Xanadu

Some time in 1991.

0800 hrs. Monday.

I am late. I woke up late. The quick trip back home over the weekend and the late train back didn't help. Sleepy and bleary-eyed I amble across to the bathroom. I open the tap. There is no water coming out. Instead it screams like a banshee; an inwardly wound whoosh of air into the pipe pregnant with a big vacuum somewhere in its entrails. I put my finger into the snout. It gets stuck there. The scream stops. I wonder how am I going to get some water! Class starts at 8.30. 

Water authority in Trivandrum city was still served by pipes that survived the colonial period. The age of those buried aqueducts becomes vocalized between 7 am and 7 pm. That’s when you could feed the taps with anything and it will devour it all. They reminded me of scary science fiction movies where alien trunks from UFOs hovering above the city sucked people into its bellies. My mind quickly went back to the Instructor who would be giving the morning class. I suddenly realized that aliens would never scare me. Once the worse had already happened, you are not afraid anymore.

1600 hrs. Friday.

It is almost dark, thanks to the monsoon. The clouds have invaded and the rain that lashed the ground has formed puddles everywhere. Five of us lived in a 2-house-combo within a single wall approximately 500 feet above sea level, on top of a small hill. (Another reason why water had to fight a failing battle with gravity and age to reach us, our house) There was no proper road that took us to the house. It was more of a crude path drawn into the rocks that polka dotted the way up the hill. It took some skill for you to execute the journey since most of the rocks were boulders smoothened through years and required the traveler to walk, hop, jump and grab when ever required. Friday evenings saw some of our friends indulging in such rock-jumping to reach our house which always welcomed visitors. Watching those guys from our vantage point on the compound wall was like watching a video game. We named our abode "Xanadu" after Mandrake the magician's inaccessible fortress.

0800 hrs. Saturday.

One of our guys was a martial arts student who had occasional delusions about his super human strength. This idea often prompted him to get up on a Saturday/Sunday morning and do flips and splits on the terrace while the rest of us were still sound asleep. There were other houses near by and the closest house also had an ethnic sky-view bath outside close to the boundary wall. It was such a Saturday. Mr Bruce Lee had climbed the stairs for his morning exercise. There was a muffled scream that penetrated our sleep and we woke up wondering if our friend had broken his freakin' neck or something. Later we came to know that it was our next-door-girl who had screamed. She did it when she was  in the sky-view bath sans clothes and noticed   a guy leaping into the air from the near by terrace. Bruce lee had in fact jumped off the roof and had sprained his ankle. His face reflected mixed emotions: pain and perverse pleasure. 

1000 hrs. Sunday.

An unwelcome visitor to our house was calling out to us from somewhere on the rocky road to Xanadu. We went to inspect. This guy was frozen in his tracks half way across the path. In front of him stood a skinny mongrel who bared his fangs and it looked like it was smiling. Stray dogs were many and they were territorial. They assumed that the whole area was their ancestral property and it was true. The only way to escape was to pick up a rock quickly and pretend to throw it at the smiling mongrel. You should not run at any cost. But if you got the timing all wrong, then you have to try scaling the smooth boulders to escape the canines; which was very difficult but a lot of fun to watch from our vantage point. That Sunday belonged to the mongrel. The creature sent our "friend" galloping over the rocks, back to where he came from.

August. 2011.

Some of us are going back to our college for an alumni reunion. Xanadu is also on the agenda. We hope to conquer the rocks one more time. The house , we hope is still there. There are a lot of memories strewn along that rocky path. I heard that the monsoon is already there and waiting for us.

Valentine thoughts: part deux

My dear Son

Do you know that today is "fathers' day"? More importantly, do you know that I am writing this letter to you from an old-age home crammed with similar souls?

My memory is still sharp enough to remember that I was dumped here because of my alleged escapades on internet and a frivolous complaint over telephone from a pizzeria waitress. Without even giving the benefit of doubt to a deserving old man, I had to pack my bags and surround myself with more old age. This mail is to just let you know that I had saved enough money to buy an ipad and my usb modem was safely tucked into my "Cobra" boxers before I got into your car.

Life has a different flavor being in the company of many like me here. The collective angst of old men is a force to be reckoned with as you would soon realize. Our brains scamper in all directions but come back with ideas that will make young studs like you cringe. I must thank you for giving me this opportunity in self-discovery. The pizzeria was a mere sign of the times to come. My son, I am at home. Finally.

Rachel, who lost her husband and has four kids in US of A, is a sprightly thing with money in the bank and time to kill. Conversations with her can't be categorized as an intellectual discourse but more filling than the 3 course lunch I get. How can you ignore a girl who thinks a "belt" is a thing that comes off a guy!

My latest profile on facebook is a bit intriguing with a new name in "Musli- prowess" and a profile picture of Robert Downey Jnr. Finally I have an image that appeals to the 18 to 80 year old. ;-)

The pizzeria girl is not even in my thoughts now. I order Thai food from the near by restaurant and they have these short haired staff who like the way I move! On an average, a call to place an order for sauteed prawns take around 15 minutes. No one needs to teach those kids about the benefits of repeat patronage.

My buddies convey their regards to you. They say that you put me here and added color to their life. We even formed a band called "Vintage warheads". Our covers of the Beatles throw our girls into a trance! Your wife's emotional operas pale in comparison.

Today is Fathers' day, Son. Hope your kids are fine. I am writing this with a finger on the ipad, a hand around a plump waist and a song on my lips. My wine glass looks lovely in the candle light. I think I miss you. But again, I could be wrong. Old age can often mess with your thinking, eh?

Snakes

Susamma was in a dilemma.


The neighbor's wife was older but slimmer. Never seemed to care about silk sarees and seemed to be in possession of just one; "ONE" mobile phone! And she never wore any gold. Which chromosome is she missing?

That first day, early morning when Susamma arrived into this world screaming, legs kicking, her beaming granny gathered her up in her frail but gold-bangled arms and marveled: "Oh she is a chunk of gold!". That sort of did it. Lil Susamma latched on to the first word she heard and decided to dedicate her entire life worshiping the precious metal. The rest is history...still in the making.

So back to the neighbor's wife who didn't seem to care a rat's ass about wearing the precious metal. On the other hand, Susamma carried a minimum weight of 400 gms of the yellow stuff at any point in time including the occassional funerals of a relative. She took pride in carrying the scars on different locations of her pleasantly plump body; all caused through abrasions caused by her gold ornaments. Well...one exception was the dark snake like mark around her waist caused by a tight, heavy waist chain. But no one ever saw it except for Thomachayan, who never seemed to be bothered about it at all especially when the sighting was may be once in six months. While Susamma went through a lot to carry gold and the scars, her neighbor's wife had none on her silly slender body and still men seemed to be interested in her. Susamma scratched her head with a hand that jingled with four gold bangles; each weighing 16 grams each.

Susamma's despair was tripled by an incident that had concluded 2 days back; Thomachayan's friend's daughter's marriage. The horde of gold bearing women at the venue resembled a splotchy sea of yellow and in the midst of it all stood her neighbour's wife Nancy, in all her gold-less glory; wearing just one platinum chain. In her plain and simple raw silk saree, she was graceful as a swan among pudgy ducks with bad make up. Even Thomachayan was found silently adoring that woman. Susamma died a thousand deaths that day and wished a thousand more to her neighbor's wife. Contrary to her habit, Susamma left the party early before the roly-poly women folk dispersed.

Back home, she gathered all her gold from her box, body and book shelves. After meticulous calculations, she put them all back. That night Thomachayan saw the snake around Susamma's waist and a jubilant Susamma sold all her gold the next day for a few pieces carved in platinum. The next day was a beautiful sun drenched Sunday. She wore her shocking red silk saree, wore the platinum, and walked ahead of Thomachayan to the lift. Her timing was perfect. There she was.

The slender neighbor in her lilac cotton churidar. Around her slender neck was a string with a pendant that had all the colors in the world captured inside. Susamma's jaw dropped. Unintentionally, she mumbled, "what is that?". Nancy smiled and said; "Abalon". Susamma, confused, looked back at Thomachayan whose adoring eyes had left the abalon and had wandered over to Nancy's abalon abs.

Susamma's hand absentmindedly went to her waist, barren without the waist chain. She almost heard the snake hissing.

Despicable me

The forwarded mail was inflamed with just anger and indignation. The one who sent it and the ones who saw it before me had entered their names. The signature drive was on. The youth, the old, the wise and the ignorant; my whole country was waking up from their sleeper-cell-slumber in response to a frail man's war-cry. His name was Anna Hazare.

I resisted my temptation to ask my colleague: Who is this guy? Oh don't! Better sense prevailed. What if he thinks that I am such an ignoranamus! Silently I googled and found what I needed to know. Thank God for internet. No one knows what you do not know, what you pretend to know.

For a moment I wondered what would have happened if the Lokpal bill had been a reality a few years back. I shuddered at the mere thought. I had paid the Panchayat, the Sales tax department and many more to get my pet project on the road. Any aspiring business man would have done the same thing. There is a time when principles swell up your throat and you push it down just to ease up matters. I am not the only one. I was just following the norm.

But this mail was in my face. Shimmering in the white virtual glow on my computer waiting to be dealt with. I had to join the millions who would add their names to the ever growing list. Together this would shake the foundations of the servers around the world choking internet bandwidth. A few netizens would rub their hands in glee while raking in thousands in exchange for mail id's they sell to an online viagra seller.

I signed it. Forwarded it to a dozen Indian friends of mine. They were all in their early 40's. Viagra might help. Just thinking about it, I felt aroused.

Remember the guy with the red baseball cap who sat opposite to you while you enjoyed your favorite bbq chicken pizza? I don't think so. Some men aren't conspicuous in a girl's life even if they wear red caps and yellow Tees. When it is a 70 year old one wearing glasses as thick as your arm and a few white wispy stuff adorning his head, it certainly isn't much to look at. But I was looking at you, hard. It took a full minute for me to focus and conclude that you were indeed a girl and you were hot.The short gray hair on the back of my shriveled neck stood up when I saw your ruby red lips as you bit into the medium pan pizza. If an old man is to be judged by what goes on in his mind, I should have been given an electric chair.

As usual, this February also I thought of walking past your house to get a glimpse of you. But my decades old prudence held me back. Some memories are still afresh in the gray matter. Some memories are hard to erase; especially when they involve you. Even if you are pushing 70.

Social networking had been a boon to the super senior lover boys like me in more ways than one. I remember befriending you last February posing as an amateur male underwear model. My facade fell down when my fellow pensioner friend tagged me on our reunion group photograph. Since his eye sight was a notch lower than mine, he tagged the wrong guy. Yet the damage was done. When you removed me from your friends list, I slept broken hearted and forgot to put my dentures in the glass. I woke up with an aching heart, knees, jaw etc and a dry drool measuring approximately 15 cms on the pillow.

Today is February 14th. The day cupid plays tricks with every one who is still in love or searching for love. Baby, I am still love stricken. But I am also stricken by diabetics, blood pressure and a certain illness that makes me change my bed sheets first thing in the morning. But I can't slight that pudgy lil angel who flies around with a bow and arrow. I can't deny the fact the sight of pearly white sinking into a piece of pizza makes me think sinful thoughts. How ever I will never ever bother you again. I will never be an unwanted profile presence even in your virtual world. I am taking my cold heart some where else.

To an old age home, to be precise. It wasn't my choice though. My wife told my son that I have been mis-using the internet connection he provided to see me from his house in California. He saw my profile on facebook and decided that enough was enough. Darling, all my bags are packed and I am ready to go.I am joining my brothers who share a similar fate. I hope to find a fresh meaning in life. I hope to find a pizza parlor there as well. I hope they get customers with pearly teeth ( a full set).And then, one day, I will wear my red cap again.

P.S. Do you know why I am jealous of pizzas? They are held with both hands before those teeth sink in.

Queen's English

That kid was old enough to run around and play. His young mother was with him, doing her surveillance with motherly attention and love. She was talking to him, encouraging him. In their own special language, or that's what I thought; until I was in earshot.

She was talking to him in English. The kid was responding in his own language, like any other kid of his age; a dialect you would understand only if you have spent time with them. However the mother spoke a different one. It was the Queen's English. Perfect in grammar, composition, in that easily place-able Indian accent.

It took only a few seconds of casual observation for me to understand that she was a malayalee. The rubber band in her curly oil stained hair, the soiled salwar,the cheap sandals on her feet and the long, heavy gold chain that adorned a slim neck. It was almost 8 in the morning and the street was already busy. On this by-lane, the mother and son had come to out to play? It didn't look like the perfect time.

The mother was asking the kid to leave his toy car and come back. She kept telling him that they would come later to play. Too young to understand his mother's banter, he went on. The mother didn't really seem to mind. She was more concerned about demonstrating her English language skills. Her furtive glances around seemed to seek the approval of any one who was nearby. She wanted the entire neighborhood to know that she could converse with her lil kid in English. Wasn't it admirable?

I continued walking. Meanwhile the "English speaking" mom had scooped up her kid and had started walking back to their house. I could still hear her talking loud. "Son, we will come back later and play, do not worry". The kid was responding in his mother tongue this time. I felt relieved. You can't mess with some instincts when they are young.

There are many nationalities living nearby with their families. None of the parents speak to their kids in English, even if they all are studying in Anglican schools. Only Indians are more "English" when it comes to casual conversation with even kids. I don't think it was something the British left behind. It is just us Indians pretending to be something we should never be.

We should learn a thing or two from that lil kid. I should have written this piece in Malayalam, to start with.

Mirror mirror...

If I claim that for the average narcissist, Facebook "offers a gateway for hundreds of shallow relationships and emotionally detached communication", a few would even bethink removing me from their "friends list". Such reaction is likely to happen in spite of all my hypocritical glory, I am aware that social networking in general allows me great control over how am I presented to and perceived by other users.

In a survey conducted by a psychologist, young people with narcissistic personality traits were found to parade facebook activity that was distinctly more self-promotional.There was this "pervasive pattern of grandiosity, need for admiration and an exaggerated sense of self-importance."

The survey's results showed "significant positive correlations between narcissism and self-promotional content in the following areas: Main Photo, View Photos, Status Updates and Notes."

Male narcissists were more self-promotional in their "About Me" descriptions, using this section as an opportunity to highlight their intelligence and wit.

Female users with narcissistic tendencies tended to use images in their self-promotion, uploading content that "included revealing, flashy and adorned photos of their physical appearance."

I couldn't help remembering how a few people I had known but not really "known", had been ostentatious and loud on networking sites but timid and shy in real life. Their insecurity grew wings and flapped wildly, perched on a facebook flagpole.

On facebook, even the trivial takes such gargantuan proportions. Why should the rest of the world be vexed with Jane revealing that she is "Out having a coffee with out cream"? Tarzan says he is "swingin again". It is all your fault, girl.

By the way, I have to go now.

"Out driving a tank".

The monkey who sold his ferrari

Heeee....yaaahhhhh!


I leap from branch to branch. If a branch snaps, it isn't my problem. The branch should have known better. After all, the Almighty created branches to support me.


I take a fruit from here; some from there. I may taste two, eat one, throw the rest. The fruit serves its purpose in life by serving my hunger. The seeds that get caught in between my teeth; well they shouldn't be there at all. They made a mistake. They wouldn't make it again.


I enjoy early mornings, moody mid days and lazy afternoons; picking lice, scratching where it itches and grooming my tail. If I don't do it, who else would do ? If you don't have a tail, don't blame me. Some are born with it; some wish they had one.


Some things work. Some don't. Like the ones who tried teaching me alphabets at the zoo. Hey humans; you guys have way too many alphabets! Why complicate life when you have simpler options? Peel the banana, throw the peel, eat the banana. Or when confused, throw the banana, eat the peel. If it tastes like crap; bite your hand. Grimace. Grab another banana. Repeat.


Some things move. Some do not. I wish the tree would move when ever I wanted so that I don't have to move my ass at all.Trees are born dumb. All they do is stay at one place and sway.And the ripe fruits are always at the farthest branch.Humbug!


I have a personality. But I don't know why is it so amusing for the kids. They look at me and laugh. I can't stand what I saw once in the mirror but my consultant told me that it was the mirror's fault. I hate mirrors. Oh wait!..I hate kids more.


I hope one day the fruits will present themselves in a platter to me. I hope the trees will move at my command. I hope bananas will peel themselves. I hope they ban mirrors.I hope I will live for ever.



I am a monkey. I love being one. And I read Dale Carnegie. It is cool.

Face/Off

In Athens, in the 4th Century BC, the great orator Demosthenes ridiculed his rival Aeschines, who was once a well known actor. He called Demosthenes a hypokrites; a technical term for an actor. The latter's skill in acting was considered as undesirable for some one who was taking up politics. An actor who could imitate another person was considered untrustworthy for the public office. All this as it is obvious, happened a long time before the times of Ronald Reagen, Arnold or Jesse Ventura.

I am least bit concerned about what a politician was doing before he became what he is now. But what he would do after could be a matter of concern. However being a "hypokrites" is the common factor between me, Demosthenes and Arnie. But modified versions of course. Interestingly, here the roles of an actor and being a hypocrite, means often the same thing.

The actor and hypocrite in me emerges mostly after the flight touches down in my home state during the summer. Until the rubber skids off the tarmac, I am 100% Indian. Once I step out of the craft, I suddenly turn into a purebred expatriate.

I realize that the trees, the rain and the mud I missed back where I worked, didn't look all that romantic as it were when I explained it to my "firang" friends over some beer and roasted nuts. I suddenly could list a dozen reasons why "my country" would "never prosper" and how "organised" is the way things are "back there".

The familiar stench of human feces at the railway station was unbearable this summer. Must have been the protein rich food that is making the present plump generation plumper.

The apparent disdain to hygiene by street vendors, cab drivers and the pan-chewing men folk was overly disgusting. I wanted to take them by their collar and tell them that they were wrong.

The ride back home in an old ambi illustrated how the public works department employees had been getting rich at the cost of the taxpayer. I wondered aloud why they make cars these days with out air-conditioning. I asked my driver why the public transport buses looked dirty and dangerous.

While my tirade went on, my father looked at the driver and smiled. The driver smiled back. He must have heard this every time he brought back an expatriate to his town.

Back at home I had more complaining to do before the religious procession blocked traffic for half a day, during the intermittent load shedding and after the telephone line died in the middle of a conversation.

I also didn't forget to ridicule my aunty over her silly confusion in choosing which saree to wear for our old family friend's memorial ceremony in the evening. I scoffed at all the gold the women wore and poked fun at the pot bellied men who competed in the same category along with their women.

At the pre-dinner cocktail session I explained to the men about the differences between whiskey, brandy, vodka and other beverages while they got more impatient as I offered them my wisdom.

A month later, during the ride back to the airport in the air conditioned comfort of a chevorlet, I found the stench of uncleared garbage a lil less disturbing. I saw the rain clouds in the horizon and wondered if the flight would face turbulence. The greenery whistled past the car and the hypocrite in the chevorlet felt sad...and a bit ashamed.

To Bee or not to Bee

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Blackberried

I own a Blackberry.

A typical Blackberry day of mine starts at 4 in the morning.There wouldn't be any text messages I haven't read or haven't replied to because I always respond asap no matter what time it hits my device. But I will check it just one more time, just to be sure. At 12 midnight, 2 in the morning, while I am taking an afternoon power nap, I would get up and diligently answer everyone except the frequent adverts on free credit cards and the discount sales at the Armani Exchange. No body is ignored. I try to go back to sleep; but I am awake, looking up at the ceiling, bleary eyed.

I used to meet friends, have a beer, talk about family, work, women. But now conversation is different if the guy I am talking to owns a blackberry. We end up talking Blackberry. We share wicked jokes on the "storm" and the "curve". We exchange insane ring tones and sleazy mms all the time glancing at the others in the pub, wondering if they would all die one day missing all the Blackberry fun. We feel proud that we "have" and they "havent". We feel sorry for them and order another beer.

The story isn't any different in the restaurant. I never order pasta because it would mean using two hands to coax that food down your throat; which means that until I am done eating, my Blackberry would be out of the warmth of my palm,left alone, cold in the air conditioned solitude of the dining room.I would rather suck pasta till I am red in my face.

Official meetings can be slow death if you have a Blackberry on silent mode. Every vibration quickens your pulse rate and pulls you agonizingly through the blackberry-withdrawal-symptoms. My fingers twitch to check those life-saving text messages. My heart yearns to answer that call from a bored friend waiting for a taxi.And once the meeting is over, I pull out my Blackberry and Richard Marx sings "right here waiting for you" right into my soul.

I have recently noticed that my right thumb looks a wee bit larger than the left thumb. There are some parts of my right palm that feel slightly different than before. I feel an occasional fake vibration in my right trouser pocket even when the Black berry isn't there.

I facebook at funerals. I text while making love. I browse when I work, not at work, at home, not at home, when i am breathing.

I do not own a Blackberry. Blackberry owns me.