Saturday, July 23, 2011

Phil-nomics ??

"There wouldn't be no philosophy on an empty stomach", I remember my flat mate reading this line aloud to me once. What I don't remember the book from which my flat mate was reading. Was it Marx? I am not sure. But then, my tryst with Marx says otherwise. Whoever be the great mind who coined the phrase, have to admit, it holds good completely. I can't make a statement for the entire human race, but sure can say about myself.

The rain beat tormentingly on the big umbrella I was holding, I was getting wet, but not all that much, a constant heavenly spray, which wasn't enough to make a person soaking. The air-conditioned building awaits me and a cup of coffee from the pantry, my discomfort was definitely short lived and I strode wondering more about the relation of philosophy and economics.

She was wearing a polythene, yellow colored rain coat and standing at the gate, checking identity cards. There was no umbrella, but a rain coat with a hood, making her look like a saint with a halo, from a catholic church. A female saint, standing at the gate, in the rain, checking the identity cards of all those who walked past her into the warmth of the building, people like me. Drops rolled down the plastic hood, onto her face and traced a trail down someplace into her bosom, forming a puddle of coldness, very near to her heart. She was wet and cold, but couldn't complain nor think about warmth, there were hours to go before she could have it. There was no seeker in her, there were no pondering questions about life in her, rather an exclamation about the bitch, life has turned to be for her, struggling hard to make a living.

I cant help but repeat it after my realization that, it is so very true, no philosopher existed on an empty stomach. The pangs of hunger and man's quest for greater meanings in life are inversely proportional. The less the hunger and more the comfort, more man's desire to seek answers.

Friday, July 22, 2011


I feel the wind on ma face, its cold but dusty. My spectacles are being no good, but I actually don't care. I ride happily, there was no actual place to be at a specified time. No family awaits me with dinner, nor there a wife steaming up the dinner in fridge or maybe the bed, no friend waiting with a bottle of beer at a distance, just me, myself and the road.

I didn't turn an orphan, just that relations have progressed, the underlying sense of understanding has grown with the ones I care about. There aren't many, but the few, because they are "MINE" do know about my care and that makes things so much beautiful, our whole relation. It has given me a sense of independence, a sense of bliss from the social etiquette of calling up everyday and checking on mundane stuff like, "had lunch" questions. It has its own charm, never undermining the importance of "had lunch.." calls, but some times the solitude too has its own charm.

As a friend said, I do not care about almost everyone else, their happiness or sadness, not because someone hurt me and I developed it. But rather because, it do not matter at all, both the people and their emotions, to me. None of them are "mine". The experience of bliss feeling the wind on the face, listening to the rhythm the bikes piston composing with the road, that is when I have actually felt at ease. No human expectations, no phone calls required, no informing the latitude required, suddenly the starry nights starts looking all the more decorated, with my thoughts getting a hit from the knowledge that no body had a clue, where exactly I was.

From shore to shore, riding the waves, I feel I might be touching a lot many lands.  Why would the driftwood ever want to be made into a furniture and settle in the drawing room of a house, when it can ride the waves and see all around? It never would want to be a furniture,  riding the waves is when its at its melancholy best. The next 30 odd more years, why would I ever want to settle down with one profession, one city, one wife and maybe one kid? While I could choose to have 30 women, 30 professions, 30 cities.. haa haa that would be a heck of 30 years to live ;)

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Career oooouuuch !!

I had this talk with a friend in office, over some coffee, about 'career' of all things. Out of blue, he asked me when I would put in my papers and I quite honestly told him my thoughts on that. His reason for asking, he knew I was not felt important enough in a giant corporation. There was nothing here he knew which I thought I will like here and he understood me as this guy who does what he likes. But, then doing something not all that important to support just a life style for the moment.

Haa haa he had me bulls eye. The life style support part is true, but financially I was much better of in my dad's hand. I could almost charge everything to his account but not the booze. Yeah then money was never a big hindrance in the small town of Cochin, where you practically knew half the people your age. It definitely was not like now, when I have to  call my sisters at the end of every single month. But still, there was loads of truth in what he said.

He asked me about what I plan to do as a career. I didn't know. I told him, I feel I am a misfit in the corporate lattice and his explanation was you are not trying to fit into the lattice. Even that is true, but then I am not sure, I ever want to fit in. I am unsure about myself, about what I want to do with my life. Whether it is just a thing I want to do or try doing different things for a very long time to come.

I actually still am unsure what a career means? I find it no different from the actual life I am leading. If I am happy doing a thing, I will do it till I am happy and if that brings the money for the bread. Do I seek growth in it? I don't want the burden a better label will fetch me. I am the last one who wants to be promoted, but I definitely need the biggest pay raise, because that supports a life style as my friend suggested, without having to burden my siblings. I am not sure of the meaning, my description gives to the concept 'career', but then that is the best I am able to define. The eluding definitions !!

And then the killer question, what is PLAN B? The backup plan.. haa haa I actually didn' have a Plan A, forget the Plan B. All I knew was I will quit, when I am not sure. The end of next month or maybe the next year, but then what after that, I haven't thought about. I am sure about the eventual farming, but then do I stick to just supporting a life style and jump straight to farming, when I get bored of this life style. Or should I travel about, maybe volunteer in Sudan or volunteer to fight the whale pirates in North Atlantic, not as a lawyer, but for any task they have to offer. The deck boy to the Major's boot-polisher, anything suits me, as long as it gives me a chance to see new places and do new things, live a different life style. But, then that is not a plan. It is just a wish and I am yet unsure, I want to  yet leave this life style.

Ooouuuucch I really haven't given a thought about life up ahead, there are things I want to do, places I want to be at, but the dates and faces to it is not attached. Should I ever try put faces and dates to the things I want to and places I want to be at, that will be so unlike me. Or maybe I plan and live a life in sync with others, but then the vibes hardly ever matches. Money important to me? Bloody well yes, to support a life style I am liking at a particular moment. The Vodka nights need a giant corporate paymaster, then the traveler can afford to actually go as a deck boy, the whiskey drinking, Sabbath observing Nazarani can easily be lived being a farmer and so much more many life styles I would like to live, before I eventually quit.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Ousu and the Art of Toilet Maintenance

Ever since reading “Zen & the Art of …” and trying very hard and yet still pondering with the words of Robert M. Prisig, I been craving to analyze a hobby I do regularly, in which I am actually really good at.

I ride bikes, been around, but I have no clue about the mechanics of a bike. A broken clutch cable, would cause me trouble, because I never bother to carry an extra cable or a puncture kit for that, nor learned to change one. Bike has always been the preferred object to travel. And I do take good care of the bike, not me actually. But the mechanics near my home. The chances of trying to do a biopsy of my motorcycle experiences would be very bad. I actually have very few, half a dozen punctures, couple of minor problems while starting, a broken clutch; these are the only things that have happened to make the bike immobile when I was riding over the last 10 years. It is another matter that there been incidents, where I was immobile and the bike was got back home by a friend. But it is not about me, about my relation with the motor bike, so as to be Phadreus.

Taking a shower, I observed the stain on the tiles, a shade of brown, stained from water, because I have been scrubbing on it meticulously for once a week, for the last 15 months. I have been missing my last weapon, in my toilet maintenance strategy. I am sorry, I actually had a strategy for toilet cleaning, it is my hobby, and I think about it at times. I was missing acid, I didn’t know where to get it and I have been looking around.

Out from the shower, I went ahead to ask again for acid. I asked a random shop nearby, which I have been ignoring because of its negligible size and they had it. They actually had it. With a feeling of triumph I buy not one, not two, but three bottles of acid. Came running back home and changed ma dress, got armed and poured acid all over the washroom. The smell was pungent, I held my breath for the longest possible time I ever had, but at the end, three liters of acid poured all over the floor.

My flat mate woke up coughing and we settled for sometime in the kitchen. An hour later, I am inside, scrubbing with a brush, it is white, a white as clear as the milk of cow. Every inch of it is that color and I actually felt happy pouring water and watch the stains go away down the drain. Then there is an inch still reluctant, I use the back side of my floor brush, it is my gun in the maintenance program and the back side the ultimate precision weapon. Reluctantly it gives away, after 7 minutes, I wear my watch, to check the time, that is how important, my toilet maintenance strategy is for me.

After having accomplished to give my flat mate a surprise with the whiteness of the tiles, I actually know, while Prisig was about Motorcycle maintenance in the search of the answers, I have just reached the toilet maintenance stage.

((NB: The Zen thinker and the toilet strategist and the one who is actually writing this, all are me and they exist together in harmony. That is the miracles which make me feel awed and seek answers. The wonder called human mind, something worthwhile to take the plunge??))

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


I was watching the news today morning, while having breakfast in the office cafeteria. There was news about the cabinet re-shuffle, the new IMF Chief's take on the Indian economy and "Roshan, reunited with dad", a scroll which never left the bottom of the screen. I did catch up the news on the train derailment in UP couple of days back and I have laboriously kept myself away from hearing about the personal stories of tragedy, which miraculously appears on news channels within close to couple of hours of every accident. It was enough to know about the accident, the death toll and the reasons that led to it, but I didn't want no part of the many "Krishnas and Thomas and Karims" who died in the accident. So, the scroll didn't make sense to me initially, then, I figured out, it was about a little girl, who lost her mother in the accident and finally is re-united with her father. The personal loss of the family, irreplaceable; life might actually get re-defined from this incident for the girl Roshan and the other members in her family. But everything said, I know that it is not going to make a difference in my life or of the millions who would be watching it.

Man flocks to human tragedy, like fireflies to the fire. The more personal the tragedy sounds, the more obsessed we behave. During the Mumbai terrorist attacks, whole of India, got glued to the screen and the news channels had a rating that they never ever had before. Not forgetting the 100's who died there, Kasab and his friends, gifted the NDTV and the CNN and the Times now and every other single news channel, an audience. The channels went gold digging and we had live commentaries of the operations carried out to flush Kasab and Co, with live visuals to make it entertaining. The MARCOS from the Mumbai Naval Base replaced the NSG Commandos, oh my the whole world knew, thanks to Burkha Dutt and her friends. The handlers in Pakistan would have thanked all of them personally if ever given a chance. And I can't help but think about how Uncle Sam handled 'Geronimo'.

Everyone including me, had our personal piece of the incident, thanks to our so very truthful fourth estate. Then you always had the movie star, social activist, writer and everyone else, claiming a piece of the tragedy and making sure their personal ratings on the screen or print keeps climbing. I remember finally switching the TV off when I had to listen to Shobha De, shout on to the camera, asking the politicians to leave Mumbai alone. A writer I admire for some of her books, but then instead of the calm nerves, all she displayed was more hostility, as though we didn't have enough and a bigger audience for her new book. I am not a supporter of the Government, but then for me personally she blew of the lid and made things more tragic and ensured a bigger chaos.

When the bomb blast in C.P, the heart of New Delhi happened, people ran towards the blast site and not away from it. It was not that everyone was trying to be Bruce Willis in Die Hard series, but to have a glimpse of the tragedy smeared on the road and the wall. To take in the picture of human tissue and blood plastered all over, go home and enlighten a hundred other what they actually saw. Nothing I feel, nothing ever attract human interest like witnessing the tragedy happening to the fellow beings. If it was to make right, the wrong, that would have been so very different. But all the interest just to absorb the blood and the stint of gut from the places, watch it like a blockbuster movie and go home and talk about it.

Thanks to the Fourth Estate, we will never face shortage of tragedy BLOCKBUSTERS.

Monday, July 11, 2011

I am no longer sorry

I saw her from a distance and instantly she looked up on me, our eyes met for a brief moment and I knew, she will come to me. I was shabby, but with a thick wallet held in hand, for no other reason than lack of a pocket in my boxers. She must have mistook it as an invitation. She was dark skinned, with pleated hair and that is all I could make out from the distance.

I looked to the left, in to a shop, though not looking for anything, only to avoid her gaze and being consciously aware of the ever nearing presence. I knew, my knees grow weak when such human forms looks at me, my skin gets in repulsion, when they try touch me, I always want to shout, 'please go away from me. In my world, there is no place for you. You were not supposed to be existing and your existence the way now, is in some mystique way my contribution as well, I shouldn't have let this happen to you, being the more evolved form I am'.

She was there right at my side trying to touch my left hand, pleading with her eyes. Had the cheap nail polish on torn nails and quite some talc. The dress was shabby, the nose a little crooked, a teeth broken at the tip and making gestures with her mouth. I looked at her for a moment, my hands itching to open my wallet and give her some money and run home and sanitize my hand. It was one long stare, I felt this woman, aged 5, knew the moment she saw me that I will be the perfect prey to ask alms for. Rub my conscious about her shabbiness and get away with the money I give to stop addressing it. I stared long back into her eyes, let her touch my arm, and kept staring and finally she backed out. Removed her arms and walked away.

I looked at her and I knew, it was not my making. There was nothing in the world that I had done, that transformed this 5 year old girl, into this 'woman' begging for alms. The sense of false responsibility I always felt, I knew was over with, because I am the last person who made their lives the way it is. Blame it on themselves, or the animal instincts in their parents, for whom progeny was the order every year. Blame it on the government or in the larger meaning, the system, which failed to make sure such class differentiations never happened in the society. I realize, I am not the one who robbed her childhood and suddenly I am no longer sorry for her having lost her childhood.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Reminiscence on a Sunday Evening

The glass fell down from my hand and the mobile rang at the same time. It was my acquaintance from office, checking on me, now that my flat mate is on a vacation. Probably wanted to know, whether I was any good to be dragged out for dinner or maybe couple more of drinks. Me alone in my flat on a Sunday with vodka stored in kitchen was a bad combination and loads of people knew it. The sound of the glass shattering had made me remember a Sunday from my childhood. So the time I tried mumble something back over the phone, I was actually thinking about Sundays when, it was truly the sabbath, the way Appa wants it. I doubt the acquaintance who called will bother call again as she said. Probably must have thought I am drunk already, then that is better for me as well. I want today to be a sabbath, the day of the lord.

After the church, catechism and every other catholic practice to be followed on a Sunday, me and my sisters used to be glued to the tv. The lunch was always late, because Amma believed in making the Sunday lunches special and that made her work in the kitchen never get over. We would have umpteen number of dishes and five hungry people to eat. No wonder I crib even now, every Sunday precisely during lunch. Then the siesta and the movie. Close to about the time the movie starts, we would have a guest, a much welcomed one always, a friends or a relatives family who would come to our place, then the movie gets watched amidst talks, coffee, snacks and which on most days climaxes only after the dinner, with the young kids after having fallen asleep. On the Sundays, no one came, we would be the visitors, but the family unions almost always happened invariably.

The friends on Sunday, never bothered to call before they came. They came un-announced, but were almost always welcome. There were no fears of unfamiliarity, you knew you were welcome. The confidence the feeling brings in to a man's heart, I feel I lack these days. There no longer are any unannounced friends coming, almost every one calls before coming, and a lot of them actually call on the mobile standing outside the front door, instead of using the calling bell. Even I do it, at most times. I find it more convenient, I find it more sensible, or is it in truth the feeling of un-surety that is the curse of me and my contemporary generation?

I find my acquaintances doing it with their people, almost everyone doing it with everyone else. No one goes over un-announced, there actually doesn't exist these old family unions which showed the kids a lot about human goodness and bonding and trust and hospitality. People are no longer welcome in my life and not just mine, no ones life. I say it as my space, I respect it and am a vibrant vocalist of it, we even have a legislation to be enacted for it. A question which is still troubling me, all this about 'space' and is it actually the lack of trust humans have in their own importance to others?

Saturday, July 9, 2011

my mind is one selfish son of gun.

A reason, what might actually seem the most sensible at a particular moment, given the coordinates that matrix of life is on, is always almost behind human actions. There lies a story behind my re-location to Hyderabad, away from Cochin, away from the green and the rain, away from the comfort of home and Appa's wallet. I ponder back now, I know the maybe the first initial reason in my mind was naive, a peripheral vision to sound right, to make people believe right. The real reason is not elusive, none other than my friend selfishness, which I always failed to see in my so genuine a gesture of love from the heart, at least so i said aloud.

The necklace road in Hyderabad, which goes around the Hussein Sagar lake, with the giant Buddha statute in between, though holds no special attraction to me, is the picture I have of Hyderabad. It should probably must have been embedded from my first journey to Hyderabad with my family, when I was a kid. We had a picnic lunch, sitting  in the shades of one of those trees planted alongside the necklace road. The memories are so very clear, every time I go to the necklace road, I keep thinking back about the times I have been there.

The picnic lunch makes way for the tables arrayed in 'eat street', where I painstakingly sit listening to my girl friend chat with her cousin brother about someone in their family. Two friends have joined us, my girl friends hostel mate and my flat mate, they have a conversation going about some good movie that is being aired and I nod my head occasionally. Orders were strict before we ventured out, I was to behave as only a friend in front of her cousin and the second one to keep my conversations with her hostel-mate as little as possible. I was getting bored, painstakingly being polite and dying myself every moment. Now that is not one very happy memory to remember, it was like your bladder was full and you had to let out, but you had to hold it for ever. There was never any thinking there but the painful bladder a relation proved. My peripheral self believed, its all in love.

Then I have been there with some people, mostly friends and mostly drunk, drive around smoke a cigarette and come back. I was not very fond of the place, but my friends seems to find the place amusing in the early hours of dawn, and we always drove up there. Then there was nothing bad, I always loved to ride and what better time to rub the tar, so always accompanied. We talked about a movie or a thing, never the place. Maybe someone commented on the Buddha statute, but everything else was always about something else. I always thought about the eat street incident, but never knew why I came to Hyderabad in the first place.

I was the driver back again last night, my favorite entertainment when drunk, and I seriously mean no pun. The farther the distance the better I love it, I love driving back into a city after dropping the friend 5ish in the morning, the rush I feel seeing a city waking up from the sleep, always makes up my day. A new belief to grab on, maybe the believer in me still lives. Then this time, it was my friend and so driving back always an added pleasure, if the companion is a talker, I listen. If the pillion is silent, I try small talk, but then not always. Some are so very dumb or maybe high with the wind, that I don't bother after a couple of probes.

This friend was smart and it was the city, she grew up. She was coming back after a long seven years and a celebration it was indeed which went on for very long coz the combination of friends, paradise biriyani bacardi apple flavored rum and white mischief vodka, and me in the vicinity the 11pm friday got stretched to 4am saturday. The talks were about a city she grew up, about Hyderabad. I listened, that was good, because I was a little thirsty and the drunken brain failed to register of all things there was water in her hand bag, while I kept observing her passion for the city she grew up. The wind felt soothing on me, though a little cold and unlike the comfort of humidity that my skin relishes, the conceited me actually took a beating. I always cribbed about Hyderabad, the senseless drivers, the horrid weather, the lack of green, the dust. But the passion she was talking, made my spirit immersed in spirits, float around as if I am at Maneka, in Cochin. I thought about "eat street girl" and it finally dawned on me, it was my selfishness, which made the move and not the peripheral truth my heart seemed to project or make believe.

Thinking now, I know the reason, why I finally came here, to keep my free reign. She posed a threat to the free reign of my mind and my consciousness or maybe the depth of me, (my Freud relation is very limited, please do forgive me for that) reasoned everything out, moved her out from my home city and did everything necessary to do this. What seemed like an act of love, was indeed an act of selfishness, because she was never me and my interests were protected with the smoke of love. My mind, selfish an truly non-altruistic now I realize , my mind is one selfish son of gun.

Friday, July 8, 2011

adonis in flesh

The stars hardly shone from the dreamy wet sky, the little light giving her a shade of Adonis. The color of man, of the mud, but shining in sweat, our sweat. She was the bitch, craving to be filed, and me the beast who been on the sniff of her smell. Memories flashing by, of events, places all that has been a part of my life. The faces of people, one thing that keeps away.

From childhood, the time memory goes back, through the stages of innocence, through laughter, smiles, adrenalin, anguishes, cries, victories, defeats and everything else that has ever happened. to  the first catholic sin with feminine forms. But then nothing remains, only events, a feeling as if all these to reach here, to copulate a union on terrace with this feminine form. I was the beast and she the bitch, it was a call of nature and nothing could ever stop it unfolding.

The first touch was electric, there was an urge to tear of the layers of clothing that covered humans, made him truly a wolf trying to hide in a sheepskin. Fabric, had nothing to do here. There was the whole world waiting down, wearing the masks in clothes. There was only the bronze colored feminine before me. She wanted me, just as much as I wanted her, the urge and the craving equal and tales of beastly passion followed.

The cries were answered, trails of marks on each other. Traces of the skin and the red cells that makes up life, smeared on each other. There was a moment when everything stopped and weightlessly both of us floated and we were lying down as man and woman, unashmed of what we had done, because both of us knew, we were brought here not by destiny, but by choice. Not by compulsion but by a freedom to choose, and time was nothing, but just what we made it. We were the beast and bitch or as the old Eliot reader in me shouts, together we are ADONIS IN FLESH.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

in the arms of a WOMAN, my BASHERT

The Symposium by Plato, where Aristophanes describes how Zeus felt jealous of the human perfection with four arms and four legs, splitting them into half as man and woman, many a time in life has made me wonder whether there really exist some truth in it. The myth goes on to explain the necessity men and woman has to feel as one, which becomes true in copulation and the human souls craving to feel complete, to feel alive. The bliss of the union, is something much beyond words to describe, to be experienced and comprehend. I have had my moments of bliss, kissing the first time, feeling a feminine form beating against my chest and even with the slightest touch of the finger tip with the half that went missing, if the Greek myth is to be believed.

The softness of a girl, how much ever compelling and refreshing it might be do not interest me any longer. I have felt like a teacher many a time, I have found myself in the company of a girl, trying to understand the young softness and shape the relation based on the understanding. Not all relation ends up in copulation, there is a happiness in preaching about life to an innocent softness, which many a time had taken me to the heights of metaphysical orgasms, if ever there be one. The softness scares me, I am scared for the softness being charred by me and it has always made me sure, I keep my hands to myself, even if things gets steamy at the heat of the moment. Being selfish from the heart, I do not prefer the extra burden of caring for the needs of a soft young girl.

I seek for the roughness of the woman, the hard muscles of her limbs and heart will know to take care of herself. She would know to protect her interests and her blood would never be shed. The grasping mind of the woman, experienced in the bitter and sweet of life, the veteran gray cells, which has been  through the ups and downs in life, excites me than anything I can imagine. I know, every single cell of me can be myself, the arrogant selfish person, enjoy the bliss in copulation or of mating of the intellect. I can be sure of the waters I tread on and can feel confident about the wing-man watching the flanks. I can see myself in the hard woman, experienced and traveled through the valleys and peaks in life, there is a definiteness in the woman eyes, she is sure of herself, her physique, her intelligence and her soul. I would love to lie in the arms of the woman and understand the completeness she brings to me, rather than ever be a teacher again.

I want to get on top of the water tank of my flat, sit with legs dangling down, sipping spirit and rejoice in the copulation of the spirits, the golden colored one I love to drink and the spirit inside me, which I might be able to identify in the woman sitting by my side, with legs dangling down. Oh, how I wish to be in the arms of the woman and not a girl, realize the half beating against me and rejoice in the mating of the intellect, in the copulation of the spirit. I am a Jew, a shrewd one at that, who knows in the deepest corners of my mind that my Bashert is a woman and not ever a form of softness called a girl.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

prodigal sons and BASTARDs

The people of Kerala, got to know the real treasure in the Sri Padmanabha Swami temple of Trivandrum very recently. Everyone knew there was tonnes of money involved and huge stacks of the yellow metal, in all forms and shapes, but no one was sure, how much of it really existed. The last time I read, (2 days back) it was 50,000 crores and still counting. My first reaction was of a profound sense of pride, everything else came later. The pride arose from the thought that the erst-while rulers of Travancore, the place which hosts my ancestral house was always considered the benevolent rulers and I felt proud to have my roots belong to that part of Kerala, which formed the erst-while Travancore. Read more about the treasures in the architectural marvel, the temple is, and got to know that the rulers had loaned from the temple treasury centuries back for many a natural calamity or famine and the loans were always paid back. These where benevolent rulers who understood, the exact meaning of paying your dues both to the Caesar and God. What made it more striking for me, was though being the Caesar, they understood everything was not theirs to be made own.

The money in the temple, which is heavily guarded now for all the right reasons quite easily is more than what the Kerala State treasury holds, maybe perhaps more than what the State treasure ever held in its lockers at one particular time. No wonder the white starched khadi clad leader and the one adorning the red-flag and the saffron brigade, all are so very keen to make a claim for the money belonging to Anantha Padmanabhan. The prodigal sons of independent India, of the united states of Kerala (I call it the United States of Kerala, cause for ever it was Travancore, Cochin and Malabar, the three little kingdoms that craved out their existence from the land Parusuram built with his axe and its been just a little over half a century, when these kingdoms were combined together and named Keralam after the coconut trees.) are losing sleep over what is to be done with the treasures discovered and how to get it withing their grasp for better enjoyment of the money for the masses. My foot, it stayed there all this while, because the Prodigal Sons of Independent India, never had the keys to the temple lockers, they were not sure what exactly did the locker hold or maybe they have been a little weary of Anandha Padmanabhan, the deity in Trivandrum.

What do you say about a person who steals from his own home? He is the lord or the crown prince of the household, everything in the home is his, but yet steals the goodies from home? If the innocence of childhood is making him want to steal to buy a rubber ball, I find it justifiable. If it is done at a moment of excitement during the youth, even that is acceptable, because that makes him only the Prodigal Son. But when you are old, when you are not a novice by any means, when the innocence of childhood left you ages back and yet you still resort to stealing, I would prefer call him a BASTARD. Because with the patriarchal nature profoundly found in the Indian Society, whatever is the dad's belong to the kids, but when you try steal from your home, you are actually portraying, you are a bastard. You don't believe that it is your dad, or it belongs to your home, because you basically are clueless about the chromosomes in your blood or the fact that they actually belonged to you in the first place even before stealing. What better word to call someone who doubts his lineage or is unsure of who exactly the Dad is, other than a BASTARD in all the glorified meaning the word holds.

On second thoughts, are the ones who is head deep in corruption and similar scams belonging to the same genes the bastards? I feel cheated, my thoughts cheated me. No they are not the bastards, but I am the BASTARD, because I believed in adult suffrage, I cast my votes, I helped find out a representative to represent me in the governance of my home. Yet, the representative, who has the role of a dad in the Indian society, who is supposed to safeguard the dear ones interests has abandoned me. He never felt that I too belong to his loins, but considered me not his own from the beginning and that lead to the stacking of money in all safe havens away from my reach. The money that ought to be for my bread and butter and better living conditions, were never given to me, because I didn't belong to the loins, I am a BASTARD.

Everything said, with the magnanimous things that the treasure in the temple of Trivandrum can fetch for the State of Kerala, I would want no part of it to go to the Cesar. Because every time, my representatives, got a stack of green in their hand, they conveniently forgot that I too am from their loins, I too belong to them, but what they instilled was the word 'BASTARD' over and over again into my head. Anandha Padnabhan, needs to be on the lookout for his treasures from the leprous decayed hands of the Dad, who has disowned me and made me a BASTARD to the world.

Sunday, July 3, 2011


Ever since crossing the age of 25, I have felt my hairs have turned gray, my own feeble reason though. Every new day since then, it has been a blessing, if nothing else. The time near the old phone, in the front room of our small house in Shoranur, I remember it so very fresh. Ramya, would call me up and I wanted to be there to pick up on the 3rd ring. I was just 11 back then and ours a relation of childhood's fondness. I longed for that phone call always and it made sure, I was home from the ground before it gets too dark. We would talk about school, not the people, but the subjects taught. We still were not stained, to have been talking about people.

It is when, you talk about people, you take sides, you feel involved, your personal thoughts always had an influence. When, it was about things, it was all about beauty about a thing or the sheer ugliness of it. The innocence made us hide our relation in front of the other students in class. We talked, but never mentioned about the times she rang on 0492 23678, that was the number back then. I mean the innocence because, if we weren't, we wouldn't have believed all that we saw on doordarshan and behaved like juveniles, hiding things from everyone. The tv showed, relation between a boy and a girl as something, which brought in fights in a family and the innocence bought it without a question.

We grew older, times flew by, talked about this first fascination in a member of the fairer sex to a lot of the other fascinations that followed in my life. The charm was missing, there were no more getting back from the ground, just for a phone call. Things were less interesting, it was a habit rather than a bliss. And I so very grew sick of the habit, I kicked it. The lesser hair that is standing on my head, the charm in romances been climbing down.

Intelligence becomes the turn on and you wouldn't require anything more. Plain intelligent conversations from about the moon and everything under the stars. The high of the whiskey stays in the background, because human intelligence and its beauty, so gripping a myth, I feel at awe talking to some phenomenons. I am all over a teenager again, eager for the phone to ring, wanting to run and pick it. Get going on a conversation about things, their beauty and ugliness, rather than people and their vanity.

Saturday, July 2, 2011


I had a talk with a friend, whom I became familiar through the world of blogs about what we like in each others blog. What glues me to her blog, and Mr. B's, and Anil's and Insignia's (to name few blogs I frequent) is not what this post is about. Rather, her revelation of what she finds interesting in what I write, the nakedness, set of my thought process hunting for an answer, why are things bare and naked in what I write. Why do I write about myself, very honestly, causing a little embarrassment to some zealously religious people in my family, and giving every reason for the law enforcement agencies  to keep a lookout for me and risking being fired by the HR department of the corporate giant I slog for?

Mine is not a crusade against culture, tradition or society. It is true, I don't place any three on top of my list, but things I do and then I write about are in not aimed against them. What I write often reflects a nude picture of what the events looked like through my eyes and I know, no other form of writing. I feel, the nakedness in what I write is actually portraying a naked picture of me. As the profile picture stands and the latest reebok advertisement caption reads, "I am what I am".

I am a selfish, arrogantly proud individual, portraying to the world that for all your moneys worth, you are not going to change me. I am not ashamed of the life I have led nor I regret the mistakes I did. I have apologized for my mistakes, but I haven't regretted. My mistakes taught me more than my rights, I feel. I stand naked in what I write because, that makes me less vulnerable. A secret is no secret, which the whole world knows, simple as that. I am probing people to respond back, give me their take on things I am actually doing, not really to change what I am doing, but to understand people better and understand how many react to particular things.

This is just an introspective note about my blog and why I write the way I do. Thanks to some amazing individuals I met in this world of blogs, perspectives are so many for a single thing, making me reason and helping me in my search for my share of nirvana.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Edda Ouseppe

There was no more corn-flakes left in my flat, and the Quaker Oats tin too was empty. The new month had began, but the thin ladder of my kitchen was not replenished. I was feeling hungry, but then it was already late to office and I didn't have enough time to catch up some grub en-route. Kick-starting with a feeling of emptiness inside, I feel I heard "Edda Ouseppe".

That is a common occurrence from days from my college life, when I used to live couple of houses from my grandma's place. I would step on the brake, when I reach in front of  her  house and stops for a second listening to her "to get" things for the day. Invariably the conversation seemed to follow these lines:

Grandma: Edda Ouseppe ( Hey Joseph)
Me: Entha Amme ? (What grandma?)
Grandma : Nee varumbam, 2 packet paal vangannam. (You should buy 2 packets of milk while you come back)
Me: Alright.
Grandma: Nee vykummo varaan? PDDP thanne vangannam. Marakarudhe. (Will you be late to come back? Buy PDDP milk and not from any other diary. Don't forget.)
Me: Njaan vykkilla. Sheri. (I wouldn't be late. Alright.)
Grandma: Paisa undo? (You have money with you?)
Me: Oovu. (Yes, I do have.)
Grandma: Nee kerri vaa.. Njaan paisa tharaam. (You come inside, I will give you the money.)
Me: Enniku vykki ( Its getting late for me.)
Grandma: Nee valathum kazhicho? Appavum muttem undu.. Nee vaa. ( You had anything to eat? There is appam and egg curry for break-fast. You come inside)
Me: Illa, njaan kazhichilla. (No I didn't have)

Some days I take of my helmet and walks in, the scene was repeated time and again throughout my college. Now when I am hungry and rushing of to someplace, there is no grandma left to cajole me to eat. There is no home cooked food awaiting me in some kitchen. My parents know I wouldn't be coming home for breakfast, there would be no purpose getting something made for me. I stay far away. There are no expecting relative of mine, who is waiting with his kitchen filled with food for me. And there is no longer my grandma, who used to make something extra for me everyday in breakfast, though she knew, I didn't have a pattern of eating or not eating and many a days, it had to be eaten up by Grandpa at the time of tea, coz I said I didn't feel like eating.

Some people in life, their absence comes striking on the face, when you realize the void they have left in your life. I missed Ammachi terribly driving to office and the Hyderabadi special biriyani I had for lunch no comparison to her appams, puttu and dosa. The latter was always made with love, for me, while the former just mass produced meals, which gets served in square plates or the round ones.
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