Hostel Humbug I: Bootcamp

Class didn't happen. Couldn't find it. Hence I am now basking in the benevolent light of internet availabitlity. And that results in another post. Read on soldier-

Hostel is a significant part of student existence. They teach the untried to survive-provide us with the necessary arsenal to face the harsh world ahead. The author has had the questionable good fortune of having spent her Under Graduate life in two exemplary examples of the educational hostels and now spends her P.G life in an equally interesting abode.

The first one was a study in community closeness. We hostel dwellers were very close-literally. We were all crammed together in a manner that made canned sardines seem comfortably housed. The hostel was actually a medium size house converted into a hostel. And the conversion was a bad idea. Approximately forty women were clogged together in a four bedroom house.The "dorm" was located in the corridor and housed some 20 girls. Each room (which, by the way, hadn’t much room to go by) was packed with six girls. This was achieved through judicious use of bunk beds. Which were another bane. Being an unsuspecting rookie, the author was thrilled with the prospect of getting the upper bunk. Only after the first night there did she realise what she had got herself into. The bed was situated in such a way that the hapless sleeper in the upper bunk got niether the air from the pedestal fan nor the cieling fan. And this was during a Chennai July. Explaination is unecessary. Several months of waitng and drenching before sleeping later- the author finally got the bed below the "hotseat". This one turned out to be a hotbed for mosquitoes. Several mosquito families owed their upkeep to the author. This great establishment not only taught us the value of space but also how to tackle encroachment, eviction and other such evils. We’d make admirable quotation gundas after the training we got here. Besides this, we also learnt the fungal nature of squalor. A perfectly neat corner will be filled with rubbish from nothing more than the mere proximity of a group of people.

Following first year, the author escaped from this institution- which probably accounts for what little sanity she had left. The next establishment was much better-for one thing it was clean and didn't house more than two people in a room. Of course the rooms were tiny, had no plug points and may seem, as Ms.Shinyhair loves to put it,"like a concentration camp cell". But they came with a great location and good ventilation (the fans worked!). Of course electricity was switched off from 10 am to 1 pm. and the lights were switched off at the main at 10 pm... But those were all minor in comparison to the water problem. We hostelites would scrounge up every bottle in sight to store water. For you see,most mornings saw the hostel bathrooms waterless. Forget bathing, brushing your teeth was a shifty possibility if you haven't stocked your bottles. Hair washing,especially,was a very dicey business. God help you if,at a weak moment,you decided to oil your hair overnight. But then again,considering the amount of salt in the water it would be advisable to leave the mane untouched. Truth be told- a cannibal would not have to add extra seasoning to you if s/he chances upon you after your bath.

U.G days have passed by. and now the author finds herself in the world of the University. And residenceless. Several weeks of nail-biting suspense later, she finally managed to infiltrate the hostel. And there raged a war for possesion(s) as never seen before.Furniture needed protection from marauding bedless/cupboardless/shelfless bandits. Meanwhile beds needed to be strategically acquired before other conquering souls swooped upon them and marked them with baggage.Constant information must travel between you and your allies to see that you are sufficiently guarded and your supplies untouched. Much like the ancient battles for supremacy, space and territory were coveted with a vengeance. It is at these trying moments that one's territorial nature is awakened. May be it is some kind of weird allegory that the hostel premices are populated with a variety of dogs- them being fiercely territorial and all.

A new hostel saga has begun. Heroes will be born. Legends will told. But all that will have to wait. I need to get to class. Forward march!

AND I'm BACK!

I believe the title says it all but still-

Wake up oh blog of mine! Your sleepy days are over!
Chennaisickness, doubtful net connection and 9-6 classes notwithstanding, the Creator shall not let you go to seed. Perhaps you might even get extra exercise- what with all the interesting characters that populate the grounds of the University. The possibilities are endless!

With that warning I shall move on to pastures anew. Which reminds me, Yipes! I need to run for Milton!

The Creator,
AtomicGitten

On his baldness

Little brothers, regardless how much taller they are, are still little in the eyes of everyone. Ok fine- me. Which was why it was rather disconcerting to find that one fine morning he's interested in the mug that he sees in the mirror and has a fetish for hair care. It is, was and always will be the hair care part of it that leaves the hapless bystanders tearing their hair in exasperation.

You see, unlike most guys who love to splock on whatever goop they can get onto their hair in the name of "styling" my brother went the other way. Exhibiting his undoubtably hirsute scalp which looked like a black rainforest, he said-
"Chechi, I'm going bald."

It was with this small statement began a saga of mythical proportions- and an endless stream of potions and elixirs that supposedly increase hair growth. It wouldn't have beeen so bad if he had kept his paranoia to himself. But noooo. We family members had to listen to all the myriad proof of his baldness- which, if it were true, was as easy to notice as a microbe. He'd point out his side parting as the beginnings of a baldspot. If the Chinese had had the oppurtunity to confer with my sibling, chinese torture would have been more effective.

And the anticlimax of the whole business is that last week he went and shaved his head- Clean, shining, BALD.
????
Boys,Guys, Men- the mind bogles at their convoluted logic. And they call women the eternal enigma. I say - "HAH!".

Dr. Pepper

This is another story from the heartland of family lore.
My mother’s paternal grandfather, Manaveda Raja, was royalty. This of course meant he had to survey and maintain acres and acres of property as well as commandeer a formidable regiment of stewards, caretakers etc. This story is about one of those myriad figures that formed the cogs in his system. Once again the name eludes me in misty mazes of memory; however we shall not leave this figure nameless. Let’s call him Appu Nair (for the uninitiated, some of the commonest names in the uncommonly varied terrain of Keralite nomenclature are either ‘Unni’ or ‘Appu’). Appu Nair was a dedicated servant. His employer’s word was law. He followed instructions to the last syllable. Sadly, he was a little literal minded. As we will see in the following incident.

Kerala in the monsoon season is wetter than a fish. And so it wasn’t unusual to see people nursing snuffling nose, cattarhing coughs and throbbing heads. Appu Nair had got it bad. He let out regular bouts of sneezing and coughing and sniffing while shuffling miserably behind my great grandfather. The latter took pity on him and made the terrible mistake of suggesting a remedy.
“Appu Nair, why don’t you take some pepper? It brings the cold down very fast. “
A light shone in the bleary eyes.
“Really sir?”
“Absolutely! It’s worked for me several times.”
“How much should I take?”
“A pinch per meal should cure you in two days.”

When the master himself had such confidence in the cure how could the servant think twice? During his midday break Appu Nair sought out his store of pepper. Rejoicing at the thought of a mucus free nose and clear head he proceeded to take his dose. Sadly, in his eagerness to be rid of the ailment, Appu Nair over reached himself. Squeezing his ham sized hand into the tin he pulled out a pound of pepper and shoved the whole lot into his mouth. The shock of the impact lead to the swallowing of all that potent powder. Please remember this is pure pepper- none of your adulterated, processed namby- pamby stuff. When the master said a pinch- he was actually recommending a double dose.

First there was sneezing, then there was coughing. And it was all a blur. His head on fire, Appu Nair ran out of his house screaming in agony. Grazing cows stopped their chomping to watch the burly figure running down the slope like a mad man. Roosting pheasants took off in indignant flutters at the bellowing disturbance. At least four people were unceremoniously pushed out of the way, and often into the slush, when they made the mistake of being in his path. Appu Nair’s maddened run culminated into him jumping into the stream. Which would have been alright.
Had he known how to swim.
Glugging and glogging, he was swept away by the strong current.

Meanwhile, my great grandfather was taking a routine stroll around the irrigation bunds along with a couple of his other stewards. He was placidly walking along thinking how nice a neat set of paddy fields looked with a strong unpolluted stream running through them…hey wait a minute, there’s someone in the stream. He must be a very god swimmer. Oh look he’s waving. Hello to you too. He looks remarkably like Appu Nair. Oh my god it is Appu Nair!

Being an unhesitating person, he quickly had a few strong laborers to jump in and pull out the poor man. Following the plying of the safe solid comforts of a towel, blanket and a hot cup of tea, the entire story tumbled out of the now cooled mouth of the unfortunate. Perhaps it was astonishment that kept my great grandfather from laughing or from throwing the stupid man into the stream again.

But in all truth, you couldn’t fault his logic- if a pinch would cure him in two days; a handful should have cured him in a couple of hours. And the funniest part is- at the end of his pepper escapade he didn’t have a cold anymore. So maybe he wasn’t such a Suppandi after all.

Karuppan's Father

Karuppan, like most people, had a father. This was long back in the past of course, which is why I cannot recall his name at all. But the tales of his enterprises are perhaps more entertaining than his offspring's. But the most memorable among his considerable repertoire was the episode with the dog.

Karuppan's father loved a challenge and was always stretching his limits. At least that is the only thing that can explain why a person with a capacity for liquor that surpassed even Karuppan's was mostly tottering about smashed like a glass at a toddy shop. It was during such a drunken spell,late one night,weaving doggedly down the dancing tarmac road bordered by a hazy blur of verdant bamboo, coconut and jack fruit, that this story unfolds.

It was a fine December night, with just the right amount of chill in the air to make the liquor feel like a warm hug. And Karuppan's father had received a lot of hugs that night. The mist that swept in from the fields and the moonlight that painted the path gilded the night with a fairytale loveliness. All was bliss and at peace. Except for Karuppan's dad who expressed his happiness with loud discordant singing and unintentional ballet.

On the  climax note of his midnight serenade to nobody, Karuppan's father rounded the corner, reeled around from the inertia and came face to face with the Dog. The healthy flow of energizing spirits in his system had put him into a benevolent frame of mind regarding the whole world - even if it was twirling like a ballerina. He extended his swaying arm towards the dog in the middle (since that one was the only one with a single head and so seemed the real thing). With an encouraging,endearing grin, perfect for winning the heart of any average dog he reached for his new comrade. But this was no average dog. This was a canine which used to be dedicated to the alcoholics anonymous cause in it's past life. Or may be it just got a brush off from the local hot pattikutty. Anyway,one look at the inebriated figure in it's wake and Dog decided it was time to live up to the name "canine" by applying its canines. On the leg of the figure in front of it.

"YEOOWWWCH!"

Karuppan's father then went on to perform the ancient Indian rain dance. Of course he wasn't aware of the heritage of his paroxysms. All the while the Dog, mission accomplished, sat on its haunches and watched with the avid attention of a dance connoisseur. Fifteen minutes of intense hopping and language that cannot be recreated or repeated later,the pater finally noticed the enragingly calm canine gazing at him with Dalai Lama-like equanimity. This naturally set his blood boiling. Letting go of the maligned leg, he stalked..er...limped up to the insufferable dog. Breathing harshly, his bloodshot eyes rolling with menace, he placed his hands on his hips and thundered-

"You Godforsaken lowlife chokli(mongrel),mutt!"
The Dog stared.
"I'll beat you up and feed you to the dogs,you dog!"
The dog scratched an itch behind it's ear.
"Who do you think you are! You think you're so great or what!"
The dog yawned.
This show of nonchalance by the dratted dog drew the enraged man into a fever pitch of fury.
"You sit there like you've swallowed a spear you stupid thing! If you have no fear then I dare you to bite my other leg you son of a bitch!"
The dog cocked it's head.
"Hah hah! Don't seem so smug now do you, you disgrace to dogdom! Hah hah hah spineless, sore ridden do- YEOOOOOOWWWWWWCH!!!!!!

There followed a reenactment of the rain dance only more violent and colourful- and that's not just the language. It didn't help that sometime during the hopping the poor man fell into a road side ditch. The dog meanwhile finally decided that discretion is the better part of valor, or may be the local hot pattikutty came along again. Whatever be the case, by the time Karuppan's dad pulled himself out, along with a variety of flora, fauna, thorns in uncomfortable places and other materials that one would not like to mull over, there wasn't a trace of the dog on the road. Life can be a bitch sometimes. The poor man had to satisfy himself with flinging a few stones into the dark, and shouting obscenities to the heavens. He tottered back to his shack with a few extra holes and the firm resolution to never tempt fate. Especially when it comes to dogs.

The Theory of Theories

Over the years of going through the futile exercise of education one is forced to "learn" theories and axioms propagated by venerated and cursed individuals. The author too admits having gone through this sad routine. However, unlike less the productive, the author spent more time contemplating the philosophy of theories than actually mugging them up. Why, wondered I while perusing through Newton and his laws, did the no good, jobless, individual just not eat the bloody apple and be done with it. He was probably suffering from a stomach upset or something. Which brought on further ruminations on the lines of the popular joke regarding Newton's excretory thoughts (his thoughtlessness to be more precise), followed by further reflections on the other popular joke concerning his marital status which spawned the law of equal and opposite reactions... And it is at this juncture the ferocious physics teacher swooped down upon me like a Fury and... I'd rather not go into that.

But to get back to the lost point, why do common ideas and things that stare you in the face like gravity and the whole food availability theory that Amartya Sen got the whole Nobel Prize for, become the bane of student existence? The fact is, until these dastardly devils give these simple truths unpronounceable names, these truths and theories were enjoyable thoughts. And e then-when they do name them, they become the dreaded THEORY. And now finally the point. The Theory behind Theories.

This theory states that any homily suitably endowed with difficult language and a name that spans time and space with more syllables than one can keep track of, automatically becomes what is generally referred to as the theory. This rule is applicable to any axiom- ranging from how to reverse a bike to best way to write graffiti. And of course once this is accomplished the poor piece of common sense becomes much cursed and generally bemoaned. And it is only when this stage is reached that we can know for sure that the theory has become a theory. Once they start appearing in text books and getting mugged up for board exams you know you've clinched the theory spot.

And this be-eth my Theory on theories. I'm thinking of the perfect name, but my latin is not up to scratch.

Name Shame, follow up.

I rarely if ever post any forwards, but this one seemed permissable. I am a red blooded Mallu myself. But I cannot deny the truth of the following email. I extend my thanks to the venerable Pyne for this valuable insight into the shrouded realms of impossibly impossible names.

The Science Behind Christening Mallu Christians

It has been a well kept secret for eons, shrouded in mystery and mazes of deceit, but finally Itty Boben Jacob Elias Kuruvilla from Pazhookaville, near Thelmasherry, Kerala has consented to let us publish this classified mallu formula, on the naming of mallu christian kids.

1. Select a combination of both the mother and fathers names. Eg: Suresh and Sharon = Susha or Joseph and Beena = Jobi.
2. The addition of a 'mon' (meaning son) or 'mol' (meaning daughter) is optional. eg: Sushamol, Jobimon
3. To attach a modern anglicised feel to the names, the mol or mon can be replaced with boy or girl. eg: Jobiboy, Sushagirl.
4. For the politically correct keralite family, mol and mon can be replaced by the universal 'kutty'(child), which can be used for both boys and girls! Eg: Jokutty, Susikutty

Even parents having combination names can still give their children suitable names eg: Libi and Jobi = Lijo

However, in the scenario where the parents already have combination names that cannot form more comprehensible child names. Eg: Itty and Amukutty, would produce only Itam (which doesn't even sound like a name) or Amit (which is like Northie and stuff!!!!), then

a. use an English word like Baby, Merry, Titty, Pearly, Smiley, Anarchy, Innocent, Infant etc.
b. use a combination of two English names that you think sound cool (but never cool enough) like Meredith + Gina = Megi, or Sharon + Darlene = Sharlene
c. Use a name from the Bible (and not Nebuchadnezzar! Use one that even velliammachi can pronounce!) like Jacob, Sam, John, Joseph, Mathew, or Jijo!
d. Use a name that sounds like a cuss word but isn't. Eg: Boben, Prussy, Shagi, JustinTimberlake etc.

Note: The use of the letter 'j' is useful in the naming of sibling where names that sound alike are a novelty. Eg: Ajji, Sajji, Majji, Bhajji and Nimajji, or Sijo, Lijo, Jijo, Anjo, Panjo, Banjo.

Karuppan the gardener.

My parents' hometowns are home to several interesting characters. Their quirks and mannerisms can rival any Wodehousian peer. One such one is Karuppan.

Karuppan is an honorable man. He works as a gardner and general Man-Friday at my father's sprawling farm home. He lives a simple life. Work in the fields in the morning, get his wages in the evening, proceed to go get sloshed, go back home and beat up his two wives and enjoy a peaceful slumber. Yes, Karuppan is a good, ordinary man.

But Karuppan has a unique and fatal power. - he possesses the binary opposite of a green thumb. If you don't want something to grow- call Karuppan. All he has to do is trim a tiny leaf from the farthest branch of the unfortunate plant, and its growth would be blighted for life.

My father,sadly, discovered this fact through first hand experience.

Being a man of a pioneering aspect, my father was determined to bring order to the "pretty
wilderness" that adorned the premises.

"The yard is a terrible mess,we've got to do something about it."
"Hmm?Yes. Do you want some tea?"
Yes. But I am serious-- All the trees need a little pruning and the bushes need to be replanted."
"Hein? Looks fine to me."
"What fine?! You can't see the road from here!"
"Not from there, but if you bend down and twist your neck and peer from between the jackfruit tree and the mango--"
"That's it! I am going to fix it."
"But you can't do all that alone."
"Of course not." scoffed my father, "I've asked Karuppan to come."
A furitive and fearful glance passed between the rest of us. "Do you really want to do that...?"
"Yes,I do. He's handy and nimble."

"You know," said my oldest uncle. "That backyard mango tree was never quite the same again."
"And the left side sapota. Took five years for it to bear fruits again."
 "All nonsense! I'm calling him tomorrow and clearing up this mess."

He didn't notice the rest of the family shooting each other dubious glances.

At the appointed hour Karuppan turned up and the work commenced. Discarding his shirt of an indiscriminate dirt shade, Karuppan quickly shimmied up and began to unceremoniously lob off random branches of the big mango tree that stood in the yard.To the uninitiated, the mango tree is a very special part of any Mallu family lore. It gets the full brunt of sentiment. Especially when it is a very fruitful kind as this one definitely was. And Karuppan besides having the blackest thumb in this part of the world (both literally and figuratively) was of a rather chop-happy nature.

Suppressing a moan of horror, my  father rushed to curb the carnage.

"What are you doing?!" shouted my father at the figure swinging on a branch like a monkey."Get down."
Karuppan obligingly descended and stood respectfully scratching his armpit.
"What?"
"What were you doing!"my father bellowed.
"Cutting branches."
"All of them????"
"Oh no,no,no- I was going to leave a few. On the top. "
For a moment my father actually seemed to contemplate shaking the man but restrained himself admirably. "The trunk doesn't really count as a branch." he said.
"Hahaha! Very funny sir!" Karuppan grinned, displaying rows of betel stained teeth."Don't worry,I've been doing this for ages. You need to cut them so they will grow more." With that, he took up his tools, scurried up the tree and continued to chop.

My father, though always confident and and rarely cowed, couldn't help feeling a little bit of doubt at this declaration. May be they would grow back. And the man is a farmer and a gardener, he ought to know. But some deeper instinct warned him to keep an eye on Karuppan. Following this altercation my father concentrated his efforts on restraining Karuppan. With each branch lobbed off Karuppan seemed to grow more zealous. In fact, it can be safely surmised that he resented my father's insistence on leaving some more branches on the tree than he felt necessary.

By evening our yard was filled with denuded trees and their branches. Karuppan still in attendance cheerfully helped move the latter while splattering the ground with betel juice at steady intervals. Before Karupan left for his evening entertainment, my father asked him with ill concealed anxiety, "The branches... they will grow..?"
" Definitely!" Assured the able gardener, busy counting his wages," They'll be full of mangoes when you come next vacation."

Next vacation came- but there were no new branches. The next vacation came, and there were branches but no fruits.Several vacations passed with no fruition. It was only last year that we finally got a few mangoes from the tree Karuppan attacked that morning.

A few years back we'd made our house. My father, having still retained his pioneering nature, decided there must be a garden. The pots and seedlings were duly bought. And once again Karuppan was pressed into service- to dig and nothing else. He kept shooting wistful glances at the saplings and finally my father relented and let him plant a few.

Unsurprisingly- every other plant except his took root.

Recently,he'd come to our place to help with something--nothing to do with plants. During his break, armed with tea and biscuits he lounged near the garden. Mid-sip he turned to my father and said "See all my plants have grown so well!"
My father choked lightly on his tea "What? Where?"
"There, that one, between the bluebells and the cosmos."
"Isn't that just grass?"
"They are so strong and healthy."
My father took a long sip.
"You know, a lot of people say things about me."
My father took another long sip.
"And they are right. I've got magic fingers" he grinned proudly waggling his fingers.

I don't think my father had the heart to correct him.

Singing in Landmark

One of the landmark discoveries of my college days is Landmark.

The Apex Landmark was my earliest haunt. I'd go there everyday.So much so that the security people would recognize me by sight,actually enquire if I missed a day in between and smile indulgently as they heard me sing along with whatever music was playing. That is my earliest memory in Chennai- singing in Landmark.

Coming from the book starved world of the middle east, and a school whose library was as big as the general ATM booth,Landmark was a Brave New World. Add music to this potent drug and I was enslaved.Dust stained and dismal after a day at College followed by work at the NSS centre, the tired first year student trudged through the A.C cooled portals of the beloved establishment- and fell in love. I found solace in endless shelves of worlds.Volumes bound in seductive leather,perfumed paperbacks which make your mouth water at their scent... was it any wonder that I was entrapped. I used to spend entire days there, reading until my arms chilled and I could no longer feel my fingers and toes.Landmark turned into the worst place to ask me to wait- I'd generally remain caught up in whatever book I'd be reading and completely forget any appointment. In fact I'd miss my curfew simply because I was reading. In my stuffy hostel bed I "recollected in tranquility.."of stories and music. I'd close my eyes and once again I'd be singing in Landmark.

First year rolled into second. I changed hostels but I still held on to my haunt. Most evenings would find me balancing precariously on the side of a shelf or sitting on a rickety stool bent over a book and humming along with the music. I remember an instance when they were playing Coldplay's The Scientist. As usual I began singing along and realised there was another voice singing as well. The guy on the other side of the shelf had the same revelation simultaneously. We gave each other sheepish grins and continued while I tallied another Lover to Landmark's list.

Second year crooned into third and third year into graduation. Following a short stay with the family (I'm still trying to figure out which creates the more painful parting, a long stay or a short stay),I returned into the warm- perhaps over warm- arms of Chennai. Post unpacking and such obligatory processes, I proceeded to reactivate my dormant contacts. The classmates came first. Most of our conversation revolved around up-coming entrance exams, future prospects and all that depressing stuff. The juniors, perhaps under some misconception of overnight maturity or trying to appear interested, endeavored to follow the same track. I was hit by a sense of over-powering change. Like when one stands on the beach and the water washes away the sand from beneath ones feet,and one has unknowingly moved. Dispirited and unhappy I sat slumped on my bed and decided that stasis would only lead to greater depression. Picking up my wallet and phone, I went to the first place my feet lead me- Landmark.

Standing in the Indian Writing section, I pick up a misplaced Gerald Durrell and transport myself to the sun-kissed island of Corfu. The Beatles' Yellow submarine plays in the background. I smile, not only at the antics of the Durrell family and their menagerie, but also at myself. What is there to worry when I have this? Things change, as they ought to. But there are the anchors that keep you steady even in the course of the flood. And for that you have books,music and moments like this- singing in Landmark.

Hairy Tale

I think it started with Rapunzel and Sohrab&Rustam.

This fascination with a feminine head of flowing,glossy locks has endured and even grown through the ages. And now it's transferred to the masculine head as well- pioneered by Mahendra Singh Dhoni,Vikram and for a while Amir Khan to name a few. My family has always had issues with my hair. Especially my father and brother. Coming from a stock of Class A Mallus, they maintain that long flowing tresses are an essential for the enhancement of female beauty. And no argument- reasonable or otherwise- can ever convince them otherwise. It's all my mother's fault of course! She's the one who set the precedent. Whenever I passionately champion the wonders of un-long hair, they merely turn and point to her.But surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly,she had always been my staunchest supporter in the cause of manageable short hair. But that reprieve didn't last long.The number of things done to my poor tresses outnumber the number of things done to my face(refer to previous posts).But like my face it has remained firmly untamed. In fact, my mother actually had plans of taking me along while she tought Shelley's Ode to The West Wind. She wanted to give them a clear picture of "maenad's hair" (for the ignorant- go read the poem).

It's not that I don't like my hair- I love my hair ,I really do. It's distinctive and very like me: messy, notorious and a not a little scary. Since it's so much like me, isn't it the natural course of things that I carry forward the similarity and keep it short? I remember that glorious time when the hair-lady had made a mistake and bobbed off my mid-back trail.I didn't have to really comb it for ages! A lazy girl's dream. But then it grew...sigh. But all said and done, my hair does look nicer long. When it's short I look more like a hobbit than ever. But then it's such a bother... It seems my hairytale has no happy ends-they are all split.

And why am I writing about this? I've been charged with getting a haircut. Why am I not rejoicing, you ask? Simple- there are instructions. Left to my own devices I'd just take a pair of scissors and snip away. But noooooo. It has to be done in a system. I should go to a stylist and get a trim as opposed to a chop. And I have to make sure that it swings just so and that the "volume" (isn't that something in stereos?) is maintained and GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!The physics, and lately the chemistry, of hairstyling-especially female hairstyling- is hair raising. The names itself require a hundred page glossary. The prospect of journeying into the tangled lands of beautiful hair makes my hair stand on end. Ah why oh why are we put to such tests!? Is it not bad enough that we have a facial hair ripped off to appease beauty. Must we bow our heads to these edicts as well?

May be I'll just make a trip to Tirupathi, what say?

Talking in tongues.

My mother tongue is malayalam.
Therefore,logically, that would be the language spoken at home.However- showing evidence of strong familial similarity to the author- logic is thrown out the window. The common linguistic scene that greets the eye-the ear, perhaps would be more appropriate- is a a sea of languages sloshing together like spirits in a cocktail.Something on the lines of "Athu ko vaha leavekar vekum kalambaffy karo."(simple transalation: 'Leave that and get going', number of languages used 4)is as common as day in our residential premises. And this is a simple example.
Trissur Malayalam flows into cheri Tamil and that mixture is splashed with a dash of some tapori Hindi and then heated with some rapper lingo and shudh, school-tought-Hindi. To this is added a smattering of French a breath of Arabic along with a brand of English that is unique to this family , and Voila! That's our language. It is surprising that any of us understand each other. Even my father,being the only comparatively sane person among a horde of confirmed lunatics (sorry,ma),does. Yet people who come home and chance upon one of our informal conversations will most definitely be at sea.

Forget the languages themselves, the various allusions-intertextual and otherwise-the quotes (from books,movies, relatives etc.), the mannerisms to go with each of these and of course the accents... Hmm.. maybe we should declare what we speak a different language as a whole.

The point being that there are more things than the tenets of the Mendelian Theory that bind family members together. And no,not all that sentimental stuff either- though that's definitely an aspect. Families connected,and each member made uniquely a part of that family through the bonds of language. No one family- no matter how alike- can speak like any other. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is another reason why language must always be respected.
Go Linguists!

Dr.Ames' Inventory of New Age Diseases- 2

Welcome to the newest edition of Dr.Ames' Directory for New Age Diseases.This edition's prime diseases are:

Fartigo: This is an airborne menace. Like the foot-in-mouth disease (refer to Edition1)this diabolical disease works pulse like- rippling outward. It may be compared to an atomic explosion. It hardly ever effects the source, except in very rare cases when the source is struck by chagrined embarassment. But this is , as mentioned earlier, very rare. Most sources feign ignorance and several go unknown-thus creating an aura of mystery. The general symptoms are immediate nausea and necessity to cover the nasal passage following the inhalation of noxious fumes. General moaning and occasional cases of loss of consciousness have also been recorded. The disease can be almost fatal in small enclosed spaces. The best remedy is to catch hold of the source and dispose of it in the nastiest way possible.

Like-aemia: This is a speech defect. It is characterised by excessive use of the word "like". Generally deemed a disease of the young, this illness has spread its tentacles into not so young speech as well. In it's most virulent form,cancerous like-aemia cells can overide all the cells in a sentence thereby creating a tumor in the sense lodes of speech and consequent breakdown of communication and leaving listeners cell-shocked.The origins of this disease may seem harmless- a "like" here, a "like" there. But soon this becomes a "like" everywhere. The disease must be nipped in the bud and this can be achieved by constant teasing and in the case of little children or easily dominated individuals- a sharp, forceful down/side ways movement on any fleshy part of the patient's anatomy should suffice to discourage.

Sore-i-ass-is: This ailment is very broad-based(no pun intended). It usually manifests itself on individuals who spend a lot of time on their behinds. It is characterised by numbness and alternating soreness experienced in the posterior. This disease is an occupational hazard for drivers,especially bikers,in a traffic jam, 10 ruppee ticket movie watchers,students in an exam hall and government officials. Another variation of this is seen in students whose ends have made an acquaintance with the rougher end of a ruler/cane/paddle/any hard and effectively pain inducing surface. A brisk massage or a special exercise called the Guntherian-bum-dance is very effective in tackling Sore-i-ass-is.
No-money-a: This too is a highly wide spread disease. It is characterised by a lack of GFCs (refer to Edition1). Almost everyone who has made an acquaintance with GFCs believes that they have suffered from this disease or are suffering from this disease. But the perenial patients are always- students. Students, especially the college variety,constantly succumb to this illness and have to undergo an intensely painful drought period. They sometimes try to combat this through the Borrowing Maneuver, but this generally increases the risk of relapse.The best method to tackle this menace is by cultivating several GFC banks and by appealing to the Green Cross run by Parental Associates for GFC transfusions in dire scenarios.

The Common-Scold: This is a common ailment stereotypically manifested in the female. However the doctor holds that this is equally or more applicable to the male. It is usually seen in parents. The symptoms of this disease is a characteristic repetetion of dialogues or threats, better knowns as scolds, issuing from the male/female in question. Continuous exposure to the Common-Scold can result in sore-throats (for the patient), headaches (for the receiver) and general discomfort. The only way to tackle this is to grin and bear it. Cotton helps though.

Further developments in the New Age Medical scene will be updated as and when the venerable doctor feels like it. The good doctor expresses gratitude to fellow physicians for their valuable inputs. Until the next time,good health and happiness to all.

Name Shame

To start on an oft quoted quote- "What's in a name?"

I'm sure Sycho Baby would have a lot to rant about on that flippant statement. As would Shitty. And Mincy. And Diarrhea.

And these examples are all real people.

It is fascinating to wonder what exactly deranged parents were thinking while condemning their offspring to such labels. These name-traumas permanently scar the poor person.Put yourself in the shoes of young "Queen Elizabeth" - yes, she really was named that- and you'll see what I mean.Imagine the plight of the poor 80 year old, forever doomed to a name like "Baby". Isn't that taking "eternal youth" a step too far? A similar anomaly is the case of grotesquely ugly individuals named "Sundaran"/"Sundari". I suppose their parents were trying very hard to fool themselves. Poor Lajjith probably dies of shame everytime he has to introduce himself.

Mallus are atrocious namers.There are a huge number of kids condemned to being called Saddam Hussein,Lenin, Stalin etc. everyday.Mallu Christians are another category by themselves. A mad fettish for rhyme, leaves hapless siblings with names on the lines of Jincy,Dincy,Vincy,Lincy,Tincy(!),Mincy,Rincy... (let us pause for a moment and pray for these blighted children.)

To move on. Names can be damaging in their extreme imagination or complete lack of it. My grandfather used to tell us the story of his distant cousin's name. Born after several years and several daughters, the young son bore the full brunt of his sanskrit-scholar father's eruditon. He was named-

"Eeshadvikasithakundasamaananasmitaruchiraananajithaparva
nahimakiranan."

The semiotics of this name are irreproachable. It's almost poetic. Sadly it's epic proportions leave something lacking. And the anticlimax of the whole name,was that the cousin was finally and universally called 'Kandunni', a massive step down from the kavya traditions of his actual name. The other extreme is equally sad. The handyman at my father's place, besides being wiry, betel chewing and sloshed every evening, is as dark as a politician's doings. And he is named Karuppan which- wouldn't you guess- means "blackie". Let us side step the obvious political incorrectness of that and wonder--Couldn't his parents have thought of something a little innovative? What could be a better- or should I say worse- example of this disturbing lack of creativity in parents,than all those boring begetters who name their children after states!These individulas can be excused as being patriotic, but what about those parents who name their offspring after months and days? And who can forget Douglas Adams' creation,"Fenchurch" who was named after a railway station. I suppose they ran out of creativity post creation of the child in question.

And then there are the incomplete names. The kinds where a person introduces herself/himself and you're wondering "And..?". One such name I've come across is "Chinma". I mean, it sounds like her parent was cut off in the middle of saying the whole name and whatever was said got stuck. Names can also be a curse just by sounding the way they do. Let me remind of Yann Martel's creation, "Piscine"- forever doomed to jokes about "Pissin'". But a fictional case will not prove this contention. Imagine the plight of poor "Abish", his name booming like the soundtrack for a fight scene in some sad production. Or Uppili,who ought to become a clown or a stand-up comedian, because the moment he says his name people start laughing.Another similar situation is the case of double meaning. Remember "Gaylord Focker", of "Meet The Parents" fame? And my personal favorite-"Mahaboob".

My question is,what exactly are parents thinking while bestowing a terrible name on their child? Is it some kind of revenge for inflicting labour pains? Or is a crime of passion- they were carried away by an artistic,patriotic or ideological madness? Or is it some wayward misconception of teaching them humility through shame? Perhaps... After all, the parents' minds work in mysterious ways. To quote the Bard yet again- "There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy."


P.S: As for my name, my parents were over-reachers and hoped for great things from me. Hence I'm left to create my own names.

Yours,
AtomicGitten/Ames

I'm a good sport

"When did you ever play badminton? Do you know which end of the racket to hold?"

Yours truly is a self professed spectator. But I must have professed a lot if my mother couldn't remember my badminton phase.Sure,I'm at my element in a cheering squad and far away from the field. But that doesn't mean that I never ventured into it. I distinctly remember entering a hopping race and walking half way through during my second standard. And I also remember falling on my behind while trying to throw a javelin (don't even think of asking how),thankfully my behind is very well padded. But seriously, I did take part in sports- I had no choice. We had a games period and a teacher who used to hound us into playing.

I'm a peaceful soul and therefore took up the path of least resistance. I tried my hand at basketball. But the small problem of negligible height and no aim was a slight impediment. So I resorted to running all around the court yelling like banshee- that way everyone thought you were playing. However, this gambit turned out to be a little tiring- not to mention annoying to the fellow players who were actually playing (losers).

Hence, I had to shift base. Me, being the smart genius that I am (yes,you should get your autographs before-hand), took up a sport that seemed to be the one with least exertion necessary-badminton. A simple game it seemed to me. All you needed to do was thwack the cock (hmm...may be it was the first signs of the radical feminist I'd become.)It was so much fun I actually got interested in the thing. (No, no, not enough to go look at rules or anything[what do you think I am? Hard working?]) It got so much so that we of the Badminton Enthusiasts Association used to have earth shaking fights with the boys over the rackets.(It was not for nothing I was called "bulldozer" in my younger days.) For you see, our school was rather Gandhian in it's approach. It believed in training students in making do with whatever was available. Sometimes even less. Hence it was not an unusual sight to see shuttle enthusiasts playing with frayed rackets and, as time progressed and rackets grew stringless, tennis rackets.I didn't know this actually made a difference, until I went to Kodaikanal with the redoubtable Charlie.

And we come to the incident that actually triggerred this pile of dingo's kidney(Term,courtesy Gunther). In the picturesque locale of Kodaikanal,'mountain princess', I was obliged once again to pick up a badminton racket.It was like going back home! The same frustrated looks when I missed, the same jokes when I'd flail the racket like a maniac and hit thin air, the same guffaws at my service... sigh... I wonder why I stopped playing. :D

Two, three rounds of the game and I was actually getting a hang of it. Which is when Charlie's sibling asked me whether I'd ever played tennis looking at the way I swung the poor instrument in my hands. And at the end of the 6th match, I actually won! Needing someone to boast about this feat to I called my mother. And then we know what she said.

Ah well,I may not be good at sports; but I'm definitely a good sport, eh what?

The Sound and the Fury

Let me take you back in time...

Four stalwarts from the realm of literature strode strong and steady- albeit a little dusty- into the hallowed premises of the Newspaper. They had traversed tracts of dry, dusty,fissured lands, into the heart of Ambattur. Here they met the heartless Seven-Hills:who ruthlessly dispatched the great hero Gunther to the Features department and the others to the Editorial. So Pyne, Bentley and Ames bid a tearless but moving adieu to their comrade and trudged to their separate fates.

So much for the exposititon.

Pyne,Bentley and Ames were assigned to work with the verbose King-go-Milk. 'Verbose' being a tactful understatement. Somewhere in the middle of the 50th example of his youthful exploits, King-go-Milk remembered that the interns were to be assigned work. Snapping awake from their glazed stupor, the three drew their pens and attacked the 5 copies assigned to each of them. Just as the first marks were about to be made, there came a terrible sound...

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRPPPPPP!!

"What was that?!" gasped Pyne.
"Sounded like a wart hog!" exclaimed Benltey.
"You've heard wart hogs?" mused Ames.
Their discussion was interrupted by another earth shattering 'UUUUUURRRRPPPP!!!'

"There it is again!" hissed Bentley.
"Let's investigate!" said Ames.
"Wait, let's scout the area first." cautioned the ever cautious Pyne.

Three pairs of eyes scanned the forest of cubicles.

GAAAAARRRRRRPPP!

Three heads swivelled- And there, sitting inconspicously in a cluster of computers, sat the Burper.
BAAAAARRRPPPPP!

"Oh it's just some guy with a ventilation problem." smiled Pyne.
"Probably had too much potato poriyal for lunch." snickered Ames.
UUUUURRRRPPPP!
"Well, he'd better put a stopper on it. Now let's get back to work before King-go-Milk decides to 'inspire' us with more of his young-tales." muttered Bentley.

But,you see gentle readers, regardless of it's monotonous nature, editing does require concentration. Having a nonstop burp-monster in your vicinity does not help. And the Burper's range was astounding. He could go from Foghorn to bullfrog in the space of a breath. To this day Ames swears that the Burper hit all seven notes in the scale.While the earlier expulsions were sporadic and far apart, pretty soon it was one per minute. It was like a form of chinese torture! Grating and grating until Ames had to be physically restrained from committing murder.

"Don't do it! He is just a guy with gas trouble!" panted Pyne hanging on grimly to a flailing arm.

"Yes! Be happy it's not coming out through the other end." wheezed Bentley tenaciously restraining the other.

With a great exertion of will Ames calmed down, and even completed the copies. In defence of Ames, this burporama coming shortly after an extreme exposure to King-go-Milk's narratives would bring down even the greatest. With each day of exposure to the Burper's gastric exhibitions, the three grew stronger and stronger. By the end of the internship they were totally immune to the airy onslaught. No longer did the sound produce such fury. The Buddha probably employed similar methods to teach his disciples forbearance.

You see gentle readers, like all great heros the three too had their fair share of tests before they reached the object of their quest. The Burper was only one of the obstacles in the dusty paths of their internship. Though we have already passed through the gates, the author is sure that somewhere in the bowels of the Newspaper, nestled comfortably among cables, coiled like intestines, the Burper still burps in abandon.

Thankfully, we are nowhere nearby to hear him.

Mowing Grass

A after a long spell of interminable prose now we have worse- verse.(Heh heh, I couldn't resist).

Iron Blades flatten
Life
Into rows of unrelieved
Flatness.
The Fruits of a struggle:
Of weeks, of months,
Of Eternities-
Cut down in an act
Of Brutal Order.

The scent of fresh, green
Blood
Wafted in the golden morning breeze.
Over the roar of the barbaric beast,
Came the cry of dying dreams;
Answered by hollow echoes
As life was sliced,
Ripped,torn-
Ground into a dull,briny mash.

The Others watch unmoved.
Doing nothing to stop the ruin.
"This must done."
"Order must be maintained"
What does it matter,
If all is Crushed and Killed.

The heartless blades continue
To rip and chew and spit out
Verdant carcasses
With burping satisfaction.
The soft tender stalks
Buckle and snap
Under the weight
Of cold oppression-
The beacon of Order.

Now all that remains
Is a field of flat sameness
Of broken spirits,
Lost ideals,squashed creativity...
Congratulations!
Order has been achieved!
The cost?
Only a few lives,
A few hopes
A few dreams...
The Greater Good has been achieved!
And after all,
Don't we all serve order?

Beauty-fool

Back in the days when my mother had hopes for turning me into a beauty, we used to have lovely back-and-forths on the virtues of slathering the face with a variety of unidentified gooey objects. The major contention was gettin it applied. Seriously, how can you expect a healthy..er..hyperactive twelve year old to sit still for something as silly as a face pack? Of course once it was done, my brother and I had great times enacting monster attacks( no points for guessing who the monster was.)
Perhaps it's because of this traiing that face paint never bothered me. Niether did having to go on stage as a monster. Hmm...

Ah well, moving on- my mother's efforts slackened in between the school years, probably because she couldn't get her hands on me long enough. I thought I'd seen the end of it.But I was much mistaken. I left home to college with two containers of beauty powders pressed into a nook in my stuffed box. I admit I did apply them for a few days. I didn't have much of a choice- I used to be "reminded" to do it everyday. When the phone bills intervened, the reminding stopped, but then there was the guilt factor. So i kept at it for a while. Human nature saved me from falling into the clutches of beauty- plain laziness put an end to my beauty treatments.

The days turned to months, the months into years. The skin tanned, the hair mussed, but I continued uninterested. That is until the NoseRing Girl intervened. NRG is a babe of the first order. And she takes it as a personal offence to find someone not interested in personal grooming. Pretty soon I had to listen to blistering set downs for standing in the sun, not using cream, bla bla bla (Sorry NRG). And it's not just NRG. The aunties and uncles, not to mention cousins (traitors!), joined in. Every college break was punctuated with comments on the lines of- "Oh you used to be so fair! What happened?" or "Your hair!!..(shocked, tactful silence)". Still the human spirit in all it's resillience refused to be converted. I remained a slob. After a while the "advice" began to die down. They had finally given up at the sight of my unrepentantly unpretty face.

Or so I thought.

I return home for the brief space before the race restarts-A few weeks of relaxation while the rest of the family slogs (hah hah hah!). I get woken up in the morning by a mother who in the middle of rushing to work remembers to tell me- "Oh and put that thing on your face alright, it's good for your skin."

And here I sit in front of the computer looking like something from some B grade alien movie. Life has a distinctly ironic way of saying things never change.

The Phantom limb

It's only when your friends start talking about their families that you realise how much you miss yours. You'll be talking about your mothers amazing food, your brothers sense of humor, about how your father keeps maintaining he isn't artistic at all and then makes terracotta sculptures just because he got started;and then it'll happen. Dishkyawn! Like a sledgehammer out of the blue. Of course you'll cover it up immediately. Crack a mokkai joke to get you through. But the bruise still remains there- you don't even know where, but it's there.

People who undergo amputations talk about phantom limbs- the ghost of the limb that used to be there. The limb aches, itches, twitches and never sleeps.

Here I am. Away from them all. In an environment which,logically,should distract me and help me get over the distance. But,defying logic,the phantom limb stretching over an ocean twinges and winces. And a tear falls down onto the family photo(the only one we took after months of nagging) still pristine and unbent among all the tattered notes and files. I curse myself and call myself a baby, and succumb to it-

"Hello Ma? Yeah I just called for no reason. How's everyone?..."

Sing...Sing sing..

A tingling at the back of your throat, a sudden rush of air into your lungs, a lightness in your head, a feeling like you are going to rise gently on your toes and soar upwards. And then, the sound.

The mechanics of singing is simply a burst of air shooting out through the larynx, creating a vibration of the vocal chords which is commonly known as voice/bellow/screech...whatever is appropriate. What goes unsaid is the absolute high that one gets when that rush of air flies euphorically out of your lungs.
Nothing but a silence or a song can express pure emotion. Which is probably why Tagore wrote "I would speak but words do not break into song." The laughter of love flowing out in the chords of a sublime sweetness,undefined. The cry of anguish crashing onto the ear straight from the heart- these ions and charges race across the universe, caught only in the golden threads of song or silence. And in todays noisome world, silences are lost in the din. The only hope is song.

When one sings full-throated with the sole intention of singing,there is a rush of adrenaline, the heart throbs like a river in full flood. And as each note rises into the air, bursting the glass orbs of silences, your spirit rises too higher and higher. Until, as the song closes, you are left breathless and flushed, streams of sweat beading down your face and a great sense of liberation. The feeling a child has after running at break neck speed down a meadow. It is pure, it is sweet and it is peace. It is an inexplicable happiness that comes fro release.

Every being on earth was meant to sing, to give voice. It was the Original Expression. The Note of connection. The ultimate expression where nothing is not understood and everybody is heard.

So sing.

Dr.Ames' Inventory of New Age Diseases-1

Diabetes Smellitus: Most individuals with an acute mania of the gastronomical variety generally suffer from this merciless menace. Symptoms include immediate sensation of weight gain following an inhalation of fragrances arising from any food item. Several patients suffering from this ailment express a feeling of "..growing fatter just by smelling it[the food]". This sensation is especially acute in the case of
a)the horizontally prolific in the company of permanently horizontally challenged individuals.
b)Individuals on a restrictive intake of sustenance-also called a 'diet' by some.
c)Foodies.

There is no cure.


Exama:This ailment is exclusive to the learning-class. It generally comprises of the rash of unstudied portions that erupt the day before the exams. Ancient Sha-moms advocate the absolutely improbable cure of prevention. Present day scenarios reveal an impossibility for the success of this option. the easiest way to tackle this problem is to scratch as much as you can and then place your faith in the higher powers. Several individuals have tried to tackle post-exama problems with chits of paper and communal chanting and sharing.Bribing the in-charge might help.

Free-mentia: This is a burgeoning epidemic today. The disease is mostly caused by the viruses sale-monella and offerillia- the breeding place of which is any area with retail tendencies.The general feature of this disease is the tendency to buy something for the simple reason that something else comes free with it. The utility and the necessity of the of the freebie is disregarded. This results in not only loss of the Green Financial Cells (GFC) but also in over crowding of living space. OR worse still, the giving and receiving of the freebies to unsuspecting masses.

Cure is a severe reduction of the supply of GFCs. Wearing blinders at shopping arenas would be an effective preventive measure.

Foot-in-Mouth Disease: Generally found in people with tongues longer than their thought processes, this disease is known to have wrecked several endeavors. It is difficult to ascertain exactly in what case this disease is most devastating. The un-complimenting compliment, the brash statement, the offensive joke are all just minor manifestations of this terrible menace. . The impact of this disease is generally pulse like- it ripples outward from the source.The curtailing of this is difficult as the occurrence is completely unpredictable (excepting in the case of known foot-in-mouthers). There is no definite prevention except keeping shut.

No-shoe-a: This ailment attacks at the worst of times and usually when there is no time. The characteristics of this disease involve the absconding of a single shoe from the pair or the pair itself. This results in mild hysteria and general rise in blood pressure; especially since-as mentioned before- this condition strikes when there is no time to spend searching. Scenarios include an important meeting, a movie etc. Causes of this include
a)"kicked off" footware.
b)clean up processes unknown to the owner of the footware.
c)sneaky room-mates/siblings.

The case becomes critical when the patient has only one pair of shoes.
Cure would require a substitute pair or handy fellow beings to borrow from.
A similar ailment is No-sock-ea. Substitute shoe with sock. This is a more virulent and common disease. The ailment is doubly painful in he case since the missing items are smaller and often, never turn up.

Further developments in the New Age medical field will be updated as and when the venerable doctor feels like it. Until then, good health and happiness to all!

In Defense of Informal / 'Bad' dressing

I have often been accused of having an... eccentric sense of dressing. Peers and parents find my apparel lacking in panache at an alarmingly regular basis. And this when-all modesty aside- I am not your average slob. In fact I'm often depressingly neat. Why then this constant antipathy towards my vetements? Faced with continuous persecution, hounding even, I have taken a decision. I'm the self appointed defense attorney trying to make a case for the much prosecuted Bad dressers and Bad dressing as a unit.

What is the general criteria for "good" dressing? And how can that criteria be general? Especially when what is great dressing for Aishwarya Rai is plain disaster for the normal. Good dressing is too volatile a concept to be a convention. Why,fur and bones are the epitome of good dressing among some tribals. What is good dressing but a pandering to reigning stereotypes of society and accepted norms. But I forget myself. This is a defense, not an offense.

The simplest synonym of 'well-dressed' is 'presentable'. And that usually means the individual is well covered, tastefully attired and the apparel carried off well.We are agreed. Then why, I ask, do people have a problem with others wearing something simple, practical and trend setting even, as your father's shirt?? It is large and roomy- therefore no questions on the covering issue. It has a panache of it's own that comes from complete comfort. And as for tasteful- I think we've already established that tastes differ. It's tasteful to the wearer, then what's the big deal.

Several esteemed members of the opposition mention the situation of interviews and important occasions. First the interview. As Pride And Prejudice (whose working title was 'First Impressions') tells us in no uncertain terms of the unreliability of first impressions I feel there is no need foe me to go on about that. I would like to add to the inimitable lady's thesis, though. Prospective employers must actually insist that their prospective employees appear in their most informal clothes. To use a general maxim of 'well-dressed'- Clothes reflect the personality of the wearer. In which case,companies-who perennially harp on personnel counseling and what not- could save several cheques by observing the employee at her/his most casual and 'worst' dressed(humph!). Next we come to the cousin issue of the same misconception. If the occasions are special themselves, there is no need for the individual to be pinned into something s/he doesn't and will not usually wear. The opposition brings out family clause at this juncture. Family special occasions, in my view, are the perfect example of the special occasion theory.And besides, your family would have seen you at your worst at several occasions. Who are the parents trying to fool by 'neatening' you up. A related topic is the finery and straight-jacketing expected from those attending marriages. First of all the attending of these functions itself gives rise to a gargantuan "WHY?". But that is beside the point. My contention is, when it isn't you who are getting married, then why in the world must you force yourself into uncomfortable silks and whatnots. In fact even it was you who were getting married, why the dress up? The greatest argument for the cause of 'bad dressing' is the comfort clause. As long as you are comfortable what does it matter whether you are well-dressed or "badly'-dressed? And it is a known fact that the latter definitely has an edge over the former on the comfort count.

In conclusion to this minor rant, I declare that 'bad' dressing is an assertion of self:to squash it would be to curtail a fundamental right.I declare that all those who bother about the 'bad dressing' of others, should take a crash course on "Minding your own business". I declare that 'bad dressing' is not bad at all. In fact being badly dressed is better than being well dressed.

Dear God(!)

Aged five I prayed that I'd have those wonderfully 'grown-up' glasses and look the consummate intellectual. Aged fifteen I cursed the day I got my glasses and screamed heavenwards, railing at God for placing me in this predicament.This is what God has to go through everyday! It's like that Cycle agarbathi ad, where the mum prays for one thing and her son for the binary opposite. Either way God ends up being the Villain.

Picture a day in the existence of God. There is no question of waking up, since there's no sleep.The droning prayers, more irritating than the most tenacious mosquito,remove any hopes for that. All you have to do is ensure the smooth running of the universe and all, no big deal. Oh and perform a few miracles here save a few souls there,act as guidance counselor to some X million people. Please note that this is excluding the animal and plant kingdom. And while all this is happening you'll also have to spend time answering prayers,getting cursed for answering them negatively, sometimes even when you answer postively. Oh and by the way half the world doesn't really believe in you and the other half is scared stiff of you. And practically no one tries to understand you. Hell,Nietzsche says you're dead.

It's a sad fate to be God.

And it's not just the work, it's the prayers themselves. They're just whines which sound even worse because the whiners are always in such a hurry to get it over with. Every time I hear the rosary being chanted, I feel sorry for Mary who has to listen to it all the time. Same goes for the mantras that are chanted in the temples or the muezzin's call. Half the time we don't even know what we are saying,but that doesn't make any difference.

And then there are the modes of praying . At some point of time, Swami Chinmayananda had said "Don't be a beggar in front of God". Hence,we- being masters of the fine print-demand. "I deserve to get this. Therefore you will give it to me!" And then there is the challenge mode. You bully God into answering your prayers."I did these,these,these good deeds," And then you cock a contemptuous eyebrow and ask, "What did You do?" The fuzzy logic is that God will feel defensive and answer your prayers. And of course there is the 'simple want' mode. "I'm very reasonable.All I want is half the world and everything of value in the other." The word 'reasonable' is supposed to lull God into answering the prayer positively without looking at it.

The truth is, man has created God in his image. And he(a pronoun of convenience) doesn't even get the little respect that we accord to a wily human.

At this point, I would like to send up a prayer for God to... whatever Other Power that we can create. Please help the Poor Dude. Life, the universe and everything are a thankless lot. And Dear God, I think you're doing an ok job, considering the circumstances. You do have one supporter;even if the supporter is only a diminutive thing with a big mouth. I'm rooting for You. :)

Tag along

So this is what a tag is? You have to write stuff about yourself which were already evident in your blog itself. Ah well,it is not for me to question the conventions of blogging. I bow my head in meek acquiescence.

First, the rules:
- Post the rules on your blog.
- Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.(only?????!!!)
- Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
- Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

Ok here goes-
1.I LOVE, LUHHUHHUVE rain! Umberellas are for losers!

2.I hate tomatoes. (brack! Awful stuff)

3.I can't hit the broad side of a barn- absolutely no aim in life.

4.I know all the dialogues of Shrek 1, most of Shrek 2, and the only reason i don't know those of Shrek 3 is because I watched it in a hurry.

5.I have freakily small hands.

6.I squirt mayo/sauce/jam in smiley face patterns onto the bread.

With great difficulty I shall restrain myself at this juncture. I trust this satisfies?
:)

At the receiving End

It is always disconcerting to find out you've won something. Especially so when you don't really know what to make of it.

I found myself in this unfamiliar predicament this year.

I always thought receiving a prize was a simple enough thing. You go up to the sad,jobless soul who was entrapped into prize-distribution, shoot her/him a sympathetic smile, wave a bit at your parents if they made it and skidaddle off.

I couldn't have been more off the mark.

No sooner did i find myself in the alien position of receiver, than I was summoned to the NCC grouns and given brisk instructions and training. A several hundred of us were herded together into organised ranks. Stern visages scowled if we even sneezed. All that was missing was the crew cuts and the bugle call.
An intimidating lecturer of a military aspect inspected our regiments, and issued the following orders.

"Tomorrow you WILL assemble here during the fifth hour. You WILL NOT be late. You WILL stand in precise lines according to your roll call and you WILL not steer from the herd!You WILL take precisely ten minutes to walk on and off the stage. You WILL NOT trip. You WILL pose for a photo with the distributor. You WILL NOT speak.You WILL wear a sari for the program. You WILL NOT object. IS THAT CLEAR! "

Clicking heels-
"MA'AM YES MA'AM!"

And thus began The Rehearsal.

Unnerved by the harsh, clinical method of this madness, I turned to the learned Pyne- veteran Prize winner.
"Oh venerable Pyne! What is this? Why are we made to stand in this sweltering heat, moving like automatons to the words of unknown superiors? What wrong did we do? "

Pyne looked down at my sweat streaked,sun-burnt face and smiled with understanding wise eyes. "It is simple Ames," said Pyne, "you won."

Is this what we win when we win? We get an award- what does that give us? More rules to follow, more expectations to live up to. We get promoted- what do we gain? More superiors, harsher commands, a slow erosion of normalcy.

Wining is euphoric- it is a rush of blood to the head. It gives you a high like no opium does, it makes your heart swell with happiness. It is only when the high fades and you see the responsibilities that come with each victory, that you wonder why you asked for this. Wouldn't being a non-entity be easier?

Perhaps...

But I've always loved the rocky roads. They're more fun- especially when you yell "AAAAAAAA" over the extra bumpy parts. Right Gunther?:D

An Appetite For Desire

When was the last time she'd felt this way? July,2000? September 1998? No, those were nothing compared to this . She'd never felt this way before. This terrible need that coursed through her entire body. This all consuming urge that ached in the pit of her stomach. she clenched her hands into hard fists to keep from reaching out.

"No!" she shuddered.

"You know you want it.." He whispered into her ear, his voice was velvet temptation."It's all for you," He breathed. "All you have to do is reach out and..."

She clasped her arms around herself and groaned inwardly as she felt her will bending. No! She mustn't! She desperately hung on to the edge of control.

"I can't-"
"Of course you can."
"It's wrong-"
"Of course not."
No! She shouldn't! But even as these thoughts careened accross her inflamed brain, she felt herself let go of the last vestiges of restraint.

"I'll never forgive you for this!" She said thickly, and heard his dark chuckle.Hungrily, she reached out and took a bite into the forbidden.

...

Several minutes later-

"Damn you, you stupid ass!That diet was actually working and you had to come with chocolate mousse!!"

Auto-rocious!

Recently,a friend of the Author was talking of the driver-drivee rapport that existed- or didn't exist, whichever be the case- between commuters and auto-drivers in Chennai. Which inspired the author to pen this post.

The vehicularly handicapped,in the absence of kindly transporting friends, have their sad lots cast with either the straight-from-hell buses or the ruthless auto-drivers who seem to share the same origins as the aforementioned buses. Considering the erratic and chakravyuh-ish nature of buses, especially during the rush hours, poor wheel-less citizens like the author are left to the tender mercies of the latter. The survivors of the Auto-Encounters can relate tragic and terrible tales of extortion,embezzlement, sadism and exploitation. Veterans have learned several tactics to counter the strategies of the sly critters.

Rule one is to never, never speak in English. That is the cue for a typical specimen to hike the price by a hundred bucks. No matter how bad your accent is, don't stray into the E-word. The only exception is of course when you are shouting at the dude. Then throw in as many as you want.Beep Beep Beep sounds the same in any language. Another useful tip would be to always carry big change. Auto-drivers are known to pull the 'no-change' gag time and again ensnaring a novice auto user into paying more just to get rid of them. Similarly always know landmarks and state the the destination at least three times s l o w l y. Auto-drivers love to take you for a ride (no pun intended). The last thing you want is a tour of the city when you have to get somewhere in a hurry. And then be forced to pay extra because you apparently said the wrong place and landmark.

Rule two,which should have been rule one, is: Always bargain. It is an idiot, a very desperate person or a rich lunatic that pays exactly what is asked for.The tips for bargaining are the guidelines for auto-security. Always lower the price by a minimum 10-20 bucks. That'll probably be nearer the actual price. The traditional method of loud haranguing, though very entertaining and often effective, is very time consuming. Also,there is no guarantee of success even after the investment of time. The League of Auto- Users (LOAU)have come up with some bargaining maneuvers. An easy method of arm-twisting is to walk off with a scornful smile when the adversary poses the outrageous price. The auto-driver will be pricked by the doubt that the commuter actually knows how far and how much to give-thus making recalculations and reassessments. Hence, a more reasonable price. The author has had almost 90% success rate with this ploy. Another similar method practiced by the authors compatriot Longlegs, is the "thanks,but no thanks" approach. When faced with a sky high fare, humbly fold your hands and bid the auto-driver with a saintly smile. The autodriver is not only nonplussed by the cultured behaviour, but also pricked by conscience. 'Such a nice person," they think "how can I trick them like this... I'm a disgusting thief!" at this point they will be determined to reduce the fare to make themselves feel better. Of course this works only with those auto-drivers who actually possess a conscience. Hence the success rate is not very high. on some sparse occasions,charm and courtesy have seen to bring surprising effects. The LOAU recommend the application C&C at the commencement of the negotiations, reducing the flow as they continue. It also helps to make the adversary believe that s/he has the upper hand even if you've got a sweeter deal. Deft usage of reverse psychology is the sign of a true veteran. Despite all these subtle strategies,if all else fails- start yelling. And always work on the principle of "there are more autos on the road".

At this juncture the author wishes to make a disclaimer. Not all auto-drivers are sly tricksters as portrayed in the preceding paragraphs. Some, admittedly very few, actually show signs of humanism. Once the Author, suffering from an uncharacteristic illness, was stumbling down the pavement in search of transport. The auto that the author waved down unfortunately had to go else where. As the author turned away shakily, the auto-driver volunteered to drive her to the nearest bus stop for no charge whatsoever. The author confesses to complete shock. Apparently,the world is not totally black.

The Arabic Connection

To continue on the subject of foreign language teachers on the timely suggestion of my blogger comrade MaterialMom, the author moves on to the Middle Eastern Crisis.

An Indian school in an Arabian set up has a few set backs. One of them being the compulsory Arabic. From the tender age of six, clueless toddlers were thrown into the terrifying jungle of 'alef, baa, ta, tha, jeem...'. Actually, the langue itself wasn't too bad. It was the teachers.

The three witches from Macbeth were cherubic angels in comparison to the dear darlings who taught us. Their screams would've made banshees cringe and if only they'd talked a little slower- our arabic bad word vocabulary would have made Saddam Hussein blink. But they helped us in many ways. Especially during exams. But first- acquaint yourself with the studying methods.Students prepared in a simple,scientific procedure- if the first letter of the question was this, then the answer would be that. A similar method was followed in the case of match the following, true or false.. pretty much everything,actually. And then we'd learn exactly ten words with the different maathras and attachments. The meaning is meaningless to us, just mug. On second thought, mugging isn't even necessary. The students would simply copy words which happened to appear in the question paper as examples of usages. If even that fails, we can always transliterate names and stuff. A certain classmate transliterated mallu place names in arabic. This streak of brilliance was sadly lost because (a) they didn't get it. And (b) He used it in Give the Opposites, the stupid fool. And now we come to the teachers' help. While attempting (very important word)to write the paper, once in a while the sure fire methods would fail. But then the teachers come to the rescue. They subtly sidle their large forms and mutter a muted (read, normal speech)"This wrong. This and this right." If the student is still at sea, they'd very obligingly point out the right one. So if you actually fail in Arabic- either you are reaaally DUMB. Or the teachers don't like you.

Consequently, we students were able to read and write arabic quite well. Sadly the understanding and comprehension was nil. Rather a waste of eight years,you think? Not quite. We have a lovely store of bad words, and a knack for impressing people by spelling their names in Arabic( I don't know why, but it does) Also, most of us emerge good caligraphists(with notable exceptions such as the author). After all the arabic class was more like drawing letters you really didn't understand. We learn exactly how to charm our way through, our palms are strong and callussed from the canings... so it wasn't a total waste, right?

The author has always maintained that Education is the progressive method through which everything we need to know is replaced by everything we don't. Our Arabic validates this statement na-am?

French connection.

The teachers who lead us through the first stumbling steps of francais were alternately howlarious or pitiable- unintentionally of course.Specimen A,fondly known as Kow, was a cure for insomnia. No matter how many Red Bulls you might drink before class- within five seconds of Kow's big toe touching the classrom threshold your eyelids will succumb to gravity. During the long ago days when the author believed in the possibilities of education, the zealous author would actually sit in the first row hoping the fear factor would help against the Great Sleepiness.The experiment was a resounding failure. Undeterred, the author got reinforcements- her buddies: one on either side to poke her awake. She was reduced to poking them awake whenever she was awake. Pretty soon we just gave up. We'd sit in the front row and play hangman or X&0 or soemthing keep us from falling flat on the desk because the others had smartly usurped the last row. Picture this- the Author and Co. playing papergames wide open at the first row. Logically, we're caught. But real life is rarely logical. Kow lows her way to the last row where two unsuspecting souls had been catching up with their 40 winks! C'est la vie.

Specimen B, respectfully known as Mademoiselle, was from france. She managed to teach us something- a great achievement.Her english was... not good...but she plodded through the harsh consonants and confusing vowels of l'anglais. Well, once it so happened that she had the ladt hour with us. A bad fate for any teacher. A worse one if you've already had a bad day. She didn't have the courage or thenergy to tackle us, she gave us a free hour. Very bad idea. For the uninitiated, our class makes the parliament in uproar seem like a Church service. Five minutes into the class and the scene unfolds...

Mademoiselle(decibel level, normal) : Plizz kip qui-ett I 'ave a 'ead ache.

[Half a second of silence and the buzz restarts]

10 minutes.

Mademoiselle (decibel leve, slightly higher than normal): Clazz, I sed kip qui-ett!

[Quarter of a second of silence]

5 minutes.

Mademoiselle(decibel level, upper half of loud): Silence!

[1/8th of a second of silence]

A minute

Mademoiselle(decibel level, high enough to blow a few eardrums):

BVJJDBFBJHAGBLGBKGHLJGMBGHNKGMNGGFOHLKGNJHNGIHGNBGBGHFGHBAGRFGBFHVLKFSB!!!!!!

[A full minute of silence]

Class: HAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Mademoiselle(desperate whisper): Mon dieu!

Yes, we were rather evil. Mademoiselle survived with us for two years before she ran for her sanity. But i owe her for what little french i know. Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle.

Happy New Year

Dear The World According To Me,

Congratulations! You have survived two whole years without too many months in hibernation.

You have been a constant reminder of the possibility of creativity and imagination even in individuals such as the author. You have endowed the author- a mortal being of miniscule stature- with the status of CREATOR. And for this you have the Creator's undying gratitude.
You have made the Creator scream with anguish when posts vanished into thin cyberspace. You have been a painful super-ego, constantly reminding the Creator of the Creator's laziness. Yet, you have made the Creator brim with pride.

Oh blog! You are the child of my fingers, the product of my ruminations. And may all those who see you find something in you that makes them feel better.

The World has been born again, carrying the trace memories of 365 days. So are you, oh worthy blog. Carry on the torch. Blot out the inadequacies. And live.

The Creator,
Atomic Gitten

Happy New Year to All!

You know you are old when

1.You go for co-ed culturals and all the sight-able guys are younger than you.

2.You listen to a speech and start snickering at double meaning quips and all the kids around you give puzzled looks.

3.You go back to school and more than five kids call you "Ma'am".

4.You wear a sari and people ask you for how many years you've been working.

5. When some young squirt asks you how things were "when you were young..."

6.You start saying "when I was young..."

Messy Tactics

Here are a few Hostel Mess tactics to make your Mess experince less messy.

Our hostel mess is a good one.Their sambar does not resemble a dirty swimming pool. The rice does not stink. And- wonder of wonders!- their non-veg fare, though limited, does not leave the eater with stomach cramps!

The food is simple but good and shows some thought to nutrition, the addition of a fruit is evidence of this. However this fruit is a point of contention between the serving staff and the hostelites. Th fruit in question is a banana. Or something that looks very much like a banana- you can't really say, it's size and shape give rise to doubt. And Muthu anna's distribution runs along the motto of ascending squashiness. Give a squashed one and then,if some audacious soul requested; a squashier one.It's generally a squashy mess.Be sure to carry some tissue. And then there are the Appalam/Pappadam Treaties. In the goody starved world of the hostelite the crunch of a pappadam is like the music of the orbs. Acquisitions of these wondrous items are of utmost value:a pappadam in hand is worth a cup of curds in the bush. Of course the fact that these prized pappadams are more like handkerchiefs is irrelevant. They are pappadams. The non-pappadamers,who generally give their's away, are greatly valued at the table for this reason and must take precautions to not get mobbed. And it's not just pappadams that create a mad rush. Curds is next in the list. In the barter system ruling the Mess world the ownership of pickles or similar delicacies is excellent leverage. So bring on the vadumaanga.

An item that one must never miss in the mess is the Special Meals. These are occassions are momentous in the monotony of sambarsadam and poriyal. Watchout for the Sunday special chicken curry, and be sure to be around some pretty girl. Ah yes the Pretty Girl Tactic.It is always advisable to keep one or two of these specimens near you at the table. The wonderful thng about these species is that they generally get what they ask for. And the service staff, being men, are highly...susceptible. And being near the beauteous belles casts yourself in the glow of benevolence. Of course you must be fast and demand while the gla-effect is still in the system. Strike at the right moment and the number of extra ice-creams, bigger pieces of chicken and less squashy bananas coming your way will surprise to say the least. The author is an old hand at this.The Pretty Girl Tactic is applicable in any scenario.

A never-fail method for a better mess experience is to pattao the warden an mess in charge- this helps for easy acquisition of coupons, extra goodies etc. Always get the authorities in your pocket.

Please remember that Messes are messy businesses. It is necessary to exercise discretion.If the gourmet hostelite ever peeked into the Mess kitchen,it would be the end of her appetite for all time. Hence- never venture there. Why invite trauma? Just eat and don't ask questions. If you find a hair in the sambar- throw it out and continue shovelling it down. If the oil dripping off the evening "snack" has definite overtones of the fried onions that featured in yesterday's menu- keep munching. The best way to enjoy the creations of a hostel Mess is with blind faith. And plain blindness most of the time.

Always carry a ready strip of gelusil or the like. A stock of bread and jam is also advisable for the hard days.

These are some off-the-cuff tips for a happy Mess. The author hopes that it will serve the reader well in times of need. However,the author is not responsible for mishaps arising from following these guidelines. Happy hogging.

Parental Harrassment

Wordsworth said,'the child is the father of man'. Little did he know how prohetic he was.Child abuse is a terrible problem. But kids are not angelic cherubins either. In todays age of children's rights and "proper child rearing", poor parents have their lives wrung out by brats.

Take the case of Sad-Teacher(ST) and her daughter Evil-Incarnate(let's call her Evie, for short). We students used to wonder how ST could bear our class. But a short excursion with Evie in the same train cleared our doubts. The worst batch of 20yr olds are nothing next to one full-fledged 8yr old brat. We were all running away when we saw her coming. A similar incident during a flight will clear all doubts. A family of four were travelling in the aisle seat just before ours. This family comprised of two very interesting specimens of parent-abusers. Specimen A- let's call him Drone Boy- seemed less harmful in comparison to his younger brother,Terror. While the tired family of the author tried vainly to catch some precious sleep- Terror was happily slapping his absolutely spineless,useless pater who was cowering in fear and busy making vague threats to return the favor. If only he'd turned around and breathed a syllable to any one of us- we'd have gladly slapped the kid. Ten times. Each one of us. Between the sounds of the thwacking slaps and the gleeful laughter of Terror, any sleep was a dream. Thankfully, all that slapping was tiring and the terrible Terror fell into unwilling sleep. The entire aisle area breathed a sigh of relief and closed their red-rimmed, sleep-ridden eyes. NOT FOR LONG. That's when Drone Boy kicked in. Ever been bothered by a humming mosquito, just as you were falling asleep? Well... mutiply that feeling to 100 raised to infinite! Half an hour or more of listening to that dismal,toneless,aggravating drone made us realise that Terror and Drone were weapons of mass destruction in the making. One is physical torture and the other is mental. Either way you end up dead.And then,there are the supermarket brats. We are all familiar with this parent harrassing menace. The piercing orders on the lines of "MUMMY I WANT THAT,MUMMY!" or better still the simple ear-shattering screams that make by standers look accusingly at the blameless parent.

Parents are a burdended race. (a) They have the kid/brat. (b) They are responsible for the child- Read: whatever the child does, it's the parents' fault. They are a maligned race and require representation. Someone has to speak up against the heartless attrocities committed against parents. Just because they bore doesn't mean they must bear. So the next time you see a brat abusing a poor defenceless parent, run to their rescue. After all it might be you tomorrow...

Softly fell the rain that day,
Like kitten's fur and satin.
It stroked and brushed but never touched.
It was there, but not really.

She loved the Rain,
She'd always loved him.
He was the one she connected with
The soul she saw hers in.

The Rain loved her too,
But his words were mere sounds to her.
The patter of raindrops the rumble of thunder-
A language she couldn't comprehend.

The creeper of life needs a solid post.
Fluid torrents flowed away.
She pined for the Rain,
But he couldn't be there.Not really.

Harsh as the crack of a whip
It rained that day.
Like stones and needles.
Piercing and hurting- tangible distress.

She stood on the edge and welcomed Him
And the Rain shot out a silver finger
And carried her away with him.

Flighty Fancy

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I can't stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me.

- Firefly, title track.

Birds are lucky creatures.
Sure they are pretty much at the bottom rungs of the food chain, they are attributed less sense than what would fit in a teaspoon,and if they're are not eaten they are generally shot at and stuffed for no logical reason. Often they are cursed and pelted with expletives just for relieving themselves when they feel like it. And in recent history, their personal air space has been invaded by huge silver machines or idiotic human beings with a death wish jumping off these same machines (ungainly graceless things)with balloons furling out of their back.

But still, Birds are lucky creatures.
They can fly.

They don't need stupid parachutes,they don't have sit in stuffy,smelly,claustrophobic air planes or hang on to gliders like that tortoise in that folk story.They can experience the extreme freedom of breaking FREE.

The wind whips through their plumage, they have power that is purely theirs- not obtained through any transaction of pieces of paper. Even the crow, the ever irritating marauder of the canteen, in flight, is an admirable sight. There is more grace and abandon in the flight of a crow than in the rumbling,mechanical take off of a man made contraption. Man's effort is admirable yes, but he as in no way conquered flight.Because Man isn't really flying.There is no freedom in man's mechanical fliers. It is all control.There is none of that burst of euphoria as in the cheerful dip and rise of the sparrow. None of the soaring power of the eagles baiting with the wind. To watch a bird take flight is t watch a being break into harmonious freedom. They deliberately and successfully break the petty earthly bonds of gravity and leave behind inconsequential humanity for higher things. For the wind coursing over their bodies, for the power of total freedom, for the untamed abandon of full flight- which no human can ever truly have.

Birds are lucky creatures.

The Vagabond's Song

You sit near the milestone that marks the bend.
Your sore feet cry for the journey's end.
You get a cup of coffee for the open road,
Relaxing your hold on the memories stored.

The past sticks on like chewing gum.
The more you struggle,the messier it becomes.
Better by far to let it hang on.
Some extra baggage, like the rose's thorn.

You break and you form,like mercury drops.
Your feelings are only dispensable props
But all that's left when the play is cleared,
Are the discarded props- the feelings you feared.

Prayer consoles, but what is prayer?
Begging to something we don't know is there.
The litany drugs us into fevered sleep,
A dream of destiny in delirious deeps.

The core is suspended in eternal strife.
Existence or living on the edge of a knife?
Where do you go? Who waits for you there?
Is there a Destiny? Or just hot air?

The paper cup is tossed away,
You've drunk some life, and what's there to say.
The coffee was good the service was sad,
But altogether it wasn't so bad.

You stand near the milestone that marks the bend,
Your eyes seeking the journeys end.
But not just yet, there's more to go.
More bets to place, more oats to sow.

Invisible

I look down at my hands,
The are flesh and blood.
I look in the mirror,
Yes there is a reflection there.
I touch the wall-no I am not a ghost.

But something must be wrong..
Something unnatural with me.
How else can you not see
Even when I stand
Right in front of you?

Am I invisible?

The power of invisibility-
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible
I don't know how I'll make you see.

Maybe I'm a leaf lost in the trees
But even when I fall into your hands
You don't see me.I'm tossed away crushed,
To float in the wind...

Am I a wraith? An empty space?
Dust blown away without a trace?
You see the wispy clouds, the lines in the sand
But you can't see me

The power of invisibility.
A good one I'd thought...
But now that I'm invisible,
I don't know how I can make you see....

An Apologie for Romance Novels

Universally declared "senseless" and grudgingly included in the literary family, the Romance Novel is a much maligned genre of popular fiction.Caught reading one is generally a signal for sheepish grins and a disposition to blush and denounce them with a hypocritical "it's only trash, just flipping through for a good laugh."

Though this reaction is not unwonted(there being a dizzying amount of drivel written in the name of Romance), it is ungenerous of the reading-writing community to simply write them off.Just because some... many romance novels are only a step away from pornography- lacking both a storyline and borderline sense, there are others that display admirable plot lines and quite commendable character weaving. Several Romance novels are criticized for their overly dramatic scenarios and contrived situations. But I ask you- ye sharp tongued critiques- what story doesn't use these same tools? more than anything else it is the dramatic content of the book-the sudden twists, the unexpected- that an average reader looks for in any work of fiction.I do acknowledge that these dramatic intrigues are often similar,leading to a 'read one, read them all' prejudice towards this genre. But then, the much admired murder mysteries are also culprit to the same fault. We know exactly what to expect- our interest lies in the unraveling.We are interested in finding out the whos and the hows. So also in the Romance novel.It is interesting to note how the author contrives to create scenarios,albeit often unintentionally comic, and how they various characters react to each other, and of course how they fall in love. And what can be a greater mystery than he workings of the human heart? Romance novels are further accused of being irrational. It is a truth universally acknowledged that human beings are the craziest creatures on the planet.And consider this- has anyone ever acted rationally when in love? My sources answer in negation. And besides, as Blaise Pascal rightly puts it, "The heart has reasons that reason knows nothing of."

And if all these arguments aren't enough to budge your prejudice, consider this-
The Feel Good Factor. No matter how terrible the situation, you can be assured f a happy ending. The ancient and the youthful are reminded that there are possibilities. Sure this may not happen to me, but it can to others- it DOES happen. And of course the perennial craving to be special to someone,the need to be needed- the very fact that these elements are tenets of the Romance novel speak in its favor.

In conclusion, I'd like to remind the discerning reader that the most important and immediate aim of literature is pleasure. And in one way or the other Romance novels do achieve that. Be it through the happy love stories or the (often ridiculous) plot lines, they are an enjoyable read. And writers of this genre are as good as any other.