Raa Raa Raa Ramaiah

One of the valuable lessons that Rajinikanth has taught us is to call Ramaiah here and tell him to divide his life by eight, and most importantly, to realise which eight he is in and act in an appropriate manner. Once Ramaiah knows this and follows it to the letter, he inadverdently finds that the answer is 42. Just like our Ramaiah and the eight phases of his life, a blog(ger) has eight phases too.


"Yettu Yetta blog vaazkhaya pirichukko, ne yenda Yettil ippo irukka nenachukko"
"Divide your blog life in eights, and keep where you are in your sights"

"Mudhal Yettil veesadadhu vasanam illa"
"No dialogue is a dialogue, unless spoken in the First Eight"

This is the phase when all and sundry with whom the individual is in touch with owns a blog. He scornfully thinks, " All these yuppie-wannabes have a blog because its free. Just ask blogspot to charge a monthly fee for it, and everyone would be back to corner-gazing and chin-scratching as their hobbies". So true. Hear, hear.

"Rendam Yettil adikadadhu balti-yum alla"
"No sommersault is expertly done, unless done in the Second Eight"


After a change of heart, now blogging is way of expressing oneself. It brings out the best in him. It helps him be a creator. It helps him speak his mind. Yadda-yadda. Standard issue dialogue include disclaimers about how he is new to blogging and hopes "people like the blog" and also "give their valuable comments". The cocky few actually advertise the fact that it is their blog and they write what they feel like and care the least what others feel. No prizes for guessing all that indirectly means "see, am only trying to look cool. this doesnt necessarily mean that you shouldnt comment you know".


"Moondram Yettil podadadhu padamum alla"
"The jazz goes fizz, if not done in the Third Eight"

The angry young (wo)man strikes back with a revenge in this phase. Every possible practice of the society is questioned. Corruption, Red-tapism, Religion, God-men and all similar hot-topics get thrashed. Bureaucracy, Theocracy, Aristocracy, Plutocracy, Democracy - All slaughtered. Radical ideas proposed. Old beliefs disposed. The outlay of the site changes every week. He is the man of the future. He is the future.


"Naangam Yettil polambadadhu polambalum alla"
"Lamentation is not what lamentation is, if not lamented in the Fourth Eight" (and btw, this translation sucks)

Things that were red hot one level above, cool down a bit here. Our angry hero(ine) returns to earth and struggles to get a foothold. Work is pressing, almost all problems that he could think of have been written about and he has to create new ones. Problems are strange in the sense that they find you when they want to and it doesnt work the other way around. So, the blog changes from a social commentary to a personal diary. Blogs that demonstrate his will power (how he fought with his classmate for a pencil-with-sweet-smelling rubber and, importantly, won it when he was in third standard b section), charity (a sum total of Rs. 11 dropped in the Tsunami Fund Box when his evening snack costs twice that) and how he is worried about arranged marriage (ah well, this we cant dispute. can we ??).

"Aindham Yettil Podadadu Blade-um Alla"
"Incruciating boredom is not rightly inflicted, if not done in the Fifth Eight"


Finally, for the good of mankind, life has caught up with the blogger. With posts that redefine the word personal to a new level having come to a full stop and staring down the barrel of the next performance appraisal, our blogger must now resort to easier ways of keeping it going. And what better than mindless forwards ?? "I read this somewhere, I think you may like it", followed by terrabytes of data. Oh well, you didnt have the time to read through it, might as well pass on the pain to the rest of us. Foreseeing an eventuality scenario where there are not enough interesting forwards (which is an oxymoron more often than not), the blogging community has invented something that would surpass counting sheep as the best-pastime. Tagging. Once he has revelaed everything (5 bestest friends, 6 names he goes with, 7 things he cannot live without) that is revealable, the blogger slowly starts slipping into oblivion.

"Aaram Yettil kudukadadhu Build-up alla"
"A build-up falls flat, if not orchestrated in the Sixth Eight"

Comebacks are a universal concept. We all love them. Inspired by school life, where we fail in the first, second and third midterms, quart and half yearlies, first and second revisions and finally manage to turnaround with a sizzling 41% in the final revision which technically counts as a comeback, the blogger makes one too. Only as limp. Heck, even Sachin Tendulkar's come back from a tennis elbow wouldn't have had such fanfare. "I am back" reads the blog title, regardless of the fact there is probably only the service provider who would care and that too for additional wastage of precious space on his server. In an effort to show that the blog is alive and kicking, our man adds new tags overnight - one is a webcounter, the other is a bar to chat with, the third doesnt do anything at all, but sort of looks good so gets to be there.


"Yezham Yettil podadadhu Senti-um alla"
"If you want to wet some shoulders, do it in the Seventh Eight"


When ET leaves, henry thomas cries. drew barrymore cries. all their friends cry. From the way the box office responded, the watching public cried. Armed with a bigger vocabulary and better photogenics than ET, somehow, the blogger now pulls the same trick. Citing the war in iraq or the unrest in afghanistan or the imbroglio in kashmir or, in an attempt to gather mass sympathy, all of the above, the blogger announces his imminent demise from the blog world much to the consternation of fellow bloggers and friends. They had this blog to make them feel better about their own. Now, who would fill this enormous gorge ??

"Nee Yettam Yettuku mela irundha nimmadhi illa"
"Rip, in the Eighth Eight"


All good things should come to an end. That is just a statement and should in no way be considered as an eulogy for the blog. Nope. What was once teeming with friends is now orphaned in cyberspace that even those spammers who go "hey, you have a nice site. visit mine where i discuss about what color of inner wear to wear on a summer sunday" do not visit the blog. In the end, everything evens out. Even such odd blogs like this one. Amen.

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

Never Cross A Woman

Present Day


Rosemary, dressed in her best party attire, read the note for the tenth time . The note that Hummus had written last night before he ran away. It was to the point, "I am leaving to find my life", so typical of Hummus - Idealistic. She wasnt unduly worried about Hummus running away - "no one should be overtly worried about runaway puppies, they would always come back", she thought haughtily. Her worry was entirely different.

Late last night

Hummus entered the house not looking very different from a zombie.
"Hummus, is that you ??" came a voice from inside the room. Hummus, who had tried to tiptoe his way to the terrace where he would have slept through the night, stopped dead in his tracks. Drat.
"Yes honey".
"Did you get the diamond tiara ?? I have promised all my friends that I would make an appearance with that on my birthday. I cannot bear to lose face", came her commanding voice, still from inside.
"Ah, honey .. there were, ermmm, some complications".
"What ??", out came rosemary - her face smeared with a white substance all over, save her eyes, which either prevented wrinkles or ageing or preserve her tan.
"I reneged on the deal", said Hummus.
"Hummus, you were on a job ordered by the King himself. What do you mean you reneged??"
Hummus burst with anger. "I couldnt do it, Rosemary. I cannot split up a couple who are going through an ordinary misunderstanding just because the king has a liking to the girl and wants to marry her after she is divorced. No matter how much he pays for that. I was a priest before this, remember ?? I preach love, not hate. And I wouldnt have taken this hate-job if not for paying your bills".
"Hummus, you are a divorce attorney. Splitting married couples is your job. If people dont fight and split, you dont get food. Most importantly, I cant pay my beautician. Just go out there, encourage them that a divorce is the best way out, get the pay-off from the king and get me my tiara. My birthday is midnight tomorrow".
"Ah, err. Honey, I cant do that anymore. I just gave them the whole of the initial pay-off I got from the king and sent them to Gaul where they can live safely".
"I dont believe this .. This means that ..."
"Yes, this means that I betrayed the king and he will have my head when he knows that it was I who sent them out. But you dont worry about...."
Rosemary cut him in half sentence."..that I dont get my tiara for the birthday..." and then she broke out crying over that incalculable loss leaving a flustered Hummus to imagine how he couldnt get the guts to put his profession into use with this woman.

Present Day
Rosemary tossed the note away carelessly. "Damn you Hummus. You have made me lose face. I will make you pay. I will make everyone pay." Rosemary had made her plan.

By late evening her friends congregated in the grand ball room which had been constructed entirely out of Hummus's retirment fund. Rosemary appeared from the top of the stairs with a grief stricken face - but carefully made up so that those tears dont take away the new glossy cream she had bought the other day.
"Friends, I have an announcement to make. The King has abducted my husband, and as we talk here, his life would have been ended by the executioner".
A collective gasp filled the room. Cries of "Oh poor baby", "Oh Rosemary", "Dear Lord" emanated from her friends who rushed to hold her - not without being too careful that their expensive coiffures remain undisturbed. "Perfect. Their sympathy is mine. Now for Plan B", Rosemary thought. She continued in her voice that rang more of disappointment than sorrow, but only for a keen observer. "I just have one request to make on behalf of my husband. All of you know how much he loved me. You all know how much he cared about me and how much I meant to him". The hen-pecked spouses nodded their heads in unison, although they knew the real story. After all, it was the same everywhere. Rosemary continued, "Hummus was a happy and content man. But before he was dragged from this very hall by the King's Guards, he had just one desire unfulfilled. That he couldnt buy me my tiara. He swore he would come back and get it for me, but it is now too late". The men-folk in the room kept their somber faces. "As Hummus's friends, I have one thing to ask out of you. I ask this in the name of Hummus and in the name of the love that he had for me. ".
"Tell us what you need to Rosemary, we would do it for our Hummus", offered Asparagus - the harried husband of Shannon.
"Just perfect", thought Rosemary. "As a mark of respect to Hummus and his true love for me, I propose that each and every man in this great hall gift his wife with the costliest tiara that he could ever find. That would be a token for our friendship to Hummus", she said.
Asparagus felt like he just walked inside a bear cave soaked in mountain honey.
"But ... but ... we just bought our wives expensive gifts for thanks giving", groaned Asparagus.
"...and for christmas and new years...", said Tinnitus.
"..you forgot their birthdays..", said Discus.
"Its not even 2 months since New Year's and we need to buy them new gifts??", asked Asparagus, glancing carefully towards his wife.
Rosemary couldn't belive her luck. They had fallen for it hook, line and sink - just as she predicted. She launched into the final part of her scheme. "Two months since new year's ?? Is this what all this means to you Asparagus ?? A random gift to your wife and nothing more ?? Is the cost of a tiara so insurmountable that you have started cooking up ridiculous excuses ?? Its about setting out a day off for your wife and showing her how much she means to you. Its not about the gift or its cost Hummus, its about love and how much you care for your wife - who loves you regardless of if you give her a gift or not".

Asparagus thought about it for a second. Even if it was a celebration of his love for his wife, why does it have to be on rosemary's birthday ??
Tinnitus considered the fact that his wife's love over platinum far exceeded her love for him and despite all that, he loved his wife daily, and most importantly he didnt need a day to declare that.
Discus wondered that if the cost of the gift didnt matter, maybe he should get her a nice robe and leave it at that instead of burning his fingers over a tiara.
All three of them took a good look at their respective wives, who were listening to every word that Rosemary was saying with rapt attention, and weighed the future of their marriage if they chose to ask these questions aloud. They looked at each other, and they knew the answer. Non-existent. In anycase, what harm could it do ?? This is just a fill-in arrangement for this year. To appease all the womenfolk. By this time next year, they would have forgotten everything about Hummus and Rosemary. In unison, they broke into a bright smile and said "Of course, anything for our sweet-hearts. After all, its just for this year. Isn't it ??".

"Just this one year", Rosemary said aloud. "You wish", she thought inside. "Hummus, I would make you pay. I would make everyone of your kind pay. Men would live to regret this day. Revenge will be mine.".

An year later, In Gaul

Spaghetti Readymix liked Gaul, the people were friendly, the sun was bright, the breeze was pleasant and the romans were on the otherside of the border for good. However, he was surprised with a peculiar festival that seemed to have gained wide popularity in Gaul over the last year. A day was chosen for men to profess their love for their women. Funny, he thought, when there were 364 other days open to do precisely the same. But the single most important reason the women were happy was the gifts, which was the same reason why the men looked crestfallen and broke. Travellers from far away say all this originated in Rome when the widow of a priest's wife declared the day of her husband's death as a closed celebration among her friends and it had seemingly spread across the world. "Unsurprising", thought Readymix, "considering the penchant of women to display their gifts to their friends". Even if he could accept the concept of setting aside a day for love, Readymix could never bring himself to understand the frenzy of business that centred around the day. Illusions'n'trix offered discounts on their jewels, Mushy-mushy-Greetinx offered a rebate on their merchandise and if that wasnt enough, even Stonehenge Menhirs Inc. gave special discounts for people buying special heart-shaped menhirs - as to how it would symbolise love is anybody's guess. Spaghetti Readymix sighed in resignation. He was a happy fisherman. Happier than he ever was when he was a priest/divorce attorney in Rome sporting a different name. But even he couldnt avoid breaking into a sweat when he saw all those posters about Valentine's Day and how his fellow men cursed the name for bringing this day on their fate. One cannot blame Readymix, after all, he was known as Hummus Valentinus until an year back.

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

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Countless years ago:

Crossing the last mound to the plains, I could see their camps, overflowing with swordmasters sharpening their blades. Getting ready because they know I dont stand a chance in the Challenge. Getting ready because once I fall, they would have a job at hand. To slaughter people. My people. Heck, how wouldnt they not know ?? Even I know I am going to lose. Unless someone intervenes. Unless He himself intervenes. Just at the moment when I was foreseeing an abject failure, something hid the noon-sun from my face. I looked up, and there he was. The Champion. standing at a towering height, dwarfing me by four counts to one. He looked like the one a girl would love to take home to her parents, only he would end up devouring them all for supper.

Now, now, now. Dont panic. Yes, he has a spear. He has a shield. He is probably 20 feet tall and crushes stones like they are butter cookies. But dont be afraid. Yeah right. Think. Think what I need. All that I need is a weapon. A weapon to knock that giant of a fighter down. Only it is a tad too late to find a weapon to kill a monster when he is so close I can see my reflection in his head-guard. The head-guard. The head. Hmm, why didnt I think of this earlier. No time to find a weapon. Just enough time to use anything as a weapon. Anything. Even this shiny stone. Father, Lord, God, whoever you are, If you are there somewhere, which I know you are, help me. Help me. Please.

Sometime in the near future

"I did itttt", I screamed on top of my voice and the missus just dropped the bag of washclothes she was carrying.
"You startled me", she said in a tone that would cut through air.
"I did it, sweetheart. I beat all those jokers who laughed behind my back. I knew I would and I just did", I was talking incoherently.
"You licked your own elbow ??", she asked, the sarcasm not showing.
"No no, I just got my time traveller working", I said proudly.
"Ah, good. Now let me move on because unlike you, I have some real work to do".
That was when it hit me. Damn. How careless have I been.
"Honey ....", I said in a tone not too different from a kid who broke the windshield of his father's BMW playing baseball.
"What now ??", said my wife, still not seeing the flashing redlights on top of my head.
"You see, the time machine is a complicated device. I was able to get the photons in place...."
"What did you do ??"
"... and even the neutrons, it was just a child's play to get them play ball.."
"I dont like the sound of this, what did you do ??"
"....but you see the mastozons, they were in a different league. I could get them move one way, but not the other. Which means, I can send things back in time ..."
"What did you send ??", now I can see a thin line of panic.
"...but I cannot get them back until I get the mastozon blaster up and running .."
"What did you send ??", touching the red.
"...which should be anytime soon ... so, dont freak out, will you ??"
"Oh harold, what did you send ??", she screamed dropping down the basket. Well and truly panicing.


Again, countless years ago

He was a kid. Just a kid. And he was unarmed. Yes, irrespective of the damage done to my skull, I remember he was unarmed. I also remember him going down on his knees to pick up something. To begin with, I was on my guard, wondering if he had some hidden device to split the earth right from under me, you know like that moses guy. But when he lifted a pebble, only a pebble, I was wondering if this some local way of declaring a ceasefire. In fact, I could even see it coming and I wanted to crush it with my fingers just for theatrics. And then, two things hit me. One, the fact that the kid was a magician far more experienced and talented than what he looks like and two, The White Giant who hit me hard in the face two seconds earlier. Nice trick kid, to hide a Giant in a Pebble. Ah, now things are getting murkier. Time to die. So long fellow philistines, it was a pleasure plundering with you.

The White Giant chimed twice indicating that the last spin and tumble were done and drained the detergent into the Valley of Elah.

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