had a crack at the top. Can't really blame the teacher. On one hand, they have "JF"s paper, written in blue ink with her hand-writing rivalling a russian ballet dancer, complete with margins drawn with pencil, sub-headings underlined in red and important points double-lined with pencil (am still with the periphery, havent started about the contents), and on the other hand we have mine, that looks more like rice noodles spilt on the ground and trampled over.

High school was even worse. Cant really blame "MS" and "GBLG" for coming out on top because high school happens to be the age when the teenager knows that life is not entirely about strawberry ice-cream and playing cricket. Well, ermm, thats enough for the blog, otherwise it would start sounding like a confessional. So, while the boys were busy getting surprises at each and every turn in life, the girls just rip-roared their way to the top. The girls got great marks, the boys got wiser. Fair deal.

Higher secondary was better. "P" was there, "L" was there, "V" was there, but more importantly questions about my future, if one was indeed present, were also there. Tried studying and was able to score higher than "V", study hard and was able to outscore "L", study harder but i was never able to outscore "P". (Well, what were you expecting ?? a fairy tale ending where i studied hard and beat everyone ?? Oh yeah, tough luck.)

And then it was college. For the first time in many of our lives, we saw guys getting the top rank. Not just in the first or the second semesters, but all through. In every paper, In every semester - It was guys. Finally, we did it. We broke the mantle that was believed to be girls'. We proved to the world that even guys can be class toppers. It was time to celebrate, after 17 full years of playing second fiddle. It was like splashing your face with cold water after a morning run. Pleasant, refreshing, new, rewarding. Amidst this euphoria, my conscience sneaks up from behind and taps me on the shoulder.
"But you studied in a boys' college, didnt you ??"
"........, Shut up".
Never stop your celebrations for such trivial details. Neva.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Thannanne Thaana Nanne

Take Vadipatti, A rural hamlet down in the southern part of ThamizhNadu.

Take Vijayalakshmi Navaneethakrishnan, Pushapavanam Kuppuswami and Paravai Muniamma - Some reknowned and some not-so-reknowned artistes of folk music.

Take Blondie, your average foreigner. One who has only seen the Karagattams (an art where holding the attention of the audience is second in importance to holding a pot on top of your head), Mayilattams (a dance which is supposed to make a peacock die in shame at its own inadequacy of the art, but at times kills it in disgust) and Kaavadiaattams (Carry a protractor-like device, equipped with the feathers of some unlucky peacock and exhibit your gymnastic skills) on TV and Tape and considers following it to be a matter of superior taste.

Blondie, who has been in India for only four months, but still yaps about how he has become one among the general public with his faulty imitation of the local dialect.

Blondie, who enters this tiny village hamlet thinking he is going to see rural india in its true shine and glory.

Take some stereotypical vadipatti village folk wearing veshtis (dhotis), striped half-shorts which are held at the waist by a red string, soiled loin cloth and other exotic ways of exposing oneself.

Give the stereotypical villager his favorite brand of fag: beedi - malabar, five flowers or chokkalal. Brand is not a criterion, but the stink is.

Have the s.t. villager hold a dirty glass with light colored frothy liquid purporting as tea.

Give the auditorium that familar smell of cow dung. So thick that you could actually touch it.

And amongst all this, throw our armani-wearing Blondie, who does not know that apart from these popular dance styles mentioned above, you have other fire-brand varieties of Aadu-Puliattams (A cruel depiction of a tiger killing goats, made only more cruel by applying litres of varnish and paint on some unsuspecting human being) and the ever popular "Flower stamping Festival" (A euphemism for walking/running on a bed of fire).

Seriously, What chance do you think an alien would have in such intimidating circumstances, when a man dressed like a tiger growls some 2 feet in front of him, asking for money and when half-dressed middle-aged man wearing a frock is dancing with a pot on his head, with his makeup heavier than a roller used in the english summer ??

Before you take pity on poor blondie, replace Vij. N. Krishnan with "Mudvayne", P.K. Samy with "Rob Zombie" and Paravai M. Amma with "Black Label Society". Replace the "Folk Arts Festival" with "Ozzfest 2005". Replace the veshtis, loin cloth and pin-striped underpants with t-shirts that swear aloud, denims that are torn around the knees & sporting a different colored patch around the thighs and leather pants with steel buttons. Replace the beedi with Weed, retain that similar stink. Replace the frothy liquid in the glass with another frothy liquid made out of barley. Replace blondie with the author. That should more or less summarise my first experience in a metal festival in the US of A.

I do not know which was startling: Was it to be to stuck in between two giants at 6'5" screaming "yeah baby yeah" or being few feet from a guy who has "White Pride" tattoed on his back ?? I think both of them were. Living in the bay area can give you a false sense of security that you are living in mylapore, because at times, the ratio of Indians to Americans can be alarmingly similar. The shoreline amphitheatre in Mountain View offered a different perspective. Turn around, look over, look under and Indians seem to be as far away from sight as India itself.

I had just entered the auditorium and "Mastodon" had left the stage. The prospect of not having seen Mastodon before getting killed in the arena was mildly disheartening. As I was pondering the list of things I could do in the last few hours of my life, Iron Maiden took to the stage. For the next 70 minutes, it felt like varnasi and the bodhi tree, only with Eddie hiding behind the leaves, with his evil smirk.

The amount of energy that maiden exude on the stage is quite unrivalled. In a metal-fest, with some 12 other bands playing on the same day, with only sixty minutes stage time and only a second billing to black sabbath, if they could manage so much creativity and music, i cant wait to watch a maiden show live. Scream. Shout. Show the sign. Head bang. Sing Along. Growl. And just when you think it cant get better, dickenson moved on to arguably one of maiden's best number lyrically and rhythmically - Hallowed be thy name. Steve, Bruce, Janick, Adrian, Dave and Nicko - Sirs, Indeed, I was hallowed :-).

Before the elated feeling of having seen maiden could wear of, there was someone else on stage. Ward, Butler, Ozzy and The master himself, Tony Iommi. 70 minutes. Sheer godsent music. What Ozzy missed with his voice, Ward, Butler and Iommi made with their instruments. As the time draws to a close, as everyone is waiting for the big ones, they come with a bang. A double whammy with "Paranoid" followed by "Children of The Grave". Again, scream, shout, only this time rip open your vocal chords to shreds.

As the concert gets over and the fear of getting out uncrushed and unscathed emerges , i think about my unwritten will which would pass my unearned riches to my unborn heirs, Bump, I ran into a 6'5"-er again. Yes, I can see him, and i can see his friends, all seemed to have come out fresh from the foundry. As i calculate my chances against a group of American Football player-likes, he says "Excuse me" in the politest tone imagineable like a padre and walks past. Talk about stereotyping people.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

A House - Two Doors

Door 1:

Showing around the US to a first-timer can be the easiest of things. Its the rough equivalent of taking someone who has only seen panagal park and airdrop him into jurassic park. One would see surprises regardless of which direction he/she turns. Or so joey thought. When a first-timer to the US landed last week, and joey had to show him around, he thought he could get away with showing him the nearest downtown and a few drives up or down the freeway. No, not when the traveller has spoken to others who have different priorities and stayed longer than joey has. It could've been far better if the powers-that-be in India had spun their stories on other worthwhile places, but they had to go ga-ga over Reno.

Reno, NV is a pretender. If Virender Sehwag is the next Sachin because he has a batting stance bearing a striking physical resemblance to sachin's, then yes, Reno is as good as Las Vegas. The problem with Reno is that she tries to emulate her elder sister Las Vegas, fails to realise LV is the Big Momma of 'em all, and by refusing to give up, falls with a resounding thud like someone pulled a dirty carpet from under her.

Reno has only one thing to offer the unsuspecting tourist apart from the faded walls, jaded people and dirty carpets. And that is Slot Machines. A lot of them. A real lot of them. A frigging sea of them spread across a huge block. Not that Joey is James Bond in disguise who can play blackgammon and trump the table, but he cant help but wonder the amount of brain activity involved in playing that slot machine.

step 0: Choose a nice looking slot machine - with a star wars theme (if you are under 15 years old) or a pamela anderson theme (if you are male).
step 1: Throw coin into dilapidated opening by the side of the slot machine.
step 2: Pull the lever
step 3: Give a constipated look at the slots
step 4: Slot machines goes rat-at-at-at-rat-at
step 5: If you are lucky it spews a few coins. If you are not, it doesnt burp.
step 6: remove your brain and replace it with a peanut and go back to step 1 to play again. But this time, choose another slot machine. Different theme, different busty-babe, but same mental challenge.

While their children are taking better vacations in Bali and Seychelles, A horde of old people with full wallets and empty eyes, sitting in front of those machines and seeing their lives disappear one second at a time. God, We all know Joey is Evil. We all know the biggest punishment you give someone is by making him/her die alone. But God, Please, Dont make him die with a slot machine.

Door 2:

Sam is an unassuming guy. In pretty much the same way as Idi Amin is a philanthropist. If its too cryptic, here is the real deal. Sam doesnt know/understand/experience this word called modesty. So when he started driving cars in the US, he made sure that it was on the news tickers on CNN. Sadly, he doesnt want to remember that its probably one of the easiest things to do in here. When Sam had to drive the traveller down to the City of Angels, he was all too thrilled to showcase his driving talent. What he didnt count on was that he would have to drive all the way alone to LA, in the night, on one of the notorious stretches of highways around, and when he is half asleep.

After close to 5 hours of intense three-way wrestling with crazy traffic and ghostly darkness, Sam managed to reach Los Angeles at midnight. The Angels seems to have taken a vacation and went back to eden leaving Los Angeles in our able hands, and mankind has surely done a good job to make it a nice entertainment spot. Los Angeles, City of Angels, City of Hollywood, and if i may add, The city with the highest percentage of thrill killing and highway shoot-outs according to wikipedia. Gulp.

Shooting seems to be like eating a pan after lunch. Someone overtakes you at a turn, Bang. Someone honks at you, Bang Bang. So the number of times when Sam had to allow a car tailing him to take the lead by inexplicably driving almost on the pavement cannot be written off as cowardice, but as sheer presence of mind or Sam's unwillingness in letting his body to be used as a sieve yet. About those countless time when he turned around quickly, almost ducking when the water bottles in the boot shook with a violent turn, you can call it reflexes. About all the times when he refused to make contact with the driver of the adjacent vehicle, even if it was a 70+ granny with phony teeth, well, call it anything since sam doesnt care anymore.

House:

What do you expect ?? Joey and Sam turning out to be alter-egos of Dent ?? Heck, you thought this is some kind of K. Balachander movie ??

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Life Changers

I received a mail from one of my friends after a really long time, which had some kinda maori subject line. Mail was a decent sized mail, 3-4 kb, and considering the capabilities of the chap in question, i thought it probably overflows with usual information like who is with whom, and who was with whom.

After running through the mail from top-to-bottom, left-to-right, from-the-centre-in-concentric-circles and all other imaginable ways, figured out that it had nothing in the body, apart from a beautiful signature of his. I wish i could simply call it a signature and leave it at that, but that would be unfair. What would you call something, that has a little paragraph of collected proverbs from across the world, his name, his designation, full postal address of his office down to the nearest post office and the biggest road in eyesight from his place of work, his landline number, mobile number, internal voicemail number (whatever that means), emergency number, website url and an alternate email id ?? A signature ?? It just stopped short of turning into a spy thriller. The proverbs were essentially a jumbled maze of choiciest words you can see in a dictionary, from the likes of "cornucopia", "erschatz" and "chutspaw", clinging to each other and frightening the reader and giving him some feeling of insecurity. And if that wasnt enough, it turns out that the maori subject line, which read "hihru", is in fact "hi how are you". Should be in some tongue that was lost because of the big bang or people dont have a PHAFJAE ("problem having acronyms for just about everything").

"There are things that are right and things that are wrong, and in between are the doors of perception", now thatz a signature worthy quote. "Perpetual optimism is a force multiplier", this is a confused statement made by, probably a soap-dish-for-light-saber carrying star wars fan who always makes it a point to say "may the force be with you" instead of a simple "bye". But the real cracker is this one. "Nothing is Impossible, even Impossible says I'm Possible". Eh, what ?? "Woman Hitler" is an anagram of "Mother-in-law". Try some similar worldly pun on the lines of "Impossible, I'm Possible" on your mother-in-law with your wife, and people would have to scrape you from either inside the vaccum cleaner or the washing machine depending on what is available at hand. Punny people, watch out. If all this wasnt enough, check this out. "Even my blood group says B Positive". Thanks, I am so motivated that i could run for the Iraqi Presidency.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Dubble-o-Six

The Department of Motor Vehicles (herewith fondly referred to as DMV) is very similar to our RTO office, only that you dont see brokers in here, atleast not many who have it written on their forehead, shoulders and other spottable places. Otherwise it is pretty much the same: queues, people from all walks of life and loud swearing.

The DMV has multiple phases in which they can fail you. First they have a written exam which has 36 multiple choice questions. A handbook of 90+ pages, containing tables of acceptable alcohol levels to age/weight limitations for a child-restraints. Two bits of pearly wisdom which would make the universe go in the reverse if I didnt know right away. The last time i actually "studied" something for three consecutive nights was for my Component Object Model Exam. Scraped past in that, scraped past here too.

The second phase is the car inspection phase. The instructor, who failed a young kid before he could even start the driving test, proudly proclaims to his colleague that he failed him because he didnt like him. That kid, looking smart, polite, decent and instanly likeable. On the other hand you have me whom even Mother Teresa would have a problem liking. Sigh. The instructor could have stopped at that, but he laughed and that was exactly the same laughter one should not hear before taking a driving test. It would explain why i pointed to the head-light switch when he asked me where my rear window defroster was. To add insult to injury, he even gestures: "Sir, I asked for your Rear(pointing to the rear of the car) Window (a square block drawn in the air) defroster (stuck here for a while and proceeding as if nothing happened)". Atleast i knew where the emergency brake was and that meant a promotion to round #3.

The third phase is the actual drive where the instructor sits alongside. I had a feeling that regardless of how dedicated to the job one was, one couldnt get that suicidial. But this instructor chose to become the trapeze artist who wakes up thinking its going be his routine stunt, only without the net. Driving on an empty road, in a medium sized car, in a country known for speeds can be intoxicating. And as i floor the pedal, a signal few feet from me hurriedly turned yellow, as if acting on cue. The car and I got into this converstaion

Ah, food for thought.
Do I stop ??
yes.
Do I go ??
yes.
oh shucks, am too close to the stop line, is it still yellow ??
Maybe
Its Red. Its Red. Its Red. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
Wait, dont panic, you __can__ stop the car.
can i ?? CAN I ??
you got the brakes for chrissake. Apply them.
Yes.
Apply them hard.
Err. yess.
I said Apply them hard you moron.
Screeeeechchchch.
Leave alone the driving test, if there had been an old woman around, it could have been a charge of culpable homicide. The car pointing in the wrong direction and across the mandatory white line. The instructor scribbling furiously in his results sheet. An insurance agent groaning at a lost oppurtunity. A young couple who were about to cross the road, realising the unpredictability of life and falling in love all over again. The car and the signal chuckling over their little joke. The Author, shaken, stirred and drained down the gutter.

I tried to sign off this blog with a brilliant end, but they all turned out to be unfunny, long drawn, dull, boring, monotonous, dry and at one time, unsurprisingly, all in one. So I'd just tamely say that inspite of all the prayers by pedestrians and motorists alike, I did get my licence and the world as we know it is not going to be the same anymore.

The bell that tolls, tolls for you,
The grim, you see in your rear-view,
Hide in the trenches or run to the hill,
Coz dubble-o-six has a license to kill.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Dark Night, Dark Knight

Chris Nolan, you are my new messiah. You just bettered Guy Ritchie and David Fincher by being successful at both off-beat cinema as well as mainstream. But most importantly, I thank you for saving batman from the evil clutches of the greatest villain he has ever faced: Joel Schumacher. Tim Burton brought the character to life with his original two movies, which had a gothic, industrial setting attached to it. The city of gotham was intentionally created dark and bleak to tell a story by itself. But what happens next ?? Joel schumacher comes out of nowhere, mistakes the franchise for some michael bay-ish over-the-top entertainer and produces a half-cartoon half-movie with a listless actor (whose name i cant mention since i pay him my taxes). Let us all be thankful to him that he didnt cast Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in the lead and call the movie Bad Bats. No folks, even if it had uma thurman wearing skin-tights and alicia silverstone in leather, its a thumbs down for them.

I love the batman character. Always have. No, not because katie holmes, nicole kidman, michelle pfeiffer and kim basinger played alongside. But because the batman character is one of the best illustrated and best designed super-hero characters that is entirely human and hence is so close to us.

Batman's intentions are straight forward. He does not want to impress the girl next door, nor is he there to save the world from all terrors - terrestrial or extra terrestrial. He is there for revenge. Arent we all ?? I mean, when the guy from behind honks, dont we let him pass, chase him down, honk twice as much, overtake him and then sleep in peace ??

Batman's villains, again, are human. His villains have hallucinating vapours, poisonous umbrellas and acid-soaked lipsticks at the maximum. Just our day-to-day villains we meet at work, home and in the bus with an added knowdledge of biology, physics & chemistry. No villains with eight legs or electricity/poison/other dangerous chemicals running in their body.

Batman has a brilliant temparement. He doesnt turn into a green monster everytime he is angry, jumping from canyon to canyon and taking missiles on his bare chest, and finally shrinking back to normalcy after seeing a tear in his girl friend's eye. Duh, that is hamming.

Batman, thankfully, doesnt have a knack for making cheesy one-liners. Most last words are answered thus: "I'm Batman". On the other hand, note the following conversation.
A train full of passengers saved.
"You saved us !!! who are you ??".
"your friendly neighborhood".
Excuse me ?? Dinngngngng. Wrong Answer.

Batman does not have retractable claws extending from his wrist. Batman cant lift objects using telekinesis. Batman cant create storms. Batman cant create magnetic fields. Batman cannot read others' minds and control them. Batman is not paranormal. Batman is normal. Thus proved.

Batman cant fly all by himself. It isnt difficult anyways, according to DNA it is the art of throwing yourself to the ground and somehow managing to miss it. But what the others gains with their flying capabilities, batman makes up for it with his wardrobe. A full black rubber suit with a cape is any day better than blue over-alls with a red underwear worn on top of it.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Aruniyan

He who has been to PSG and back is not afraid of doling out punishments. No mistake will go unpunished, No violator would go unscathed, No idler would remain in one piece (well quite literally, I got a big scythe, remember ??).

With his own copy of Garuda Puranam, Aruniyan wrecks havoc on this muddy society which teeters on the brink of disintegration.

1. Stop faking accents. It is okay to try an accent when you are talking to an american, but atleast spare your compatriots of the pain. The face is usually writ with not just the nationality, but also the region, and guess what, when an accent is faked, it gives the same feeling as the same screechy sound of a piece of chalk when written on a new board gives. Keep doing it, you are going to be tongue-tied (again, very literally) when aruniyan chooses to meet you.

2. Cut that crazy tune on the mobile phone. People are trying to co-exist here. Mobile phones are meant to be carried along with. Not to be left on the desk while you wander somewhere letting it play it's ear-splitting music for minutes till you bring your lazy posterior back to your desk. Dont make Aruniyan do a "Mr. Blonde".

3. Dis is not da way 2 rite english. If u wanna rite english dis way, den u r never going 2 rite again n ur life, 4 datz wat aruniyan decrees.

4. Stop yapping inside a movie theatre. People come there to watch a movie, not to hear your romantic duets. If talking while watching turns you on, rent a DVD. If you insist on another option, yes, there is one, but it is slightly painful and called KabeemKubaam.

5. Stop calling people names on internet newsgroups. Yes, it is easy to do that than to face someone and say the same bit. But you have to realise there is only a human level for one to degrade himself/herself and this hiding behind the computer screen takes one to a newer low. Congrats. Aruniyan thinks for a while, and sheaths his scythe since the scythe has an issue cutting through people with such abysmal levels of cowardice and lack of self-respect. Aruniyan respects his scythe's feelings and leaves him to his own fate.

Incomprehensible mumbling that sounds like some sanksrit manthra and a harris jeyaraj score follow.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Done In

Tagged by Sunayana. No, We are not wrestlers from the WWE taking a shot at the Tag Team Championship (although the physical resemblance to a flourishing tag team cannot be denied). This tagging is more docile and I can assure you that none of the below mentioned were injured during the writing of this blog.

Tagging is this new thing that is taking the blogging world by storm, or wait, i just over did it. Tagging is this new thing that is doing the rounds in the blogging world, wait again, i still over did it. Fine, here comes the real truth. I have been tagged, for the first and possibly the only time, to write on books and since it makes me look well-read am off writing this blog. Happy ?? Now, get on with it.

Number of books owned
Around 50 (and that does not include the zillions of copies of "Bhakthi" (devotion) and other religious magazines that my patti is collecting).

Last book bought

The Tom Holt Omnibus - contains "My Hero" and "Whos afraid of Beowulf. A laugh riot if you like pratchett and other humorists. Sort of DNA meets Umberto Eco.

Last book read

The Drawing of The Three - Book II of Stephen King's The Dark Tower Series. As scary as it can get. Has mutants, gigantic lobsters, deadly sorcerers and a clint-eastwood-like hero. Did i mention blood, massacres and cruel deaths ?? Five more books to go before the series ends, and thats a loooong way.

10 Books that mean a lot to me

1. Lord of The Rings - Enough said.
2. Wodehouse's Golf stories - Rib-ticklingly funny.
3. The color of magic - My first book of pratchett and it left me with a pain in my tummy. Also has the dubious distinction of giving this blog it's URL.
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - The first book i bought with money i earned. Sort of special.
5. Mahabharatha & Ramayana - Blame them for all my tall tales.
6. Kanne Kihoo - A thamizh comic about a whale and a boy. My dad tells me i used to bugger him every night to read it for me.
7. Don Quixote - Gives me the feeling that i am looking into a mirror
8. Panchathanthra Tales - The guide to peaceful, prosperous and problem-less life on earth.
9. Clarke's Rama Series and Isaac Asimov's Robot Stories - father and mother of all science fiction
10. C & H, Asterix, Gary Larson and Dilbert - lost childhood, last birth, alternate universe and my current existence - respectively

Books I read as a kid

Tales of the amber sea - fairies vs witches vs wizards vs sorcerers vs princes
Tales from ukraine - different fairies vs different witches vs different wizards vs different sorcerers vs same, dumb, princes
Enid Blyton - Dont we all go through this phase by force ??
Rani/Lion/Muthu Comics - James Bond speaking thamizh
Tinkle - (Suppandi - another case of "do i know this guy personally" characters, kalia, shikari shambu)
Amarchitra Katha - thats how karna became my all-time favorite character
Indrajal Comics - phantom, mandrake, flash gordon, garth and the likes
Tintin - darned expensive they were then, equally darned expensive they are now
World Cup Cricket - blame it on cricket fever

Passing the baton
You dont know how glad i am to get here.

Freak Fauna - works for a company that was just acquired by another company, thus making him one of the youngest millionaires in india. Between time spent for counting notes and mail-ordering his own sports model benz, he does read books too.

Neo Soothsayer - Another of those unlucky bums to have been stuck in where he has been stuck.

Just Me - Just raring to get stuck in one hell-hole or the other by own will. Try stopping her.

Boomsa - No, i dont know her. And yes, she doesnt know me too. But one of the readably-cynical blogs that i have seen on the web.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Three Blind Mice

The Three Blind Mice do not watch basket-ball. They dont like half-dressed men jumping around hoops. The Three Blind Mice do not watch synchronised swimming because although it has eloquenty dressed women, they stay underwater for most of the time. The Three Blind Mice watch Formula1 because it has fast cars.

The preparations stared few months back. They blew their trumpet everywhere they could. Home, work, freeways, crosswalks, parks and even public restrooms. Anyone who knew them, knew about Formula1 and there was a race in Indianapolis. Everyone who didnt know them considered that there would be atleast 99, 998 more people would be doing precisely that and wondered what all the fuss was about. The Three Blind Mice pretended to be Three Blind'n'Deaf Mice and kept blowing their trumpets until they lost breath.

The big, fat, blind mouse was spouting fundaes about who won where and when that happened while dinner. The tall, lanky, blind mouse was puffing cigarettes to glory, all the while yapping at who would overtake whom at the first corner. The smart, formal blind mouse would've also yapped, only he was busy clicking good-looking latin women in the puerto-rican day parade and decided F1 can wait. The other blind mice considered this option, but for some inexplicable reason, kept yapping about F1 and missed the women.

On D-Day, the big fat mouse insisted on driving. The other two mice looked as if they just bit a portion of juicy doughnut only to find it that has been hooked onto a teethed-saw that reads "ek maar do tukda". Can't blame them since they know that the last car that big fat mouse drove was remote controlled and a foot in length. The fact that he crashed even that into a pillar hadnt reached them yet. When actually BFM took them safely to the venue, albeit with a few close encounters with the 16-wheelers' kind, they were sure nothing could go wrong. Nothing, not even one thing.

But it did. Not just once. But 14 times. And that too after a waving-smiling parade, and a farcical warm up lap. The three blind mice thought they are going to be englightened, but 4000 miles and 500$ later all that happened was a blimp on a fossilized torchlight.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

A 5-day test

A bus that looked on the web like the one where women deliver burgundy wine, but actually had innovatively dressed women giving a porcupine a run for their hair do.

That bus, which already has a mild foul stench as a bonus over and above that dry a/c smell, gets worse. What with some enthusiastic teenager smoking marijuana inside the rest-room on the bus.

A bus driver who swears right into the PA system about an act that was god-sent to man for the sake of human reproduction, but has been reduced to webcams on the internet.

Your co-passenger, who looks like a barrel stuffed inside a pre-teens shirt, a tattoo trailing down from his elbow of some mythical animal, and rivals the aforementioned lady with his hairdo.

Missing the map of the city bus station and having to walk into a dark alley to enquire for the address, with two people in the shadow smoking under the lights with conveniently shrouded frames.

In a hurry to reach the airport on time,, noticing that your watch is slow and trying to fix it, only to squeeze it so hard and see your extra thin watch get decimated in your very hands. (sorry dad, it just caved in).

Airport and not wanting to use your credit in some rundown airport calling booth due to one of your multiple inexplicable paranoias, but still having to make that important call.

Airport and then realising that you dont have enough change for the telephone.

Airport and then running around for an ATM.

Airport and only later realising that you missed the paper with the telephone numbers right at the phone booth.

Airport and noticing the cleanliness-conscious steward clearing the place of all bits and pieces of paper, which includes your only source of information to reach out to the gang, thus completely lost in an alien continent in a sinful city.

Mile long traffic jams which take your plan, fold it into four, into eight, into sixteen and squeeze into the shredder.

Hunger and you see baked pork. Hunger and you see sauteed squid. Hunger and you see wild boar. Hunger and you see roasted turkey. Hunger you see noodles, only to hear the waitress inexplicably say that plain noodles might have chicken.

A chinese cousin of kothamalli chutney (coriander paste) gobbled up in inhuman quantities to subside the hunger, only to know that it is actually from a different house called Wasabi and is one of the most pungent food stuff around. Having your tears in the eyes and a strange feeling in the head as proof that you survived it.

A bunch of mobile phones which were no better than miniature bricks inside the canyon.

A television that sensationalizes hiking by screaming how people dehydrate themselves and drop dead while hiking, when you are trying to coax your friends whos last interest is to walk down a stony pathway in the afternoon sun.

Philosophical ramblings as to if it was sin city or skin city, what with the forehead clearly losing the race for the most exposed body part.

In between all this, there were two african-american good samaritans who staved off the temptation of "dark road-big bag-lost foreigner-sweet" and went on to call you "Chief", the water-volleyball in NYNY where you splashed water more than you did the ball, Funky photographs that were "made" to look natural, a hike down the trail that tired you ONLY because of the supplies you carried fearing dehydration than the actual hike itself, a meal that was almost breakfast-lunch-early snack rolled into one and most importantly as close to vegetarian as they could get at Dennys, a life saver called Burrito, Our constant companion who took a shower more than twice a day only to get screwed by Bull on the last day (take that thought away, i meant Moet Champagne, although pronounced cham-pa-kanee), Jimi Hendrix's guitar standing side by side with clapton's and harrison's at the Hardrock hotel and The Canyon - which so easily doubles up for The Perspective Vortex, letting you know that you are too small to be a even cog in the scheme of the universe and mother nature just needs the snap of a finger to call it quits if she wants to.

But above all this, there was my savior who saved me the pain of having to travel in a drug cartel again - Thagadu (next time, dont plan, just come there on time) , and there was my lightning partner, deputed to earth to reinforce the maxim "Size DOES NOT Matter, atleast not for a sense of humour " - Vish (remember to say "please" to the barmaid nextime, will ya??) , and the planner who planned right from breakfast on day #1 to dinner on day#5, but screwed up with the toothpaste - Bull (no more profile mugshots for you, you outran your quota), and last but not least, for lightening up the mood more than once - a certain Mohini Bharadwaj, whoever she is.

Yo Vegas. We were there and we made hell.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Anchors Away

The Rooster is a funny bird. At odd times, it shivers a bit making you notice it, puffs up quite a lot with so much pride that you think it is going to sing an opera, but merely ends with a cackle. The male ego is something very similar.

When our ego shivered, we dutifully took notice of that and decided we had to feed it with something egomaniacal. For some unknown reason, Kayaking hit us. Consider this. In a country where many of them know only the name of the streets that is right next to theirs and think any other street could be in mexico, your map-provider shuts shop on that sunday driving you somewhat insane. A sleek-looking chevrolet cobalt reminds you that it is ONLY sleek-looking, and throws some strange error message on the panel much like Windows, and refuses to run, driving you completely insane. Now, arent these good enough signs for the oncoming tragedy ?? Being the reader of this blog, you see it. Being the writer of this blog, i didnt.

A newly-dating couple and an elderly-couple woke up from their beds and saw something devilish first thing in the morning. They thought it was superstitious to believe in all that and proceeded with their kayaking trip to monterey bay. They only retured a bit wiser. Monterey Bay, such a beautiful place. Sunny weather, calm backwaters, schools of otters and sea-lions. Perfect runway for our weekend ego-puffing.

The first lesson for any new kayaker is to realise the truth. Kayaks have a mind of its own. I know you think this only proves i am schizoprenic, but yes, the kayak we had a mind of its own. Why would we be making Zs and Ss the water when all we wanted was to keep it straight ?? As we slowly zig-zag our way to much shallower waters, we saw a maze of watersheds into which we need to go. Much like driving an F1 car in monaco when you cannot keep a T5 straight on the autobahn. Perfect.

Elderly couple: through.
Youngsters: through.
We: stuck in the marsh and unable to wiggle our way out.

"Pull away guys, Pull away", shouts brian, our guide for the tour. Bull throws his paddle on the mud in a certain angle to push the kayak away. It surely pushes the boat back to the water due to some property of geometry, but as an undocumented corollary, splashes salty-black-marsh in my face.
"Turn left, Turn left" hollers brian. I seem to overdo the rudder and turn into the other bank. Some more intellectual paddling by Bull and some more mud in my face.
"Paddle backwards on your left", screams brian. I paddle, but on the right.
"The other left, the other left" brian gives up. I get embarassed at that instruction, paddle on my "other left" a bit too hard and bump straight into another kayak.

When we took the final bend back home, Bull and I were plainly relieved that we dont have to look embarassed anymore and before anyone asks us some sympathetic questions, we should probably get out. That was when Mother Nature threw her ace. The skies darkened, The wind worsened and blew against us and the current pushed us back. As we took pity on the elderly couple and saw where they were, they zipped past us like they had secretly-built motors in their kayak. What followed for the next half-hour was sheer masochism with me and bull splashing water on each other, hitting each other with paddles, taking deep breaths and swearing loudly, almost crashing into a pillar on the mooring pad (courtesy: my ability to use the rudder with my feet) and nearly tearing our elbows with some super-human paddling.

When we got out, everyone had already assembled in a circle for the usual parting-ways thingy, the one which we desparately wanted to miss considering the harassment we had done to everyone else in the bay (including those poor otters and sea lions who are contemplating suing us for trespassing and property destruction). Brian started "everyone of you did a brilliant job today, a round of applause for all of you". For some reason, i dont think he looked at us. Heck, we were too busy watching the seagulls to see if they cackle too.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

VCHE

For all those lovable friends of mine who sent me those thinly veiled death threats, thanks. Yes, i do know that christopher columbus beat my by 513 years, but cant a man go on a trip for even two blogs ?? No America, not anymore. Not in this blog atleast.

Have you ever been fat ?? No, we are not talking about "Heyyyyy, hes so cuuuuttee" fat, thats chubby. We are talking "Jeez, what does he eat" fat. Fat. The word oozes of inhumanity. Maybe we should call them Vertically Challenged and Horizontally Endowed (and thus the cryptic title of this blog is explained).

There is one age when being fat does not matter. You still eat your curd rice and your ice-creams without a guilt. The age when senior girls and school teachers find you attractive for some unexplained reason. You laugh at exercise and fitness, while they laugh back at you behind your back. Someone reminds you that you might just explode, and you laugh thinking it is a joke while your body considers the possibility for a micro-second, realises it could be a possibility and shudders. But you are just too hungry and too happy to care.

Then comes the stage where you run short of attires. I have friends who complain that their shoe size is 13 and they have to order a special edition everytime. They groan. They crib. They complain. Now consider yourself saying that your waist size overshot the standard limit and you have to specially order a pair of jeans everytime you need one. Did i you hear you just saying you feel blessed ordering shoes alone ?? Aah, should have guessed.

You try to learn the sax after watching a fat prabhu romancing with meenakshi seshadri. The question that is often thrown at you is "Endha kadayila nee arisi vaangara??" ("Pray tell me the name of the business establishment where you procure your rice from", in a tone which surprisingly has only sarcasm). You tuck in your shirt in an effort to stem the tide, but you notice in the mirror that you are a challenge to geometry. You realise that you are too old to call it "baby fat" and resign to the fact that the right name for it is "flab". You respond for the name "Gunda" ("fatso") with such precision that you start to think if you were a trained police dog in your last birth. The fact that you take your lunch in a hotpack, thus making it look twice its size, does not help to add to your burgeoning popularity. The cricket team's captain sends out a by-runner for you after you bat for an over citing "illness" but meaning "incompetency to run quick singles".

One night, you think about this whole business eating your favorite dinner. Do you have to reduce ?? The first reason that comes to your mind is women. But then, if you start doing it for women, there would be another list of nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine things to do to stay in their "good" books. You realise it was never promising anyways and ditch the idea. You try health. Now, that sounds promising. You try fitness, now that sounds refreshing. You try body building, you hear your conscience laughing. You stick to health and fitness.

You visit the gym even before the bajans start in the next perumal kovil. You curl dumbbells, push barbells, do crunches and run like a rabid dog. You reduce two inches. Ghee is out of the food menu. Sweets are equated to mustard gas. Pizzas are gobbled by friends when you eat garlic bread without cheese. Ice-creams, they look good, period. You curl dumbbells hardber, push barbells faster, do twice as more crunches and run, this time like a rabid dog in summer. You reduce two more inches. You dont get off the treadmill now. You run. You run until you feel the taste of your sweat. You run to beat the guy in the next treadmill. You run to buy those boot-cut jeans which would look good only if you cut two more inches of fat from your waist.

Finally, the boot-cut now fits. You look for everyone from your past and show them what you have done. The first guy comes and tells you that you look like a thug on parole. Ughgh. The second one comes and asks you if you fell sick with some terminal disease. So much for the early morning alarm calls and the running. The third one, a girl, comes and walks past you without even noticing. What, she didnt see even the new boot-cut ?? And only then you know while you were doing all the running, boot-cuts got dated. Darn. The fourth girl comes, this one better say something worthwhile. In she comes, and blurts the words "Hey, how are you ?? by the way, we thought you looked better before, when you were slightly built". Note the replacement of the word "fat" with "slightly built". Remember what i told you ?? You search frantically for a strawberry-caked double sundae which you missed all this while. If there is one thing you need now, its that. Before indulging on your sundae, just remember: Being fat is not disability, Being fat is not a crime, Being fat is simply being illiterate and also (although cliched) those who matter dont mind, and those who mind dont matter. (There, we now have a message from this blog. phew)

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

A Kedy, A Lady and A Few Fingers

When someone who regulary cooks is out of town eating chips and warming their feet in hotel bath tubs, cursing comes to you like second tongue. Food, on the other hand, doesnt. With past experiences at turning a kitchen into a mess that makes war-torn somalia look like lalbagh in comparison (definitely, in another blog), you hesitate. But hunger tests your perseverance, and like the million times you have done already, you give up in this duel with hunger.

Vendaikkai or Bindi as the hindi speaking junta would call it, is called Okra in these parts. But to name a vegetable ladies finger needs either absolute romanticism in the breath or a severely psychotic brain in the head. Now you know what the lady and a few fingers are in the title. No points for guessing who the Kedy is.

Ladies Finger Curry. When i opened an internet page, this one was with the least complications.
Take kadai. Ha.
Heat Oil. Ho.
Cut LF. He.
Pour Oil. Ha Ho He.
Add Salt, add masala, Fry. Yawn,
Cant someone throw me a real challege was how i reacted.That is how i usually react when life takes a quentin tarantino-ish turn.

Did your overtly cleanliness-conscious mind make you clean the LF with water just before cutting it ?? You going to have LF halwa for dinner. Turns out that you clean them up a day back, and wipe it with a dry towel if you want it to have a semblance of a fry than some sort of solid stew coz LF in itself yields some watery substance.

Did you pour oil, and then think about jothika in the idayam ad and pour even more oil ?? The cut LF would feel like fish after Exxon Valdez.

Did you just spray the chilli powder to make it more "Indian" ?? Congrats, you just invented an eco-friendly solution for rocket fuel.

In an effort to make it more eater-friendly, you got reminded that adding salt helps, but forgot how much ?? Aahh, you are the new moses of our times, you have your own personal red-sea aka hyper-chillied-super-salted-semi-solid.

When the operation was done, it was successful, but the patient was dead as a dodo. I debated donating this to someone. But manslaughter and homicide are serious offences out here. So in went the first piece with a paratha. Standing in the midst of my kitchen, as my own preparation found its way into my throat, i felt it. Cut here. Da Vinci, with paint all over his body and face. Cut back to me in the kitchen with a turmeric stained tee-shirt. Play Wagner's "Ride of the valkyries" here. Cut back to the freshly painted Monalisa. Cut back to my LF fry. let the message sink in with people, wait for a few seconds. Cut back to all those angry people who are chasing me with rocks, stones, pickaxes and a Uzi.

12;15 pm on a saturady might not be a great time, but it dawned on me. It doesnt matter how someone else is going to judge you as long as i eat my food and manage to stay alive. You Hiltons and Meridiens and Oberois, Move over. Move friggin over.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...

Ammy In My Tummy

Hunger is a funny thing to have. Mind you, it is not like Intelligence which sticks around for hours together doing nothing and sinks without a trace when you need it the most. Hunger is more cat-like in that it lurks there all the time, makes sure you are defenseless before pouncing upon you mercilessly.

The initial pangs of a massive attack had surfaced when i was surveying the pantry. A few loaves of bread. Good. Blackberry Yoghurt. Better. Mango Smoothie. Even better. Strawberry Smoothie did you say ?? Perfect way to start your weekend morning.

As the yoghurt cans shiver at my menacingly approaching profile, my room-mate interrupts me. There better be a good reason.

"They all have Gelatin."
"Gelatine ? I did not buy dynamite."
"I said they have Gelatin. Ughgh"

By the way, If i forgot to mention already, my room-mate's eating habits are indistinguishable from that of a rhinocerous. Dark Green. So green that the tava used to make egg scrambles is made to lie around locked in a cupboard which is quite some distance away from the rest its bretheren. An ughgh from someone like that could mean a lot of things.

Ah, well. "Gelatin" reads the ingredients chart on the pack. Given the current situation the only thing that could stop me was Cyanide. But since it is a discomforting thought to have stuff that rhymes with explosives in my intestine, i fell back upon the Right Honourable Wikibaba. After a few anxious seconds, he gives some good news and some bad news. The good news is that the one that explodes has an 'e' to it. Thanks. It is reassuring to know that food cannot explode after consumption. The bad news is that the one without the 'e', the one that is present in all those delicious looking yoghurts, is primarily derived from hooves, bones, tendons, ligaments and cartilage of vertiberate animals. I debate the idea for a second. Eggs are okay. In fact eggs are doubly okay. But boiled hooves and cartilage ?? Blech.

Hunger just shook its body. I see it pawing the sand in anticipation. Hmm.

Read on ... (at your own peril, obviously) ...