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) ...

The Anatomy of an air-travel

Take a BMTC bus, remove the conductor (preferably his age-old leather bag too), fix the windows and weld them tight to prevent ambitious youngsters to try a trick or two, clean up the usual paaam-paaam bulging-honk, drive it into a room which has wallpapers of cloud formations pasted everywhere and make violent shakes . Yeah, that is how your first trans-continental flight feels, and that includes movies much like our buses down here. no wonder airbuses are called airbuses. And when i say a bus, i mean a bus, only a bus, and nothing else but a bus. They only had to screen some rajkiran movie and i would have happily told myself am on my way from madurai to madras.

If you are a travel-phobiac who lives smelling lemon and eating avomine (anti-throwup tablet) when travelling up a hill, you going to have a ball when the flight lands. I had one, and if i hadnt actually controlled the urge to throw up, the guy sitting next to me would have had one too.

As you slowly doze off thinking of all those tv ads with nice seats and feathery pillows, waiting for your pretty looking airhostess to cover you in sheets as you dream about home, you see a passing-by hostess give you a hopeless pillow and sheet. Now what you saw on tv was the business class, and unless you have a singularly impressive relationship with your travel and business managers, you can only cross it with a sigh as you walk your way to economy.


"Sir, would you like pork fried rice or beef stew" is a question that can throw me off even if am on firmer ground. It is a question which would probably make my great-grand father pick up a cannon from his british times and shoot us off the air. Everytime someone says pork, i dont see little white pigs playing happily in a picket-fenced lawn, but big, black, hairy ones rolling in ditches. Cant really think of a better appetite-killer. I gave a feeble "I asked for a vegetarian meal". I think the lady suppressed a laughter out of respect for her job. "Your last name ??". anticipating silence. "Sir, we dont have a vegetarian meal in your name". disappointed silence. "but we seem to have an unused veg meal in someone else's name. would you like to have it". On any other day, or if i was in a restaurant at home, i could've made faces and walked off. But since to walk off i would need a parachute and the south china sea is not exactly my favorite landing spot,i said yes.

She brought me something which she thought was vegetarian. I thought it was stale pongal with spinach and tomatoes. One spoon of it goes in and i thought we entered some turbulence zone. No, this was a turbulence in my own personal universe since if what i ate was vegetarian, then the Earth is a parallelogram. "Err.. is this vegetarian" "Sir, yes sir" "You sure ??" "Sir, yes sir" and that is when it dawned on me that the word vegetarian is such a relative term. For a bengali brahmin, if fish can be a vegetarian, for someone who loves snails and squids, chicken is probably pure vegetarian. Ah, no, i dont pick my menu from discovery channel. thanks.

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

To Infinity & Beyond

After the interview with the guy behind a bullet-proof glass, who wanted to just look at my academic record, and thankfully, not my criminal record, my visa got stamped. Yeah, i understand, no major incidents, just go to chennai, meet up with friends, meet up with embassy officials, get visa and come back the very next day. peace. fun always begins later with me.

first things first. packing. all this hype about the world being a smaller place with the internet is nothing. if the world had been so darned smaller, why would i have to buy two oversized suitcases which can actually fit in two-slightly undernourished adults ?? And if you thought buying two suitcases and later buying stuff to fill it up is trouble enough, just wait till you have to stuff it in. It throws up a peculiar problem. First, you find the suitcase is big, so you make a new list of items to carry and then you realise the new list would need few more suitcases. now you cant go and cut down on your items coz you have made the list after careful scrutiny. Eventually you give up coz if you think of taking anything more you will have to be couriered through DHL on cargo.

the second is the travel plan. in my company, the current emphasis is on saving costs. saving people from gruesome death by being crushed by co-passengers comes a distant 23rd. so our travel desk finds this route that no one had ever heard of and route me through it. bangalore-bangkok-tokyo-san francisco. did i hear you sneer ?? more than the trouble of flying this route, its the explanation you have to give people who suddenly develop such an interest in your itinerary and grill you as to why you arent flying through frankfurt or singapore. "daringly different" is a decent enough answer, but hey, i also get to play marco polo doing all this multiple hopping across asia.

The third part is keeping up with your folks. It doesnt help if you are the first in the family (the first circle of blood relatives) to fly across an ocean. The tens of cousins who flew in and out like it was an evening movie are stale news and are not considered for the time being. A barrage of tips as to what to eat, what not to, where to eat, w.n.t, how to eat, h.n.t can cause severe repulses in your already clogged neural system. Universal facts gain unprecedented importance and you are recited them regularly by every family member in turns. "Dont ask for strangers for directions", "get home early", "obey all traffic rules", am so glad they skipped toilet-training me again.

the fourth and final part is the toughest part, to pretend you are all excited about this trip. If you can fake it, yep, you are there. no puli kaachal (tamarind gravy), no paatti (grandma), no mom to fight with, no folks, its actually pretty difficult to look excited you know.

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

The Perils of Nomenclature

The stars gave a message on the day I was born. Just that my dad was busy deluding himself that he is now the proud father of some sort of neo-alexander and failed to notice it. No, the stars did not want my parents to give me back to them when i was 16, you read a lot of hindu mythology for your age. They just wanted me to have a name starting with the thamizh alphabet "Na". Dad grinned coz he had already worked out a name for me, star or no star. The stars gave up with an audible sigh. When the odds are stacked against them, they safely quit and become black holes.

One thing my dad didnt realise at that time was there were many other dads who had seen the same movies he had, who had a son born at the same time, who had got hit by falling meteorite and for some unspecified reason decided to name their son with a "unique" and "hip" name. Sadly, the idea of global perspective was lost on them. Result, one just had to call my name and an army would turn up in response. Actually, that wasnt the biggest problem.

I had to sit for half my life in the front bench because a few bone-head professors wanted the class to do a mexican wave when they call out the roll numbers, and Roll No. 03 comes within the spit-zone of most of them when they lecture. They never gave me an umbrella allowance even,

I get the report card first in school which means the teacher is fresh and raring to let me realise the imbalance of wielding authority in the relationship we share. His dotted-cane simply slurps and asks for a quick bite.

Having a name that rhymes with baloon, and looking like one doesnt help much.

Actually, when i sit back and think, maybe it is not __that__ bad.

- Can't really seem to remember an occasion when people had a problem trying to find my name from a list. Now, that could be because an apparent lack of people trying to find me. Can't really blame them. In biblical times, No one really went in search of Lucifer.

- Am so glad my surname is not Babu. Gives me the feeling that i am wearing loin-cloth.

- Often, my nick is the same as my name. It is a real challenge to make a shorter nick than a four-lettered name. (Three letters in my mother tongue).

- North Indians neither chew my name and spit it out like paan nor do they mistrust me like am a ISI agent from the south. I am not Senthamizhchelvan or Muthamizharasu or ShenbagaPandian.

- Non-Indians are happy too since my name is not as orally challenging as Parthasarathy or Vijayaraghavan or Kasthurirangan (Seriously, we need to have them in mind before we name our children).

- In the blind man's world (Read: A world with Mpumelelo Mbangwa, Romesh Kaluwitharana, Sidath Wettimuny and Ryan Sidebottom), the one eyed man (Read: Me) is King.

Man, I love my name.

There, Enough narcissism for the day.

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

Here Goes

"What the hell" could be your first reaction. The idea that someone actually blogs about this could put you off. You havent seen the other blogs i have seen, this would probably get the booker against that.

"26 years and you are saying this is your first time, tsk tsk tsk" might be your next reaction. FY Kind I, we live in India. What an american teenager gets to do countless times before he goes to college, an Indian adult would be praying to all Gods to do even once. Well, not all Indian adults per se, we've definitely improved over the last decade or so. But nevertheless, most of them atleast.

"So, you got lucky. Big deal, huh" is your next possible reaction. Let us not get too judgemental , shall we ??

"Considering the lofty standards you have set, what did you goof up this time" is probably around the corner. Uhmm, yes. I think i just kept on laughing which would've been, uhmm, slightly uncomfortable for everyone else involved. Yeah allright, it doesnt matter what others think and as long as you are happy its okay. But this is not just about me, is it ??

"So, how did it feel" would be your curious next question. It felt a bit strange to begin with, but once we got the feel of it, it felt .. it felt like i was in the air, flying, the clouds were under me, me soaring through the skies with absolutely no one to stop me. I guess it takes some time to used to it. Should check if every first timer fumbles a bit, laughs to himself, and slowly enjoys the feeling.

"So did it end, and if it did, how did it end" is a natural question. Oh well, all the usual crap about "all good things should come to an end" is taboo. Saying "it was good until it lasted" is probably rude. But i have to say, for some unknown reason, i felt my stomach churning towards the end. The feeling as if, as if someone is pulling you back to earth from the sky, when you were just enjoying the feeling.

"What next" is what i hear. Uhmmm, given a chance, i guess i would want to do it again. Regardless of how other are going to see it, or if am going to get that familiar stomach churning feeling, am going to do it again. 26 long years is long enough to be desperate for more.

Thank you Indian Airlines.

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

Veni, Vidi and Annegato

I Came, I Saw and I Drowned. If you so badly wanted to read tolkien for some reason (which could range from "just want to check what all this hype is about" to " sheesh, elrond and aragorn have common ascendants") and you saw the silmarillion and you had this inkling of "hey, now __that__ looks like a small book to read" and you picked it up, Congrats, you just won yourself a life membership in the Fools' Guild.

The Silmarillion is small, and LOTR is huge. But that would be like saying "Sanjay Bangar is a much-feared bowler than Shane Warne because he bowls faster". To put things in perspective, LOTR has three important battles (Helm's Deep, Pelennor Fields and Isengard) and one great war (The one in front of the Black Gate). Silmarillion has five great wars, numerous important battles and countless minor scuffles (that you could rate alongside the tom bombadil part or shelob).

If that wasn't enough the big-bad-ass villain turns out to the boss of Sauron, and he is not as lame as sauron to have just a bunch of sun-fearing Orcs. Our man has goblins, werewolves, an array of balrogs (LOTR had just the one doing a catwalk in khazad-dum, while here we have them whipping up some serious smoke), a whole family of dragons and, guess what, the great grand-mother of shelob. And you have the easterlings, the dwarves, the eagles, the valar (the god of the gods) and the maiar (demi-gods), and by the looks of it a sword in your hand to cut me up. Whoops, point taken.

The Silmarillion has a mind-boggling collection of names which sound absolutely nutty when read but have some inner-meaning when broken up and translated. I cant seem to remember a time when remembering names was a problem. Sounds strange ?? Check this out: "finrod, feanor, fingon, fingolfin and finarfin". I am sure on first read, they all sounded the same. No, they arent. And that is 5 of the zillion names out there which sound very similar too. Would it have been easier if the characters were named in a more-understandable way, like "Chellamuthu" and "Thangapandi" and "Mannick Basha" ?? Hmm, Nah. That would've reduced JRR to the levels of Rama. Narayanan, and that would be sacrilege.

One person, by virtue of their existence in middle-earth with its strange customs, has more than one name by rule of thumb. His/her parents give him/her a name which usually has something to do with "everlasting light" or "sweet scent of victory". Our man grows up and one day runs into a dwarf and befriends a whole horde of them. They get so impressed by his "songs" and they call him something in the dwarvish tongue, something like "the steadfast" or "rock-solid". Our man doesnt stop there, goes into elf-land, falls in love with an elf-maiden and along with the maiden, gets a whole list of elven names, "swordking" or "orcslayer". After all this, as if names werent enough, our man fights lot of orcs, ends up losing his hand or fingers and gets names like "One-handed" or "Nine-fingered". Phew. His ration card would've looked certainly strange.

Silmarillion answers most questions that one might have, and it answers more than that at times. If one thought multiple names to people was a problem, swords, horses, towers, plains, seas, caves and forests have more than one name too. Thankfully, Tolkien didnt know any other geographical phenomenon.

Timelines are not respected in the Silmarillion. Tolkien runs through 300 years in two pages and a few generations of people in a couple of paragraphs. If he had been around to do a LOTR-ish expanded writing of The Silmarillion, even a cat with all its nine lives intact wouldnt have been able to finish it on time.

The book deals a heavy blow to your ego with its intricate details, gives you feeling that you have alzheimer's with a spate of family-trees of great houses of middle-earth, and challenges your reading ability with the first two chapters which are an exercise that would leave you with a feeling if this is the language you studied since kindergarten. But like an Old Trafford pitch in english summer, which makes you work hard early in the morning and eases out as the day progresses, it opens out to be another tale of friendship, love, betrayal, loyalty and honor. All in all, Two Thumbs Up from me to The Silmarillion. If you liked LOTR for the details, you going to love The Silmarillion. Five family trees, Three maps, A complete character/name index and A Tolkien fans' delight, an elvish dictionary, come with the book. Howz that for "details".

PS: If you happen to know Italian and Annegato happens to be some sleazy word, blame it on google.

PS2: If you have any questions on Akkalabeth or the War of The Third Age, dont ask me. I havent come there yet. I just read the part which says "This is the end of The Silmarillion" and i am still yapping in my own personal sunshine of gloating, even though there is 1/6th of the book to be completed.

PS3: The "Unfinished Tales" would remain Unfinished with me. Until i am done with PGW and Pratchett atleast. So long JRR, for making all the train journeys worth it.

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

SageSpeak - All Is Never Lost - VI

========================================

"You say something now", said an eager looking Iris.
"bwa"
"well, of course, something __other__ than bwa ghe wa, whatever that means".
"....", John looked like a lost puppy.
Iris giggled, said "chweeet boy" and gave something like a nibble on his cheeks and ran in.

Kathryn walked up to him and said "I am happy for you".
"I know", said a now calm looking John.
"But you didnt have to drink, you know .. She would have said Yes anycase".
"..."
"Breaking the promise you made to your mother, I dont know John, I think you shouldnt have drunk. But hey that is just me. You got the girl, Lamar and Crow would get their due and all is well."
"Kathryn, I didnt drink"
"What??"
"I said, I didnt drink"
"Again, What??"
"I couldnt bring myself to do it .. I couldnt bring myself to drink that darned thing not just because i promised to my mom, but because, because i hate the feeling of having something in me that controls me rather than me controlling it"
"Yet again, What??"
"Well, yeah .. I went a bit overboard there .. dont mind .. Bottomline is I didnt drink .. I just splashed some stuff on me to look drunk"
"But, why would you do that"
"I dont know, if i goofed up today also, which i could have so easily done, I could feign ignorance and blame the alcohol when i meet Iris again", said John with an innocent look. He just couldnt look sheepish".
"But John, do you understand that if you had screwed up today, considering the magnitude of what just happened, She would've never even looked at you ??"
"I know kathy, I know .. But i had to take my chances .. I had to give a shot .. Even if i had failed today, i would have tried again because i know something"
"which is ..."
"No matter what you do or no matter what happens, Love will always find its way."

===========================

The Oldest Member adjusted his suit. He was looking at an inebriated Arthur running into scores of people, trying to balance himself and get out of the bar in one piece. The Oldest Member couldnt bring himself to imagine how it is going to be when Arthur would meet his girl that night. He didnt know if Arthur could find his way back to the right house. He didnt know if Arthur could find the right girl that he wanted to talk to. He didnt know if Arthur could find the right words to tell her.

But he knew something. Love will always find its way.

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