Song for Ludmilla
I met ten nights in Cuba
They were looking for us
So were several old queens and kings
And little rodents in spiral nests
They are all waiting for us
We, who might never be there,
They would want us to touch the frigid glow
Of a cold evening in Paris
Or drown ourselves in advertising signs
In memory of poems forgotten
They would like it too (I think)
To hear a song in our gusty unison
From voices trained in gin and beer
Or soaked in some unaccustomed rain
(That’s us)
We are
Suspended words in a written page
Well written
Unfinished
Printed, Published
Reviewed and Sealed
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Rush Hour
It wouldn’t have made a difference but he opened his eyes anyways. They were strapped in, in that impenetrable darkness. The damp dull soaked-paper stench stuffed him. He wanted to stretch out, dangle a leg, jump up or scream, but the jutting arm of the man next to him- body spilling out of the seat in both directions-tore down his rushing insanity into shreds of silence. It was full, the array of rows and columns of strapped humid human bodies, unbefitting of its rather luxurious generic name of Starship. He had to think of death here, of course. What if this entire thing burned and crashed now, he thought, or better still in the next few minutes, after giving him last moments of physical stuffed in agony? If it blew up , this "Starship" would get nowhere and drift endlessly as molecules in space. Or time?
He had never bothered about the physics of it and his grasp was so slight that the thought evaporated before it could take a grip around that cold sweaty mind of his. The woman in the back seat belched sour onions, swollen mushrooms and blocked drain pipes. The man next to him snored.
They had turned off his personal device and he couldn't read or talk. He had no one to talk to any way; to invite in or to place a call. That was of course the reason why he was there. The reason why he tried so many times, traveled so often.
It would make sense to sleep so he tried to. He had never succeeded ever and he knew this time was not going to be different. He let the memories stream in. This happened to every one when they subjected their brains to sleep efforts in this sort of travel. He had read that some where. No. A doctor had told him of side effects and potential damages when he went to see one, sure that he had a cancer of the stomach. The pain had been too often and too much and this one was sure it was because of the travel he did. ‘You subject yourself to this like a monkey in a research cage’ the wise doctor had told him. Monkeys in research cages are subjects with no free will, he had thought, but kept it to himself. She would have liked it though, like she did when they joked around on a swing at the science park. He had work to do, he remembered. He could choose to let go later, but chances were slim. Thoughts now randomized themselves. Steady flow of images, words, sorrows and painful lost happiness thudded in beat by beat despite the chaos of random recollection. They were all filling him with that same sense of loss that he was now so used to. No way out.
He could feel the tension in the straps. There was the slow, languorous drift of the darkness below his feet, like the drag of wheels on a surface, only that in this case it was an illusion created by some engineering marvel to code in movement ( faster movement, to be scientifically precise) through time. A single red light, too thin to notice, too focused to miss, blinked thrice next to that first row of seats, almost half a mile away from him. Few would have noticed, though. The universe seemed to have the gift to sleep in these boxes, but not him. This was the moment he dreaded every time. That useless, inert, going nowhere feeling of being trapped and strapped and violated by restrictions and rules while he let himself and his body be shipped across through a science he did not know about, a science that could fail so often, directed by flawed human hands and minds that were infallible if he calculated the numbers, but he couldn't because he did not know the statistics…They were off.He could hear her now. He was there. In that vague time frame with no markers, all removed, for the safety and comfort of the passengers by Starship Inc. USA. He hated their thoughtfulness. But it was no time for hate, all puns intended. He laughed at his own meager joke. There she was waiting for him. At a book store this time. When was this? She looked twenty four. What was she wearing? He can mark the time by how she looked and what she wore and what she smelled off. But that was then and now so much had gone. He thought he knew them well, those memories, but he was wrong every time. She looked startled. He had arrived too soon. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. The timing was of the essence and it had gone awry. She smiled. She was surprised, that’s all. This was the auto correction full guarantee package see? They couldn’t have got it wrong. Bliss.
Close your mind and think of me, she said
You mean my eyes?
No your mind, silly. It flows too strong.
It doesn’t.
It ebbs and flows all the time around me.
Like the sea, see!
You would be a sea monster then! She smiled
This was nonsense. They had never exchanged such metaphysical blather ever. It was a functional relationship, theirs. That was its flaw, if there ever was one. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was recalling scenes from a movie for sure. Else, it was his fanciful imagination at work. Why would his mind conjure this achingly tender, sublime, love scene that belonged to an art house Swedish film?
Like the Loch Ness, he said unable to control the flow, now that it was all set.
Nessie can’t talk, she replied
Says who?
Says I
How would you know?
I just do
Like you know everything else
Yes
Like your mind, your reasons, your way, which I will never understand and ask you the wrong questions at the wrong times that make you feel angry and me so lonely
Ah poor baby!
He wanted to shout this thing down to a stop. It was all wrong. This couldn’t be his mind. It was never this poetic, to his best of his knowledge and ability. It was an exciting little whirlpool of frustrated desires, deep sexual longing, inane mathematical equations and a dark vengeful competitive attitude towards even the people who loved him. Some one was screwing up badly, somewhere. He needed his money back. Also, the effort and the time; he could let them keep the time. While this went on in his head, there he was still talking to her.
What color am I?
Yellow. Golden Yellow
And You?
Blue
You said I was Blue once
Now you aren’t. I am.
What does Yellow mean?
Same as Blue, I think. But sadder
I am not sad
No you aren’t, she said.
Do you love me?
This was it. He had had enough of this drivel. However, little could be done. This was turbulence in the time stream, with some one else infecting his for sure; Onion breath or snoring fat man, most likely. He couldn’t believe either of them could be this poetic. He couldn’t get off it of course. He was doomed. What if this went on like this forever? What if he was stuck in this alternate cinema shit, that his time line was giving him? Maybe they were all doomed, the entire lot of them, strapped together in that machine. That would be some solace, like going up in flames together. Wait! This had happened…
You are early!
Am I?
Yes you are! You are! She squealed.
Are you still the same, Love?
What do you mean?
I have traveled so much and am really tired. I spout nonsense. Don’t you mind!
No you haven’t! You have walked for five minutes!
Have I?
Yes you did. She laughs.
Like coins shaken inside a tin box.
What?
Your laugh!
Let’s get an ice cream
Why?
Because.
She says his name five times. In quick succession…like she wanted him, his soul, his life. This was more like it. He felt like screaming his love out, but that would be different from what happened. A little too different and trigger the dissonance. Dissonance? How could love cause dissonance? It breaks the temporal loop, because she would figure out an intrusion. Not consciously, but somewhere in the back of her mind. At best of times, it would turn up as a headache and loss of interest, which would only mean that he loses the action for the moment, but gets back home safely. Or he would slip in completely. It had to be regression or dissonance. Nothing else could happen. They had programmed tragedy and farce so well in with this. It was not their fault; it was just the universe fucking up. That was what the Caveat Emptor fine print told every passenger about. They knew it well. They tried nevertheless. It was part of life now. Before he could figure out what he could do, he heard her say
We thank you for minding your safety. It’s a privilege to serve you And we hope to see you again Leave now, Sir!
No.That wasn't her.
It was bright white and empty. The seat next to him was wet to the touch, with the sweat of the snorer. The air was lighter with the open exit door letting in the cold night’s winds in. Most of the passengers had walked away, filing slowly out through the winding aisle, weighed down by their own reasons and tragedies. A few chattered, seeking an impossible release through feeble efforts; like returning together. Their chatter was muted whisper though. Everyone was up and leaving. They had lives to return to, unlike him. He was back again, feeling alone and abandoned, stuck to a chair in the middle of nothing. Like every other time.
When he unstrapped himself, the last of them had disappeared through the exit door. That must have set the alarms off and She came, starch white, trim, friendly and distant like the law. She asked him with polite reserve if everything was alright. He said it was fine and he got up to leave. She was beautiful enough to be his redemption. He would meet her again, soon.
He had done this so often that he had their Eternity Platinum Card Triple Plus. If She knew of his special status, things would be easier. If not, he might not make the effort and slip into his guilt stream again. If there was one surety in that entire temporal mess, it was the fact that he would not make that effort. The fact that he would be back again; that the exit door would just loop itself back in to let him in again. To strap himself and travel, through unclear and unsteady science, back to where nothing waited and in indescribable ways, happened the way they always did.
It wouldn’t have made a difference but he opened his eyes anyways. They were strapped in, in that impenetrable darkness. The damp dull soaked-paper stench stuffed him. He wanted to stretch out, dangle a leg, jump up or scream, but the jutting arm of the man next to him- body spilling out of the seat in both directions-tore down his rushing insanity into shreds of silence. It was full, the array of rows and columns of strapped humid human bodies, unbefitting of its rather luxurious generic name of Starship. He had to think of death here, of course. What if this entire thing burned and crashed now, he thought, or better still in the next few minutes, after giving him last moments of physical stuffed in agony? If it blew up , this "Starship" would get nowhere and drift endlessly as molecules in space. Or time?
He had never bothered about the physics of it and his grasp was so slight that the thought evaporated before it could take a grip around that cold sweaty mind of his. The woman in the back seat belched sour onions, swollen mushrooms and blocked drain pipes. The man next to him snored.
They had turned off his personal device and he couldn't read or talk. He had no one to talk to any way; to invite in or to place a call. That was of course the reason why he was there. The reason why he tried so many times, traveled so often.
It would make sense to sleep so he tried to. He had never succeeded ever and he knew this time was not going to be different. He let the memories stream in. This happened to every one when they subjected their brains to sleep efforts in this sort of travel. He had read that some where. No. A doctor had told him of side effects and potential damages when he went to see one, sure that he had a cancer of the stomach. The pain had been too often and too much and this one was sure it was because of the travel he did. ‘You subject yourself to this like a monkey in a research cage’ the wise doctor had told him. Monkeys in research cages are subjects with no free will, he had thought, but kept it to himself. She would have liked it though, like she did when they joked around on a swing at the science park. He had work to do, he remembered. He could choose to let go later, but chances were slim. Thoughts now randomized themselves. Steady flow of images, words, sorrows and painful lost happiness thudded in beat by beat despite the chaos of random recollection. They were all filling him with that same sense of loss that he was now so used to. No way out.
He could feel the tension in the straps. There was the slow, languorous drift of the darkness below his feet, like the drag of wheels on a surface, only that in this case it was an illusion created by some engineering marvel to code in movement ( faster movement, to be scientifically precise) through time. A single red light, too thin to notice, too focused to miss, blinked thrice next to that first row of seats, almost half a mile away from him. Few would have noticed, though. The universe seemed to have the gift to sleep in these boxes, but not him. This was the moment he dreaded every time. That useless, inert, going nowhere feeling of being trapped and strapped and violated by restrictions and rules while he let himself and his body be shipped across through a science he did not know about, a science that could fail so often, directed by flawed human hands and minds that were infallible if he calculated the numbers, but he couldn't because he did not know the statistics…They were off.He could hear her now. He was there. In that vague time frame with no markers, all removed, for the safety and comfort of the passengers by Starship Inc. USA. He hated their thoughtfulness. But it was no time for hate, all puns intended. He laughed at his own meager joke. There she was waiting for him. At a book store this time. When was this? She looked twenty four. What was she wearing? He can mark the time by how she looked and what she wore and what she smelled off. But that was then and now so much had gone. He thought he knew them well, those memories, but he was wrong every time. She looked startled. He had arrived too soon. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. The timing was of the essence and it had gone awry. She smiled. She was surprised, that’s all. This was the auto correction full guarantee package see? They couldn’t have got it wrong. Bliss.
Close your mind and think of me, she said
You mean my eyes?
No your mind, silly. It flows too strong.
It doesn’t.
It ebbs and flows all the time around me.
Like the sea, see!
You would be a sea monster then! She smiled
This was nonsense. They had never exchanged such metaphysical blather ever. It was a functional relationship, theirs. That was its flaw, if there ever was one. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was recalling scenes from a movie for sure. Else, it was his fanciful imagination at work. Why would his mind conjure this achingly tender, sublime, love scene that belonged to an art house Swedish film?
Like the Loch Ness, he said unable to control the flow, now that it was all set.
Nessie can’t talk, she replied
Says who?
Says I
How would you know?
I just do
Like you know everything else
Yes
Like your mind, your reasons, your way, which I will never understand and ask you the wrong questions at the wrong times that make you feel angry and me so lonely
Ah poor baby!
He wanted to shout this thing down to a stop. It was all wrong. This couldn’t be his mind. It was never this poetic, to his best of his knowledge and ability. It was an exciting little whirlpool of frustrated desires, deep sexual longing, inane mathematical equations and a dark vengeful competitive attitude towards even the people who loved him. Some one was screwing up badly, somewhere. He needed his money back. Also, the effort and the time; he could let them keep the time. While this went on in his head, there he was still talking to her.
What color am I?
Yellow. Golden Yellow
And You?
Blue
You said I was Blue once
Now you aren’t. I am.
What does Yellow mean?
Same as Blue, I think. But sadder
I am not sad
No you aren’t, she said.
Do you love me?
This was it. He had had enough of this drivel. However, little could be done. This was turbulence in the time stream, with some one else infecting his for sure; Onion breath or snoring fat man, most likely. He couldn’t believe either of them could be this poetic. He couldn’t get off it of course. He was doomed. What if this went on like this forever? What if he was stuck in this alternate cinema shit, that his time line was giving him? Maybe they were all doomed, the entire lot of them, strapped together in that machine. That would be some solace, like going up in flames together. Wait! This had happened…
You are early!
Am I?
Yes you are! You are! She squealed.
Are you still the same, Love?
What do you mean?
I have traveled so much and am really tired. I spout nonsense. Don’t you mind!
No you haven’t! You have walked for five minutes!
Have I?
Yes you did. She laughs.
Like coins shaken inside a tin box.
What?
Your laugh!
Let’s get an ice cream
Why?
Because.
She says his name five times. In quick succession…like she wanted him, his soul, his life. This was more like it. He felt like screaming his love out, but that would be different from what happened. A little too different and trigger the dissonance. Dissonance? How could love cause dissonance? It breaks the temporal loop, because she would figure out an intrusion. Not consciously, but somewhere in the back of her mind. At best of times, it would turn up as a headache and loss of interest, which would only mean that he loses the action for the moment, but gets back home safely. Or he would slip in completely. It had to be regression or dissonance. Nothing else could happen. They had programmed tragedy and farce so well in with this. It was not their fault; it was just the universe fucking up. That was what the Caveat Emptor fine print told every passenger about. They knew it well. They tried nevertheless. It was part of life now. Before he could figure out what he could do, he heard her say
We thank you for minding your safety. It’s a privilege to serve you And we hope to see you again Leave now, Sir!
No.That wasn't her.
It was bright white and empty. The seat next to him was wet to the touch, with the sweat of the snorer. The air was lighter with the open exit door letting in the cold night’s winds in. Most of the passengers had walked away, filing slowly out through the winding aisle, weighed down by their own reasons and tragedies. A few chattered, seeking an impossible release through feeble efforts; like returning together. Their chatter was muted whisper though. Everyone was up and leaving. They had lives to return to, unlike him. He was back again, feeling alone and abandoned, stuck to a chair in the middle of nothing. Like every other time.
When he unstrapped himself, the last of them had disappeared through the exit door. That must have set the alarms off and She came, starch white, trim, friendly and distant like the law. She asked him with polite reserve if everything was alright. He said it was fine and he got up to leave. She was beautiful enough to be his redemption. He would meet her again, soon.
He had done this so often that he had their Eternity Platinum Card Triple Plus. If She knew of his special status, things would be easier. If not, he might not make the effort and slip into his guilt stream again. If there was one surety in that entire temporal mess, it was the fact that he would not make that effort. The fact that he would be back again; that the exit door would just loop itself back in to let him in again. To strap himself and travel, through unclear and unsteady science, back to where nothing waited and in indescribable ways, happened the way they always did.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Loretta
"She is not what she appears to be, dude" He said this attempting that meaningful look again after some nine earlier attempts. It involved lowering his head down, looking up at me from around sixty degrees and arching his eyebrows, while the eyes narrowed down as if they were exposed to radiant violet light.
"Oh?" I was busy looking else where. May be I was thinking about how I needed to get my love life back on track. Most likely I was texting back someone who wanted to do business with the company I worked for.
He looked disappointed by my reaction. I felt compelled to add, “You think she is cheating on you?"
"No"
"She doesn't love you?"
Eyebrows arched. Eyes narrowed.
"That's not the point"
"Oh?" I had to text back to the texted reply.
"I think she is spying on me!"
“oh...what?"
"She is a spy, dude. I am sure of it now"
I needed to avoid the eyes and eyebrow bit to understand what was going on.
"Like Mata Hari types? The sexy female spy who can be lethal if she wanted to be...prick you with the tip of her poisoned heel into eternal damnation! Wow!"
"No"
"Then?"
"Like a terrorist bomber...Manisha Koirala in that Mani Ratnam flop show"
"Dil se...She wasn't a spy in that one...was she?"
"Haven't watched it...but I think that's how it went...any ways dude, this one's dangerous!"
"Why would she spy on you?"
"What do you mean?" He looked indescribably hurt.
"You are not a spy target. Putin is. Obama is. Hillary is. May be Castro still is. You work in a soft ware company. You have been there for seven years. Who could she be spying on you for? Pakistan? You have known her for seven odd years now"
Exhausted by this gush of advisory flow, I looked around for the waiter to order another pitcher of beer.
"In Bangalore, life is what happens to you between two beers” said the head looking up at me from sixty two degrees.
That was profound. I had to concede that to him. "Indeed. Indeed. Well said!" I acknowledged. It sounded like a Lennon song though...
"She is spying on me on behalf of the competition. I am precious to this company dude. Without me they are nothing. My team is the brain behind it all. If she understands what I am up to...then she knows where my company wants to be"
"She is a school teacher!"
"By day!"
"Precisely! Standards one to three… eight a.m. to five. ..when would she spy on you?"
I have to admit there was potential for self improvement here. This was one was cute, intelligent and cool. If he was going to desert her for some vague reason, I could move in. So what if she was Mata Hari, or Anna whatever.
"Then why does she hack my e mail id? Why does she want to befriend every friend of mine on Face Book? Why would she leave anonymous comments on my blog? She is tracking me. She even figured out the password to my lap top. I caught her twice!"
"And?"
"She looks below the bed every night to check if there are monsters. I thought it was cute. But now I know it’s a microphone she switches on every night."
"Porn! Porn!"
"Fat chance..."
“How did you figure out it was a microphone?”
“ It’s not really a microphone. I think she drops her cell phone there after dialing the number.”
“Ooh…but dude, you end up paying up here phone bills most times. You can find out who she is dialing.”
“I tried. But there is no indication”
“May be she switches the SIMs” I helped. It was hard to resist. He was going mad or I was starring in a cool Hollywood thriller. Either ways it worked.
He had thought of that already though it seemed.
“So have there been any tangible causalities of her spying on you. Lost market shares? Super agile competition?”
“Not much…I don’t think she has got any where so far”
There was silence for the next five minutes as we poured ourselves our mugs of beer and sipped on the fresh froth in silence.
The beer’s yellow luminescence added a touch of mystery to our table to the viewer on the cinematic screen. If we were in a movie, that is, and somebody had paid money to watch us.
We burped in unison after the silent contemplation.
“So what do you plan to do now?”
“I think you should start dating her dude. I will act mean for a while and break up with her. You move in with the friend in need routine and everyone’s happy!”
“You are pimping your girl friend to me?”
“I am extracting myself from a difficult situation and helping you out as collateral”
“I am alright. Thank you!”
“You need female company dude. You will be thirty soon and you need to find yourself someone”
“Yeah. But I don’t need a spy!”
“She is a school teacher”
“You said she is a spy!”
“And a teacher too…she satisfies two major male fantasy criteria in one shot”
“Get her to join a nursing school for an airline company and she will be complete”
“All yours, dude!”
“Why would she let you go? If she was spying on you, she will find a way of keeping you…wouldn’t she?”
“That’s where you move in. You keep her too busy to spy”
“Maybe her boss will move her out with a black mark for ‘failed mission’”
“Great!”
“So what happens to me?”
“Why would you be serious about a spy anyways?”
“I think I am calling for the cheque. This conversation is going nowhere.”
We wrote crap in the air very fast in cursive font, in the direction of the waiter. He interpreted it, as intended, as a request for the bill.
We split the bill through complicated mathematical techniques.
“So what’s the plan now?”
“I am going home” I said “Got to finish this book…you?”
“She is here now. We are going to watch a movie at Rex”
We stepped out of the humid darkness of the pub into the crisp cold evening air.
She was there alright. Beautiful as always, looking just a little lost. Almost timid. A touch lonely. Gracefully slim and just right in height.
She smiled at me as she grabbed at his arm for support.
“Can you pick up the phone please? She asked, pointing at the phone she had just dropped.
I handed it over, waved good bye, turned around and left.
"She is not what she appears to be, dude" He said this attempting that meaningful look again after some nine earlier attempts. It involved lowering his head down, looking up at me from around sixty degrees and arching his eyebrows, while the eyes narrowed down as if they were exposed to radiant violet light.
"Oh?" I was busy looking else where. May be I was thinking about how I needed to get my love life back on track. Most likely I was texting back someone who wanted to do business with the company I worked for.
He looked disappointed by my reaction. I felt compelled to add, “You think she is cheating on you?"
"No"
"She doesn't love you?"
Eyebrows arched. Eyes narrowed.
"That's not the point"
"Oh?" I had to text back to the texted reply.
"I think she is spying on me!"
“oh...what?"
"She is a spy, dude. I am sure of it now"
I needed to avoid the eyes and eyebrow bit to understand what was going on.
"Like Mata Hari types? The sexy female spy who can be lethal if she wanted to be...prick you with the tip of her poisoned heel into eternal damnation! Wow!"
"No"
"Then?"
"Like a terrorist bomber...Manisha Koirala in that Mani Ratnam flop show"
"Dil se...She wasn't a spy in that one...was she?"
"Haven't watched it...but I think that's how it went...any ways dude, this one's dangerous!"
"Why would she spy on you?"
"What do you mean?" He looked indescribably hurt.
"You are not a spy target. Putin is. Obama is. Hillary is. May be Castro still is. You work in a soft ware company. You have been there for seven years. Who could she be spying on you for? Pakistan? You have known her for seven odd years now"
Exhausted by this gush of advisory flow, I looked around for the waiter to order another pitcher of beer.
"In Bangalore, life is what happens to you between two beers” said the head looking up at me from sixty two degrees.
That was profound. I had to concede that to him. "Indeed. Indeed. Well said!" I acknowledged. It sounded like a Lennon song though...
"She is spying on me on behalf of the competition. I am precious to this company dude. Without me they are nothing. My team is the brain behind it all. If she understands what I am up to...then she knows where my company wants to be"
"She is a school teacher!"
"By day!"
"Precisely! Standards one to three… eight a.m. to five. ..when would she spy on you?"
I have to admit there was potential for self improvement here. This was one was cute, intelligent and cool. If he was going to desert her for some vague reason, I could move in. So what if she was Mata Hari, or Anna whatever.
"Then why does she hack my e mail id? Why does she want to befriend every friend of mine on Face Book? Why would she leave anonymous comments on my blog? She is tracking me. She even figured out the password to my lap top. I caught her twice!"
"And?"
"She looks below the bed every night to check if there are monsters. I thought it was cute. But now I know it’s a microphone she switches on every night."
"Porn! Porn!"
"Fat chance..."
“How did you figure out it was a microphone?”
“ It’s not really a microphone. I think she drops her cell phone there after dialing the number.”
“Ooh…but dude, you end up paying up here phone bills most times. You can find out who she is dialing.”
“I tried. But there is no indication”
“May be she switches the SIMs” I helped. It was hard to resist. He was going mad or I was starring in a cool Hollywood thriller. Either ways it worked.
He had thought of that already though it seemed.
“So have there been any tangible causalities of her spying on you. Lost market shares? Super agile competition?”
“Not much…I don’t think she has got any where so far”
There was silence for the next five minutes as we poured ourselves our mugs of beer and sipped on the fresh froth in silence.
The beer’s yellow luminescence added a touch of mystery to our table to the viewer on the cinematic screen. If we were in a movie, that is, and somebody had paid money to watch us.
We burped in unison after the silent contemplation.
“So what do you plan to do now?”
“I think you should start dating her dude. I will act mean for a while and break up with her. You move in with the friend in need routine and everyone’s happy!”
“You are pimping your girl friend to me?”
“I am extracting myself from a difficult situation and helping you out as collateral”
“I am alright. Thank you!”
“You need female company dude. You will be thirty soon and you need to find yourself someone”
“Yeah. But I don’t need a spy!”
“She is a school teacher”
“You said she is a spy!”
“And a teacher too…she satisfies two major male fantasy criteria in one shot”
“Get her to join a nursing school for an airline company and she will be complete”
“All yours, dude!”
“Why would she let you go? If she was spying on you, she will find a way of keeping you…wouldn’t she?”
“That’s where you move in. You keep her too busy to spy”
“Maybe her boss will move her out with a black mark for ‘failed mission’”
“Great!”
“So what happens to me?”
“Why would you be serious about a spy anyways?”
“I think I am calling for the cheque. This conversation is going nowhere.”
We wrote crap in the air very fast in cursive font, in the direction of the waiter. He interpreted it, as intended, as a request for the bill.
We split the bill through complicated mathematical techniques.
“So what’s the plan now?”
“I am going home” I said “Got to finish this book…you?”
“She is here now. We are going to watch a movie at Rex”
We stepped out of the humid darkness of the pub into the crisp cold evening air.
She was there alright. Beautiful as always, looking just a little lost. Almost timid. A touch lonely. Gracefully slim and just right in height.
She smiled at me as she grabbed at his arm for support.
“Can you pick up the phone please? She asked, pointing at the phone she had just dropped.
I handed it over, waved good bye, turned around and left.
Monday, November 29, 2010
News of the world
Any passer by would have thought of them as one more lovelorn couple snuggling cozily in a public corner.
They were not snuggling. They were not cozy. And he had not thought that the hole in the wall Delhi restaurant with a really bad rock band from Manipur ‘entertaining guests’, could be described as a public corner.
Also, they were not a lovelorn couple. It was worse. She was telling him why he couldn’t write any more.
He was not some one who could bring himself to asking questions of this phenotype. He could, at the best of times, lecture you, badly, on rock history. Some times, but rarely, he could be really good at making self deprecatory jokes about his past loves. Most times he could do a great psycho analysis of himself for free, if you are interested.
“You cannot write, because you are being dishonest”, she said
“What?” This was an uncharacteristic squawk he had acquired from another friend.
“Yes! You write when you have honest feelings to express. When you look at the world around you and you want to convey a sense of longing, loneliness or bemusement at the absurdity that surrounds you…You cannot force yourself to write something. That would be junk.”
Her look conveyed “QED”. "This is what happens", he told himself, "when you date women you bump into in the literature sections of book stores. And you chose the one reading the back cover of a Murakami."
In a tone which to him indicated unerring resolve that she was wrong, he asked, “You think so?”
“Of course!” She pulled one loose hair strand behind the left ear. At some point in his life, he would have been irritated by such actions. He would have wondered why they can’t pull up their hair right. Now that middle age beckoned, he found it pretty.
"I am slipping" he told himself. "Here I am listening to a woman I do not know, in a city I hate, trying to be every thing I am not."
“Your problem I think is that you are not sure who you want to be. I have read your blog…”
“You have?”
"Try to make a joke", said the voice in his ear, "Point to a funny story..."
“Did you read the one about the frog?”
She smiled. “That was nice”, she said. The Smile disappeared.
"That’s it?", he thought. "I am with the wrong woman, again…"
“It’s all over the place. The Story for Children was brilliant though…”
"God! That wasn’t even written by me…or was it?", he thought
He tried his oldest method of distraction. “Have you had the coffee here?”
“It’s really bad.”
“Even the filter coffee?”
“That’s a fraud. I can make better filter coffee than that…”
“You can?”
“Yeah. I learnt it from my grand mother. She makes fabulous coffee in the afternoons.”
The conversation had reached a dead end again. He had never had his grand mother’s coffee to compare and contrast.
“So do you write?”
“Now and then, yes. Would you want to listen to a poem I wrote?”
“Yeah!” He was sure it was going to be bad. It had to be.
She took out her I-pad. Or was it a Kindle? He gave her a minus one in his head for being technologically competent
“It’s called a dream of love.
Man walks to the end of light
Takes five steps
And
Returns Free”
She put back the Kindle or what ever it was, into her hand bag and looked up at him.
He should have said it was beautiful. He should have smiled radiantly like a radio active being. He should have reached out and tried groping her fingers, moved by the poetry. He should have fallen in love right there.
“So what does it mean?” he asked.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Beatlejuice
A week or so back, was involved in a Beatles Tribute by a band at Bangalore. One of the features of the event was a quiz where in Remasters of Revolver, Abbey Road and Rubber Soul were given away to the winners.
Predictably, the people who were supposed to conduct the quiz had everything but the questions to ask.
The task of setting ten questions in five minutes was soon deflected to me.
Thought I'll share the churn out here
Here goes:
1. Which Beatles song was actually written as a single for the Rolling Stones?
2. What do the following people have in common- Hitler, Gandhi and Leo Gorcey?
3. Which song was actually written as a campaign song for Timothy Leary?
4. At some point in time of the other all the people in this list have enjoyed which informal title?
The list: Brian Epstein, Neil Aspinall, Derek Taylor, George Martin
5. Which Paul Mcartney song was addressed to Lennon's son?
6.Which Beatles song addressed to Lennon's mother has lines inspired by Khalil Gibran?
7.Which mock-Beatles band has hit singles like- Ouch!, The Fool on the Pill and
W C Fields Forever?
8. Which Beatles song, originally intended for Joe Cocker, was hailed by Sinatra as "the greatest love song ever"?
9. Which Beatles song is supposed to have been parodied by Bob Dylan in his song "4th Time around"?
10. Which movie ends with a dedication to Elias Howe who invented the sewing machine?
Predictably, the people who were supposed to conduct the quiz had everything but the questions to ask.
The task of setting ten questions in five minutes was soon deflected to me.
Thought I'll share the churn out here
Here goes:
1. Which Beatles song was actually written as a single for the Rolling Stones?
2. What do the following people have in common- Hitler, Gandhi and Leo Gorcey?
3. Which song was actually written as a campaign song for Timothy Leary?
4. At some point in time of the other all the people in this list have enjoyed which informal title?
The list: Brian Epstein, Neil Aspinall, Derek Taylor, George Martin
5. Which Paul Mcartney song was addressed to Lennon's son?
6.Which Beatles song addressed to Lennon's mother has lines inspired by Khalil Gibran?
7.Which mock-Beatles band has hit singles like- Ouch!, The Fool on the Pill and
W C Fields Forever?
8. Which Beatles song, originally intended for Joe Cocker, was hailed by Sinatra as "the greatest love song ever"?
9. Which Beatles song is supposed to have been parodied by Bob Dylan in his song "4th Time around"?
10. Which movie ends with a dedication to Elias Howe who invented the sewing machine?
Sunday, April 26, 2009
A for Adult Story- Chapter 2
or
Que Sera Sera (Whatever will be will be)
V is willing himself into one struggle with evil, for life. His life took swerves, turns in conjunction, post the brief moment of innocent bliss with Bob's sister.
Never will I forget the little girl, oh sister, he proceeded to expound in defense of his right to survive execution, to the Jury.
The Jury consisted of several bus drivers, industry union members, post communist free thinkers. None were disposed well to V. The enquiry was stilted= mockery.
Childhood is long gone. Depression seized the soul to turn it north of noble thought.
The world is obsessed with horse riding or liquor bottles, well fed on celebrity obsession, where everyone with you is one! famous!
The french seized control of musical thought.
Roxy! ! sighed V in front of the Judge.
Who would Roxy be? pondered the Jury
The red lights were turned off. Everywhere noir, great noir, the tune went.
Turn it off! Turn it off!
Memories of the little girl gently drifted through the wind. The wind is breeze from revolving rotors fixed to the ceiling.
Liquid excrement flows from the skin pores, only to turn into wind in the rotor breeze. The Jury with Judge silently excrete like I do, in dignity, as winds thieve our guilt.
You will see no light, is the verdict
Not right, the little boy thought, protesting.
Someone was listening.
It will be when it will be, she told him,misquoting
The future dimmed. He opened his eyes.
The lips were still there in frozen time. Bob' s sister.
I will be turned in but you turn me on, he told her.
Come in, she told him.
The storm shelter is torn down.
The little girl is lost.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Story for Children - Chapter 5
or
A for Adult Story - Chapter 1
The night little boy, V, witnessed, in person, the philosopher Bob expertly woo his six strings, he knew he would lose much sleep. The following nights were spent in pure torment. Drenched in soulful melodies rendered by Bob, V found himself violently thirsting to meet this myth, kiss his feet, serve the legend. Thus is the birth, the genesis of obsession. V could think of nothing else. Bob everywhere. Bob in everything. Food, delicious or otherwise, reeked of Bob. Routine work reminded him of Bob. Mindless gossip distilled to impromptu soliloquies on Bob. Sex, Bob. Wine, Bob. Music, Bob. Books, Bob. Bob, Bob, Bob, for eternity.
His friends were, not surprisingly, quite worried. "He's slipping to the sky," they would hwhisper. "Bob possesses the eerie power to set his lovers upon the route of no return, where no destiny exists to stir hope in the bosom. If V persists in this destructive love, we will lose him forever to the sky."
They spoke gentle words to him, offered gifts, tried diverting his mind to more fruitful hobbies, like horse riding. Their efforts were hopelessly doomed from the beginning. By the time they got wind of this insidious, one-sided religion, V found himself swirling, puppet like, in the rough storm unconsciously inflicted by Bob.
V spent more time with himself. Energy, he thought. This god brings me energy, while being curiously tiring, too. He slipped into endless worlds of mirrors. He met fellow Bobists living in his reflections. He needed no one else in his life.
"I need..," murmured V to himself softly. "Olive oil, mint, pesto, rice, herbs…""Excuse me… oh, I'm so sorry… Let me help you…"
"I need..," murmured V to himself softly. "Olive oil, mint, pesto, rice, herbs…""Excuse me… oh, I'm so sorry… Let me help you…"
V frowned. Stupid little girl, fucking bitch, he swore. Feet drenched in sunflower oil, he did not feel very forgiving.
The little girl stopped, suddenly, noticing his choice of music. "You listen to Bob!"
V nodded curtly.
"Whoever thought my loser-brother's music would be followed this wide!" She chuckled.
V froze. His blood pumped furiously through his veins. Bob's sister… he felt the urge to press his lips to the girl's. He felt himself grow. He fought the urge to lose himself in her tresses... He turned to the girl for the first time since their meeting.
Petite, with curly tresses, the little girl stood before him, glowing. Her eyes were liquid green, her lips cherry red, her skin toned down brown. The fingers were thin, lined with cuts – the gift of loving the six-string.
Petite, with curly tresses, the little girl stood before him, glowing. Her eyes were liquid green, her lips cherry red, her skin toned down brown. The fingers were thin, lined with cuts – the gift of loving the six-string.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Story for Children- Chapter 4
And so it all began. The little boy would religiously wake up at 4 o clock each morning and begin his holy rituals, starting with the ablutions and ending with prasad. He was careful not to wake the little girl, though. She would wake up at 8, drink her tea and leave for office, only to return at 10 pm.
The little boy spent all his time meditating in front of the altar, of course. In his mental and spiritual absence, the little girl took care of the house; she swept, washed and cooked like before. As days went by, the little boy began to see progress: he began to understand what the bottles were discussing. Strangely enough, the discussions seemed to be a seamless loop, like thus, barely discernable because of the slurred voices:
"The Queen it is, with her glittering diamonds." - This was a rough, Russian voice.
"And the jester by her side." - French.
"Oh, I say, seven for heaven!" - British, of course.
"Why, you.." - Angry chorus.
After which it deteriorated into dreadful, angry buzzing, like flies. After the buzzing died down, the conversation picked up from the beginning all over again.
The little boy simply did not know what to make of it. This was going to be a tougher ordeal than he ever imagined.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Story for Children- Chapter 3
"Did you know, tortoise, that polar bears are actually nudists evolved over the years?" The yellow tortoise bobbed at her feet, clearly startled.
"When early man introduced the concept of clothing, there was a section of society that begged to differ. The nudists set up a colony in the Arctic, far away from their hitherto fellow men. As time passed by, the nudists evolved into creatures with heavy fur to protect themselves from the biting cold. We know them as polar bears."
The little boy, who was following this carefully, was flabbergasted. The little girl was either clearly mad, or sagely beyond her years. The little boy could glimpse the Bottle on a shelf nearby, and tried to softly make his way to It.
SQUEEEAAAK!
The little boy looked around, startled, and realized that he had stepped on a blue giraffe near the door, which had squeaked loudly in turn. He sheepishly met the little girl's mildly surprised gaze.
"Hello, there," he ventured. And, feeling obliged to render an explanation, "I came in through the bathroom window."
"Wasn't it dreadfully slippery with all the moss growing on the walls?," she asked, in mild concern.
"Oh, it was OK, I managed quite alright."
The little girl smiled mildly. She was turning out to be a very mild person.
"Can I help you in any way?" she asked.
The little boy narrated the entire story to her, with some passion. The little girl listened sympathetically.
"So, you came back for the Bottle," she said. "You're welcome to be my guest to have it."
She led the way to her living room, where all the Bottle stood in resplendent splendour in the midst of the other bottles. The little boy stood before the holy scene for awhile; he could not be sure, but he thought he heard conversation from the altar, from the bottles themselves!
"Can you hear anything?," he asked the little girl.
"Why, no! Do you? I expect it's the neighbors. They do carry on so. Their parents were recently married, you see, and are on a honeymoon. When the cats are away, the mice will play!" she ended wisely.
The little boy fell silent. He knew what he must do. He mustered courage.
"May I stay at your place for some time?"
The little girl cocked her head mildly and looked seriously at the boy. "You're welcome if you want to," she said. "I'm gone most of the day - I work in an IT company, you know - so you should find it comfortable here."
"What work do you do?"
"I am a Self-Motivations Catalyst. I help people stay motivated in their work, and help them see a future in the company."
Friday, April 18, 2008
Story for Children -Chapter 2
The alcohol shopkeeper was in good spirits that day. He was always happy when the little girl paid his shop a visit. She was, in many ways, a divine sign that alcohol was his true calling. You see, once upon a time, the shopkeeper had been a sweets vendor, and had owned a famous bakery chain called 'Iyengar Bakery.' Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, the shopkeeper woke up one day to find the the Key opened the door no more. He made do with what he had, and became an alcohol vendor, owner of the famous alcohol chain 'Iyengar Bar.' His is a different story however, and we shall discuss him another day.
The character we are concerned about, at the moment, is his son, the little boy. When the shopkeeper got back home after a hard day's work each day, he would bring a gift for the little boy: a vintage alcohol bottle. He would often tell the little boy the story of the lost Key and the mysterious, divine circumstances that led to his being an alcohol shopkeeper. To his mother's consternation, the little boy listened very devoutly to these stories, and soon began to equate alcohol with the Divine presence in his life. He would religiously store all his father's daily gifts and then perform an elaborate ceremony involving flowers, incense, and empty alcohol bottles.
After many days of austere practice, the little boy was gifted with what he considered a divine vision: a vision of the Bottle that would save humanity. The Incarnation, he saw, would be in the shape of a Happy Buddha carved out of translucent green stone. When his father received his gift from Korea, a cheap arrack in the form of a Happy Buddha and carved from translucent green stone, the little boy was awed. The Bottle had chosen his humble home as its Headquarters to work It's magic from! Under the watch of his apalled mother, the little boy intensified his rituals and meditated upon the Bottle constantly.
While meditating one day, the little boy felt a disturbance in the divine aura surrounding him. He opened his eyes to see his father sell the bottle to a little girl. Distraught, the little boy surreptitiously followed the little girl home to try and coax the Bottle back to It's abode.
When they reached the little girl's home, the boy was startled for a second. The house was crooked so he had to crane his neck to make it look alright. After the initial moment of confusion, the little boy climbed up the pipes and entered the house through the bathroom window. He slowly made his way around, when he noticed the little girl in the bathtub with her back to him.
The little girl was dressed in a bright pink bathrobe and had a yellow tortoise floating near her feet. She seemed to be narrating a story to put it to sleep.
The alcohol shopkeeper was in good spirits that day. He was always happy when the little girl paid his shop a visit. She was, in many ways, a divine sign that alcohol was his true calling. You see, once upon a time, the shopkeeper had been a sweets vendor, and had owned a famous bakery chain called 'Iyengar Bakery.' Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, the shopkeeper woke up one day to find the the Key opened the door no more. He made do with what he had, and became an alcohol vendor, owner of the famous alcohol chain 'Iyengar Bar.' His is a different story however, and we shall discuss him another day.
The character we are concerned about, at the moment, is his son, the little boy. When the shopkeeper got back home after a hard day's work each day, he would bring a gift for the little boy: a vintage alcohol bottle. He would often tell the little boy the story of the lost Key and the mysterious, divine circumstances that led to his being an alcohol shopkeeper. To his mother's consternation, the little boy listened very devoutly to these stories, and soon began to equate alcohol with the Divine presence in his life. He would religiously store all his father's daily gifts and then perform an elaborate ceremony involving flowers, incense, and empty alcohol bottles.
After many days of austere practice, the little boy was gifted with what he considered a divine vision: a vision of the Bottle that would save humanity. The Incarnation, he saw, would be in the shape of a Happy Buddha carved out of translucent green stone. When his father received his gift from Korea, a cheap arrack in the form of a Happy Buddha and carved from translucent green stone, the little boy was awed. The Bottle had chosen his humble home as its Headquarters to work It's magic from! Under the watch of his apalled mother, the little boy intensified his rituals and meditated upon the Bottle constantly.
While meditating one day, the little boy felt a disturbance in the divine aura surrounding him. He opened his eyes to see his father sell the bottle to a little girl. Distraught, the little boy surreptitiously followed the little girl home to try and coax the Bottle back to It's abode.
When they reached the little girl's home, the boy was startled for a second. The house was crooked so he had to crane his neck to make it look alright. After the initial moment of confusion, the little boy climbed up the pipes and entered the house through the bathroom window. He slowly made his way around, when he noticed the little girl in the bathtub with her back to him.
The little girl was dressed in a bright pink bathrobe and had a yellow tortoise floating near her feet. She seemed to be narrating a story to put it to sleep.
Monday, March 31, 2008
A Story for Children
There was once a little girl who lived by herself in the city. She lived in a strange, lopsided house, which made you want to crane your neck sideways to correct its defects. During working hours, the little girl was a successful businesswoman, but after work, she was the most meticulous collector of alcohol memorabilia as a little girl could be.The interesting part was that she never drank a drop of alcohol herself. Oh, no, not she. She simply loved collecting her beloved bottles and stacking them on the shelf so that the sun rays passing through would soften the whole house in an amber tone in the mornings. On weekends, she would sit in her rocking chair and watch her clothes dry in the sun, content, while liquid amber sunshine washed over her. Unfortunately, this meant that the bottles themselves were always drunk, bring full of alcohol all the time. They tended to quarrel a lot among one another and delve into deep philosophical conversations, talking the most horrid nonsense you've ever heard.
One evening, the little girl went to the nearby alcohol store to see if there was an alcohol antique she could buy. The store keeper was joyous to see her. He considered the little girl a valuable, if scandalous, customer.
'Why, hello little girl! What will you have today?'
The little girl surveyed her options, a little disappointed. She realized that her collection was quite extensive, and it was becoming harder and harder to find a fascinating bottle of alcohol.
The store keeper saw the chagrin on her face and thought hard. He then quickly ran in and brought out a queerly striking bottle of alcohol, shaped like a happy Buddha. It seemed to be carved out of translucent orange stone, with the features beautifully defined. The little girl could not take her eyes off it.
The store keeper smiled benevolently and named a price thrice the cost of the cheap Korean packaged arrack he had received as a gift the same morning. The little girl bought it, thrilled, unable to believe her luck at having obtained what was clearly a rare piece of alcohol art.
She took the happy Buddha home, and placed it among the rest of the bottles, in the center. The others were immediately suspicious of a new comer who resembled the unfortunate union between a family member and a pot.
The happy Buddha smiled at them happily. 'Hello there, pleased to meet you,' he greeted them politely. He did not seem to be inebriated.
To be continued...
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
How to Avoid Cancer
or
Frog Fiction
We were at the tail end of the queue in a grocery store within an overcrowded Bangalore mall. It was Sunday and she had offered to 'teach' me how to make good pasta. The severe dearth of female company for several months had made me accept the offer and renounce my curd rice-pickle for that evening.
A couple from the northern part of the country made amorous hindi cooings with semi make -out moves, in front of our trolley. The man at the adjacent counter subjected the billing assistant to complex mathematical calculations involving his sodexho coupons.
"So", she said, " you love rains because it brings out the frogs..."
"The rains in green fields, hostel campuses and the rains at home...not the ones here in Bangalore..." I was busy watching the coo couple in front of us. Their turn at the billing counter had come, which gave temporary relief to the groping.
Our turn at the counter arrived.
"You forgot the olive oil!"
"No, I didn't. It's expensive..." I tried to explain
"You can't make good pesto without olive oil"
"What's pesto?"
She looked irritated by my ignorance.
"Go get the olive oil..." she whined
I ran across the queues and the aisles and plonked a small bottle worth 150 rupees at the counter. She looked pleased.
The bill exceeded 500 rupees. Hidden costs.
We were walking home.
"I love the way they hop," I said
She raised one eyebrow in incomprehension.
"Frogs..."
"Oh!"
It was a topic which had ended at the queue, I realized. I felt quite silly and remained silent.
"Go on..." she gave her indulgent smile.
I felt encouraged. I put on my "lecture time" voice.
"There are so many creatures that walk, run, go on all fours, fly...but these are the only guys who do that cool hop thing"
"Okayyy..." she drawled
"And also when we dissected frogs at school in biology classes..."
"You guys used to cut up frogs at school?" she winced
"Didn't you?"
"I took up accounts just because I hated this dissection stuff..."
"Anyways...we had to nail the drugged up frog to this small wooden board and every time I did it I felt like I was crucifying a saint, a prophet..."
"Perhaps the only guy who associates the frog with religion...and I am cooking pasta for him!"
I gave a grateful smile.
She made pasta in some white-green sauce which tasted terrific. She ordered me to help out with a few culinary procedures, but when I goofed up on the first few simpler orders she let me watch her do the cooking as the honored spectator. She was graceful and quick and efficient.
"So do you like the pasta, frog-worshiper?" she asked
"Gastric orgasms shake my body and soul!" This was an old "funny line" of mine.
She seemed to like it.
When the pasta was over and we sat in awkward silence, I continued " Sometimes, I think, I am this frog prince in reverse"
I was feeling particularly good about the evening and she was a pretty girl. Also we were having my reserve Jacob's Creek.
"There are these frogs in fairy tales which turn into princes when kissed...while I am a frog that somehow has turned into a man and will turn back into a frog sometime. Hence the fascination with my kin"
I realized I was drunk. I should be trying to get a kiss out of this entire deal, I thought, not talking rot about frogs.
She smiled and went "awwwww".
“Maybe you need a kiss to turn into a frog!"
"Yeah from my true love, where ever she may be"
She looked at her watch. She told me it was getting late and she better be leaving. I thanked her for the pasta and opened the gate for her and waved goodbye.
She hadn't bothered to wash the dishes. I got out my dish washing soap and turned on the tap at the kitchen.
or
Frog Fiction
We were at the tail end of the queue in a grocery store within an overcrowded Bangalore mall. It was Sunday and she had offered to 'teach' me how to make good pasta. The severe dearth of female company for several months had made me accept the offer and renounce my curd rice-pickle for that evening.
A couple from the northern part of the country made amorous hindi cooings with semi make -out moves, in front of our trolley. The man at the adjacent counter subjected the billing assistant to complex mathematical calculations involving his sodexho coupons.
"So", she said, " you love rains because it brings out the frogs..."
"The rains in green fields, hostel campuses and the rains at home...not the ones here in Bangalore..." I was busy watching the coo couple in front of us. Their turn at the billing counter had come, which gave temporary relief to the groping.
Our turn at the counter arrived.
"You forgot the olive oil!"
"No, I didn't. It's expensive..." I tried to explain
"You can't make good pesto without olive oil"
"What's pesto?"
She looked irritated by my ignorance.
"Go get the olive oil..." she whined
I ran across the queues and the aisles and plonked a small bottle worth 150 rupees at the counter. She looked pleased.
The bill exceeded 500 rupees. Hidden costs.
We were walking home.
"I love the way they hop," I said
She raised one eyebrow in incomprehension.
"Frogs..."
"Oh!"
It was a topic which had ended at the queue, I realized. I felt quite silly and remained silent.
"Go on..." she gave her indulgent smile.
I felt encouraged. I put on my "lecture time" voice.
"There are so many creatures that walk, run, go on all fours, fly...but these are the only guys who do that cool hop thing"
"Okayyy..." she drawled
"And also when we dissected frogs at school in biology classes..."
"You guys used to cut up frogs at school?" she winced
"Didn't you?"
"I took up accounts just because I hated this dissection stuff..."
"Anyways...we had to nail the drugged up frog to this small wooden board and every time I did it I felt like I was crucifying a saint, a prophet..."
"Perhaps the only guy who associates the frog with religion...and I am cooking pasta for him!"
I gave a grateful smile.
She made pasta in some white-green sauce which tasted terrific. She ordered me to help out with a few culinary procedures, but when I goofed up on the first few simpler orders she let me watch her do the cooking as the honored spectator. She was graceful and quick and efficient.
"So do you like the pasta, frog-worshiper?" she asked
"Gastric orgasms shake my body and soul!" This was an old "funny line" of mine.
She seemed to like it.
When the pasta was over and we sat in awkward silence, I continued " Sometimes, I think, I am this frog prince in reverse"
I was feeling particularly good about the evening and she was a pretty girl. Also we were having my reserve Jacob's Creek.
"There are these frogs in fairy tales which turn into princes when kissed...while I am a frog that somehow has turned into a man and will turn back into a frog sometime. Hence the fascination with my kin"
I realized I was drunk. I should be trying to get a kiss out of this entire deal, I thought, not talking rot about frogs.
She smiled and went "awwwww".
“Maybe you need a kiss to turn into a frog!"
"Yeah from my true love, where ever she may be"
She looked at her watch. She told me it was getting late and she better be leaving. I thanked her for the pasta and opened the gate for her and waved goodbye.
She hadn't bothered to wash the dishes. I got out my dish washing soap and turned on the tap at the kitchen.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Brand Awareness- A tale of horror
(Here's a short story I wrote a while back...one couldn't avoid the semi-autobiographical touches!)
He realized all was not well with him when he caught his parents staring at him incredulously. In fact mother looked very worried.
“ You skip programs on TV to watch ads,” she said.
“Marketing ma,” he said. “ I need to know what’s happening in that free for all chaos called the Indian market. There is a paradigm shift happening in it that necessitates value added marketing to overcome its constraints …”
“You worry me,” she replied quietly.
He couldn’t understand it. After all his entire undergraduate life had been punctuated with pithy little sarcasms from these parents on his passion or rather lack of it, for academia.
Now, when he finally seemed to be doing something in that direction-there was cause for worry.
So he called up his friend and asked him if there was anything wrong in watching advertisements. He explained why he felt there was no cause for alarm and gave him some statistics on how American kids always preferred ads to TV programs and how they all happily turned into rabid compulsive spenders.
He also added helpfully that there was a marketing term to describe such behavior.
“You worry me,” the friend said.
He realized it was time for some deep introspection. It was true. He was in the cold steel grip of some terrible disease. He decided to take a walk alone and sort out things for himself. His head was spinning. At odd moments in the night he could hear voices whispering long convoluted sentences into his ears. The stench of management jargon assailed the nostrils.
Realigning core competencies, asynchronous transitional, said the evil voice in his ear. The only way to drown this diabolic drone out, he figured, was to spend some time at the little bookshop round the corner.
On his way, a pretty girl passed him by- his neighbor’s daughter. She smiled at him. She stopped. “ How are you?” she beamed.
Here, he said to myself, is a customer of the future. A young woman who will consume, spend, watch ads, rear children that are brand conscious morons – he needed to target her, segment and then position for her types. He needed to get into her mind.
“Hello”, he said with his harmless type smile. ‘You needed to get them to lose their guard before you get down to the research part’ said a voice in his head
“Where you going?” she asked
“To the bookshop”
“Same here…mind if I tag along!”
“Sure”
An eager research subject-every marketer’s dream. His spine tingled. Maybe he should start, he thought, with her food habits. He had read somewhere that women are what they eat.
“You’ve seen the new restaurant down the street?” he asked her…
Soon lovely brown eyes were telling him her preferences in fast foods, service quality expectations, spending habits…great control had to be exerted over himself as customer insights filled his body and soul.
He gave a huge moan of delight that must have sounded to her like a cry of great pain. She stopped talking mid-sentence about the way rotis are made in restaurants and stared at him… blank.
“You all right?”
He excused himself. They had reached the bookshop. He needed to be alone with the books, to get his mind off his affliction.
The bookshop was crowded with people busy browsing their way through the latest best sellers. Point of purchase advertisements for music CDs and computer games beckoned the unwary. Clever and strategic placement of ads he told himself...perfect eye level placement of products.
And then it happened.
He found himself dragged by an invisible force towards the shelves where the management books were neatly arranged.
Consumer behavior…he carelessly skimmed through the pages of the first book he laid his hands on.
“Indicative of future prospects, failure to enter solution mode interfaces brand equity” it told him.
Not many would have understood that. But he did. It was obvious. There was a message in all of this and no one seemed to know about it.
He took out another book and read the first line his eye fell on. Kotler…“ Premier Customer experience helping markets focus on immediate objectives…” Glorious! It was a jig-saw puzzle just for him and the pieces were all falling in together on that momentous day.
He went from book to book and hungrily turned the pages for those meaningful lines.
He had to tell some one the deep secret he had suddenly uncovered.
There she was, his very own pretty brown eyes. She caught the mad gleam in his eyes and asked “You sure you alright? You worry me!”
He told her about all that he had discovered, of his great revelations.
Segmentingtargettingpositioningcustomerdelightbrandidentity
brandperceptionmatrixdesireactivationmodelmarketskimmingparadigmshift….
The words flowed like an endless torrent as he shared his enlightenment with the world at the top of his voice.
She screamed.
The doctor and the nurse were smiling at him. He had been there for three months. The nurse held out two little pills in her hands. Choose one…he chose the red pill and studied her reaction. Cunning method of finding out the subject’s color preferences he told himself. Could be useful in packaging studies to develop optimal marketing mix…
Friday, February 01, 2008
Biograph
History- Personal
I was 18. I was on one of the then obligatory 'family temple tours'. These temple tours were dreadfully boring exercises in ‘holidaying’ which involved traveling for almost a week, up and down the Tamizh state as a familial group in a cramped up wagon. The few times you got to step out of the vehicle, you were ushered in to a crowded place where you elbowed everyone to try to get a glimpse of a dark idol wrapped in dhotis and/or silk saris, lit dimly by the flicker of the aarti of a money grubbing priest.
On this particular trip, I was in the midst of teenage existential angst and rebellion. I had decided to sulk through the entire trip by sleeping in the back seat when all at once the vehicle passed by an old and semi abandoned temple standing uncared for, in the middle of a non descript village.
This ruined and abandoned affair which I had to convince the entire family to pop in by, turned out to be Gangai Konda Chozhapuram. There was hardly anyone there amidst the gargantuan ruins and the sole priest/ in charge narrated the history of this ruined city. I fell in love. To my mind, forever fixated on the romance of ruins and ancient stones, this was my own paradise.
I must have run around the place with my jaw down for a long while, until I was pulled out to fight out the next crowded temple. I promised myself that I would keep coming back.
After 10 years of dreaming about it, I managed to get back again this week. After the same ten long years my mother tricked me into a temple tour again. But this time, I fixed the itinerary (Chennai - Pondy- Chidambaram- Sri Rangam ) and made sure that it included Gangai Konda Chozhapuram. And to be doubly sure, I volunteered to drive the 650 odd kilometers involved, in the two days of leave I had from work.
On the breath taking-ly picturesque rural ‘by-pass way’ dotted with sunflower fields, lotus ponds and Village deities from Chidabaram to Trichy I drove by a curiously lonely temple in the midst of one more of the hundred odd villages on the way. I had stumbled upon Gangai Konda Chozhapuram again!
History
Gangai Konda Chozhapuram is a proclamation of an astounding victory. The ruthless Chozha armies had conquered all land till Bengal under the reign of Rajendra Chozha. The Chozhas, thus, controlled quite a huge territory around 800 AD from Sri Lanka in the South to Orissa and Bengal in the North- East.
To celebrate this victory, Rajendra shifted his capital from the traditional Tanjavur to the new city that he built for the “Conquerors of Ganga”. This city of Gangai Kondan continued to be the Capital for close to 8 generations of the Chozhas. All that remains of it now are some scattered ruins and this magnificent temple. The temple itself was built to rival the great Brihadeeswara at Tanjavur, built by Rajendra’s father Rajaraja. Gangai Kondan’s imposing tower is shorter than Brihadeeswara’s but wider. Rajendra was inspired by the Sun Temple of Konarak, newly under his realm, to incorporate design elements of the ‘Chariot of the Sun” prototype.
I was 18. I was on one of the then obligatory 'family temple tours'. These temple tours were dreadfully boring exercises in ‘holidaying’ which involved traveling for almost a week, up and down the Tamizh state as a familial group in a cramped up wagon. The few times you got to step out of the vehicle, you were ushered in to a crowded place where you elbowed everyone to try to get a glimpse of a dark idol wrapped in dhotis and/or silk saris, lit dimly by the flicker of the aarti of a money grubbing priest.
On this particular trip, I was in the midst of teenage existential angst and rebellion. I had decided to sulk through the entire trip by sleeping in the back seat when all at once the vehicle passed by an old and semi abandoned temple standing uncared for, in the middle of a non descript village.
This ruined and abandoned affair which I had to convince the entire family to pop in by, turned out to be Gangai Konda Chozhapuram. There was hardly anyone there amidst the gargantuan ruins and the sole priest/ in charge narrated the history of this ruined city. I fell in love. To my mind, forever fixated on the romance of ruins and ancient stones, this was my own paradise.
I must have run around the place with my jaw down for a long while, until I was pulled out to fight out the next crowded temple. I promised myself that I would keep coming back.
After 10 years of dreaming about it, I managed to get back again this week. After the same ten long years my mother tricked me into a temple tour again. But this time, I fixed the itinerary (Chennai - Pondy- Chidambaram- Sri Rangam ) and made sure that it included Gangai Konda Chozhapuram. And to be doubly sure, I volunteered to drive the 650 odd kilometers involved, in the two days of leave I had from work.
On the breath taking-ly picturesque rural ‘by-pass way’ dotted with sunflower fields, lotus ponds and Village deities from Chidabaram to Trichy I drove by a curiously lonely temple in the midst of one more of the hundred odd villages on the way. I had stumbled upon Gangai Konda Chozhapuram again!
History
Gangai Konda Chozhapuram is a proclamation of an astounding victory. The ruthless Chozha armies had conquered all land till Bengal under the reign of Rajendra Chozha. The Chozhas, thus, controlled quite a huge territory around 800 AD from Sri Lanka in the South to Orissa and Bengal in the North- East.
To celebrate this victory, Rajendra shifted his capital from the traditional Tanjavur to the new city that he built for the “Conquerors of Ganga”. This city of Gangai Kondan continued to be the Capital for close to 8 generations of the Chozhas. All that remains of it now are some scattered ruins and this magnificent temple. The temple itself was built to rival the great Brihadeeswara at Tanjavur, built by Rajendra’s father Rajaraja. Gangai Kondan’s imposing tower is shorter than Brihadeeswara’s but wider. Rajendra was inspired by the Sun Temple of Konarak, newly under his realm, to incorporate design elements of the ‘Chariot of the Sun” prototype.
No one is quite sure how such a great city fell to ruin. Most attribute it to the vengeance wreaked by the sudden but brief resurgence of the Pandyas; some others to the usual earthquakes and disasters. It seems that almost all of the existing houses in Gangai Kondan were built with ancient bricks pilfered from the ruins- a still extant practice that has been on for centuries!
Religion
Religion
The imposing sculptures all around Gangai Kondan are an intoxicating mix of religion with personal history.
Sample this piece representing the crowning of Chandikeshwar. Who posed as Chandikeshwar here is anybody's guess.
The most awe inspiring sight for me in all of Gangai Kondan is the Shiva Lingam in the inner sanctum. Alone in its gigantic presence, the prismatic form of the idol is unspoiled. With less than 5 people around at any given time, the imposing figure resides in an ancient stillness. I offered the priest the white lotus my mother had plucked at a nearby village pond. The flower sat alone on the cusp of the Lingam as its sole adornment.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Working Class Hero
The Peanuts Mastermind
I have always wanted to appear on the Mastermind show with Peanuts as my Mastermind. As this will never happen, here's my own 10 question round.
1. What is two times two?
2. What do real alligators never do?
3. Who owned Snoopy before Charlie Brown brought him home from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm?
4. What did Andrew Wyeth's work replace?
5. What do you wear if you have amblyopia?
6. Happiness Ist Ein Kleine Kaput ___________?
7. What color is the security blanket?
8. Rerun prefers drawing what to flowers?
9. Kite eating trees have soft stomachs. True/ False?
The Peanuts Mastermind
I have always wanted to appear on the Mastermind show with Peanuts as my Mastermind. As this will never happen, here's my own 10 question round.
1. What is two times two?
2. What do real alligators never do?
3. Who owned Snoopy before Charlie Brown brought him home from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm?
4. What did Andrew Wyeth's work replace?5. What do you wear if you have amblyopia?
6. Happiness Ist Ein Kleine Kaput ___________?
7. What color is the security blanket?
8. Rerun prefers drawing what to flowers?
9. Kite eating trees have soft stomachs. True/ False?
10. What does the Red Haired Girl do to her pencil?
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Song for Winners
You are a hero now
Everyone loves you
Your body is toned
Your hairline wavy
And your smile a glow
They hang by your words
Laugh at your jokes
(the women find them hot)
They wish they were you
You can do great feats
Like holding your breath
For ninety nine seconds
You make them take odds
In the washroom there
And hope they do lose the bet
To get into your bed
You can pose for the photograph
And drive a fast car
You are so good at it for sure
Whatever it is you do
They want to know your secret
And you can give it all away
You pretend like its nothing
You are freezing into a smile
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Footnotes to Mythology
I don't know how many people listen to albums in their entirety these days.
Surely, the concept of an 'album' barely exists in the age of play lists.
Being a cassette-era relic, I am yet to get around to even downloading music ...free or illegally. I refuse to go the i-tunes way because, for me, the album-experience is incomplete without a sheet of printed paper in my hands.
I still believe in liner notes and album art. I believe in sides A/ B and concept albums.
Anyways, while listening recently to Pearl Jam's self titled album and its magnificent album-ender, "Inside Job", I started thinking up my list of great album-enders.
What I call a great album ender:A great album enters mythology only when it goes from great song to great song and ends with an unbelievable orgasm. (Note: If the album is one sustained orgasm the best end it can have is a dreamy finish.)
What is important, though, is this: A great album ender can be enjoyed alone (on a play list) but you appreciate it best only when it is reached via the journey of the album's entirety.
Here's my list:
A Day in the life (just about edging out the B side of Abbey Road)
Moonlight Mile
The Rock/Love rain on me
Thorn Tree in the Garden
When the Levee Breaks
Desolation Row
The End
Eclipse
Bohemian Rhapsody
Rock 'n' Roll Suicide
Locomotive Breath
Slim Slow Slider
Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)
Release
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Talking about downloading albums, I do hope you have visited Radio head's website of late. If you haven't read this first!
Monday, October 22, 2007
Moon Bathing
After several months of inactivity, pointless hard work and general restlessness, I decided to bring down the hung boots and go for a trek with our old friend Akshay (The Comrade) Gupta
Being completely cut off from the scene for more than a year now, I was glad to let the Comrade work out the trekking route, the way to get there and all the minor details except the booking of my tickets.
Through a rather stunning move from the Mothers Inc, which has been having quite a field day in these troubled times, Bala was plonked in quite unwittingly as the third member for this great expedition
If you ever want to go on the same expedition here’s a useful map
We drove from Delhi to Shimla on Day one through some amazing 4 way “express” lanes, great dollops of makhan on several paranthas, Kurukshetra and mild headaches after 4 hours of night driving up the mountains
Day two was the drive through a wide array of four wheeled wonders- bull dozers, cranes, several cars, trucks and one armored vehicle through a road left undone by a Chinese company.
The road to Rohru needs completion badly to make the trekking route as popular as its other Himachal cousins- but it’s adequately motor able nevertheless
At Rohru, a dusty, polluted, buzzing town, that belies the beauty which lies just a kilometer ahead of it, one will need a place to stay – we recommend River View Hotel (Rs. 300/- per night) , who can also arrange avoidable expensive treks.
At Rohru, our savior and guide was a gentleman from the “trade” thanks to some deft salesmanship and corporate leadership by yours truly.
These gentlemen, as is unique to the trade, showered our unholy trio with hospitality we were frankly quite unworthy of- introducing us to several guides and trekking options in a town where the concept sounded quite hilarious to many
“An why would you drive all the way to Delhi so that you can walk 30 kms up hill?” was one of the few existential questions shot at us by the guffawing helpful gentlemen
Day one of Trek:
Drive up to the village of Dharmwari, 20 km from Rohru, along the banks of the River Pabbar.
Contact the well experienced and yet quite young Mr Pankaj Neigi, trained at the Mountaineering Course at Darjeeling (as was The Comrade) and the porter of his choice
Stock up on Maggi, rice, dal, masala, salt (we forgot that!) and some candies and park your car in the unlikely zone offered by Pankaj Neigi’s uncle/shop keeper
Take a Jeep ride to the closest motor able path to the village Janglik
Start the trek
Cross a sheep’s bridge across the Pabbar on the way up, through huge sheep and goat traffic jams , an act that might sink the bravest in an existential quandry
Climb steadily up for one more hour to reach JanglikAt Janglik rent your tents (250 a day) and your sleeping bags and resume the trek
Do indulge the request for photographs the numerous kids of the village
Reach an abandoned Gujjar hut after another 2-2.5 hour trek, pitch your tents in the wilderness and wonder at the number of stars a clear sky can revealChop enough firewood from the nearby woods to ensure you can cook some food and keep your rear end warm as the temperatures dip to zero
Make sure you get your salt or else cook the dal in Maggi masala (TM to loonatix.com) and get yourself into a sleeping bag faster than you can say frozen balls
Day two of the Trek:Wonder at the frozen bottle of water you left outside the tent
Disappear behind the bushes
Have sweetened rice for breakfast
Trek for an hour through some scenic woods and meadows
Reach campsite two in a meadow infested with wild horses and buffaloes
Pitch tents and resume trekFour hours on through more woods, meadows and some climbing along the Pabbar leads to the seven lakes of Chandra Nahaan
Have the packed lunch i.e. Maggi noodles in a pressure cooker for Lunch
Trudge back to the camp to realize that you have a snow peaked mountain just a kilometer over your head
Chop more firewood for the kitchen and general well being
Sleep out to warm the cold bones in some sun light, soothed by the sounds of gentle mastication of the grass by nearby buffaloesDay 3 of Trek:
Go all the way back to Janglik and realize that you really have walked up quite a bit
Watch Bala leap and stroll like a mountain goat in the hope that the entire thing was finally coming to an end
The Mountain goat:
Go all the way back to Janglik and realize that you really have walked up quite a bit
Watch Bala leap and stroll like a mountain goat in the hope that the entire thing was finally coming to an end
The Mountain goat:
Watch Bala struggle againThe struggle:
Marvel at great feats and miracles by the Grey WizardReach Rohru back at around six in the evening
Do your round of thanking the various people who sniggered, advised and accommodated weird requests from The Comrade for warm underwear
Day 4 of the Trek:
Drive down to Delhi from 9 am to 3 am singing along to various Stones, Doors and Beatles Remasters albums
Drive down to Delhi from 9 am to 3 am singing along to various Stones, Doors and Beatles Remasters albums
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Happiest days of our Lives
".. The newspaper stories were like bad dreams to us, bad dreams dreamt by others. How awful, we would say, and they were, but they were awful without being believable. They were too melodramatic, they had a dimension that was not the dimension of our lives. We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edge of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories."
From The Handmaid's Tale
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Arthur & George
On George
Did xenophobia enter main stream taboo status only after WW 2?
From the Fear of Muslims to Neo Nazis beating up Indians- so many instances pop up now in the media fairgrounds and bask in the sunshine of public dissent and opinion.
Racism of course, will continue as long as there are dark and pale humans around and as long as they both continue to procreate.
I do not know of many examples of well publicized racism in the pre world war era.
All of colonialism was indeed racist and hence I assume it was part of the accepted scheme of things. After all, when a Gujarati got thrown out of a train in Pietermaritzburg for 'darker' reasons, in the pre-war times, the news came to the 'civilized' world almost a century later, as the first scene in a Hollywood blockbuster.
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Maybe that's the difference between hype and art.
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On Arthur
Like everybody else I believe in Holmes…and Watson. The cocaine, the violin, the most quotable of eccentric lines, the women (or the lack of) and the impossible chivalry…life’s so much better when we believe that Holmes did exist.
Along comes along Sir Arthur full of cricket and waxed moustache, championing Spiritism, playing the consulting detective, stewing in Victorian sexual paranoia…Holmes and Watson did indeed exist!
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Arthur & GeorgeThe days when Sir Arthur played cricket were so different- his cricket is full of English snobbery, impossible Victorian chivalry and stiffness, with corseted ladies watching some very confused men, from sun drenched boundaries.
W G Grace c Storer b Conan Doyle 110
Arthur’s game has now been completely usurped by George’s people- it has been imbued with their boisterous colourful chaotic culture. How would Sir Arthur react to that?
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Sir Arthur’s obsession with Spiritism is funny yet…disturbing. A hall crowded with thousands of people waiting for Sir Arthur’s séance appearance reminded me of Herge
I now understand now, what Herge seems to be poking fun at.
All of Europe, before the war, seems to have been obsessed with the business of Spiritism and Clairvoyance...
Not just Sir Arthur, but almost a good fraction of the world was searching for a way to conquer death. They seemed to believe that if turn of the century science could suddenly throw in so many miracles at the most breath taking regularity, death would be explained away soon too.
After the death of 100 million people in just some six years- I think our race has given up on the what-after-death issue- at least for a while.
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On Arthur
I wonder what Sir Arthur would have to tell the new-age terrorists
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