Adieu Mangalore

About two decades back, as a school boy, I had passed through this city a couple of times, to the temple of Mookambika, then once to the ladies hostel of Kasturba Medical College, Manipal, where my cousin was a student. I vaguely remember a beautiful girl who got into the bus during one of those journeys. She, along with her family, boarded the bus from a place where lush green fields astride, in sharp contrast, the jet black asphalted road. I fantasized that we would fall in love with each other and live happily ‘till death do us part’. I don’t say that she was haughty - I want to maintain some objectivity you know - she was not. But she didn’t even bother to have a look at me at all despite my all- the- way- drooling. Yup, such a connoisseur of beauty I was even at that age. Sorry for beating around the bush. Ah! The female of the species, such huge distractions they cause.

Never would I have imagined then, may be too young to think about career and such stuff, that one day I would find myself in love with this city. It was a call from a friend during one of my ‘out-of-work-and-at-home’ stints that directed me to Mangalore. After the first visit that lasted for two days, interview and formalities, I was told that I would be informed to join soon. Then, there wasn’t any reply for sometime. After a month or so I got a call from them asking me to join immediately.


So I backpacked and left home for Mangalore by Parasuram Express one evening. That night I stayed in a lodge where I had stayed when I came for the interview. Next day I joined the office and was provided accommodation at the company’s apartment along with a couple of others. Thus began my sojourn in Mangalore on 10th March 2008.


I stayed in the apartment for the first few months before finding a room for myself. It was quite fun staying there, but then something was missing. And with the help of a colleague I found a room in a secluded, calm place and moved in. In the new room I fall asleep listening to the screeching crickets and wake up to the symphony of chirping birds. My room was in ground level and on the first floor stayed a retired Engineer from BSNL and his wife, who became Uncle and Aunty later, the only other occupants in the compound. Ah the Mango Payasam they gave me last time, heavenly!


Wherever I go there are two places that fascinate me more than anything else; bookshops and bars. For the first few months I was clueless where the bookstores were. Bars were everywhere, but bookshops I couldn’t find. Then I was told about one. I went there to buy a copy of ‘The Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night Time’ and ended up buying ‘The Reluctant Fundamentalist’ by Mohsin Hamid. I got ‘Curious…’ as they had promised, later. Both were excellent reads. After the initial visits I stopped going there. The owner, a middle aged stout gentleman with rosy chubby cheeks, was enthusiastic about books. But there was a fundamental difference between us. My idea of a book has nothing to do with the so called self help books. And for him books meant only that; ‘how to be a dash dash’ books. But thankfully there were enough well stocked bookshops in the city other than that one.

I didn’t inform Rathnakar that I would be leaving, probably I wouldn’t. Okay, you don’t know Rathnakar. He is a waiter at The Food Palace, a bar near to my office. There are a lot of other waiters in the 20 plus bars and one pub I visited who are quite friendly.But this man deserves special mention for he once joined me in my search for the ‘lost’ key. Time was around 9.30, I had paid the bill and was about to leave the bar when I found the key of my room missing. Watching my frantic search under the table, chair, table cloth… he came and asked what happened. As soon as I told him he joined the search, but it was all in vain. After that I asked his name; ‘nimma hesiru yenu?’ And he replied Rathnakar. Cursing myself for losing the key, I headed to my room. Uncle had closed the gate. The athlete in me took control of the situation and I found myself inside the compound. There, there…ah my joy knew no bounds! The door was just latched and on it were the lock and key, winking and smiling.


What’s it that come to your mind when you think of Mangalore. Has it got anything to do with violence, a group of men chasing and hitting girls? It was a blot on an otherwise tolerant and liberal city’s image. No, I’m not ignoring the communal tensions. It’s there, believe me. But still, the city has a humane side. People are more concerned, at least in comparison with other cities. Not that I’ve lived in a lot of cities, but I did enough to sense the goodness of Mangalore. But the pub attack was a blow. (I recently saw the pub, Amnesia, closed now, where it all happened). Mangalore all of a sudden became everybody’s favourite whipping boy and was portrayed viciously and with contemptuous wrath. A certain Mr. Muthalik became the ‘darling of damsels’ overnight and chaddis rained in Mangalore, pink in colour. Whenever I went back to my hometown, I felt that peoples’ interest in me had exceeded all my expectations. I was dragged into discussions about the pub attack even by those I barely knew. I doused all their curiosity and interest by brushing it off as ‘media hype.’ Let me reiterate, I’m in no way justifying or trying to brush the incident under the carpet. I had indulged in a heated exchange of words with a colleague of mine over this when he justified the attack. But, this city has a lot more to it, to be highlighted than, of course the highly condemnable, pub attack.

There are a lot more to be zeroed in on. The culture, the festivals, pristine beaches, delicacies especially seafood, cockfighting, the felling of hundreds of trees including sprawling banyans in the name of road widening…But I feel a lump in my throat. I know everything is transitory, and it is just another phase, and change is the only constant, but still…

Mangalore is changing rapidly. I’ve seen it from close quarters during my 21 months-long stay here. Malls are coming up everywhere. Traffic is becoming chaotic. But still I hope the city will retain its character despite a thousand and one challenges. I may not be able to love any city the way I loved Mangalore. I may not get a chance to come back and settle down here. I may end up in soulless cities acquiring their characteristics. I may get lost forever in concrete mazes. But still, along with home this city provides a beacon of hope to me for lifestyle here still suits to my laidback attitude.

When I began I didn’t think that I would end up this piece in this manner, but some where along I got so mushy mushy and all. Adieu Mangalore.

An Appeal

These precarious games we play thinking that words are all that matter, this never ending conundrum, I’ve a feeling that this will cost us dearly. Where are you? Where am I? I can’t find either you or me in these labyrinths of blame games. My friend, we have been hijacked by words. Mighty, ruthless bamboozlers are they. Please try to understand. They were just pretending that they were at our service. See what happened now? We have been held hostages. Can’t you see that they roll over the floor laughing every time we go for each other’s jugular? I’m ashamed to make use of their service, that too after all these. But see, once again… I wish a time will come when we find solace and music in our silence rather than disturbance and cacophony. Peace, till then.

Fragmented thoughts of a demented soul

“Nothing happens, nobody comes, no body goes, it’s awful”, perhaps one of the best lines that captures ennui in all its horror. I’m tired of the way things go; I’m tired of my ways of thinking. So stale it has become that nothing fresh comes out. ‘Take a break and wander’ says someone from deep inside. Nopes, too lazy to do that. I no longer believe in lasting happiness provided by others. Perhaps I’m too proud to admit that someone can just shatter me by their indifference, insensitive behaviour or lack of concern.

There was a time moods got changed so drastically that I used to think that I had bipolar disorder. Even now, sometimes I burst with energy and experience ecstasy. Despair no longer shakes me the way it used to. Even drinking has become kind of boring. It would’ve been great to sip rum sitting alone in a corner of my favourite watering hole after the end of a hectic week. But when there’s a slump I prefer to drink to overcome boredom. Now the routine itself has become boring.


“Suicide is an act of man and not of the animal. It’s a meditated act, a non-instinctive unnatural choice” says Italo Calvino. There was a time I walked around scattering such ‘borrowed wisdom.’ No longer. Even the other day I came across with that; my colleague’s husband. He didn’t wait for the bell to toll for him. Four pegs of Royal Stag Whiskey that night, an effort to shrug off the pall of gloom or my excuse to get drunk? No idea. And that person was sitting nearby, the one who is obsessed with the phrase ‘at the end of the day’. Last time he was sitting next to my table and was peppering each of his sentences with an ‘at the end of the day’ in his yellow voice. But fortunately, this time I was at a safe distance. Life teaches, life is the ultimate teacher. Across continents, decades back, in a certain market place a teenager named Florentino Ariza stalked Fermina Daza wondering why no one else’s heart fluttered the way his did at the sight of her. Oh! My…


I had thought myself as an existential hero on the lines of many Malayalam novels that herald modernism and which I devoured religiously as a teenager. Once, while talking, a friend opined how fortunate he was to have read ‘Catcher in the Rye’ and ‘The Fountainhead’ quite late in life. ‘Otherwise they would’ve fucked up my brain and ruined my life irreparably’, quipped he.


I’ve things to do. But I’m terribly de-motivated at the moment. Laziness bogs me down. Books get piled upon my table with ‘A House for Mr.Biswas’ being the latest. How much I longed, how eager I was to finish anything and everything by Naipaul as I was taken to ‘A Bend in the River’ just like the proverbial duck to water, a few months back. “THE WORLD IS WHAT IT IS.” What an opening line! And that promptly ushered me in. Hopeless romantics lay your hands on it if you haven’t yet, you may get cured. Naipaul, they say, has a cynical worldview. I think it needs to be changed slightly, to clinical. ‘The past doesn’t exist. It’s not an entity; it’s just your memories. Trample upon your past.’ That’s Indar’s advice to Salim. Can’t help thinking of Osho.

What’s it that I’m trying to do by putting it across the blogosphere risking ridicule? What it’s all about? Some may attribute it to inflated ego, psychic disorder, lethargy… ‘How fragile’, some may exclaim. Perhaps one or two may find it even interesting.

Today, as I was coming down from the third floor after having breakfast, the lift, yes the same ‘male lift’, closed in with a “tupa-tupa” as soon as I entered, yes, the very first sound one hears at the beginning of the song ‘buffalo soldiers.’


I know where happiness lies. But knowing alone doesn’t help. Perseverance is the key, the willingness to stretch oneself beyond. “Overcome thyself”, urges Nietzsche. But there are black holes, trying to gobble me down. “It’s no small art to sleep: it’s necessary for that purpose to keep awake all day.” I walk around during day time half asleep, pretending to work, and lose sleep at night, during those unearthly hours. Sometimes it’s
dreams that intrigue me. Indecipherable and unexplainable are they. Of the dream I had last night a name remains, ‘Kuppan Paappan’. I don’t know who’s that. It was a part of the sentence written on a wall in Malayalam that means “doesn’t Kuppan Paappan know that everyone will die”?

It’s one of my wishes to hover down on a feminist while she reads ‘Zorba the Greek.’ It will be great to watch her expressions change without batting an eyelid. When I said this to the friend who consider himself fortunate for not having read ‘Catcher…and ‘The Fountain… early in life he nodded in agreement with great interest. But all he wanted was to know their opinion, scrutinizing facial expressions he didn’t seem to believe in. Sane he is, I guess.

I used to smoke a lot. At one point in time I smoked two packets ‘wills’ a day. It had its toll on me, later. Still, I smoked occasionally. But nowadays, it’s come to an end, forever, I think. Zorba’s father, ‘who smoked like a chimney’ stopped it instantly annoyed at his annoyance for forgetting to take tobacco to work. It was then I saw someone overcoming himself with such great conviction.


Change, I need it so badly. It’s killing me slowly, this predictable cycle, my animal like existence. I need to get back to life with a lot of energy. I need to take myself beyond the ‘killing zones of comfort.’ Silence is golden; I’m talking about the silence one feels in one’s mind. A total absence of clamour. But often my mind is a battlefield “where ignorant armies clash by night”. And hence I know how precious it’s to have a calm, balanced mind. For sometimes, though rarely, I reach that blissful state.

It has been quite some time since we did this. The first idea I came up with, though seemed good then, seemed to have lacking clarity once executed. Then came this one. As usual Art Partner’s Ratheesh. Though I was thinking to post this one for quite some time somehow it got delayed. Yesterday Ratheesh made an alarming noise while going through agencyfaqs and when I asked him about it, he showed me an ad somewhat similar to this. That moment I decided; no more delay.

Miracle of the highest kind

http://www.hindu.com/2009/10/08/stories/2009100856672400.htm

A Bloody Evening

As we sat there sipping the unusually sweet toddy we could see, just outside the window, a crowd gathers up, on the narrow stretch that borders the river. It was not a crowd in the actual sense, just a small gathering. Perhaps they must have been hanging around there for quite some time. The evening sky was blazing with a bright hue of red. Red, it was to come, to flow.

Then they came with the roosters; one a spotless white and the other a riot of colours.My friend suggested going out to have a better view, but then it was not required as we still had one. By that time the ‘warming up’ had begun. The majestic roosters were caressed, fondled and sprinkled with water by their respective ‘Chicken Georges’, of course the desi versions.

Then I saw a box passed over several hands. A close view and that it was, a Nataraj Instrument Box. It was neatly tied in the centre with a wide rubber band. What does a Nataraj Instrument Box got to do with Cockfighting? The ‘instruments’ it contained were lethal enough to decide the destiny of the roosters, I understood as someone opened it. Small sword-like pieces of steel, bright and shining. After carefully examining each piece the men chose two. One for each rooster. Once ‘equipped’, they were left in the arena outlined by the men around.

First, both of them sprang up in the air and in that flurry flew feathers and dust. Then, it began. Raw violence that erupts from the instinct to survive, kill or be killed. The method of overpowering was to jump on the other’s back and force it to the ground. And in that process, as if to offer a better show, there appeared a stream of blood on the white rooster’s back. Fatal it was, for it could never recover from that. Within a few minutes it was all soaked in blood. But the men were in no mood to allow it to give up. It was forced back to the fight and was ferociously attacked by the would-be champ. Whenever it made an effort to lift its head the winner ensured that it be grounded. Finally, when it became too weak to move, it lay there trying to capture a glimpse of the world in the last moments of its life through half-closed eyes. Then, it was taken away unceremoniously as the men went on with their business of counting the money.

What’s your idea of a cartoon?

No cartoon ever disturbed me this much. Never ever. It’s not that I hold any such notion that the sole purpose of cartoons is to evoke laughter. But this one by Surendra published in The Hindu on 25-09-09…! What a way to show the sad plight of millions in our country!

How boring life would’ve been if it was all about the seeming?

The Lift is a Male

I’ve made that amazing discovery this afternoon. After having tea on the third floor I was waiting for the lift to come up. I had pressed the button a couple of times but it was showing a red G, and then came two girls who work in another office in the building. They were chatting and chatting as the future of the universe was depended upon it. I kept on pressing the button and it always showed G somewhat defiantly. Fed up, I thought of walking down all the way. Then, one of the girls, yup that dashing gorgeous damsel, pressed the button. Gosh! How could a machine be that bloody, damn mean? The moment she pressed the button (or was it a caress?) the arrow stood up showing 1, then 2 and finally 3.

DJP expels Sajwant Jingh

FEW DELPHI: The Dharmik Janata Party on Wednesday expelled Sajwant Jingh, its veteran leader and an MP.

A meeting of the parliamentary board aka ‘Achinthyan Bhayanak’ in Vimla unanimously decided to remove the former Union Minister from the primary membership of the party.

The decision is being read in the party as a strong message to those who tend to deviate from the high morals set by DJP.

The expulsion, following his controversial interview to a TV channel in which he disclosed that he fathered his children by having sexual intercourse with his wife, has triggered a controversy in the party.


Ever since the remark was aired, the DJP leadership as well as its rank and files were up in arms against him. The DJP leaders dubbed it as morally degrading and as a going back from the culture and traditions of the land.

Senior leader and DJP Spokesman Gagan Gulgul justified the decision to expel Sajwant Jingh by stating that Mr. Jingh went against the party’s “core moral beliefs.” Answering to the reporters, he stated that both the leaders and followers of DJP live a life sans bodily pleasures and sire through co-yoga and transcendental exchange of karmic energy. He slapped a reporter who enquired further, saying that it could not be understood by lesser mortals.

“We don’t have anything to do with Mr. Jingh’s ideology and beliefs, but we condemn his expulsion from DJP strongly. For us either Mr. Jingh’s claim or the DJP’s claim about procreation don’t make any sense. Procreation by means of co-yoga is an attempt to opiate the masses where as it’s a bourgeois activity to make babies by resorting to intercourse”, said leader of the Contortionist Party of Bindia (Morons), Biplab Kumar. He refused to comment further without consulting the apex body of the patry, Fool-it Bureau. However, when this reporter contacted the Fool-it Bureau Chief, Kripesh Parat around midnight, he promised that he would air his views tomorrow after discussions with the immediately available Fool-it Bureau, Mrs. Parat.

Walk When You Talk

What an Idea Sirji!

I set you free

“God? No thanks, I’m on my own.”
- Albert Camus


Finally I’ve decided to do that. It’s not that I’m abandoning you once I made use of your service or being ungrateful. It’s out of compassion. (And of course I hold certain grudges against you.) How long it has been since I started to make you work for me. And the task in your hand, how many people might be using your service every now and then.

I remember the day I pleaded with you to make mother forget to tell father about the nasty word I uttered. That was on a gloomy evening. It took a summons from father and later a long burning red patch on my thigh to realize that you didn’t listen. I cried partly because of the pain and partly because of the thought that you let me down. But I was not willing to part ways with you. From then onwards, I made countless requests and appeals from time to time. It varied from killing the Mathematics teacher to make the cutest girl at School fall for me. Well, nothing of that sort happened. But some times you made my wishes true, though not exactly the way I had wanted you to. For example, I was a lousy bugger when it came to studies. I always yawned and fell asleep the moment I opened anything that’s even distantly associated with studies. But the day before results were announced, I always got butterflies in the stomach. I had wanted nothing less than a first class, and you would award me a pass, just a pass. But I knew in the heart of my heart that I didn’t even deserve it and it’s you who made it possible.


Then one day someone told me that you were dead, long back. And that sounded pretty cool. I pooh-poohed you in public and didn’t spare a single chance to scorn at you. But I secretly took initiatives to patch up with you, for there were troubled times. It was unthinkable how to move on without you. And God, some of the things I made you do for me, so silly, so damn silly. Had anyone ever made an appeal to you to keep the train coaches less crowded when they were on board? Have you ever had to make the queues at counters the shortest if not for me? Sorry dude. I’m really sorry.

What’s wrong with me, can you tell? Why I just hate all those goddamn fellows who are sitting next to me, or somewhere near me, in a restaurant, on a train, bus… Am I alright?
Okay leave me. Are you alright? See, you’re such a great guy and all. But don’t you feel bored of all these people who praise you 24x7. Are you some damn snob or what? I know this very rich guy who wears hell lotta gold chains, rings and all and appear in gleaming, printed silk shirts. I’ve heard a lot of people bitching about him. They show respect to him when he’s around. But they all say that he’s a damn fool and all it takes to get some favour from him is to praise him a lot. Sometimes you remind me of him. Okay, leave that too. After all who am I to talk about attention seeking and snobbery? To err is not just human; it’s Godly as well, huh? But why all these followers of you are so damn thin-skinned? They are always up in arms and too damn trigger happy. And is it with your knowledge that they organize themselves in different groups which they call religion? The funny thing is even those religions are further divided, further and further…Can you believe this that your ardent followers are the most touchy people on earth. Believe me, they are. And it’s not just about being touchy. These are the ones who cause a hell lot of problems all around the world. They blow away people brutally, kill mindlessly and perform countless such atrocities. But still, if you blame religions for such crimes, some goddamn fellow will come to the fore. He will then assume a fucking, phoney expression and preach, ‘all religions advocate peace, religious people are not responsible for the killings in the name of religion... blah, blah, blah’ What crap? Who else is responsible then, me? Each of these groups claims that you’re with them. Some claim that only through their religion one can reach heaven, of course only after dead and gone. Some of the promises are just like tempting advertisements. Lead a life of austerity here and you will be rewarded with voluptuous women and flowing wine up there, in the heaven. The fellows who wrote such compelling copy sure deserves a pat on their back. All these are fine, but you say something against any of these thousand and one religions, or their heads, or their brother-in-law’s uncle…all hell will simply break loose. If you think that I’m exaggerating, just come down from your ivory tower and try it yourself. A word of caution: Make sure that you’ve enough precautionary measures. If you think that you’re God, so that you can tell them and they will listen, you’re wrong. No one is going to give a rat’s ass about it. There are thousands in the midst of us who make the same claim.

Now let’s make a deal. Don’t worry, I’ve already told you that I don’t need your service here anymore. It’s for the other world. I’ve been so goody goody and all so far. But from now onwards I’m planning to be damn vicious and indulge in all those sins which will qualify me to the hell. In case if you think that you can put me in heaven for being pious and all, though for a shorter period, don’t dare to, you better don’t. I don’t like going to heaven, I prefer hell.


Blame it on my growing up reading tons of comics in which heaven and hell were featured quite frequently. The best things in heaven, as per my knowledge, are the women. Ms.Urvashi, Ms. Menaka, Ms. Rambha and Ms. Thilothama. I too like them, let me tell you, before you reach the conclusion that I’m gay. For a lot of my friends, the sole intention to go to heaven is just because of these gorgeous dancers. But those fools don’t know the fact. These beauties are just like a tempting offer. I don’t think that one will even get a chance to ogle at them. Of course they do dance and all, but rarely. They are eternally assigned with the task of tempting a rishi here and an asura there and will be juggling between traveling and tempting. Now, the other reasons, one by one. I think the place, heaven, will be filled with phoney people. Hence chances are there that I may need to shake hands with some of the phoniest guys around whom I hate like heaven. You got it? I’m no connoisseur of classical dance or carnatic music. I know a lot of idiots might be sitting through such boring sessions in heaven pretending that they enjoy it. I won’t, I can’t. How about the cuisine? Denizens will be served milk and fruits only, right? I need rum, at least on Saturdays.

Now the reasons why I prefer hell: I’m sure that I can find like-minded people there, people I can really relate to. I can sit in those dingy bars sipping rum and talking to them. When get bored I can sit with another bunch of guys and play a round of cards. And the women there aah! Devoid of all pretensions and snobbery, they will be nothing but women, of strength and character. May be less beautiful, comparing to their counterparts in heaven. But who cares. Beauty is skin-deep and beauty, as you may know, lies in the eyes of the beholder. About the terrible acts hell is known for: That’s just a misinformation campaign, right? Your way of keeping us humans scared. I don’t believe such crap that those sinned will be fried in oil. Nor I believe that one will be made to walk over bridges made of a strand of hair stretched across huge cauldrons of boiling oil. Phew, as if it’s bollywood movies of the 90s.

One more thing, I don’t believe your followers’ claim that you created the world. Actually it’s those people who created you. Am I right? Perhaps your ego may not allow you to admit it. It’s okay, I can understand for I too am damn ego-centric and all.

I know that I beat around the bush a bit. I would like to say it once again that I don’t have anything against you dude, God. It’s, as I have already mentioned, partly out of compassion and partly out of certain grudges against you that I decided to put an end to your service and set you free. You take care. I really mean it for I don’t know how you’re going to protect yourself from your folks. All the best.

Gay to run in 200 M in London

Thus goes the headline of a single column news in yesterday’s (15-07-09) Deccan Herald’s sports page. What’s there in it, you may ask. Nothing except that it’s the athlete’s name and not an indication of his sexual orientation and this very fact makes me ROFL.

Yesterday, as I was going through a website that features advertisements from all around the world, a senior colleague and a typical Mr. Know-It-All, came to my corner. He pulled a chair and sat there and started a conversation. As I scrolled down we talked about some of them. There were a couple of interesting posters done for a gay film festival in Germany. Our man, then casually (I wonder how carefully some people make themselves sound/appear casual) mentioned, ‘you know, a gay is participating in next month’s World Athletic Meet’. Inside my head flashed a bulb. Yup, I too read it, may be quite absent mindedly. And the name, I might’ve thanked my grandfather for not naming his son GAY. I gave him a bewildered look and asked ‘What?’ He repeated it. ‘It’s his name’ I said. ‘No’, he retorted. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yeah’, he replied. ‘Just check it once more’ I said, fed up. He went to his place and there was silence for a while. I looked at his direction and there he stood with the newspaper. ‘You are right’ he admitted and came back with the newspaper. But the worst, quite characteristic of him though, was yet to come. ‘See nowadays it’s all in the newspapers so naturally I thought…’ and then he had a look at the athlete’s photo and blurted out, ‘it’s quite a probability that these people turn out to be gays…’

Rather than saying anything in reply I just buried my head in the newspaper and started reading further; “Triple World Champion Tyson Gay will continue his preparations for next month’s World Championships by running the 200 meters at the London Grand Prix…”

“So the last man also goes down”

There were doomsday predictions. Some of them attributed torrential rains to it. The prevailing mood was surprise. Everyone hailed the decision though. A friend who once called me Neanderthal texted that she couldn’t believe it yet, hours after I had given her a ring. And the best one came from another buddy; “So the last man also goes down”, quipped the moron with a chuckle.

Yes, at last the resistance is over. I’ve surrendered and jumped on the bandwagon officially on 07-07-09 at 3.35 p.m. If you’re still clueless what am I arriving at, and if you’ve the patience, please go back and you’ll find a post titled ‘A Tag of 25’. The 23rd point has no relevance at all, anymore. I don’t think that any one will dig deeper for if you do you’ll end up reading a post detailing why I refused to…titled “Sorry I don’t have…”

The making of a cynic

CYNIC: Lies behind those five letters a tragedy of untold magnitude. The shattering of beliefs, trust, dreams, hopes, aspirations …and there stands the all encompassing word with its yellow fangs out, only to be frowned upon.

Kudos to the one who urges: “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be,” But how many of us could resist replacing ‘best’ with ‘worst’ as we ‘grow old along’.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”

In school, when the poem was taught, the pitch was always upwards, to a higher point. Sometimes, when the whole class was made to recite the poem, it even acquired the form of sloganeering. It oozed with confidence, optimism and a positive outlook towards the world. How a bunch of unsuspected school children knew what was in store for them?

But things took a U-turn over the years. In college the poem was recited with a slow, sinking tone making the last couplet barely audible. Yet another instance when life made us understood literature rather than the other way around, properly.


PS: Though it’s a bone of contention there are scholars who attribute the origin of the word ‘cynic’ to the Greek philosopher, Antisthenes, a student of Socrates. He started the school of Cynics and believed that virtue was the only good and the only way to remain virtuous was through self-discipline and independence. Just like cynics, the word as well began on a positive note but turned out to be negative gradually.

She had told him. He had known it. But then he withdrew, for the other man. Now it’s too late and it has become too intense. Then there was only one man for whom he stepped back. Now there are too many. His wife, parents, relatives, her husband, mother, relatives…


To A Friend

“We learn things the hard way”;
I philosophise.
I listen, day in day out.
But I don’t know how to help you out.
It’s a quagmire you’re in.
I hope you won’t bog down.
What you’re through I know,
But knowing is not experiencing.
I hope you’ll get through
And resurface as the one you had been.

Mixedblessings89 (www.greenlemons07.blogspot.com)
thinks I deserve the honest scrap award.
It has been more than one and a half month since she conferred
it on me. Owing to poor tech quotient (what’s so technical about
it? Sshhhh…) I got it delayed. I mean showing off
the award. Thanks MB89.

When one goes around loud, what one misses are the subtleties where life is at its intense best.

Ranting as purification!

Yesterday, as I sat at the restaurant waiting for dinner with my mind caught in a web of terrible emotions, I had this feeling that there’s a lid on top of my head and it had popped open. I almost experienced madness, that’s lurking just around, may be within a hairbreadth of distance. I don’t know who to thank for, being here, keying this, sane.

Talking doesn’t really solve anything. It just complicates matters. “Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself…” says Nietzsche. How true. But people don’t understand. How degenerating it is to spend a lifetime justifying one’s words and deeds without even bothers to spend a second to understand the other. “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” With that, Atticus Finch pronounced one of the most compassionate lines I’ve ever read. I’m tired of phoney people. I’m also tired of people who says that; “you are a better human being than I am.” I heard it in the past too, and I know what they mean by saying that I’m “good”. I don’t want to be in anybody’s fucking good list. I just don’t want to.

In case if you think; ‘what the heck’? It’s just an act of purification my dear reader. I’ll be fine soon by tonight or tomorrow morning. But I’ve to go through this, and as I key in I feel a lot better.

Chappals chappals everywhere…

I had wished if someone had hurled a shoe at me, or at least a hawai chappal. I was terrified of perishing without getting a chance to display my magnanimity. It seemed like eternity to wait to pardon someone and soak myself in a pool of narcissistic pleasure, letting out orgasmic moans thinking of the noble deed.

But here in our state we don’t pardon any such fellas. Hurling chappals is not our culture you know. We believe in upholding the mantle of culture and morality higher and higher. If you have any doubt, just ask the girls we bashed up for trying to import the firangi culture and spoil ours.

A tag of 25

Okay, after much procrastination-the kind that might’ve made the prince of Denmark turning in his grave- I’ve decided to do the tag. Thanks Mixed Blessings 89 a.k.a Aditi for tagging me.

Here goes the list of 25 things few people know about me

1 My name, Arun, I was told, was suggested by a then friend of my father who later attained iconic status by leading a one man crusade against a wily politician.

2 I still regret about the first cigarette I offered to a friend who smokes 40 to 50 cigarettes a day now.


3 I had a romantic notion that self destruction was cool.


4 I don’t have anything against nurses, in fact I believe that it’s a noble profession, but still, when they try to get rid of the bubbles out of the syringe by pushing forth the plunger right in front of my eyes I can’t help thinking them as sadists.

5 More than once I shamelessly asked nurses weather I can take some pills rather than an injection.


6 My mother once told me that as an infant I didn’t trouble her as she could make me sit wherever, even upon a table and I didn’t move a bit, I guess I was too afraid thinking of the fall, and not much has changed till date.

7 The poem I remember from my school days is ‘The School Boy’ by William Blake

“I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree
The distant huntsman winds his horn
The skylark sings with me
Oh! What sweet company

But to go to school in a summer morn
Oh it drives all joy away…”



8 I hardly fit in and I never try to fit myself in anywhere.

9 I have a copy of ‘Crime and Punishment’ and I read it thrice so far, but only upto a particular point. Even though I’d found myself deeply engrossed in it, all the three times I had to discontinue. I also love Marmeladov, immensely.

10 Sometimes I feel that I read to escape from the bloody mundane ways of the world which I can never figure out. Often, I get a chill down the spine as the wonderful world I was just a part of in the book disappears, in a jiffy.

11 I believe the following as an immensely powerful combination, an inspiring trinity which can rally charge me up; in fact it did charge me up more than once. They are ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’, ‘Metallica’ and ‘Old Monk Rum.’

12 I prefer getting hurt rather than hurt the people I love.

13 My cousin who had been with me for a whole evening ended his life that very night. We were pretty close but I couldn’t figure out what he was upto. We share our birthdays and he’s younger to me by one year.

14 I smoked my first cigarette on the last day of the last annual exam. I was in eighth standard then.

15 I tasted liquor for the first time during SSLC vacation. It still lingers in me, memories of the aftermath.

16 Sometimes a fear seeps in me that I will end up as an alcoholic.

17 The only drug I ever did was cannabis. I smoked it thrice and the last time after a few swigs of beer. That was so terrible an experience that I thought I wouldn’t survive the night.

18 I had never thought that I would ever fall in love. But once I did, at the age of 27.

19 I want to die when my dear and near ones are still around. I know it’s selfish but still…

20 I was such a staunch follower of the game of cricket that I used to watch it ball by ball, it was unimaginable to miss a single ball. Somewhere along I lost my interest and I no longer watch it.

21 I hate twenty twenty for I believe it’s everything but cricket.

22 I’m such a traditionalist when it comes to cricket that it pains me to see horizontal bat swats of ‘dashing batsmen’ with poor technique.

23 I never used a mobile phone in my life and I don’t know how to operate it. I don’t think that I’ll ever use one.

24 Though I claim that I’m a non-violent person, the violent thoughts erupt in my mind often makes me quite disturbed.

25 I’m a man of extremes.

A Recipe

Gastronomical experiments of many a blogger leave me drooling these days, thanks to the high resolution pictures of dishes they post. Here I offer one, but of an entirely different kind and without any pictures. This is not an original recipe; I had heard and read about it. But only recently I got a ‘hands-on’ experience of it. Those with a ‘spiritual’ streak in them may find it useful, those who keep the opinion that “alcohol is evil”, please don’t bother to go any further.

Allegiance to rum, especially Old Monk Rum is a prerequisite to taste the ‘Green chilly-lemon-salt-OMR’.

Ingredients: Old Monk Rum, Green Chilly (preferably the smaller ones known as ‘Kanthari’, as per the legend) Lemon and Salt. Considering the non-availability of ‘kanthari’, I used normal green chilly.

How to make the drink: Squeeze a bit of lemon in the glass and make it reach the whole of the inside. Rub salt on it and put a pinch of salt in the bottom of the glass too. Cut green chilly horizontally into two and put it in the glass. Pour rum and chilled soda on it. The drink is ready.

It’s better to wait for a while. If you raise the drink immediately the piquant spray generated by the fizzy carbonated water may make you sneeze. And before you sip, enjoy the heavenly aroma. When I took the first sip, what surprised me was the pleasant taste but without ruining the original flavour of rum. As I gulped down the last drop of the mouthful, the real taste of rum came back. I guess even the purists wouldn’t have much to complain about ‘Green chilly-lemon-salt-OMR’. It’s simply superb. After all, rum will sure taste better this way than it with coke or any such damned drinks. Have a great time.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright…

It’s great to see what one desires most to be seen. And the joy is double if it’s something that defies the norm. Ever since ‘The White Tiger’ started to make headlines, there was a horde of ‘critics’ preaching against the dark portrait. And with each bitter assault and the extracts they provided I knew that I would love ‘The White Tiger’. I’m a self-confessed lover of dark, bleak and brutally honest portrayals. Vijay Nair’s ‘And the winner is…’ in the Literary Review of The Hindu dated 04-01-09, was a respite, rather one piece of a helluva, I’ve been waiting to savour.

It was interesting to read the reviews after the coveted ‘Booker’ was bestowed upon Aravind Adiga for ‘presenting the dark side of India’. Emerged as the dark horse from a list of celebrity authors including Amitav Ghosh and Philip Hensher, Adiga became only the third debutant after Arundhati Roy and DBC Pierre to bag the Man Booker Prize. From seasonal critics to amateur bloggers, there was a hurry to join hands against ‘The White Tiger.’ The only few good words - barring a couple of desi reviewers - came from the western media and that might’ve added fuel in the fire of the much abused ‘catering to the western sensibility’ allegation.

Years ago, there was a rage against ‘The God of Small Things’ when Arundhati Roy was awarded with ‘Booker’. That time it was not just the academic critics but also the comrades who were up in arms against her for her alleged anti-Marxist remarks in the novel. “Obscene” pronounced the ideologues and the rank and file repeated the refrain without bothering to turn a single page. I personally knew a handful of people who spent much of their energy denying the novel any literary value. And when asked “Have you read it?” the answer was a belligerent “No” that implies “What does it got to do with my bashing Roy”? Where ignorance is a bliss, it’s folly to be wise. But ironically, it was the Marxist critic Aijaz Ahmad who showered praises on ‘The God of Small Things’ for its rich imagery, brilliant narrative and the bold experiments with language, even before it was accorded ‘Booker’.

Vijay Nair began his piece by raising the question, the root cause of the hostility the recent booker winners, Arundhati Roy, Kiran Desai and Aravind Adiga has received and is still receiving. “Is it because they hold a mirror to realities we refuse to acknowledge?” he asks. Partly the answer lies there, and another part in this paragraph of his article:

“The White Tiger is the most recent of the three and it may be worthwhile to explore the book as well as the anger it has generated among Indians. Not just among stuffed-shirt critics who for years have been struggling to write their first book and despairing, frustrated writers who have had to deal with the “no advance, no royalty; feel blessed you have been published,” vagaries of Indian publishing houses and who cannot but resent the outsider who gets catapulted to a different league of big advances and international celebrity-hood riding on that one “lucky” book, but also the average Indian reader who patronises English fiction. This is the class that grew up reading Sydney Sheldon and Danielle Steel, but would like to own the work of “that Indian Bloke, what’s his name, who won that jackpot of a prize”.

Hobnobbing with the press after receiving the award, Aravind Adiga said: “I grew up in the south, which was very different culturally and economically to the places along the Ganges where I was traveling. For the first time, I met people like rickshaw-pullers, and it got me thinking about India in a different way. This book was an attempt to capture the voice of the men I met”. And the central character of the book was partly inspired by a rickshaw-puller he met, who angrily said, “You’ve listened to me, but when you go back, you’ll forget about me.” “I did not forget”, concluded Mr.Adiga. All one needs to find out that he didn’t is a journey through the brilliantly original ‘The White Tiger.’

As an indication that nothing is left behind untouched by the prevailing characteristic of a particular period, Adiga too didn’t be spared of intolerance. It ranges from calling him an ‘outsider’ to question his patriotic credentials. But ironically he has proved more insider than anyone of those detractors. If patriotism is jumping the bandwagon of the false “India Raising” and turning one’s back towards the ever-growing poverty and injustice meted out to the millions who live like worms, of course Aravind Adiga is not a patriot, nor am I.

What makes Vijay Nair’s article sweeter is the one that preceded it. Appeared in the November issue of the Literary Review, Amitava Kumar in the essay ‘On The White Tiger’ wonders; “Is it a novel from one more outsider, presenting cynical anthropologies to an audience that is not Indian?” Begins with that query, the essay details on how Mr. Kumar got to know about the novel for the first time and how excited he was to start reading it after he met Adiga in New York and came to know that the novel “had been a fruit of his labours as a reporter in India.”


There are two things I want to address in Amitava Kumar’s essay. The first one is his outright denial of Adiga’s description of the way the women at home treat their men when they came back from the city. (He also hails from Bihar, which was mentioned as ‘darkness’ through out the novel). “I had witnessed such men, and sometimes women, coming back to their village homes countless times. The novelist seemed to know next to nothing about either the love or the despair of the people he was writing about”, says Mr. Kumar. I believe that it was necessary for Adiga to describe the scene in that manner. Balram Halwai, the protagonist, as far as characterization is concerned, is near perfect. The character was moulded and developed with utmost precision. As a student he was bright, his own parents were “too busy” to give him a name so he was called Balram by the teacher when he went to school for the first time. From being called as a ‘White Tiger’ for his intelligence he was thrown to the tea shop in the next scene with his classmates ridiculing him calling “The Coal Breaker”. When he and his brother took his father to hospital, the poor man wasn’t given any treatment at all and eventually he met with a pathetic end there vomiting blood, the ward boys made them clean up the premises. The funeral of his mother, which he witnessed when he was a kid, was ‘grand’. The woman who had nothing decent to wear throughout her life was carried to the pyre “wrapped in saffron silk cloth which was covered in rose petals and jasmine garlands.” All these, the utter helplessness and the cruel contradictions life throws at him, contribute greatly in the characterization of Balram. The root of his realization, that Kusum is exploiting him and will continue the same, lies in his memory of his father “being fed after the buffaloes were fed” by the women at home. There’s no doubt that Balram Halwai knew it inside out where he came from, and it is this knowledge that makes him go. One can easily spot a ‘raging desire’ in his tone and manners to ‘come up in life’, to ‘arrive’. The scene in which he begs for the job at the Stork’s home and eventually gets in is just a typical example.


Another issue Mr. Kumar raises is that Balram’s reaction when he returned to his village is not that of someone who “has only recently left”. “Does it appear to be the account of a man who is returning home?” he asks. Sorry sir, it was a great mistake by Adiga here. Balram Halwai, in true filmy style, should’ve stepped out of the car as soon as he entered the village sporting an excited expression (cho chweet!) before he appreciates the intricate patterns of cow dung strewn all over. The next scene should’ve been a song sequence featuring Balram running through the field, probably with a camera in his hand and a horde of bare-torsoed, malnourished children running behind him, only to be vanished after the song. (Haven’t you seen those countless bollywood flicks in which the US returned or city educated girl comes to her grandpa’s village with a precarious tendency to fall in love with the village fool Mr.Adiga? Shame on you dude, shame on you.

This sentence in parenthesis, “No boy remembers his schooling like one who was taken out of school, let me assure you” defies the arguments that Adiga lacks compassion and ‘The White Tiger’ is an outsider’s narrative. It’s not just knowledge but deep compassion that ultimately makes the sentence shine like a jewel.

There’s no doubt that Adiga’s ‘tiger’ is burning bright. But what we see in the brightness, in the light, are not at all pleasant things to see. Dehumanisation, the dark side of ‘the shining India’, the utter helplessness of the poor…Aravind Adiga has captured it all making ‘The White Tiger’ a mirror held against contemporary India.