The Price You Gotta Pay

It was five in the morning. It was a balmy October day and the trees stood still. The town of Chittoor was pregnant with expectation. Chiranjeevi's Raakshasudu was releasing that day. The Chiru fans' association had arranged for a special show. Quite a few people I knew were going for the special show. I wished I knew someone that would get me inside MSR movie hall for that show but I wasn't lucky. But, that didn't dampen my spirit. Srinivas and I were ready with our star: a bamboo and cardboard affair with an assortment of Chiranjeevi's pictures stuck on it. That was the tradition then. If you were a real fan, you installed a star (no matter how small) in the movie hall. On day one of the release.


I have to tell you about movie stars and their fans in Andhra Pradesh. Guys were fanatical about their heroes. In 1984, fans of Superstar Krishna created a record of sorts by erecting the biggest star for the release of Kanchu Kagada, outside Srinivasa movie hall. The imposing star made of bamboo and gray paper stood more than 25 ft tall. I don't think that record was ever broken. If that wasn't crazy enough, they showered rose petals, money, and what not when their beloved star appeared on screen. The movie hall would erupt and explode what with hundreds of fans screaming. I know of people that were injured when a one-rupee coin hit them. Fans would take over the balcony, the high price ticket area, days on end. It was easy to shower flowers and coins from the balcony. If you were one of those budget types that chose to sit in 'First Class,' well, a coin or a coconut just might hit you.
Altercations broke out between fans of different stars quite often. Chiru vs Balayya was the most debated topic. All fans had the numbers on their fingertips. How many centers recorded 100 days? Fuck the 100 days, what were the collections? Oh! Balayya's fans forced the movie hall to run the movie for 100 days! He can't dance! Chiru is dark! Balayya wears high heels to hide his short stature. And so on. I know a guy that broke his nose because he forgot Balayya�s fans outnumbered us and yet, he commented on Balayya. Pow! Came the punch. We kids called it 'Mukku Pachhadi' (Nose Salad) in Chittoor.

Srinivas and I biked it to MSR Movie Land, on his dad's ancient Hercules bicycle. He sat in the 'Carrier' behind the rider's seat, holding to our 'Star'. And I pedaled hard. By the time we reached the movie hall, it was already six. There were a million stars occupying every nook and corner of the movie hall's facade. We ran like our lives depended on it. The special show crowd was already there. The show was about to start.
'We'll get tickets for the evening show. Don't worry.' Srini said. I was disappointed nevertheless. What kind of fans were we! But what can a couple of 12 year olds do? We had trouble finding a nice spot for our tiny star. It appeared tiny now. There were bigger, better stars. Some even had serial electric bulbs that blinked as if mocking us.

Just as we were climbing a wall to reach the massive billboard that faced the road, a security guard screamed 'Get the fuck down you bastards!' And he pointed a stone at us. As I slid down the wall, I slipped, and hurt my leg. The skin on my knee peeled. It was white one moment and in the next, it filled up all crimson. I bit my lip and faced the security guy and said, "Fans...fans association. They asked us to put this star."
"Of course, why don't you convince me you are Chiranjeevi himself? And, what star are you talking about!?" He said and laughed. I hadn't noticed, but Srini had dropped the star and it was crushed beyond recognition. The special show crowd had trampled it. I stared at Srini for a moment that lasted forever. He was devastated. He adjusted his spectacles a million times. And we both broke down. The tears broke free, washed my face. The special show started. It was just the two of us. We were about to leave when we heard the security guy screaming at us.
"Park your cycle. Do you have money?" He said.
We were perplexed.
"Don't just stand there like idiots. Get in. Sit on the floor in front of the front row. All for two bucks! Now!"

We paid the security chap and parked the cycle. We flew through the tiny opening in the Iron grill gate. I almost tripped and fell again. That's when I noticed that the cut on my knee was bleeding profusely. The security guy signaled to the usher guarding the Entry door. And, we walked in and squatted on the ground, right under the huge screen, next to a bunch of gypsies. They were smoking beedies. Some were chewing scented tobacco and spitting all over the place. One gypsy woman was trying to feed her wailing baby. We didn't care. My knee hurt a lot. But as the lights went off, and the screen came alive, I felt no pain. We didn't let our hero down. That's what mattered then.

When we were riding back home, I asked Srini
'Do you think all this trouble was worth it?' I was sitting at the back and he was riding.
He mulled over it for a moment and said,
'There's a price for every experience. And what you get is a priceless memory.'

I honestly don't know what the heck he meant, I mean, not too many 12 year olds spoke like that. But that line stuck with me.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

'Pitchi' Rammurthy

The bogeyman of Pagadamanu street in Greamspet, during the early 80s, was none other than 'Pitchi' Rammurthy. Pithchi means mad in Telugu and no prizes for guessing, our bogeyman was as mad as mad can get. He strutted about, perennially clad in a dirty white shirt with no buttons and a dirtier white dhoti, drawn up and tied up at knee level. His yellow, front teet jutted out and rested outside his mouth; you could drive a car through the gaps between his teeth. He was half bald. The remaining grey, frazzled hair clung to the back and sides of his head. He looked the part but that's not what made our hearts skip beats. It was his war cry.

He walked up and down the street around lunch hour, when the sun tried in vain to fry the town. And he would scream at passers by. "Narikey. Lanjakodukuni narikkeyy!" (Hack that bastard down!). That was his war cry. But he never stopped and troubled anyone. He just walked about cursing. No one knew who or what he was cursing. But new comers peed in their pants during their first encounter with Rammurthy. Funny thing was no one had ever heard Rammurthy say anything other than the war cry. Not a single word!

I have heard young mothers tell their kids that refused to eat or do their homework "If you don't... well, I'll hand you over to Pitchi Rammurthy!" It worked like a charm.

The teens in the neighbourhood teased him albeit from a safe distance. The adults steered clear, for I am sure they were scared of him but their pride didn't allow them to admit it.

Rammurthy survived on the left-over food that the folks gave him. He never begged mind you. He was too proud I guess. He'd just make an appearance and the generous, kind hearted housewives offered him food. He retired for the night in two or three houses. By that I mean, he'd sleep outside in the verandah or on the granite benches ("dhinna"). He was the bogeyman for the kids all right but folks knew that he was quite harmless.

Mom gave him food on and off, and I stared at him from behind the window in the bedroom. Though he never spoke a word to anyone but he expressed his gratitude with his body language. He'd nod or offer a slight bow, eat his food, and depart.

One morning, I think it was a Sunday, I got up around seven and opened the heavy wooden door only to find Rammurthy sleeping. He got up with a start and glared at me for what seemed like ages. He had dark circles around his brown eyes. Just for a moment I thought I saw an incendiary rage in his eyes. Just for a fleeting moment. But it instantly changed to a kinder look. He clucked his tongue, adjusted his dhoti as he stood up, and said "DheergaAyushmaan bhava!" Sanskrit for 'wish you a long life.' Of course, no one believed me when I told them that Rammurthy spoke to me.

Years later, after we moved out of Chittoor, I heard from a friend that Rammurthy passed away. Somehow, I felt sad. After all he was probably the only benign bogeyman in the world.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Grandmaster Muniyandi: The Sham-Sac (concluding part)

[Continued from Part 1 and Part 2]

Young people, especially those that are heartbroken, are a showy lot. Ravi was no different. His world knew that he was, to use the archaic term, �licked�. Or as boys in Chittoor called it, �she gave him haath�. Like all rejected lovers, Ravi went into a stage of sleeplessness, lack-interest-in-life-ness, and solitude. He tried talking to her but the city girl was brutal: she would not budge. She even cracked smart lines (which part of get lost you didn�t understand?). Some thought she was overboard, and some, enjoyed it.

Then started a procession of speakers, veterans at the game of love, that argued, pontificated, and reiterated the rallying cry of all failed lovers: girls are vicious.

Ramesh, poet-cum-failed lover-cum-classmate told Ravi, while smoking endlessly into the night, �They look for status. Money. Bike? Cars! And not your heart. Never! Your heart Ravi, my dear brother, is of no value to them. Look at the irony! You don�t even possess your heart now, for in the name of love, you gave it away.� Ramesh sucked hard on the dying cigarette and as the smell of burnt filter filled the calm night, he shrugged as if saying �No further questions your honour�.

Ravi took to drinking. Once, when drunk, he carved her name on his arms with a switch blade. He listened to Telugu movie love songs and cried. His parents misunderstood his drinking as the usual juvenile enchantment with intoxication and admonished him as they saw fit. But Ravi walked through it all, like a zombie. He did start taking precautions to avoid confrontations with his folks. Himabindu on the other hand completely ignored him and stopped all contact. His efforts to gift her 200 roses were met with an icy �Get a life!� So he spread the roses outside the college and told curious onlookers �Moksham for the flowers when she walks on them! Narakam for me, for she did walk all over me.�

Ravi stopped playing Chess too. The NGO Home panicked. They tried talking to him and cajoling him but Ravi just was not interested. �When love deserts, what can Chess do?� He told Ramanan, the retired Commercial Tax Officer, who was utterly bewildered by that poetic line.
�Try ENO, it will help.� Ramanan said to Ravi.

At the end of the academic year, Bindu left Chittoor. Her father was transferred to Vizag. And Ravi was inconsolable. He somehow found her address in Vizag and wrote letters. When the letters didn�t elicit a response, he started sending Telegrams. �My life is as meaningless as playing without a queen.� �Your en passant killed this poor pawn.�

Bindu�s father made a phone call to his brother who was a top cop. The Circle Inspector of 2-Town station visited Ravi�s folks and explained in no uncertain terms that such acts can make life uncomfortable for Ravi. �I am sure he can get a loan and set up a pay-phone booth to make a living out of it, but think about it, your son will be a physically challenged person� right now he is only mentally challenged. Please fix your son unless you want us to do the honours.� The Inspector apparently told them. So Ravi, who had flunked his exams, was forcibly packed off to his uncle�s home in Mysore. His parents wanted him to realise his dream of becoming a Grandmaster. The Mysore uncle, who was the reason why Ravi started playing chess, wrote to them saying �I will ensure that this young Knight is back to the central squares. I will do all within my reach to move him from this dark, corner square.� Using chess metaphors, it seemed, was an age old custom in Ravi�s family.

All this while, an interesting development took place. Muniyandi, who was doing odd jobs at the Jaggery Mandi, made a come back to the NGO Home. A few of the regulars did rejoice upon his arrival but the emotion segued to rude shock when Muniyandi stood at the head of that huge chess table and announced, �I want to play a �simultaneous�. With all of you. Now! Thoo nee amma!� Muniyandi wanted to play all twelve of them simultaneously. Ramanan had a knowing smile on his face. He knew that it was the pictorial Chess problems book that he�d gifted that propelled Muni to take such a stance. �Tactics� Bala, the guy with really curly hair and a pock marked face lit his cigarette at the wrong end and he coughed out like a bat flew into his throat.

The gang did agree for the match. Probably because they didn�t want to dampen the enthusiasm which Muni amply demonstrated. Who doesn�t like an underdog? As it turned out, Muni beat ten of them, drew with one, and lost a match. The net result of this exercise was that Muni started playing tournaments. The one-eye chess hurricane from Chittoor impressed the fraternity not just with his chess but also with his showmanship in the evenings. Snippets of Muniyandi�s exploits started appearing in the papers. The NGO Home gang pooled in money and bought decent clothes for Muni after the fiasco in the highly rated Palani tournament. Muniyandi entered the tournament hall clad in a blue and white checkered Lungi, unkempt hair, and with an unlit beedi dangling at the side of his mouth. The tournament organisers had a collective cardiac arrest. Some of the country�s best players were playing and they didn�t want an incongruity that was Muni to be a part of the otherwise perfect picture.

Muni left the hall and came back after a couple of hours. Drunk like a rapist in a Telugu movie and armed with a switch blade. He threatened to obliterate the reproductive systems of the organisers. The cops came in and all in all, it was seen as an insult to the fraternity in Chittoor. So the NGO Home gang took it upon themselves to make Muni presentable. They bought him nice clothes and got him to cut his hair. They even made him promise that he wouldn�t smoke or drink during tournaments. Of course, Muni also had to take an oath on his violence.

Through it all, Muni kept asking Ramanan on Ravi�s whereabouts. Ramanan visited Ravi�s folks and found out about Ravi�s Mysore plan. He wrote to Ravi and asked him to play in the prestigious Rajiv Memorial in Tirupathi, one of the most prestigious tournament in the state. But, Ravi wrote back, saying that he was not interested. The NGO Home gang then did a signature campaign and sent a letter with some 50 signatures and a thumb impression (of Muni�s) and urged him to come back. That did the trick and of course Ravi�s uncle in Mysore apparently told him �You are declining the love of so many people just because one girl was mean to you? It is like saving the queen and losing all your other pieces!�

Muni did bump into Ravi at the NGO Home but he was utterly shocked at the sight of his Lord. Ravi was a mere shadow of the man he was! Dark circles under eyes, a stubble, and a generally depressing disposition made Ravi look like a patient. Another man would have put a arm around, or even hug and say a few comforting words but Muni lacked that knack. He just flashed a bleak smile at Ravi and kept to himself. Ravi really didn�t care too much about Muni anyway, so the stalemate persisted.

They went to Tirupathi in an APSRTC bus. One of those Red ones. Muni, knowing that he won�t be able to drink during the tournament, was drunk. He smoked much to the irritation of his fellow passengers. There were also a bunch of piligrims from Tamilnadu and Muni tortured them by screaming �Govinda Govinda� at every hill he spotted. The Lord�s seven-hills abode was another 40 km away but the Tamils didn�t want to take a chance and joined Muni in a chorus of �Govinda�. After a while Muni got bored of it and slept.
The tournament organiser was also the State head of the Chess association. Mr. Naidu escorted the gang from Chittoor to a wedding hall, where accommodation was arranged for all players participating in the tournament. They had arranged for cooks that made food for the players in the kitchen of the wedding hall. That night Muni picked up a fight with the head cook. He called his Sambar �Cow piss, thoo nee amma!� Before they hit their beds, the players socialized and before long were playing rapid one-minute games with the aid of chess clocks.

The tournament went on smoothly. Muni and Ravi were the only ones from Chittoor that registered wins in the knock-out tournament. The rest became spectators. Ravi sailed through seven rounds. Though he was not at his best, he still was a handful. Muni on the other hand was the surprise package. In the seventh round, his opponent was Rao from Nellore, number two of the state. In the morning while inspecting the pairings along with Ravi, Rao asked him �So is this Muniyandi a rated player?�
Ravi said �No� but I hear he�s good. He has only one eye, I hope you know that.�
�So that�s a free point for me right there huh?� Rao said.
�You can say that��

Muni was playing black, popularly considered a disadvantage as White gets to make the first move. Rao played the first move, by moving the King pawn two squares up. Muni thought for ten minutes. It is unusual for players at this level to spend any time in the opening. Most of the opening moves are well theorized and are dispensed with, with minimal thought. Muni�s clock was ticking away. When he made the first move, he had consumed ten minutes of his two hours. He played the French Defence. It was not a popular opening as it cramped the Black in the opening stage and most times did not allow Black to castle his King. Rao started a vicious attack on Muni�s King. Muni, it appeared, was clueless. Around the 26th move, Muni stunned Rao by capturing a white pawn and placing his Queen in a beautiful position to charge Rao on the Queen�s side. Rao�s attack slowly dissipated and before long he was frantically defending his game. Around the 37th move, Rao capitulated and resigned.

It sent shockwaves through the tournament. �Was Rao too careless?� �I thought Muniyandi played a brilliant, unconventional line� and so on. Ravi was surprised but happy for Muni. The only thing that saddened him was that Muni would meet him in the final round.

The final round started. Muni played white and opened with the King pawn. Ravi played his favourite Sicilian defence, a combative opening where Black played for advantage and not just equality. Around the 30th move Muni sacrificed one of his Bishops. A gasp echoed in the hall. Most thought it was a blunder. Ravi too didn�t quite get it. Four moves later Ravi realised the beauty of the combination that Muni was playing. It gave Muni a staggering advantage to attack the King. Muni who was poring through the board all this while looked up and saw the look of devastation in Ravi�s eyes. Ravi looked at Muni and managed a feeble smile. Something happened to Muniyandi at that moment. He stormed off after playing a move and lit a beedi.

Muni was sad. He didn�t want to hurt his Lord. After thinking hard for about ten minutes Muni entered the hall. Three more moves later, Muni gave away another piece. Ravi was stunned. It looked like a good move, for it allowed white to make a lot of noise. But, after thinking through, Ravi knew that his opponent, who was playing like God until then, had miscalculated. This was surely a blunder! A few more moves later, Muni resigned. However, he was the number two now. At least in the district! Ravi slapped Muni�s back and said �You almost got me there!� Ravi never told anyone that he almost resigned after Muni�s first Bishop sacrifice. After the prize distribution was over, Muni headed to the nearest wine store and got drunk. Not because he was sad but because he was ecstatic.

As he was drinking his third one, Rao and Ravi entered the store and Muni ducked for cover. Ravi told him that it was all right.
�Saar why are you spoiling your health? Don�t drink saar please!� Muni said to Ravi.
�I am drinking because I am celebrating Muni. For coming back to the right path after getting lost.�
Muni nodded as if he understood. �You want pickle saar? Tastes nice with the rum.�

�He almost beat me!� Ravi said.
Rao nodded watching Muni, who was talking to the wine store clerk.
�Almost. Yes. But he knew what was more important.� Rao said.
�What?� Ravi was amused.
�He played the second sacrifice to lose the match. And he didn�t want to offend you by making an obvious blunder. So he thought of a combination that looked lethal but lacked the venom. He is a genius! Now, don�t ask him and kill his happiness. Look at him! He is so happy!�

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Grandmaster Muniyandi-2 - The Queen's Gambit

[Contd from part 1]
Ravi cleared his throat, took a deep breath, coughed and said "Pleased to meet you. It is a privilege to meet you." He found it difficult to not stare at the wonderful contours her t-shirt made. Just when he was about to thank god, Muniyandi appeared on the scene from nowhere and said "Hello madam, come tomorrow for autographs, sir is tired now."

Ravi felt like a whore in the church. 'Thank you god, that was a nice touch' Ravi thought and turned to Muni and was about say something when she said "Who the hell are you now? His personal assistant or something?"

Muniyandi nodded in agreement and said "Yes, yes. Sorry but you won't know how Chess can make you exhausted..."

"Shut up Muni!" Ravi shouted. Muni was bewildered. Here he was protecting his lord from an unruly fan and lord doesn't even say thanks!

"I am sorry, he is an idiot. He hangs around here all the time and acts like he is everyone's best friend." Ravi told her.

Muniyandi's world blew up. The weight of his master's words took a little while to sink in. When it did, Muni felt like he was mowed down by a speeding truck.

A crestfallen Muni left the hall and lit a beedi and sucked in a lungful. As tears broke free from his good eye, he sat down on the Cement bench in the lawn and mopped his face with a dirty towel that he always carried. His wife was right. She always warned him, 'Ravi saar is from a good family... I know the girl that works as a maid in their house. So don't you get him into any trouble!' He always dismissed her. 'Hey sarthaan podee, I know what I am doing. Thoo nee amma!'

As darkness fell, Ravi emerged from the hall but stopped to talk to Ramanan, the retired Commercial Tax Officer who played lousy chess. That girl was not around; probably, she left? Muni got up from the bench and waited at the gate. In the adjacent, dark lane that bordered with the sub-jail, people were throwing stuff into the cells. The lane was always dark, for people broke the street lamps every time the Electricity department replaced them. So they stopped replacing lamps. The cops knew about people passing on stuff from across the wall, but didn't bother too much... after all it was the petty criminals that were remanded to custody here. Muni felt sad for them and so once in a while he would throw a pack of beedis or some snack like Murukku inside a cell. He would scream 'Muniyaandi gift raaa! Thoo nee amma!' And they always thanked him in chorus 'Namaste annaa!'

He moved away from the glare of the tea shop's Hurricane lamp and waited in the shadows. The 'Pump' stove from the tea shop was going at full blast and a bunch of vadas sizzled in the pan. Muni longed for some tea and a couple of those hot vadas. But he suppressed his craving and got ready to apologize to Ravi.

As Ravi approached the main gate of the NGO Home, Muni became nervous. He stood in Ravi's way and said,
"Sorry saar!"
"What sorry? Don't you have manners? It is all my fault. Who the hell are you to tell my friends what they are supposed to do?"

Muni gulped. He didn't understand why Ravi was being so irate.

"Saar, I know how Chess can drain you..."
"What the fuck do you know about Chess? Just because you know how to move the pieces does not make you a player! You don't tell me how Chess works. Enough, I don't want to talk to you or see you again. If you disturb me again, I will call the Police."

Muni bit his lip as tears rolled down his face. He adjusted his glass eye, blew his nose, and mopped his face with the dirty towel again.

"Saar don't say that please... you know how much I respect you and how much I love chess... please saar"

"You love chess? What the- never mind! You claim you can't see half of the board... why don't you go get a job or something? Love chess! Now, leave me alone. Like I said, I will not hesitate to call the police if you disturb me again."

And Ravi left a wounded Muniyandi.

That night Muni visited the Arrack shop near Prathap cinema. He drank like there was no tomorrow and started abusing people around him.
"Thoo theri maaki! Chess theriyumaadaa bosadikey! Chess? I am a chess player. Man of the match in the Penumur tournament. And you, ask me to shut up? Lavadey ka baal! Narikesthaa! I will cut you to pieces and make a side-dish out of you." He told the guy behind the counter. And before long a scuffle broke out. Three guys beat the crap out of Muniyandi and packed him off to the two-town police station. It would have been fine if Muni had shut his mouth with the cops. He called the constable's mother some unspeakable things and opined that the sub-inspector was a 'Kojja' (eunuch).

Muni's wife pleaded with Ramanan, the retired commercial tax officer and lousy chess player to help. Ramanan was also a former office-bearer of the Chess association and he always thought Muniyandi had potential. He spoke to the cops, paid bribes, and got Muniyandi out. But by that time, the cops had had their share of fun. Muni could barely get on his feet. His glass eye was missing. They found it by the water pot in the corner of the cell. They had to carry him to an auto. It took ten days for Muniyandi to get discharged from the government hospital.

It made news in the NGO Home. Some sympathized with Muni. Ravi was not one of them. Most people extracted entertainment out of Muni's misery. They made jokes and laughed out loud. Ramanan visited Muni who was still recovering and gifted him a wooden chess board and a Chess problem book that did not require one to know how to read. Muni cried yet again. After Ramanan left, Muni's wife asked him,
"What the hell is wrong with you? Saithaan!"
"..."
"Why don't you go to the Home in the evening ya? Play some Chess..."
"No. I am not going there."
"What happened?" She persisted.
"Nothing dee Kaidhey! Summa iru, nee amma! Thoo!"

That was that. No one saw Muni at the Home after that for more than six months. No one knew what happened. No one cared. Once in a while, someone spotted him in the Jaggery Mandi, unloading sacks.

In the meantime, Ravi's hopes grew. He met Bindu every day. He even went to her house and her father was pleased to meet the Chess champ.

One day after college hours, Ravi and Bindu were discussing a variation of the King's Indian Defense.
"Your birthday is coming up... what plans?" He said.
"It is just another day and I am an adult... nothing I guess?"

Ravi nodded. He could not fathom it. Is she attracted to me? Does she know what I feel for her? He could never tell. She had a lot of guy friends that wrote to her. Ravi was angry but was careful enough to not display it.
'You should meet Pawan, he is such a sweet heart you know?' 'Once Raju, Prince, and I went to the Golconda fort...'

What the fuck was wrong with that city? How could a girl go on an excursion with two guys!? A girl that wore tight Jeans and tighter t-shirts! God! Was she 'experienced'?

These questions swarmed and buzzed around in Ravi's head. His friends also told him how city girls were 'fast' and about how they don't care for 'love' but only for bikes, biceps, and money. Once or twice Ravi decided to not pursue her but the resolution lasted only till he met her next. All she had to do was laugh. Her lustrous, smooth, raven-black hair bounced around in utter glee when she laughed. She clapped when she laughed and looked to heavens. The gentle undulations of her t-shirt added a beautiful touch. And he fell in love again. And again. And again.

The college grapevine speculated: Ravi got her. We saw them kissing in the forest department nursery. They got secretly married. And, people congratulated Ravi. Winked at him. Slapped his back. 'You think she does not know what you feel for her? Get out of here! Women! I tell you. They want you to make the move first.' Ravi was almost convinced that it was only a matter of articulating it and formalizing the relationship. He can ask her to stop wearing jeans and t-shirts after that.

On her birthday he met her at the Durga temple in the morning and gave a bunch of roses and a greeting card. 'I have something to show you... after college?' Ravi said. She was thrilled with the roses he thought. It was all falling in place. They would be just like the Thipsays. The husband and wife chess champs!

Ravi could not concentrate in the class. He waited for the final hour to end. As soon as it ended he ran to the park bench under the Neem tree and set up the Chess board. He arranged a chess formation. It was a Checkmate in five moves problem. But there was more.

She came after a while.
"What are you doing here?" She said, shaking his hands. He shrugged.
"Mate in five. White wins. You think you can crack it?" He said.
She smiled and hunched over the board. After a few minutes she got the solution. It was quite simple. The white queen moved right next to the Black king and it was mate.

He was quiet. He collected his thoughts.
"That's what happened to me too." He said.
"I didn't understand...?"
"Um... You came into my life. And mated... I mean, it was checkmate for my black... I mean I have nowhere to go... I l-love you?"

The afternoon breeze picked up and whistled through the trees. From beyond the ZP quarters a goat bleated.

"WHAT?!" She yelped.

"You love me? God! Now you know why I never tried being friends around here? You guys... Ravi I thought you were different!"

A sledgehammer crashed into his heart.
"Wh-what? I thought you knew it all along... I mean... what's wrong with me?"

"It is not about wrong or right... I don't feel that way... anyway, never mind, it was nice knowing you. Good bye."

And she stormed off his life.

(will surely be concluded in the next post)

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Grandmaster Muniyandi - 1

Vishy Anand won the World Junior Chess Championship and the small Chess community in Chittoor celebrated. They met at the NGO home, next to to the sub-jail, like every evening; the Chess association secretary distributed sweets. It was business as usual after that in the NGO Home. Some men played 'Ring' in the front lawn. The chess club members huddled over Chess boards, under ancient filament lamps with monstrous glass domes. Right beside the huge teakwood table that hosted Chess, people played Carrom board, which had a filament lamp hovering over it... it made the Carrom players look hideous, as the Carrom board reflected light and lit their faces partially. There was no other lighting in the Home's hall. It was always dark, damp, and smelt like an old book.

Muniyandi lit his 240th beedi of the day, adjusted his glass eye, and tried to focus on the chessmen with his good eye. Muniyandi always complained that he could see only half of the Chess board, a ridiculous idea all right but people indulged Muni. Muni also claimed that there were thirty criminal cases on him (including attempt to murder) but the cops would not dare apprehend him. "Othha they know how I lost my eye now, don't they?" Muni would snarl. If any unsuspecting person did inquire about the lost eye, Muni would seize that opportunity to take the inquirer to the tea stall outside the NGO Home, sit him down, and start his unbelievable story. It was all fiction. We knew. But that's what Muni did to get sponsors for his tea, snacks, and smokes. The general concept of his 'how I lost my eye' story hovered around Muni's valor: how he fought 45 (or 150 sometimes) rowdies single handedly, before losing his eye in hand-to-hand combat. There were a few at the Home who believed that Muni's wife must have popped his eye off. It seemed quite plausible, for Muni was an incorrigible drunk and he stole money from his wife when he ran out of cash.

So how did a big-mouth, 4-anna hustler develop a passion for Chess? No one knew. It was one of those flamboyant aberrations of life. Muniyandi, however, claimed he was always in love with the game. He was a good player. His tactics on the board were nothing short of brilliant. But he lacked the much needed strategic perspective to move up and become a rated player. Also, he could not afford Chess books, the best resource for learning the art. Not that it would have made a difference, for he couldn't read or write. There were a couple of 'rated' players in the club: Ravi, the second year B.Sc student from the Arts college, was one of them. Muniyandi revered him.

Muni accompanied Ravi to all tournaments in and around Chittoor. The year before Muniyandi had even participated in a tournament in Penumur. Ravi got the first spot and Muni actually got the third place! For reasons best known to them, the organizers chose to call the third place winner as 'Man of the match'.

Muniyandi collected the prize money, a princely sum of 75 Rupees, slipped out, got drunk, and came back to extract revenge on the organizers that had played a cruel joke by calling him 'Man of the match'. It was his maiden win in a tournament! According to Ravi, Muni pulled a switch knife and waved it at the terrified organizers and said "Nee amma! Man of the match! This is fucking chess, thoo nee amma!"

Only Ravi knew that Muni was harmless. The people of Penumur actually fell for Muni's antics and believed that they were in the presence of a fearless outlaw. Ravi whisked away Muni before the shit hit the fan and jumped on the first bus back to Chittoor.

From then on Muni became the self-proclaimed bodyguard of Ravi. It was irritating for young Ravi but his sense of humor prevailed and he generally did not mind Muni and his antics.
NGO Home's only hope, its rising star was Ravi. He won the district championships, and went on to win the State championship. The modest chess club from Chittoor produced a champion! The Chess club presented Ravi with a cheque of four thousand Rupees. Ravi used up the cash to buy a good Chess clock and books on Chess openings. Muni found a lot of pride in being Ravi's assistant cum bodyguard. All the retired, older men did not quite like it but they didn't want to argue with Muni, understandably so.

Himabindu, a stunningly pretty girl moved to Chittoor from Kurnool. She became Ravi's classmate too, in the Arts College. She was also the state number two in women's chess. Himabindu attracted a lot of attention. She was probably the first girl in Chittoor that wore Jeans to college. If that wasn't revolutionary enough, she wore a t-shirt, which said 'Little Bo Peep did it for insurance.' Not one guy in college understood what that meant but they did stare at the location of that text for prolonged periods, making guttural noises. Himabindu ignored the naughty boys in college that passed comments when she passed by. She refused to accept any love letter from anyone. She broke quite a few hearts. But no one tried to mess with her. Her dad was a high ranking official in the Zilla Parishad. Her uncle was a top cop in Tirupathi. So none of the boys tried getting cute with Bindu.

Amid all this love blossomed. At least in Ravi's heart. To him Bindu was the dream girl. She played chess! Was a champ! Looked like a goddess... he dreamed of discussing chess with her, going on long walks behind the Z.P quarters right behind the college. He also dreamed of Bindu embracing 'Indian' clothes, just like those once-arrogant heroines in Telugu movies that saw the wisdom behind the villager hero's words and ended up wearing Kanchi silk saris even to bed. However there was a small problem. Bindu made no attempt to make friends in college. She was always spotted reading some book or the other, all by herself. When some girls did try to make conversation they were met with a luke-warm response. However, there was hope. He was the state champ and she had to come around. She did.

That year the Chess club at the NGO Home hosted the university chess championships and Ravi swore to himself that he would produce a spectacular performance. Muniyandi never left the table where Ravi played. He was more nervous than Ravi himself. During a game in which Ravi played black, things got tricky. Ravi played the French defense and his opponent launched an all out king-side attack. It looked bleak but Ravi knew that it was only a matter of time before he wrested the initiative. But Muniyandi could not see as far. When Ravi stepped out after finishing his 40th move, Muni ran behind him and very seriously suggested "If it looks like we are losing, I can arrange for a win. I just need to have a word with your opponent." A horrified Ravi explained to Muni that it was not needed.

On the girl's side, Bindu was cruising to the first spot. It was the penultimate round that swung Ravi's fortunes. Ravi sacrificed his queen, the most powerful piece. It may seem spectacular but Ravi knew exactly what he was doing. But the spectators gasped as he played that move and before long, there was a small crowd huddled over Ravi's board. Bindu was there too. As Ravi wrapped up the match in style, the crowd applauded. Bindu shook his hand. As the crowd dispersed that evening and Ravi packed his bags to go home, he spotted her walking towards him. His heart rammed against his ribs and his knees started shaking.
"You were brilliant... It is a privilege, meeting you." She said. She had large, expressive eyes, which were accentuated by Kajal. Ravi wanted to reach out and touch her face but he thought the better of it.
"Oona ulkah hrooo?" he said. He wanted to say "You are a champ too"
She shifted on her feet and raised her eyebrow as if asking 'What the fuck did you say sir?'
Ravi cleared his throat, took a deep breath, coughed and said "Pleased to meet you. It is a privilege to meet you." He found it difficult to not stare at the wonderful contours her t-shirt made. Just when he was about to thank god, Muniyandi appeared on the scene from no where and said "Hello madam, come tomorrow for autographs, sir is tired now." (concluding part in the next installment)

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Tailors of Chittoor Part 3

With a week to go for Diwali, my mom broke the news: 'Go to dad's office and pick up the cash. We are shopping for your trousers today!' She said. It was a second Saturday and a holiday for me. She was happy for me. She had convinced dad that she didn't want anything for Diwali, as she had a new Saree; a gift from her sister.
'Where are we going shopping? Shoba Paradise?' I asked her.
'They are expensive da kanna. We'll go to Setty's shop in Greamspet?' She said, cajoling me. It meant we were going to buy a pant 'piece' and have a trouser stitched out of it by none other than Balaji, the master stylist and self-proclaimed fashion aficionado. I could live that I thought.
Dad's office was some two kilometers from home. I had to walk to the Colony gate to catch a bus. I normally got down at the MSR cinema stop and walked up to my dad's office next to the RTO's office on Darga road. I was giddy with excitement. A million thoughts raged in my head. A trouser meant that Vachi will no longer look at me as a 'boy'. That reminded me about that Rose. It would bloom in another couple of days. I realised that some girl on a gleaming BSA SLR bicycle was screaming my name. Vachi! She was riding a brand new girl's bicycle. The vermilion and sandalwood paste dots on the cycle were probably still wet.
'Got it today! Appa's gift!' She gushed and rang the bell 'trrngggg'. I looked around if people were watching us. I didn't want to give more ammunition to Tailor Balaji. That's how small town romances worked. All hush-hush. Only, there was no romance here. Just a boy and a girl meeting up on the road and we still were not old enough to worry about prying eyes. She was wearing a purple dress that contrasted her lemony complexion. There was that sparkle in her eyes. And of course, the Gokul Santol fragrance filled my lungs. I was happy that I met her but something was tugging at my heart, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I wanted my dad to buy me a cycle. But I knew it was not going to happen. I mean I almost had to hire a lawyer to fight my case for a pair of trousers.
'Where are you going da Kutty?' She asked. She was the only one, other than my parents, that called me by my nickname.
'I am going to my dad's office. To pick up cash. We are going shopping today for clothes.'
'Hey! That's wonderful. So you are getting your trousers? Your mother was telling mine how you were adamant about it.'

I cursed my mom for letting out my personal information to, of all the people, Vachi's mom.

'I want to be the first person outside of your family to see you clad in trousers da Kutty. I will never talk to you if show your trousers to someone else first.' She said.

That was the first time, in the two years I had been friends with her, she had said something like that. Something personal and intimate. I liked the idea of her having a 'right' on me. I smiled.

She rang that god awful, shrill bell again and said 'Bye da. I have to show off my cycle to my girl friends.'

I said 'bye' and started walking when she called out again.

'Hey, do you want to borrow my cycle?' She said.

The sun was behind her. She was the world's best silhouette. I wanted to say no. One, I didn't want to be spotted riding a girl's cycle. Two, it was her brand new cycle, which she got probably a few hours back.
'No Vachi. I'll take the bus...' I said.
'Why are you treating me like a third person?' She yelled.
I looked around to see if anyone caught that intensely personal remark. I didn't know what happened to my girl that day. She was being all mush. It was new to me. She was never like that. Personal and demanding. She was always the girl with pigtails, who liked to play silly games. But that day she was being, um, one of them, you know... Women!

'Ok! Ok! Stop screaming. I will take your cycle. Are you sure? Your folks won't be mad at you?'

'Don't worry about that. I will wait for you in Sreelakshmi's house.' Sreelakshmi, her classmate lived in the lane right behind her house.

Somewhere at the back of my head I felt it was a bad idea. But I could not say no to her. So I took her cycle and was on my way to dad's office. I stopped at Balaji's tailor shop. He raised his eyebrows and said 'Whose cycle is that da Madraas!' I ignored his question and told him that I will be giving him the trouser cloth and that I wanted the trousers a day before Diwali.
'Don't worry da. I will deliver it two days before Diwali.'
I stood there staring at him cut cloth. The Scissors made a lovely, smooth sound as it cut through the cloth 'Katchikk'.

'This is my first pair of trousers nnaa. Please make it memorable for me.' I pleaded. He stopped cutting, dropped his scissors, and patted my face. He was moved I guess, with my melodrama.
'Don't worry da Madras. I promise, you'll remember me all your life.' [...to be contd]

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Tailors of Chittoor Part 2

Continued from Part 1:
Diwali was on November 2nd. They were dismantling the huge shelter, at the entrance of our colony, they'd built for the Dasarra festivities. Strangely, the weather was cold. It was seven in the morning. I was walking down to the entrance where I had to catch a town-bus to school. The cold air caressed my legs. Balaji Tailors were open early that day. On an impulse, I walked into the shop and found Balaji and his assistant laboring away. Balaji was probably 27 or 28. A tall, lanky chap with soft hair and naughty eyes. I did not like his mooch though. That was probably because I was not able to grow one. There was a huge teak-wood table at the entrance and under its glasstop, Balaji's collection of all those newspaper cuttings and ads from magazines stared at me. I stared at those models wearing those trousers cut by angels. Oh those pleats and the baggy cut! I was not sure if Balaji could make a trouser like those in the ads. I have heard of guys complaining about crotch-smothering trousers and about how Balaji always defended "That's what you asked for! I followed your instructions." I thought of hiring the services of Hi-fashion Tailors or MegaStar Tailors in the town. But, they were expensive and they won't take my order in the first place: they were too busy during Diwali time. I sighed and looked at Raju, the assistant stitching buttons on a flouroscent orange shirt. Whoever the owner of that shirt was, he was definitely brave. Raju bit the loose ends of the thread and spat out.

"Ennadaa Madras, when are you giving your clothes for stitching? I am busy already. If you want yours by Diwali, hurry up. Tell your dad." Balaji said. The 'Takai' Tape Recorder was playing some shitty song. Any song on that thing would sound awful, that's another thing.

"Get yourself some Spun material. I will make a nice baggy trouser for you." He said and pointed to a model under the glass on the table. "That's the one I am talking about." 'Yeah. Yeah. Sure!' I thought.

He was a smooth operator all right. Rumor had it that he had moved to our colony because he was thrown out from the center of town: he was getting naughty with the girls . He was a good looker and definitely had the charm. I had seen so many girls spend hours standing outside, behind the glass-top table and laugh even when Balaji sneezed.

"How is your girl friend da?" Balaji asked. A big grin creased his otherwise flawless face. This was his favorite theme to tease me.

"Get lost!" I said. How the hell do these guys figure out these secrets I wondered. I had feelings for her but I hadn't told anyone. Not even to my close friends!

"She is not my girl friend okay anna? Don't say such things again." I said.

"Okay! But she asked about you. You are not in the same section I see? She is in 8th A? Yeah, she was asking me if you gave your clothes..."
I jumped on it. "When? When? When? What did she ask? Was she alone..." and he started laughing. The retard Raju was also laughing unmindful of the spittle spraying on that orange shirt.
"Get lost nnaa!" I said and ran from there.
"Give your clothes fast da!" He yelled out.

I reached the arch at the entrance of the colony and No. 4 'Vedam' arrived with it musical horn. 'Paapa-peen-peen-pa. PaBaaaan!' I jumped into the bus from the driver's end and waved at Qadir behind the wheel. He had a permanent smile creasing his awkward face and the pronounced, firm jaw added a steely aura to his demeanor. He nodded and winked. I settled down in one of the front seats and rummaged through my pockets for change to buy the ticket. I was wondering why Qadir had winked.
"Ah, rey-rey" the conductor gave his signal and banged that bell. I took the money out. The bus had not moved. Probably someone was coming. I turned towards the colony and found her running.
The sun caressed her golden face. She looked stunning even in that stupid Green and white uniform. I looked at Qadir and was surprised that he was looking at me with a knowing smile. Why was the world being so nice to me, I wondered.

She jumped in, saw me, and sat next to me. She was gasping for breath. The bus moved.
"Thank you da!" She said. She thought I'd stopped the bus. I did not tell her the truth. When the world was being nice to you, you enjoy the ride. Her arm was grazing against mine. Her hair was neatly combed back. Two really cute clips stood proud at the front. A dash of ash (Vibuthi) right beneath the black bindi, in some weird way made her look hot. The fragrance of Gokul Santol Talcum powder filled my lungs. Vasanthi a.k.a Vachi was a beautiful girl.

I knew her from sixth standard. We were family friends apparently. The moms met often. When my mom made a special dish, my mom would send a portion of it to them. Her mom too reciprocated but not as often. I hated the way her mom looted our Curry leaves tree. The tree was bald now, thanks to Vachi's mom. I was planning to give the first bloom from our new Rose plant to Vachi. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do.
[...to be contd]

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Angry Young Teacher

Everyone was scared of Suresh sir. The new science graduate from PVKN College, Chittoor. His explosive temper was almost legendary. Even Mallik, the Correspondent of Anita Tutorials avoided confrontations with Suresh. The lady teachers though had little to worry about. Suresh was nice to them, especially to pretty lady teachers. I kept a very low profile in the Tutorials. Especially in Physics and Math classes which Suresh taught. We were five of us in the 9th standard classes (English Medium). One pretty girl and four boys. And I was the shorty of the class. As you may have already read elsewhere, I wore 'Knickers' or Shorts to school as well as the Tutorials. The other guys wore trousers. Shaved daily. And looked like men. Probably were having sex too on a regular basis. I, on the other hand, hanged with the 7th standard boys, played marbles, read Disney, and sat in the front bench. I looked the part I must admit but the three guys didn't give a shit about me as I posed no threat: I was not in the race to win that girl's heart. I was her kid brother's friend. Sigh!

I was happy with my uneventful life until the day Suresh started Magnetism classes. I had read up and researched on it earlier and I couldn't keep my mouth shut. While he was explaining the basics of Magnetism, I just put my hand up and finished the class for him. Now, I am no geek. It was just a coincidence that I knew Magnetism better than my entire class. It was an aberration. My family celebrated everytime I scored more than 35% in math. But Suresh thought I had potential. Our Tam-Bram connection too probably made him pay attention to me, I don't know!

"Dey Soplangi, when did you study about Electron spin and all?" Suresh said.

I looked around. My heart was racing. My nails dug into my clenched, perspiring fists. I unclenched my fists and rested my hands on the coarse floor. I wanted to take a leak. I was resting so much on my hands that my crossed-legs slightly lifted. Iyengar yoga I guess.
I wanted to say something cool. Something that told the arrogant bastards in my class who I was. And, of course, I wanted this moment to change the way Mini (the solitary girl in the class) looked at me: I wanted to graduate to 'my friend' from 'my thumb-sucking kid bro's friend'. But all that came out was

"Eyouhaahazti?"

The sniggering echoed against the unpolished, jagged walls of the room. Mini looked uninterested. She was busy poring through the text book.

"Enna daa? Muttaal! Say something coherent" Suresh said.

I took a deep breath and said,

"I read up on it. Sir..."

"Very good." Suresh said and turned to the losers and Mini and said, "I'd appreciate that kind of proactive learning. Don't study only to crack exams. Study to know. Your Physics book can be as exciting as Desmond Bagley's The Golden Keel."

An uncomfortable vacuum developed. All of them wore blank stares as if saying 'What the fuck was that? Golden Keel?"

Suresh turned to me and raised his eyebrows and said
"Dey Asamanjam, do you know who Desmond Bagley is?"

That was familiar territory, all right. I was one of the two guys, in our class at schoool, that read English novels back then. And, my family physician had a small library. It had James Hadley Chase (with newspaper covers to hide those lovely, revealing women on the covers), Alistair Mclean, and of course The Golden Keel.

"That's a novel about Mussolini's hidden treasure and how a group of adventurers smuggle it out of Italy, using the keel of a ship..." I said. My chest expanded by some 40 meters.

Suresh stared at me. A crooked smile was creasing his bespectacled face. I noticed the green veins on his muscular forehand. He punched walls to strengthen his punches. Some of his thick, unruly hair stuck to his forehead. A trickle of sweat drifted down his side-locks. He was still staring with that 'Unfuckingbelievable!' smile stuck on his face. I glanced around. The boys were already packing their bags. And, Mini was smiling at me!

"Not bad at all!" He ended the staring and said.

I wanted to tell him that I was not exactly one of those studious and/or brilliant wankers that aced all their exams and went on to become engineers or doctors. I was in school because my dad wanted me in it. I hated school. I was not a complete dufus all right but I wasn't Krishna (our class topper, another shorty) or Ramesh (topper from 9th C). He slapped my back with his Pop-eye arms and said,
"Class dismissed." The other boys slithered out of the class. Their worried faces told me that they knew, they now had new, tougher competition. Mini stayed back to edit her essay with Suresh's help. I was about to take off when Suresh said, "Dey wait, I need to talk to you." I slammed my brakes and I stood there like E.T. in a bowling alley. Mini had expressive eyes. She had a way of animating with her arms. Like when she asked a question, her outstretched palm too asked it... almost like a classical dancer. I was salivating at her and before long she finished her essay discussion and left. I thought she flashed a smile at me but it was probably my imagination.

Suresh was busy stacking up some papers on the shelf behind his desk. We were in the office room now. He switched the table fan on and settled down on his chair.
"Sit da!" He yelled.
I sat at the edge of the chair.

"What else do you read?" Suresh asked.
I stopped playing with the paperweight and told him about Chase, Mclean, Tintin, Asterix, and of course Disney. I also told him about how I read anything and everything. About my disagreements with Yendamuri. About how Yerramsetty Sai copied Wodehouse. He did not utter a word through it all. When I ended my chatter he said.
"You don't want to be an engineer, no?"
I gulped. It was like swallowing a Cricket ball. If I said 'no' and he went and told that to my dad, that would be a catastrophe. I blinked and made some incoherent noises.

"It is okay if you don't want to be one. At least you know what you don't want da. Look at me, my dad wants me to study engineering after my BSc and I have no choice. I have to do it. You don't know my dad. Hitler never died. He came to Chittoor and married my mom."

I nodded. Hmmm. Even teachers suffer from dads. He continued.

"Your dad seems a man of reason da. So tell him what you want to do. Set his expectations. You still have time."

I nodded in agreement.

"You got talent da Soplaangi. Make use of it when you have time. Have a dream and pursue it." We spoke for some more time. He treated me like an equal. He wanted me to read Ayn Rand (I will never forgive him for doing that to me. That was death by prose!)

That was that. As he pedaled away on his Bicycle down the slope, I felt a strange pain. I wrote my first novella in a 200 page notebook that night. I wrote till 2 A.M. When I finished scribbling 'The End' and closed the notebook, I knew that Suresh sir was indirectly responsible for unleashing another wannabe writer.

I never did any of what he asked me to do. I did miserably in school and college. I never bothered. But his words from that day made a lasting impact. He was the first person who told me I was good. That I was talented. I don't know if I am, but I believed in him. I believe in myself. He probably forgot all about me. He probably forgot our conversation in the next hour. But, to me, it was a start. I don't know how you tell a good teacher from the ordinary, but I know now. A good teacher makes you believe. That, and only that counts.

Happy Teachers' day.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Tailors of Chittoor Part 1

Winter was just around the corner and my folks finally agreed to get me full pants (or trousers as they are known now). My dad found it inconceivable that an 8th standard kid should be wearing trousers.

'I wore half pants in PUC!' He exclaimed every time I raised the topic. I am sure your dad wore loin-cloth in college I used to think. Almost all the boys (but for Koya I think) had graduated to trousers. The peer pressure was tremendous. Stonewash Jeans. Classic Denim. Baggy trousers. And I was the odd boy out. The sore thumb. The front bencher.

A trouser those days (new clothes in general) was a costly affair and it was indeed a luxury for us. Readymade branded wear had yet to make a splash in Chittoor. Shobha Paradise had just started advertising their ready-wear in Gurunadha Talkies I think. Before Diwali though, Shobha Paradise intensified their marketing promos. They hired auto-rickshaws fitted with those loudspeakers (those cone-shaped monsters, yeah) and sent the auto around. The ad man sat in the back, next to the PA equipment and between stanzas of Chiranjeevi songs, shouted out the script: "Shoba Paradise! Visit today! Shoba Paradise, sirrrr!" I suspected that it was the same guy that hawked Ginger confectionery at the bus stand (Inji maraabbbbbbbbbaa!, sirrr!). Every time the promo auto passed our street, I used to stare at the display hoardings stuck to the auto on the sides; at those kids clad in with a million pleats and imagined myself walking into my class, clad in those trousers and a baggy t-shirt.

I gave up on my dad and started pestering mom. It took me a week to convince her to try convincing dad. A few days later, my dad summoned me after dinner. He was sitting in the Verandah, drowned in the old wooden chair that creaked everytime you moved. Mohd Rafi was singing a soul stirring melody (Ab kya Misaal dhoon...) in the Philips radio. Despite the static, Rafi sounded like God. A couple of moths were flying around in the Verandah. A dirty 60W filament lamp was struggling to keep the dark at bay. And I could hear the strains of Ghantasala's Bhagavadgita from afar; the Durga temple at the entrance of our colony was playing it. Some over enthusiastic kids were already bursting crackers. Diwali was still a week away.
'This Diwali we'll get you trousers along with half-pants da.' Dad said.

I was confused.
'Daddy, I don't want to wear half-pants anymore. I am only growing older if you didn't notice? Even Koya has decided to quit half-pants... It will be very embarrassing for me, no?'

My father grunted and sighed and mumbled something under his breath. He looked up at the noisy fan and told my mom 'We need to clean the blades, borrow the ladder from the landlord.'

I bit my lip and started slapping my sides. Dad finally cleared his throat and said,
'What I meant was, we'll buy you new half-pants and I wanted you to alter one of my old trousers and start using it...'
I shot a glance to my mom and she shrugged hinting her helplessness. I wanted to scream.
'So I guess that is fine then?' dad asked.
'....'
'What?'
'No dad, I don't want the half-pants. I want a new trouser.'

His head rose from the newspaper and through his thick-glass spectacles his eyes started drilling holes on me.
'It will cost you only a little more... come on, please.' I pleaded.

There was a long pause. An irritating pause. He knew I was restless and anxious, yet he chose to mind-hump me by pausing for an eternity and talking about cleaning the ceiling fan. I was staring at the alarm clock in the hall . It tick-tocked away, while mom was cutting Spinach. My dad snapped the newspaper straight for the 34000th time and did his grunting routine again. Every penny counted for him. Every extra penny meant compromise. The festival advance that the government gave its non-gazetted officers wouldn't buy all the boys (we were three) loin cloth. I was feeling guilty but I chose to ignore it, for exposing your hairy legs brought with it something even worse: ridicule. And I was ready to go on the guilt trip. I wanted my trousers, for my knickers were in a twist.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Blast from the past: B M Reddy

On November 11 1990, the PVKN Arts College Cricket team created history. We won the inter-college tounrament for the first time in the history of the college. I don't think the college repeated the feat.
Our captain was B.M. 'Chilka' Reddy. A drill master, leader, and one of the finest batsmen that the town produced. He played for the state but was not lucky enough to break in to the big league. During the run up to the inter-collegiate, we practiced twice every day. Practice included fitness training and the notorious fielding training, in which each player (all alone) would pick the ball that Reddy would hit, and shoot an accurate throw into the irreverent 'Kombu' our keeper. If you misfielded or if the throw was wayward you had to do a lap on the ground.

Looking back, I think the only reason I can think of why we won the tourney against the mighty SGS College (Tirupati) was discipline and B M Reddy. After winning the inter-collegiate, we went on to win the inter-districts in Tirupati. That evening, a really drunk B M Reddy tried to kill me with a Mysore Bonda. I refused to go buy smokes or something, and he wanted to teach me a lesson. And, all that he could find was a cold, oily, sorry ass Bonda. He hurled it at a hungry me and I dove to my right and caught it and ate it before he could say 'hic!' I choose to believe that we are still good cricketers because of him. Hats off B M 'Chilka' Reddy.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Dichhaa

On my way to work this morning, I spotted a bunch of kids training for Karate in a neighborhood park. The middle aged, lanky master was shouting those Karate shouts and the kids responded in a thunderous chorus, moving their limbs as if they were slicing some invisible butter. And, a thought struck me: what if one of these kids, when they grow up and become software professionals, is confronted by a Bangalore auto driver or a mugger? Will Karate be enough?

After much thought, I arrived at the conclusion that even if you are an expert in Karate, Marathe, Kung-Fu, Kung Pao, Jin Tao, and every other martial art there is, a seasoned street fighter will kick you donkey to Uranus under 30 seconds.

On what basis am I concluding on this? You'll never ask me that if are from Chittoor.

I think I was in my first PU then; my friends and I'd just finished drinking our 'crush' (grated ice mixed with sewage water, sweeteners, and colour additives.) As we entered school, I noticed Anif (name changed), the body builder, walk towards Bhaskar (name changed). Anif's eyes were glowing; he swung his arms ferociously and his fists were clenched and white. There was a ghostly chill in the air, the boys and girls automatically moved away and made way for Anif. Even the boys playing cricket had stopped the game and were staring expectantly at Anif and Bhaskar. Bhaskar had no clue (or he pretended so) until Anif stood face to face. My curiosity got the better of my fear and I edged closer.

'Why are you talking to my girl?' Anif hissed.
'She's my cousin, what the fu....' Bhaskar did not even get to finish what he was saying. I saw it in slow motion. Anif's head arched back only to swing back and bang! I never saw Anif's forehead hit Bhaskar's nose. In a blink of an eye, Bhaskar was lying on the ground, his face all bloody. Anif waited for him to get up but Bhaskar looked like he was settling down there so much so that I wanted to say 'Good night Bhaskar!'
Anif eyes darted around to spot any of Bhaskar's supporters and he spotted me. A mighty shiver ran down my spine and my left knee started shaking like a Congress government.
'H-h-hey! Sir, h-how a-are you?' I bleated.
He did not even bother reciprocating. I was disgusted that I was calling a guy that never will pass 9th standard in his life 'sir!'

Anyway, what Anif did is called, referred to with a lot of respect, in Chittoor as 'Dichhaa' (pronounced 'ditch-aa.' No, not like 'coming aa?' 'Kings aa?' 'Yesssaaa?')

Do not try Dichaa at home. You need professional assistance to learn Dichaa. I have seen young men train hours on end, hitting their foreheads against punching bags. I know guys that break bricks with their foreheads: Dichaa!

But, nothing is as disastrous as a Dichaa gone wrong. For example, Suri, two years my junior and colony mate, tried a Dichaa on Raju. Now, Suri was all of four feet some inches. In all probability, he is still that. He picked an argument with Raju over the number of balls Raju had bowled. Suri claimed he already had bowled two overs and that it was time to retire from the game. Raju, who detests sarcasm in any form, held Suri's collar. Now, if you are wondering why does none of the onlookers ever separate those that fight, well, peace sells, but who's buying?
Anyway, the moment Raju held Suri's collar, all of us stopped whatever we were doing and we moved closer and formed a circle around the fighters. No, we don't cheer or boo like those American high school boys; come on! don't you know about our Indian culture?
We waited for some action but Suri and Raju were locked in a ferocious argument. After what seemed like ages, Raju said something about Suri's mother. Suri lost it. He should have kicked or punched but he went for jackpot: Dichaa. It was damn funny watching a midget jumping up to hit someone with his head. Raju further opened his perennially open mouth and Suri's head promptly hit the teeth. Suri fainted after he saw all the blood dripping down his head. Never attempt a Dichaa if you are a shorty. Never. Dicha is never bottoms-up. It is always lateral. It is always forehead that hammers the opponent.

People became world famous in Chittoor because of their Dichaas. Dichi (short for Dichaa) is automatically added to your name once you become an exponent of this art form. Dichi Kumar, Dichi Rajesh, Dichi Dilli... you get the drift? If you want to become a 'dada' mastering Dichi is a significant milestone in your career.
So how does one defend the Dichi? Simple. Move back and thank the sweet lord if you escaped unhurt.

Along with Dichi, Guduga, another street fight skill forms what I call the supreme, street fight repertoire. I have seen a couple of guys beating the shit out of a gang of eight using Dichi and Guduga. A dichi and a Guduga will make your opponent call lord Muruga is the old saying (I think.)
What is Guduga? Guduga is normally the second blow (the first strike is always with a Dichi). You hit the guy on his face and as he is crumbling down, finish him off by ramming your knee between his legs. Ramming your knee, my dear reader, is called Guduga.

Now, tell me, if you are a Karate champ and I can do 12 Dichas before you can say 'I am coming,' who do you think will win the fight, if we were to fight, god forbid? Think about it.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Turtle Neck

Durga Nagar Colony, Chittoor. The place where I grew up. The hill is called the Turtle Neck (look carefully you'll know why it is called that). When in high school, we used to trek to the top of the 'neck' at least thrice a week. We did find some wildlife there; Monitor Lizards, Rabbits and a variety of snakes. No, not on the top but in and around the hill.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

Adventures of Surendar: Dasara Dossier

You�d know that Dasara is around the corner when Suren, my brother, started collecting empty cigarette packets. I�ll come to that later but for now let�s talk about Dasara celebrations in Chittoor back in the wonder years. A week before the puja celebrations started, they�d start erecting a huge palm leaf structure that�d house the goddess for ten days. Even before the structure came up, they�d fix those loud speakers and play devotional numbers by L.R. Easwari. My favorite was �Aaatha Karumaari kan pattaa podhum.� Freak, I still hum it when I am pissed off with the traffic.

The Durgamma temple near the colony entrance organized the celebrations. The temple was quite famous in and around Chittoor. Every bus or truck that went towards Chennai stopped at her door step and smashed a Pumpkin filled with Vermilion and One rupee coins. Suren and I used to hover around the temple when we were short of money, waiting for that huge truck with a huge shipment: when the stakes were high, the number of coins in the Pumpkin increased like mad. Obviously we had to compete with other losers, street urchins, and punks that gambled�. It was a always a tough fight. The driver or the cleaner of the truck would cut a slice out of the Pumpkin and fill that hole with Vermilion and money. He�d then light some camphor on the Pumpkin, swing it in a circle thrice before he smashed it on the road. That probably saved the truck from accidents and robbers but it caused accidents right outside the temple. Quite a few unsuspecting cyclists and motorists would slip and crash because of the squishy Pumpkin all over the road.

Anyway, when he smashed the Pumpkin, Suren would dive for it while I waited in the periphery: most times the coins ricocheted off the road and landed far away. While the poor bastards were fighting over the smashed Pumpkin, their hands crimson with the vermilion, I�d sneak out with the money and share it with Suren. On one such occasion, one of my dad�s colleagues broke the story to our folks. My dad almost skinned us alive but we promised to him that we�d never go after that money or go picking Coconut too (oh yeah, they smashed Coconuts too). And by then, we were a little grown up too. We started thinking about decency and all. I was after girls too and tell me, how would it look if I were spotted picking money off the streets? Which girl would have fallen for me?

I warned Suren that he can�t do such shit anymore as his actions could adversely impact my reputation. He said yes and started something totally different. This time, he switched religions. He convinced Hari, one of his friends, to sit alongside the beggars that thronged the Muslim prayer grounds in Greamspet. They even made up a begging song, which Hari rehearsed under the able supervison of Suren. The faithful Muslims gave lots of money to the beggars, I guess it is a religous practice. Suren would hover around, in the shadows, ensuring that his friend was not pulling a fast one on him. They used to make two hundred rupees per head in a single day. For an 8th standard boy, in Chittoor, that was a lot of money. That arrangement crashed after Feroz, Suren's another friend, met him after the prayer and when they were crossing Hari, who was begging in his high-pitched voice, tugged at Feroz's trousers and Feroz went 'These beggars have become a major problem.' Suren then shouted at Hari and told him to 'study or work to make money.' That ended the begging adventure for the morons.

But when Dasara arrived, it was boom time for my enterprising brother. He and Hari (the beggar kid, yeah) collected empty Cigarette packs, made numbered tokens out of them. From the first day until the tenth, they would slog away every evening at the Dasara Palm Leaf temple, where thousands of people came by to visit the goddess. Suren and Hari would spread a plastic mat right outside the temple and offer people �shoe protection.� You can�t walk into the temple with your shoes on and you can�t leave it on the road. So, people paid 50 paise per pair to Suren and Hari, to look after the shoes. Genius! But my dad didn�t think so.

One day, a rather inspired Suren failed to notice that it was in fact his dad�s shoes he was pulling: Suren was fighting with a competitor that had sprung up from out of nowhere. As my dad reached, the competitor and Suren were locked in a fierce battle for my dad�s shoes. My perplexed dad, in that dim light, suddenly realized that it was in fact his youngest son that had won the shoes. Suren was grounded for 200 years and was spanked with my dad�s 1500-year-old leather belt.
[This is not a series but I will be compiling all Suren's adventures very shortly. Watch this space. Baby.]

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Perfect Love Letter - Concluding Part

This is a long ass post. Don't complain later that I didn't warn you.

Continued from
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

I don�t know how I got back home after my weird encounter with Bhel Pathan. I felt a lot better after drinking my mother�s filter coffee and smoking a couple of beedis on the terrace. It was the end of the month and I had no money. I didn�t even have money to buy her a New Year card. My dad promised to break my neck if I asked for more money. I had pawned my silver chain to pay off debts. My brother hid his piggy bank and I could not find it even after searching for it for a week. I was broke. My girl was about to disappear from my life, thanks to me. And, I was hooked to beedis now.

I sat on the terrace wall watching the stars appear and as the light gave into the allure of darkness. I felt stranded and estranged. I had instructed my mom not to let any of my friends know that I was home. I heard a couple of them talking to my mom at the door and leaving. They were organizing a party. We wanted to try Gin on that New Year�s Eve. I decided to spend the evening alone. The grapevine had it that the girl went mute after listening to AH�s snitching. I knew what it was. Whenever she was incensed, she would shut the world out and stay silent. What was I going to do? I was exasperated. I lay on my back on the terrace, as I had nothing better to do and before long fell asleep. I don�t know how long I was sleeping but someone was screaming at me and slapping my head, when I woke up. It was completely dark and the terrace light was not on. The bulb blew a fuse I guess. As sleep wore off, I realized to my utter delight that it was none other than the junior: my witness and savior!

I hugged him and almost cried. He got caught in Hyderabad because his train ticket was not confirmed. He was acting weird though. I ran down the steps and dashed into the bathroom to wash my face. My heart was racing. If I confronted her tonight and the showdown happens, I can have my witness to make a delayed entry and tell her that AH was lying. The plan was on track! But, as I was drying my face, for some strange reason, I heard the Pathan�s words again,
�Lies and lack of faith!�
I felt as if a tiny steel hand caught my heart and gave it a mighty squeeze. The witness was staring at me when I said, �do you think I am doing the right thing? I mean all the lies and drama etc you know?�
�It is too early to worry about all that, don�t you think so?� He said. Sarcasm and Brahmins are inseparable I guess. I made a mental note to take care of the bugger after I was done with my love issues. I gave instructions.
�I am going to meet her now. She must be playing badminton under the lights in the colony ground. I am sure of it. When she sees me, she is going to pounce on me and tear me apart. I am going to walk away, sad face and all that. I will walk away from the badminton court, out of earshot you know, when you will stop me and pretend talking to me. Say some nonsense. Count from 0 to 135 or something? I will shake my head. You have to be animated as well. Then you will walk up to her and ask her to step aside. And you will tell her that AH lied and that you were right next to me when I spoke to AH in the Cricket ground. You leave. She will run to me in slow motion. I will finally give her my love letter. We will live happily ever after. Okay?�
He nodded like a humping dog and we ran out.

I stopped near the slope that leads to the badminton court. It was lit up with those lights that they use in lawn parties. There was a sizeable crowd that had gathered that day. I saw her sitting in the shadows, with her best friend. They were watching four losers play Ring. I made another mental note to tell the colony secretary to ban playing ring in the colony. What kind of a loser game is that anyway? You throw a rubber ring across the net and your opponent catches it and throws it back. You score when your opponent drops the ring� god! Why do some boys thing it is a cool sport? Anyway, I asked my witness to stay in a place where no one could spot him. He chose to squat at the foot of the slope. The streetlights were on vacation anyway. I paused to take a deep breath. This was it!

I walked up the slope and after what seemed like ages, I entered the badminton court. Out of the corner of my eye I saw AH and his cronies. I thought he sniggered. I turned towards her and waved; an innocent wave, as if I was unaware of the controversy. She rose to her feet and came right at me. I closed my eyes for a moment and said a little prayer.

�I am sorry that I have been troubling you with my silly greeting cards and my proposals!� She hissed. She started walking down the slope. I tried to catch her best friend�s eye but she turned her face away.
I ran down after the girl, for I did not want her to find that moron witness of mine squatting on the road, in the middle of the night.
I overtook her and stopped her in her tracks.
�What the hell was that!?� I said.
�You should know. You have been talking to your friends.� She said. She looked hot when she had her hands on her hips.
�What friends? What is this cards and proposal thing all about?� I said.
�Did you tell someone that I was after you?�
�After me? What do you mean?�
�After you as in after you.�
�Oh that after you?�
�Yes.�
�Crazy! Why would I say something like that?�
�So you did not?�
�No. I did not. I swear.�
�Swear on me?�
�W-what?�
�Swear on me that you did not mention it to anyone.�
�I s-swear I d-didn�t��

I couldn�t swear on her. For all the fantastic schemes that I hatched, I could not lie to her. I was disgusted with myself. The breeze whistled through the trees and the Crickets took a break. The silence had just settled down on us and the Crickets started their chorus again.
In the feeble light from the badminton court, I saw tears running down her face.
�Lies and lack of faith.� The Pathan�s words echoed in my head.
I took her hand and she threw my hand away. She looked away and she controlled her sobs. She wiped her face with her handkerchief and cleared her throat. �Here we go.� I told myself.
�I hate you.� She said.
I knew that she meant it. Somehow I knew that my witness was not going to help me too much. I decided to end it right there. By telling her the truth. I walked up to where the witness was hiding and told him that we were aborting the plan.
�What the hell? I practiced all night on the bus! How can you do this to me?� He said.
I slapped him and asked him to buzz off. I walked back to her and said,
�Can we go for a walk? I need to tell you something.�
She started walking. We walked towards her home.

�Listen, I love you.� I said and I felt a huge boulder fly off my chest.
She stopped in her tracks and stared at me.
�All that happened was because of the fact that I love you.� I said. I told her everything. From the love letters in blood to the grand plan with AH.
When I finished, we had reached her place. She sat on the steps below the gate. I sat next to her. Somewhere, screams of �Happy new year!� erupted. A strand of hair fell across her face. She blew it off.

The Bhel Pathan was right. I didn�t know what her answer was, for I didn�t ask her any questions in the first place. I didn�t want to too. I checked my pockets and found some beedis. They will see me through that tough night, I thought. I rose to my feet and stood facing her.

�Happy new year and� good luck. I am sorry for being such a dick.� I said. She just nodded.
�And, I will miss you I guess.� I said and choked on it. I looked away as a teardrop flew off on a tangent and found freedom in the womb of the night. �Girls don�t like men that cry!� erupted in my head. That�s what Suri said all the time. He cried in all the movies invariably. I thrust my letter in her hand before I walked away. After nearly a year of writing it (in normal ink) the letter finally found its home. It was a simple letter, no blood or anything fancy. No perfumed paper and all.

She never spoke to me after that for six months. Six long, excruciating months. I tried moving on but I couldn�t. I tried dating other girls but found them really stupid. Some, under the pretext of having a meaningful conversation, asked me what I thought of Yendamuri Veerendranath. I told them �Yendamuri writes like a 70 year old guy that never got laid.� So, there. I was on a destructive spree.

She insulted me at the tuitions by not talking to me, or responding to my earth shaking �Hi!� She just looked away as if I never existed. When the Colony gang went for a movie, she made sure that she did not end up next to me. The whole world came to a tacit agreement I guess that no one would bring my topic when she was around or talk to me about her. When you cry, you cry alone. I prayed everyday that all those bastards failed in their exams and that their girl friends should dump them.

One of her cousins from Bangalore came down to Chittoor. My younger bro and I were returning from the provision store when we bumped into the girl and the cousin. She introduced the cousin to my bro and the three of them spoke like long lost friends, while I watched from the sidelines. I smiled at the cousin, who was quite hot herself, when she looked at me. She just nodded and winked at me. It was a message. I nodded back as if I understood. Before the cousin left for Bangalore she left a note for me. I got the note from the girl�s best friend. The note read �Patience pays.�

That day it rained quite heavy. The Gulmohar tree lost a branch. There was a power-cut. The evening was hazy and the cooking fires from the huts in Ed�s farm sent beautiful columns of smokes to the skies. The pungent fragrance of burning firewood permeated the place. Velan the milkman waved as he pedaled hard on his bicycle on his way home; the empty milk cans banged against the bicycle creating a Buddhist monastery feel. I stood in the Verandah and observed the mist clad hills far away, behind the Arts College. I was alone and had no smokes on me; no money either, as ever.

Our neighbor, who lived in a tile-roofed house behind us, started his blow-the-nose-to-hell routine. I never quite understood why he did it. I initially thought he was trying to blow his lungs out through his nostrils but later found that he suffered from OCD of the nose: he wanted them clean. As his nose blowing reached a tremulous crescendo, I heard the gate open.

There she was, shiny beads of rain adorned her long, curly hair. She took a step and asked coyly,
�May I come in?�
�You may. What took you so long?�
�Convincing myself that you are not a dick?�

I laughed. It was one of those moments. One of those moments, that reveals life is going to be good. One of those moments, that announces that your ass is all right.

She stood next to me and joined me in my hill gazing. The neighbor stopped for the day after a mighty blow of the nose. Peace limped back into the evening. And I started thinking about how to convince the girl that making out is all right. I mean she thought French kiss meant kissing in Paris. That is a story for another day I guess.

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati

The Perfect Love Letter - 4

Apologies for the delay in bringing the concluding parts of this story to you. If you haven't read the earlier parts, please do so before you proceed further. I don't think it matters but I'll anyway warn you: this is a long ass post.

Continued from
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

It was 31 December and I was walking on Bazaar street in Greamspet. I was there not because I had any business there but because I didn�t know what else to do. I was roaming around like a zombie. My grand plan was about to backfire.

The garish, sweltering afternoon kept people indoors. The street was deserted. Well almost. I heard the Bhel-selling Pathan somewhere. He was a portly, old man with a shiny, white flowing beard and a Pathan cap that seemed as if it was stitched to his head. I never saw him without it. He sold Bhel (puffed rice) on his moped, a Suvega that moved at a lightning speed of 20 KMPH on a good day. And, good days were far and few between for his Suvega. He carried two large sacks of Bhel that burdened the 50CC moped. We would know that the Pathan was on his way, at least ten minutes before he actually graced our streets: the Suvega made up for its snail-pace with its cacophonous exhaust noise. New comers to the locality thought he was arriving in a truck! He would make a grand entry, always in the afternoon before teatime, crushing the Bhel and blowing it to the heavens. The Suvega would swerve perilously on the street before he tamed the wacky beast and put it on its stand. The crushed Bhel, in the meantime, would float all around him, creating some sort of an snowy, ethereal effect. Though hardly anyone bought the Bhel, most people popped out braving the merciless, Chittoor Sun, just to catch a glimpse of the gregarious Pathan.

I ran into him near the temple. He stopped and greeted me in Tamil. I never understood how a Pathan could speak all South Indian languages, but he did speak all of them. I don�t know why he was called a Pathan in the first place but he played to his title very well.

�Mora moraaalu!� he roared and grinned baring his yellow teeth. That was his trade-call, his �branding� if you will. He claimed that you can hear the sound �mora mora� if you crushed his Bhel. I responded with a feeble smile.
�What happened bhai? All well at home?� he enquired.
�All fine. All fine.� I said but I guess my voice gave it all away.

He brought the Suvega on its legs, the stand, and slapped the sagging Bhel sacks into position before he came by my side and put his arm around me and said,
�What�s troubling you beta? Your father caught you smoking?�

Though I had stopped buying Bhel from him years back, when we moved from Greamspet, I used to talk to him when I bumped into him anywhere in the town and sort of became friends with him. He lived some where near our Chemistry tutor�s place and he saw me with the girl quite often. And he always beamed his trademark smile at me and a nod of respect to her. I figured he understood what was going on.

I did not answer his question, for I knew he was going to arrive at the issue.
�How is that lovely, young lady? Your friend?� He finally asked.
�Oh she is great. She is great yeah.� I sighed and he nodded ferociously before uttering the simple yet moving words.
�Talk to her if she is angry. Women like to hear the same thing many times. I have two wives and I know from experience that nothing like an honest, heart-to-heart talk to fix any issue. Anything at all!�
�What makes you think that she and I are not on good terms?� I said.
�You have not denied it yet and your face tells a million stories. After all, I have known you since the time you started crawling, eh?�
�I don�t know Pathan, I played some games on her to impress her and to gain some sympathy�� I said and observed that my voiced quivered.
�Sympathy is for losers, bhai, winners do it by tackling the demon by its horns. But then again, the trouble is you need to find what your demons are. I guess they are lies and lack of faith. Kill them, but for now, eat my mora-moraalu!� The Pathan said handing me a fistful of Bhel. We sat down on the stone bench outside the temple. A couple of kids were riding Nandi the bull. I don�t know why but I told him my story. He listened to me as he blew his crushed Bhel and by the time I finished, there was a crunchy carpet of Bhel all around me.

�Like I said, go tell her the facts before it is too late. I don�t see any other way out. Even if your plan works, do you think you will be happy? I don�t think so. From what I have seen I think she likes you. The way she looks at you when you two are walking together?�
I was excited. �You really think so Pathan? I mean you are the expert, do you really think she�s got feelings for me?�
He paused to cough. He cleared his throat, pulled out a beedi from behind his ear, and lit the beedi despite the strong breeze that had started a few moments back.
I asked him for a beedi but he refused to part with one.
�She is a beautiful girl so how many boys are after her?� He asked.
�Around ten? Maybe more?� I said.
�Yet, she sticks around only with you?�
�We are friends Pathan� were friends.�
�A man and a woman can�t be so close and not fall in love. So, don�t give up. Actually why don't you write a letter and give it to her if you are scared that you will mess it up when you are talking to her? Now, I will have to take care of my business. Do tell me what happened.� He said.
He patted me on the back of my head before he started his Suvega and went away.

I stood there watching him disappear around the bend. Sweat trickled down my face and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. Back to square one. Letter again! But, I really thought about what he said. Why is it that the obvious always evades us until it is too late? All I had to do was to get the message across and that was it, but I wasted time chasing Garden lizards and staging dramas to get her attention and sympathy.

People say that when your time has arrived nothing can go wrong. But, mostly the opposite of it occurs: when you are destined to be screwed, not even Chiranjeevi can save you.

My junior, who was supposed to be my witness, was in Hyderabad. He had promised to return the previous day but he was nowhere to be seen. Junior�s ultra conservative, brahmin dad refused to talk to me because he claimed that he saw me in Jyothi talkies, watching one of those Malayalam movies. I wanted to ask him what he was doing there, but I had better things to do. I never was at the Jyothi talkies. I always watched my share of �those� Malayalam movies in Ananda movie hall. They showed dubbed versions. The dialogues were in Telugu but the content remained the same. Junior�s dad also threatened to kill his son if I ever met him. I wanted to reassure him that if his son did not turn up, before it was too late, I would do the honors myself.

So, AH executed part one of my grand plan. He went and sang to her. He told her how I had bragged about the girl irritating me by stalking me and giving me 'I miss you' cards. About how I would throw her out of my life if she had any grand ideas like 'love.' He played his part well. So the original plan of proving that the AH was lying and there by creating a trough of sympathy backfired. My witness was inaccessible. And all hell broke loose that night. The new year�s eve.

[Concluding part to be posted tomorrow. Promise!]

Add to:del.icio.us| Digg| Reddit| StumbleUpon| Technorati