Hyderabad Blues Part 1

Choosing the right font is very important when you are trying to write. It should appeal to your aesthetic sense. You should want to see more words written in that way.

Such are the random beginnings I employ to tell you my tale. My story thus far in a city far away from my own… I landed here and was welcomed by the harsh cruel reality that hit me in the form of a hot breeze. It was like the hot breath of an angry raging bull about to do a classic head butt. At this time the image I’d like to invoke is the one with the graphic of a grey and black bull with a nose ring and looking might pissed off at you.

I was here in a strange land. Or was it entirely strange? I was badgered with phone calls when I finally got a cab. “Where are you?” “Have you reached your guest house?” “There are riots happening don’t go to the city and flash the auto men” the last comment was made ever so graciously by Nupur.

I was initially quiet suspicious of the cabbie, he kept looking at me in the rear view mirror and I kept shifting my position as to not be in his line of focus. And when the conversation did begin I found out that my charioteer was quiet a serious cab professional. He took his job very seriously. He didn’t joke although he made a passing comment about the Hyderabad weather, which he found mildly amusing and smirked. That was most expressive of the emotions I could get out of him. Besides that, he warned me not to step into the old city, told me that the place I stay at was a “good” place. I really wouldn’t know what a good or bad place is at the moment. So I just went with the flow like I was intended to.

The place that I was lead to was called of all the things, “Aliens Blend”. At once a thousand reasons as to why I should quietly step away from the building came flooding to my mind. . If nomenclature is anything to go by these days, the place was more or less inhabited by aliens and well, they blended in very well with the humans.

The most surprising aspect of my room is the small balcony. It over looks an infestation of high rise corporate MNC like buildings and right underneath them there are big boulders. Large living rocks which a small man in a crane or something that looks like a giant claw trying to break and move the rocks on a daily biases. He is there at the crack of dawn. Actually he starts moving and shaping the landscape at the unholy hour of 3:00AM. The entire place is lit up by flood lights and the workers there look like astronauts and the pit that they are mining looks like a cheap imitation of some alien landscape.

The room itself was comforting, the bed lazy and infectious. The AC had a very friendly hum like a Buddhist monk floating on my ceiling and chanting his prayers in a low tremble. The cupboard was broken at the hinges which was endearing, because even with one hinge lose, it still opened and closed with as much self respect it could muster. Then there was the toilet, there was something German about the toilet, perhaps the pot, it was a very uptight judgmental pot which flushed with such an angry gush, that you would think twice about using it. A shy hook was attached to the back of the bathroom door and on the opposite wall, a towel hanger. The tiles were a depressing blue and the sink was a government hospital white.

One day in, and the room grew on me. I could find my way around the room in the dark; I knew what channels my favorite TV shows were on. The plug point was ideally placed next to the bed and the wireless was perpetually on, although rarely working. I never moved from my bed. During my stay in my room, I lived like a Roman Emperor (I use Emperor deliberately, the Queens didn’t have anything sensational to do I suppose, I could be wrong and am open to corrections). I sat on my soft bed and refused to move. Everything was at arms distance. This was thanks to the pre-bed preparations. Before I get into bed the following steps must be taken.

1. Turn the lights off
2. Turn the AC on and adjust it to 21 deg and swing mode.
3. Turn on the fan on speed 2
4. Plug in the laptop
5. Place TV remote and cell phone on the right hand side
6. Fluff the pillow and place it stragically to support spinal cord.
7. Place ash tray and smokes and match box near knees (so that the smell doesn’t bother me)
8. Cover feet with blanket.
9. Place water bottled near the head of the bed on the floor.
10. Relax

Once I am in Relax Roman Emperor mode, nothing can stop me. This is the closest to indulgence I have come to. The sweet sinful pleasure of sloth and gluttony together. I can read a book, I can watch a movie, I can chat with my friends or I can just doze off. No one to ask me for any explanations.

The room is Shangri-La compared to the outside. Hyderabad is unrelenting in its heat. You’d have to be in fit condition to survive the heat of the city. Heat waves creep in from every direction and latch on to you like a giant friendly octopus made entirely of lava. They weigh heavily on you and you have no choice but to lug the weight around to your destination. They hug you and lick you with their giant hot octopus tongue (do octopuses have tongues?) with the most sincere affection. Once in an auto you’d think that you will feel some respite. You couldn’t be far from the truth. The air that blows on your face is like that from a steam engine. You feel like you are stuck in a bad dream, in which you are at the receiving end of hot piercing dinosaur breath.

I fancy myself quiet the explorer and one day decided to venture out into this spunky coffee place I had spotted. It was called “My Café Latte”. Apparently the theme of the coffee joint was movies and I was suitably impressed by the exterior. I opened the door to be welcomed by planks of wood nailed loosely on the floor. Every step made the planks move uneasily on the floor, they let out an annoyed long squeak in retaliation of my weight. I stepped as lightly as it was possible for me and made it to the hard marble floor which singed the beginning of the coffee shop. A couple of surprised waiters looked at me at a loss of what to say or do. They opened and closed their mouths like waiter-fish, trying to recollect the customer service lines. Page 4, Lesson 3- How to greet a new customer.

“Yes mam, hello mam” one of them ventured uncontrollably. I smiled trying my best not to make him nervous and help him to do his job well. I noticed that his boss was lurking in the corner making a note of every mistake the waiter fish made. “Table for one” I said with a smile. “Yes mam, shooor mam, this way mam.” He led me into a dimly lit place where the couches were made of white leather and the tables were made of rose wood. I would be tempted to call it whore-ish, but then it lacked the professional touch a brothel would have. It lacked the funky diva attitude and the brazen outspokenness. It was more like a teenager trying to be sexy but ending up looking like a bumbling hooker. It was graceless; everything was a shade too loud for the afternoon (inside joke).

It’s a coffee place for fcuk’s sake! What’s with all the dim lighting as though it were a pub! Forgiveness Mary, I said to myself and moved around in a slow manner observing the interiors. I looked over my shoulder and found waiter-fish promptly swimming behind me with his Customer Service Page 4 Lesson 3 smile. “Is there a smoking zone here?” I asked, trying my best to sound natural about it lest he pop a gill. It is not unheard of that women smoke in Hyderabad, but then it’s like one of those urban legends of ghosts. Everyone hears about them but there are hardly a few who have seen them. Waiter –fish (the brave) reacted in a very nonchalant manner and said, “Yes mam, top floor fully smoking mam.” I thanked him and made my way up the spiraling staircase which was for some reason red. This is not the whore house red mind you but more like the red oxide floors that we used to have in BDA Flats back home. The kinds I drew on with white chalk. Honestly it was a failed attempt at the whole classy whore look. One thing that I had to admire about the place was the posters. Classy film noire posters from the 60’s and 70’s all framed and hanging on the walls with an intention to lend the place an air of taste, but unfortunately at times the air smelt strongly of uptight cue stick in the…. As I walked further up the stairs I found more plush sofas and couches, but this time they were populated but a horde of self confident teenagers.

There was some sort of celebration taking place at the table next to mine. 4 boys and 3 girls; I reckon it was one of the girls’ birthday. I could tell because she was slightly more dressed up than the rest of her female counterparts. A slight hint of make up and the freshness of a new dress recently opened from its plastic shelter. Like all birthday people would she was basking in the attention and fished for more. A noisy bunch of kids these were, I supposed they were college going and annoyingly full of unwanted hormones making too much of unnecessary noise. One of them caught me staring at the group; I managed a cursory smile and looked for my waiter-fish.

The leather couch was extremely comfortable, my weight allowed me to feel the full pleasure of sitting on a nice soft couch. All the skinny Somalia models would have landed on the sofa like a fly on a rock, with as little pleasure as possible, I on the other hand sunk in, like a paper weight in quick sand, and before I knew it, my generous derrière was lovingly enveloped by the white leather couch. “Ah, this is the life” I thought. I almost closed my eyes and trying to soak in the cool AC and the softness of the couch. But mostly, I was trying to distract myself from the annoying music playing in the background. Some ghastly hip hop or rap or some such music, horribly unbecoming of a nice coffee joint with a vintage movie collection as its theme.

I was thinking about when to take my book out and order for a nice cold coffee, when suddenly a banshee screeched like a fist of nails on a black board. I looked up startled. Someone unexpected had turned up at the birthday party (although honestly, I wished they hadn’t) and was received with an ear piercing squeal from the birthday girl.

That’s it! I don’t think I can sit here. As I got up to leave the waiter-fish approached me and said, “Mam, this not smoking zone Mam, upstairs fully smoking mam.” I smiled at him. Apparently the place had another ‘upstairs’ that I wasn’t aware of. I followed the waiter-fish into an open balcony.

The familiar octopus with the lava tentacles was waiting around the corner to ambush me again. And boy did it succeed! As soon as I set foot on the balcony the lava tentacles octopus lunged at me with the joyfulness of a friendly dog. I found a nice cozy corner, a table for two. One for the octopus and one for me.

I have to take a moment here and tell you how horribly uncomfortable the chair was. It wasn’t a chair, more of a bench, the kinds you would find in a park. The ones that contort your spine so that you sit with your chin poking in the air as though your olfactory system relocated to under your mouth. If you are a person of my built, it is close to impossible for you to sit on the bench and appear graceful. If you try to cross one leg over the other in the attempts at looking lady like, you will look like a dog trying to stand on its hind legs and trying to look elegant. So with whatever dignity I had left I decided to call it quits. It is a very annoying habit of most people who run coffee shops to ensure that the table is below your waist. It’s at your knee level. What kind of socially handicapped person designed the place? The placement of the table would have been ideal, had you intended for your knees and your date’s knees to have a conversation and sip coffee. But if it was meant for the action to primarily be concentrated in the face area, the table should at least be placed some where near the elbow. This will allow for holding the hand and playing with fingers and most importantly the “nonchalant graze” of the hand. But No! these coffee guys insist on providing us with low coffee tables.

A big part of me wanted to grab a club and beat the damn table to bits, but then propriety and of course lack of money prevented me from doing so. I did the only thing I could do then. Sit my ass on that bloody uncomfortable bench and look through the menu. Familiar names called out to me yelling for attention. The cappuccino said, “Hey, how you doing?” The Mocha Frappe said, “Ola seniorita, comos esta usted?” the Teas just mumbled something in a very British accent and moved over the next page. Ah but the Irish coffee said, “Look here me bonny lass, take me to your lips wont ya love?” And how can I resist that Irish charm. So, waiter fish “One Irish Frappe please.” “Oh and a match box.” “Oh and an ash tray. Thanks!”

Now part two of the production. The “try to read your book part.”

For as long as I can remember going to coffee shops, my hidden agenda would always be to read there. I love to read in coffee shops. It is interesting to watch multiple stories unfold all around me. It sort of puts my imagination into overdrive and I am totally surrounded by bridges that flow in and out of reality and my mind. I like the background humming of people having conversations in hushed tones. The sudden flirtatious laughter of someone will somehow coincide with what I am reading at the moment. It is a very fulfilling feeling of being ‘there’ and yet not there.

The book was out, now comes the hard part to sit myself in a comfortable manner that will allow me to read the book. I was faced with 2 predicaments here.

1. The blessed coffee table was so low that it was near my ankle and I couldn’t possibly place a book there and read it.
2. The ‘dim light’ theme continued into the balcony and the set sun didn’t necessarily provide adequate lighting for me to read.

Above me was a dull 20 watts bulb, the kind you find in kitchens of the Kerala Mess in Banaswadi. It looked like a sad fisherman without any fish.

Ok Mary, give reading a shot I said.
So I positioned myself in a way so as to keep the book close to me and the 20 watts bulb right above me. All this while I was trying to look elegant as a hippo! Well that was a disaster. So I conceded defeat and put the book down and tried to change my seating position. The next position was more uncomfortable than the previous one. And now to add insult to serious injury the heat was becoming ridiculous. The damn lava octopus tightened its grip around me. Sweat began to trickle down my back and from the pits of my knees. I didn’t know that we could sweat from the pits of our knees!

Ok that does it! Let me just stand up and have a smoke. So I put my book back in my bag and fished for a pack of smokes and a match box. Now I had another situation to deal with. I didn’t want to sit and smoke and look like a total retard. I was dressed in a bright pink chudidhar had my hair in a bun, wore horn rimmed glasses and had a cigarette in my hand. I looked like a mélange of bad movies, and to sit on that dreadfully uncomfortable bench and pretend to be comfortable and smoke my cigarette was an extremely tall order.

I stood up to go to the ledge to watch the traffic and smoke. Just then the waiter fish came with my order. He looked confused and slightly disappointed. He thought that I was going to leave. I smiled again at him and told him to leave my drink on the ledge of the balcony.

I lit my cigarette and took a nice deep drag and exhaled into the hot Hyderabad air. I looked down at the traffic and the general din of the city. It must be noted at this point that people in Hyderabad refuse to wear helmets. Everywhere I see people on scooters and bikes going at unholy speeds, with no helmet on. One of these dare devils also had the audacity to speed past a police vehicle and the cops did what any other self respecting police officer would do, they willfully ignored him. I was shocked to say the least and sought and explanation. My search came to an end when I asked one of my trainees Hima Bindu, know simply as Bindu, why her fellow city-zens refused to wear a helmet while riding like the Italian mafia running from the FBI. The explanation is as follows:


“Many months ago they had passed the “Everyone must wear your helmets or you will have to part with some or at times most of the currency in your wallet” rule. People by nature are tight fisted and don’t want to donate money to the cops drinking fund, so most of them wore helmets. But then apparently there were 6 very intelligent beings who said, “Nay, I shalt not bow to the rules that my state maketh. I maketh my own rules notwithstanding how retarded they may be.” The prime concern for these very enlightened beings was the hair do. Which pretty much sums up their priorities in life- Bad hair day= worst thing that could happen to you. Kissing Hyderabad roads and having large trucks run over your head= mildly painful.
So they decided apparently to try and escape a few cops who were going to catch them for not wearing helmets and sped straight into on coming traffic. 3 of them were spot dead and three of them succumbed to head injuries.
The papers splashed the news in a manner that made it seem like the new law killed those 6 guys. So since then, no one stops you if you are not wearing a helmet. I’ve tried my best to wrap my mind around it, but my pea sized intellect refuses to see logic in it. I just gave a non committal look and moved on in life.

Getting back to the coffee place which was such a disaster and a total waste of my money and energy; I drank that Irish coffee like it were water, paid my bill and buggered off there before the waiter fish could start on customer service Lesson No. 5.

Back to my room, I found more comfort there. I ordered for some chai; it must be noted that the chai is not very impressive or tasty, but it’s charming because it’s always extra sweet as though trying its best to make me comfortable. Like one of those nice aunties who will make fresh pakkodas for you when you get home and say things like “this is your house beta don’t feel shy.” When you are living away from home, any sweetness is welcome, even if it’s the diabeties inducing.

Ah! Now that was ordeal was done, I sat on my bed and generally stared at the telly. It felt nice not to think of anything and just be transparent for a while. I smiled.

Ghosts follow me where ever I go.

What they want of me I don’t know.

Reckoning of a lost childhood they say.

The only salvation is to pray.

But to what Gods do I show my sinful face?

To seek mercy; and hate with love replace.

For what sins should I seek forgiveness?

If it is a sin to find in a stranger’s arms solace.

Lost I am; far from where I started out.

A victim of my own hearts drought.

I shun the rains as light does the darkness.

Withered I lie, and to spirits my love confess.

There is no respite for the sinner in us all.

But there awaits glory for every saint who falls.

It seems a violent breach of sacred boundaries when you find yourself reliving a memory that is not your own. You were there when he was born. You were there in the hospital. It was her first child, she was so scared. She didn't know what was stronger; the fear of becoming a mother or the joy of becoming a mother.

In the midst of her heavy breathing you can hear her cry in pain. You cant see her face, but you know he is arriving into the world. The man who your soul was destined to love. Your breath catches in your chest. You are not supposed to be here. Your reality is different, vastly different from this. You don't belong here, you were never here. Yet the details are so vivid so clear.

Then it happens, you see him slide down his beautiful mother's white porcelain thigh. You hear him scream. You feel something born in you with that scream. You feel his mother's exhaustion and joy. You feel the love that will possess your soul later in life at that very moment.

You can feel the taste of his blood in your mouth when he lost his first tooth. The first lump that formed in his throat left you choking. When he had a fever you could feel your body go warm and numb. It is almost like you are connected with an invisible umbilical cord.

You are plucked out of your reality and this overwhelming feeling transports you to his world. You begin to understand the words he does not speak. In the middle of the night you wake up and you are consumed by the smell of him. He seems so close to you, yet there are cities and roads that gape like the open mouth of a grave. His tears leave salty traces in your mouth. It kills you drop by drop that you cant make things better. You grit your teeth and tell yourself he needs this, he needs to live. You tell yourself, he cant find peace by not living.

His joys amplify yours, his sorrow is another story. What you feel upsets you, but what you feel for him devastates you. You live through that. You love through that.

When his lips kiss another woman's it betrays your ego, it betrays your "self". But when you love him with something beyond yourself, it doesn't matter. You feel jubilant! He is loved... He is loved you tell yourself...! that is all that matters.

It is a love that has no name or place or worst still, no reason. It is not blind, it does not see more than what it has to. It is a love that is silent, it does not speak its name, for it doesn't know where it comes from. Its a love that is wide and deep at the same time. Its a love that has the power to rip apart space and time and reason. It is a love I feel in every fiber of my being... In every fleeting glimpse of my soul, in every song of my spirit. It is a love I feel for you....

Current Mood: Bah..!

I have recently been deposited into the very comfortable yet dangerously addictive "unemployed" chair. There suddenly seems to have erupted (from the magical world of Nowhere) a sudden surfiet of time. Mebbe the Gods sneaked in a couple of hours extra when I wasn't looking. The sick bastids never get tired of their silly celestial jokes. ( The biggest joke yet being Michale Jackson).

So here I am sitting and marinating at home and generally vegetating. Apparently I am supposed to be studying for my MA exams. For the uninitiated I am currently pursuing my MA from IGNOU (Yes, because the other universities were IGNOUing me) (That was terrible joke feel free to curse me to Christian Hell). Sat my backside in my backyard this morning and opened the book to read about those fancy fekkers known as Metaphysical Poets. Uncontrollably had to correct the grammar that book presented me with. These are supposed to be the great literati it simms. Bah!

Anyhoo, moving on in life, I'm at a loss (as always) to what the next step must be. Marriage? Bolls I say, let me rephrase that, Horses bolls and fried brinjals!! Still nursing my heart which this one rascal (unwittingly?) tap danced on and later decided to take one of those big butcher kinves and do a keema kabab on. So till I can regrow a new heart like some of those cute reptiles, I think I'll make do with my hallal cut keema kabab heart. {sigh}

What else can one do? Change professions? Thought about it... Nah.... I think I'll just STFU and continue with teaching. Nothing gives me more pleasure than driving the future generation up the wrong wall and putting them all out of their misery. Which brings me to this very nice sticky situation, how do I weasly my way out of this other job offer by a close comrade. Refuse Mary! Say No! like Nancy Regan would have done. {sigh again}

What I would really love is a nice trip to a beach place. In moments of perpetual restlessness it does my last frazled nerve good to see vast expanses of water. Waah waah! Just the thought of it makes me joyful!! (happy happy joy joy) But for that I would require some company. Hopefully a few friends could crawl out of the woodwork and join me.

Till then, Mary says : Time heals all wounds... Time wounds all heels...

Someone you use

This song says volumes...!! Here it is ...

Just a shoulder to cry on

That's all I've been to you

Just someone to rely on

When your world is empty and blue

I'm just someone you call dear

Anytime you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you can talk to

And that's all I'll ever be

Just a clown you can laugh with

Someone to treat you as you need

I'm just a fool you can love on

Any time you choose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

Don't you know when you need me

My little heart just can't refuse

I'm just someone who loves you, baby

I can't win and I can't lose

I'm just someone you run to

I'm just someone you use

It is because I love and love so deeply

That I know what you say even before you say it. After your showers of words are done I hear the things that you don’t say…

That every waking moment you linger in my mind and every sleeping moment you explore my dreams…

That for every ounce of laughter from your heart; mine multiples with tenfold joy…

That I can cry your unshed tears so that your eyes should never know sadness…

That if you sit next to me I don’t need anything else…

That when you call out my name it rings like a poem in my ear…

That when I watch you sleep I know the silence that blankets you keeps me warm too...

That for each wound that you receive I bleed a lifetime for you...

That your childhood joys become the reasons for my smiles and your sorrows the reason for my tears...

That for each unspoken wish that you might have I have a hundred prayers that follow it...

That I love you for all that you are for all that you will ever be....

It is because I love and love so deeply...

For you... Everything... A thousand times over...

For you... Anything

My Love...

Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving powers you have when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have.

While I waited for you...

Is it me or the shadows that write?
Must my words rhyme just right?

Legs clad in skinny jeans
Flavored smoke and java beans

Communist Manifesto of a farce
Amber eyed junkie high on grass

Iambic pentameter
My rhymes calculator.

Words that amble along
Some sham of a song plays in the background.

Hot coffee now gone cold
A young heart pretends to be old

Crowds of people swarm in
Rock and drugs and sex with women.

Shadows plays of our lives
Low down lows and way up highs...

The burden of freedom,

Questioning of the rightness of things

And reading the truth backwards.

Once you are gifted with wings is when you long to fall down.

Once you have tasted the cool waters of innocence, is when you desire the parched desert sands.

The absolute horror makes you seek out beauty.

And within the realms of destruction you want to build.

The world of opposition, the world of contradiction.

There is no such thing as a question answered.

There are only answers that seek questions

What will you do with answers, they are redundant,

They only leave you wanting.

There are no wings.

There are no roots.

There is no breath.

You are a moment.

You are eternity.

Realization…..

The dawn of your destruction.

While I try to be sweet and such

A sort of revelation occurred to me while I was talking to a "client" this evening. When the man was deep in discussion about the scores of certain agents who I evaluated a few days ago, all I could think of was... "Jeeez! That is such a wrong choice of hair color!! I mean, some honey blond?! Who was your role model? Ru Paul?!" At such times auto-pilot takes over and makes the appropriate remarks and uses all the technical terms that shows that I know my stuff. However the client's honey colored hair made me want to burst out into one of my unholy giggling fits! "No Mary... Behave!" While my super-ego doled out booming commands of 'corporate etiquette' and stuff, I just wanted to jump onto that desk of his and do a little tap dance on his lap top!

But if Mrs. Pais from school was here now, she would have told me that it was very unbecoming of a lady to tap dance on the laptop of a gentleman, however atrocious his hair color was. So for once I paid heed to what she had to say and refrained from showing off my dancing shoes.

Monotony has surfaced like a dead fish with is big dead fish eye staring at nothing in particular. And I'm stuck looking at that damn fish and trying to do a post postmortem of what went wrong. Not because its my job, but because I have nothing better to do.

The only saving grace to these insipid days are my conversations with Lin and Manal. We talk about general things of concern, how Infy people don't have a clue of what they are doing, or of the recent gossips, or just usual random ranting that serves no purpose whatsoever. Perhaps, it is because when I speak to them Language and speech become redundant. They can't hear or speak, so when I do communicate with them, it brings with it such freedom that language with holds from you. Perhaps thats the cause for this monotony, the realization the obsolete nature of language. Ironically, if it wasn't for language, this conversation would not have taken place.

"You taught me language; and my profit on't Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you For learning me your language."
~Caliban
(1:2:365-367)
The Tempest

Mi Amore

Tonight I can write the saddest lines... Somehow Neruda will never cease to amaze me. I believe he wrote for me and me alone. Its so private. While everyone runs around with their little bits of heaven... He has given me my own Empyrean Fields... Muchos Gracies

Never Seek to Tell thy Love

Never seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears--
Ah, she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me
A traveller came by
Silently, invisibly--
O, was no deny.

William Blake

Current Mood: In need of Creambuns

Some how I seem to have fallen into this time warp that insists on taking me back to the days of yore, when Friends became Sisters and Brothers became Enemies. I never had the luxury of having mommy dear wait at home for my arrival to serve me warm food with warm love and other such fuzzy things. I held the key to my home with the same responsibility that Spider-man felt when a city was attacked by some Toxic-mutant-out-to-rape-your-womenfolk thing. It was my scimitar, my key to the city if you please.

So there I was a swarthy seven year old hauling my luggage up 3 floors to my humble hole in the wall. Now BDA doesn’t believe in privacy they believe in “You are your neighbors entertainment” theory. Hence everything had to go through the keen myopic eyes of my neighbor, Rosy Aunty.

Rosy Aunty was wed to George Uncle who made 2 kids, John Lorcin and Winny No middle Name. They were staunch Mellu Catholics who came from Kottayam or Trivandrum I can’t recall clearly. But I do remember with startling clarity their house (considering the fact that I spent more time there than in my own house).

It was no big shakes, the walls were always peeling off, the old Table always homed cockroaches and the only interior decorating that one could find there was the stains on the walls left behind by mosquitoes who wern't quick enough for us. The Mosquito Killing Championships began early May when the days got hot and sticky. These were the days when Honest Indian Women developed Honest Indian Sweatpatchs in their Honest Indian Blouses that covered their Honest Indian Armpits. These were the days when George Uncle used to unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt (which somehow was always sky blue). He never had much hair on his head, most of it might have revolted against the idea and decided to re-root themselves on his chest instead. He always had an oily grin for you at any given point of time. If it was time for Ganesh Bidis then you can expect a couple of songs from him. Invariably the songs used to be from the movie "Chemmein". My own rendition of the song can be dealt with in another post. But right now, time to concentrate on my Mellu roots.

It began there, my initiation into mellu-land. I was made to eat things that were only deep fried in coconut oil. I ate only beef (It wasn't a bad word in the mellu household). Chaiya was mandatory while Uncle George gave us a lecture on Comrade KNP Namoodaripillai.

Fridays were rosary days. I was master of the rosary in Malayalam (my own version of course) no one bothered to correct me. So till this day I say a very Strange Hail Mary in Malayalam.
Winnie taught me a few things, they are as follows:

1. When playing the role of the dying older sister if you don't stick your tongue out, it dosn't count that you are dead.
2. When asked to chose between your "bestest friend" and your brother, you bloody well chose your bestest friend.
3.No matter how hard you try you can never blow a hot water bag like a balloon.
4. Curd rice always goes well with beef. And most importantly
5. After doing number 2 you wash your hands with dettol.

Things George Uncle taught me:
1. Kaadilina kare poono re....
2. Ganesh bidis costs 3 rupees for a pack.
3. If you ever smoke, smoke only Ganesh bidis.
4. When you say "patti" always add a "thooo" before it.
5. "Ninda kundi" is a perfectly legitimate answer to any question.
6. By learning a certain Malayalam rhyme, you could turn out to be a "wife beating bastard".

These are the life lessons I learn and re-learn everyday. Perhaps the reason I run back to that twisted childhood so often these days, is because there is no one there to tell me... "Don't dream, come back to reality." Most of my childhood was spent in my head, And Winnie's house was the only reality I knew back then.

Cream buns....

Time check: 01:16 AM.

I recall a time when I was say 5ish (looked 8 though) when life was much simpler. The highlight of the day was when the 'dab dab-man' came with his magical steel trunk filled with creambuns and butter biscuits and other fresh-from-the-oven goodies. Somehow to a pudgy five year old the steel trunk seemed magical, it seemed bottomless, it seemed like the steal trunk was something out of the Bible... it could feed 10,000 and still have a few creambuns to spare. It was maned by a very stoic looking man. Had I been distracted enough I would have asked him his name, but I had other pressing matters to attend to. Like scan his steel trunk to see which bun had the most cream on it. With an engineer's eye I'd pick out the one I thought Biggest, measure it with the practiced eye of a veteran eater of hundreds of creambuns, pay him his 3 bucks and scoot to the 3rd floor where I lived.

Mom was also pleased with the arrival of the dab dab-man (so christened by me because he used to bang the steel goodies filled trunk to announce his arrival). Once my weekly quota of cream bun was satisfied, I didn't desire much in life. She recalls to this day how I used to sit by the window and nurse that single bun for close to an hour. First I'd eat edges (the cream-less part) then with the grand flourish that only a five year old bun-lover can muster, I'd begin work on the best part... the creamy part. Ah...! the joy it brought me...

The dab dab man might have joined the bakery revolution and bartered his magical steel trunk for a small bakery that might be called "Cee Jee Best Bakery". But little does he know the immense joy he brought a strange little girl who lived at B-32 1219 BDA Flats Austin Town Bangalore forty seven.

A boy named Su

Coarse black hair parted at the center
A little big boy read about dementors.
Happy with his sambar and curds rice
Loves to bargain about corriander price.

Mother shaped like a globe
Father has hairy ear lobe
Little big boy loves to study
Maths,computers and Indian sociology.

Born as Subramaniyam Sheshachalapathi
Till the age of 14 an incessant bed-wetter was he.
But now he hides behind his specs.
Obviously fearing the opposite sex.

Little big boy wanted to be cool!
So he tried a backsummersault in the swimming pool.
So there he was all right and ready.
Little boy Su sans his chaddies.

Time came for Su to get marry.
Oh boy! Wasn't he in a hurry!
Every night he dreamed
Of a silky saree falling at the seam.

When the day did arrive
Little man Su now became a big boy.
Remembering all the advice he read in Women's Era
Big boy Su tried his stunts on poor Meera.

Now after blinking a couple of times
Big boy Su is teaching his son nursery rhymes.
Poor Meera has now transformed into a witch,
Leaving Su the much detested position of being her bitch.

So thats the story of a boy named Su
Was he in the US he would have played some blues.
Unfortunatly he's stuck with traffic jams and beating wives
Poor Su, prayed for forks but all he got was knives.

Miracle Workers...

Doesn't exactly have the same ring as "sex workers" but then ultimately thats what we are doing. And by WE I mean the depraved lot who parade around as Trainers ( the professionals not the bras). Hired by slutty corporates whose sole existence depends directly upon the oral gratification they can provided their melanin deprived boss across the seven seas.

A conversation triggered off this vehement outpouring (rather jaded at this point). While I was sitting there appropriately dressed but uncomfortable as straight man in gay bar, we feel into conversation about random things. Good times. Great pizza. Then I get a phone call. The lady on the other end is supposedly my colleague and she has some information for me. Here I must pause and give due attention to her accent. Imagine you had a telly that played only one Australian channel and suntv. Thats it. Nothing else. And you being the fidgety fart that you are have to keep switching channels. Imagine the cacophony that would result. Thats exactly how she sounds. Like a friggin kangaroo high on sambar. Anyhoo... I respond to her appropriately, "Yes, sure.. I'll meet you on the 4th floor... The meeting is postponed?! Oh thats a pity.. Yes.. Park5.. of course... I'll see you there.. Take care... bye." The lady sitting with me presently gives me the look as one would give a two headed goat or summat. "Why did you speak like that?!"....
..."Erm... like what?"
"Like.... 'oh... look at me... I have such a briddish accent' and shyt." This is still punctuated by that look she is giving me.
"Well part of my job profile man... They pay me to sound like a friggin brit...and as you can clearly see I do a sucky job of it."

Scoff...

She gets back to her chocolate fantasy and we resume the conversation about better things. But that look and that blatant statement was cooking in the backburner. Why the hell am I doing this? Teaching a bunch of wankers to speak in "Polished English"... with the "stiff uffer lif". Why am I turning each one of these poor innocent MTI rooted buggers into glo-ball citizens?? What am I trying to attain?

I for one am a stickler for identity. Make your own, however turd like it is.. it doesn't matter.. at least its your own turd. What am I doing with these kids? Making them into globally accepted turd bags?

Then the thought occurred to me. These kids walk into these BPOs especially the one which I work for, thinking, they have arrived. Fancy floors with bling bling inside of the tile. Funky Otis lifts with those shiny chrome doors where you can adjust your dupatta, tie and pull that wad of booger out of your nose thats shyly peeping out. They mesmerize them with their fancy toilets. For someone who is used to have tall blades of grass tickle their bums when they are relieving themselves of burden, this is sophisticated machinery. "Whaat? you have to sit... like you are sitting on a chair and do it?" "But the position is not right, it wont come out clearly." Trust these guys to come up concerns of not articulating correctly form the 'objectionable orifice'. Either ways makes sense don't it... its shite we are talking about... anterior or posterior is immaterial.

So screw all you glow-ball corporate world licking dingleberrys. Look at clearing your own backyard before you go and invest in an ornamental garden in the "Land of Fcuking Opportunity". "They pay better, plus you get exposed to various different cultures, plus the standard of living is high there, plus you hold a green card ( with other things that I shall not mention)" All of this serves what purpose? Just so that you can come back with an accent that met with an accident? Not to mention the dollar bills that dot your wallet. The former smoker of ganesh bidi now only drags Malboros, the hair that was formerly marinated in coconut oil now looks like a cat licked it... what with all the stylehardmyhari gels.

Ah... such is life i say... And unfortunately I am propagating these events. So, due to paucity of money here I am forced to do this. But not for long. There will come a time... when I will stop and get back to my home town of "Dementiahatten" Where I can roam wild and free in the ancient runes of my messed up topography. That day will come soon.... Till then.... Corporate slut it is... Sigh...

Welcome back Ms. Alexander

I'm back home as it were. Fond homecoming prevailed as the mother made pancakes and such. The father just behaved in a father like fashion. Enough said.

So the feeling isn't exactly of jubilation. Sort of "whatthefuckhaveidone"...

Yeah... I'm supposed to be thrilled and whatnot. Homo sweet Homo. But I suddenly begin to crave the lack of human beings. It takes a bit of getting used to. Suddenly there are shoulders to rub with, there are people to bump into on the footpath. The yuppies have crawled out of the wood work along with the slick marble looking laptops. The air begins to smell of condescension. Yeech...!

I miss the kanada songs that were played in the auto when I went to work. I miss paying 12 bucks "akka minnnimum fayr akka." Back there in MySore, life went at a slower pace. I got dragged into this gig whining and puking, now, I miss the fucker.

I miss that dilapidated old fart of a building I used to stay at. Eva and I successfully managed to scare away a bunch of wankers Od-ing on gogonut oyil and tamil/malayalam/hindi/kanada tele seriels. While night after night they sat and plotted their misirable lives after their favorite actress in the seriels ... Heroin it seems.. Eva and I used to sit in our dingy little room and smoke and bitch and then smoke and bitch some more. Occasionally when I felt dehydrated I would open the door to get some water, and lo and behold a cloud of smoke engulfed me. I doubt that those jasmine wearing turdies ever saw my pretty face, it being covered in smoke most of the time, beside the tear rimmed eyes ( courtesy the serials) didn't provide adequate visual aid as well. But I loved the dramatic pause that took place. Suddenly everything was in slow motion. I fancy a 'requiem for a dream' type music being played in the background. While the lil lamb chops gaped at me and then at the smoke filled gas chamber that I just stepped out of, I grab the much cursed bisileri bottle, which I suspect is filled with water from the loo. Ah, fuck cares, we going to die anyhoo.

But back home I have clean water to drink. Gone are the days when I used to put the glass to my lips and wonder will I live after the first gulp?! Gone are the days when at 3 am if I couldn't find sleep, I'd go looking for it on my terrace. I usually found it on the outline of the Chamundi Hill, slowly it made its way towards me. Vast open spaces sung ancient lullabies to me. Before you know it, I'm lying on the terrace like a some celestial beached whale. Knocked out.

For those of you who know me, you'd probably think that I used to hate it there. "Used" being the operative verb in simple past tense. Funny what we can get used to. Isolation being one of them. A simple freedom that comes with isolation. Not so much there is no one to talk to, but the simple joy that you are not accountable to anyone. No toes to step on, no promises to keep and no miles to go before I sleep.

Well, I'm back now...almost...

Shh.........

You are faced with a blank canvas. Potential energy. It is up to you to convert all this potential energy into kinetic energy. Where do you get your resources? Look within you. May I speak in first person? Or is this my latent self-centeredness taking over. You have to formulate new words to express almost accurately what you feel. Or you are allowed to modify existing words so that they make more sense to you. Artistic freedom, it is called. You treat few words as you would your lover, always partial to them always thinking of them. But then there are other words that you treat like your mistress, you use them in secret. When you’re sure your beloved words don’t fall out of your mouth and linger in the air just to see that promptly following tem out of your mouth are those damn mistress words. And then there are these sounds that serves better than words. You use them quite often. You have created your own language with just mono syllabic sounds. There are times when these sounds serve you better than those words (lovers and mistress) that they make other words seem redundant. They strip language naked and leave you with little shameless bits of sounds that brazenly replace the more sophisticated and clothed language.

So what language do you speak? Do the fall out of your mouth or are they formed with the invisible patterns that you weave with your hands? Or are they a combination of both? With your eyes serving as punctuation marks?

But the most beautiful of all languages is silence. That lovely eloquent silence. What language can best describe the agony and liberation that death brings? Silence… unnecessary words ruin the rendezvous that lovers hearts and eyes share, silence enhances them. After drowning in emotions, a sweet exquisite pain that brings you untold of maddening bliss born of agony and purity, your friends looks into your eyes. Silence is the most articulate.

Silence is divine proof that we were meant do more and feel more. Silence is a hint to a dimension that is higher and deeper at the same time. Silence is that celestial music to which our spirits dance. Silence is you without your desires. Silence is the dot at the end of this sentence.

Now change the question.

Who is a sinner?

The one who bites of the apple? Seeking knowledge?
And what kind of knowledge is dangerous?
If knowledge can kill, then so can life.
In reality it is in dying that we are truly born.
Not in to the flesh. But as an idea,
a floating mote of dust that lingers on the eyelash of some supreme

Creative force. And then that force smiles.(can divinity smile?)
And then does this divine creative force need human tabulations and

Equivalents to be recognized?
We see that force all around. In the arrogance. In the innocence.
The passion that makes us kill. The same passion that makes us love.
The idea. That’s what we are, we are some divine cosmic idea, floating

In arbitrary isolation. There is no greater calling in your life than

To live it. To realize it. To realize the truth. Your truth. Not to

Validate another's truth;
am I starting to build a new religion? Is that what I am doing?
Am I trying to carve a pedestal for myself?
Aren’t we all vain to the point of thinking that we are Special?
What is this specialty?
Do things like this really matter?
Ultimately if you ask too many questions the answers you get will just be

Some more questions.
The trick, yes there is a trick, is to balance.
Everything depends on equilibrium. The balance of good and evil.
The consequence.
One has to do what one has to do.
The fear is real it is human. Don’t become god.
Being god deprives you of glory, and you were made for Glory.

Quando?

Trust is that malevolent kindness that believing in something gives you.

You seek it awkwardly because there is that part of your childhood that it holds. The childhood that you never knew. And that’s why you seek it,
who is a rational human being?
One who trust?

Who is a cynic?

One who doesn’t?
If that be the case there are none of us in the world who are true to the Definition.
There are questions that are asked so that you distract yourself from

The real truth that you seek.
Once they have managed to keep you pre occupied with questions like

This, then it becomes easier to maintain some semblance of peace.

Is there peace. Or are we just pretending to be peaceful?
We are all seekers. We seek that which we don’t know.
There are no morals in knowledge.
There is only revelations and realization.
The fancy word for it is philosophy.
The common word for it is suffering.
No one suffers more than the philosopher.
We are a sorry lot.
We are the ones that deal with the excreta of humanity and look for

Beauty in it.
And the most startling discovery is the finding of beauty in that

Putrid dungeons of thoughts and words.
Makes one question the questions that we have been asking ourselves.
Perhaps I’m not the first one to ask, perhaps there are have been proud

Insanities that have attempted to decipher the code.

The code that binds and programs everything.
What makes us human is the need...to know.