Heroes, herrings and heartburns

The herald of the last decade of the second millennium saw the winds of change blowing through India. The nation was finally going to shed its protective traditionalism and give way to economic reforms. That yearly horde at the airport grew larger as more plucky Punjabis and sharp Gujaratis flew to the West, leaving a sizeable imprint on both sides of the Atlantic, and giving a fillip to the use of the word ‘Diaspora’ back home. Even at the movies, the era of Bappi Lahiri-fuelled disco hits was slowly but surely fading into a newer form of cinema, with the audiences being treated to the likes of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, Andaz Apna Apna and Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron. In a more morose change, the Indian cricket team was readying to let its ageing golden generation give way to a newer set of hopefuls. Little did anyone know, though, what was to become of that diminutive sixteen-year-old who, till the beginning of that decade, with twinkling eyes, was carrying drinks for the household names that were Kapil Dev, Sunil Gavaskar and many other legends of Indian cricket.

It was the time of a generation seeking to put behind years of underachievement, reclaim its glorious- and more prosperous- past and move towards a future of economical, social and technological advancement. Yet, it was a generation starved of recent past success, save the cricketing community, on whom the realisation that its championship-winning capabilities were under the threat of geriatric decay was dawning. In a way, people were looking for someone to show the way. Even including the cricketers, it was a generation looking for idols. For heroes.

Right at the start of this decade, on a typically dry July night in the capital, I was born. And true to the prevailing zeitgeist, I, too, longed for icons. Even before I turned three, the little master was enthralling crowds all over the world. I probably couldn’t even understand what that swing of the blade meant, but I am told I clapped with glee, jumping up and down in excitement. That was the start of a worship that still goes on unconditionally. More on that in some other post- that story has so many chapters and anecdotes; it wouldn’t be complete till Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar takes the heart-breaking step of retiring.

I studied nursery in a small school in Kawas, a town a few kilometres off Surat, in Gujarat. A feisty little boy I was, throwing the deadliest of tantrums when my mother made her valiant attempts to get me to the school, adjacent to the hospital where she had to go. Even after the sapping battles I fought to get there, I would never be short of energy in class, picking up fights with anyone and everyone for no reason at all. But, mere pugnacity wasn’t enough- my frail frame made me get beaten time and again. Even at home, my elder brother always had the better of me. In such trying circumstances, I looked for heroes to guide me on my path to claim glory.

Cue for the stars of the World Wrestling Federation to step in. Carrying imposing bodies built from the street fights in the Bronx, the stunts of Hollywood, under the tutelage of Samoan wrestling legends or sheer Texan tenacity in their blood, these men not only entertained, but inspired many a child to fight like there’s always next Monday. Even if there’s blood from that chair-shot, or the twisted ankle from that submission manoeuvre, you don’t give up until the referee bangs his bare hands into the canvas three times as you’re pinning down the enemy. And not just that, these men also brought their quick-witted imagination into play, winning many a battle without raising a fist, with the power of their words. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart, the ‘Heart Break Kid’ Shawn Michaels, (my present namesake) Triple H and a host of others enriched my childhood with words, gestures and finishing moves. Oh, standing triumphantly in a full classroom, raising an imaginary belt high in the air, one eye acknowledging the raucous crowd, the other scouring the corridor for a hint of the teacher’s arrival- the WWF, just like Tendulkar, filled our hearts with delight, inspiration and hope.

A few years into the new millennium, I saw a show on the TV called ‘Pro Wrestling’s secrets revealed’. What seemed like a damning attack on my childhood addiction, turned out to be the dark truth. Yet, I couldn’t seem to think The Rock’s impromptu Samoan drop to Triple H at SummerSlam, Shawn Michaels’ death-defying leap of faith from the top of the first Hell-in-a-Cell or Stone Cold’s audacious beer bash in a monster truck could’ve been staged or, in fact, were staged. My idols couldn’t be fake. Making the reasonable assumption that it was the present crop of pretenders that were the culprits, I quit watching the form of wrestling branded as sports entertainment.

Till today, that show’s revelations resonate in my heart. My confidence was shaken, my belief shattered and my abilities questioned. As defining as that event was, it wasn’t to be the first of its kind. As the dawn of a new age saw this upturn, the end of teenage saw another. Thank God, my mother clarified that Shahrukh wasn’t cheating on Suchitra Krishnamoorthy by running away with Kajol. And thank Ramesh Tendulkar and his wife for Sachin Tendulkar.

Two States

My favourite literary device smacks me in the face yet again, striking once again on the eve of a homeward bound journey. Over five and a half decades ago, a small, frail man by the name of Potti Sreeramulu held a peaceful fast-unto-death for the formation of a separate state for the speakers of Telugu. The diminutive gentleman’s oft-forgotten sacrifice led to the formation of the States Reorganisation Committee in 1953, giving the basis of the geo-political structure of the country as we know it today. In an ironical occurrence of déjà vu, K. Chandrasekhar Rao’s fast- not going to the ultimate end- has seen the government finally give in to the twenty-year-old demand for the separate state of Telangana. However, things couldn’t have been any more different than during the decade after independence, and thus, the announcement of the division rankles me further, no matter what and how potent the political pressures the ruling government maybe under.

The first reorganisation or reformation of states in India to have taken place since the economic revival of the early 1990s was the formation of the three states of Chattisgarh, Jharkhand and Uttaranchal. Years of underdevelopment and want for separation on the basis of tribes and castes saw the formation of the trio at the dawn of the new millennium. Also, the administrative difficulties involved in managing states the size of the BIMARU quartet deemed it almost compulsory. In a hastily-done reorganisation, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh were almost robbed in clear daylight, with almost no care taken in properly dividing the various natural resources of the regions. Even a ten-year-old like me could point out the glaring errors. Only one of the five power plants that Madhya Pradesh had remained in its divided territory, and mind you, even after the bifurcation, it remained one of the biggest states by area. The forests, coal, limestone, bauxite and other natural reserves, arable land and water resources were also shabbily divided leaving MP high and dry- quite literally. Yet, the scourge of the naxalites and Chambal valley’s notorious dacoits went into the newly-formed smaller Chattisgarh’s hands, whose accordingly-sized police force was obviously outnumbered and outgunned by the seasoned insurgents. Result? MP didn’t do too much good to its “BIMARU” reputation, while Chattisgarh is now officially the state worst affected by insurgency. Bihar’s split saw similar mistakes, with the already notorious state’s few resources, too, unequally handed, with the ample coal reserves and the prestigious industrial city of Jamshedpur going Jharkhand’s way. The little forest cover that it had, too, went the other way, and all Bihar was left with was Patliputra and the Kosi. Bad fortune played its part in flooding the river, and Jharkhand has its own issues with the naxalites and Maoists. Another division decision not going too well. Uttaranchal, now Uttarakhand (they took over a month to finalise Uttaranchal in the first place!), hasn’t met the fate of its other birth brothers, but having lived most of the past three years in the state, I learn that most of the Pahadis, for whom the state was purportedly divided, are still left in the lurch over the advantages of the development projects, the most well-documented being the displaced in the many hydro-power projects that have been commissioned in the state. Yet, maybe because of the able early leadership of the seasoned campaigner B.C. Khanduri, and many other factors, this state has prospered to quite an extent. I won’t call it an honourable exception, yet. Most of the developmental projects in the state are yet to bear fruit, mind you.

I’d always disliked more states being formed. As an enthusiastic quizzer, the idea of remembering one more state, capital and Chief Minister sounded bad. As I’ve grown up to understand the nitty-gritties of how the largest democracy in the world works, it’s only been sadder. Each year, as the Budget is announced, every other state is up in arms about the allocation of vital Central funds to it. The same goes on at the state level, too. But, given the legislative structure of the country, it is the responsibility of the people’s representatives- the Members of Parliament and the Legislative Assemblies, at the two respective levels- to address the concerns of their state/region. After god-only-knows how many years have we had an almost unanimous decision at the Centre. The Congress Party won by an overwhelming majority in the General Elections this year, requiring only minor support from allies. Despite lingering doubts over corruption, it was generally hailed as a new era with a stable government at the helm. That’d streamline the funds allocation, one would tend to believe, as more information was assimilated from the previous years’ mistakes and with stable representatives, the demands would be heard properly. Yet, the demand for statehood for certain regions, citing long years of neglect, remained.

Even back home in Mana Andhra (Our Andhra), the YSR Reddy-led government won the Assembly elections, even if by a narrow margin, indicating another stable government. The Telangana movement, though, picked up steam after the sudden unfortunate demise of the Chief Minister, and went beyond the control of the interim supremo, K. Rosiah. The reason remained the same, though- crores of funds earned by the region from the Centre were diverted to development projects in other regions, and the people of the state continued to suffer from long-standing problems like draught and poverty. Let’s come to facts- almost all ten districts of the region have seen numerous changes of political dominance over the past decade and a half. The TDP and Congress have always ping-ponged in the number of MLAs and MPs from the region, and if the required funds, aids and projects aren’t coming in for the region, isn’t it a failure of these region’s representatives, I beg to ask? Isn’t it a failure of these men and women fighting for seats of power and responsibility to deliver on the promises they’d made over all these years?

Somehow, it isn’t that easy to try and stick to what one says during election campaigns and serve people of the regions they represent in the Assembly and Parliament, but easier to campaign for a separate state, where more of the same may occur, as the real root of the problem hasn’t been removed. Now they’re going to fight it out over the next few weeks and months over the city of Hyderabad, where the price of the real estate is probably going to tilt the deal.

Amidst all this, I’ll probably have to make more space in my cramped memory for another capital city and Chief Minister, and maybe pay more to travel to my mother’s hometown, where my maternal cousins stay, as it’ll be across state lines. That farmer somewhere in a parched hut in Mahbubnagar district will still have to shiver through the night and wonder if it’ll rain well enough next year.

Maa telugu talli ki malle puvvu-danda!

(A jasmine garland for our Telugu motherland)

P.S.- No offence intended towards any particular party/region/race/caste/religion/people. This was just a rant coming late in the night.

Gut Feeling

Going by the set precedent, it’s been long since the Geek has spoken, or rather typed. It’s been a year that’s seen more churning of emotions than the worst of diarrhoeic fits, and has ironically ended in a state of constipation. Being used to having more to say than the average Appa Rao, I found myself knotted and tongue-tied to even answer the most routine of greetings with a Hi. But, as Lefty pointed out during his return to R, one’s inner Lit-wit may die down but never die, and thus returns this jobless git, with further generous helpings from the five-course meal that shall be my time in R.

A few days ago, I officially completed two and a half academic years here- exactly half my tenure. Unfortunate as it was to have been crowned by a semester characterised by academic bulimia, I celebrated it by missing all meals through a 12-hour sleep-a-thon. I’m yet to ruminate about the complete ramifications of that milestone, if I am to call it one. When I come to think of it, sadly, I can’t seem to imagine not using the likes of awesome or fokiaap in every other sentence. It’s hard to believe these are the same sentences that once used to end with an almost primal ra. To the chagrin of many from school and junior college, I’ve changed beyond comprehension, and, yet, I see myself as the same babbling-gabbling geek from Honolulu still producing doggerel at a rate that’ll make multiplying dogs reel. I’ve fallen in love with people who’re not right, argued with rotten dogs, seen rapsters who’ll make rappers weep, chiggy-wiggied with true dudes, sang along with domineering bluestockings, experienced true L.O.V.E, chitty-chitty bang-banged phlegmatically, and, in general, grabbed many a byte from the geek wi-fi. One sentence may make it seem I’ve done so much, and I’m only halfway through in this journey to find the Ultimate Question. But, as the starters have been nibbled and the first bits gobbled up, the main course beckons, and I hope I have the capability to digest whatever else is to come my way. Bon appétit!

Sabbat(h)ical

As I sat with a couple of seniors from the magazine, who were here for their convocation, I was reminded that we do certain things only because of two reasons. One, that we're half-decent at it, and two- passion. In accordance with those very words, I realised over the ongoing weekend, that when it comes to this page, I seriously am lacking both. Once proud of having an equally potent appetite for food and reading (which, in case I need to still elaborate, was very), I haven't been into serious, or even casual reading for almost two years now. As far as the passion goes, I can't force myself to churn out a few words that I know wouldn't do justice to those feelings that precipitated them when I read this again.

Ergo, I'll be on a hiatus for some time. I'll do some long-overdue reading, try and bring some juice back into my writing, and come back to doing what I do best- not shutting up.

P.S. - It, ideally, will all begin with completing Rabindranath Tagore's Fireflies and A History of the Thomason Engineering College.

Precipitate

It's amazing how marginalised clouds are. Grey clouds are a bad signal, a metaphor for grim times. When all's nice and sunny, that one cloud is cursed for being a blot on the otherwise flawless countenance of the sky. So much for a silver lining. A clouded vision is dangerous, clouds socialising by gathering is a bad omen and them getting charged, through no fault of their own, thanks to Coulomb's and Faraday's laws, and giving rise to lightning makes them big-time thugs. And don't even get started on rain- clouds bear the brunt of the criticism when the air around them doesn't want to cooperate and precipitate. If they had thoughts, the first thing they'd think about is disappearing altogether. Not that it's in their hands. To use a terrible pun, they can't even pee by themselves. All the Captain Planet elements- Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, Heart (you can continue reading once you've put your fist up in the air and said "Go Planet!"; or, finished the theme song and smiled to yourself)- hate them. For sanity's sake, I repeat- all the Captain Planet elements hate clouds.

Yet, the gods choose them as their abode. Gods are nice guys.

P.S.- I looked up "precipitate" in the dictionary for secondary meanings. Oxford's primary meaning for the verb form- cause (something bad) to happen suddenly or too soon.

Blistering Bus Blues!

The dithery Whiteline slows to a trot a few metres short of the majestic Lal Quila as indigenous salesmen raid the bus, selling everything under the moonlit sky from two-week-old coconut slices, eerily crunchy papads and family-shaped toothbrushes to paradoxically marketed “Sacche Dilli-waalon ke liye sacchi Dilli ki guidebooks” and stainless gold chains and rings for ten rupees. The three-strangely-dressed-man-strong cabin crew pulls in anyone within their hands’ reach through the non-existent doors, sometimes calling for worried wives’ angry wails, which barely matched the cacophony of the same crew’s shouts of “Naveda, Naveda, Naveda! Kale Khan, Nizamuddin, Naveda!” . The even more strangely dressed conductor begins his swagger-filled strut through the crowded corridor of uncertainty, throwing bloodshot bullets from his eyes whenever asked for the price of the ticket, when not shooting sugary greetings at his beloved(s) on the phone. All those manners are forgotten in a moment (déjà vu) when the driver slams the brakes, prompting a barrage of expletives from both men- one at the other, while the other at a poor brother who forgot to see the red light earlier. The golden-nosed Himesh croons carelessly from helicopters, auto-rickshaws and what-not as these scenes play on, supplying an apt background music as the three capped fellows in front of me whisper on each of their phones “All day, all night- mujhe yaad sataye teri”. I switch on my phone’s radio to escape the nasal onslaught, only to run into Kylie Minogue expressing her desire to chiggy-wiggy with Akshay Khiladi Kumar. As I desperately try to make head and tail of that song, the rest of the channels disappoint, too, when not screaming into my ears- “Happy Choti Diwali!”. Sector-37 couldn’t come any sooner, and I got down, thanking the invisible stars for ensuring I got there without further mental/musical damage. Lady Writer, fast becoming my circumstantial favourite song, kept me busy before Ma, Big B and I got to our new home, somewhere in the almost-deserted urban jungle that is Greater Noida. I direly regretted not recharging my phone, but vowed to get in touch with everyone I always call each year on Diwali as soon as I got back to R. Meanwhile, as I get down to writing this post, Pa cheerily informs me that I’ll be travelling to Delhi from Noida by bus on my way back. The song automatically playing in my head treacherously switches to Mann ka radio tu sunle, mann ka radio...

(Originally published on October 18^th 2009, at 0202 hours)

The Mistress of Spices

Over the past week or so, I’ve inadvertently taken a trip through the dark side, or at least quite a bit of it. I’ve bitched about people, been rude and ruthless, displayed inappropriate anger, lied, tried forced insomnia and have, in general, been a person worth hating and not not liking. This trip has taught me many lessons, the most pertinent obviously being that it’s never worth it. Another significant learning has been the fact that most of these tools in my hands could prove to be very profitable on my end- and dangerous for others.

But throughout all this, has been an undercurrent of melancholy, which has somehow characterised this semester so far. Unlike ever before, I wrote six separate drafts- all jottings from the holidays gone by- and trashed them all. Okay- another lie. I’d written one, and imagined another, at most, but that isn’t the point. Somehow, now every post I make has to make the cut. The cut earlier was probably a stamp of approval from people I look up to. Now, it’s a concoction of emotions from inside, and an extrapolation of some outside. And in all this lies an undertone of discontent, disillusionment, detachment and, most of all, disappointment- words I wouldn’t have in my vocabulary a year or two ago. But, that’s the kind of times these few months have been. Yet, the darkest of clouds has to have a silver lining. In the midst of hastily deteriorating relationships, I’m beginning to form a bond with my branch-mates, finally, and they’ve been nice enough to accept the late bloomer, too. Status messages have changed from esoteric referencing and dereferencing to corny songs on (un)popular professors. I’m beginning to get the feeling I’ll really miss this motley crew when they’re gone, and that’s a strangely nice feeling to have. A sense of underachievement still overrides these smiles, but anything’s better than the almost omnipotent feeling of indolence. That reminds me- I have to take off my shoes. And stop listening to The Beatles, for now.

True Lies

Lying is an art man has been trying to perfect for ages. If Paris were good at it, Troy wouldn’t have been part of history the way it is. It’s another one of those dark arts that can make man all very powerful. Imagine Dharmaraja accepting it, and the Mahabharata would probably never have been the epic it is. But a vice it remains- albeit a very potent one. Even a decent level of mastery over it and snap: you’re in the seat of power. Of course, social science in its own innocent journey towards uncovering every little aspect of human nature, has left no stone unturned in trying to figure out the intricacies of this dark power, and has been successful to a very large extent. So much so, that some are actually in the profession of finding out when one is attempting to blind Lady Truth, much like her notorious cousin, Justice. But, as one great man implied perfectly in the work of his lifetime, man’s greatest weakness is a consequence of his strength, and vice-versa. To convince the greatest of doubters of your statement, you’d have to do just that- convince the one who can have the greatest doubt: the one who knows it isn’t the truth. Once you conjure up a lie good enough to convince yourself, in a way that you yourself believe the truth to be just a figment of your imagination, the deed is done.

In a way, lying is telling the truth.

Can United score? They ALWAYS score!

Electrical machines are almost always designed to work at a certain optimum load, a particular operation point. They have their maximum currents and maximum voltages, alright- but only rarely are they supposed to operate in such conditions. I believe our emotions are also designed to function the same way. It’s very rare for the average man to experience the apogee of happiness, the nadir of despair, the worst disgust or the greenest envy. More often than not, we're going through feelings best expressed by "He's got a daytime job; he's doing alright". But when machines are put into certain conditions for testing or specific applications, they go through their extreme conditions. Sometimes they heat up and get back to normal; at others, they implode. Again, the analogy can be extended to us human beings. Some say one of these tests or specific applications is love. I obviously can’t corroborate on that. I can give one other situation, though- a pot-boiler of a football game at a cauldron of a venue.

Although it’s being used too many times these days to start losing its sheen, there isn’t any better way to put it than Sir Alex’s golden words after that win- “Football. Bloody Hell.”

P.S.- Tunnel of Love from Dire Straits- Live at the BBC. Mashallah!

For a different breed of muggers

One of the activities a soul with as little an attention span as me tends to indulge in during the pre-test-series hullabaloo is repeatedly go online, and do what one always does when online. The past few days’ status-message-reading and mail-checking has been quite interesting. I was redirected to articles like these, and was reminded of the existence of this beautiful song. But, the one that caught my attention the most were a set of status messages on various lists compiled by Rolling Stone. Some were engaging, like the 100 best guitar songs’ latter half, while others were enraging, prime example being the 100 greatest guitarists list. Some more searching and surfing revealed lists like top 25 angry-at-girl-for-dumping-me songs, and the top 25 songs for a road trip. Mulling over this (as quite obviously, the working of induction motors had lost out comprehensively), I wondered what lists they’d missed out on, and the one that struck me first was the top songs for the bathroom. And, the jobless nut of the first order that I am, I also theorised that there should be two categories of the same.

The water heaters in both the bathrooms closest to my rooms have been put out of service for the summer, leaving people who love their hot water shampoos frustrated. This has consequently led to more and more buckets being left unused, and the showers groaning under the pressure (in some cases, literally). Bathroom singing, one of the most underrated art forms, has always been portrayed to be an act done under the shower. Countless movie songs, including the ubiquitous Thande Thande paani se, have been shown to be sung under the shower. It’s quite understandable, really. But, true bathroom singing enthusiasts never leave the show for only under the shower. The counterpart is a much more difficult task, what with the continuous mugging one has to keep up with, but with the right rhythm, and more significantly, the right song, the musical part of a bath can be preserved, and enjoyed.

So, taking the cue from the above findings, I present to you my top five non-shower bathroom songs.

5) Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits): For those who can’t forget the pain of separation, that too in when it’s more bitter than the soap you might swallow to commit suicide, wallow in your pain, while the gentle beat and music set allows you to bathe rhythmically. If you wash your face at the end, this song’s perfect as you can shut up for the guitar/piano solo.

4) Zindagi Ek Safar (Andaaz): I’d sung this at the top of voice many times during the Our Bathrooms Have Talent series we had in first year. The yodelling comes out best when you have water flowing across your face, by the way. Plus, it’s a happy-go-lucky song that most bathroom singers love.

3) Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin): This one’s made for those with the niche tastes, the ones who like to be technically correct even if it takes swallowing some foam. Starting off slowly, picking up the pace through the middle, and finishing in a dramatic crescendo- some people just love their baths the same way. Plus, for those who miss the air-guitaring that’s an integral part of shower-singing, the drum solo makes an able substitution.

2) Phir Dekhiye (Rock On): Those who advocate shower-singing always say that their clients have the freedom of choosing their own pace, and considering that many contemplative songs have been portrayed under the shower (Awarapan in Jism and Mirza from American Desi being cases in point), they do have popular backing. But, even such songs, with the right pace, can always make it to a mug-and-bucket act, too. I can’t really explain this one; just try it and you’ll know why this one’s so high up on the list.

1) Highway to Hell (AC/DC): Bathroom singing is, ninety percent of the time, born out of nothing better to do. And what better to do than start jumping around crazily, shout at the top of your voice, and clear your road with this adrenaline-pumping song. The guitar solo’s too difficult for maximum amateur air-guitarists so you can wash your face as you admire that, and with you singing out aloud, the guy knocking your door waiting outside impatiently is gleefully asked to suck it. Two birds with one stone- perfect!

Apart from all reasons given in usual arguments, the best part about bathroom singing is that sometimes it actually is a strong reason for going for a bath. Can it get any better? What’re you waiting for, stinkface?

Me against the World

Let me clear a few things now.

Yes, I'm a Shahrukh Khan, and I cried when I saw Kal Ho Naa Ho even for the fourth time.
Yes, I can't pronounce French words correctly and think it's very stupid to write so many letters when you don't ever want to utter them in the first place, just because it sounds good. And, yes, I especially hate that when desis do that.
Yes, I haven't read anything ever penned, drawn or imagined by J.R.R. Tolkien, and I admit I've slept each of the three times I've tried reading his tomes after the first fifty pages.
Yes, my favourite Harry Potter book isn't The Prisoner of Azkaban. It's the Goblet of Fire, closely followed by the fifth and sixth installments.
Yes, I used to use chat lingo before, and I dumped it for good because I realised it was no good. And, no, I don't believe that's hypocrisy.
Yes, I don't always speak in my mother tongue with the family. You want to make up for me?
Yes, I haven't seen either of the Star Wars or the Star Trek series, or books, or comics, or cartoons, or towels, handkerchiefs and bedsheets and what-not they've made out of them, and am in no hurry to, too.
Yes, I have an impulse to know everything that happens around me- be it in the newspapers, on the computer screen, or when I'm sitting at Nescafe sipping my coffee. Some people are just curious to know things around them, and in some cases, make sense out of them.
Yes, I talk a lot and have no qualms about it.
Lastly, if you have a problem with any of this, bask in the glory that you're superior and/or more enlightened than yours truly and sleep on your Yoda-bedizened bedspread with peace, safe in the knowledge that the force is with you. Ride your high horse with glee; I don't mind walking alone.

More importantly, smile to yourself and for that you'd need to shut up.

P.S.- The title's a song by Simple Plan I used to like. I still do.

Coorg Versus Microcontrollers

It’s seven minutes past seven in the evening, and I decide to head to Nescafe for a coffee. The attire’s very boys’ hostel-ish but I’m too lazy for a change. I try to visualise the notes and coins in my pocket, and the lack of a one-rupee coin strikes me. The counter guy never has change at peak times, and I wonder if I should settle for the four Eclairs I might be offered after I hand the ten-rupee note. No- that’d amount to spending ten rupees instead of six. The only alternative is to lose possession of the one-rupee note I got from the same counter a few days ago. I have a thing for a few things- five-rupee coins, one and two-rupee notes, Dire Straits wallpapers, digressions and some more. The Ravindra circle is reached, and there’re all these dogs littered all around- most lying around aimlessly, some sleeping, and the odd one moving towards that big light pole to raise its leg around. A strange thought of the scene being my corridor comes and is pushed out. I decide I’ll sit and have my coffee- I’ve burnt my tongue one time two many to take the risk of walking back with that cup to Azad. I reach the counter, to hear the following conversation going on.

...aur bhaiya, sandwich aadha karke dena.

Sandwich to aadha hi hota hai.

Haan, use hi aadha karke dena. Accha, ek-chauthai hi sahi.

I find it unusual that such a routine-sounding conversation goes way over my head. Vowing to control my curiosity, I ask for my coffee, while a distinctly feminine voice feebly utters Excuse me. I get my elixir, while the lady in question goes unheard. A couple more Excuse me’s later, I’m asked to pay up, and, to my disappointment, I had to lose the prized note. That wasn’t the bother though, when I turned sheepishly to my right to find the source of the unheard requests, thinking of giving a short discourse on how to get heard in R with my two years’ earned, two-penny worth experience. That wasn’t to be, as a not-so-discrete female voice jammed in to utter Arre bhaiya, suno to! The feebler voice came back to give her order, and after that, went back to her discussion over some kitty matters about she said so-and-so about me, and I asked someone else, and she said blah-and-blah that only two girls with voices like the aforementioned kind indulge in. I make a half-turn to grab a look at their faces, but then realise that’d disturb the hand that holds a hot cup. I console my curiosity by reminding it that it’s still in R.

I forget my resolution to sit, and walk around the back side back to Azad, with the usual set of steps. Starting with my usual pace, which I realise isn’t necessary unless you want to spill the drink you just bought on your white T-shirt, I slow down to a slow drag. Even that isn’t good enough, with the regular rise and drop making me either sip R’s air, or making a few taste buds take medical leave from work. So, the usual set of steps is followed again, meaning I wave to every random soul I see in front of Ravindra, before I reach the circle past the dogs, when the coffee has gone a little colder and easier to sip, while the bubbly froth at the top is lost. Compromises have to be made when you’re dealing with pretty-sounding ladies and dogs. And politicos, too. But that’s another story.

It’s twenty-seven minutes past seven, and I, for no apparent reason, decide to post again.