Stories of the Sabbath

Easily the best part of my ninety-minute bus commute to work is the stretch between the Sector-8 and Sector-11 bus stops. As the conductor announces the arrival at either, I’ve put Kane and Abel, Six Suspects and Two States down over the past week, for those precious few seconds I get to look at my school. One such early morning, I was mildly surprised to see no barrage of cycles in the stand. Between the (now) four buses, below the arch bearing the school’s name, the principal’s almost-ubiquitous car was also missing. I took a look at my watch, which showed the time to be quarter to eight. I wondered why the school would be so desolate so close to the opening time when the bus radio announced how the overnight rains had given Vizag a most pleasant Saturday morning. I recalled one-upping every kid in the township from any other school as ours had a five-day week, and felt sad I’d forgotten that very fact.

Even though it was always Sunday’s less-celebrated cousin for us school-goers, Saturday was most welcome as it heralded the dawn of the weekend: no getting up at seven, no sprints to avoid missing the bus, and best of all, (early in the new millennium) Premier League games. The absence of Power Zone on Cartoon Network and the ESPN School Quiz would dull the afternoon; nonetheless, not looking forward to the stern class-teacher’s rebukes early next morning made holy Sabbath a winner in its own category. Since Sunday would be an off-day for the parents (and would have Bournvita Quiz Contest in the morning, some new movie in the afternoon and a trip to Delhi, more often than not, in the evening), Saturday nights brought no fever, as the spectre of Monday Tests loomed ahead. All the same, the NTPC Club, as I hope the Scuttling Shuttler would corroborate, screened new movies in the auditorium on Saturday evenings.

Even the weekend harbinger changed quickly as school gave way to coaching after Class Ten. The unforgiving six-day week meant Sunday’s little brother was in no way different from the other five. Those same kids we’d been troubling with cries of “Saturday bhi school ja rahe ho?” for ten short years, were now slyly-grinning classmates. The worst part? The weekly tests from school which for so long had nurtured Monday morning blues (and for brief periods, Fridays and Tuesdays, too) had now decided to take over on Sunday, not only ruining the best day of the week, but killing Saturday evenings, too. Truly Black Sabbath.

The return of the two-day weekend in college couldn’t have been more welcome. I could once again pick on some poor ex-classmate who’d graduate on six-day weeks, and sleep in peace on Friday night (or in most cases, early Saturday morning) with no lectures or weekly tests to look forward to. The college weekend is a great leveller, as Sundays now can’t claim any bragging rights and too many times, I forget the distinction between the two days of the weekend.

Back home, in the summer holidays, I can’t distinguish between any days of the week, as I’m down sleeping or up eating no matter what Shani, Mangal or Shukra have in mind. This summer with the internship, whenever I do take the 400N that takes me past my alma mater, I realise why they love to say “Thank God, it’s Friday!”. I realise, I miss the good old Saturday.

Puzzles

For reasons that I’ve failed to attempt understanding, red ants hate the Visakhapatnam summer. Attacking every piece of plum real estate in the kitchen and the refrigerator is passé; even the innocuous wardrobe is now victim to these tyrants. Blindly putting on such afflicted clothes, I sat down for the daily swing of the remote. Separated by a whisper and a yowl (in that order), a tickle and a sting spur me into fickle effervescence.

It’s weird how life can send two conflicting messages with the same courier. As I remove my scratching fingers to reveal the results of a weak insect’s poison, I am lost in thought. There are times when if one would run out of ink, even blood would bobble in effortlessly to keep the penning going. At others, it’s a feeble sputter, stutter and stop: shut shop. After feverishly dusting any remaining ants off them, I wear that salmon kurta and green shorts from last year’s Holi again, wondering where my pen is headed.

Only a couple of days ago, my two masters shrugged off Morpheus’ advances to be in probably their last moments as students of R in G-104. While the Deranged Delanged One and I kept the ever-aimless chatter going as I was packing, the Lead (Air) Guitarist couldn’t start, never mind continue, any conversation all the way till the Jan Shatabdi’s engine signalled our parting. Probably it was because he hadn’t slept for three days, and was in spirits way too high (not the metaphorical ones) to know it. The tickle was excruciating; the sting bovine.

And before it could all hit me, PV’s calm voice died down and I fell asleep, to wake up with ants on the right side of my chest.

Gratification

Two of my favourite activities are eating and observing people. Obviously, it’s good fun when the two come together. Watching people’s expressions before, during and after the fulfilment of this great responsibility bestowed upon us by Mother Nature is probably the second most enjoyable part of the process- behind the process, itself, of course. Nearing two illustrious decades of nibbling, munching, gobbling, and other similar acts of gluttony, I’ve seen a glut of faces speaking a million words through their sounds of silence, and, in many unfortunate cases, those very faces and some other faces communicating quite audibly.

Who hasn’t seen that million dollar smile, embellished by that nugget stuck between the front teeth? Some faces scream approval for the food, as others, disapproval for their company. While some choose their sparkling clean plates to do the talking, notes and coins do it in their own separate ways in other cases. One of the comparatively rare expressions, though, is that of the countenance that tells the tale of a hungry stomach reaching its complete capacity, a rapacious mind once raring for more, now full to its core; of a gourmand satisfied.

More often than not, when slowly washing my hands, it is this face that I see in the mirror.

P.S.- Weird coincidence that this post should come hours after I had dinner with my father at a restaurant almost named after that other great foodie we know.

Mostly Harmless

The English language has never ceased to throw gentle surprises, dramatic shocks or globs of spit at learners it considers alien. While the Queen may grab the opportunity of the odd snort at the rookie addling his verbs and prepositions (I sat in the toilet seat and felt cold, so took out some tissues, you know), even the vim-filled boaster isn’t spared from the deep holes lurking in India’s secondary lingua franca (by assuming ‘enigma’ to be of Italian origin, making it an enema).

Even yours truly hasn’t been spared (almost) similar embarrassment. Having assumed the phrase to imply ‘logic, driven by sentiment’, I concluded a long argument as Class Monitor to ask the girls’ representative to attend the Student Council meeting by quipping “Come on now- for our posterity’s sake.” It took me a few years and a dictionary to figure out the wide-eyed stare and cold shoulders I was given ever since.

The school, though, was no stranger to such occurrences. After all, in its history of Physical Education Trainers, it had had one who strictly believed in the policy of students forming straight circles, while another’s voice had once bellowed through the quadrangle, screeching “All aaf you sould come with paalissed sooes and saacks from tomaarow!”. Then, there’s the unverified legend of a Class 4 kid explaining his misspelling of psychologist by exclaiming “Ma’am, I only forgot to P!”.

Somehow, it’s these little anecdotes that survive the relentless march of time over those twelve wonderful formative years. Not many would remember the Eshans and the Pushyamis, but the (deliberately?) misspelt ‘Assoul’ on the toilet walls remains as ageless as television’s Ba. And this very idiosyncratic human trait - endeared by some, and troublesome for others – is what keeps the smiles going for posterity’s sake.

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!