Oh Hey, I put some New Shoes on...

My shoes were almost completely worn out; so the first six hundred metres of the nearly nine kilometre marathon were particularly difficult. My feet and the loose gravel of the school ground never really got along and I found myself pushing too hard and yet not gaining enough speed. Thankfully the rest of the track consisted of steadier surfaces. In my first ten years at school I had hated, from the bottom of my heart, sports in general and running in particular. I was never of the athletic variety, elsewhere it’s probably not such a big deal. But in boarding school, you can be an eloquent speaker, an avid reader, an intelligent person, have the sharpest wit, write brilliantly, look reasonably good, but if you are not the competitive as hell, hero of the sporting world, you are pretty much a loser. It also drastically reduces your ability to attract women, ya that was both inexplicable and depressing.

Most of the other sporting action occurred randomly; I was either absent or participated with considerable obscurity. But there was no hiding my ineptitude when it came to athletics and the cross country race. The entire world would be in attendance, and I’d be thoroughly convinced that all they noticed was my ignominious performance on the field. Once again the fact that all the girls were there would cause me exceptional grief.I did have a few famous moments of glory which I think only I can recall. For example in class 2 I scored the wining two runs in a house cricket match, I must however confess that they came off my leg, but what the heck?! The next year I was only one amongst three boys in my division who qualified for the high jump. Now here I was aided not by some great skill or hours of intense training but by the good genes I inherited, which granted my two long thin legs. In my first year in senior school I was the first boy from my class to make it to the House PT Team, it was a proud moment when I walked out of the ‘Kachra Party’ and joined all the others. Yes, those in senior school who were not graceful enough for the PT team were huddled together into a group called ‘Kachra Party’.PT was always my thing, be it the Mass PT, the Torch Drill, the marching, I was quite the epitome of elegance and coordination. Oh I was also quite the man for the Triple Jump; once again my long legs gave me the advantage with a giant skip.

Eh, come to think of it I did have quite a few of these celebrated moments. But none of these were spectacular enough to qualify me as any sort of sportsperson, and I always filled up with dread when it came to the marathon qualifications. The last bit of the race had women on both sides of it, cheering, laughing, clapping, and striking my name off their lists. God, my life really consisted of fretting over the female portion of the school.

The final year of my school was different. Much against the expectation of my seniors, the house masters, my classmates and myself I was denied the post of a Prefect. I didn’t get along too well with the principal’s daughter, and she thought I was too useless to be given such an appointment, I don’t know if I deserved the post or not, but the argument put up against me centred around my not so illustrious sporting career, So, in a remarkable display of character, I decided to prove her wrong by qualifying for the cross country finals. It would be quite the thing, I knew, because nobody, not even my closest friends would give me even half a chance.

So I trained like a dog, both because I had a point to prove and because the guy who actually was made the house captain ensured that I did. Oh, it wasn’t as easy as the movies; often I’d be very close to dying of exhaustion by the time I’d finish the race. And then there was the walk back to the school from the end point which I think I hated more than the marathon itself. Add to this the frugal, tasteless and noxious diet we were given at school; ya, I was pretty miserable. But all the training did in fact help.

After I got through the three rounds of the school grounds, I eased into quite a rhythm. The fact that it was the qualifications and all meant that I didn’t stop even once right up to the first mullah. The mullahs were well, the slang term for the three steep climbs on the race, First mullah, second mullah and the really difficult third mullah. At the second mullah I realised that I was doing pretty well, because two great sporting heroes of our batch were right behind me. Trouble is they noticed this too, at the same time, and couldn’t believe their eyes.

Suddenly they seemed to find extra energy and quickly overtook me. This didn’t bother me much because my ambition was not to come in first or even the tenth, I only intended to qualify. So I kept at it, didn’t even stop running on the mullahs, closed my eyes and hurtled down the slope to ‘bara pathar’ (twelve stones). Ya, people aren’t very creative around there. I hated running on slopes more than the climbs, I’d always hold back, scared that if I let go I’d spin out of control or something. I knew that if I could make it to the last kilometre or so quickly enough, all the cheering would see me through.

This did in fact happen; the quality of the applause was quite different from any I had heard over the years. They actually did want me to run faster, I realised, the whistle hadn’t been blown yet! At the last turn I was overtaken by this formally over weight guy from our batch. Guess he also had a point to prove…

The last fifty metres were quite something, the principal had the black whistle already in his mouth, he would blow it any moment now. The cheering had now evolved into roaring, I remember noticing that the shadow cast by my head was funny, a sort of blunt and wide ‘M’; I combed my hair back then with great regularity and significant care. For some reason it was fashionable in our school for boys to part their hair in the middle. Thankfully we didn’t venture much out of school!

Anyway I did qualify; two guys came in after me and before the whistle was finally blown, I hadn’t stopped running even once for almost half an hour and collapsed on the blanket. Then some girl, damn my stupid memory, I can remember the colour of the stupid whistle, but not who she was, poured some glucose into my mouth. Immediately the fatigue disappeared.

So that was that. I haven’t run for a total of half an hour since that day more than six years ago. I have used that event to maximum benefit, claimed to be a great long distance runner ever since, and built a dramatic story around that race that would outshine even the Chariots of Fire (it includes me sprinting so hard in one part of the race, that I puked and banging into a horse??!).

The principal’s daughter didn’t really acknowledge my herculean efforts, but after the race I gave her quite the look.

******

What is the matter with me? I can’t say anything about anything without making a reference to school. You might be led to believe that I miss it much, but that’s hardly true. Those weren’t even the best years I have ever had. They just form the largest chunk of the time I have spent in my slow stumbling life. When you spend a long enough time in any situation, it becomes almost impossible to escape it. You can keep running away or avoiding or ignoring but the stubborn memories keep coming back.

******

Only a few months of unhealthy living and erratic lifestyle made me gain significant weight, most of this happened around my stomach. A few months ago I decided I would do something about it, so while in the national capital, I spent a small fortune on new shoes, shorts, t shirts, socks. It was the finest set of gear and I was quite proud of myself at being able to afford it. I scouted much of Delhi looking for it; I guess all the effort itself must have made me lose a few kilos. And then I came back home and put everything in my cupboard and resumed my lazy existence. Then came more procrastination, and then came the incessant traveling and finally the kidney stones.

But today I ran. After some six long years, I ran. It was incredible; I guess you might wonder why I am making such a big deal about it. Well, frankly, I’m not too sure myself. I ran only for a couple of kilometres and my legs cramped, and I was sweating like a pig, and my lungs felt like they were wrapped in barbed wire, but it felt good. I think I’ll do this more often, I like the place too; it’s a series of jungle trails in the zoo. Half of the city was there because it was Sunday. Women in saris, old men clapping and walking briskly, sleepy children, lecherous men… I was a bit embarrassed being there in my fancy new shoes and all, and decided to not take my ipod along. I have been strictly instructed by my folks to maintain a low profile.

******

I see my most popular posts are turning out to be the ones where I haven’t written anything. I shall put up more lyrics here then? I don’t know why I am listening to Pink Floyd recently, there is no reason. I am also listening to Paolo Nutini (one song) and copious amounts of jazz; so I guess it is an improvement after all?

******

I also slept during the afternoon today, the first time in months. And I had my first dream in the longest time that I could remember. It consisted of me being at a large house, where there was some sort of party. I went up to the roof where I found myself in some undefined space that had switches in various shapes at two ends; I used them to turn on all the lights. The centre piece was this giant bulb that threw light directly into space. Then I found myself downstairs trying to get someone else to switch of these lights, never admitting that I had turned them on. The house belonged to my distributor. Then I went up to the roof again, using a lift, only this time I was in my own house. The lift jumped a floor and when it was coming down it seemed much shorter in height and also had a hand stuck in its door that jammed its movement. It was pretty scary this bit, and I think I screamed or something (in the dream) and woke up.

My father is always telling me turn off lights; I have this horrible habit of using lights even in the day. I have a fascination for normal yellow bulbs. My distributor occupies my mind and irritates me all day. The news today consisted of the discovery of the dead body of a Nepalese servant who was accused of murdering a fourteen year old girl. His body was found on the roof. And in the morning I saw this old episode of Mahabharata, Bheem was tearing off the arm of one of Duryodhan’s kin to fulfill the promise he made to Draupadi. But I think what scared me was that the hand that was stuck in the lift seemed to be mine. The tip of the middle finger was curving outwards.

An astrologer once said, it meant I’d never get the full share of my appreciation or recognition because of it. Bum!

******

Was having this interesting conversation with a friend recently. He said he was working so hard because he was driven by the money. He found it strange that I was working so hard too but claimed that I didn’t care for the money. It made me think a bit; but eventually I confirmed to myself that the money didn’t mean much. It doesn’t excite me, the amount of money I have in my account or the huge hike I just got. It’s a comfort; it’s something I am aware of, like an expensive piece of clothing I own, something I wouldn’t wear often, something that brings satisfaction simply by being mine. I like that I needn’t worry about where I am eating, what I am ordering, and how much all that extraordinarily worthless running gear cost. That’s about it.

But then I must find this job exciting? Sometimes I think I just don’t want to believe that I could ever feel that way, how can I be excited about selling shampoo? Me the fancy theatre actor? The prospective filmmaker?

Sometimes, I really know I don’t find this job exciting. And sometimes I guess I do, I really do, it’s quite a challenge and delivering the month’s number is almost as satisfying as delivering a great run through. After all aren’t we in the final analysis looking for the same things, money, respect, acknowledgment, challenges, and glory? Selling shampoo is one way of getting all these, making movies is another. Sometimes, I can be comfortably numb about replacing movies with shampoo and getting to wherever it was I wanted to get to.

Sometimes…

A Brief History of Pain

I knew this would happen eventually, but I wasn’t prepared for it to come so soon or in this manner. Months of reckless behaviour, irregular eating, and drinking, I think one glass of water in eight days finally took their toll.

Once upon a time I believed that toothache and pain in the ear were the most unbearable form of agony known to mankind in general and me in particular. During my ICSE exam I spent a fortnight with a hollow tooth and an exposed root canal, the giant cavity was filled with cotton dipped in clove oil. Every time there was some pressure on the cotton, a sharp fluorescent blue bolt of pain, would leave my jaw and enter my brain easily destroying a few hundred brain cells. Hmm, what bad timing, it was the most important exam of my life at that time. It’s another matter that this title was snatched by every subsequent exam over the next seven years.

But I guess I could have been doing something fancier than selling detergent had I not lost all that grey matter. Oh and I must make a mention of that clove oil; the sister at the infirmary provided my with I think the most concentrated form of the lubricate; she might as well have given me sulphuric acid. I lost the better half of my sense of taste to that evil bottle of grease. Had it not been for her I would be a chef at some fancy restaurant.

The pain in the ear occurred in my first year at boarding school. We were forced into eating supper at half past six and pushed into our beds by eight. I always felt that the timings were a bit odd but the comfort of my bed and the bitter cold outside of it would put me to sleep soon enough. But then one morning, I woke up feeling a little strange. One side of my head felt incredibly lighter than the other. I got up slowly, using my elbows and turned around to have a look at my pillow. It was covered in pinkish blood.

Years later when I watched the horse sequence from The Godfather I was reminded of that pillow and all the blood.

The ayah informed me that a ‘kaan khajoora’ had made its way into my ear at night; she seemed all excited about it. I wanted to hit her, but the pain clouded my senses and I was rushed to the infirmary. The treatment consisted of amazement, ridicule and some strange red liquid that the sister seemed to use for everything. She didn’t care whether you had a bug bite or a tumour she was always waiting with her bottle of red medicine and a quiver full of cotton swabs. But she was a nice lady.

In case you are wondering what a ‘kaan khajoora’ is – its some sort of caterpillar like creature but with only eight legs and two small antennae. I never got hold of that vicious being, but as revenge, over the next few days, I went around school collecting, torturing and executing a million of its brethren. I also wanted to put one of them into the ayah’s ear but my plan never worked out.

Kidney stones. The past month or so has educated me in pain. I have realised that the spectrum of agony has no upper limit. I have also figured out that there are as many different varieties of physical anguish as there are body parts. I currently can isolate six different breeds of pain of varying intensity in the area below my abdomen. Have you ever felt a pain so intense that you want to tear out that part of your body and throw it as far away from yourself as possible? Now multiply that by ten and you’ll know how I feel.

I am willing to spend a day in a tank full of ‘kaan khajooras’, date the ayah, drink a bottle of clove oil, or sulphuric acid, lose all my brain cells and have a root canal treatment without anaesthesia in exchange for this suffering.

The trouble with getting treatment in your home town is that the doctors often tend to be family or friends. I hate this, because here in this world, being a doctor isn’t so much about aptitude as it is about ancestry. So my ultrasound was done by my uncle who had his neck turned away from the screen during the entire check up. The stick I think didn’t even go over the lower abdomen; he just kept circling the area right under my ribs, and said that it was nothing serious. All this while he was chatting with my dad and yelling at his assistant.

Okay so I have been drinking about eight litres of water a day, taking medicines in every imaginable colour, size and shape, I have taken antibiotic shots, and have dabbled with homeopathy. But the evil pain won’t go away completely. A fresh round of tests and checkups are scheduled for today. I just hope they decide to saw off everything below my ribs.

Oh this entire episode has also exposed me to all sorts of people. That’s another reason I hate going to doctors who happen to double as family. Or rather family that happens to double as doctors. I’m so sick of exhibiting my nudity, but now I’m almost used to it and the shock and terror that I experienced the first few times is gone. I remember I went white when I did this for the first time, during a thorough check up before joining my company. “Please take off your pants and hang them on the shelf by the door, then come and stand on this platform.” “Yes your underpants, too”

He then proceeded to do things that I cannot mention here. At that time I could trade the experience for a kidney stone the size of a football.

Wish You Were Here

So, so you think you can tell,
Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain.

Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?

And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year, running over the same old ground.

What have we found?
The same old fears, wish you were here.

In Transit

Someone said this about another’s writing; (loyal reader(s) please note my recent neglect of the ‘-‘) he writes in the only manner in which one should write, ecstatically.

Is that the only way one should write? Is it? No tell me, I absolutely demand an answer. Okay I am going to say whatever it is I want to say, since I presume this is already n t b ng re d n ore...

Hmm –

I think one should write if they have something interesting to say; not try and say anything in an interesting manner. But then that what are blogs for? Huh?

******

I am in transit, not just today as I wait in the unbearable heat of this slow yet chaotic city, coming from a lazier place going to a crazier one.

I am in transit in general. It is not something I put tremendous thought into, as much as something that I am constantly aware of. The longer I stay here, the closer I am to the new. This might appear to be almost a mathematical fact, but in realms not entirely ruled by the exactness of numbers, it is quite a discovery.

What does one do with an awkward amount of time in a new place? One might eat a Spanish open sandwich with ham scattered all over it, search for elegant lamps for one’s own room, look for music and literature, sip on a variety of iced liquids, fill the atmosphere with a gallon of dead smoke, and so on; but one might find that all this, even if pursued rather elaborately, can be done in a fraction of the time one has on one’s hand.

A traveler with legs as solid as pig iron; reads a yellow scroll which contains the daily state of the economy of a land he doesn’t belong to, he seems happy that the country expects a normal monsoon. Three sets of lovers; one is engaged in a passionate discussion – I hear, she-could-told me-no-no-bitch. There is irritation but not directed at one another. Another sits quietly, reading, enveloped in the comfort of knowing completely. And the third, the shiest, unsure, the newest and most awkward; the one that almost crawled in, holding onto one another, buys a tiny pastry, then proceeds to avoid the many empty tables below and seeks privacy upstairs. Three lonely women, sit together, yawning, crushing plastic glasses, forming ugly shapes with dirty water, staring into their tables, playing with their hair; they talk and giggle and give advice to one another. Almost four groups of office runaways, each of them share details of the one thing that binds them, work. They exchange the stories of politics, love, and treachery that fill their lives, a life made grand by their own pettiness.

I am reminded of my own glass house; my reckless commentary needs to be reigned in.

“The powers of a man’s mind are directly proportioned to the quantity of coffee he drinks.”

This has been plastered on the walls, surely with the intention of boosting the intake of caffeine by the sheep that enter this place. Fancy, textured paint and lamps with colored frosted glass, both of utmost ugliness, graphic renditions of the young and restless, details on the nature of the coffee beans used to make the brew, have also been unleashed on the world. I retaliate with what I found today on the back of a matchbox, “The difference between genius and stupidity is that stupidity has no limits.” At least this was positioned appropriately.

Are you done, Sir?

Umm?

Will you need anything else, Sir?

No, no thanks, not really…

Then may I request you to vacate this for… I apologize…

Oh? No, no problem, certainly.

And so I say a silent farewell to this eclectic bunch of people sitting in that room of hideous appearance. They remain convinced that they are drinking coffee made only from the finest handpicked Arabica beans, which amongst other things, are selected from exactly four legendary estates, and roasted separately under constant surveillance. If even a fraction of this were true their lives are probably grander than they know.

******

Unbearable heat, monstrous crowds, the smell of Goldflake, fish and sweat, yellow taxis, blue buses with wooden insides, trams that only slow down the city, the sweetest tongue, tea, groups of idle men playing carom, sipping tea and discussing politics, the worst most rash drivers I have seen in any city, women with the largest prettiest eyes. I have come to this city so often, but I have either been in transit or just attended long meetings inside the hotels and gone back. To discover a city you need to be excited about it, to be excited about a city it needs to be new to you or you need to live there for a while. This city is lost to me.

******

Some movies are intended to change your life, if not forever, at least for a while. Trouble is I watched two such films today, Into the Wild and An Inconvenient Truth. Hmm. Guess I have grown too old and lost too much innocence to allow a movie to truly move me. It hasn’t happened for a long time. There was a time when I’d allow anything to have a lasting impact on my life. Unfortunately, I didn’t watch enough movies back then, nor was I much into books.

So I guess if you do not have a cell phone or a wallet in your pockets, falling into a river is only a slight inconvenience, It seems to me that sometimes when we hear the stories of the lives of people we try extra hard to believe them. We tend to glorify and exaggerate. I am not saying this is true for Into the Wild, but it could be. When they show Christopher’s self portrait at the Magic Bus I couldn’t help but wonder, what if he was just a bum? Hmm also how did the parents ever agree to the movie? I don’t know at one point I did toy with the idea of leaving home like Chris did, but then I have no major grouse against anyone worthwhile, I mean I do hate a few people but they aren’t important, like my driver – he is truly evil. But imagine leaving a plum job and everything because you have a stupid driver, no one is going to make a movie on that! Plus where would I go to in India? It’s too hot, people do not give lifts, the railways are already full of ticketless travelers, and the countryside is full of Maoists, Naxals, cows, cow dung, and dacoits in general. And there are no cool hippies hanging around in small settlements with evenings where the prettiest young girls play the guitar and sing while the crowds get thoroughly sloshed. Tracy was pretty! Idiot, he should have just stayed there instead of going all the way to Alaska.

If an electoral process can result in Al Gore losing to George Bush then someone needs to think twice about the process. Bush once said he didn’t exactly know how many internets were out there. Al Gore on the other hand gave us An Inconvenient truth. It scares you to think that in 50 years all of this could end; the internets, you, me, and everything else. But somehow it seems inevitable that the situation will worsen till there is a sudden catastrophe as the documentary predicts. If we somehow survive that catastrophe then maybe we’ll be more serious about Global Warming. Till then brace yourself for some weird and wild weather.

******

Things are looking great now with some fine recent developments.

Alpha Beta Gaga

Feeling bummed about things, too, is an illusion. You feel bummed because you want to, but a time comes when you realize, the stupidity of it, the importance and loveliness of your own life, and that frankly being bummed for too long is a bit boring. Plus you end up taking a short trip to New Delhi, enjoying fabulous food, movies, alcohol, other stuff, and most importantly great company. Things fall into place; a little perspective, it seems, really works.

The Great Khali is coming to India; it is a significant development and a matter of immense national importance. Aaj Tak and India TV, till now have given loyal viewers deep insights into the life and mind of the Great Khali, the first Indian to enter the big bad FAKE world of the WWE, (I think I might be stabbed by a kid for this); for example his training schedule consists of three hours of weight training, morning and evening, every day. Maintaining his size requires a strict and intimidating daily dietary regimen: one gallon of milk, five chickens and two dozen eggs, along with chapattis, desi ghee, juice and fruit. His wife looks after him, drives him to the Gym, supervises his training and is jealous of all the female attention her husband gets. Please find attached a photograph of the man, the living legend, and an epitome of tremendous grace, immaculate good manners and breathtaking beauty, no wonder women can’t help but fall for him.

So rest assured that the concerned channels, the beacons of hope in the country and the sources of intelligent and thought provoking journalism are going to provide us with round the clock coverage of the ‘gentle’ giant’s every move, as he returns to the country where he was born and where he smashed stones for a living, before working as a bouncer and then for the police. God, how many kids are going to grow up to become bouncers because of this idiocy? Yes, no one wants to join the police, not even if the Great Khali himself is an ex-policeman. You have to thank years of cinematic slur hurled at the cops for this uninviting status enjoyed by our thullas. So brace yourself for a month of madness as the son of the soil returns home.

Oh, last night though, I sensed some signs of future controversy. Apparently The Great Khali backed out of a bout against The Big Show, when the latter showed him his fist; Aaj Tak lamented, “Mahabali Khali ne Desh ki Naak Kataiyee!!” India TV zoomed into the life of a regular East-Delhi based family caught in the midst of spectacular circumstances (Khali’s cowardice); the kids were completely shattered and found no meaning in life and had all refused dinner to express their remorse. The parents seemed quite proud of their kids. The journalist asked the parents whether they’d let the kids join wrestling; they said that they would be happy but that studies came first. Indian parents, they never change, not even when they are on TV, studies always come first. God save all of them, journalism, kids, parents, Khali, his wife and me.

What is wrong with Bollywood? I had the extreme fortune of watching the directorial debut of one of the greatest actors of the era that spanned the few weeks around which Omkara was released. Ajay Devgan. The movie in question is U, Me aur Hum. The film sheds a sensitive light on the life of three couples. The director wanted to do the right thing, and makes a conscious effort towards avoiding all clichés – one couple is in a bad marriage, the next one can’t keep their hands off each other, and the last and most important one has the wife suffering from Alzheimer. The lady, a waitress is wooed by the hero on a cruise ship. The fact that this happens on the cruise is purely incidental, of course all credit goes to the director for making the effort to select a setting where skin, songs and harsh light did not seem out of place. Most directors wouldn’t have bothered. But I guess everyone is completely thorough with their first work of art, in terms of research and everything.

What is it about Indian movies and light?? Why can’t we imagine any situation without it being flooded by the strongest light?

Well, I turned and twisted and fully enjoyed the whole process of being frisked, and even made Ah Ah sounds so that the security guy was the one blushing, not me, I even figured that filling one’s mouth completely with popcorn without biting them, and then pouring in Pepsi makes them melt into the gooiest yummiest thing. Oh and then I predicted things like the disease before hand, because the director was placing these stupid clues like the actress forgetting the time for an appointment and bringing Tequila shots instead of Vodka. And then I predicted the end too, much to the amazement of BB.

But I wasn’t too amused with my natural flair for understanding the thought behind such films, damn, what kind of movies will I make anyway?

I also watched Juno. And hereby declare my true and complete love for Ellen Philpotts-Page and the character she so beautifully and ably portrayed . I have a feeling she is very similar to the character in real life, it’s written in her voice. Hmm I wish I had found a similar girl while in school, I’d have turned out smarter and cool. But I am pretty certain no such girl was available, and even if by some incredible chance such a girl was available, I’d not be able to do anything. Or maybe over the space of four long years, I’d manage to talk to her once and tell her in the most complicated, nervous, convoluted manner that she should, well, umm, I don’t know… Just… Be… Bye…

Antique White, Silk Glow, White Moon, Pale Ivory, Windsor Cream, Almost Ivory, Ivory Ivory, Ivory, are all shades of White, or so Messrs Asian Paints would want us to believe. They look exactly the same, so do the three hundred other shades of White, I am sure nobody can tell the difference.

You’d need a superhero whose super power is the ability to tell the 81 different varieties of black found in a single strand of hair. We could call him The Palette. Of course, he is not going to have many kids as his fans, plus what is he going to do when the bad guy is dangling the girl from the rooftop? The Palette might be reduced to giving directions to Spiderman, “Eh Spidey, he is right behind the beam, the Ash Grey beam, oh no sorry, the Half-Silver Grey one. Oh? Oh! Oops, sorry…” So our friend might not be movie material, but he is the only person Asian Paints is catering to. Oh well there is another, my Dad. My father though is being pursued by Columbia Tri-Star and David Dhawan for film rights to his life.

Our new flat is receiving its first coat of color, and he has finally lost it. Every morning, he sits with tea, dry fruits and catalogues that have been borrowed from every paint store in the city. Then he worries, and frowns, and exclaims and takes the opinion of my mother, the dog, the maid, the maali, the paper-wallah, and an assortment of the most annoying neighbours. After which he selects colors which none of the above suggested.

Then he sits at the computer and in a virtual room provided by the evil people at Asian Paints, tries different combinations of colors he shortlisted. This process continues forever. He is the only person I know that uses a process of elimination that actually increases the number of shortlisted candidate-colors. So much so that after two days when the site crashed I have sufficient reason to believe that the cause was the immense stress my father put on their virtual resources. My father then proceeded to make a firm call to the Calcutta office of Messrs Asian Paints and registered his protest. Later he told me, looking sufficiently disgusted, that the lady was shocked that a customer actually used the complaint line.

Of course he doesn’t ask me for my opinion, because we always end up fighting like school kids and he wishes I had never come back home, and I yell that I had never wanted to.

My father was a professor, but he is interested in everything else but teaching. Retirement has offered him the time and opportunity to follow his true passions. These include, talking loudly on the phone to everyone in the world, giving expert opinion to experts, like telling the painters how to hold the brush or how much thinner to use, getting the bank passbooks up-to-date every day, worrying about the stock markets, and behaving in a manner that suggests that the market movement is determined by his own portfolio, watching all the Balaji Sitcoms, being more interested in them than my mother, and being excessively happy when any of the evil women get slapped or temporarily murdered, criticizing food, the weather, my job, my brother’s job, any corporate job, world politics, global warming, the younger generation, his father’s generation, his own generation, and generally being a bratty kid.

Okay, so he has decided, in his own words, to be a trend setter and to get the ceilings of our lovely new house painted in dark colors, while the walls receive coats of the lighter shade. So his room has an Oxford Blue ceiling supported by Coral Blue walls. The effect is like walking into a room that has been turned upside down, the ceiling seems too heavy and on the verge of collapsing because the walls appear excessively frail. I saved my room from this monstrosity, but he took evil advantage of my absence over the weekend and I returned only to find the ceiling over the dinning space colored in shimmering Indian Copper. A battle is expected tonight, my father against me, the dog, my mother, the maid and common sense. The outcome will determine the nature of our conversations over meals till the next paint job is required.

Ah, so such is life. Yeh thi khabre Aaj Tak, Intezaar kijiye agle baar tak.

Autumn Leaves

Memories are strange things, I don’t quite remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I remember eighteen years ago as our bus climbed into Naini Tal and my father said, “Look, the lake!!” – I looked up at the mountains.

My uncle, my father’s younger brother was studying to be a doctor in England. His sons, my cousins, went to boarding school. My own brother went to school in Patna; I guess my father felt strange pressure to send me to a hostel, to give me the kind of education my cousins enjoyed, even though he would find it difficult to afford it.

I was five, we had moved in to a flat a year ago, living away from my grandparent’s home. Ma always said it was because her college was too far away from our ancestral house, but recently, I heard my father mention something about him preferring to sell rather than stay in a place he was asked to leave. Mama used to feed me lunch everyday, because my parents would be at college. I had khichdi most of the time, and she told me the same story each afternoon, about the wolf that threatened the old woman to give up her food or else he would wag his big tail.

Anyhow, when we moved in, I remember, my brother was writing a million entrance exams for engineering colleges. Ma would ask me to take life seriously and study like bhaiya, I was only five! I would ignore her, and run around the house like a mad child, hurt myself, play with the gods and goddesses from her tiny temple, throw my milk down the window, also the fruits, bug bhaiya, and so on. Bhaiya always sat in his room, facing the window, a girl sat in the balcony of the house opposite our apartment, facing my brother, I sat in front of the window in the adjacent room and made faces at the girl, Ma claimed and believed that only the girl would stare at bhaiya, and disturb her poor innocent child. Which is probably true; my brother was the purest variety of nerd I have ever seen, complete with a far from trendy (even for the early 90s) moustache and thick enormous spectacles that covered two thirds of his face. Of course now he is all fancy.

Eventually, my brother was going to leave for Surat for a course in computer engineering. I was fascinated by all the attention he was getting, all the clothes that were being bought for him, the bags, the visitors, the love – I couldn’t wait to be sent to boarding school.

It was to be nothing more than an experiment; my parents were convinced that I was an absolute bum - surely I wouldn’t make it through the entrance test. They decided to tie the exam with a holiday to Naini Tal. Plus I already had admission to the school bhaiya studied at, so it really was just a joy trip.

I was quite the sickly child, and even before we got to Barielly, my body lost out to the never-before-experienced levels of cold and I was down with fever. I slept through the remainder of the journey, wrapped in shawls and wearing a stupid monkey cap. So, in my defense, I was quite unwell and sleepy when I stumbled out of the bus into Naini Tal, and can’t be blamed for looking up at the mountains to search for the lake. Plus it was the first time I was seeing a lake. Anyway that evening I was bought a thick jacket to keep me from dying from the cold, allowed to eat as much cotton candy as I wanted and generally pampered and fussed over. My grand plan was already working.

I don’t think I gave the school much thought when I saw it; I was overwhelmed by the sight of so many new people and decided to hold on to Ma and not say a word. The test, hmm, it was in two parts, English and Mathematics. All I remember is that during the test a kid got up and started crying, “Mujeh mummy ki yaad aa rahi hai!” Stupid idiot, he made us all miss our mothers.

It was the 31st of Dec. 1990; I was excited about New Years Eve and everything, quite stupidly so, because I would certainly fall asleep before ten. Around noon, I was having lunch, or my mother was trying to get me to have it, the postman arrived with a brown envelope that contained in it eleven years of boarding school life. My father gave the postman ten rupees; and opened the letter. Ma was already crying; I was happy that she had forgotten about my lunch. Papa congratulated me, and then asked Ma not to cry, “Mere bhi pet main paani bhar gaya hai, but it’s for his future!” I was barely six, but I already had the gift for the inappropriate – “You don’t want to send me, to save your money??” My parents looked at me in disgust and I am sure were glad they were getting rid of me.

Anyway, I was immediately taken to my tutor’s house with a card and sweets to thank her. Now this Bengali lady lived in the block just opposite ours, and if I hadn’t been so young I would have protested against this visit. Her tuitions were absolutely useless; they consisted of her feeding me food, asking me to look at the milk and to yell when it began to boil, while she watered the plants, and converting the same five sentences from present to past to future back to past then to future tense till my head would spin. No, I don’t remember the five sentences. The mathematics was handled by her husband, he would sit and read the newspaper and ask me to write the tables, and then he would get up and ask random things like, “What is thirteen multiplied by six?” and if I took longer than three seconds to say something he would disappear into his room.

Twelve white shirts, vests, underpants and handkerchiefs; four towels, night suits, sheets, pillow cases, two each of black and sports shoes, a pair of slippers, two blazers in the school colors, four house ties, two college ties, four pullovers, three grey woolen trousers, two white and two olive green, six house shirts in yellow, six woolen shorts, six grey game shorts and two in white for special functions, two blankets and a quilt, a trunk with my name, house and Roll No. 35 (3+5 = 8, 2^3 = 8!! FUCK!!!!), keep all this, and a hold-all for the blankets and quilt, plus an air bag. Then there was the stationary and the toiletries. Ah, I was the king of the world – I could do no wrong, I was allowed to eat what I want, play for endless hours, engage Ma’s gods and goddesses in the fiercest of battles over my new trunk, watch TV, drink Pepsi till I was sick, every day someone would visit to say good bye and bring me some gift. I wondered why they would look at me with teary eyes, or why my parents seemed guilty about sending me there. On the final morning at home, I climbed onto my parent’s bed earlier than usual. All three of us spent inordinate time there, in silence. Till I pointed out that we might just miss the train. Great frenzy followed; for my father, catching trains is a huge deal. He plans out everything in immaculate detail, he was saying to Ma, “Remind me to tell the coolie to place the trunk with the latch facing inwards.” Oh yes, the size of the trunk was pre-decided by him so that we could slide it under the berth. In all this, I was walking around the house putting my toys in obscure locations, like I placed my GI Joe with the missing leg and arm on the fridge and told everyone that it must stay there till the next time I was home. And I remember the next time I was home, it was the first thing I looked for, but it wasn’t there. Hmpf…

In the train we met another kid going to join, Rishi – I had a friend even before I got there. There was this old retired Army officer that was travelling along side us, he was very impressed with me going to boarding school, as is the tendency for most army people. He asked me, “What do you play?” So I said I play with He-Man and the Masters of the Universe! I have the power!! The poor man’s disappointment was palpable; as for me, I didn’t know it yet, but this was an early sign of the illustrious sporting career that I was never going to have.

I knew where the lake was this time.

There is a photograph of me standing under the arch at the entrance of the school. I have the widest, wickedest smile, then there is another one – this time Ma is there too, except she doesn’t seem very cheerful. Walking to my dormitory, I saw that the entire school was full of crying children. I didn’t understand that, I asked my father and he said it was because they weren’t brave enough. Anyway, I couldn’t wait to get to my dormitory and select my bed and all the other things. It was only after I spent a semester there that I realized why everyone was crying; next time round I would join them with full fervor.

We met a few teachers; they all had fancy, foreign names. Hoffland, Neale, Lee, Samuel, Rozario. My parents asked them to take care of me, I thought their concern was a little fake, but that’s probably because all parents must be asking them to do the same thing. My father always said the worst part about dropping me to school was the walk from its gates down to the town. I guess this first time must have been the worst of all the walks he would take.

As for me, that first night was surprisingly silent, in the dormitory you could hear the tube-lights groan. I don’t know, I was too young to understand why my stomach felt strange, but it was probably because unconsciously I knew that new clothes, people, or a different way of life weren’t sufficient to compensate for what I left behind, plus the fact that it was going to be a long eleven years. I got into bed and noticed that the quilt had been pulled out from the side; I called out to the ‘dai’ asking her to tuck it for me. She said, sweetly enough “Do it yourself, aur mujeh dai nahin aaya didi bulate hain…” My heart sank a bit, I decided to let the quilt be, and fell asleep.

It’s tremendous, how, when you get down it, memories come back in a flood and with great detail. I don’t think I should get into what happened the next day. A blog needs to be fed regular normal sized posts, not one never ending saga of a meal. The following days, weeks, months and years made me the person I am. Life for me was a bit of everything, pain, glory, sadness, joy. Everyone tells you that people who go to boarding schools can manage on their own; I tell you it’s true. But the question to be asked is whether they’d want to or not.

Fnord! A seminal foray into the field of Cognitive Dissonance. Or How to Post Without Saying Anything, and Full of Poorly Hidden Subliminal Messages..

I walked back in time to reach the latest happiest memories I had. I returned to Room No. 204(6), dimly lit in red light, with a cup of terrible instant coffee and a mug filled with stubs, ash, used floss, swatted mosquitoes, dirty sugar cubes, and moistened with the bit of coffee, from the last cup that went too cold to drink. This was done rather ingeniously to prevent the ash from flying out of the mug. Muhahaha. Just being in that cold, comfortable room which smelt of coffee, very few people, and incense gave me the pleasure I talk of. I spent months there, listening to music, watching movies, speaking and laughing to myself, reading, being in bed, thinking, and doing other such simple terrific things.

I have returned to movies, not a day goes by when I don’t give serious thought to films, when I don’t run the few scripts I have in mind through my head. When I don’t imagine what Simmi or Kailash, would do in situations other than those they would come across in my film. If I don’t watch a movie for a few days now, I start getting restless. I need to return to Delhi, and get movies from U. Who in one of those strange coincidences that happen every other day, just appeared online. Why so serious??

I watched this movie recently, Number 23, which isn’t really a remarkable example of filmmaking, for instance, this isn’t the movie we would want to beam into space for the larger universal audience to showcase the creativity of our race. But it gave me something to think about; apparently anything and everything in this world is linked to the number 23. Here The Number 23 And here 23 examples of The 23 Enigma. Well I was born on the 24^th of January, which is 24-1=23 and I watched this movie on the 20^th of March, 20+3=23!!!! And 15^th Feb. 2008 is 15-02+2+0+0+8=23!!!!!! SLOWTUMBLINGLIFE, if you add the letters as numbers you get 194, (1*9)-4=5, and 2+3=5. This then maps to The Law of Fives. The Write for the Remaining Silence is 337, and 3/3+7=8, and 2^3=8, my name is 114, 4*(1+1) = 8, once again, 2^3=8!!!!!! And this is the 24^th year of my first life, 24-1=23!!!! Muhahaha. 9/11/2001 = 9+11+2+0+0+1 = 23!!!!!! It’s a strange mysterious world we live in.

Bhang needs to be banned, really it should be.

Last year this time, I mean at 11:58 AM on a normal Saturday morning, I would be in the library, reading The Economist, or having French toasts and filter coffee, studying different topics in Economic theory, enjoying the weekend reprieve our campus got from the hustle and bustle of DU. Within a few hours, all academic efforts would be shelved, and the scheme for the day would disintegrate into beautiful unplanned games of football or cricket, random conversations on Game Theory or PhD. Vs Job, alcohol, or better still a fabulous movie, watched along with three cups of creamy coffee. I have grown a French beard, in the mornings it’s difficult to recognize myself.

I have recently discovered an inalienable truth, the surest most easy way to get Mothers to stop being angry, get done with shopping instantly, do anything, is to tell them that, you, her child, is hungry. And then you can stop, sit back and watch your mother melt into this lump of goodness with the singular agenda of putting food in your mouth. Everything else ceases to matter for mothers when it comes to this, oh and the theory holds especially true if the child in question is, like me, in the clutches of some sort of mild anorexia.

Ratatouille – I loved the movie for three separate reasons. First, I realized, once again, how much I enjoy animated movies. Really, there is something about animation, in some ways there is more one can tell with animation, especially when it comes to thoughts, and hidden emotions. It’s one of the reasons I love Jeunet, when he gets Amelie to meet the guy at the café, she can’t bear the awkwardness of the moment and escapes by falling on the floor in a splash of water. Then there is Paris; someday I’ll walk its lovely streets, someday soon. And like the tiny mouse, I will sit and be taken aback by its incredible loveliness.

Then there is food. Oh how I love food, how I love making food. Really if it were up to me, I would eat the most lavish dishes, drink the most exquisite wines and nibble on only the finest cheese every day of my life. I guess that too will happen someday. Anybody can cook! How incredible…

Discordianism - today onwards, I shall be its staunch follower, whenever I feel like it. The following will be my vow –

If you want in on the Discordian Society
then declare yourself what you wish
do what you like
and tell us about it
or
if you prefer
don't.

—Malaclypse the Younger, Principia Discordia, Page 00032

Perfect isn’t it? Do as you like! Not only will this help me explain to myself and to others, actions of mine that society would typically classify as disorder, as against order, but also it will help me come to terms with the actions of others. After all, what we view as reality or order depends on our concept of reality and order, which Discordian Society calls the grid, which changes from person to person and from one culture to another. So what appears as chaos might actually be order if viewed through a different grid. The reality and order that remains unchanged no matter what one’s concept of reality or order is the real TRUTH. This might include things like mothers should always love their children, the dog is man’s preferred best friend in the animal kingdom, friendship is based on trust and lovers must try and remain honest, and so on. Of course certain cultures some from the human race and others outside of it find it sufficiently normal for mothers to be remarkably careless about their kids, others where it is the evil cat that is viewed as man’s comrade of choice, some where one’s friendships are based on who is willing to pay for one’s drinks, and still others like the followers of the flower, who uphold promiscuity as one of the highest virtues, next only toBangkok or someplace after this episode. Oooo. Discordianism is about understanding that no one grid reflects the real TRUTH, as in no one concept of reality or order is better than all others, the grid pertaining to the real TRUTH actually doesn’t exist, it’s a bit like infinity. One can get close to it but never reach it completely; the trick is to use different grids, at different times, at the same time, randomly, quickly, recklessly, to lose oneself to paradigm piracy of such depths till one has no concept of reality or chaos. One does – as one likes. To diverse Gods, do mortals bow, Holy Cow and Wholly Chao. (Chao is singular for Chaos, and is pronounced like Cow)

Of course it will take me a while, to do exactly as I like, and to understand others who behave in a similar manner, which is why I said I shall be a staunch follower of Discordian philosophy, whenever I feel like it, or I am up to it. As I grow familiar with different grids and accustom myself to the concept of order they have to offer; things I found inexplicable and worried about immensely earlier will form a part of what I refer to as the normal, or the orderly. I will, in the process, move from being a Legionnaire Disciple to the High Priest of all this, that is if I feel like making all the effort. being perpetually stoned or drunk. Shit, Roadies 5.0 is coming to an abrupt end, what will become of weekends now? Oh wait, maybe not, they are going to

Fnord.

The Law of Fives states simply that: all phenomena are directly or indirectly related to the number five, and this relationship can always be demonstrated given enough ingenuity on the part of the demonstrator.

The Law of Fives is never wrong. – Malaclypse the Younger, Principia Discordia, Page 00016

2 +3 = 5.

Bhang = 2 + 7 + 1 + 14 + 8 = 32, which is 23 reversed!!!!!! And 3 + 2 = 2 + 3 = 5!!

Bhang should be banned.

Apparently all this trouble began in 1166 BC, when a certain morbid person who went by the name Greyface, asked mankind to “Look at all the Order around you,” men obliged and took life more seriously than it actually was and have never really been happy ever after. The Curse of Greyface. The White Russian shall be the drink of choice for me as soon as I own a refrigerator that belongs completely to me. Jazz music is what I will listen to, Django Reinhardt if I can, I think the gentlemen offers the definitive acid test for happiness, if you can listen to his music you must be happy. Radiohead on the other hand - There was definitely more I had to say, but somehow I don’t feel like it anymore. Or I don’t remember, which is probably almost the same thing.

Wholly Chao.