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.