Only buy Rainbow-brand locks

A mushroom burger is being greedily dug into, when its beholder is rudely disturbed by Klaus Badelt's "He's a Pirate" ringing away shamelessly from his cellphone. I pick up the phone, to be gleefully informed by Dela that efforts were underway to break open my lock, and ransack my room. I slip the phone back into my pocket slowly, and after finishing off the burger like only a first-order glutton can, imagine the horrors possibly being inflicted upon my abode. The bland yellow walls may be adorned in Pepsodent toothpaste, the sober floor in water and leftover Holi colours, the bed rummaged beyond recognition with my very own clothes, which would probably need another dose of ironing. This was going to be bad. I gulped, made a call to Mom, and ordered a Tooti-Frooti. A decently full stomach would probably help digest the carnage better, I thought.

Bhawan days are inappropriate names given to hostel nights, where the hostel celebrates its annually-changing birthday, apparently. Azad's 2009 edition was ebulliently named "Jai Ho!", and two huge flexes were put up to inform passers-by of the same. The guy who suggested the name got a 2-gigabyte USB drive. Talk about the lame game! Now, some years ago, when the whole idea of such gigs was mooted, some over-excited hooligans probably decided to make the occasion even more memorable by decorating the rooms of the residents, like the rest of the Bhawan is. Now, they quite possibly couldn't have found confetti, colourful lights and other such decoratives and thus, very ingeniously, decided to do so with whatever they could find on the spot- boot polish, toothpaste, markers, soaps and shampoo gladly obliged. This tradition went on smoothly, with most finding it less thuggish and more cool, leading to it becoming an integral part of such occasions' celebrations, apart from getting facials and manicures, giving good ol' Govinda's dressing sense some stiff competition, embarrassing oneself on stage, and openly flaunting one's relationship status/ popularity quotient.

AP came along as I trudged back to my room, to offer me moral support in case I broke down on seeing my room's probable condition. I'd made Dela a worried call before we left Civil Lines for my room, and it didn't sound good at all. To be precise, it sounded bad. Real bad. I reached the beginning to my corridor to see debris of a wall scattered in front of my room, floating in the quickly-evaporating coloured water. I took a deep breath, gathered all my courage and mental strength and took heavy steps towards G-104, to find a world of colourful messages on my door. The lock wasn't broken- the room wasn't opened! I heaved a sigh of relief, shouted at the top of my voice and jumped high into the air, exchanging triumphant high-fives with it. Just to make sure, I went around to the other side, to check if that side was broken into, and the answer was negative again! AP went back, and I continued jumping around cock-a-hoop. Coming back to my senses, I came around to reading all that was written on and around my door. My eyes went to the left at the very end, where in an emboldened box, was written with Life boy soap and a Reynolds marker- "Read this first: If we don't get into your room, then nobody does!"...

A master in need, is a baster indeed. Thank you, Dela, for finally deciding to go to the hallowed city of Chandigarh, again.

P.S.- It is a bloody brilliant lock. Sorry, again, for the broken hammer, Scuttling Shuttler.

P.P.S.- I know who was and who wasn't there. Thanks for the heads-up, all the same, everybody.

Footnote- A baster in need, is a master indeed.

(Late edit) 1:22 p.m. A ten-rupee note, a classy application and a loud, valiant battle later, I'm finally back to G-104. Thank you, again, Dela. Also, thanks to the Sassy Sage for pen, paper and green paper.

Cloud my judgement

I’ve just bunked another Power Electronics lecture as nonchalantly as ever, walking out of the Electrical Department making sure I don’t step on that wet cement near the North entrance gate. There’s a slight drizzle as I and the PJ Poet take slow, short strides, breathing in deep to take in the wonderful petrichor. AP is spotted just outside Alpahar canteen, and I wave Hi and ask him to join us. We bid PJP goodbye near Nescafe, to look for a hot cup of coffee to sip slowly, while walking and chatting about 42, as the rain slows down further, but the breeze picks up steadily, now becoming a swirling cool wind. The lights are out, so back to Alpahar we were. Some patient waiting in the crowd to order, and a few minutes later, a plate of pakodas, a coffee, and a bun samosa gave us company in our search for a dry bench and table.

 

Half an hour later, I’m on my way back to Azad, cursing my luck for my direction being the same as that of the gleefully uptight wind. I walk in to my room, lunge for the laptop and am lost in Mark Knopfler again.

That's what it is... That's what it is now...

Holi, Hammering, Hair and Happiness!

Holidays are on, and it was Holi yesterday. I only got up at eleven, as is the norm but Big B got me ready quickly and we went around the township looking for fellow revellers. Unfortunately, there were none to be found. The whole township was deserted- maybe because it was exam time (which didn’t seem the most obvious reason straightaway. Sad...), and also because undergraduates like us were few and far between. Anyhow, he wouldn’t let go and with his favourite tactic- shock and awe- Big B smeared purple gulal all over my face and “Holi hai!” it was. It was a quiet Holi at home, with a little bit of colour smeared on everyone, and some amazing sweets and food. Ma, Pa and Big B all got their messages and phone calls to reply to, leaving me and my almost-unknown local phone number feeling left out. The STD phone was too busy to be used and I only replied to the solitary SMS I happened to get on my new number- with an M2G original, of course!

 

This was in great contrast to the Holi I’d celebrated in the insti a day before leaving for home. Talk of chalk and cheese! That revelry went on past two hours, and included many songs and dances, permanent colours of various hues, shouts and screams, but most importantly, it had the element of forced wardrobe malfunctions, or in simpler words, clothes being torn off! My famous salmon short kurta was one of the first victims, and 3^rd year Meta was at its perverse best, going down and dirty to the knickers when they ran out of shirts and vests to rip off. The best part was that after all this, there was a fashion show, with all participants strutting whatever stuff was left! And, as the cherry on the cake, there was a special mention for the best costume! Sushi finished a close second in that one, for his Jenna Jameson-type ensemble. I wonder if it was the Reptile’s Superman-in-white-diapers costume that finished first, or if Jaipur’s Is-it-there-or-is-it-not apron won it. The final group photo session was memorable, too. I still seriously wonder how the Reptile made it back to Azad from Ravindra in that garb!

 

The original Holi at home, although a stark contrast to the one described above, was fun all the same- both being my first Holi celebrations after three or four years. I also had the pleasure of watching India pummel the Kiwis into submission yesterday. It was after quite a long while that I sat down to watch an entire innings, and it was worth it! Viru was at his blazing best, scoring the fastest ODI hundred by an Indian, and reigniting that favourite dream topic of cricket-lovers: Who’ll score the first double hundred in ODIs? (A little-known fact is that Belinda Clark, an Australian batswoman, has already done that in women’s cricket) Brendon McCullum, one of my contenders, believes it’s going to be one of Chris ‘Gale Force’ Gayle, Virender ‘Blitzkrieg’ Sehwag or Sachin ‘God’ Tendulkar. Oh, God. One of my biggest regrets this year (already) is missing him score that glorious 163 last week. The aforementioned Kiwi thought that if it weren’t for that stomach injury, nothing would’ve stopped him from that impending double hundred. What could have been! And I missed it all!

 

Although AP’s is an extreme case, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar (to be henceforth referred to as God, in this post) has shaped many a childhood in our generation. The sheer number of kids growing up in India, holding that MRF bat in the store and saying “Main Sachin banunga” (I’ll be the next Sachin) is probably greater than Australia’s entire population. It saddens me to think, that when he retires, or maybe now already, children growing up now don’t have an idol like him. MSD is OK, but God is a level above. I still remember 1998, that tournament in Sharjah. Tony Greig’s excited voice was breaking as Sachin smashed boundary after boundary off the hapless Aussies. Then came those two strokes that’ll forever remain etched in my memory- those two straight sixes off Steve Waugh and Michael Kasprowicz. That wasn’t my first cricket match, or the first time I saw God, but I knew my life was never going to be the same. The next generations are never going to have that. Forget that- even gully cricket’s now losing its grip. Tazos, cards, tops and other random Jap imports seem to be more popular. Sigh...

 

After the end of the match, lunch followed, and a short nap on the sofa later, Big B and I headed off to the barber’s. It’d been quite a while since I’d been to the barbershop in the township. Big B’s turn was obviously first and I sheepishly forked around the place. The comfortable bouncy couch had been replaced by a solemn stone bench, with no backrest. There weren’t random Telugu newspapers or magazines to gawk at, either. The little 12-inch TV wasn’t there to be seen, too. That left only one form of entertainment- the Infinite Mirror Paradigm. Oh, boy! Every fortnight on Sundays, we’d be over at the barber’s staring away at the mirrors when not arguing over whose turn it was. Indian barbers are freakin’ geniuses. I wonder whose idea it was to implement this marvel! One can stare at it for hours, or however long it takes for three haircuts before yours. One image in another in another in another; front-view, back-view, front-view again, and it never ends! Compare this to those men’s salons with one just one mirror in front, with that sad three-hundred-rupee-paying face looking back at you, forlorn. I don’t give two hoots for fancy haircuts sometimes, when I hear the sweet sound of fifteen rupees being asked for. With the infinite mirror entertainment program coming in for free, it couldn’t be a better bargain! Yeah, but I’d like it if the stupid radio was switched off. Random Haddu love problems aren’t great to listen to in conjunction with those scissor snips.

 

The icing on the sundae was when we returned back to the city, and headed off for ice-cream after dinner. Yup, same place as before. I had Black Forest Fantasy this time. Dad loved his All Litchis so much, that he went on and on about how wonderful Jack Frost is, and so pleased he was, he went over for another- a Choco Chips cone, this time. Oh, did I forget? As ironical as it is, I love this wonderful ice-cream shop’s tagline: Happiness. Served Chilled.

 

P.S. - I still have a size 6 Reebok cricket bat, which we still use whenever we get in the mood for cricket. Beta, MRF waale to khatam ho gaye. Sachin nahi to Azhar ke bat se kaam chala lo! (We’re out of MRF bats, son. Try Azhar’s bat if you can’t get Sachin’s!)

 

P.P.S. - I’m reading Ruskin Bond, right now, and he is a joy to read!