The hunt for the Bison - 1

"My uncle saw the Bison. Mother promise!" Prabhu said. I stared at him for a good minute and said, "Let's go camp then. Tonight?" The late winter morning had a deceiving chill to it. Prabhu pulled his hands into his sweater sleeves and shook his head and said "Not today. Probably next Sunday?"
He was two years junior to me and was still considered a kid: he was in 7th class after all. So were Suri and Viju. But they all showed a maturity that defied their age: they lied like their lives depended on it. We stood outside the door of Anita Tutorials, the education hub of Durga colony. It drew teachers from all across Chittoor and was absolutely hopeless when it came to punctuality, for all the teachers were final year college students from the PVKN Arts college and none of them ever came on time.
We were waiting for Suresh (Suresh sir to be precise), our psychotic science tutor. I was sure that this piece of news about the Bison would excite him. I was sure he'd go camping with us to the hills around Iruvaram, Prabhu's village. Iruvaram was on the Bangalore by-pass, a quiet, insignificant settlement away from the buzz of the Chittoor town. Facing Iruvaram, on the other side of the by-pass were the hills and the arid home of the Bison. A part of me wanted to buy the Bison story. I mean it was so romantic and exciting but the other side of me refused to buy it: what will the Bison survive on? There was absolutely no vegetation other than the Cactus with the plum red fruit or those long thorny shrubs with thick trunks; we used to cut the trunk, dry it, and use it for flotation while learning how to swim in the irrigation wells. I was quite certain that the Bison can't reach the leaves or fruit of the occasional Palm that dotted the area. If the Bison did exist, why was it alone? How did it get here in the first place and why? I had read about the man eating tigers: I knew these were old tigers that were looking for easy prey and that was why they moved closer to human settlements. But why the Bison? It is a herbivore? Right? The story just didn't stick. But I did not share my apprehensions with Suri and Viju. I wanted to go camp, Bison or not. (...to be contd)

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Monkey Business

Oh no, it is not what you think. No Mr.Symonds, I am not getting cute here. This is a true story:
This happened when I was in seventh class. We had just moved back to Chittoor from Chennai. It was a pleasant evening and our neighbor was calling his pigs home. That haunting 'aaaa aaaa och!' We had rented a portion of a house. The landlady lived in the other portion. The house had a small iron gate which led you to the front garden and this huge, ancient Tamarind tree. We kids uses to make up stories that the tree was home to some ghosts and spirits. Along the compound wall, the landlady had planted Crotons of all colors. It was a pretty house all right.
That evening I lugged the chair that dad brought from Delhi, and settled down under the Tamarind tree with a book. My mom was in the kitchen. Half hour passed and my mom called out, "Suman get inside the monkeys are coming." Chittoor had a lot of monkeys then. A few years later, as they were creating havoc in the electrical sub-station, they caught all the monkeys and left them in the forests of Tirumala. Now, I turned to look at the monkeys. It was a big family. The juveniles were in the front. There was a mother and her baby, which clung to her belly. A few boys. And the alpha male. The alpha male was this huge guy with menacing looks. His strong shoulders moved smooth as he walked on the wall behind pack. He had steely eyes that captured the goings on around him. None of the monkeys bothered about me. I told mom "See, if you don't disturb animals, they won't too! Relax, I will be fine." The landlady who just appeared from inside her house said, "don't try to be brave son." I just clucked my tongue and pretended to be lost in my book. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that the alpha male was just about to descend the wall and he caught my eye. He paused and got back on the wall and leveled his eyes with mine. Now, I had no idea why he did that but I was stupid enough to eye ball him right back. His eyes were devoid of any emotion. After a few seconds he jumped to the ground and started walking towards me in that assured, confident gait. I realised he was a huge monkey as he drew closer. He crossed my chair, reached behind me, jumped on the chair and sat. My mouth went dry and I started shivering. My mom and the landlady started screaming but our alpha paid little attention. He just knew it then I guess that we couldn't do shit about it even if he ate me for an evening snack.
The landlady said 'sit still don't make any abrupt moves.' I followed her advice. After a few seconds alpha slapped the back of my head, caught my hair, and started shaking my head viciously. I was rocking like a humping spider monkey and I was absolutely convinced that this guy was going to kill me. But, he stopped all of a sudden, climbed down my chair and walked away. As I stared at my wet pants I realised that alpha was merely making a point. He probably couldn't take it that I had no fear or probably thought I was a threat to his position... I mean I look more like a monkey than him. Whatever it was, I swore to myself that I will not get cute with monkeys ever again. But monkeys never stand by their words. Do they now? That story, in which a monkey bit my ass, has to wait. :-)

[I hereby declare that the story, its characters, and narration were not aimed at hurting any Australian sentiments.]

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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.

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The Fridge

(this story was posted on 21 April 2004)

I got myself a 235ltr Electrolux-Kelvinator Fridge last night! Here's a related story.
When I was a kid I was bowled over by Fridges; I come from South-India which suffers from an intense tropical climate. I know only hot, hotter and hottest. So, I was a natural sucker for anything that had anything to do with cold: snow, Air-conditioners, Fridges, winters, fog... You name it.
Until I was ten I had never seen a Fridge from close quarters. I know this concept is indigestible for readers from USA or Europe. But, yes, that's how it was. In 1983 my aunt invited my brother and me over to Hyderabad for the summer holiday. Of all the things that their opulent home had to offer (opulence is relative my friend), I was smitten by the -you guessed it right- the fridge. I used to make ice and wonder at the magic that was: pour water, come back after half hour, and take your ice-cubes and slip a few in your shirt. Perverse as it may sound, I loved to dump a few ice-cubes in my shirt and roll on the floor. But the Fridge became a dream when I screwed up big time with my Grand pa's teeth. I took a Mango fruit and kept it in the freezer for like an hour. I took it out after an hour only to find it frozen rock-hard. So, I left it in the vegetables tray and went off to take a shower. I came back from my shower and opened the Fridge only to find my frozen Mango missing. I made an abrupt U-turn, fuming under the assumption that my brother had stolen the Mango, and I screeched on my brakes near the dining table: my grand pa had the fruit in his both hands and he was about to sink his dilapidated teeth into the rock-hard, frozen Mango. [Read on!]

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Circus Monkeys

The other day, at this get together, we bumped into this family of three: mama, papa, and this noisy, little she-devil. Her folks, as soon as they were introduced to new people, unleashed that little devil on unsuspecting people that were busy making faces and making strange noises as they tried to befriend that little devil.
'Go on, sing a song for uncle, come on now.' The mother would prod the kid. The dad would join her, 'Come on now, let's see what our darling can do, come on come on!'
I was stuck. The little girl kept staring at her folks and finally shifted her attention to me. I am positive I saw her eyes change color and the twinkle of her devil teeth. She knotted her eye brows and with the determination that reminded me of Hyenas attacking an Antelope, she launched into a song. I am positive that If Judas Priest were around, they would have hired this little devil. After noticing that her hoarse, high-octave vocals didn't have an effect on me, she upped the ante: she started screaming another song, this time at a higher scale. I wanted to take a rock and smash her mouth but all I did was shift on my feet and flash this really stupid smile. Just when I was thinking of doing a U-turn and run like a bat out of hell, my phone rang. I had never been so thrilled to receive a call, but of course the call was from some stupid agency that was pimping personal loans. It didn't matter that it was a fucking Sunday; the agency girl started rapping about the latest scheme. But this time I didn't shout at her or hang up. As tears of joy rolled down my face I just stood there, only happy to talk to her, and I kept repeating 'Thanks so much!' The agency moron hung up after a while. I frantically searched for the devil and her parents; thankfully they were not in the vicinity. But I could hear her voice from some distant corner.
You know, it was almost as if the little monster decided one day "My folks make me look like a circus monkey so I am going to embarrass the shit out of them." Unfortunately for the kid, her folks think that she has a great singing talent. God bless!
Do you have a kid? STOP! Listen up: Do not do this to kids. Don't make them sing nursery rhymes or ask them to spell 'Xylophone.' That's so fucking unfair! Just because you were a dumbfuck in school doesn't mean you make a circus monkey out of your kid. Spelling is a basic skill. It is another story that most of us bloggers suck at it. Get it bro? People do not enjoy the nonsense; they are being nice that's all. So spare us. I don't want to watch your kid dance like Govinda. I don't want to listen to your kid sing 'Manmadha raasa.' Fuck! No!

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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.

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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.]

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Storython: Running Blind 2

[To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Continued from Part 1:
That is unusual. Who is knocking on my door at this hour? I struggled to my feet and made my way to the door, tapping the floor with my stick. I don’t have to do it but habits die hard you see.
I stood near the door and said ‘Who is this?’
After a few seconds, I heard shuffling of feet. Silence. And an adolescent voice boomed from behind the door.
‘You blind dog!’ The voice swore in Tamil (Kuruttu Naaye!) ‘The next time you act high and mighty, I will take your walking stick and shove it up your miserable butt and you can’t even scream because the stick would have emerged out of your mouth. Otha Thevidiyaa payya! ’
I laughed out loud and said ‘You have a fertile imagination.’ It must be the college kid living in the ground floor.
He must have kicked the door hard, for it screamed out and hummed for a few seconds and the gratuitous, stainless steel vessels in my kitchen let out a shrill, harmonic echo.
I heard another muffled voice. Someone was pleading with the hothead. Silence reigned.
I tapped my way back to the chair by the window. I settled down and lit another cigarette. You might not have encountered too many blind smokers I guess. If not for my musician acquaintances, I’d have never discovered the joy of smoking in my life. I played guitar and made some sort of reputation playing in a popular light music band. I played occasionally in the studios, for movies, commercials, and TV shows. The money was good and allowed me to repay the home loan and still maintain a comfortable life, if I call it one that is. I even employed Thangavel, my errand boy who lived a couple of streets away. He is a self-taught percussionist and for some inexplicable reason, he thought that I was his ticket to stardom. I paid him five hundred rupees a month: to buy my cigarettes, food, and stuff. He is my only friend, whose sympathy did not give me ulcers.

There was distinct chill in the wind that had rain written all over it. I wouldn’t mind some rain. I loved the fragrance of it all; when the first raindrops made love to earth and the orgasms screamed through a feral fragrance of moist earth and invaded my senses.
I started my wait for the rain.

Back in the blind school where I spent my childhood, Mr. Easter had spotted my talent for the guitar. I instinctively took to it, don’t ask why or how. Mr. Easter, our music teacher, took special interest in me. Before long I was playing in concerts by blind people, for blind people. And, soon enough, some light music band whose name I don’t recall, offered me a chance to play in one of their shows. I was more of a novelty than a musician for them but the crowd loved it. Some magazine wrote about it. And here I am.

Somehow, through it all, I never made any real friends. I did not want to hang out in blind people associations nor did I want to marry a blind girl in a mass marriage ceremony in front of a politician who did not give a damn.

As for the normal people, well, they are funny. People expected me to advertise and acknowledge my infirmity, every time they helped me. They wanted me to accept that I was a burden on their civilized shoulders, when I was not one. And, each time I refused someone’s offer to help me, I knew that I had accumulated yet another pint of hate. They wanted to help me not because they cared. It was an opportunity for them to reassert their superiority. And, I always denied them of the opportunity. Not because I disliked them, but because I believe, it is the equivalent of beating up your wife when your boss took you to task. I don’t want to be your wife sir. No, thanks.

Far away, the Electric train barked grudgingly as it gathered speed. The wind picked up and I could hear it whistle through the Coconut trees on street. And an unsettling quiet settled in. The radio died on me. The kids on the street screamed with joy. Power cut. I don’t know why kids loved it when the power took a vacation. The rain made an abrupt yet overwhelming start. It poured down without an ornate preamble as if someone tilted a giant bucket in the heavens. I knew that it was going to rain all night, for I couldn’t hear the wind anymore. Before I realized it, my face was wet. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. I realized then that my matchbox was on the windowsill. It was completely wet.
I staggered to my feet and tapped my way to the kitchen. I kicked something on my way, must have been a cardboard box. I checked the shelf first and then the space below the gas stove. Forget a matchbox, I couldn’t even find the gas lighter. I didn’t know if I had one, for I never use the kitchen. Thangavel sometimes made tea for me and that’s about it. I realized that I had to spend the night without smoking. I was distraught by the fact that such a silly thing could upset one’s life so much. I walked back to my chair and shut the windows. I drowned in the chair. The power-cut seemed like it’d last the whole night. This was the third time in as many months that this was happening to me. I’d lose the matchbox or I’d run out of sticks and I had to spend the night without smoking.

After an hour that seemed like ages, I pulled out a soggy cigarette and stuck it in my mouth. The wall clock was enjoying its share of the floor and limelight and tick-tocked away gleefully. With no competition to counter the noise, it sounded eerie. Somewhere someone dragged furniture and it made that awful noise like a giant chalk piece scratching on a giant blackboard. I don’t know why I was so desperate. Probably it was that college kid that abused me. Probably I had it with people thinking that they could get away with murder just because I was blind. I don’t know. I wanted to smoke. So I decided to step out. I’d probably walk to that small shop or ask one of my neighbors for a matchbox. I actually relished the idea of this little misadventure. I knew that my neighbors hated me. I wasn’t too sure if that shop would be open now, with the rain and the power-cut. Yet, I wanted to do it.

I managed to step out of my apartment and lock the door. The floor was wet. The landing was devoid of any human activity, obviously. I couldn’t feel any light too. I walked towards the staircase. The lift rarely worked and during a powercut it was out of the question. I wanted to hold something and I moved towards the ledge. I held its edge and walked towards the staircase. The ledge wasn’t too tall. It was slightly above my waist. I had to be careful. The ledge separated me from the small gap between our block and the next. Before I reached the staircase, I stepped into something furry and soft. I should have worn my shoes! And it jumped up and let out an ugly shriek. Must be a Bandicoot. But it freaked me out so much that I started jumping around, frantically trying to get it off my leg and slipped over the ledge.
I fell in one smooth motion. My stick went first. My glasses next. I was all curled up and I was struggling through the small gap. The walls scratched my back, legs, arms, and my face as I fell through the floors. I heard my stick hit the ground. And I fell on my back.

When I came around, I realized that I must have broken my back. I couldn’t move my lower torso. I fainted again. When I came around, I realized that something was crawling up my leg. It must be a Bandicoot. Probably the same one that assaulted me in the landing.

[Anand, all yours. [To know what this is all about check Ravages's blog.]

Tags: Story-thon, Fiction, Story-thon Ravages, Story-thon Suman

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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.

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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!]

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Coming soon...

...the concluding part of The Perfect Love Letter. I have not abandoned the story anonymous.

The Perfect Love Letter 1
The Perfect Love Letter 2
The Perfect Love Letter 3

Stay tuned, baby.

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The Perfect Love Letter 3

Story continued from

Part 1
Part 2

All my plans and efforts went up in smoke. It was a heart-wrenching passage in my life. I roamed about in the wilderness of my forlorn life. I even missed the first day first show of the latest Chiranjeevi release. I let down my hero!
Minutes, hours, days, and weeks rolled on and I watched time pass me by, helpless in my hopeless status quo. In the meantime, competition grew by the dozen: guys with funky hairstyles. Guys that could play the guitar. Guys with bikes. Guys with money... they all swarmed around her and drowned her in an amorous cacophony and unbelievable attention. My interest in life and related stuff waned. I was inconsolable but I couldn't share my grief nor could I tell any one about the silent, searing, perennial pain. Despite my misery I still looked like a happy kid: my face was flawless. My boy-breasts were intact. Forget a mooch, I couldn't grow a pimple so I could announce to the green world that I had unshackled myself from the tyrannical grip of childhood and segued into the exciting, unpredictable waters of adulthood; I will always be the nice kid to her; I will never be the bad boy of every girl's dreams, I resigned to myself..
I fared miserably in the first PU exams. I scored all of 18 out of 150 in Math. My dad remarked, 'My! That's 18 more than what I expected.' I stopped going to school. My teachers and classmates forgot that I had existed. I was on my way to becoming the loser of the century. Through it all, she hung out with me, and treated me like her kid brother. I watched on as boys made a beeline to give her love letters. Not a single twit had the courage to utter a few words and make their case. They provided excellent entertainment to her though. She would come back and tell me about how each one of them had acted like certifiable morons. One guy I don't wish to name offered her Tamarind rice along with the love letter. Another offered to not take any dowry. Some guys displayed her name tattooed on various parts of their bodies: one guy had blushed after admitting to her that he had tattooed her name. When asked 'where?' He had mumbled 'inner right-thigh.' Thank god for small mercies. 'Why don't you pick one?' I asked her. 'Are you mad? Look at each one of them!' she replied and rolled her eyes.


In the meantime, her girlfriend became my friend and I guess she figured what was up. I mean I left so many clues that even our Police department would have figured out what was eating my brains. One lazy afternoon I was struggling with Thermodynamics, when her girlfriend walked in to my home. She did some small talk with my mom and turned her attention to my notebook. She picked up the book and started flipping the pages. After a few minutes her gasp exploded in my living room. My mom raised her eye brows, but jumped right back into her Kumudham magazine. I was staring at her with my eyebrows stretched so far that, they would have flown if I had tried harder. She showed the page that she was reading. The page had that stupid compatibility calculation of 'the' girl and me; you know you strike off all common letters and calculate the reminder using a formula and find out if you are going to marry her or not? Yeah. Laugh away. It wasn't so funny back then. She flipped through the other pages and discovered that I had filled up pages with 'the' girl's name. She dropped the book and looked at me. I nodded in resignation.


Later that evening I went for a walk and found the two girls sitting on a culvert. I stopped by to say hello. My girl was normal. The friend had not told her. I was perplexed why she didn't. Anyway, I finished my walk and was on my way back when I bumped into the friend.
'You obviously have not told her, have you?' She asked.
'Of course not.' I said, thinking 'I am waiting for my mooch to grow.'
'Hm. Don't bother with letters. History says that they don't work with her. Not even blood letters.' She said.
'I figured that one out all right. Do you have any suggestions?' I said and grunted a billion times as if a garden lizard walked into my windpipe.
'Create a fight. Make sure it is a minor affair; I mean it should result in her not talking to you for a few weeks. She will come back, you know her, when she does, break the news somehow.' She said.
Fireworks erupted in my heart. I saw it all happen: after the fight, we didn't talk for a couple of weeks. She came home after it had just rained. No one was home. She said 'How could you do this?' And I went 'I never knew that life would be so empty without you in it.' A profound silence ensued and both of us started talking at the same time. I went 'okay you finish what you were saying' She said the same thing.
'You go first'
'No no you first.'
We laughed.
Silence again as her Alanis laughter faded into the beautiful night. A cool breeze blew through my window, carrying the fragrance of the Jasmine flowers in bloom. Our eyes locked and I whispered, 'I think I lov...'
Screams of 'Hello! Anyone there? Yoo-hoo' brought me back to reality. The friend laughed and said, 'stop dreaming and good luck.'
I thanked her and as she started walking away, I asked her, 'But why are you helping me? I mean we hardly know each other!'
She swiveled on her foot, measured me up with her Chinese eyes, and said, 'I think you are cute. I'd love to have a brother like you.'
I wanted to say a lot but a pebble the size of an Apple got stuck in my throat or was it the Rakhi thread noose that tightened around my neck? As usual ended up uttering gibberish 'eh, heee-heee. Klmbighit ko? Horrrr!'


I went over the plan a million times that night. I chose the a$$ hole (AH) of our colony to be the fall guy. The AH is a brainless wonder. Scientists are still figuring out how AH manages to lead his life. What does he use for decision making? He has no brains! If only the scientists had asked me. I know what he uses to think. The AH was one year our senior but his best friends were kids from the kindergarten. No self-respecting adult would hang with him. AH thought he had an incendiary wit and he chose to exploit it to impress all the beautiful girls of the colony. I have to admit that he did come up with funny stuff once in a while, but his looks betrayed him. He made Hunchback look like Gregory Peck. I mean if you wanted to feel good about yourself, you took a picture with AH. Whether or not you looked good, the contrast that AH offered made you look 1000 times better than you actually are. And of course there is the oil thing. He had an oily face. Oil dripped, no poured, from his face. If Indian Oil discovered him, we can say good bye to our fuel problems. Okay, you know how much I hate him now.


The plan was to go bitch about 'the' girl to AH. AH would go snitch to her. Later, after a few days, I will use one of my super-juniors as a witness and prove that I never uttered a single word to AH. One stone. Two mangoes. This will make AH look real bad and give the perfect emotional niche to launch my love story. Air-tight plan. I explained it to the witness-to-be. We did dry-runs and all... nothing could go wrong with this plan we thought.


I chose the cricket ground to talk to AH. When Ah bowled I gave him curt compliments. 'Good ball.' 'Great bowling!' Ok that was not so curt. AH was surprised. After the match I sat next to AH and he launched into a self-congratulatory diatribe on his cricketing skills. Finally, after everyone left I started executing the plan. I spun stories about how she tailed me and is after me. How she can't stop coming to my home. I should have stopped there but I chose to seal it well. I told him 'even if she brings up some stupid idea like love and marriage? I am going to stop talking to her.' and I walked off into the sunset, blowing the imaginary guns in my hands and spinning them before I jammed them into the imaginary holsters, blissfully unaware that all my shots were going to backfire. Big time.
[...await the concluding part. Hee hee.]

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The Perfect Love Letter - 2

Continued from Part 1:
The veteran's sole purpose in life was women. He used to boast that he 'maintained' four girl friends simultaneously. Don't ask me what that means, I am still figuring it out myself. He carried about dozen letters on him and as and when a girl captured his fancy he would walk up to her, ask her name, pull a letter out, fill the blank next to 'dear ----', and give her the letter. Anyway, while hanging out at Ravi's (he is no more.), next to VijayaMahal Talkies (it is also no more.), the veteran bummed a smoke from me and we got into a conversation. 'So, how's your girl?' he asked me, as he let the smoke drift through his bunny teeth. I was surprised and elated too. Not too many in my gang had any girl friends, I don't think they do even now. We were such losers when it came to women, it is not even funny. 'I don't have a girl, what are you talking about?' I answered. He flicked the ash off his smoke, seriously admired the ants that were busy running around on the ground, and whispered, 'You want her to be your girl, no?'
I couldn't confide into anyone in my gang. They hated women. 'Why do you need women when you have VCRs and god-given hands?' was the guiding principle of the gang you see. They thought a girl friend clipped your wings and exhausted your emotional, intellectual bandwidth. So, I was only happy to talk to the veteran. At least he admitted his unremitting, unwavering love for women. I clarified to him however that he should not confuse what I feel for her with what he generally felt for women. 'Mine is pure love and yours is lust.' I told him. He laughed and said, 'what's the ****ing difference?' I had no answer for it so I borrowed a line from Ramesh, the god of love for Greamspet, Chittoor, 'the consummation of love is sacrifice and that of lust is guilt.' The veteran laughed and said, 'you'll die a virgin, I am sure.' My heart shuddered at that thought and I sent a little prayer immediately, to avoid such a catastrophe.
Anyway, I explained my problems to him; how my height, weight, lack of facial hair, lack of bicycle, money... you get the drift? Yeah, I asked how could I manage a breakthrough and occupy her heart. 'Write a love letter with blood.' He said. For a moment, I was dumbstruck. That was pure genius. He also added, 'write it with ink first and rewrite on top with blood. She anyway calls you her friend... not brother or something, so I believe you have a chance.'
'Where do I cut myself? How much blood do I need for four pages?' I rattled. He said, 'why do you want to cut yourself? Find a frog or a garden lizard or something. Are you ****ing crazy?'

The next morning I started drafting my letter. I had bunked school under the pretext of fever and as soon as my dad left for work and mom settled down with her Kumudham, I started writing. I am not going to humour you with the contents of the letter but let me outline it for you. It sent a very practical yet moving message. It used lines from the ELS Volume 1 collection (especially from 'go ahead and rain', 'up where we belong', 'I'd love you to want me') and it had translated lines from QSQT songs. After I drafted the letter I also changed my hairstyle. Suri had suggested it because he thought that the more I look and talk like Aamir Khan, the better my chances are (sorry Aamir). I hid the letter in my Chemistry 'Notes' notebook and went to work on my hair. I was pleased with the way my hair parted in the middle, just like Aamir's. Only, my mom asked me 'since when did you become a fan of Karunanidhi.' I ignored her comment, for she is old school you see. I stepped out into Edward's farm looking for big garden lizards. I hated frogs. I could find only juvenile garden lizards that were too thin. I wanted an adult fothamucker. I found one lazing on a boulder but he was too quick for me. I took a coconut leaf and made a noose out of it. Even that didn't help. After spending roughly two hours, I decided that I'd rather cut myself than chase them stupid lizards. In between it occurred to me that I only needed blood and I almost made up my mind to cut Suren, my kid bro, up with a Panama blade. But then my dad would have cut me and fed me to the same lizards in Edward's farm. So I chucked the cut-suren's-a$$ idea. That's when one of her friends bumped into me near the gate of my home. We generally did small talk before she told me 'she is very upset, did you hear?' I went 'Why, why, why, why? She said, 'Yeah, this guy gave her a love letter?' I went limp and asked 'And?' She said, 'it is not so much about the letter you know, but this moron actually wrote it with his blood!' I asker her 'you mean rewrite with blood on something already written with ink?' She said 'nope. pure blood. And she thinks all those boys that do nonsense like this should be ashamed of themselves, you know what right do they have....' Her voice trailed off and I walked into my home like a Zombie. [...TO BE CONTINUED]

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The Perfect Love Letter - 1

Before the advent of e-mail or the SMS, we boys used to write love letters on paper (sometimes scented paper or those with the romantic watermarks). I couldn't construct a coherent sentence in that girl's presence; my knees never stopped shaking when I was talking to my first crush. She would ask me questions, make fun of me, and chide me in her Alanis Morisette voice and I would watch helplessly as mangled, phonetically impossible sounds escaped from my mouth: 'hrppgkkt?' 'hroonkjlt!' 'aaa ba err!?'

I decided one fine winter evening that I had to write to her to get the message across. And of course I swore to myself that I'd start wearing only full trousers and burn all my half pants. My folks thought that I was too young for the trouser. I was only 15 they said. While most of the boys in my class had started shaving, I was frantically applying ghee, Olive oil, curds, and what not to my face and sent a little prayer every night before bed 'make that ****ing mooch grow!'

My baby-boy image was, according to me, the biggest stumbling block in my amorous pursuits. So, there I was utterly confused; consumed by love and with no facial hair. To make things worse, competition for her heart came from boys that had ample facial hair and of course bulging biceps and bicycles (BSA Mach 1 with small balloons attached to the rear wheel; he used to circle her house and the cycle made that awful noise 'tapa tapa dapa'.) AND, and... I was all of four feet five inches. I sat in the first bench with the other midgets and stood right at the front in the line during school prayer. There you have it. A frail midget with no facial hair wearing half pants. I wasn't exactly setting the heartbeats of the girls racing. Most girls (the 'cho chweet' types especially) thought of me as a kid brother, while some went as far as 'I am your aunty.' Now, 'the' girl made it clear that we were 'friends.' Add to the list my pathetic scores. D.K., the first ranker, was short but the girls loooovvvvvvved him. And, he had some facial hair. So, there. How was I going to win her heart? The score, even before the match started, was Love-4.

After consultations with my super juniors (who were of my height and except Suri, who was born with a beard, no one had started growing facial hair) I decided to write a love letter. That was the only way; it appeared then, that I could get the message across. The first thing I did was analyze her personality (audience research if you will). 'What kind of a person is she?' 'What kind of movies moved her (QSQT did. Big time)?' 'Is she receptive to humour?' 'Is she the emotional, melodramatic type or the cold, calculating, practical type?' 'What songs does she hum and what lines are her favourites?' The list was comprehensive and we thrashed it out and created a persona that was practical, emotional, humour-loving, musically inclined, and apathetic to romance. Score: Love - 2678.

However, we figured that Indian movie music was too, um, poetic and used a lot of exaggeration. Enter: Everlasting Love Songs (ELS) Volume 1. I listened to the songs on ELS 1 but I couldn't figure out a single word. I tried cracking 'Waiting for a girl like you' by Foreigner but gave up after some 1000 attempts. 'Don't you think it'd help if you used ear phones?' someone suggested. So, I bought a pair of 'TAKAI' ear-phones and promptly threw them in the trash can. The TAKAI ear-phones made any singer sound like Donald Duck. I didn't give up though. When I went to Chennai I visited every music shop worth its name asking for the lyrics booklet. One good soul told me I should try and get a song book from Higginbothams. Unfortunately, I hadn't too much money to buy these books. They were selling at about 100 bucks each and ELS songs did not figure in them, the song books only had the current music. Back to square one.

I was restless and could not sleep. My competition was growing too. One of the contenders now circled her house in a TVS 50. I don't know why but I never gave up on decoding the ELS songs. One night, when the whole house was sleeping and my dad's snoring was rupturing the silent night, the sound 'Ritfeesooright' from the Foreigner song, decoded itself in my head: it was 'it feels so right!' Eureka! What a fool I had been. One phrase after the other, the American lingo fell in place. I know, I know what you are thinking 'Why couldn't you google for it?' Dear reader, in 1989 the google creators had just started growing facial hair and were probably pursuing girl friends in high school. So stop showing off.

Anyway, I had the lyrics of the Foreigner song but I could borrow only a couple of lines. I couldn't use 'this heart of mine has been hurt before' I mean, this is my first crush you see. My second project was 'If ever you are in my arms again' by Peabo Bryson. I finished decoding the whole ****ing album but it wasn't helping. I mean these guys were singing of holding and kissing and making love... no way I could use those terms. I mean the Hindi, Tamil, and Telugu movies always glorified 'pure' love as one in which the involved parties didn't even hold hands before the marriage. The hero just wanted to keep staring into her eyes and was willing to spend his life doing that and wanted to do the same in his next births. I mean WTF!? That's when one of the veterans of love-letter writing unknowingly gave me a brilliant idea.
And, that will have to wait until part 2. I promise that I will finish this story. Mother promise!

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The crappiest story in the world

The Torpedos went on a nostalgia trip and posted about their school's fancy-dress competition. It makes for some fun reading. However, it prompted me, for no obvious reason, to recount this story from a time far behind:
K was a very shy boy. Until he reached PU, he kept to himself, steered clear of the bullies, girls, and teachers. Actually, no one took notice of him until first PU. He was a short, scrawny guy that barely spoke. Our class teacher in third standard, let's call her V, was a control-freak. She could not tolerate students that maintained incomplete notes or wore shabby shoes, you know? She