Will you call it an ad?

It’s a crazy thought and I just couldn’t ignore the temptation. Call it an ad, spoof or even bashing. We, as usual me and Ratheesh, had no problem giving it a ‘go’. Expecting more brickbats than bouquets, yours truly.

The crooked clowns and their antics

No Minister in the BJP-ruled States had resigned after bomb attacks. “So why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility,” he asked. He said he was not under any pressure to resign and he had full faith in the high command. “I only offered to quit because the party has put its faith in me and if it thinks I did not do my job then I should go.”
The Hindu, 02-12-08



It’s not just Mumabi, it’s the whole nation, if not the whole world, trying to grapple with what happened in the city last week. Grief and anger is in the air refusing to be doused, it’s not even a week yet as heinous perpetrators held the nation’s collective conscience on gun point. We lost scores of men, our citizens as well as our guests. But still, the death toll stands to a comparatively low 200, thanks to the brave men who dealt with terrorists head on and those who gave their life in the attempt to save those trapped in Taj, Trident and the Nariman House. It could’ve reached such mammoth figures as huge as 5000 but for the unparalleled bravery of the men in uniform.

Now, please read the first two sentences I sourced from today’s ‘The Hindu. The ‘he’ here is none other than the Maharashtra Chief Minister Mr. Vilas Rao Deshmukh. I know that barring a few, politicians don’t care. They won’t move a single finger even if the country goes to the dogs. But I haven’t come face to face with anything of this kind for quite some time. It’s not just gruesome. It’s ridiculous, it’s silly. It’s a Chief Minister and a senior politician utters something that will put even a kindergarten kid to shame.
“So why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility.” The message is clear. People may die, terrorists may repeat such dastardly acts, but I am all for power and I am going to cling on my chair. Now, I’ve a doubt. I’ve been thinking of it for a long long time but I stopped myself from asking it for the fear of being ridiculed. Everyone loves to use such metaphors as ‘hot seat’, ‘crown of thorns’, ‘hot bed’ etc when it comes to describing power and the various positions it offers, then why these people try to get into power by hook or crook? Yeah, I know I’ve been ridiculed, I‘ve been called naïve.

Mr.Deshmukh’s deputy, Mr.R.R. Patil, of the “such small incidents happen…” ‘fame’ has been stepped down. And the reason cited in ‘The Hindu reads as:
“Nationalist Congress Party (NCP) State president Arun Gujarathi said the party did not ask Mr. Patil to resign. “He took the decision on his own in a bid to own responsibility for the attacks.” “ Why should the Congress alone own moral responsibility” and “in a bid to own responsibility for the attacks”. Hilarious, isn’t it?
Once again I’ve been reminded of the infamous “when big tree falls…” remark by the late Prime Minister Mr.Rajiv Gandhi in response to the anti sikh riots that broke out in Delhi after the then Prime Minister Ms. Indira Gandhi assassinated by her own security personnel.

And the credit for addressing the media for the first time from ‘ground zero’ goes to the Chief Scientist of the ‘Gujarat Lab of Hindutwa’ Mr. Narendra Modi. With no qualms he offered monetary help to the family of the slain ATS Chief Hemant Krakare, whom he was badmouthing till the other day for exposing the Malegon blasts. Properly it was turned down by the widow and family members of Karkare. Properly, for that gesture contains a message. A message everyone will understand except the politicians.
The Patils, the Deshmukhs, the Modis…and hordes of those who belong to this species will never change. They will indulge in blame games, they will do anything to ensure their positions, and they will even sell our country. These clowns and their antics remind me of a story which I was taught when I was in 2nd or 3rd standard. The story of a wolf which made the goats fight and started to drink blood when it oozes out. Eventually the wolf was killed by the goats as they came to know about its intentions.
If not to these people to whom else I’ll use such expletives as “Fuck off”. Fuck off you morons, just fuck off.

Let it be

After 42 years, John Lennon, the ‘working-class lad who was struggling to cope with unexpected success’ has been pardoned by Vatican for his 1966 “which will go first, rock ‘n’ roll or Christianity” remark.

“When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

Let it be, let it be,
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be…”

Water water everywhere…

These ads were among the first few me and Ratheesh did exclusively for our portfolio. And we did it with a lot of fervour, but then I never could find an ‘auspicious time’ to post it and hence it got postponed.

The first one was my first thought. Though one is supposed to let it pass, some times one just can’t. I couldn’t convince myself-neither could I convince my art partner- still, I had wanted to proceed. And after arguing a bit, we decided to give it a nod of approval. But the nagging dissatisfaction deep within was just too adamant to be tamed. Ever since I came to know about Sophie Neveu and the various word games her uncle, the curator of Luvre, Jacques Sauniere taught her, I too indulge in some. It was how the idea came into existence. ‘Whater?’from water. And then it took a turn, a convincing one when I downplayed a couple of letters, unlike what I did in the first (adding ‘h’). And that’s how ‘WATER’ happened.

And if you think the second one is visually appealing (that’s what I think), then full credit must go to the ‘art moron’. He made it blazing by using ‘mushroom cloud’, the eternal nightmare of humanity.

What happens when…

For a while I thought my chest would burst and my lungs would fall out on the asphalted road. The excruciating pain just beneath the ribs on the right side was increasing. My throat was parched and I longed intensely for a drop of water. My knees became so weak that I let my feet lead me rather than me taking control. Even the cold breeze engulfing me couldn’t suppress the countless rivulets on my face. Panting like a dog, I stuck out my tongue in vainly to moisten my lips. My breathing became so noisy; I thought people would come out of their homes to see what’s happening.

I’m not describing the latest in my nightmare series. After spending months, pondering over ‘jogging’, finally I’ve started it. And Oh! My friends, my dear friends…

Please don’t mistake me. I’m a humble person (*ahem*) and I always keep myself down to earth. So please don’t view it as an effort to get six pack abs in order to flaunt it. See, I don’t have anything against six pack abs or the guys who flaunt it. Even I too desire it sometimes, but the only condition is that God has to come down from his ivory tower. Yes, he should visit me and then make me into shape first, before fixing those ready made stuff on my tummy. Don’t you think that it would be bizarre to have six pack abs on an otherwise plump body?

It has been quite some time I started to think about fitness. I’d certain previous experiences too in this regard. Yeah, once I, along with a couple of friends joined a gym. There was no such thing as proper instructions, and I, in my vigorous attempt to look like Van Damme (Inspired by his flicks Universal Soldier, Double Impact and the likes) lifted almost anything available. The result was pretty quick. Just within 2 days I had needed my mother’s help to wear a shirt. It was not possible to keep my hands properly and I kept it as if I had blisters in my armpit. My friends thought I had developed ‘wings’ within such a short period and almost recommended my name to the ‘Limca Book of Records’.

Now, it’s common knowledge that a cat once fell in hot water would be scared even at the sight of water which is not dangerous in ‘character’. So it’s not just uncharted waters that makes one scared. I can hear some one grumbling out there: “Can’t you make it short, moron?” Indeed, let me try.

So off we went, me and a colleague to the nearest mall and purchased a couple of tracksuits, Ts, shoes… just all the paraphernalia to start the ‘fitness journey’. And I started it as stipulated, without fail. The actual plan was to hit the main road and run to the next town, that’s a couple of kilometres away, and come back. I had inspected the road on Sunday and found some potholes, ignorable I decided. But then, on Sunday evening I found a new route that zigzagged around the township I stay. I opted for it since it seemed better and safer than the other. Plan was that: ‘I run to the destination and come back without stopping anywhere and thus burn enough calories to look fit’. So, the stretch, that lay approximately 4 kilometres up and down, was finalised for my ‘fitness yatra’.

I got up at 5.30 and thud the alarm to silence which was buzzing so damn viciously. After trying to get adjusted with the fact that I woke up so early, I started my morning chores. Then with the enthusiasm of a kid who goes for an excursion I wore it all and moved out. ‘Slowly but steadily’ I murmured myself, and by the time I completed some 300 metres I thought I would die, short of breath. I finished the first day running, walking, and sometimes almost crawling. And the worst part of it was yet to come.

By afternoon the first results of jogging started to appear in forms of pains in different areas; shoulder, arms, calf muscles, ribs, abdomen and even neck. But the severest of them all was what I felt in the thighs. Ouch! It hurts with my every move and it hurts like hell especially when I had to use steps. (This is exactly what happens when couch potatoes become fitness freaks). And I had a tough time convincing myself that ‘no pain, no gain’.

It’s been 6 days since I started it, and uninterrupted it has been, so far. The pain has mostly been disappeared and the whole process makes me feel good. But it doesn’t mean that it’s easy or smooth. The temptation to remain in bed is just as strong as on the first day, but every morning I make myself get out of the cosy warmth of my bed, warding off sleep and laziness.

PS. Tomorrow I will take a break as it’s Sunday. "AND GOD RESTED ON THE SEVENTH DAY FROM ALL HIS WORKS”. Me too, the lesser mortal.

Relationship is like china, once broken it can never be the same again.

X: “The commercialization of education has evoked many a serious…”
Y: “Shut up, you Neanderthal @#*@@**###@*#...”


*The classified display appeared in ‘The Hindu’ dated 02-11-2008.

The most futile thing one can do is to proclaim ‘I am this, I am that and I am this and that’. You’ll never know who you are until a particular thing happens or that decisive moment arrives.

Tom’s Laws in Arun’s Life

You come to know about something, you think about it and within no time it happens to you. It happened to me the other day.

For Pooja holidays I had to leave Mangalore for Bangalore to meet friends. I left Mangalore on the eve of 7th . As usual, I spent some time reading blogs during the ‘off peak hours’ at office and from the comment section of a ‘regular’ I bumped on to another one who calls himself a ‘misplaced moron’. He had two laws to his credit, the original and the modified versions.

Here goes Tom’s Law(s): 1 There’ll be at least one good chick to board the train/plane/bus along with you, but chances are they won’t be seated next to you.
-- My Law a.k.a Tom's Law (copyright protected)

2 If My Law doesn’t act on you initially, it’s going to come back in a much virulent form.
-- Modified My Law

The bus was scheduled to leave at 8. As I boarded in I could see one girl sitting on seat number 17, that’s the aisle. Mine was a window seat, number 18. She was busy talking over the phone and made way for me to my seat. Phew! Tom’s Law. I’m above the law. I glanced at her. ‘North East’, roared the features. Spectacles were of the latest trend, T and jeans, and it was rolled over a little beneath the knee. I found her sandals in the net pouch attached to the back of the front seat. I made some effort to get some cool wind and slid the window glass a bit. I also helped the woman in the front seat to do that. I sipped some water and placed the bottle at the space provided for it. Settled as in S-E-T-T-L-E-D, I put myself at ease. Now, it’s me and there’s no such thing as me starting a conversation. She was still on the phone, taking various postures within the confined space as the conversation progressed. (She had her feet already on the seat. Oh God! Doesn’t it rhyme?) Now, as I’d made myself comfortable I wanted to pop a ‘happy dent’ and chew on it waiting for the girl to exchange pleasantries, phone numbers, email IDs and what not. But I didn’t as I thought I would’ve had to share one with her. Nopes, I was not being mean, I was just uncomfortable to do that. It was nice to have a girl next seat and I was extremely careful not even an accidental brush ruins the possibilities of ‘an ever-lasting rapport’. I kept my elbow away from the hand rest as there was just one between the seats and let her keep hers on it. Then I closed my eyes and with some effort ushered in an expression to my face (you know, these bloody facial muscles refuse to move even a tiny bit especially when they know that I need their support and cooperation so badly) that would’ve made any girl believe that I’m chivalry personified. The bus was still stationary as it was not 8 yet. The girl had stopped talking a while ago and I found her on the adjacent seat murmuring with another girl. After a while I heard a sweet voice, “excuse me”, yeah, it was directed to me. Oh boy, oh boy! “yeah”, I raised my eyebrows looking at her, and what I meant with that gesture was “yeah, I’m ready”. “Could you please do me a favour”? Haa, why did you ask me that? The sole purpose of my existence is to do you favours. I made myself more attentive. Then she blurted out the favour she wanted me to do. “Could you please exchange your seat with her?” she pointed out to a girl on the adjacent row. “Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent,” three cheers to Friedrich Nietzsche. “Is it a window seat”? I enquired. “Yeah”, “okay”, I moved out towards the direction and made her handed over me my bag and she let out a “thank you” and for that my gesture was that of some one who’s going to be a martyr despite his non-willingness. Tom, you deserve a golden salute my buddy, if ever I underestimate you with my lack of experience, let me shed a few drops of tears in absolute repentance. Don’t let your interest take a back seat my dear reader; come along with me, the worst is yet to be. This girl I exchanged seat with was just pure gem, so cute and innocent she looked that I wished if she had existed in a world where nothing but flowers and butterflies give her company. It doesn’t take the whole journey for her to prove otherwise.

I still watched them through the corner of my eyes with a solemn expression on my face. They were not friends, it was pretty visible as both of them were busy in their own worlds. ( Read glued to their mobiles). Then why, why the heck she made me exchange the seat? There were a couple of conclusions I reached, but before that let me disclose a secret. I look like a moron, though things are at their respective places, the proportion, surface etc are terrible. Now I’ve more space on my face, more precisely, my forehead is a rapidly expanding territory, thanks to the thinning hairline. And worst of all I’d sported a beard and moustache which were untrimmed, well at least for the last one month. She might’ve found me as a potential molester, that’s conclusion number1, and the 2nd is she might’ve felt my presence quite uncomfortable since she was talking and wanted to talk to her boyfriend through out the night. I love to believe the second since it’s more soothing.

Now about the other girl, she had been busy with her phone, she was getting calls even at 1, 2, 3 and even 4. This irked a fellow passenger, an elderly man and he walked up and down the aisle to find who was the one who disturbs his sleep. At last she found her, told her to switch it off, and then there was a tiff. He told her that one should’ve the “commonsense” to switch off such gadgets while being in public carriages especially at such unearthly hours. She started from the word “commonsense” and retorted that “it’s applicable to you too”, a remark about his asking curtly to switch it off, she also justified the constant ringing of the device as a ‘necessity’, I didn’t buy that. Who are the ones who give you calls at 2, 3 and 4 in the morning? And the worst part was she didn’t attend any of them, she just allowed the mobile to ring for alarmingly longer time. After the person went to his seat she again started to check it and there was enough light to disturb sleep and again he stood up and protested which she reacted by keeping the light of it uncovered for a long time. No angel she was. Considering that the elderly gentleman was sitting just behind me, by exchanging the seat I’d, in fact did her a favour, otherwise she would’ve been strangled. Quite unaware of all these, the other girl, who dethroned me so mercilessly, was sleeping, wrapped herself in a blanket, her face was visible though. Whenever I glanced at her I felt a mounting joy, you know why. She looked so…ughh, it was not at all pleasant to see her sleeping. She looked so damn… “Silence, silence…”excuse me, I heard someone shouting “sour grapes, sour grapes” there.

Tom, I wish, I pray that your laws find its way to “Murphy’s Law”. I thank you all who took the pain reading it full despite it being not-so-finely written. It was a great topic, but due to the lack of time and skills I might’ve made it a terrible mess. Thank you.

Tom’s Page: http://toms-almanac.blogspot.com/

A Letdown

I had respect for Dr. Manmohan Singh despite having nothing to do with his political leanings. I thought it would do wonders to a nation to have such personalities at the helm of affairs. A well-educated person gentle in words and deeds, he seemed to have something quintessential in him that stood apart so strikingly because of its apparent absence in a majority of our political leaders. Now, sadly, all had gone. Singh is no more king, at least for me. Brethren, if you are wondering what am I arriving at, I just want o ask you a single question. How did you find Dr. Singh’s words to U.S. President: “People of India deeply love you,”? “Normally not given to loquaciousness” that’s how ‘The Hindu’ describes the Prime Minister. Then what might’ve prompted him to utter that? I find it kind of a gross remark and totally uncalled for. When some one of Dr. Singh’s stature makes such a statement it’s applicable to all Indians including you and me. On our behalf he said it. I am one among ‘the people of India’. I don’t love Mr. Bush, I hate him neither. (You know, my hatred is precious for me.) I regard him as an inevitable error bestowed upon humanity, the kind that happens at times. He had blood on his hands, blood of innocent children, women, youth…Do you think that Dr. Singh’s statement or the absence of it would have had any impact on 123? Or is it that Dr. Singh completely swept over by the hospitality and charm of Mr. Bush? No matter whatever, it was a letdown, a blatant one for that matter.

International Day of Non-Violence Campaign

The United Nations has declared October 2nd, birthday of Mahatma Gandhi, to be observed as 'International Day of Non-Violence'. On the wake of this, we did a campaign. Again it's the same team, Me and V.C.Ratheesh. Have a look.

The Second Campaign

Here comes the second campaign for the imaginary www.anythingandeverything.com
This time the idea takes a twist.And the Art Partner is none other than V.C.Ratheesh, the ruthless perfectionist.

Incoherent random ramblings

Yesterday, I lost sleep some time during ‘brahmamuhoortha’. My watch showed the time as 3.40. Then, after a while again I slipped into slumber, the next time when I opened my eyes it was 7.45. It was raining through out the night and it was one of those mornings when one just wants to tuck under the blanket for ‘some more time’. But this time, I made sure that I didn’t actually sleep. At last, I got out of bed at 8.10. I need a lot of time to finish my chores. In fact, in the morning I may look like a grown up version of Darsheel Safari brushing in ‘Taare Zameen Par’, baldy, bearded. And by the time I left my room, it was 9.15. I was just wondering why I feel so hungry and the bus I got in was surprisingly empty, not that I got a seat, but still comparing with the jam-packed one’s I usually travel, this one offered a lot of space, in bus conductors’ parlance ‘enough space to play football’. (They stopped using any such metaphor ever since people started to tell them that they are the goal keepers. So many goal keepers. Poor N.S.Madhavan who told us about the loneliness of the goal keeper) The real surprise was when I reached the office, almost all my colleagues were there at their seats with their eyes glued to the monitor and fingers frantically searching on the keyboard. No, it was not the ‘just-logged-in’ look but the ‘has-been-here-for-quite-some-time’ look. And the person on my left smiled at me, yup, something was there in it, something was wrong, and I almost smelt the rat. ‘What’s the time’? ‘11.30’, he replied. “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?” I got this reputation of hitting the bottle when it rains, and well, when it doesn’t. But yesterday I was just sober as a ‘whatsitsname’. But still some of my colleagues exchanged ‘I-know-what-you-did-last-night’ smile with me. Alas! What a day, it was not that I reached the office late, it was the 2 hours I missed…bizarre it was.

Everyone is busy explaining themselves. Isn’t it the problem with the world? No one bothers to care what the other feels, how they think, what they have to say or what it would be like if one stepped in to their shoes. It’s always me, me and ‘my point…’and I’m not different!

Someone says ‘one is responsible for one’s experiences’. I agree with that, though not wholly. That’s a damn truth, just love it. But still, my experiences don’t allow me to agree with that without disagreeing a bit.

…a cursed death

Actually this post was supposed to go with the last one, at least that’s the way I had planned it, since there’s some connection between these two. The only separation I had wanted between them was a thick line; one made up of the asterisk mark which is situated right on top of the head of 8 on the keyboard. But for some reasons I decided to keep this as a separate one.

It happens to me quite often. But once the surprise (or shock/revelation) settles down, it goes down to the kingdom of oblivion just like the numerous things that happen regularly. I’m talking about being shown the other side, sometimes instantly, sometimes not-so-instantly.

Once I jotted down kinda-draft of the last post titled ‘…a blessed death’, I went back to ‘The God of Small Things’, which I was reading after a decade or so. Since it was re-reading, there wasn’t any hurry to ‘know the story’. Naturally there was a lot of time to visualize Comrade K.N.M. Pillai. “Arms were crossed on his chest, and he clasped his own armpits possessively, as though someone had asked to borrow them and he just refused”. Or Estha crushing to his bed saying: “Et tu? Kochu Maria? Then falls Estha”. Or Chacko, ‘the spoiled princeling with the old Zamindar mentality playing comrade, comrade’, thanks Ammu. Then all of a sudden, nopes, not all of a sudden, one could see disaster lurking in the air, but still, chapter 7, ‘Wisdom Exercise Notebooks’, was a blow, perhaps the most heart rending of them all. “A different Ammu” made an appearance. “Swollen with cortisone, moon faced, not the slender mother Rahel knew”. And after she showed her phlegm on a handkerchief Rahel hated her. Yes, she hated her. Ammu died at 31. Not young, not old, but a ‘viable, die-able age’. She died at a lodge in Aleppey where she had gone to attend an interview. A room boy found her dead in her room and ‘he switched off the fan’. The church refused to cremate Ammu in their cemetery. So they went to the electric crematorium; Chacko and Rahel, just Chacko and Rahel. “The door of the furnace clanged shut. There were no tears”. And after a while they received: “The whole of Ammu crammed into a little clay pot, Q 498673.”

…a blessed death

“I long for my mother’s bread
My mother’s coffee
Her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day
I must be worth my life
At the hours of my death
Worth the tears of my mother”

-Mahmoud Darwish

In the middle of the courtyard of Ramalla’s Cultural Palace, where he had given his last poetry reading, the grave was ready, to give the land’s dearest son a welcome embrace and a whole-hearted acceptance into her heart. On the winding road that led to the cremation ground, there were thousands, on their way to see their beloved poet for one last time. And in the midst of them was she, brought on a wheel chair: Houria, aged 92, the mother of Mahmoud Darwish. A blessed life. A blessed death.

I’ve been tagged…!

Yes, I’ve been tagged for the first time! And it is Mea Culpa who tagged me. Thanks Mea. (Vow! that sounds good, a really nice name. Isn’t it? Still I prefer your name over it, whaaaateeeeesthaaaaaaat?) O.K. enough distractions as usual. Here’s the tag rule: ‘Share five of the favourite quotes’. And for me, just like everyone else, the toughest thing is to cut short or limit my favourite quotes into five. Anyway let me try.


“Man is vile and can get used to anything”

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, ‘Crime and Punishment’

“I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star”

-Friedrich Nietzsche, ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’


“I took more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of me.”

- -Winston Churchill

“Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it thousands of times.”

-Mark Twain


“Dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire legalized by music.”

-George Bernard Shaw



And you know what; I’ve also been tagged by Bindhu, fortunately with the same rule. Thank you Bindhu, see I’ve done it. And I would like to tag both Mea and Bindhu. Trust me; I’m so damn mean and hell-bent on not allowing you any room at all. Are you ready? If yea, here it’s: Which are your most favourite books? Do you think that you can dole out that mile long list? Nopes, it’s all about listing the all time three. Grrrr…

One fine day when I was at work and there was no work, I just started to browse. I got this superb photograph and the next moment I wanted to do an ad using it and the result was www.anythingandeverything.com with the baseline ‘for those who are not afraid to know’. For my art partner V.C Ratheesh, all it took was just 5 minutes to fix the domain name and the baseline.



But then that’s purely coincidental, kinda reverse process and I started the ‘real’ search for images for the imaginary www.anythingandeverything.com and bumped on the following photographs, but none satisfied me as the first did. But we are still working on the second ‘campaign’ using a different set of characters but with the same idea.

Yesterday I visited a bar that reminded me of the tavern where Raskolnikov met Marmeladov. It had high ceilings and from there hung a couple of fans with stems about a metre long. The floor was all wet and one had to squeeze oneself through the plastic tables and chairs. The walls were dirty and on the right, just above my head, there was a single white tile on the wall with Ganapathi’s picture on it. And Ganapathi stared at me. After some time, when I turned to my left, I found Nietzsche sipping his drink and by then I had finished my quarter of Old Monk Rum and ordered for a 60.

Don’t run

Ahem! Everyone please lend me thy…. I‘m gonna preach. Please, normally I don’t indulge in this kind of stuff. But now, I feel that my two penny advice will make you wise, yup really.

Don’t run. Hey, no, you philistine don’t take things literally. I mean don’t run away from things. It won’t do any good. You can’t escape by running away. I’ve just realized that this morning and I just can’t wait any further to share it with you my brethren! Noble soul am I huh?

I make a living by writing advertising. A Couple of months back I left Kerala and landed up in the neighbouring state. Ask me why you passive, indifferent … (am I turning abusive? Nopes, not deliberately) OK I’ll tell. I left Kerala in fear of Onam. Yup, that’s our most spectacular festival and we all go for a shopping spree during the period. “Maveli nadu vaneedum kalam manusharellarumonnu pole…” forgive me, I might’ve scared you singing the paean in my harsh (actually friends say I sound like a metal crusher, but I’m sure that they are all bloody liars. In fact, in the morning I sound like Amithabh Bachan , but gargling spoils it all ) voice. See, this is the problem. I always beat around the bush. But I know it’s always better coming to the point as soon as possible except in love making.

Every jeweller and every textile showroom owner in Kerala believe that Onam season is the ideal time to advertise. (Indeed, it’s not baseless) And if you have at least a vague idea of Advertising in Kerala, it goes without saying that for a large number of agencies the clientele belong to this category. The ones I worked for were no different. In short, during Onam copywriters will be busy connecting the spirit of Mahabali (The demon king who was booted to the abyss and on whose behalf Onam is being celebrated) and Onam with the client’s need and their art partners placing a number of pictures in the lay out. It goes like this 1 Floral Pattern 2 A Potbellied Mahabali (In fact almost all the demon kings and soldiers I encountered in the comics I read growing up had chiseled to perfection physiques and the pot belly of beloved Mahabali remains a mystery to me) with an umbrella made of palm fronds. 3 Snake boat and sometimes women in traditional Kerala saree (Malayali Manka). You can omit some of these on the basis of the size of the lay out, but if you don’t incorporate any of these in the ad, man that’s blasphemy!
And by the time Onam is over everyone goes back to their business, but not me. I would make ‘floral’ patterns in the rice. I would cut the papad in the shape of Mahabali before putting it into the boiled oil and would even think of getting a blanket which has ‘Snake boat race’ printed on it. In short I would become damn obsessed and to escape lunacy I came here. (Ha! I’ve just been called by the ECD to enquire whether I’m willing to go to the Cochin branch as they have loads of work since Onam is round the corner!). And brethren, is there any point in stretching it anymore? I was provoked into writing this when an Account Executive asked me to work on Onam Ads for a bank. But now the ‘unthinkable’ has happened. You can’t escape your destiny my beloved brethren. Alas!

Thinking of putting in my papers always gives me a high, may be it’s the great uncertainties lay ahead…

When I die I want to die with a chuckle and a wink.
For I think, in the end, that is all life is worth.

I see a pair of eyes which are a delight to anyone who is on the verge of self destruction.

Is it that one is wrong or is it one meets the wrong people all the time?

“How can you know the dancer from the dance?”
Have you ever seen Mammootty dancing?

The problem with the future is that it keeps turning into the present.

-Hobbes of Calvin and Hobbes

If anyone had mentioned 'drinks' yesterday, I would've smashed him. And today, I'm just getting imapatient to have a couple of chilled beers. Hangover matters, a hell lot.

Of Names

A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. But, then, it’s a rose. How about us, lesser mortals?
One of my childhood pals’ name was ‘Shabby’. I don’t know whether I spelt it correct, but he was called just so: “Shabby”. And I was too young to understand the meaning of the word, otherwise I would’ve had one gala of a time. And there are a hell lot of people, friends and acquaintances, whose names begin with the word “Shy”. Shyju, Shyja, Shyma ‘Oh Maaa…!’ and one among them that makes some kind of a sense is “Shyjith”, ‘one who conquers shyness’! Indeed, only if you are fond of finding sense in nonsense.

Once, when I was in College, I had been to a friend’s home. As we were sitting and chatting at the verandah, I heard his mom calling “Lousy” and his sister responding to the call. No, she’s no ‘lousy bitch’. It’s her name. And given the fact that her brother, my friend, is ‘Lovemon’ and his elder brother is ‘Loveson’ it could be ‘Lovesy’. But still, how it would feel to be called ‘Lousy’, day in day out? What’s the image that comes to your mind when you hear someone calling ‘Anju’? I know the answer. But I have had a classmate, one Mr.Anju. And every time some new visiting faculty call ‘Anju’ and see Anju, who sport a thick moustache, either they give him a bewildered look or smile at him saying that their daughter’s name is Anju.

Another name that can cause real embarrassment to the person in question as well as others is ‘Anas’. And to cause great annoyance and embarrassment all you have to do is to change a letter. But, fortunately the name ‘Anas’ is called/pronounced as ANAS and not as ‘aay-nu…’ thank God! I’ve a friend whose name is ‘Nishad’, and I know another guy with the same name. ‘Ma Nishada…’

And before winding up, I need to confess that I had a narrow escape, a hair thin one. At home, I’ve been called ‘Shabu’.

I fall asleep listening to the shrill chirping sound of crickets and various other nocturnal insects. How about you?

Alzheimer’s ?

Yesterday when I googled, ‘Why I’m not a Christian’ happened to pop up. Keeping it opened, I thought for a while what might’ve prompted (Oooh again, instead of ‘prompte’d I had keyed in ‘opened’) Dr. Christian Bernard to write the piece. Is it the ‘Christian’ in both that played the trick or Bertrand for Bernard? No clue. But what makes it really scary is a couple of other incidents, which are somewhat similar to this. Today, while I was about to leave for office, I saw my colleague/roommate combing hair and I realized that I’ve forgotten his name. After a few seconds of intense recollection, to my relief, ‘Vinay Shankar’ again started to run through the corridors of my mind. And while reading newspapers online I fumbled upon a story about Katrina, but the face that comes to mind was that of Kareena’s. No, I haven’t seen any scary movies of late that deals with ‘Alzheimer’s’. If I put the odd one aside that of sheer forgetting, are the first and last one cases of
Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Oh, where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl Amurray, [sic]
And Lady Mondegreen. ?

Ah, Women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

At Ease?

I had never been at ease with myself and with the surroundings for such a long period as I have been now. (Keeping in mind that ‘such a long period’ is thoroughly subjective especially happiness and peace are concerned) It’s like the tranquil happiness of a hermit meditating in his abode. I prefer staying cut off from the outer world and want to shun all modes of communication. I can’t allow anybody to play spoilsport by being reckless with words and disturb my peace. Yet, I know that it may get shattered at any moment for no obvious reason. Indeed, obvious to the outer world, not to me, for I can see him.

He is there, supine with his left leg folded supporting his right foot, that is with his right ankle on his left knee. He pretends that he is reading, but I can see him glancing at me every now and then. He just wants to ensure that my happiness is being built, brick by brick. And once the monument is over he will pull it down. Anyway, he will have the last laugh. It’s just a matter of time.

The Forgotten PIN

It’s noon. The sun is pretty hot. I walked to the ATM, a good 500mtrs +away. All I’ve is an old, red 20 rupees note. Salary must have credited. And finally when I reached the ATM, I came to know that I’ve forgotten the PIN. Angry, sad and confused, I stand there in front of the ATM trying to recollect the PIN. I walked back, defeated. While having lunch I thought about the number. (Yes, in this part of the globe you can still get a good meal for Rs.12 or even Rs.10) I stored it in my memory as a pretty decent score (I was a great fan of test cricket, yes I WAS. For the SBT Card all I do is to remember the number 12. It’s effective; I do remember things in this manner. I break up a friend’s mobile number in this fashion: 98953; common, 69; summer of 69, 711; date of London bombing.) So again I go there, entered in to the ATM cabin, keyed in the number. Since the system asked me ‘what I wanted’, I thought I’ve made it. But when I pressed ‘Balance Inquiry’, the response was ‘Invalid PIN’. I thought there would be an alarm following with the arrival of the Police at the ‘crime scene to nab the burglar’. Nothing of that kind happened. The moment I reached the office I started to google, ‘forgot the PIN what to do’? There came pages of information. And I found a tip pretty interesting, that one’s date of birth might have used to form one’s PIN. EUREKAAAAAAAA… and it’s a pretty decent score too. Now, as I key in this, I’m just eager to go there and key in the ‘new’ PIN. But still, it’s all a guess. I’m not sure whether it’s correct. Neither I know the envelope contains the PIN handed over by the Bank Official is with me any more. If it’s not the right PIN that I am thinking about at the moment, it will sure going to be tough times ahead.

Two tales of a continent

The first one induced in me a likeness for African literature. It was set on such a huge canvas that sprawled across 200 years, many generations and two continents. I was there when Kunta Kinte shrilled for the first time and the year was 1750. He grew up with me. It was superb watching him at close quarters. I revelled with him in his childhood and a part of his teen years. When he went to manhood training, his parents and siblings were not supposed to be with him there. But I paid a visit. No, not just a visit, I stayed with him through out the period. He had great plans and ambitions. All thwarted when he was captured by the toubobs. And thus he was:

“Stolen from Africa
Brought to America
Fighting on arrival
Fighting for survival…”

It was a real tome running close to 700 pages. But it was so intense except for a few chapters. I felt like the loser I am when I finished reading ‘Roots’. Thank you Ranjeetha, thanks a lot.

Comparing to ‘Roots’ ‘Things Fall Apart’ is a smaller volume. All of 187 pages, it disappointed me in the beginning. I was still under the influence of the world Alex Halley had shown to me. Comparing to the people in Juffure, those at Umuofia were less sophisticated. Okonkwo was short tempered and a couple of times he beat his wife mercilessly. He was a warrior and a great wrestler who earned much fame when he over powered the champion wrestler of his time. He loathed his father for he was too lazy and left nothing for his son but a pile of debts. Okonkwo was a self made man and one cannot expect a self made man showing too much sophistication. He was afraid of becoming lazy and coward. He despised anyone who showed a hint of his father’s character. He struggled not to be like his father, never ever, and he succeeded in that. He amassed wealth and earned titles. His barn was always full with yams. But when his gun accidentally fired killing a fellow tribe man during a funeral he was forced to go exile and lived at his mother’s village for the next seven years. He too had great plans about being a great member of the tribe. And when he came back the scene was quite different. Even when he was at his mother’s village his son Nwoye had been converted to the new religion introduced by the white people. Things were really falling apart at his own village. Their faith had been questioned and insulted. Okonkwo and his fellow men were captured and humiliated. And he knew that his people were not willing to wage a war. He killed a messenger, a representative of the invaders, and then killed himself. Only to be brought down from the tree on which he hung himself by the whites and to be buried without honours.

And it was in the last paragraph the only time the author intervened to tell what had in the mind of the District Commissioner. Satirical it was. He would write a book with an interesting paragraph or two if not a whole chapter, narrating the incidents that led to the suicide of Okonkwo. And the name he chose for his work was: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.

The Challenge

To be with you
keeping myself sane.

It’s yet another phase in life.
Just another.
No ADJECTIVES.
I’m staying with people
who watch WWF wrestling mania,
the moment they are out of bed.
It embarrasses me.
And once when I was reading,
someone breathed down my neck and asked
“Is that a storybook?”
“Yes”, I replied.
“What does it deal with”?
Again I muttered something in reply
and he guffawed.
“Oh, old story that’s before 1947”.
“Even before that…” I protested.

You wanna headline?Gimme a deadline?

Yup, for some one destined to eke out a living by writing Ads, demands pouring in from everywhere (for client service executives may come from any direction) for a headline a.k.a caption. I know you frown (assuming that some hapless soul would go through this) thinking headlines are all about newspaper headlines. But you know I got this bloody obsession with rhyming. I’m ready to spend a fortune if I can make something really rhyme like this one:

“Johnny Johnny yes papa
Fucking gals yes papa
Wearing condoms no papa
Getting aids ha ha ha”

Oh! As usual again I mess around. It’s not about rhyming neither it’s anything to do with advertising. It’s about my inability to work until and unless I’m cornered with a tightening deadline. So if some one doesn’t mention the D day (most often D time, as if
I’m making bulls eye) I’ll read a hell lot of beautifully written blogs and asks myself “hey you wretched creature still you wanna keep blogging”? What to do I’m goddamn hedonistic (Swayam bloganandan).

I love you deadline. I love you immensely. Hover over my head as the sword of Damocles and help me do something.

If

We could've united,
if I had my country's military
at my disposal,
to curb the riots
you initiate.

'Take Care'

When some one says 'take care'
what they really mean is:
"Take care of yourself,
it's a fucking world out there".
They omit the latter part
just out of courtesy.

Me too at last!

“You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more T.V. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame.

On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You are in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming. That concrete whizzing by five inches below your foot is the real thing, the same stuff you walk on, it’s right there, so blurred you can’t focus on it, yet you can put your foot down and touch it anytime, and the whole thing, the whole experience, is never removed from immediate consciousness”.

_Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance



Technology has never been my forte. It always scared me, and the fear continues.
However it doesn’t prevent me from gazing at or even acquainted with some of the glittering things technology offer. And if I prioritize, bikes come on the top 5. I watched it all with great enthusiasm; the Harley for mango deal to the limited edition 500cc machines from Royal Enfield. But never had I thought that I would ever learn to ride. I’ve seen my friends, one by one, learn to ride and own a bike, most of them in their teens or in early twenties. Yup, I too was forced to join sometimes, take a lesson or two; both theory and practical, but I lacked something that prevented me from continuing.

I am poor at multi-tasking or so I believe. One needs to multi-task while riding. Apply brake, hold clutch and change gears to halt safely. But how? How to do it all simultaneously? I had a tough time trying to untangle it. And I wasted many a sleepless night pondering over ‘mastering the art of riding’ rather than taking a practical lesson to ride.

Yamaha RX100, which is no more being made, had always fascinated me. It’s a good one as far as its looks are concerned. (and in all its aspects) A real hit among the youth in its heydays, it still rules the road in many a city. When I went to Mangalore a couple of weeks ago, I saw them in considerably good numbers that too at this time of new age bikes which offers even 100plus kmpl. In best conditions an RX 100 may give you 35kmpl. Still the machine is on demand and the reason cited by many is that it can be ridden so easily through heavy traffic. The unique sexy sound is another attraction. But for me the most important advantage of an RX100 is that it’s height from ground level. Astride on it I can comfortably place both my feet firmly on the ground beneath.

At last I bought an RX 100 from my colleague for rupees 11,000. I spent rupees 1000 more as it needed some repair. Then for more than a month I kept it ‘almost idle’. I observed the parts keenly. I kick-started, gave acceleration -in the process it left behind huge, dark clouds- and enjoyed the thunderous sound regularly, all invited my mother’s wrath. She often banged the door and windows at ‘us’ as dark emissions gave her sneeze and cough as me and my new found love courted in the courtyard. I am extremely fond of postponing things. And in this regard I am on par with Mr. Hamlet. So I didn’t even bother to take it to the road to learn it. By this time friends and family were quite amused by the fact that at least I intended to learn riding. One fine Sunday I took it out with the help of a kid. He instructed me how to ride. Then I did, as he rode pillion. After a couple of rounds on the road girdling my home, I gained confidence. I rode it changing gears as the kid hollered 1, 2, 3… indicating gear changes. Right in front of the Gate of my home I thought of applying brake as it was a steep slope. Brake? Where is it? And there wasn’t much time to think. So I hold it, the one which I could with my right hand. Bang, thud. Lesson No.1: Never apply the front brake when you are riding it at higher speed. As I got up from the asphalted road, I tried to figure out the moment between my applying brake and fall. But I just couldn’t. I applied brake, and I found myself on the road, on all fours. But the way I fell, the actual fall remained elusive. I was curious to visualize how I might’ve been thrown to the air, and then to the ground. Don’t get taken aback by this, inspired the kid. No tiny tot ever learned to walk with out falling. So headed the Guru and Sishya to the nearby ground. Blood was still oozing from my palm covered in a piece of cloth. My left knee ached too and had bruises. Have you ever fallen- of any kind- on an asphalted road and suffered bruises on your knees and elbows on a winter morning? Then you would know what I had been through. I circled and circled the ground and Guru, as he remained standing in a corner smoking, constantly reminded me to shift gears. I cursed those who made things this complicated by adding so many gears. Either the bike refused to move or made sounds that terrified me whenever I tried to change gear. Then one day my cousin came home and stayed overnight. The next morning he woke me up against my constant pleas to let me remain in bed as it’s Sunday. Again we went to the same ground and started circling. But still, going out with it to the main road gave me shivers down the spine. I thought of bus drivers who rule the road, speeding cars, suddenly-surfacing- from-nowhere auto rickshaws, jay walkers, school children…I observed every biker who happened to be in front of my eyes, keenly. They made me believe that it’s quite easy as they zigzagged themselves through the bottlenecks. In the end I decided to hit the roads. And it was necessary to get an emission test done and to obtain a certificate as the one I had had was outdated. I took my monster, who emits dark clouds with a vengeance, to the emission test and waited with bated breath. I felt like the father of a kid who’s pretty bad in academics and still seeking admission to a prestigious institution. I thought my ‘love’ wouldn’t clear the emission test. I even feared the worst as in the authorities would be apprised and they would grill me. But to my surprise I obtained a certificate. Is the emission test a farce?

So I came out in the open with my bike courageously. I found early mornings as ideal as there were lesser traffic during the time. And then gradually I made it a point to ride it at nights and then at any time. Often it halted on the busy roads as I attempted to change gears, I kick-started it again and people often stared at me as if they learned to ride in womb itself. The next task was to ride it with a pillion, initially this too was tough. But I overcame the difficulty. I learned how to overtake, how to zigzag, how to change gears when it’s a bumper-to-bumper ride. But still I have a long way to go. Once I took my cousin’s Kawasaki Calibre and went out, though he warned me that its front brake is not in good condition, I didn’t think it as a major problem. And when I came back as there was a steep climb to reach home I changed the gear. Since the gear system was exactly different comparing with my bike, when I pushed the gear down with my foot instead of pulling it up, the engine went off. It got halted, and it rolled down as it was halted on the sloppy road. Nopes, the front brake didn’t function and I realized within no time that I needed to do something urgently and I turned it and banged it to the muddy wall and somehow escaped without getting hurt. The hand brake is important too!

I kept my bike in the courtyard for almost a month and every night I thought of learning it. But never could I reach a solution. How? That was the prevailing question, and at times I felt too incompetent and passive. I thought of selling it and free myself from night mares. But then the feeling of giving up without even trying started to haunt me.

I’ve inspired at least a few guys who too were clueless when it comes to riding. Though not knowingly, I have instilled confidence in them. The best way to swim is jumping into the pond rather than thinking about the science of floating in the water.