RIP Michael Jackson

It was raining and we were scurrying for cover in VGP Golden Beach. It was 1989. I refused to budge. They were playing Thriller. That was the first time I heard MJ. I was transfixed. "What music is this?" I asked someone and they laughed at me. "That's Michael Jackson, stupid!" Now, I was a small town boy and we didn't get any 'western music' records. When I walked into the music store on Church street in Chittoor, the next week, and asked for Thriller the store guy clucked his tongue and said 'No. I have to order it from Madras. Double charge. Will take 10 days. Shall I?"

I hadn't heard his music before. I heard of this guy MJ all right but for a 16 year old back in 1989, 200 bucks were a lot of money. To this day I don't know why I said "Yes!" to that store guy. I am glad I did.

I played Thriller endlessly on our Dyanora-National '2-in-1' Cassette player. Before long I had Bad too in the collection. My neighbours, who thought I was this nice kid that knew his manners, were in for a shock. They enquired about those strange, loud noises that exploded from my room. It was me practicing the MJ hiccup. Or the squeal. My mom proudly proclaimed to her friends "Vaadu Ingleesh paatalu paaduthunnadandi!" (He is singing English songs). The next thing I did shocked the shit out of everyone. I put some FEM facial bleach on my side locks and hey presto! I had light brown side locks. I cut my hair and ensured that one strand of it fell on my forehead. The strand became brown but refused to curl up despite hours of trying it.

I know that all kids go through this. But to do something like that in Chittoor back then was true rebellion. There was no real TV. There were no top 20 countdowns on the radio. There was no Internet. Heck, if you had a phone, you were considered a rich man!

I am sure most of the people thought I was a clown. They were right. I wanted suspenders, I think because I saw an MJ's picture in which he wore suspenders. Now, forget suspenders, Chittoor was getting used to trousers only then. I was way ahead of time. So I decided to make my own suspenders. I bought two thick strips of elastic and had my tailor stitch it to my new chocolate brown baggy trousers. Believe me when I say this: I wore those custom made suspenders and tried hitting on girls. In retrospect, it explains why I never got any.

I felt sad when I watched Chiranjeevi (I am a big fan!) dance for 'Kashmora kaugilisthey...' in Dhonga. It was a poor imitation of the legendary Thriller. When I whispered to my friend sitting next to me in the movie hall "That's a copy of..." He interjected "Impossible. Chiru doesn't tolerate copying." I mumbled "Right!" and realised that I was seeing, listening to, and understanding things that the average lower middle class Chittoor kid would never imagine existed. That's when I decided "I need to get out of this town." And I did. No no, not that I don't love that town... just that I knew that I had to get out and see other places. Bigger places.

MJ has provided 'inspiration' to quite a few movie music composers in India. I know composers that made a career out of Dangerous alone. One of the reviews of Dangerous said "...bound to provide content for the Indian movie music for years to come." And, you know that is the truth. Before long MJ was a house hold name. I can't think of any 'western' musician that achieved the same distinction. Of course, when Prabhudeva was given the dubious title 'MJ of India' I laughed.

I think MJ is the only western musician my grand ma tolerated. I think she actually liked his music though she doesn't understand a word of what he sings. I am quite sure my granny is sad today. So am I. I know I'll forget this day and move on to grapple with vicissitudes of life. But I want to pause and pay a little to tribute to dear MJ. Thank you for the music MJ. Rest in peace.

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Aandal Part 2

Read the first part

It was a Sunday afternoon and Aandal was squatting outside our grand ma's. She was telling my granny about this mentally challenged kid in one of the homes on Alwarpet street. She was talking about how that kid was always screaming for food. "Maami andha payyan eppo paaru bun kaapi bun kaapi nu Katheenu irukkum" (that kid screams bun n coffee bun n coffee all the time). So Suren started imitating her and she lost her temper. "Ayyy chinnadhu, Koluppaa? Pichi puduven!" (something to the effect hey you small one watch it!).

Now in all the years and all the maids that passed through our home no one has ever dared to mock us. It was us! Suren and I! Whatever hesitation we had about ragging Aandal was blown away and we stretched and cracked our knuckles, sighed, and said 'here we go!'

The next day Suren proposed to Aandal. "Aandal I - I love you... will you scrub my back?" She laughed baring her remaining, tobacco stained teeth. She was illiterate but who doesn't understand 'I love you' ? She referred to 'Love' as 'Labzu' and she complained to my mom "Maami idha paaru maami Chinnadhu Labzu pannudhu!' (Maami, see your younger son is doing 'Labzu')

Aandal worked in many homes in Alwarpet street and she was on a tight schedule every day. So she could ill afford any delays. We knew it and exploited it. When she came in the mornings to do the dishes and mop the house, Suren took his own time in the shower. Aandal started with gentle knocks on the bathroom door but she realised she was dealing with assholes, so the gentle knocks became explosive thumps, which were always echoed by Suren's devilish laughter.

When we bumped into her on the street, we always blew kisses and she would spit on the ground and mutter some unprintable stuff. Within a few months Aandal was quite famous among the boys, the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood, and the jobless adults that hung about the street.

I vividly remember Aandal giving one of those guys her piece of mind.
As she was walking by to 'Bhai's' provision store, the gang of boys sitting outside the store went 'hoo hooo Aandal I love you!' Aandal stopped in her tracks, surveyed the gang and picked one guy and said 'Thevdyaa payya, Why don't you go do labzu to your mother? I will chop it off!' A roar of laughter erupted and Aandal's voice became shrill as she started abusing that guy, but now she included his aunts, grand mom, uncles, wife... she also asked him 'dey! do you know who fathered you? I bet your mom doesn't know too...go fuck a dog!'

She never used such choicest abuses on us. She loved us I think and she knew we were harmless. She became quite a friend to my grand ma, probably because they were of the same age. When Suren made fun of my granny he attracted Aandal's attention too.

The days chugged on and Aandal got used to the ass holes that we were. Actually when Suren or me went out of town and were missing, Aandal gave us a rousing welcome when we returned. 'Take off your Saagunu! And put if for wash... take bath and eat... you need rest!' (Saagunu meant socks in Aandalese).

She hated the girl friends that visited home. Especially those that wore shorts. "Ayyyaaa! Ennaadhu idhu! Payyanaa ponnaa!? Ippidi thodaya kaattudhu!" ("Is this a guy or girl? And why is she exposing her thighs like this?")

But she hated drunks. She got extra ballistic on any drunk that crossed her path, including Ginny, my uncle. [...to be contd]

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Partha Sarathi MBA

"I am an MBA." He announced and laughed revealing his yellow teeth. He was standing in a corner, nursing a 90 of cheap whisky along with some beer. The veins were pronounced on his hands. He pulled the sleeves of his once off-white shirt yet again; it was an involuntary, nervous reaction I guess. I offered him a smoke. "I normally smoke Marlboro sir, but today I'll smoke my own Wills. Sorry eh?" He said. I shrugged and started talking to Sam. I ordered one more 60 of Old Monk rum.

"My name is Partha Sarathy." He continued. "Is that Godfather? Mario Puzo?"
I nodded in agreement and said "It is the latest in the series. This is not by Puzo though." He shook his head a hundred times and took the book from me. He pretended to seriously appraise the book and placed it on the wooden ledge that served as a place to set your drink down in Sapthagiri Wines. He finished his drink even before ours arrived. There was a bench along the wall and three guys occupied it. The leader of this group was already staring at Mr. Partha with adulation filled eyes.

"I helped this contractors get business worth Crores. Crores! And see what they have done to me. I told them that I didn't want a penny and walked off. Do you see this mobile phone? This is mine. I didn't even have money for the bus... I walked seven KM saar! Seven KM!"
He told his sad story. I was wary of him but Sam, as always, started his anthropo-neuro-psychological study, yet again. Sam introduced himself. Mr. Partha exclaimed, "So you are a doctor in Victoria? I know your chief... what's his name again?" Sam told him the Chief's name. "Ah yes! Same person. How is he? Don't tell him you met me here eh?" And he laughed that psychotic laugh again and said "I normally drink only in 3-star bars. But today..." He diverted his attention to me and said "...But today because of those bastards!" He tried to muffle his sobs. He wiped the tears with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.

I remained impassive. However, the trio on the bench were nonplussed and moved. The leader of the bench trio asked us in Kannada, "Yen aayithhu Saar? Ishtu Chennaga Ingleesh Maathadthaa idhaaney!" (or something to that effect) Sam explained to the bench trio about Mr. Partha and how his Contracting firm conned him of Crores. The leader of the trio immediately asked one of his gang members to stand up and make place for Mr. Partha.

Mr. Partha bummed a smoke from Leader as he sat down. He even spoke in broken Kannada. "I am an Iyengar sir. I can dictate 600 words a minute you know?" I nodded as I didn't know how the hell I should react to such a monumental statement. So I turned away and adjusted my position in that cubbyhole that was the bar behind Sapthagiri wines. I hardly had space to move my arm. With my back to Mr. Partha, I told Sam that we should be leaving. Sam nodded and he noticed that Mr. Partha was now putting a scheme on the trio. I lost interest, I mean I knew what his game was.

Mr. Partha called me after a few minutes. I turned around with a lot of difficulty. And he dropped his pitch on me.
"Don't mistake me..." He started, sipping on the whisky that he'd bummed from the trio who were sobbing now after listening to Mr. Partha's story.
"...I have to go to Chennai to meet my business partners." He paused as the Leader offered him some spicy Chicken.
"...I have to meet my partners in Chennai, and I left all my ATM cards in those bastards' office...can you give me 200 Rupees?" A brief silence ensued and it was broken by Manja, the waiter-boy, shouting out an order to the Counter: 'Half Khoday's rummu, ondhu packet Small illi!" I stared into Mr. Partha's eyes that were lodged in deep sockets. I smiled and said "If I had 200, why would I drink here?"

He chewed on it for a little while and said "Yes yes. How about 50? At least 20?" I said no. He shrugged as if he forgave me, started to say something, and decided against it. He returned his focus on the trio and started his pitch.

As I was leaving with Sam, he called out and said "Don't mistake me, ok?" I smiled and waved a bye to him. As I waited near the Counter to settle our bill, I could hear him swear at his Contracting firm and sob. I thought I also heard
"If not 500, at least 200? Yes, yes. I will transfer it online."
"..."
"Oh you don't have Internet okay! I'll give you a check, yes? Wonderful... Yeah just one more 60 for me sir... can't drink too much!"

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Aandal

You knew Aandal was in the vicinity when the atrocious stench of her chewing tobacco (called Panneer Pugailai in Tamil) assaulted your nose. It'd normally be early in the morning, around eight, when she would turn up to perform her duties as our maid. No one really knew how she ended up in the neighbourhood. When we moved to Chennai, mom was on the lookout for a maid and she hired the services of Aandal who was already working in our grand ma's. When I first saw Aandal I was petrified. She looked like the vampire version of Miss Grundy. A million wrinkles creased her face and that nose protruded at a right angle to her face. And, her teeth, whatever little that was left of them I mean, were a deep, dark brown. The most petrifying thing about though was not her looks. She served up whiplashes when she spoke.

Now, Suren, my younger bro and I had a tacit agreement right from when we were in prep school. It was more of a mission statement than an agreement really: we would bully the shit out of the maid. Any maid. No, no, it was not a result of some traumatic experience or something. We just love bullying people. The maid was the perfect target. They wouldn't dare retaliate and even if they did, it'd be at best a complaint to mom.

When Aandal came on the scene, Suren and I were suffering from withdrawal symptoms. There had a been a long hiatus, of almost ten years since we had bullied a maid. We were not kids any longer all right. I had started working as a salesman and Suren had started college at the New College in Chennai. We let Aandal be for a while. I mean she was as old as grand ma and we were not sure if we should really be bullying her. Our apprehensions were blasted to pieces one day. [To be contd...]

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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!’

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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)

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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)

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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]

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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]

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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.

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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.

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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 carried a bamboo stick that could have passed for a baton. All one had to do was breath a bit harder, and she'd crack her stick on his knuckles. She never hit the girls though.
So, one arid, March morning, when schools started early and finished early in Chittoor, K got himself into a knot. He wanted to crap. All he had to do was stand up, and say 'Excuse me teacher, I need to crap.' And, Ms.V would have permitted him. But K was scared witless to seek permission. He had been deliberating, in vain, on how he could take the load off.
We sat on the floor and used the wooden benches as writing tables. Each bench had three kids and it was pretty crowded. What does K do? He craps silently on the floor, moves to his left towards Raghu, and points a finger at fat Mahesh who was sleeping with his eyes half-open, and almost screams to MS.V, 'Teacher, Mahesh crapped!' Ms. V's face turned purple. And, believe me; I saw smoke come out of her ears. Fat Mahesh did not even know what hit him. His mind was still in the process of constructing a sentence but his mouth was emitting garbled sounds like 'Ungg.. Maa... ooooh urghhh.' Ms. V screamed with all her might, 'Aaaayaaahhhhh!' And the school Aayah appeared magically, chewing on pan. She spat through her teeth on the classroom wall, before she enquired 'What happened?' Ms. V told her. The Aayah whisked fat Mahesh away towards our loo, by his right ear lobe. Mahesh still was in the process of constructing a sentence you see and was emitting junk noises, but now the gushing tears that washed his chubby face made life hell for him: the noises were interspersed with sobs and hiccups ("hakkk... wooooooon... blikk?"). The Aayah disrobed Mahesh in the middle of the ground and made him stand outside the loo. Thus, as the whole primary school watched, the Aayah washed Mahesh's behind with a Coconut-skin scrub.
Fat Mahesh left school the next year for obvious reasons.
K, if you are reading this, you are the slimiest fothamucka (thanks for the word BT) in the world and I hope your progeny does not inherit your legacy.

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Part 2: Stories from Chittoor

Read the earlier episode

I was in 12th standard I guess when this happened. We went for a night show that day. The movie was dubbed from Malayalam to Telugu and was a cop-basher. I slept off a few minutes after the second half started. The lights came on signaling the end of the movie. Ramesh, Imthiyaz, and I stepped out of Raghava, the movie hall. We lit a smoke and shared it. None of the auto guys were ready to ride to our colony. So, Imthy decided to go sleep in his grand ma’s house which was close by. Ramesh and I had no choice but walk home. We walked in the by-lanes to avoid the main road; we did not want to bump into a patrol jeep. Sounds weird I know, but the situation was such that the edgy cops did not lend an ear to logic or reason. Any one found on the roads in the middle of the night was some kind of a suspect for them I guess. I was really psyched back then (even now I guess). So, I used to make it a point to avoid cops in the nights. Ramesh was boring me to death with his concept of love (that the consummation of love is not marriage. It is sacrifice). As I had discussed earlier, it was the season of love in Chittoor. Every guy was in love. Some guys were in love with two or three girls at a time. I used to write love letters for a few guys. They liked my work I guess, for I would not write a line without studying the audience. What does she want to do in life? Who is her favorite actor? Does she wear jeans? Does she talk to boys? Is she outgoing or withdrawn? You know? So, my letters had high success-rates. I know some proactive guys who used to roam around with a bunch of love letters. Only, the name field was empty.  ‘You never know when love can strike you machaan.’ One of the true-blue lover boys justified the template-driven approach. But Ramesh was in a different league you see. He was the ‘emotional’ type. He believed that true love means no touching. No one would argue with that concept in those days. Sex was a bad word. Those prophets that went around preaching that divine love (or pure love) was devoid of physical desires impressed the girls, but not a single girl fell for them. On the other hand, pragmatic guys were surely, but silently making a lot of progress. You know what I am saying? They were ‘getting some’ in other words. Divine love is like communism I guess. It looks beautiful and poignant on paper. But no one wanted it. And people wanted to get some. Let’s exploit the metaphor a bit more: we had a lot of closet capitalists. That said, love was the season, religion, hobby, center of the universe for almost all Chittoor boys during the late eighties and early nineties. Sadly, the girls were smart. They would have none of the bull-crap we wrote in our gripping, moving love letters or proposals. Only one in ten boys got the girl to say yes. So we were a bunch of sad, love-sick boys and we had to support each other. So we had our meetings where we analyzed, cribbed, cried, and blew our noses over how unfair the girl was. How she failed to see the power of true love. How the other day she was caught looking at him in school; that was irrefutable proof that the girl is in love with you: a casual glance. I used to quietly think ‘If I walk into class with my hair painted brown with Fem, all the girls will look at me’, but I never used to voice it, for it killed the authenticity of the only proof and the only thread of hope for the guy. Ramesh was ten levels higher. He thought he was born to fall in love, much to the grief of his parents and utter delight of the gang. Think about it, if three of us told him ‘prove us that you really lover her by chopping your left arm?’ He would! I mean we got him to cut his forearm with a shaving blade didn’t we?
So, you can imagine my plight as we were walking towards home. Even the street dogs gave us a wide berth, thanks to Ramesh and his incessant love-talk. ‘Love is the light that leads my ship of life’ ‘She is the oil; I am the wick, in the lamp of life.’ ‘Sacrifice!’ And I had heard each and every line at least a 1000 times. He went on and on, sucking on cigarettes like a maniac. Sometimes, the filter of the cigarette would fly into his mouth. He was such a sucker I tell you. So as he paused for breath in Greamspet I quickened my pace. Home was another ten minutes away. My head was reeling as if a million, miniature aircraft were running sorties in my head. And, I saw the stationary Jeep, with red letters ‘Police’ on a white patch, right under the windshield. My hand dove into my trouser pocket and got the movie ticket counterfoil. Ramesh joined me. We did not want to look abnormal. So I urged Ramesh to keep talking. And I pretended that I was talking to, uttering some nonsense. As we were crossing the Jeep, I felt a few pairs of eyes on us. We crossed the Jeep. My heart was banging against my ribcage and beads of sweat trickled down my back, making my shirt stick to my back. We thought we were out of danger. I heaved a sigh of relief just when the voice roared, ‘Hey, stop there ******ds.’ We slammed our brakes. I held the tickets over my head. I wanted to impress upon them that we were moviegoers. An inspector and four cops surrounded us. The constables stood like heroes; legs wide apart, slapping the lathi on their palms.
‘Where are you going?’ The inspector asked.
‘Home, sir. We went for a movie.’ I said. Ramesh was too shit scared to talk I guess.
‘Why? Can’t you go for the evening show, ******ds?’ the cop shouted.
Probably, if you were one of the libertarians you may have told him ‘That’s my choice. Not yours.’ Or, say, ‘who the ****k are you? My entertainment manager?’ But I didn’t utter anything, for I knew they wanted submission and not resistance. I wanted to go home. All intact. And the Bhupathi incident was afresh in my memory, though it had happened a few years back.
‘What movie was it?’ the inspector persisted.
We told him the movie name. The cops then discussed among themselves about how the movie portrayed cops and about how ***k all the movie was. We just stood there, bathed in sweat, shaky, and desperately in need of a leak and a smoke. Suddenly one of the cops stepped forward, breaking the circle and shouted, ‘What are you waiting for?’
We were stunned. And I saw the lathi rise and I ran, but not before getting a whack on the back of my right thigh. It hurt like hell. Ramesh, the slow-coach, did not get it. By the time he got the hint, a dozen lathi blows had landed on him. I ran as fast as my legs could carry. I did not stop even when I heard Ramesh screaming from behind me. I knew he too got away, but was a bit late. I reached home and headed for the terrace, where I usually slept because it… never mind. I lit a smoke. My thigh had already swollen. And I cried. Because it was against all that we were taught. Because I did not comprehend why going to a movie is such a crime. I did not meet Ramesh the next day. I bumped into Imthy though and his words said it all about Ramesh’s misery: “Swami, I have been working out and pumping iron. What took me a year, Ramesh did it in a night. He is bloated like mad!’ (Note: my colony friends still call me Swami.)
[…Will be continued]

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Stories from Chittoor

Cops slapping boys and girls in a park in Meerut might sound amazing to most of you. But given my experiences, it does seem normal to me. It is probably much worse in smaller towns. I grew up in a small town called Chittoor. And here are the stories related to the cops there.
When I was a kid, my uncles used the lines ‘if you don’t eat we’ll hand over you to the cops’ or ‘the cops are coming, get to bed, now!’ Right from when I was a kid, I was scared of the khaki-clad ilk. I used to be scared of watchmen, neighborhood Gurkhas, and of course the cops. When I turned sixteen I’d laughed at my stupidity, ‘I can’t believe I was scared of cops’ I thought they were people of reason. That, they ‘took care’ of only the bad guys. It was the ‘rebel’ in me probably. Also, it was a romantic period in the history of Chittoor I guess. It was probably the Maniratnam movies. Or probably Ramgopal Varma’s debut movie Shiva. We were young and proud; of our long hair; of our ‘loves’; of our courage… you get the drift?
Let me give you a backgrounder on how Chittoor was back then: there were two or three gangs, loyal to one party or the other. Every other day, some one or the other was murdered. Even the high school elections were conducted with the backing of the so called goondas. One used to think thrice even to question a ten year old boy, for one never knew or was able to forecast the resultant repercussions. Yes, even a ten year old boy. The district administration would slap the section 144 (unlawful assembly) whenever a prominent (notorious?) person was killed or if a gang war broke out.
Once, on a humid, obscenely bright day, the ‘long bell’ (the ‘go home’ bell) started ringing at eleven or so in the morning. We all ran out, thrilled that we could go home so early. However, the thrill lost its fizz when I reached the bus stand. The whole place was cordoned off by cops. Some ‘prominent’ member of a faction was hacked to death. The assailants had used the cover of smoke bombs to execute their mission. I had to walk all the way home that day. Yes, yes I am talking about this small town called Chittoor; go easy on your jaw. Another such incident was when the leader of a gang was hacked to death when he was on his way back from the court. They threw mirchi powder on his face, as he was riding this moped. When he fell down, screaming his lungs off, the assailants emerged from their perch and hacked him to death. The pillion rider was stabbed too, but he managed to run a couple of kilometers, holding his intestines in his hands, and lived to recount the tale. I don’t know if the pillion rider testified. I mean, testify = death in these parts of the world. Note: almost all these killings happen in broad daylight. Don’t ask me where the cops were when the murders happened. They were probably beating boys and girls up in parks and college canteens.
Another incident which springs to my mind is when Anil, BRBK Rao, and I stayed up all night in the Dairy quarters. It was the Shiva Rathiri and people are supposed to stay up all night praying to lord Shiva or singing bhajans in a temple. We decided to have a ball. So we hanged in the quarters. BRBK lived there as his dad used to work for the co-operative Dairy. The quarters had sandal colored two-storey houses, and a small park in the middle of the quarters. There were a couple of swings in the park and we always hanged there. So, that night, after a marathon swing session, we buried our backs in the sand by the main gate. At about 1 a.m. BRBK’s elder brother Bhupathi arrived, clutching a Telugu novel. He just went to the street light by the gate, sat under it and started reading the novel on revolution by the downtrodden.
Suddenly we spotted a couple of night beat cops on their bicycles on the road. They paid no attention to us but only until Anil started screaming ‘gun gun gun!’ They came at us and I was still reeling from the shock. I mean I had never seen a cop so up close. My knees started shaking as I unconsciously got to my feet from the sand and stood in attention. Anil and BRBK were in attention too.
‘What the ***k are you doing here at this hour?’  One of the constables growled at me. I could feel his eyes pore through me. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the other cop remove the lathi from the cycle. I was convinced they were going to beat us to death. The crickets paused and restarted their chirping. My tongue was paralyzed. I felt as if my mouth was stuffed with pebbles. ‘Shiva Rathiri sir…’ Anil moaned.
‘Shiva Rathiri? Here on the road? Baadakov! I’ll **** your mother’ the cop roared. He may deny it today, but I was damn sure that Anil wet his pants. BRBK was quite cool. ‘We were about to get inside the quarters sir. Sorry, we will go now.’ That kind of pacified the cop I guess. He nodded and said ‘shut the ***k up and get inside. Now!’ We were about to cross the gate and get inside when a voice boomed out of no where: ‘Yemiteee ee anyaayam?’ (Telugu for ‘this is injustice!’). Bhupathi was on his feet, still clutching the novel on revolution. His eyes were glowing with the spirit of the red rebellion. My heart jumped to my throat. The cops, who were about to mount their cycles and go away, stopped and asked all of us to stay in our places. This time they brought their rifles along to intimidate the three class eight boys and a tenth class boy.  I had tears in my eyes. What kind of a fool would argue with night beat cops about civil liberty, equality, and revolution? Bhupathi would.
As the cops started walking towards us, Bhupathi stepped in front of us, as if to shield us from the oppressive, bourgeois forces that were coming at us.
‘What the ***k did you say you b****rd, son of a w**re, we will stick this lathi up you’re a** and take it out of your mouth…**** **** **** **** ’ One of the cops enquired oh-so-gently. I was counting. Only the grand mothers and uncles were left.
‘Your days of oppression are numbered. I have the right to stand in front of my home any time I want? Who do you think pays your salaries? It is the taxes that we pay that…yada yada yada’ went Bhupathi. The cops would have killed him that night. But the three of us fell on their feet and saved Bhupathy from them.[...to be continued :) I mean for real this time!]

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Yellow Pages Blues: Phase End

The Yellow Pages Blues series:
The Early Days
In the field

Yesterday, a salesman had called. He wanted to sell a personal loan to me. He claimed that he was from Citibank. ‘Are you from an agency of Citibank or from Citibank itself?’ He cleared his throat, grunted, and said ‘I am from Citibank.’ Even Bush would have figured that the salesman was lying. The salesman then asked me ‘Sir, can I have your credit card number?’ I said ‘It is not safe to give credit card information over the phone. You should know; you are from Citibank!?’ He did his clearing his throat and grunting routine again. ‘Give me you e-mail id and I will send it to you’ I said. He dropped this gem on me in response: ‘No sir, if you send an e-mail to me it will reach my manager. We have only one e-mail for the entire team.’

Where are the good sales people gone? I was making 4k per month those days. I made all my money through incentives. In 1995-96 the economy was mere shadow of what it is today. And, Chennai’s businessmen were so conservative that they made my conservative grand ma seem like J Lo. We had to collect 100% payment while the competitor was giving 50% and at times 100% credit. It was our first directory. The Tata name did only so much.
We sold in two phases. We sold for 25% less in the first phase. So the first phase end was a high-pressure period. That’s when we bagged a major chunk of our sales. We ended our sales cycle with phase two. So, the pitch for phase one was ‘pay tomorrow, you pay 25% more.’ And for phase two it was ‘we are closing bookings this is your last chance.’ Now, TPYP used a ‘fear-of-loss’ ad campaign to woo customers. It was not exactly a brilliant campaign, I mean, we had mailers that showed a pictured of a guy drowning and the punch line went, ‘If you don’t advertise, your business will drown too’ Hmmm, well, customers bawled out ‘how the f*** we survived all these years before you guys got here?’ That left us with only one thing to rely on to generate sales: ourselves.

I had joined in October 1995 and I experienced my phase-end in November. I still haven’t a clue how I got through that torrid, taxing, high-pressure days of my life. The phase-end was supported by an ad campaign in The Hindu. ‘20 days left to save your business’ or some thing like that appeared through out the month at regular intervals.
When the phase-end did hit us, the rain god suddenly woke up and remembered that he had forgotten Chennai. Even the heavy rains did not stop us from making calls. I used to hesitate a lot to enter a customer’s office dripping wet. But I realized that they appreciated the sincerity.  During the phase-end I was always in a hurry: no time for lunch; no time for sleep; no time for beer. I used to eat from carts on the roadside or from one of the tea stalls that sold ‘brinji’ (vegetable rice) at five bucks. I have to thank Rajesh for teaching me an important technique. I had this problem of clients postponing signing-up. I would have been happier if they just said ‘no, not interested’. But this ‘Why don’t you come tomorrow?’ hurt me.  I was so frustrated that it affected my performance and I was shit scared that I wouldn’t be able to finish my targets. So, Rajesh, Dilip, Sri, and I went to that idly/dosa cart in the lane adjacent to the CA institute. We drowned the piping hot idlies in the watery yet yummy Sambar; topped it up with a few vadas and some chutney. ‘It is not important if you are lying or being truthful’ Rajesh said. ‘All that matters is your customer believing you.’
He continued, ‘I am not saying cheat on them, but some times truth sounds like a lie because we salesmen say it. Your problem is that you don’t look into your customer’s eye when you ask for that check.’ I didn’t quite understand. I thought it was some silly shit. Rajesh said, ‘don’t be ashamed to ask for his money. You are giving him something far more valuable in return, remember?’
It is almost a cliché but I’ll say it for the benefit of my software engineer brethren who probably will never have to hit the field and face the music: believe in what you sell. It all starts there. When you think you are selling the coolest product in the world, it shows. And that’s what makes them buy. Sell only if you are in love with your product. Else, go home and become a clerk or something. Sales is for ambitious people. Those that can never be sated. That’s why I gave it up. It became too much for me to handle.

Anyway, after that little conversation with Rajesh, my checks started trickling in and I did my target with two days to spare. On the last day I was doing the rounds to collect some more checks. Anything above 100% fetched more incentives you see. And the beeper asked me to call office. Some company from Kilpauk had called.
‘What does he want?’ I asked Subha, who had paged me.
‘I think he will give you an ad. A display if you are lucky.’ She said.
I hung up and thought about it. I already crossed 110%. Even if he gives a small display it wouldn’t make too much of a difference. I was so damn tired and I wanted to end the madness right away.  ‘Just this one client and we will go home’ I told myself and went to make the call on the client. When Anand and I stopped our bikes outside the client’s office we were disappointed. It was a shabby building that needed some fresh paint. Worse, there was no name board. ‘Looks like a bold listing’ I told myself. Bold listing was the cheapest of the ads. A hefty, short man directed me to the first floor office. We entered an air-conditioned room. The client was engaged in a phone conversation, but waved at us requesting a couple of minutes for him to end the call. Anand and I sat down. I spotted some product literature and started reading it. I mentally made note of the categories under which he could advertise. The client finished the call and we shook hands and all. He seemed like a well read man. His spectacles too, contributed to the aura of knowledge and wisdom that shrouded his rather small frame. His voice was steely, persuasive, and was devoid of any conceit. I can’t bull him into buying, I thought.
‘I know what Yellow pages are. In fact, someone from your office met me in our Sowcarpet office but he never came back.’
He showed me the visiting card. It read Sachin. He was a management trainee. An MBA. I was shocked. I mean, Sachin was one of the toppers and he wouldn’t be so careless, no matter how small the prospect was. I shrugged and went ahead with my presentation and asked him ‘what is the budget that you’ve ear-marked sir? I’d like to know so that I can give you the right value for your money.’
The client patiently listened to my bull and he said ‘Hmm my budget is some thing around 70 grand? I manufacture Ozonators and you don’t have a category for it.’  My jaw dropped and Anand started kicking me trying to say ‘go for it, don’t leave this prospect’ as if I would. So, I called up Bimal who rubbished the proposal of creating a new category and called me names. I almost wanted to run back to office and kill that guy but I decided to try my luck with the client.
I told the client that he should probably focus on areas where his product is useful than worrying about creating a new category. No one would know what an Ozonator is and they wouldn’t look for one in the directory anyways. So I asked him to list all categories that his product can find use. I pulled out the category list and made notes. We ended up with some twenty five categories. I suggested him a plan. A display in each category. Knock-out White ads in the yellow background. Creating the right contrast that will give him 30% extra pull. I was talking too much to him not allowing him to make up his mind. You know, the pause is the most powerful weapon in a salesman’s life. If we won’t pause we don’t’ sell. It is like this:
You ask a prospect for the check: ‘So, you are taking a full page or half sir?’ and shut up. Wait for at least 40 seconds before you utter any other word. Unless, the client speaks that is. If you don’t, you will end up irritating the client with your sales talk. Give the guy some time to make up his mind. So, Anand nudged me and asked me to shut up.
The client looked at my plan, smiled at me, made some corrections and said, ‘I think we’ll go with my plan.’ His plan was around seventy six grand. I already had achieved my target and 76K was extra. Bonus. I should just take it and run. I did not.
I decided to push him for more money.  By that time Anand had been through two Cardiac arrests and a few ulcers. When I started suggesting that the client should be investing more money, Anand started making some weird noises and he stomped my feet.
I finally wrapped up my push, ‘96k against 76k. We are talking a difference of 20 here sir. But I think you should invest at least 96 if you want your new product to blossom, what do you say sir?’
The whirr of the air-conditioner was the only sound. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. I swallowed and I realized that feet were locked tight. I was so tense that I was sure that I would faint. After what seemed like an eternity, the client said, ‘Okay.’
Anand this time pinched my thigh and I wanted to bang his head with a paper weight.
I made the master bill and pushed it across. The client signed it and I asked him the dumbest question of the decade. ‘Cash or check sir?’ The client’s head bobbed and he went, ‘what? Check of course!’ And I nailed it with, ‘Could you please give me the check details sir? I need them to finish our contract.’ Anand was showing the thumbs-up from under the desk. I was acting all cool as if I collect lakhs of rupees everyday.
He wrote the check and read out the check number and the amount… 96000 from a single client for 12 ads. When I took the check my hands trembled. It was truly a moment that heralded the graduation of the small town boy into a street-smart, city-wise young man.
I collected a couple of more checks on the way back to office. When I walked in, there weren’t too many people. It was still early and it was the last day of the phase-ending. I knew that the guys would come back late from the field. Bimal was standing there in that hall. And I walked to the scoreboard and wrote in bold letters ‘112000’ against my name. There were only two people at that precise moment but their applause seemed like the roar of the crowd when Sachin hits a six. I went into the pantry and lit a smoke. As the smoke filled my lungs and slithered out through my mouth and nostrils. I threw my head back, closed my eyes, and told myself, ‘I am good. I am too f***ing good.’    

The Yellow Pages Blues series:
The Early Days
In the field

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Honnemardu: bLogout - Part 1

Long post. I don't want you giving me gyan about the length of my posts. And all those losers that never made it, eat this. At least!

The bLogout started on a shaky note. Four people had dropped out and the number of people was 19 on D-day. So, on 17 June, at 2230 hours, all of us met up in the Bangalore city railway station.. By the time we hopped on the train to Shimoga en route to Honnemardu, we didn't even do the introductions part. Nothing special happened on the journey to Shimoga but for two anal retentive guys asking us to shut the hell up. They wanted to sleep. I think people are jealous bitches you know? When they spot a gang of young (well, not so young) people going on a trip, they will look for ways to puncture the happiness and excitement balloon. Like one time when they deliberately bumped a table being used by teeners playing poker games. They did this time too. The train left Bangalore around 2300 hours. And except for the three dudes (Arnie, Venky, and yours truly) the rest were asleep. Also, the fact that the gang was spread all over the compartment made it difficult to hang out. Finally, even the three dudes had to give up talking as the guy in the next coupe said, 'please no disturbance please. If you want to talk, go talk to the door.' We shut up but my curiosity got the better of me and I woke him up after a few minutes and said, 'what did you say sir?' I don't know why he had the helpless, serial-killer look on his face when I asked him that. Anyway, that was that, and we went to sleep.
We reached Shimoga around 0445 hours. Our 'bus train' (a train that runs on a bus engine; has only two coaches) from Shimoga to Talaguppa was at 0600 hours. The Britishers are behind this bus train; they used it to carry supplies to Malanad, or so I heard. We had to cross the tracks and a goods train (stationary of course) to get to platform 4, the abode of the bus train. The left-over darkness from the night before clung on, and the first light was just getting its foot in. It was in that insufficient yet dramatic light that we spotted the bus train. It stood there, rooted to the aging railroad; all beat up by the whiplash of time; like a sad, lonely woman waiting for her man. Any man.
The bus train reminded me of a ripe old man; proud of the past, poignant about the present, and almost certain about the future. About the end that is.

As the night segued (I discovered this word recently hee-hee) into a gloomy, sunless dawn, the bus train lurched forward like a resigned, old horse pulling a Tonga. Ten minutes later I noticed that the one striking thing about this part of the world was the green. It was sickeningly green all over. We chugged on real fine, stopping at non-descript hamlets and eating up the distance like prison meal. The Ticket Collector became a bud thanks to Vasu. We stopped for chai in a village. The driver and the TC both were out. Isn't it funny? 'Can I have one more chai, do we have the time?' and the driver went, 'Sure. Take your time.' I wish every train driver had that luxury. After a couple of chais and some real bad jokes (courtesy Arnie, Venky and me) we moved on. Adel came up with a word game and some how what I thought was a bad idea, caught on and we had a great time. The 'other' gang, the non-bloggers that is, chose to hang by themselves. God knows why. Probably they were sleepy or xenophobic or both?
We reached Talaguppa when the clock struck nine and the sun was hiding behind the dark clouds like a drunk that sold his wife's ring. We found a couple of cabs in downtown Talaguppa. We asked the drivers to wait and headed to the small shack that promised hot breakfast. That's where the 'other' gang broke the ice. After breakfast, the two gangs merged and we started towards Honnemardu in the two cabs. The time was around 1000 hours, there and there abouts.

Honnemardu Day: 1
The cab raced on the wet, dirt road and I could sense a distinct change in the landscape. The bamboo trees lined the road like loyal sentinel. The place looked untouched by the dirty hand. The cab pulled over outside a tile-roofed house in the middle of green nowhere. To our left we spotted the water body. Straight ahead there was a winding, mud road that lead to god knows where. Anjana found a beetle that shrunk itself into a ball when someone touched it. I was thinking what if I stomp you moron? But then did not voice the thought. There were a couple of dogs and to me they looked like Jungle dogs. Even the cows appeared 'wild'. As I was psyching myself to glory, Ganapathi, the CEO, king, prime minister, president of the united states of Honnemardu called for attention. 'No littering, no smoking, no drinking, you do your own shit, be responsible, wear that life jacket, and brush your teeth. Fast!' was the gist of his machine-gun English. I was surprised that these guys from Villages (I assume they had no formal education) spoke the language so well. Queen, your majesty, aren't you proud? Screw Charles, he is a horny bastard, but look at your pet natives and their fierce loyalty!

Anyway, dear reader, let me pause here to give some invaluable advice. If you are one of those city slickers that drinks mineral water, runs on a treadmill, and can't take a crap anywhere else but the john, think twice about going to Honnemardu. It is your ass. Don't tell me I didn't warn you. There are no toilets in Honnemardu. It is not a luxury resort. They don't have rooms for god'ssake. We knew it before we went there and we wont (grit my teeth) complain. There are three Indian style toilets (two of them without real doors) in the basecamp, but don't ask what to do when nature calls you when you are camping on an island. Again, don't go there if you worry too much about all these creature comforts. If I find you writing ill or bad mouthing the facilities in Honnemardu, I will track you down, and bring you down to China town. Okay? Aaaarghhh.

Pics: Kavitha's (to be added: Adel's, Dheepak's, Satheesh's and Anita's.

So, we first did a minor trek to reach another tile-roofed house to dump our luggage. This house was on a hillock that gave a nice view of the dam. We dumped our stuff and climbed down and walked towards the water body. We read on the web about Honnemardu. 'Honnemardu' is supposed to be a village submerged under the Linganmakki reservoir. We knew that the water body is over 150 ft deep, 30km wide and 60km long. and that innumerable islands dotted the water body. Knowing is one thing. Experiencing is another. When the man-made lake presented herself to us, full-view, our jaws dropped. The water was dark green and the lake stretched as far as our eyes carried and beyond. We were in a different place and time. The lake must have gobbled up a lot of trees. Some defiant trees stuck out, only adding to the poignant beauty of the place. There was no trace of civilization. None at all. The thick forests on the islands, though looked like home to a lot of wild life, actually don't host too many animals. Even the birds were far and few between. Or maybe my untrained eye did not know where to look. What is weird though is the fact that we couldn't find fish in the lake. No fish. Isn't that scary?
Anyway, after a demonstration of how to use the life-jacket, Ganapathi asked us to jump our asses in the lake, and we obliged. We swam for a while. A couple of them were scared to death. Floating in water is a weird feeling I tell you. And if you can't swim, it is worse. After some time, we jumped only to jump back in to ride the Coracles. Ladies and gentlemen, this bLogout has gifted the world its new Coracling champions. Give it up for Anita, Arnab, Venky, and yours truly. We beat everyone by a mile. We went around islands as if it were a merry-go-around. But nothing comes close to that moment when we stopped the Coracle in the middle of the lake, behind that island. The serenity was overwhelming and so pure that I stopped using the F word for a while. Ok, I was kidding, I never really stopped using the F word.
My arms were all sore from the rowing. Every muscle in my body was screaming. Ganapathi screamed at us to go for lunch. We went to the base, helped them move the food to this (yet) another tile-roofed house that served as a dining hall. I have never wolfed down the simple food, sambar and rice like I did that day. [...Contd]

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The Dubai Return - II

Read Part-one first
The tenement went into a tizzy of excitement, bitching, and gossip. 'Mari is bringing gold biscuits in cartons.' 'Mari is going to buy the tenement and build a palace.' 'Mari was fired. He is coming back for good.' 'The Dubai police caught Mari with a lord Ganesha picture. They threatened to chop his limbs if he did not leave the country. Mari chose his limbs.' And so on.

Mari's family became the cynosure of all attention. Dozens of pairs of eyes scrutinized each move that Mari's folks made.
Even the deaf storyteller who regaled us with his stories during those long summer nights—when we all slept on the road (the tenement was located at the end of a dead-end lane, so it was safe to sleep on the road)—talked about Mari.
I used to watch the huge Mango tree on the other side of the dead-end wall, waiting for it to sway, for that was sign of breeze: a reprieve from the maddening heat of Chennai. While I was at that, I used to dedicate my ears to what the deaf man was saying. He had an intriguing style of telling a story. It was rhythmic; he'd whisper, shout, and slip into drone-mode... He never bothered what we were saying. He'd just go on with his bottom-less story. At some ungodly hour- when the only sounds were that of the crickets, wailing dogs on a loveless night, and the pitter-patter of the streetlight engaged in an eternal struggle to come to life-the deaf man would finally give in and sleep. And start another type of sonic assault: snoring.

Around nine in the night, the day before Mari was supposed to arrive, I took my mat, pillow (made of old clothes; my grand ma can make a king-size bed out of old clothes.) and made my bed on the road. I lay down, pleading the mango tree to sway. The deaf man started his medley of disconnected stories, anecdotes, and rants. 'Bond theriyumaa baaandu? Pallu ley thangam kadathuvaan! KD payyan (do you know Bond? he smuggles gold using his teeth, sonofagun), deaf man started. He went on about the ghosts in his village, about Mohini, the seductress ghost; about how he shook hands with MGR. Suddenly, he dove right into the favourite topic of the season: Mari. 'Mari, kepmaari. Fraud payyan. Nambaadhey, avanai nambaadhey' (Mari is a fraud. Do not trust him). Clouds of sleep that were gleefully getting ready to rain on me ran for cover. 'What?' I screamed at deaf man. He was oblivious to my words. I really had to raise my voice to make him hear me, but I did not risk it. I did not want the house owner to give me one of his reprimands, which included questioning your birth, questioning the integrity of your mother, aunties, grand mother, great grand mother; your dad's virility and so on. Therefore, I did not bother asking deaf man why he thought Mari was a fraud. However, what he said made me wonder about Mari's job. Was he really a manager? Or, was he an office boy or something? Was he really in Dubai? I buried my face into the coarse softness of my homemade pillow and dreamt of Mari, clad like a Bedouin, serving Chai in one of Teynampet's innumerable snack joints.

The next day I woke up early, hired a bicycle, and fetched water for my grand ma. During my last fetch, I noticed the house owner sitting in Mari's house. My grand ma was offering the buttermilk and the house owner refused to accept it. Bereft by her god's insensitivity, my grand ma launched into a long raving about how her life would be if one of her sons went to Dubai. Mami, as my grand ma was known in the tenement, almost aged ten years that day. Some where in the night, as I was watching Oliyum, Oliyum (Light and sound!) on DD, at one of our neighbor's home, I heard a commotion outside. My instinct said it was Mari. Within a couple of minutes, I was the only one watching TV. I ran out.

There was a mob outside Mari's house. I stood behind the mob and through the gaps, I noticed that the house owner, clad all formal, complete with a tie, talking to Mari. My grand ma was at the door of her house, waiting with a buttermilk glass. I went up to her and asked her 'for the house owner?' She shook her head and said, 'Mari.' I sighed, and got back to the mob. Mari got a tape recorder for the house owners; goggles for the house owner's sons. Mrs. House owner got a sari. The cynics jeered, 'that sari must have been exported from Tirupur ha!'

Mari's newly acquired laconicity and rich man attitude did not surprise us. He spoke only to people at his level. He sprayed his perfumes in the loo before he used it. He slipped in English words when he spoke. He wore a watch that had a calculator. 'What's the use? The moron can't add two and four to save his life' said one of the intellectuals. Mari's brother smuggled us chocolates, Dunhill cigarettes for the elders among boys, and promised to give us a 'foreign Lux soap'.

My grand ma some how got an audience with Mari, despite his busy schedule (of eating, watching TV, and learning how to add two and four). She requested him to 'pull one of her younger sons to Dubai'. Mari promised her that he'd talk to his general manager and see what he could do.

A few days later, I was sitting outside our tenement when the postman walked in. He was replacing the old man that normally delivered mail. He walked up to me and asked, 'Where is Mari's house?'
I got curious. ''What is it? I will deliver it.' I said. 'No, I have to get his signature. It is a registered post. I think he got his passport.' the postman said.
[To be concluded in the next post. Please adjust.]

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The Dubai Return

Warning: Long post. I am just writing spontaneously. I don't know why I am writing this. I am typing away like a maniac. Oh yes, this is a work of fiction and any resemblance to characters living or dead is purely accidental. However, I borrowed some of the characters and incidents from my personal experiences.

In the 80s there was god. And there was that guy who worked in Dubai. We lived a couple of years in Chennai after dad left for Delhi to study some agricultural statistics or something. We lived in a tenement in Teynampet. The tenement had nine houses ('portions') in the ground floor. Five on the left and four on the right; with a passage the split the two rows and ended at the well. A gaping balcony right above the middle of the passage gave the house owners that occupied the entire first floor, an excellent perch to bawl at tenants that strayed off the laws of the tenement. My grand ma lived there since when I remember seeing her for the first time. And she revered the house owners. She never missed sending her special dishes to the houseowner, a retired, old man who mistook himself to be the king of the milky way. She always sent a gallon of buttermilk to that old man everyday, and he accepted these niceties from my grand ma like a king would from the poor peasants of his country. Once in a while,something I mean once a year or something, he'd grunt an inarticulate appreciation for these favors. And my grand ma would turn ecstatic, as if she won the Academy award. We hated the houseowner and his wife. But we knew why grand ma was acting that way: she couldn't afford moving to another house. No, no. Not in Chennai. I was not bothered too much because I knew that I was getting back to Chittoor once my dad returned from Delhi.

One day god woke up and decided to send Mari, our neighbour— the frail, Chettinad lady's son—, to Dubai. Mari was probably hanging out with my younger uncles that were jobless. But all of a sudden, Mari was a big man. He got a job in Dubai. He stood a little over four feet, probably was around 30 and had a well-rounded paunch. We, the folk in the tenement, had already heard of this magical place called Dubai, from many a traveler that passed by the tenement. They told us how the roads of Dubai were paved with gold. About how a soap's fragrance refused to leave you for a week, even if you bathed with it only once. About all the heavenly perfumes. About all the chocolates. Listening to stories on Dubai itself made us forget our tough, unpredictable lives filled with the heat, dust, and grime of Chennai; add to it the water scarcity, No TV. So, off went Mari to the wonderland. Mari's mom, dad, and younger brother leapt, in one swift, single, clean move, to the next stratum of the society. Dubai. Boom.

Mari sent lot of money home. Once in a while, he sent gifts across through his Dubai colleagues that were visiting home. We kids used to hover around Mari's house, in a vain desperation to get a share, however miniscule, of the goodies. We never got it. Rumour had it that Mari's folks woke up in the middle of the night and ate those wonderful chocolates. Usually, the next day Mari's brother would be wearing a new t-shirt or a watch; or probably would be smelling like an Onion in Olive oil, thanks to the perfume. We debated in heated, passionate bursts on 'what kind of a job could Mari possibly get in Dubai?' I mean Mari never passed high school. His knowledge of English was as good as his French: nonexistent. So, how can a developed country like Dubai hire a school dropout and pay him truckloads of money? After much deliberation we initiated a talk with Mari's brother. You know, it is pretty delicate. We can't afford to piss Mari's brother off, for he would, when he occasionally suffered from conscience, give us a toffee or half-a-bar of soap to the big boys. We did not want him to stop those favors. We were told that Mari was a manager in some store. People were shocked. Manager was, still is I guess, a big word in those days. All Tamil movies showed the managers as rich guys. All rich guys were bad. And we all wanted to be bad. I mean you can't con a poor Brahmin family like ours into believing that 'it is the good heart of the poor, and the ethic of our worker brethren that would lead us to heaven.' Yeah, right. Where do you think they learnt to motivate the suicide bombers?
One day the postman delivered Mari's photographs. There he was clad in that Arabic dress, like a Bedouin, looking at us through his orange sunglasses. There he was leaning over a gleaming Sedan. Was that his? Oh my god! People gasped all day. The Aachies, ladies of the Chettiar families living the tenement, added a beautiful crescendo to the new buzz about Mari. 'Adi aathee, paatheegala? Imbuttu panam avanukku yedhu?' (gosh, did you notice? how did he get all the money?) Then on Mari's family became allies to the house owners. The houseowner who would mouth obscenities at Mari's brother, was now kissing him in public. So we said 'we poor have heart. The rich have only suffering', went to bed and cried all night.

So, it was thus decided by my grand ma that salvation = Dubai. She wanted all her sons (seven of them) to go to the 'Gulf'. And one day, Mari's brother told us that Mari was visiting home. [...to be contd]

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MGR Thitu: Sorrow Redefined

We (Kribs, Anita, Arun, Joshi, Chitra, and Nanda) reached the temple town of Chidambaram in the wee hours of 16th January. A couple of guys we had met on our way (during one of our tea breaks) had told us to check-in at the S.K. Guest House. After about three hours of rest, at around eight in the morning, we set off to MGR Thitu, a fishing hamlet, fifteen or so KM from Chidambaram.

---

Pictures of the trip are available from Nanda and Anita. Kribs promised that he will soon post his pics.

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We reached Killai, where the road splits to Pichavaram and MGR Thitu. We had to take a small road off the main road to reach MGR Thitu. We decided to stop our cars and walk it up. We noticed a relief Ambulance and hitched a ride in it. All through the road we saw boats tossed about. ‘Were these…?’ and even before we finished the question, one of the relief workers riding with us nodded in affirmative. ‘That’s a good couple of KM away from the sea.’ He added for good measure. We also noticed that most of the trees were dead; the paddy fields were inundated. The media is not talking much about the damage that the farmers had to suffer because of the Tsunami, I wonder why.
The doctor on the Ambulance told us that we had to take a boat from Puzhudikuppam to reach MGR Thitu. The hamlet is sandwiched between the sea and the backwaters. There a small Catamaran and there were about six people sitting in it already. ‘Don’t worry, it can take twenty’, said Anbhazhagan, the elderly boatman. Arivu and his wife Jayasudha, of MGR Thitu, were visiting the village to perform a puja for their lost daughter.

For us, the city-folk, the Catamaran appeared to be a perilous proposition. If one moved a bit, the boat shook precariously close to the surface of the water. A few meters into the water, Nanda started talking to the boatman, Anbu. Anbu looked about sixty but I am sure the Tsunami aged him by at least ten years in a couple of days. He wore a yellow t-shirt that read ‘This t-shirt is all I have. The rest is hers.’ The ‘her’ now stood for the sea I thought.
‘I lost my sister-in-law and my wife. Arivu and I are going back to salvage whatever we can.’ He said.

Arivu said, ‘No one lives in MGR Thitu any more. People are scared.’ The Catamaran lurched and my elbow hit the water. We were at a complete loss of words. As has been said before, you have to be there and look in the eye of these people to understand how devastated they are. The island-hamlet was closer now; the Palm trees head-banged to the devilish wind that whistled eerily, as if enjoying the specter of devastation and damage, doing a Nero. The sea on the other side of the hamlet frothed at its mouth like a hungry, rabid, wolf. ‘The tide is high today’, said Arivu. ‘On ‘that’ day, the waves dwarfed the Palm trees. In the 40-year history of MGR Thitu, we have never seen something like that. Even the worst of the storms pale in comparison to what happened here a few days back’, he added.
The Catamaran lurched to a halt and we waded through the water and got to the shore. While Anita, Kribs, Arun, and Joshi wandered off towards the east of the village, Chitra, Nanda and I headed towards the west. We had to make our way through the thorn bushes and we found human hair and pieces of clothing entangled in the thorn bushes. We discovered later that people trying to flee to the mainland were stuck in the bushes and died as the bushes ate up valuable time. A hut greeted us at the edge of the village. It was blown away, as if a giant wolf gnawed at it and tore it off. Quite a few boats lay around along with mangled (and thus useless) fishing nets. We reached the middle of the village, which was hardly 500 m away from the sea. The Palms saved us from the merciless sun. We spotted Arivu and his wife Jayasudha walking towards us. Jaya got on a slab of concrete and placed a brass vessel, biscuit packets, sweets and some savories on the slab. Arivu looked lost. The shadow of grief made his face pale. Jaya, though she appeared to be a resolute woman, was moist in her eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ Nanda enquired Arivu.
‘We are offering prayers and gifts to our baby. We lost her to the Tsunami.’ Arivu said. I had a lump in my throat. I wanted to ask so many things but I could not. ‘Where is your home?’ Nanda asked. Arivu flashed a wry smile and said, ‘We are standing on it.’

Jaya told us that that killer wave hit her and tossed her on to the roof of the neighboring house. ‘I don’t know what happened. When I woke up, I was on the roof and my baby was missing. We found her body later.’

After a lot of hesitation, we asked how they plan to move on. ‘We want land. The collector says we cannot stay in MGR Thitu any more. The government says it will build a home provided we get our own land.’ Jaya said. Arivu showed us his boat that the waves had tossed away. ‘It is useless now. It may appear fine from outside, but I know that it requires a lot of repair that may run into thousands. As you can see, we lost everything; everything that we depended on for our daily bread’ he said.

We reassured them that the government is doing everything to help them. We told them that rehabilitation will take time and that they ought to believe. But it was easy for us to say. I am sure so many like us would have told them the same thing. They echoed my thought, ‘lot of private organizations visited us and said that they would relocate us to a different location. We have yet to hear from them. Even if we are relocated, we will not be able to fish like we used to earlier. We used to catch fish for lunch and dinner. We know that a big catch awaits us by the way the water behaves. It is easy to spot fish from here. If we relocate our home, we cannot do all that. It is tough to move a ton of fish from the shore to where we live, you know?’ Arivu said. ‘We need our nets, boats, and our home. That’s all we need to restart our lives’, Jaya added.

‘We will get back in half hour, take a look around and return. Do not stray too much’, Arivu told us and left with Jaya. We went around the village. We found a TV set that was broken. A computer keyboard, a photo album, a cot… these were signs that told about the prosperity of the people of MGR Thitu, but now each family from here is at the mercy of aid and relief; they find it impossible to swallow their pride and accept packets of food or sleep on bare mats, without pillows, in the relief camps.

The primary school by the MGR statue (with a broken arm) was in complete disarray. Someone had scribbled a message about the Tsunami and its trail of destruction on the blackboard. The more we saw the more the words failed us.

We decided to leave. We found the rest of the gang on the beach. They had spoken to some other couple. The story remained the same though. I spotted a herd of cows on the beach. They appeared poignant. According to Anita, these cows come and congregate on the beach everyday, swimming about half a kilometer from the mainland. Half of the cattle had perished and the ones that survived, come back everyday, because they were raised on the island, the village folk told us. Many of them have lost their owners. I am sure there are many domestic animals that need help. If you are an Animal Relief organization, please make a note of it.

We headed back to mainland on a mechanized boat. Arivu was the wheel (a rudder actually). None of use spoke a word. It was too much for a city dweller to digest I guess. We stopped by a village by the shore (of the backwaters) and distributed crayons and papers (courtesy Nanda) to the kids, got them all together, and encouraged to draw. We had a good response and I am sure the kids enjoyed it too.

Later in the day, we went to Amritham Fishing Nets and donated nets fishermen from Pillu Medu, another hamlet that the Tsunami had destroyed. We were able to do it thanks to the money that Anita, Arun, and Joshi from Bangalore had collected. Hats-off you guys, and thanks for letting me be a part of it. I want to make a special mention on Mr. Sathyamurthy, who owns Amritham Nets, for his help. If you want to help fishermen by buying them nets talk to Sathyamurthy in Chidambaram. The fisherfolk look up to him and respect him.
I want to leave you with this thought: people of MGR Thitu say they need fishing nets for 50 boats. That comes to around 1750 Kg of nets (the bare minimum they require to get back to fishing).
Each Kilogram of nets cost around 300 Indian Rupees (roughly $6.6 USD).
Each boat requires 35 Kg – roughly 10500 Indian Rupees (roughly $233.5 USD).
If you want to adopt MGR Thitu, or donate nets, do let us know. If you are an NGO or a Relief Organization, write in. There is a village and it needs help in rebuilding their lives. I am sure there are more, but this is what we saw and we know they need us.

Anita runs a blog called Just a little something
Kribs is the old man of blogging in India. Kribs, I forgot your cousin’s name but please pat him on his back. And get a real car dude :D
Nanda despite his incessant chatter is a nice guy from the Marketing fraternity.
Arun runs Surplus musings.
Joshi blogs but refused to give us his URL (I can google it and find out but I respect your privacy Joshi).
Dr.Chitra is yours truly’s better-half.

Pictures of the trip are available from Nanda and Anita. Kribs promised that he will soon post his pics.
Note: This is just my take on the trip. We are working on a formal report that we intend to share with relief agencies.
SeeRecent Posts on your left for moreWrite to me: suman[at]sumankumar[dot]com

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Yellow Pages Blues: In the field

You could sit in a conference room and talk for years to a bunch of people; train them like mad, get them to understand the quirky business of being a salesperson. But, none of it would equal a day in the field; meeting real customers, being asked to get out, and all that. TPYP had a tradition of sending greenhorns to the field along with an experienced salesperson for two days. The greenhorn is supposed to watch and learn as the experienced salesperson, the mentor, interacted with customers. But no one wants to carry a greenhorn around. So, the mentor would take you for two customer calls, take you to a roadside teashop, and ask you to go home and rendezvous in the evening in a predetermined location. And, the mentor would leave you and go home to sleep, leaving you clueless and jittery. I don’t remember who took me on my field trip, but he did not bunk work that day. He made call after call with a vengeance. He spoke to me about making a call, closing, asking for the check etc. So, after two days of field training, I was all set to take on the field on my own. I was given pin codes 10, 29, 30 and 31 to cover (Kilpauk, Aminjikarai, Shenoy Nagar, and Chetput). I was told that I had to generate sales only from these areas; and that if I booked ads from other areas, it would amount to ‘poaching’, which was punishable by death.
CS, my territory manager (TM) gave me a DMR (Direct Mailer Response). ‘Go, get an NB1 (1cm classified box ad) from him.’ He said. ‘Wow! That is so simple!’, I thought, tucked the DMR in my kit-a sexy leather bag-and ran down the steps, all six floors of the Kannamai building, and stood gasping in front of my bike (KB-100, courtesy my brother Sriram). I lit a smoke and let the smoke scream through my nostrils. I watched all the guys leave for the field. I was not sure if this was going to work. All my dreams of becoming a copywriter were on the back-burner. I had no clue how I would fare as a salesman. All right, I had some part time sales experience, but this was different. Selling a concept like ad space was right at the top of the tough jobs list. Someone told me that a salesman’s job is the second toughest; the first was that of the fighter pilot. I did a big favor to Indian advertising by not cracking a copywriter’s job; I was horrible with my grammar (still am I guess) and my pronunciation was the butt of too many jokes. I mixed up my Vs and Ws, and firmly believed that pronouncing ‘have’ as ‘Haaff’ was very American.
I had twenty bucks on me, enough in 1995, to see you through the day. I kicked my KB-100 to life, and rolled into what I believed was murky waters. I did not even have a driver’s license, nor did I have any registration papers for the bike. I was sure that the traffic cops would arrest me, hang me upside down in a dingy, dark cell, and beat the shit out of me with lathis and those heavy leather belts.

I walked into my first client’s office with the confidence of an earthworm in a birdcage. The client was a printer, on Medavakkam Tank road. His office was tucked away in a small lane that was within a maze of lanes; I spent half an hour hovering around his office before I realized it was right there. I hesitated at the door. Deep inside, I reconnected with god, as we always do when we are uncertain and scared, and asked god to be nice to me. So I walk up to this gentleman sitting behind a desk and sifting through a pile of papers. He tilted his head up, revealing his huge forehead. His small eyes burnt a hole through me. ‘Yes?’ he said, stretching the word as far as he could.
‘I um am coming from Tata…’ I started.
‘Not interested.’ He waved me away with his pen. I stood there rooted to the ground, not sure, if I had heard the right thing. My mind raced like a dog chasing its tail.
‘I’d appreciate if you could spare a few minutes of your valuable…’ I restarted.
‘Saar, don’t you understand English? Not interested means not interested.’
I wanted to cry and scream ‘unfair’. I bit my lip. This guy sent a mailer to us ticking the ‘I want to advertise’ check-box and now he does not even give me an audience. I was not cold calling on him. I was here because he responded to that god damned DMR. He looked up again, shrugged, and dove back into his papers. There I was, wannabe-copywriter, dude-with-the-attitude, outgoing, go-getter; crumbling to pieces at my very first sales call. I was a bloody chicken. I should have taken a crack at the banking clerk exams or the Railway Recruitment Board exams. I decided there to quit my job. I wanted to go home straight. I would never return to TDL. But, I could not handle the misery of this failure. One more shot, let us try something different, I told myself and moved close to his desk.
I placed the mailer-response card on his desk and very humbly asked him, ‘Sir, did you send this?’ He was startled I guess. He picked up the card and held it at a distance like it was a snake, and peered at it, locking his thick eyebrows into an almighty frown. ‘Yes, I did… but I don’t know what the mailer meant. I mean I thought it was something free.’ He said. I looked at him for a moment evaluating the situation, and said, ‘It is free. You need to fill up a form. It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’ Not all information in a directory is paid for; and a directory is only good if it is comprehensive. So, it was normal practice to include all unpaid businesses for free.
He weighed my offer for a fleeting moment and said, ‘Ok, sit.’
I told him I was from TPYP and did not have to educate him about Yellow Pages; he was an advertiser with our arch rival M&N. He said that he was not too sure how effective TPYP would be. ‘M&N is official saar. You could be Tata, but you are not the government no? Ha ha ha!’ he said gleefully.
I pulled out a free listing card and asked him to fill it up. He scrawled away.
He gave the card back and I said, ‘Thank you sir but don’t you want to see how your listing would appear in the book?’ He nodded ‘yes’.

I pulled out the Bombay directory (we were selling for the first directory of Chennai) and showed him the Printers-Offset category. The free listing was deliberately made to look insignificant and dull. Among a hundred free listings, a paid ad would stand out. Even an entry-level bold listing was 1000 times brighter than the free listing. After five minutes of checking out the directory, he said, ‘How much is that small listing? That bold one?’ He asked. My legs became weak. I said, ‘1000 rupees sir.’
‘Hmmm, that box?’ he said. So, I ran him through various products. There was this vacuum between us. He was rethinking. I mustered enough courage and said, ‘it is funny sir, but we need free listings. I mean, we need to make the ads look prominent. In your own way, you are helping us. Free listers make us comprehensive and make the advertisers happy. Thank you.’ He stared at me for a complete minute and smiled. ‘I’ll take that bold listing. For you. You are a smart salesman. How long you have been with Tata?’ He said. ‘This is my first day sir.’ I said. That created some kind of sympathy I guess. My mind said, ‘take what you get and run from here.’ But I wanted to push him.
‘Sir, a bold listing is better than a free listing, but a classified box has 30% more pull.’
Finally, after some haggling he said OK for an NB1. I pulled out my contract book and started filling up details using his business card. Every TPYP sales person is given half a days of training on filling the complex contract. I pushed the contract book across and said, ‘Your signature sir.’ and while he was signing, I said, ‘Cash or check sir?’ He did not even look up when he said, ‘Check.’ I pounced on it and hit him with ‘May I have the check details sir?’ He pulled out a checkbook and read the check number to me. I was on the verge of crying. My legs were shaking. He stuck the check at my face and I snatched it and tucked it in my contract book. I gave him his copy of the contract, thanked him and walked out of his office. I stepped out and took a deep breath. ‘I am a go-getter.’ I said to myself and lit a smoke. I could have pushed him for a display ad; I could have pitched him for another ad for his computer stationery business; I could have, but I did not. The euphoria of getting a check on the first call of the first day of your first job blinded me I guess. I was not complaining. But that first call had a valuable lesson for me: people love free lunches.

Write to me: suman 'at' sumankumar 'dot' com

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Yellow Pages Blues: The early days

I worked with Tata Press Yellow Pages for about two and a half years, between October 1995 and early 1998. To me, it was a great learning experience; I took up the sales job as I had to make some money, but I made more than money there. I learnt how to be a saleman. I learnt what confidence can achieve. I learnt that Srikumar was never a drummer. And there were some harsh lessons that I can't publish. For those of you in non-sales organizations, this series of posts should offer a great insight into the life of a salesman in the direct-sales world. Read on. Note to TPYP-Chennai guys: Let me know you'd like to share something here, I'd be more than thrilled to publish it.

I joined Tata Press Yellow Pages (TPYP) in October 1995. I was confused, for I was not sure if I was doing the right thing by taking up a sales job; I wanted to be a writer. But I had to take up some job to eat at home without having to worry about the Dhanda Soru (useless creature) title. Not that my folks minded my stubbornness when it came to choosing a job, but after a year of futile attempts at securing a junior copywriter’s job, something deep inside told me that it was about time I took up a job and earn my meals. I responded to an interview call by TPYP and got the job after I cracked the ever-smoking Kanuga’s, (GM-HR) and Gopal’s (regional manager, Chennai) rather boring interview.

‘Do you wear ties?’ Kanuga had asked. ‘Yes, only in parties.’ I had lied. Gopal was desperately trying to woo me for a desk job (they needed some administration people) and I refused his offer by saying that I was interested only in a sales job. Desk jobs are mundane, and you cannot make money there; whereas as a sales job, with all its performance-based incentives, allowed one to make as much money as one wanted to. I got the job finally. Kanuga blew a cloud of smoke on my face and as I was suppressing a cough that rose from the depths of my tummy, he said, ‘sign this form and join us soon.’ I was thrilled. And I opened my mouth to say thanks, and the tricky cough exploded from deep inside me and I managed ‘thanoooooooooooooooooooooogghhhh huh huh hugh’. Gopal and Kanuga fought the urge to duck and looked at me as if I were an alien. I left the place quiet content with my achievement.
I knew nothing about sales; all I had on offer was loads of enthusiasm and the some (not much yeah, I am a lazy bum) willingness to slog my butt off. TPYP was bringing out its first directory in Chennai and was facing an uphill task of competing with the supposedly ‘official’ M&N Yellow Pages, which was bundled along with the DoT’s telephone directory (White Pages). M&N offered 50% to 100% credit for booking ads in its Yellow Pages, whereas TPYP did not – it was 100% advance payment.

Dear reader, you need to understand the basics of business directories before we proceed. Yellow Pages are published annually. So, when you go selling ad space early in the selling cycle, you are essentially asking the advertiser to pay you for an ad that’ll appear a good year later. Traders and corporates did not like it and refused to pay us 100% advance. Also, TPYP is a stand-alone publication; nothing official about it. We had the Tata name and we hoped to exploit the trust that it enjoyed. It was not much but yes, it gave us a foot in the door all right.

So there we were; a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears, burning-with-ambition types, all set to conquer the world. Or so we thought. We were all huddled around the conference table. They told us that we had to undergo two days of induction followed by three days of field training. Srinivasan aka Puli moottai (sack of tamarind – he was perfectly shapeless) sat next to me. He had this wide grin pasted on his radiant face. A thin, vertical streak of Vermilion bisecting his forehead further accented it. We introduced ourselves. He was from Mayiladuthurai, a non-descript town, situated deep in the womb of Tamilnadu. Srinivasan or Srini came to Chennai to make it big. He had a burning desire to make a name for himself, and make lots of money. Srini has a funny accent. He’d stretch certain words to add emphasis. Foe example, he would say ‘I came late becaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas, I missed the bus.’ My accent was another story. I’ll save it for later.
The induction was quite a revelation. Bimal Nair, sales manager, walked us through the history of yellow pages, and sold us the idea that TPYP YP was the best in the business in India. We bought it gleefully, and to this day believe that TPYP is the best. The induction program consummated with mock sessions. One of us would be the client (an undertaker, or a Fridge repair mechanic or a corporate honcho). The clients during the mocks were asked to be bad asses. They were. I think we like to be bad asses and unleash the sleeping sadist in us. Anu has the habit of ending her sentences with ‘something like that’.
‘You have to pay 1500 or something like that.’ ‘We are the preferred directory in Mumbai or something like that.’ ‘My name is Anu. I am coming from Tata press or something like that.’ During her mock session her ‘client’ made her life miserable by seeking an explanation for ‘something like that’ every time she said the words. I was fortunate and was not asked to do a mock pitch.
Bimal Nair used to watch the mock sales pitches and offer pearls of wisdom; ‘look into his eye and say ‘you pay now or you lose 25%’. ‘Show him numbers. Numbers, numbers, numbers.’ Bimal’s sardonic sense of humor endeared him to all of us. He told us about how he clawed his way up from being a sales guy. ‘Performance. Nothing else.’ He was around 28 then and was stocky, quite loaded at the waistline. He had this nasty habit of ruffling his close-cut, curly hair; he would run his palms through his side locks and pull them back in one super-fast motion, as if a snake in his head had bitten him. That was his way of fine-tuning his focus during a discussion I guess. Thank the lord he did not suffer from Dandruff; our meetings would have been flaky and hazy, with Dandruff floating around in the room. Most importantly Bimal was (still is I suppose, though he has moved to an ad agency) honest. He would never bullshit you, never feed you illusions about the job, and always urged you to word hard, for he believed that that was the only way to succeed. Though he was our super-boss (we reported to territory managers; each had a team of six under him or her) he would interact with each one of us (we were 60 or so). I am sure every girl in TPYP had some kind of a crush on him. I used to hate him for that.

Write to me: suman 'at' sumankumar 'dot' com

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My Fridge Story

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. I was stunned by god's weird sense of humor and before I could shrug off my astonishment and save the fruit, I mean, my grand pa... It was too late. His teeth fought valiantly with the frozen Mango and the evil Mango sent some shooting pain up his teeth. He started screaming. 'Which fucking devil's son would freeze a fucking Mango! fucking nuts!' and his stare rested on me. His eyes from their deep-socket dwelling burnt a hole through me. Of course now he knew which **edited for profanity** would freeze a Mango. My aunt, when she heard the story, strictly told that the Fridge was off-limits for me from then on. So, thus ended my first encounter with a Fridge. When I left Hyderabad, I longed to meet the Fridge and hang-out with it for a few moments... But fate would have none of it. Neither my aunt. It was a tearful parting. I mean I would have loved to experiment more on the Fridge. Lock up one of the cats in it, or maybe, open up the Compressor to see how it worked... But luckily or unluckily (depends on who is saying it) that was not to be.
I swore to myself that I would buy a better Fridge than that. My folks did buy one later on. But then I was now bent on buying my own.
The dream partially came true a few months back when I was in Indore. Sudheep my good friend wanted to sell his old Fridge to buy a new one. He quoted 3000 Rupees and I nodded 'yes' until my neck broke. And so it arrived one fine Sunday night. It looked like it belonged to Aurangazeb or probably King Henry. It badly needed a fresh coat of paint. I told myself, 'what do you expect for 3000?' The answer came after I plugged it to the electrical socket; a **edited for profanity** Silencer was all it needed. It wheezed like a naked, asthmatic, old man atop K2. It was spooky too. It would wheeze on and suddenly stop, and the whole Fridge would rattle, as if the old man was shrugging off the snow. 'Digy Digy Digy Dittt!' it would stop. And I would stop whatever i was doing and watch it and heave a sigh of relief. And at the most unexpected moment, it would start its wheezing again; it was like getting a slap from my smart dad: he'd raise his right palm and while I was staring at the right palm and ducking in horror, he'd slap me with the left; more than the pain, it was the humiliation of being cheated that hurt me the most. Anyway, I was looking for my good friend Sudheep, and strangely, he was on vacation. If I had had met him, I'd have celebrated my 30th birthday in jail. But yea, anyway. Grrrr! I never used the Fridge, I mean its noises were kind of not worth say, chilling a beer or ice-cream? The noise would turn a saint to a psychotic killer. Sudheep where the hell are you man?
I left Indore last October and gave the Fridge to my friend Nags - for free. And I moved to Pune. I moved on and now I have a brand new Fridge. But Nag's has lost the capacity of maintaining a coherent conversation. He now makes strange noises, like a 100 year old Fridge wheezing.

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Don't wait for the can

When I was 13 I wanted to learn swimming. And in Chittoor the only way to do that was through the irrigation wells that fed the paddy, sugar cane crops. I set out to a field near my home, along with my friends (read: swimmers). I had my tummy in knots and was all nerves as I peered down from the top of the well to the blue-green translucent water. A small turtle lay nestled at the bed of the well, lazily flapping its limbs(?!). It was a huge well, a perfect circular structure that had a spiral stair case for one to get to the water level. Sudhakar, my chief instructor tied a 5 ltr plastic can around my naked waist. As I walked down the can kept slapping my butt. I was so damn sure that the the tight-shut lid would come-off the can and drown me. Sudhakar just smiled and I was puzzled by his benevolence. "Let's go down" he said stepping down on to the stair case. I started. I would have crossed four steps when he spun around and pushed me down. I went down screaming. The brick-layered walls of the well echoed my scream. I landed flat on my belly. I don't know how long I was under water; it felt like a long time. I went down, down, down , down... into a spiral abyss. I could see legs lashing out and someone's jocks had slid down and he was pulling it up. And the can propelled me up. It seemed as if it had a mind of its own. I popped up on my back, gasping for breath. My belly was red and it stung as if I was slapped by Mike Tyson. I lay on my back, kicking and using my arms to stay in balance. The dipping sun peered through the leaves of the Gulmohar tree by the 'pump-shed'. I thanked god that I was alive. Sudhakar said "this is not your english medium convent... you learn it the way it is meant to be." I nodded. So he trained me for four days; how to paddle, the various strokes, and more. On the fifth day Sudhakar and my other friends decided that I didn't need the can anymore. I was scared to death. I clung to a gulmohar tree's trunk at the edge of the well and refused to step onto the staircase. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Swimming is 80% in your mind! Lose the fear. That's it. I am ashamed of you - you spineless chicken-cum-gutter rat!" Sudhakar pounded me with his colossal verbal assault. I felt like dirt. I think he saw me cringing within myself in shame. "Do you trust me?" He asked softly. I nodded. And walked into the staircase. "...you shouldn't trust anyone too much!" He said and before I realised I was once again falling into the well... I didn't scream though. I went down. Down, down, down, down. Dark. Murky-green water. A frightened bubble left my mouth. I saw it rocket up. I was drowning. That thought clouded my brain. Clogged my thinking, and let panic take over. My body went limp I guess. I opened mouth and the water gushed in, choking me... I had a searing pain inside my chest. I thought my lungs would explode when something pulled me up by my hair.
I lay gasping and coughing at once. Sudhakar had saved me. "what the hell went wrong?" I yelled at him. "You were waiting for the can." He said. "You were waiting for the can to bring you up. When there was no can."
I learnt swimming that day. I never did wait for the can ever again. And I always quote Sudhakar when I see people refusing to wriggle out of holes. When people have 'helplessness' for an excuse. When people give up too soon. When people short-circuit their brains on their own volition. "Don't wait for the can." I tell them.
Write to me: suman 'at' sumankumar 'dot' com

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Water Melons, Mangoes, and early morning school

The heat in Indore is unbearable. You don't perspire too much here like in Chennai so the heat sticks within and your pee turns yellow and it burns! This time of the year back in Chittoor when I was in school; I used to get up early in the morning to attend school at 7:45 a.m. The little flower convent would function between 7:45 a.m. and 1:45 p.m. in the summers. That meant we had a 'breakfast' break during which we ate our packed breakfast (which was mostly uppuma, as mom preferred it; it was easier and faster to cook). And we had the whole afternoon to kill. We used to steal mangoes from the farms nearby. We used to jump the fence and walk in and pluck the mangoes and run away. We never got caught maybe because the watchmen were almost always old men and even when they did spot us, they only screamed 'I'll kill you! you offspring of the devil' or some thing to that effect, but they could only watch in disgust as a bunch of young thieves vanished right from under their noses. Funny thing was dad used to get baskets of mangoes from our farmer friends... but nothing like eating a stolen fruit, trust me!
The other thing I loved the most was swimming and eating water melons right after that. I learnt swimming in the irrigation wells. That again was a problem; if the farm owner caught us swimming in his well, he would either snatch our clothes away (we'd have left it on the edge of the well) or he'd simply turn the 'motor' on; we firmly believed that we'd be electrocuted if we were in the well with the motor on. Some farmers were generous, they had no hang ups with us swimming in their wells. A few years later I was swimming in the Chennai IIT's pool and I heard a couple of guys talking 'I can now swim in 9ft of water' to which the other said 'I can swim in 20ft, no shit!' And I realized what morons these city boys were. How does it matter if it is 10 or 100ft as long as you can swim?
It's been years since I had had a dip in a well or a pool. I haven't eaten any mangoes lately or water melons. Sad!

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Looking Back at Television

In early 80s, when I was 9 or so. Lakshmiah Naidu - the rich man of the Pagadamanu Street, Chittoor - bought a TV. Along with the other kids, we used to flock his house. They accommodated us for the first few days, but after the crowd became unmanageable, they shut the door on us. And left the window open. So, there was fierce competition among the kids for the window space so much so that I used to literally hang by the window grill - sometimes up to 45 minutes, just to watch those moving pictures on that Dyanora black and white TV. We were not concerned with what program was on; even the DD1 show on how to make fuel from cow dung was ok. It never ceased to amaze me that a little box was showing moving-talking pictures... I used to rack my brains about how it did it, and used to pester prof. Krishna rao whenever we visited him. He had no clue but used to put me to sleep with a long-winded, and hypothetical thesis on how TV works.
My dad used to catch me now and then on my 'hang and watch' trips, and beat me up for being so cheap and he almost always stopped beating me when I popped the question 'why the hell can't we get our own TV?'
In the middle of 1982, we had to move to Chennai. We used to live among 10 families; all housed in small 'portions'. The landlords lived on the first floor terrace, and they had the only TV in the 'compound'. Mr.Naidu's family was almost philanthropic compared to our new landlord. The mean old man -our landlord - used to throw me out 'get out you fit for nothing twerp' he used to shout. And I used to grudgingly climb down the stairs swearing to myself that I wont ever step into that house again. But then again, I used to conveniently forget that promise and would promptly show up the next day. The old man's wife -the landlady - was a nice woman. She used to allow me inside. But the old man used to have the last laugh anyway. At the stroke of 7:30 in the evening, he'd announce 'ok we are having dinner now, get out you jobless idiots!' and I used to walk out swearing to myself again that I won't look at this direction again. I used to write to my dad in Delhi (we came to Chennai as he was transferred to Delhi for a couple of years), and every letter always asked this question 'when are we buying TV?' We moved back to Chittoor in 1984 after my dad came back from Delhi. Still no TV!

We got our first TV - a black and white portable - in 1989. That is how long it took a middle class dad to satisfy his perseverant second son (me, me, me) - who was now 16 and TV had become a status symbol –more so because- his girl friend had a 'colour TV'. Life is never fair! The TV dumped me before that girl friend did (1994 March 11 :) ). It blew-up one fine summer morning in 1990. I was alone, and my dad had no doubt whatsoever that I blew it up. So I fixed the TV out of my pocket money :(

My interest in our black & white TV waned during that period as all my friends had colour TVs and I used to be in one of their homes almost everyday. And then, Star TV happened. It changed the world for me. It introduced me to Mtv and ruined my grand ma's peace as I started playing all that rock/metal music at home at full-blast. She threatened to walk out of the house because of that but a well-timed trick by my younger brother saved us: he told her that in a competition between Michael Jackson and M.S.Subbulakshmi, MJ won by a huge margin, and that even MS listens to MJ! She brushed it aside, but never called MJ or any other pop/rock star 'devil's off-spring' or 'saniyan' or 'paradesi naay' [naay = dog and you know what paradesi means].
The family -but for my dad and I - moved to Chennai in 1993. I finished college and was chilling out in Chittoor, with the house all for myself, there was no looking back, and we partied everyday. And whenever the cable guy messed up I used to fight with him. At times, it used to get ugly. He'd scream 'you can't accommodate more than ten channels!' I used to yell back 'Where are you living moron? Nigeria? The other cable guy airs 40 channels!' or 'Does your mother know about your brain damage?' He was hilarious; he used to give stupid excuses like 'black and white TVs won't get Zee Tv' and the next time he came for payment I gave him 50% of the original amount and said 'this is all we pay for black and white TVs'
After so many struggles, grand ma, incorrigible cable guys, and 1000 miles later, I walked into a shop in Indore in December 2001 and bought a portable colour TV (Salora - don't laugh!). The transaction took me exactly five minutes. "How much's that?" "5000" "pack it."
We all have come a longway, haven't we?

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