Roadside Rodeo

The NBA’s tagline “Where amazing happens” is queerly apposite for the sibling states of Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand. In a little over 30 months here, if there’s one thing the stretch of National Highway-58 from Modinagar to Roorkee has never failed to deliver, it’s an amusing surprise. Having grown up in a township connected to the capital via vast expanses of UP’s villages, the likes of ‘Swapnadosh va Gupt rogi mile- Hakim Usmani, har mangalvaar’ were not too surprising. But the first few bus rides across the aforementioned road brought quite a few revelations, like highlighting the movie tastes of the towns along it, for instance. Pyaasi bhootnis, jawan chudails and teesri aurats dominate the theatres, with even titles like Maut ka naya avatar and Anokhe karishme grabbing the coveted A-ratings. Even more intriguingly, the tickets in black for these very movies are seemingly sold by ten-year-old kids. The government doesn’t lie about fast-track growth at all.

After sleeping through the entire duration of my four-hour flight, and spending the afternoon watching some electric business quizzing in the capital, I was in no mood to give in to Morpheus anymore for the bus ride to R. With a jovial ten-pointer for company, the god-awful traffic jams were seen through, and the battle-hardened bus emerged through the Meerut bypass with purpose. The bus' bulbs were switched off as the road’s dim yellow lights were gradually overpowered by the side-show. Radisson Punjabi Dhaba could mislead many, while Rosetta Inn has already claimed numerous such victims. One would be led to believe Jain Shikanji is a chain of highway restaurants, but these were just the lower tiers of the cake. The battle was hard-fought, but Patiala ke puraane Pandit ji ka mashoor Vaishno dhaba finished only as the icing. The proverbial cherry on the cake had to be ‘New Sher-e-Punjab New Super Deluxe Super Star Dhaba’.

Now you have a lot more to look forward to on those rickety rides. Cheers!

P.S. - No, I’m afraid Murti Hot Hot Khana Khajana Vaishno Dhaba can’t be taken in, to avoid any suggestions of favouritism.

P.P.S. - After Dela and Prondu, it was a Haddu and Haddu’s turn to make R proud. Congratulations for winning the Chandigarh round for us, again!

Dreams visits sometime

If you can dream- and not make dreams your master.

If you can think- and not make thoughts your aim.

One of the most wonderful truths about life on earth is this very fact, that there’s a piece of verse for every situation. Rudyard Kipling’s prescient words couldn’t have been more perfect for the situation I’d found myself in. With yet another set of mid-semester exams less than touching distance away, I had a browser window and a notepad file open detailing how my ideal trip across Europe would be. If one were to write a Wikipedia article on it, the ‘cultural references’ tab might just be the only one on the page. From fiords in Norway, to the clichéd walk along the Champs Elysees, across tulip fields in the Netherlands, and the six hundred-year-old canals of Belgium, down the Calais-Dover ferry to London, and culminating with hitchhiking across the northern countryside to my Mecca- Old Trafford. Midway, there’d also be the castles of Wales, saying ‘Why aye man’ at least once in Tyneside, and a late evening spent sipping coffee watching the citadels of Edinburgh, as high on the parapet, a Scottish piper stands alone, playing the Caledonian blues. That’s just Western Europe. But, the final tab leads to a quick reality check, as I ponder over applying to this random coding internship, with no stipend and food arrangements in either Gurgaon or Bangalore. And, years of reading novels and watching movies still hasn’t made me insensible enough to imagine a huge thud as those rosy plans come crashing down to earth. I plainly close the windows and stare at Mark Knopfler on the desktop. He’ll be touring the continent over the summer, with a week’s dates at the Royal Albert Hall in London. I try to distract myself by logging into Facebook- hoping others’ happiness on the anniversary of St. Valentine might just seep in, but the cruel cycle of events over the past year may have left me with a lot of hope, but little luck. Things get worse as I see Kondy’s status message, beaming ‘This day, last year’. I shut the lid down for good, and trudge wearily for a coffee. But the Shiv Sena or some sister society’s warnings had left all indoors and Nescafe teeming. Sighing, I called Mum and walked back to Azad. Thankfully, her reassuringly cheerful voice has remained one of the few constants from my time in R, and sunset over the main gate combined with that to gladdening effect. Formatting the magazine wasn’t exactly a welcome distraction, but it did take my mind off greyer matters. And, as I returned to my ever-welcoming quilt, I felt lucky to have somebody’s arms to fall into. Hope is a good thing.

There’s a chink of light,

It’s a burning wick-

There’s a lantern in the tower.

Wee Willie Winkie with a candlestick,

Still writing songs in the wee, wee hours.

365 days in 8 slices

Numbers are wonderful ornaments for speech. For instance, if I were to encapsulate most of the events of the past few days, I could do it all with just one jewel.

Four and a half months of painstaking care, and in four and a half minutes, the mane was off. A four and a half hour flight to the capital, four and a half hours in the train, and from Visakhapatnam’s coldest winter in four and a half decades at 18 degrees, I was to be rattled by the four and a half degrees in R, made even more deadly by the early morning drizzle I got caught in. Not to forget, there was last night’s four and a half thousand rupee bill, and the resulting four and a half hundred rupees a glutton.

***

Ever since I read supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, I knew that of the many heavy responsibilities bestowed upon me to better this world, one was to enrich dictionaries. Sadly, like many of the aforementioned responsibilities, I couldn’t pay enough attention to fully fulfill this one. Yet, I continue to take small steps towards making the reading world a better, more convenient place. Here’s last year’s creation.

relaze (v)- To relax lazily, and in the delightful process, expedite the dawning of crucial realisations.

Origin: From the proximity of the Z and X keys on the standard QWERTY keyboard.

More: Relazing, Relazer, Relazisation, among others.

Red Herrings: One of the common misconceptions regarding one of the noun forms of the word, relazisation, is that it is the American spelling for ‘relasisation’. That, as the origin and definition of the verb form clearly demonstrate, is a stupid accusation. Also, the word or any of its derivatives has no connection etymologically with the word ‘relaxative’ or its derivatives, apart from the fact that they share the same creator.

***

To recall one of the few enjoyable moments from last semester’s lectures, “Phoetry is not eejy... One of the hallmarks of a great phoet is suffering. If you have not suffered, you can never be a high-class poet.” Laughing it off like most other things in those classes, I couldn’t ever imagine how true those words would turn out to be. Staying true to my late learner qualifications, I only got an eight on ten in Creative Writing in English, and with thorough honesty, I aver I deserved it.

***

Finally, the fog has lifted off the grass outside my room to reveal bright yellow flowers blooming right on top of that little mound a little off the centre of the garden. It’s still the darkest, foggiest quarter to three in the afternoon I’ve seen for quite a while. If at all it requires any mention, the temperature is hovering around the ten-degree mark. My room’s tube light is still out of service, and the fan gathering more dust, leaving a musty damp smell beautifully hanging in the air. Without intending to demean the sheer beauty of the prevailing weather, I’d say this probably is an Orwellian dream. Tucked up on the edge of my bed in a neck-hugging sweater that makes me cringe even more for home, I look back at the year gone by- in pictures, phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and top of all, crystal-clear scenes from my eidetic memory. And what better song to give company, than one of the very few songs I loved from the school assemblies- Turn, Turn, Turn.

A new year, and the double-digit decade lies ahead, and for now, it is ­definitely a time to gather stones together.

***

P.S. - 18 = 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5. I’m getting the feeling at least a couple of people will have noticed this. Oh, and don’t bother about the title.

P.P.S. - Years may come and decades may go, but I remain frugal with phone calls. Happy New Year!

P.P.P.S. - As cold as it is, and as lazy as I am, I'm sure I'll be forgiven for labelling this my second bloggiversary post.

Animals make strange sounds
As do a machine gun's 500 rounds
Coo-coo-coo, cock-a-doodle-doo
Ho ho ho, me blog has turned two!

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.