The Thotastrical

Letter to my brother.

2009-12-31T12:14:00.001-08:00

Dear Ahad,

I know you would have wanted me to write you this letter. I want to believe that you will read this from somewhere. A better place.

I remember vividly the first time we met. You were a freshie in KMC and you were standing at the basketball court in Attavar. I gave you the infamous Thota-to-freshie smirk (that is what you called it). You never failed to remind me many times of that moment in the years later as our friendship grew. We were brothers. We are brothers.

There are so many stories of our college days. Going to Manjarun in the middle of the night looking for sandwiches, riding a bike to Bombay Lucky to see if it was time for a fresh batch of biryani, going to Taneer Bhavi beach and just talking KMC politics. So many stories. So many memories.

Remember the time you were magazine editor. Who can forget. There was no money to publish a college magazine that year. But you said we can't let that happen to our college. You said we cannot stand and watch a year go by with no magazine for the students of KMC. You reached out to the local community and found the money to bring out a phenomenal magazine. A magazine people still use as a parameter for excellence. I was so proud of you that day.

Remember our long trip from Chicago to Atlanta? Talking about India, about family, about medicine and just about stuff. We were gonna be at the SuperBowl in 2012. Name each other's kids. Go to California and learn to surf. Go back to Kerala and re-live that legendary trip from 2002. So, many things, man.

Always positive. Always cheerful. Always emanating warmth. Never one to sulk. Wherever you went you made friends. People wanted to be around you just to feed off your good cheer and optimism.More than anything you listened. You cared to remember what someone said to you. And, you always frank with me and told me straight what you thought of my numerous ridiculous assumptions and theories. "Crrrrazyyy man, Thotaaaa!!!"

I grasp for some semblance of meaning of you not being here. I try to quell the anger, the helplessness of it all. But, I will cherish the happiness you gave me and so many others. Channel all this raw emotion into something productive. I know that's how you would want me to be. I will try very hard. I will always remember you like yesterday. Always close. Always smiling.

Cliched as it may sound (and I can imagine you rolling your eyes), they sure threw away the mould after they made you. A diamond that shone its brilliance, its kindness, its undiluted affection, its unconditional love on humanity. Thank you for you being you. I know wherever you are, you've made it a better place.

Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope.

I love you, man.

Love all

2009-05-23T05:35:00.000-07:00

The Background
You've gotta love a game that starts off each time with 'love all'. Peace. Add to this the genesis of the Scandinavian middle name of yours truly and one has a clear winner. Incontrovertible.

The Event
The workplace as is its wont every 365 days declared the occurrence of its annual tennis extravaganza (too much drama?). With trembling hands, the clod (a.k.a. this here writer) signed up. After all, they gave everyone a t-shirt and the clod will do anything for a t-shirt. Anything.

The Equipmentizing
After a cursory process of needs assessment/formative research, my next step consisted of peregrinating my least favorite store on God's green (debatable) earth (Clue: least favorite store's name starts with 'W' and ends with 'T' and rhymes with Kenyon Martin's nickname) seeking tools I would require on this dangerous journey. While there I picked up a piece and very quickly christened it 'The Roger' and proceeded to hold it aloft my head with both hands to indulge myself in a 'He-Man and the Masters of the Universe' moment. While basking in my fantasy glory or fantaglory (portmanteau,baby)I was quite rudely interrupted by an adolescent. I patiently descended from my pedestal and imagined this to be my first autograph-signing when I was requested by aforementioned adolescent to remove myself from the aisle since I was hindering his progress. Pesky kid. I got over this rapid fall from grace and continued my purchases adding a hat and a grip for 'The Roger'.

The Pre
There we were. Cutting work for a whole afternoon. I made it a point to tell everyone and their mothers (some people did actually bring their mothers) very loudly and incessantly that I had not picked up a racquet in decades. Rustiness was a certainty, I made it known. And, then the big kahuna said those two magic words. Round. Robin. Woot! No early elimination here. A first round exit was precluded merely by format. God bless you, kahunaperson.

The Warmup
It was more like baseball. I kept swinging and missing. The chances of me connecting were about 1.267% (p<0.0005) and each time I did, the ball flew out of the park er tennis court. Home run. Grand slam.

The Moment
We were to play eight rounds of doubles (again a convenient arrangement in terms of blame-placing) and change partners for each round. While the author did not thoroughly distinguish himself in the proceedings, he was assured by others that he did not completely embarrass himself either. 'The Boris' (you gotta name your serve otherwise bad luck will attach itself to your serve like a double fault) was in fine form, the groundstrokes and volleys were er not. Let's just say that my chances of making it to Sportscenter that night were slim (optimistically speaking). In the last round, it happened. The type of story that the grandoffspring will hear about a million times. Minimum. My partner, a Californian hit the ball straight at me standing at the net. Now, I am very skilled at dodging. Responsibility, for example. I moved the belly out of the way not-so-deftly and my lower limbs intertwined and down I went. Like a sack of them Idaho potatoes. I did not have enough time though to look at the brilliant blue sky and mull life over because the point was still alive. I scrambled back up (the last time I showed this kind of enthusiasm to scrambling-back-up related actions was when my neighbor told me that Malaika Arora was visiting our building. Circa 1997) and watched as the ball came flying back over the net. A little nudge to my reflexes and I stuck 'The Roger' out to make the volley and the winner. Thunderous applause followed as the dozens and dozens of tired people waiting to go home acknowledged my monumental feat. Sure, it hit the frame. Sure, I might never make that volley again. Pure fluke, I know. BUT. That memory is a keeper. It goes right into my very minute cerebral vault.

The Closure a.k.a. the Sore Back
Back home. The back was sore. The cold beverage was in hand. The tube showed Roger (the human version) take apart Rafa. The heart was happy. Closure.

Lagori

2009-05-05T19:44:00.001-07:00

"Lagori!" he screamed. As loud as his pediatric lungs would allow. Her face fell. Not again. Red-faced. She approached him. No eye contact. "Again" she said with gritted teeth. Her people stood behind her. Similar expressions. It was like a giant face of glumness. Smugness on the other side. High-fives. Poorly-done chest butts even. Her deputies brought her the seven. No words were exchanged. This was certainly not a time for idle chatter. She took them in her little hands. The mehendi from two Sundays ago was fading a little. Insipid. It was strange how you noticed unrelated things in times of stress she wondered betraying a wisdom far beyond her young age. She placed them one on top of the other. Mini-mountain. He grinned at her. He tossed the tennis ball high in the air and caught it with one hand. She tried to hide her irritation. Impatience."Ready" said the girl. The boy raised an eyebrow. Raised the ball in right-hand. Her people waited on the other side. He released it. The mountain was broken. The seven were scattered. Helter skelter. She grabbed the ball as it ricocheted off the seven. The boy and his team had spread themselves like birds released from a dirty cage. Her radar honed in on one of the slow ones. She let go with a purpose. Focus. The ball zoomed forward to fulfill its destiny. There was no going back. No looking back. Ball met flesh. A yelp rendered the air. More in shame than in pain. Crest-fallen, the boy made his way to the circle. The tables had well and truly turned. She felt the triumph. So did her team. Jubilation. The beaten boy would build his mountain now. The cycle would repeat. "Lagori"

Letter to my children

2009-03-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

Dear children,

You aren’t here yet. Neither is your mother. However, one day we will all be ‘here’. This is my letter to you for whenever you choose to read. There are many more to come.

Get ready for an adventure. Lots of adventures, actually. Being a kid in this household requires a sense-of-humor, a robust spirit and a crazy attitude. I will never restrain you in a bubble. You are encouraged to go out there and get your hands dirty. Get into fights. Climb trees. Scale walls. A little dirt don’t hurt. Play cricket. Splash around in the beach. Cut class to watch a movie (don’t let your Ma find out though). One day when you’re grown enough, even get your hearts broken. Meet this world, meet the real people, the honest ones, the kind ones, the flakes. Meet them all. Only then will you develop that thing they call ‘tolerance’.

Your father will often come up with outlandish ideas that will make you roll-your-eyes. Bear with him. Activities in this household might include spreading out a large map before we travel on the study floor and plan our route, they might include going to a soup kitchen and helping out on weekends, they might include bringing your mother breakfast in bed, they might also include a water-hose fight in the garden. Three dogs will also live with us. They will as is easily predictable become equal members of our family. Be prepared. Be very prepared. Spontaneous. Your mother has the last word of course. Always.

It is also highly likely that one or more of you might be adopted. You will never find a shortage of love in this household. It has enough and more love for each individual. When the day comes when you find out about where you came from, we will deal with it. Together.

You will often try to pull the wool over my eyes with habits you might pick up or activities that might be unacceptable to your mother and I. Been there, done that. All of it. I invite you to try.

Your father will also have a den in the house. You are not allowed to enter. Ever. (He does know though that you will find ways to sneak in when he is away).Your father also from time to time will watch football or cricket, while you are allowed and even encouraged to curl up in his lap and take a nap, it would be highly unwise to try to (or even suggest) change the channel.

We will as you grow up be friends more than anything else. Friendship above all else.

I will tell you stories from my life. From the past. History. Not to protect you from my mistakes but to show you that stuff happens in everyone’s life.

These are not plans, my children. They are not objectives. They are not goals. They are not even dreams. They are mere predictions for what might come.

I look forward to meeting you.

A letter to my father.

2009-02-15T19:49:00.001-08:00

My father was born on 11/11/1951 and I was spawned on 12/09/1981. Our birthdays every year were exactly four weeks apart. My father said his goodbyes on 11/29/2004.The words in italics are lyrics from Joshua Radin’s song, ‘Winter’. I hope Mr.Radin does not mind me borrowing his work.

I should know who I am by now
I walk the record stand somehow
Thinkin' of winter
The name is the splinter inside me
While I wait

I'm walking around. Looking around. Learning. Missing something. Laughing. A joke here. A joke there. A story ever so often. But, in the back of my mind I’m always thinking of winter. I don’t want to let go completely. I don’t want this chapter to end. You live inside me. That’s all I have of you. I wait.

And I remember the sound
Of your November downtown
And I remember the truth
A warm December with you

I remember the excitement on November 11th. It was just another day for you. For me it was magic. I gave you a gift. Allowed you to unwrap it and took it back immediately for my own use. Do you know that your grandson does the exact same thing with his own father? I’m sure you are laughing somewhere. Your birthday was the perfect buildup for my own birthday. Four weeks away. It was like the holidays had just begun. The mother would plan a theme party and the sister would provide art direction. You would fetch your camera in December. I would jump around.

But I don't have to make this mistake
And I don't have to stay this way
If only I would wake

I’ve waited and waited. Seems like you just went out-of-town. I have waited too long. I must accept. I don’t have to be like this. It is difficult to wake-up when the only way I talk to you is in my dreams. I never want to wake. I must. I have to. It’s time. I’ve tried to use others to aid me in this long walk. I must walk alone now. Keep walking. Give.Serve.

The walk has all been cleared by now
Your voice is all I hear somehow
Calling out winter
Your voice is the splinter inside me
While I wait

fivetimesfive

2009-02-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

My favorite song is 'November Rain'.."I know it's hard to keep an open heart...when even friends seem out to harm you...But if you could heal a broken heart...then wouldn't time be out to charm you...”

I am left-handed, I was 5 weeks premature and at age 3 I nearly choked to death. My father saved my life.

I grew up in Manipal. A university town by the sea. I would not a change a thing about my childhood. Growing up in Manipal means running into people from there every now and then - be it in a bus in Baltimore, or an airport in Chennai or in a handicrafts fair in Hyderabad.

When it rains, I do the following - inspire a lungful of petrichor, get some coffee/tea and feel sleepy.

Family means the people in my care-radar. Blood similarities are not required

I need to eat butter chicken once a week at minimum. Otherwise, I get cranky

Some of the names I go by are, annu, nu, poopybutt, thammoo, thota, thots, thotu, kurt, pudding, valu, abt, abtd, baba, gbr, goldenboyramdas, tommy, bon-bon, bjorn, zot, beejo. My passport says Anil Krishna Bjorn Thota. I was named for two hindu gods, a tennis player and the father of modern critical care medicine.

Till recently my voicemail was recorded in Spanish.

I'm the only person I know who needed to learn swimming twice. At age 4 and age 11. Thankfully, the same did not occur with biking. My favorite motorbike of all time will be Sylvia.

Sport of any sort will pique my interest. Unless a favorite is playing, I will always root for the underdog.

In the United States, I have lived only in cities whose football team mascot is a bird of prey. Baltimore with its (and my) Ravens and Atlanta with its Falcons. Based on my calculations, I can only move to Seattle or Philly.

I swore off religion on December 6th, 1992.

My sister is the best teacher of children that I've ever seen. My father was an atheist and my best friend. My mother continues to be the most genuine person I've ever encountered. I adore the Kandikattus in the land of Lincoln.

Book before movie. Still kicking myself w.r.t. LOTR.

People inspire me. Like someone giving up an MBA life to dance (and being brilliant), like someone telling me that their favorite place in the whole world is a little coffee shop by DuPont circle, like a war veteran explaining the big picture to me, like a college dorm phone attendant who called me in the US to wish me a happy birthday, like an anesthesiologist who resuscitated newborn twins with one endotracheal tube.

Avidoo (in pic) is me.

Kindness is the most attractive feature in a human being (dogs are naturally kind) for me. I also dig secularism and equity. Injustice, cruelty and selfishness cause unpleasant reactions in my system. Just like for anyone else.

Not having practiced clinical medicine in 4 years, entering a hospital is like meeting an old girlfriend. It manifests as a curious mixture of nervousness and excitement.

Music, Movies, the Indian cricket team, cooking, long walks and my blackberry are some of the requisites in my life. Some old, some new.

Whenever I see the ocean, I feel humbled by its vastness.

With regard to my friends. Peeps. I’ve hit the jackpot. They are my life buffers.

One word sentences are awesome. Really.

is Michael Jeffrey Jordan. No equal.

Bujji is bujji. Thinking of thinking of life without her is incomprehensible. (Yea, it is ‘thinking of thinking…’)

Sometimes, I forget to cry.

a few pointers for my brethren (read:men)

2009-02-01T07:33:00.000-08:00

This 'treasure-chest' of wisdom comes from a source who is a self-professed whomper (read:loser) at relationships. Please read at your own risk. If anything goes wrong, just point blame at economy.

Two crucial words. Internalize. "Yes, dear". Without these coming out instinctively from your mouth you're dead meat. Be wise to turn them into a question i.e. "Yes, Dear?" if she asks you to repeat what she said. Learn them. Now.
Bring her flowers at every possible opportunity. Do not rake brain too much with whatifs such as "What if she doesn't have a vase" or "What if she is allergic to flowers". Don't be a dodo. Watch with wonder as a vase materializes out of thin air.
When you go to the movies and she pulls out her only-for-watching-movies-glasses, do not inquire about her eyesight. Pretend like you didn't notice at all.
It's all good to compliment her looks when she's all dressed up and going to a wedding. Tell her she looks like a million bucks when she's wearing old clothes and painting a house or something. Say it. Mean it.
Never compare her with anyone else. Never.
If you don't cook, if you don't know even know where the salt is, step into the kitchen all the same. Offer to stir, at the least.
Get a blackberry. This is why. If she loves sports you are a lucky pig, but if she doesn't and you are out wine-tasting when your favorite team is on, a blackberry can go a long way (looooooooooooooong) in keeping you up-to-date with the latest score. A few furtive glances at the 'berry will suffice before you come back home and watch highlights on full HD. Plus, blackberrys are just incredible.
Make everything an adventure. Even a trip to the grocery store.
Sometimes she will talk critically (mildly used here) about another she. Five minutes later second she appears and your she embraces her with a warmth that boggles your puny mind. There is no need to be overtly concerned. It's called 'bitchin'. In one ear and out the other. Akin to men never calling the next day.
Perfect one dance step. All she needs of you is to be on the dance floor. Your range of skills on the floor or the versatility of your dance abilities are not under purview. She will do the dancing. You do your step.
Be nice to her. And. Everyone else. Being nice is more challenging than being mean.It makes you cool.

Adios.

I like to call it 'India' (A little introspective Q & A)

2009-01-24T00:24:00.000-08:00

So. What is it? What is this 'India' thing you are so keen to expound? What is this motherland of yours you are so particular to shine to the world? The land of your birth. The little tricolor on your mantelpiece. What does it all mean to you? Do you love her so much that you had to leave? Do you adore her so, that you appreciate her from afar? Do you assuage this guilt of being away with threats to return? What is it, kid?

This is what is. I do wear my 'patriotism' on my sleeve. I love to wear a tshirt that says 'India'. Yes, I have rushed in to clarify others' misconceptions. I have often stumbled to offer an explanation. Sometimes even when none was sought. Agreeing to disagree.

No more will I provide my opinion. No more will a strongly-worded retort leave my lips. I will listen. Nod my head politely. I don't feel the need to explain any more or even get defensive.
This is why. India is not a country.

India is love. India is magic. India makes me smile when I'm sitting in a bus. India is warmth. India is goosebumps. India is eating paanipuri after work. India is walking on the beach. India is seven people cramming into a car. India is peace. India is chaos. India is heart. India is a hug. India is a rainbow. India is seeking an elder's blessing. India is walking barefoot. India is dancing like no one's watching. India is singing loudly in the shower. India is a rollercoaster. India is a thousand dialects. India is democracy. India is pudding. India is contradiction. India is intangible. India is a feeling. The most beautiful feeling in the world.

Huzoor, Wah Taj Boliye!

2008-12-07T09:28:00.000-08:00

My father had come back from a trip to Bombay and the 4th grader me asked him all sorts of questions. How was Bombay? Did he see any cricketers buying their groceries? My sister wanted to know if any filmstars had waved at him. As is my wont, I needed to know everything. The complete picture. He had a bemused look on his face. He assured us that he had not seen any celebrities on this trip but he said he was directed to stay at the Taj. We were floored. The Taj!!?? Really!!?? I needed to see some evidence. Unbelievable. I said 'Dude. You stay in a little, pretty university town. How do you get to stay at the Taj?' He patted me on the head and continued to read the newspaper. My mother looked at me patiently. Everybody had moved on from that moment. Not me. Reluctantly, I fetched my cricket bat and got ready to join my friends at the 'pit (our local cricket field) and if you know me you will know that 'reluctance' and 'cricket' for me never made it into the same sentence. Just as I was leaving he quipped, 'Tommy (he called me that), they give you a basket of fruits when you check-in'. My little heart leaped with joy at the introduction of this crucial piece of information. Wonders never cease. 'A bowl of fruits!' Wow. I had to tell my friends. I had to tell everyone.

That was the Taj feeling for the middle-classes. It was a notion, a concept, a dream. When one had a b'day or one got a raise or one had something good happen to them, we would tease them to take us to the Taj. The Taj was our purported gateway to the 'posh' life. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower in Bombay was aptly located adjacent to the Gateway of India. I have never had the good fortune of entering it's hallowed portals, but it was like a mothership. A spring that replicated it's presence through creating the Taj chain of hotels throughout India. We never had to explain to anyone the particular Taj we visited. A mere 'We are at the Taj' sufficed.

In medical school, we had a Taj close by. We would wait with bated breath for them to announce their famous midnight buffets (also known as 'leftover buffets') and an army of hungry medical students would converge at the Taj at the stroke of midnight. We would go to the Taj to watch a game of cricket and even though the steward knew we would sit for eight hours and only order one coffee (usually cold coffee with ice cream) and one plate of fries (which would remain largely untouched) he made sure he gave us the best seats in the house. He would generously give us discount coupons and pamper us like only the Taj can. It was like taking the famous Indian hospitality and serving it to us in generous dollops. We have a tradition at our medical school, the class socials. One social at the end of year 1 and the second at the end of med school. They were always held at the Taj. The girls draped in their best sarees and the boys in their finest suits. This was the Taj to us. Sometimes, when I had a long, calamity-filled duty night - when I had been up for more than 24 hours and got off duty in the morning - I would get on my motorbike and ride down to the Taj and have scrambled eggs and coffee while politely turning down an offer of orange juice.

We grew older. We had more income (Lol). We would meet up at the Taj. We would catch up on old times. When two of my closest friends got married recently, we went to the Taj in that city and as we like to say 'chilled out'. The Taj gave us a home away from home. We were as comfortable in the Taj as we were standing at a 'gaadi' (mobile food cart) and sipping on chai.

To even begin to fathom what happened on 26/11 is close to impossible. I do not want to talk about my anger against the perpetrators of this nightmare, or rant against the failure of the system to protect it's own, or even explain to others how India has always cherished peace, or how everyday life is in India.

The tales of ordinary men and women demonstrating extraordinary bravery during this ordeal are many. Be it a railway-station announcer who dodged bullets to shepherd people to safety or the soon-to-be-married commando who stormed into the line of fire with scant regard for his own life or the staff at the Taj who served food and drink to people trapped on that fateful day. It is undeniable that the staff at the Taj saved many lives. They took their oath of service at the priceless cost of their own lives. I salute my Taj.

The Ballad of the Violin-Maker

2008-08-21T18:01:00.000-07:00

He seated himself on his bench. Doing what he did best. Better than anyone else. Maestro. They came for him from far and wide. He knew that each one he crafted was unique. Life of its own. Independent. They praised his skill to the sky. Ne Plus Ultra. Perfection. He never let them down. Never. Each one's need he made his own. Personal. His hands adroitly created these beautiful pieces.

This was all he knew. His life dedicated to genesis, to the birth of music so haunting it would melt the hardest of hearts. He worked till dusk and began at dawn while his clientele waited with a pretense of patience. Gently he would mould the wood, gingerly he would string the violin. Perfection every inch of the way. Carefully he would place it in eager hands. They would try. Joy would erupt in every sinew of his body. Create. Listen. Create. Listen. He learned to listen. All the time. To their tunes. To their stories.

One day. A little girl. Came across the violin-maker. He looked up and saw her. First time that someone came. Without needing a violin. He was puzzled. Unsure of what to do. What to say. She said all of one word. "Play". Shock. Clumsily he picked up a violin. Like a child taking it's first steps. Uncertain of direction. He picked up the fiddle. It felt strange in his hand. He had never held it in this way ever before. He looked at her again. Almost like she knew what he needed to do next. She was waiting. Oblivious to the turmoil in his mind. The realization, now fully formed struck him like an avalanche. A bolt of lightning.

He never learned to play. Too invested in making was he. Like a bird that would never flap its wings. Too tied up in serving others was he. Like love that was trapped in a heart. He never sat on that bench again.

Fin.

A Writing We Will Go

2008-08-18T20:54:00.000-07:00

So, I decided. To write. Letter.Note. Netter? Portmanteau. The hunt began. Had to find a pen. Pen had to have some ink in it. Nib had to be unbroken. Found! Glory. A battle won. The war, however remained. Needed paper. Parchment. Papyrus, where art thou? Obtained! Another kingdom conquered. I was on a roll. Sat myself in comfortable position. Favored beverage close at hand. Sara crooning to me. Ready.

Nib touched paper. My eyes opened in wonder. Wow. It started drizzling. The Gods themselves had opened a heavenly peephole to witness this rare event. Human writing letter by hand. I ignored them. Task at hand. Gritted my teeth. Furrowed brow. The rusty brain began noisily. Tongue slightly out. A la Michael. I went forward bravely. Began. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. Stopped to wipe sweat from forehead. Wrote. Wrote. Wrote. I had to stop again. Like going to the gym after 7 years. Pooped. Word count. Nine. This was hard work. Not my forte. Must. Carry. On. I proceeded. Finished both sides of one sheet. The hand ached. The brain pained. I was done.

Spellcheck. Innocent thought. F7. No! Not available. Eepers! I was done for. Got over it. Looked again. Some lines went northeast, others showed a propensity for the south. The handwriting although never the best looked like it had been forced out of retirement while in the middle of a siesta. Egad! For a second, I entertained thoughts of a Control A, change font to Arial. 'No can do, Sir', said the letter. Got over it. Again.

Fine. Now the sending. Resources? Envelope? Nope. Stamps? A snowball in hell had a better chance. Panic. Suddenly. In the field of vision. A familiar silver-grey object. Scanner, baybeeee. Fancy me. Did the needful (describing scanning is trite). Emailed it as an attachment (do you feel more at home with that statement, Oh 5 people who read this blog?).

I was exhausted. Planned a vacation. Took a nap.

A Letter from the Prime Minister of Procrasti Nation

2008-08-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

Loyal citizens of Procrasti,

Greetings! It is I, your Prime Minister. I meant to send this message two months ago, but true to form I am sending it now. I write this letter to bring to your attention an important legislation that I intend to introduce this Fall (er..maybe Winter). It is vital that you inform yourself of the nuances of this law-to-be. I intend to abolish all time-indicating devices. I think Procrasti will thrive without these infernal things. I am of course talking about clocks, watches, even the tiny spaces on your computers and cellphones that indicate the time. Off with their heads, I say. This will be followed by universal abolishing of the use of calendars. No more two week deadlines. No more finish-by-COB-Friday. Without this nuisance we will be blissfully unaware of when a week went by or even if today was indeed Friday. These measures would only serve the principles and values laid out by the founding fathers of this great nation. The forces of efficiency are upon us and threaten to shake the very foundations of our existence as a peace-loving, postponing people.

Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow Procrastinators to get behind me and the nation to support this crucial endeavor. Time is of essence now so that it need not be of essence in the future (Heh Heh Joke). Think about it. Now, you can keep putting off writing that SOP, delay mowing that lawn, keep adding to that to-do list and not feel an iota of guilt.

I have full confidence in you to do the right thing. Remember, together we can and we will..postpone.

Yours truly,
Your Prime Minister

To.do.

2008-07-31T21:53:00.000-07:00

12 months. Do things. Vide Infra. Blog about each experience. Idea.

In random order,

1) Learn Spanish. Visit Spanish-speaking country and achieve passing grade from local. Blog in Spanish. Estupendo.

2) Adopt a dog and call him Jack.

3) Work in a third country i.e. other than Country of origin and current country of residence

4) Learn the guitar. Learn 'Hotel California'. Gulp. Easily the toughest. Retire after.

5) Develop blueprint for a NGO. Supercool. Must. Find. Idea.

6) Run a half-marathon. Run, Bjorn, Run.

7) Salsa. Without stepping on her feet.

8) Volunteer. A lot.

Add more. You. I. Let's do this.

The Last Laugh

2008-02-03T16:02:00.001-08:00

When I set my eyes on my father’s body, the first thing I noticed was the smile he still had on. For all posterity. I had never seen someone close to me die before this. There is this period when your emotional apparatus goes on a search to seek out the appropriate body language. The proper reaction. The areas governing grief in my brain were yet to be contacted and this gave me time to respond to my daddy’s smile. I smiled back. Almost chuckled did I.

My father and I, for 23 years of knowing each other (well 22 years and 355 days to be precise) had an ongoing battle of wits. Now, people who know me well will be quick to point out that I would be unlikely to contribute much to this war. This is true. I agree with this pedantic observation of my near and dear ones. I truly do. What made this competition far more lopsided were two things. One was that my father was just too quick for anyone. Champ. Two. I was a bit too keen to go to battle sans armor and shield. Foolish orangutan (No offence meant to orangutans). Throughout my life I would offer myself as meat to this merciless God and would be taken to the cleaners with amazing regularity. Be it cricket or politics or grammar or the weather or even questioning one’s parentage, I was clobbered. I always came back for seconds. Thirds. Fourths. On Sundays even fifths. The defeats I suffered were not mere losses. They were massacres. Routs. Ruin-creating processes.

The man through his smile had left his lasting legacy apropos our tête-à-têtes like a tattoo in my cerebral cortex. You know what they say. He who laughs last, laughs best. You win dad. You got me. You got us all. Miss you.

For you, DBR. For you being you. For me.

How to eat breakfast

2007-07-30T22:48:00.001-07:00

01. Find bowl.

02. Adopt expression of satisfaction with cleanliness of bowl.

03. Scratch head (You need to - breakfast time remember).

04. Look for cereal box.

05. Find cereal box and fill bowl with one large helping of cereal from found box.

06. Open refrigerator.

07. Locate chocolate syrup.

08. Use chocolate syrup to write your full name on cereal (the longer your name the better).

09. Look for milk.

10. Adopt expression as in 2 with respect to nature of milk.

11. Pour milk into bowl containing cereal.

12. Stop when milk turns a chocolatey brown.

13. Grunt in approval.

14. Use spoon, fork or dog-like eating practice (for best results).

15. Crunch! Crunch!

16. Do not forget to 'mmmmm' frequently (easiest step).

17. Finish cereal.

18. Look at bowl.

19. Let out exultant whoop to discover chocolate milk filling most of bowl.

20. Lift bowl with both hands.

21. Bring edge of bowl close to lips.

22. Drink.

23. Use tongue to lick off remnant chocolate milk from perioral area.

24. Rub tummy in glee.

25. Burp.

Credits: Jaximus - the master of breakfastian arts

Raghavendra

2007-07-24T22:43:00.001-07:00

The following is from my internship posting in surgery at a government hospital in India. It happens to be true.

It began. Busy busy busy unit. Before though. I inquired with the outgoer. Any burns? Burns dressings were the hope-not-in-my-times. They required much attention. Daily. With little progress usually. In a non-conducive environment for healing. Yes said she. One burn. Details. Woman fell on a stove. Whole back. Down to her thighs. But then she must be lying prone all day I commented rather foolishly. Of course said she with a tolerant expression on her face. Left.

I made the journey. Said hello. When someone lies prone. You say howdy from the head of the bed rather than the foot-end. It probably was a good thing here. It helped in some unknown way. Bandaging burns invited the use of what is known as vaseline dressing. Being in a resource-poor (resource-unpredictable actually - sometimes very rarely we were inundated with all kinds of hospital goodies) setting resulted in the vaseline and the dressing to be separate which required the intern (read me) to 'prepare' the vaseline dressing and then apply it on the burned areas. I pondered all this while I was still greeting her for the first time when I noticed what seemed to be a ball of energy on the other side of the bed. It was a boy who seemed to be armed with the most infectious smile I had seen in a while. 'Pudar enchina?' (thus betraying 50% of my Tulu vocabulary). 'Raghavendra' he said and collapsed in his own shyness. The collar of his once-white shirt seemed to bury most of his face quite effectively while his eyes still looked at me with curiosity. Being a brand-new uncle I wondered what my own nephew would come to look like at Raghavendra's age. Mulling it over I left without bothering to tell Raghavendra my own name or know his place in this big, lonely hospital. I did not ask him why he wasn't in school or splashing with his mates in puddles. Epitome of good manners was I. Sensitivity was my middle name.

Thus began a six-weeker. Experience par indelible. Raghavendra was her son. He was 9. He was her caretaker. The husband showed up once in the 42 days. She could not sit. She could not stand. She could only lie. Prone.

The plan was to finish rounds with the bosses. Then do minor things. Quickly. Then finish semi-major things. Also quickly. Then do the burns dressing. Leave the hospital. Grab some food. Study books containing multiple-choice questions so as to be in with a chance of obtaining a post-graduation seat. So that I could further my desires in the practice of medicine. Noble. My father would have disowned me. But things did not quite work out that way.

When I would go to her. Raghavendra would be there. Brimming with enthusiasm. He was my little helper. His erstwhile shyness had been packed and sent off to an undisclosed location. A chatterbox was unveiled. He would go on and on about anything under the sun. He talked about himself. He talked about me. When Sush joined us, he talked about her. He was non-stop. I started to believe that his smile had been surgically placed there. Much like a well-known villain of the flying-mammal-emulating-fictitious-city-protecting-hero of our times. He was incredible.

I changed my plan. Had to. Did rounds in the morning and reclassified my tasks. It was simple now. There were three categories. Bosses' orders, Burns dressing and others. Easy easy. Bosses' orders were done stat. No issues there. Others required some juggling and were fitted in before lunch. The evening was for her and Raghavendra. The whole of it. I told her this. She was a little apprehensive. Rightfully so. Told Raghavendra. He was thrilled to bits. As usual.

So there we were. She, Raghavendra and me. And Sush of course who joined us on many many occasions. I took off my watch just before I gloved each time. That watch had been with me for eight years. Never stopped. Never any trouble. Raghavendra liked it. He would wear it often when I dressed the wounds. And so the evening dressing became a ritual. The nurses who were suspicious at first got used to it. Inch-by-painful-inch the wounds would heal. Only to be infected again in a few days. Frustration. Helplessness. But we carried on. Raghavendra of course leading the way regaling us with his jokes and stories. He laughed loudest when someone tried to say something funny. More and more he grew fond of the watch.

I was down to my last week. Rounds. One of the bosses. Let's graft. My heart jumped with joy. New skin. Raghavendra looked at me. Pump-fist from me. He laughed. That evening. We discussed the surgery. Just the three of us. She was not too keen. I tried to explain. In my best vernac. Raghavendra. He did. Couple of sentences. Yes. Let's do it she said. That evening was to be my last time dressing her. My last time with Raghavendra. I was moving on. My intern log book said that I needed to look at some ears, noses and throats. I left without my watch.

Never had I seen the human spirit so intact. He was only 9.

Acknowledgments: Sush. For putting up with my poor attempts at humor during those days.

A boy

2007-07-24T15:58:00.000-07:00

He liked to know how it came to be

If only he were allowed to see

Just a little peek

But alas he was too meek

He took out his wand and said a spell

He hoped in time a tale to tell

But the magic, it did not work

The mystery just got a little more murk

He gave up and cried and ran to his mom

Could she please do for him this sum?

the cup spilleth over......not

2007-07-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

1983 was technically my first one. We won. Kapil's devils. Beginner's luck they scoffed. Not an iota of comprehension in my teeny weeny 18 month-old skull. Something was born for real that fateful day in India. Through the country-side she spread, through the slums she weaved, finding her place in the prayers of a nation. A state religion was established. Cricket was her name. Never before had so many been united by something as trivial as a game. Game??!! Sacrilege! Blasphemy!
1987 and the World Cup came to the sub-continent. That region of land where any strip is considered adequate to start a game of cricket. Bring it on they cried. Unison. I started knowing. Sat on my daddy's lap. Pretended to enjoy myself. Watched big mean fast bowlers deliver jaffas that threatened much more than a batsman's wicket. Saw batsmen hit balls into windshields of parked cars outside stadiums. I applauded when everyone else did. I jumped around like a scalded cat when people showed joy. Cheering toy.
1992 down-under she went. Oz and Kiwi. Pajama World Cup. Colored clothing with white balls. Played under gigantic floodlights. I was ready. I knew all their names. All their averages. What they liked to eat, where they liked to holiday, what their children were called. It was like I was there. Up at never-before-woken times. Feigned a new illness everyday. Missed tons of school. Watched my team do poorly. Grieved. The neighbors took the cup. Pain. Scar.
1996 and it was back in my yard. I was a veteran now. Offered unsolicited opinion. Advice. There was an official bubble gum. The commerce had walked in. Stayed. Cricket was money. Cash. The end of the rainbow had been located. Pillaged. All went well. Remember Bangalore and Venky Prasad. Till Eden Gardens. We cried the collective tear as a nation. Never again said we. What's the point we rationalized.
1999 and home went the cup. We were back. Cloudy, damp England. Most boring of all time IMHO. Zim did us. We fought back. Partially. Australia took it. Easy. Candy from a baby. Sorry bodies returned. Never again said we. Again.
2003 and the Cape of Good Hope. Surely this time. First cup as a college bum. The final. Bees saal baad screamed the dailies. The demographic went crazy. The housewives were convinced.
A walloping of the greatest magnitude. A clobbering of our self-esteem. We didn't say never again. But we felt it.
2007 and the cup went maan. Rum, calypso, beaches. We will win. Our time has surely come. Logic. Our young neighbors taught us a few. Love thy. The league phase was enough to dash a billion hopes. Never again said we. This time in writing.

We will be back in 2011. You, me and the neighbors. Befuddling. The cup though is dry.

They finally decided to get rid of me the nice way!

2007-05-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

Sweat er...

2007-02-21T02:16:00.000-08:00

For the first 24 years 11 months and 13 days of my grand existence I did not own a sweater. No yo. Sudden. Four days later I owned four keep-me-warms.

The climate of my birth-and-growth geographical area did not deem it necessary for residents in its purview to possess one of these 'infernal' things. Human wearing sweater in that region would invoke a 'bahut daring tha' quote a la Munnabhai. Only if you wanted to feel the insides of a pressure cooker via your chest would you indulge. Flesh-cooking. Socially ostracizing move it be. My territory had three seasons. Hot, Very hot and pouring-cats-and-dogs. For the last of these three weather moodinesses we were armed with raincoats, umbrellas and a prayer to the Almighty. No sweater in that list. In the summer, even shirts would be a luxury. Simply to cover the unsavory nature of one's upper body. In the interest of the public's health and all that.

Take this 'ahem' young man and throw him to the vagaries of the cold. Merciless. Brrrr. That which would freeze your hands and cause you to forget your nose. So boy goes to mall in same cold and buys sweaters.
I felt equipped. Repertoire reload. Knight-in-woolly-armor.

So what does a sweater do? Other than hope to keep you warm of course.

1) It covers your much wrinkled shirts. Sell your iron on ebay and make cash.
2) It gives you an identity. "There goes red sweater with white stripes" , "I'm meeting blue and green sweater for coffee", "That beige sweater has some attitude!"
3) A walking power plant. Take it off to hear the sweet sound of electricity. Global power problem solved. Next worldly catastrophe please.

Million more. But. Why me? You list. Sweat it out. Best entry. Prize. Half a chocolate-chip cookie.

Acknowledgment: Prizzle of course. He of the talent of a thousand sweaters.

Word love: portmanteau - a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings; "`smog' is a blend of `smoke' and `fog'"; "`motel' is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor' and `hotel'"; "`brunch' is a well-known portmanteau"

Wait now. Stop. If you have no sweater gyaan. Create. A portmanteau. Never before seen in this universe or the next. Prize? Other half of course.

Steve Irwin (1962-2006)

2006-09-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

Man.
Hero.
Legend.

the pluto of it all

2006-08-13T21:43:00.000-07:00

The smallest gets picked on. Always. Its never fair. Remember the time when you were at that elementary school quiz. 'Smallest planet?' they asked. You replied. Quick as a flash. Surely this competition is not this easy you thought. PLUTO. Yes PLUTO. 5 points.
Jump to now. Right now.As-me-blogging-this type of point-in-time. Pluto is threatened. The smallest could be the no-longer. What? Planet darling. Peepils of the scientific community are at it. The status of the tiniest hangs in the balance. Banished from the solar system. Ta Ta. Poor poor planet.

It makes me wonder. Ponder. What is the fuss? Why bother? Let things be. Imagine the effort needed to correct all those school textbooks. Not to mention encyclopedias, quiz books, etc.
Are we sure what we live on is a planet anymore? I mean look what we've done to her. Stripped her bare. Paraded her naked. Use her. Abuse her. Trample. Don't care. And we want to decide on the yes-planet not-planet tag of some poor mute mass. We burn our fuels silly. Burn burn burn. Tear down our rainforests. Trash the globe. Its like the morning after some college party. Only thing is the party never stops.

Maybe there is life on other planets. Plenty of it. Who knows? But one look at us and they don't wanna visit. Picture it. We look at all the before-and-after pictures from gyms, salons, the lot. Wonder what a before-and-after picture of Earth would look like. Before-and-after man(so far).Plastic surgery anyone.

And we want to decide on the planet tag of some poor mute mass. We must be the joke of the milky way. The laughing stock of all the universe. The target of the big bang. No wonder we don't get invited to any galaxy barbecues. Who would want us? The corrupt, morally bankrupt people so full of ourselves. Decadence central.

Acerbic you say. Apologies and an antacid. With my compliments.

baseball

2006-08-09T15:27:00.000-07:00

Thousand words

of waterloos and waterlessloos

2006-08-03T17:50:00.000-07:00

Waterloo was where it ended. Perioded. Game over. Napoleon, he of the general fame(you can't deny it but the cheap humor is back). The man who told us that fighting units walk on gastric bags. He had a bad day. But in war when you have a bad day, they mean it. Dispatched to Elba. English being a language of accommodation went on to allow the liberal use of the name of this career-ending town. As a cricket-breathing, book-avoiding young man my waterloo of course was that great invention of mankind, Exams. Cloaked in misleading terms such as tests, assessments etc. Exams were(are) my waterloos. But then I had a knack. Uncanny. Vernacs were my bugbear family. Thus the term was coined apropos my allergies to language tests- waterless loos! This was India. There was water in the loos. H2O was ubiquitous with toilets. We washed our bottoms after nature-induced businesses. Paper ain't our thing. No water, no happy.

I get visa. Two tries. Board plane. Also twice. Suffer flying experience. Again twice. Go to loo. With magazine. After. Reach blind hand for faucet. For my cleansing tool. For my savior. Not there. Jeepers! Where is it? People say reality strikes this way and that and all that. But if she chooses to whack you on thy cranium in a bathroom, then you can as well train to be a professional wrestler. Alarm bells rang through my capillaries. My lungs grew tighter. Sheet of sweat across stunned body. Then I saw it. Right there. Harmlessly dangling like an innocent. White. Rolled. I used. Feared the worst. One doesn't take matters of the distal end of one's alimentary tract too lightly.

It wasn't too bad actually. Hope. I could get used to this, once I got over the mild inflammation[;-)]. This was no Kannada essay. Tempted to say easy as pie.

But then. When you need to clean something, do you paper it? Do you paper your car? Do you put your clothes into the papering machine? Why then?
People say I got it all wrong. Strong advocates for the paper and its power.

Its the change I tell you. New skill. For now, paper it is.

I like

2006-08-02T20:50:00.000-07:00

....previews before a movie
....benches
....and sitting on them
....the vastness of the sea
....Queen
....walking barefoot at home
....law-based fiction
....banana chips
....chocolate ice cream with chocolate chunks and chocolate sauce
....dining out
....good friends
....brown bags
....british accents
....Audrey Hepburn
....folding up my sleeves
....Goa

Transatlantia

2006-07-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

Its been a while. I know. Peace reigns on the internet. Why? Simple, silly. The Thotastrical is silent. Zipped up. Shhhhhed. A month. Oh I love this self-importance talk. I relish it. Chew it to the bone even. Why? Ask, my child. Query. Just because(favorite phrase from school-days) nobody else will do it. I live in my own narcissism. My private island of one where I am king, subject and little Tony.

The above paragraph clearly depicts how rustiness can set in (faster than you can say 'Ferrous oxide') when you put the blog pen down for a bit.

And yes, as my blog post title(BPT) clearly depicts an ocean was indeed crossed. Flown over. But I didn't look. Not a peek. Not from a small window high high high up in the sky. Yes its true. I do not enjoy this thing called flying. I cringe at the thought. Shake at the knees. But there I was. A million miles away from home. Jet-lagged and clumsy.

People ask each other. What do you see first when you are landing in a new country? Junta responds variously. I'm not people. I'm abnormal. Fool(me). I saw trees. With green leaves. Huh! That's me. I see trees. That's my sixth sense. Tree-awareness. Blessed art me.

[The rustiness won't go away. Stuck in my head like a cobweb.]

This is bound to stop enquiries about blog updates and commence those for blog deletion. Be gentle.

I was this evening, the lambish victim of a visual tag. Blindingly energy-draining as it was, I managed to respond. Now as they say, 'You're it'. By mere sight. Jack and Jill time.

She: " I think we should spend more time...

He : " Damn fool woman ! You want more time? Don't you see we are already spending way too much time together!?! We are doing every single thing like we are joined at the hip ! But don't let that worry you .You just keep clinging on to me like the vine of the year and life will pass us by !Whoosh..What we NEED to do..is GET A LIFE ! Get it ?"

She: ... apart"

Above JacknJiller has been shamelessly copied from the original blog where I got tagged. [The blog that kicks this blog's ass 24/7]

And now my JacknJiller..

Jack: Lets go up the hill

Jill: Silly fool...Don't you remember the tumbling down last time?

Jack: But didn't the doctor tell us we lost our memories from the bumps on our heads

So leave your own JacknJillers
and
if you understood any section of this blog entry, kindly email me with complete explanation

Boo!

2006-06-12T11:26:00.000-07:00

Your Monster Profile

Mad Darkness

You Feast On: Fried Chicken

You Lurk Around In: Movie Theaters

You Especially Like to Torment: Blondes

What's Your Monster Name?

SIFS

2006-06-10T20:51:00.000-07:00

SIFS = Shopping Induced Fugue State syndrome
Shopping = what should have been the eighth deadly sin
Fugue = A pathological amnesiac condition during which one is apparently conscious of one's actions but has no recollection of them after returning to a normal state. This condition, usually resulting from severe mental stress, may persist for as long as several months.

I am a SLOB. Slow. Lazy. Obnoxious. Boy. Activity ain't my cuppa. Shopping (brrr) is activity. Work. Tedium. How can I like it? If it ended at likes and not-likes, fine. But no. Pathological it be. Fear-evoking.

I wanted stuff for a long trip. Had to end my shopping-celibacy. Lose the peace. Driven by mom. Walked (pushed) into sophisticated store. Salesman made clear his contempt for current attire. Stuck my tongue out at him. When he wasn't looking of course. Coward me be. Rubber-spine. Braced myself for worst. Worst it was.

Six hours and a buffet lunch later. There I was. Not tired. Not pooped. Not fatigued. But fugued. Zombie. No idea what just happened. Not a flicker of recollection. Maybe locked away in some deep dark recess of my brain. Pray the key is lost. Non-findable (liberties with the Queen's language).

As I slowly recover from the horrors of that fateful day, flashes manifest of what transpired. Standard wake-up-in-cold-sweats routine every night. I was their prey. Meat. They(salespeople of course) pounced. Sank claws,talons,fangs,teeth. I squealed. They didn't care. Italian threads with German technology. Latesht. Never seen before in these sh(t)ores . Monkeys 'r us. Me specifically.

How do eves do it? Ever so often. Wow. Applause. Should be a fascinating scientific paper. Really should. To all possessors of the Y chromosome. My sympathies. Undying support even. Go bravely. Fight. *Gulp* at thought.

Rabbits,Headlights et al

2006-06-06T21:40:00.000-07:00

I'm not Leporidae. No way. No sirree. I don't like being made one. Its like making a Capra aegagrus hircus out of someone.

I've been known to (under the cover of darkness) sneak out in my red babe. Described by some jealous blokes as a jalopy. My car's got character I say. Integrity. Dedication. A drinking problem. I also possess an affection for long nocturnal journeys in mee car fostered by a constant diet of late-night jaunts in early life.

Picture this. Me driving. Midnight. Highway. Singing song (called braying by same jealous people). Suddenly I see the light. End-of-tunnelesque proportions. Panic. Sweat. Blinded. I can almost hear the angels playing their award-winning harps. Suddenly power cut. No shining. Can see again.Will live. Whoop of joy from night-time-drive-liker. But. Again comes this damned thing. Again and again. Where's the joy?

Its the midnight road salute. Bring on the high-beam. Watch the blue bullet on your display. See your innocent(read me) opponent squirm. Laugh. Gloat.Fart. Whatever. Its a fashion that will never die. A fad that will never fade.

Remember that poor rabbit. Who couldn't move. Caught in your powerful rays of unnecessity. Same one paralyzed by your luminescence. I was the bunny now. Call me Bugs.

Prophylaxis. Wore dark goggles. Dead of the night. Stepped out for rendezvous. Neighbor walking dog saw me. He laughed uncontrollably. Fell off the fourth floor. Suing me for mirth-induced damages. See. A little misdirected light.

The best combo for this madness. Driver A hits the beam. Driver B can't take this affront to ego. Beams back. Nice. Wonder why so many accidents on road? Its like countries nuking each other. One at a time. Canceling things out.

Bad habit. Lose it already.

The Fine Art of Spitting

2006-05-30T00:57:00.000-07:00

The following piece is graphic in content. Reader discretion advised. Ilost my lunch just writing it.

It was the patterns. They got me. Morphology unlimited. Hues of red/amber/vermilion. Take your pick. Sometimes colorless. They were everywhere. Crept into the mind's eye. Indefatigable. More powerful in presence than that favorite symbol of the Indian landscape, the mosquito.

I stepped out one fine morning. Feeling nice and dandy. This chap gave me a demo. Sucked back. Smirk on face. Delivered with aplomb. Fine spray barely missing moi. Ugly stare to man. Man shrugs shoulders. Gets ready for round 2. I have limited wardrobe. Just bathed after mom petitioned High Court. I ran. Sped. Disappeared. I love to give up.

The prostate gland as is well-known is a single. No colleagues. Still most women (sorry all) will confirm that it is the most overworked gland in male humans. Same human possesses several salivary glands. Many. Meant to aid digestion and speaking and fund our favorite pastime, Spitting. Have glands will spray.

Our wonderful roads are world-famous for a myriad reasons. Among them potholes (who can resist a pothole reference) and spit patterns. One, more glorious than the other. Using the tar as an innocent canvas humans are such fine artists. Gory. Disgusting. Gut-wrenching.
Animals of the world urinate to delineate their territory. We spit. Use the saliva to mark our world. Get into a bus, spit out the window. Get out of a bus, spit. Using a lift, spit. Using the stairs, spit. See a spittoon? Spit by its side. We are the champions my friend.We'll keep on spitting till the end.

Mind you. Spitting is good for us. Otherwise we would't do it. Not us. It keeps us humble. How? Head-down while walking on road. Avoiding the red beauties. Becomes a part of behavior. A modest,non-assuming race is defined.
Agility. Yes. Evading saliva artwork. Will make a super- athletic people.
That's the logic.

Movie to watch compulsorily: My Cousin Vinny

The AjjiBujjiKere(ABK) phenomenon

2006-05-27T23:33:00.000-07:00

Things you need to know before proceeding

Ajji = old lady,grandma

Bujji = crushed,smashed - for this piece it is considered an english word and thus used in various forms like any self-respecting english word eg: bujjified, bujjifying, bujjied

Kere = snake of the rat..he he he...ratsnake i.e. snake that limits rat population

ABK = the phenomenon that was a vital part of my primary school days

It was PT period (you know...1-2-3-4 drill...the melee for the deflated footy). Little Ramu(say) went to retrieve ball from near gutter. Unbeknownst to this math-fearing, teacher-respecting, mugging-specialist there is some spillover from gutter content. Nothing mutagenic (i.e. can be washed off with apna dettol). But, its there. Ramu in his haste to pouch ball steps on yucky matter.Looks at his hawaii chappal in dismay. Tries to cover/wipeoff damage. Too late. Sham, yes, the one with the baritone voice witnesseth. Screams. AJJIBUJJIKERE rents the air.Horrifying. Ramu's spirit crumbles. Can he make it to the next tap? Can he make it in life? Ramu turns around. The till-now crowded PT field looks like the school library. Empty. Everyone has scooted. Saving themselves. Their souls. Their dignity.

But Ramu being a creature who hasn't yet encountered an entrance exam doesn't give in easy. He hunts. Like a tiger after a seven-day crash diet. Hungry. Eager. Vengeful. Finds little Frida. Cowering in fear. Attempting to hide behind the trunk of a tree. ABK he yells. More with relief. But wait a minute. What does little Frida have? Clutched in her left hand. A leaf! GREEN!! GREEN!! She dangles the savior with nonchalant ease. Ramu is crushed again. He sets off again. He must find non-green-possessing child to transfer this ABK. He must.

Well, whatever happened to Ramu I'm not sure but ABK was the phenomenon that ruled my limited-vision world as a primary school attendee. It was like the sword of Damocles that hung over our tender necks. We never knew who would be next? When would be next? Where would be next? Haunting.

Legend says (atleast the legend I have coffee with every tuesday) that ABK originated in the early 1700s. The story goes thus (if anyone disagrees then I will do karate for you).
There was this old lady. You know the type.Late 60s. Active. Kind-hearted. Betel-nut chewing.Jasmine flowers in oiled hair. On her way to the village fair. Spring in arthritic step. Folk song in heart. As she was walking, she felt that uncomfy squishy feeling under her left foot, only to look down in dismay to see a kere(ratsnake-remember) writhing in pain due to her bujjifying left foot. Hissing the choicest kere abuses he slithered away into the bushes to nurse his bujjified body back to its rat-hunting best (relax, nobody dies in my stories). This incident was observed by the Kere Gods. They obviously weren't too happy(Kere population figures were at an all-time low and acts like these certainly wouldn't help). Curse they hissed. Curse. But, wait one minute. Ajji was draped in a parrot- green saree (sent by son in phoreen). Gods were in dilemma now. Why you may wonder? Green was their patron color. Green was their gold. They couldn't punish granny now. A Kere law was passed. AJJIBUJJIKERE for any yucky steppings from now on. Possessing green will give immunity. However, an ABK individual can pass it on to some other unsuspecting non-green soul and rid himself/herself of the ABK tag. Thus, a hex was born. To terrorize thousands of school children in the years to come.

There are other fables (not true) about the origin of ABK by other 'experts' in this field. However, efforts are on to initiate a PhD position in ABK studies. One only hopes the truth (see above) will be established soon.

Acknowledgements:
Wah-Duuh girl
Choop Suri
Sujju Baba
Stanny my boy

I promise to share TV and film rights with you guys

Are you a LOLaholic?

2006-05-26T09:54:00.000-07:00

LOLaholism - Found in 'net-savvy' (lol) people of age 17-29. Common in both sexes. Insidious onset, rapid progression. Response to treatment is highly subjective.

Do you burst into LOLs when somebody cracks a joke?

Do you have a LOLmeter to rate comedies?

Do you keep telling everyone how much nicer 'November Rain' would sound with a few LOLs in it?

Do you tell people to have a LOLy day?

Do people call you LOLo? (and you do not resemble Karishma Kapoor)

Do you have your comp maintenance dude on speed dial? (to replace keys L and O)

If you have any of these symptoms, then you are afflicted by this emerging problem named LOLaholism. Do not worry. Help is available.

Call 1-800-NOLOL today

or

visit www.LOLaholicsanonymous.com

issued in public interest by,

LOLaholics Anonymous - Its no laughing matter

just lounge it!!

2006-05-23T22:21:00.000-07:00

The triangle had been formed. It took all of 243 seconds, not that I was counting, a mere estimate. But then, how do you evaluate bliss time? How? My lower back formed the hypotenuse of this instrument of joy. The super comfy lounge cushions made up the other two sides. Thoughts ran through my head or did they? I don't remember. It was like a flow of imagination had broken out but at a subconscious level. Ecstasy without effort.

Lounging for long has been a favourite pastime for yours truly. Whether it is in the lobby of a 'posh' hotel or the hardwood benches of the corner coffee shop I have always indulged in it with enthusiastic fervor. People would look at me and feel superior to my apparent good-for-nothing existence. I didn't care. I couldn't. I was in heaven remember. I wish they could feel what I was experiencing. They would think differently then.

It doesn't matter what you do while you lounge. You could be getting your nicotine rush, sipping your preferred beverage, reading a book, staring at the ceiling, anything. Its just the feeling of this 'activity' that takes you away to a different dimension. If I had a penny for every minute I lounged....lol

And, if your lower back still hits your choice of furniture. Slide. Before its too late. Lounge. Try.

book to lounge with : Freakonomics

the dynamics of having a swedish middle-name

2006-05-16T22:17:00.000-07:00

Bjorn- say it like beyond but without the 'd'

Cut to 1976. The Wimbledon Gentlemen's Singles Finals is in full swing as Bjorn Borg beats the wily Romanian Ilie Nastase in 3 sets. 'A new star is B(j)orn' screams a newspaper the next day. Accolades deluge the 'Iceman' ( he never lost his temper on court and was said to have a pulse rate constantly in the 30s!) and miles and miles away a fan is born of the great man, somewhere in Chandigrah, India. This fan goes on to have a son in 1981 and decides that he must be named after the master and thus yours truly has an exotic, swedish middle-name! Borg didn't stop at 1976. He came back in 1977 and repeated Wimbledon. Realising this was child's play(!) he marched on to 3 more victories '78-'80. Thus, becoming the only man ever to have 5 wimbys in a row. My dad, was an anaesthesiologist and had another Bjorn hero. A doctor called Bjorn Ipsen, whose work in the field of mech ventilators saved many lives in Copenhagen(not sure of the details). So, there I was with an unpronouncable middle-name in my arsenal and ready to take on the world (yeah sure)

The following are the various versions/mutilations my beloved middle-name received over the years,

Bon-Bon - from my kindergarten teacher....loved this nick...she still calls me this

Beejorn - very common...usually by new school teachers, overeager to make a performance out of attendance

Bajorn - like the previous one...variety is the spice of attendance too

Beejahoran - I don't even wanna start,luckily this was a one-off in some hall ticket

B. Jain - How innovative!Wonder what they thought the new 'B' stood for

Also, there are two distinct reactions I get to the discovery of the 'Bjorn' in my name. One is absolute surprise mixed with amusement and a barrage of queries. The other, is just indifference, almost like its the commonest middle-name in Asia! When something looks dicey (middle-names have been known to carry out savage attacks) people generally try to avoid it like it never exists. So some people won't go anywhere near 'Bjorn' even with a 9-foot barge pole.I also told a girl once that I was a 4th generation Swede who was forcibly brought to India from Sweden!! (heh heh - my cheap humor)

And finally, some other famous Bjorns I've come across

from the band 'ABBA' - one of the Bs is a Bjorn
the singer Bjork - ok ok..there's a point mutation..but I'm keeping it
pro- golfer Thomas Bjorn - stop rolling your eyes..lol

if you find more....lemme know..I'll buy you some candy

the origin of chicken 65 - my version

2006-05-08T10:46:00.000-07:00

The following is purely based on what a dear friend told me.Any anger/disbelief/brickbats can be directed at him ( ask me for contact details..heh heh). Anyway I found it fascinating.

NOTE: Geographical references maybe messed up.Kindly excuse.

We roamed the streets of Chennai. First gulping down some bread-omlette at this famous gaadi shop in Egmore(I think).Fingerlicking stuff. Then hopped onto the bike and roamed some more. Saw an accident. It was gonna be eventful this night. You could smell it in the air even with a cold!

Finally found our way onto Mount Road. Gaped at the Hindu office. My friend, almost nonchalantly asked me whether yours truly knew about chicken 65. I looked at him incredulously, which confirmed that I indeed had. He then proceeded to stump me with the do-you-know-why-its-called-that question.Taking my silence for a no he gave his machine some torque and we landed at this ancient place called Buhari. Its a small place, obviously revamped recently for a more modish look. He told me that the famous chicken 65 originated here and is so named because it used to be item number 65 on the retaurant's menu!! We didn't have time for much more talk as we sank our fangs into that red heaven they call 65 at Buhari. Yummy in my tummy!

Of course, there are many other stories to the name, like 65 ingredients required to make it (yeah sure), 65 days to make it ( i nearly fell off my chair when i saw this), using only chicken with 65 feathers (that one i just made up) etc...I mean as long as they keep belting it out by the plateful what does it matter.

Another day. Another discovery.

PS: Had a solid dose of petrichor today evening. Magical experience. Magical.

Book to read : for good timepass- Q and A

the unbearable difficulty of queueing

2006-05-03T04:27:00.000-07:00

No, its not about the queueing theory. It can't be I don't know what the queueing theory is. Damn! Its tough typing queueing in. I've lost my sense of spelling (sniff sniff). Anyways,
An MCQ for all you entrance exam junkies,

What have we not inherited/adopted from the brits
a) cricket
b) the english language
c) super huge buildings like the Rashtrapathi Bhavan
d) the ability to form an orderly queue

and the answer is (drum roll............) D....if you didn't get that do not despair...help is on the way

Lemme start with a simple example which just happens to be a brutally true story (ok the brutally shouldn't be there..but what the heck, this is MY blog). I was at the train station the other day to pick up a friend and being the law-abiding (ahem) citizen that I am, I proceeded to the platform ticket counter where there was a grand total of one person buying his ticket. I walked up leisurely and noticed from the corner of my eye that someone else was approaching this counter. But, fleet-footed as I am (ahem again) I happened to reach a micromilli second before this other chap, but, he wouldn't have any of it. He shoved his hand across my beer belly and tried to get his ticket. All he got was me being ticked off!! I gave him a piece of my mind (and then took it back.. I need all I got!!) and proceeded to have an unnecessary argument in front of the counter. Finally we both walked away platform tickets firmly clutched in our palms each convinced the other was a fruitcake.

So, do we have a queueing culture? I mean is it in us? All of us? Hell no. Take the movie Rang De Basanti. Good movie. Many people loved it and rushed off to the nearest ammo store to stock up (kiddin..kiddin). I mean the movie instills a sense of pride of being an Indian and being responsible ( though I totally condemn vigilante justice). There was this story doing the rounds about people burning/tearing their H1B visas ( if you've read my previous post you'd probably know that there was no way I would check the veracity of that story) and stuff like that. But the funny thing is, for all that adrenaline pumping through the veins in the name of improvement, the queues outside cinemas showing RDB that I saw were all disorderly and many of these people were coming in to watch for a second or third time. I might have been confusing in this paragraph, but what I'm saying is we do know that we need to queue up but we don't bother. I wish that would change. Sincerely do.

Every year when the preeminent tennis tournament of the world, Wimbledon commences in June, we see telly pics of people literally camping on the pavements waiting to get their tickets the next morning. Not one of them breaks the order. You come first, you in first. You come 173rd, you in 173rd. I read somewhere that during the 7/7 bombings in London, the brits were so orderly during evacuation procedures that even a single individual formed a queue! I'm no brit-fanatic but I feel that we as a people must adopt this culture. We'll be better off with it. I'm sure.

word of the day: petrichor ['pe-trÃª-ko(r) or -tri-] the smell of rain on dry ground .....sexy word

then he went around the world...twice...before he posted his second one

2006-05-01T14:33:00.000-07:00

Well its official, my laziness is certifiable. Yippee!! Gonna laminate this beauty and hang it on my prettiest wall for all to gawk. I'm gonna be the star of my neighborhood. Wait a minute. Wait just one minute. What neighborhood? I don't even know the name of my next-door neighbor!! How do you like that? I'm lazy, I like to show off and I'm anti-social. Wonderful. Just wonderful. It ain't been a good last few days for me. Thought I'd just slip that in to leave you in a sense of suspense plus sow the seed of sympathy for myself. Cunning ain't I? Holy long list of qualities Batman!!
a) lazy (certified)
b) show-off
c) anti-social (almost like I have a neighbor called neighbor-sad situation sadder joke)
d) cunning

Ok so if you're still reading this by now, I admire your fortitude (testicular or otherwise). Was watching Anthony Bourdain on Travel and Living this evening. That man is good!! He swears at the drop of a hat and makes it sound like he was cooing to a baby. Wish I had a job like that.
All righty then. Till next time whenever that may be. Ciao.

This time's book to read : TIN FISH

FIRST BASE

2006-02-25T13:17:00.000-08:00

hullo fellow netizens,

its too late now...i've already registered my blog...couldn't help it...so you people have to live with it...face it...tolerate it...endure it and hopefully let it out tomorrow morning!!

cheers