De-Pinkied

What earthly purpose does the pinky-toe serve, I have often wondered... well.... no. I haven't wondered. Who wonders about such things.? Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I have been neglecting my pinky-toe for the past thirty odd years, and during the course of this time, it has reminded me of it's existence by steering the entire foot towards obstacles, with great velocity, severely pain inducing by nature. By letting out a steady stream of completely unmentionable swear words that would have made Muttai-Bun Aandaalu blush, I would navigate the mind away from the pain.
My pinky-toe like any other self respecting toe, has tried to stick on for all these years with a hope that it will get it's recognition, one day or the other. But a few weeks ago, it seemed to have given up. It had been awfully quiet of late, and had even stuck on dead silent, the other day, when I leapt over the dining table, paying no heed to the huge table legs, to grab a vessel containing some hot Kadalai Urundai that the cook was just bringing out for the folks. It was a picture perfect opportunity for some mashed pinky-toe-Aandalu-blushing-swearing episode, but didn't happen.
And then, yesterday, the pinky-toe, just dropped the nail. By nail, I mean the entire nail, the proud crown, the calcite body and the determined root. It was a sad day, for all the toes, to see one of their brothers get transferred to assisted support. The pinky-toe had lost all vestiges of diginity, by baring itself dropping the nail, and it seemed to be waiting for the final call from Toergum (Toe heaven).
I have preserved the nail, in memory of the proud days when the pinky-toe would go for the glorious ride, sticking out of the hole in my socks. I will cherish the nail for all time, a reminder of all that I am in real life - a proud, but utterly useless extension of flesh and bone.
(I am going to try feeding the nail to the cat, see what happens.)

Cellulogy

There is no reason on God's good earth why this post should interest anyone, even me for that matter. But still it has to be written. In the 90s, when we had just got our independence a mere 43 years ago and we were a young nation discovering ourselves, (which is why we, as a nation, poo and pee in the open, where we stand, because we are infants), I had this requirement to go in for a cell phone. I had a pager at that time, as cellphones were unheard of. How it worked was, you needed to call the pager number and leave the message with the operator, and I will get it on my pager. So, my messages used to be,
"Uncle come, come now." (from home).
"Cycle accident Royapettah hospital" (from the office boy),
"sorry. leave sister pregnant" (employee).
... and so on. It had got to a point where the whole thing was counter productive. So, I decided to buy a cell phone. It was a mighty INR 12000 at that time, and we got a big black Motorola brick that was probably used to communicate with the Garuda platoon after whooping some enemy ass, in the frontlines.
But the worst part was the rates. Incoming calls were charged. I remember paying INR 12 per minute for, "Aaahaahaa. Solayappana koopudu ma.". But I stuck on. Several years down the line I have changed more cellphones than a water-rich baby has changed diapers, and so I thought it was time I made a list of the phones that I had owned. I may revisit this someday, when phones are implanted in the skull and have a snigger or two.




- I still have this brick. This has some 6 number memory or something, is ridiculously heavy, drains battery faster than a politician drains the country's wealth, but it has served me well. And continues to serve me today as well, as a spectacular paperweight.




















- My first touch-screen phone. I was so enamored by this beauty that I spent countless hours on it, hotwiring software, discovering new tricks. If I had been married then, my wife would have left me for sure.



- Twenty seconds into a call, this G50 would get so hot that the ear area would start throbbing. I have a faint suspicion that this phone emitted microwaves.



- My first and last tryst with the people of the CDMA world.



- The 9500 was one of the best phones I've had so far,. This phone is so big that, if placed strategically in your trouser pocket, can turn you into a celebrity among the ladies.















- This baby worked it's ass off for the missus, for quite some time.









- Currently on duty with the missus.









- A mind-bogglingly functional phone, which does about everything except scratch your back (rounded edges), so overpriced that it makes me want to hurl.

Most of these phones were used phones when I bought them. Some were obtained through tremendous feats of hoodwinkery and bamboozlement. If I had spent half the energy on my career affairs, I would be sipping pina colada, on a private beach in Bora bora, with a few trophy wives.

Intelligent Messenger

I have just about recovered from a typical south indian ailment called the "Pulu Joram". This is very similar to influenza virus, only, in the case of "Pulu Joram", treatments are restricted to the vilest compounds that can be cooked and boiled using herbs that goats feed on.

Here I was, sitting in the old tub, checking my email, when none other than the esteemed Advocate Neeluking popped up on the right hand bottom corner.. Here is an extract of the IM that happened. If he hadn't had to go to a class, and our conversation had ensued, I am sure this conversation would have made it's way into School Text books... (in Environmental Science, in the chapter "Abuse of the Communication Network"..)

Here's the extract:

Me:
hello sir !!!!

neelakantanp:
hello mama
enna panreal

Me:
kshemamolyo

neelakantanp:
bakthila moolugittelame

Me:
2 days almost sorga vaasal

neelakantanp:
venumana innum niraya bakti arul tharene

Me:
flu joram
but recovered now

neelakantanp:
yp.... your probliem

Me:
evvalavu bhaktimala irundhaalum OK ngaanu

neelakantanp:
so ur tellin first flu fever then... now... fever flew

Me:
thaangala da sami

neelakantanp:
parava illai... once in a while.... nanum nallaa kadipaen

neelakantanp:
aana ippo konja naala control panrean ..

Me:
joke also

Me:
like the "once in a while"

neelakantanp:
pal valiyoona

Me:
pala pala nu irundha pallu pola pola nu viludho?
pal valiyila pulse rate koodama paathukkongo

neelakantanp:
kallu pola pallu

Me:
pallu pona balam pogum baanga

neelakantanp:
cheri naa thappudaan
jawia niruttha sollu naanum niruthireen

Me:
vazhakaringarukku evvalavu sollu mukkiyamo adhae alavu pallum mukkiyam

neelakantanp:
sollu koodina valkai... pallu koodinaa kadava
enna iritate pannade baduva
pallu illai na... sollu ellm jollaayidum

Me:
andha sowcarpet la palla eee nu illichikinu okkaandhittu irukkaanae andha saett kamnaattee avana nerutha sollu naa nerutharaen

neelakantanp:
paduthunde kusu vidarane avana nirutha sollu naan niruthren

Me:
pala paeru koodi adicha thaangikkalaam aana oru pallu velicha thaangikka mudiyaadhu pa

neelakantanp:
pallukulla ivalluva thathvam solreala... neenga nallavara illa pallavara?

Me:
slap
slap
slap
naa pallu velakkittaen
neenga innum pallu velakaama sotha, naatha pallodayae irukkaelae

neelakantanp:
villarkarudakku pallu enna pudhiraa
palla pudhira
sorry mate.... i have to go to a class at 2pm

Me:
pullu thadikkina bayilwaan irukkaan aana pallu thadutha badhusha irukkaa?
OK man, "pala" joligalukku madhiyila oru pulsing vetti
take care bye

Josiology

Sometime back, the prolific blogger Jawaman, sent me a message stating that there was a Kili Josier in his company, and asked me whether he should avail of his services. Of course he should. Ours is such a magical country, that there are millions of ways to know our future, all of them authentic and Saint-tested in their own right. We should never lose an opportunity to let a wise man, animal or bird narrate our entire future timeline. I mean, no one's ever had it so good. You can actually know what line of business you will be in, what your earnings after interest, tax and dividend would be for the next 5 years, how many wives you will have, how many dimples each of them will have, and so on. So, I urged our IT Uncle to go ahead and make his peace with the brother from the psittaciformes family, and know all that is there to be known. I assumed that the two things that would reign predominant in the time travel experience would be the question of marriage, and the question of income. But then, it struck me that there are so many questions that have to be asked of, and that the parrot is waiting to answer. So, I decided to make this questionnaire, so that the future future-mongers can face the psittacine armed.

Parrot Josiology Common Questionnaire

Q1: "Will I ever experience multiple orgasms in this lifetime? If so, can I know a tentative date, so that I can be prepared with Gatorade."

Q2: "Does the parrot ever have sex? If it is a virgin parrot, and if it were to, say, have a happy hour with a passing crow, (while the Josiology Manager was counting the cash, or taking a leak,) would the parrot lose it's ESP? Or is that a characteristic weakness only among psychic Indian humans? I know for a fact that all of the millions of psychic Indian women who foretell happy events with a grim face in return for Kanikkai in the form of fruits, rice, coconut and hard currency, are kept horny virgins with a uniform application of 2mm thickness turmeric paste. The moment they fall prey to the "devices" of the village Lungi dude, they lose all their power to tell the future, and all that's left is about 1mm turmeric paste. (As 1mm gets transferred on the Village Lungi dude).

Q3: "If the Josiology Manager does not give that grain to the parrot after a card picking is done, would the parrot screw around with the next customer, just for spite? Would it be, 'Ayya Annakili Jaadhagam. Annaandhu Paakumpothu Angamellaam Silirkum, Aana Andhi Saayarathukullai Aayudham Azhigidum', roughly translated as, 'Respected sir has the horoscope of a Annakili (mythical bird with some link to food). As he looks up at the sky, his body trembles in ecstasy, but by evening his weapon would become rotten'. Or is the parrot more mature than that?

Q4: "What is the exact percentile raise that I will get?"

Q5: "Does the psychic parrot sleep? And if so, does he snore? Will he dream of the parrots or humans, and would it be the future?"

Q6: (In case of a positive reply to the near ubiquitous question "Will I get married and will my wife be beautiful?"). "When you say, my future wife will be beautiful, would it be from the perspective of the parrot. I mean, can I expect my wife to have a greenish hue, a tremendously long and curved nose, constantly repeating whatever I say, and demanding a grain of rice after every statement?"

Q7: "I want to get into this business. How do I identify a holy parrot with ESP? Are there any telltale signs like would parrot drop it's prasad only on top of temples or Sadhus?"

Q8: "If the parrot can tell the future, why in the name of the holy Madishaar DID IT GET CAUGHT?"


When I transform completely into an absolute Vetti raconteur, I will devote my life to making more exhaustive questionnaires for future-mongers who go in any direction, like Possession, Trance, Betel Leaf, Geometric Pattern Study (Jadhagum), Smelly Shells, Holy Ash and so on.

My God Hanuman is officially deaf

Our God Hanuman resides at Bhagawan Anjaneya temple, Thanneer Thurai, Mylapore. He is affectionately referred to as Thanneer Thurai Anjaneya by the crowded folk of Mylapore, and the younger generation call him Luz Anjaneyar. He gets millions of religious hellos everyday, as He is one of those rare Gods who are visible from the main road. Thousands of Mylaporean uncles and aunties would actually consider it a godsend if their bus breaks down in front of the temple. (Rather than get down from the bus and take the next one, they can be seen sitting inside, making an "O" and slapping their cheeks). My brother and I have always done the customary cheek tap every time we pass the Bhagawan. And it had got so customary that it had become an involuntary reflex spirituo-magnetic reaction. I had at one time, shouted out "Hi da machan" at the temple involuntarily, and that has been told and laughed over more times than was funny. It is these days of celebration at the Thanneer Thurai Anjaneyar's that we get to renew our faith, so to speak.


Anjaneyar's birthday was on 8th January, and his father the God of Wind was very excited and was blowing stuff everywhere with some brisk gusto. There was fun in the air and the Mylaporeans were psyched. Almost all of the gentry wore half a bottle of Charlie Handkerchief Perfume on their shirts and were up for a visit to the temple. As usual there was a colossal traffic mayhem, and the friendly neighborhood cop couldn't do much as his tummy was contributing to traffic jam in itself. There was the usual tube-lighting extravaganza up to where Amar's Traders used to be, replete with exposed wires and open sockets. But what was spectacular was the audio systems. There were the huge industrial strength loudspeakers right outside the temple playing Bombay Jayashree so loud that her folk in Bombay would have sat up and said, "Yaen dee ma, Jayashree vandhurukkaa pola irukkae?" if you get my drift.

And yours truly had to recharge his prepaid SIM card.

And the recharging shop was right next to the temple, exactly where the loudspeakers were.

So I put on a brave face, and walked up to the shop admiring the awesome celebrations that were underway at the temple. As I neared the shop, the music got louder. At a point where I thought that physics was being bent to actually make sound louder, for if sound had got any louder it would have become light. I didn't want to flinch as I was in no mood to appear like an outsider. As I stepped into the shop I noticed an eardrum rolling away, and some steam come out of the ear it belonged to. But I didn't look concerned, the stalwart that I am. I strummed my vocal chords once and screamed at the top of my voice, "6 months rechaaarge". The shopkeeper looked at me with a bland expression, his face looked like death, and I could see his pupils pulsing to the beat of the mridangam. He then slid a notebook towards me and gestured at me to write in it. I wrote the details and handed him the moolah. He punched in the data and I got a confirmation message, and my phone was vibrating even though I had the vibration turned off. Everytime Bombay Jayashree drew in her breath, it sounded like a typhoon was on us. The most amazing thing was two aunties were actually carrying on a conversation right in front of the loudspeaker assembly. I really feel sorry for their husbands, were they ever to say, "Talk dirty to me baby, scream some." But we have grown more mature than this, and such things don't surprise us much, anymore.

Anyway, I beat the hasty retreat and crossed the road to take a picture of all the glory from my cellphone camera. That done, I did some customary cheek taps, reconfirmed our pact with Lord Hanuman about him protecting me from all evils, and giving me untold wealth and prosperity, in return for my priceless cheektaps and an the occasional "Budhirbalam Yashodhayryam.." sloka.

Due to the sound bombardment, the iron in the Panchaloha idol near the base of Lord Hanuman, would have achieved accelerated fatigue and would have dissipated transforming it into a Chathurloha Venugopala Swami. Not to mention my God Hanuman himself would have become stone deaf in his right ear, (his left ear would retain 10% hearing, as he faces south all the time). From now, I guess I would have to write down all my requests for tremendous happiness and wealth.

The Full Loaf

People usually have fabulous stories about their college days. Dangerous stories, outrageous stories, funny stories. I have plenty of stories too. Stories that fit every possible header you can come up with. The small catch is that all these stories are exactly what they are, figments of my imagination. (And I have been told by many of my imaginary friends that I have a wild imagination). Among the very few stories in the "Actually Happened" Department, is this little narrative. I cannot classify it as a story as it doesn't seem to have an end... or any substance for that matter. But for some strange reason, this narrative has idle mass, and occupies space. Much like a Government employee. This narrative would start, ramble on and will finally end. As the reader's eyes would size up the final period, the thought of the senseless, meaningless void that would seem pervasive would strike the reader like the effervescence of an over-employed rickshaw puller, but the desire to destroy the source of the narrative would not be very intense (hopefully) and the reader would move on to better things in life, and the narrative would become that idle space-occupying mass again.
With that rather elaborate "Don't Tell Me I Didn't Warn Ya", allow me to wag my mental tongue.
During the college days, we had this little ritual. I would accompany my accomplices to the college bus stop, where we would wait for the bust. We would also be waiting for the bus, but that was actually secondary. The bust was a girl. I really wish I had seen her face, and none of my friends have seen her face either. I named her Mr. Sem Boothalingam, on an impulse, and the name stuck. She would be there like clockwork, and after five minutes we would look like we had caught a rare strain of Instant Conjunctivitis and Instant Rabies. We would be bleary eyed and foaming. It is quite a miracle how we aren't doing consecutive life sentences for the way we had gone on. The staring would vaporize all our testosterone, and we would have none left to walk up to her and start a conversation. We would board the arbitrary bus and get down at the next stop, for really, my house was actually not even a block away. Tucked away behind the bus stop was a Bangalore Iyengar Bakery. This was a hydrating pit stop. This joint was run by two extremely soft spoken gentlemen, who had survived that long just because God chose to NOT to make man want to haggle over a samosa. They made this thing called Dil Pasand which was something else. In all my exploration of the world (about 100 square kilometres) no other Dil Pasand has come close to this one. The kitchen was in full view, and you could see almost all the ingredients being put in, and observe in great detail which body parts were scratched at what point of time, during the course of making this Dil Pasand. This bakery also sold the whole loaf, and if I asked for it, the owner would actually be so happy, for I would had saved him precious time and effort in cutting the loaf. We went to this bakery almost everyday for the three years I went to college. Most of the time we wouldn't eat anything. We would talk rot to each other while staring at the cakes through the glass counter.
Somehow, after college, this Bangalore Iyengar Bakery was forgotten, along with many other things like education, hardwork, discipline and so on. Almost all of my friends are in other countries spreading the good nonsense, and a few guys are actually dead. Last week, SIXTEEN years after biting the last Dil Pasand, I discovered the Bangalore Iyengar Bakery again. I was doing one of those antiquated, much debated about activity called walking, and there it was. The shop window had gotten a modern tinge to it, and it now had some plastic chairs on which several future Dil Pasanders sat, munching away, but the photographs of the Gods were the same, as was the kitchen. Only it seemed a bit darker. On an impulse I walked up to the shop. One of the soft spoken gentlemen was there, and he looked at me with a "Hey.. I've seen this thing before" look. I just ventured, saying that the last time I was here was sixteen years ago when I was in college, and he said "Aaaaaaah." Other than the natural mixed messages that his sense of self-preservation would have sent spiking up his spine, I am sure he had no cotton-picking clue who I was, or cared for that matter, but the old relationship was back on. Like there had been no break from schedule. I now buy the Iyengar bread and am finding it as good as it was earlier.
The Dil Pasand tastes phenomenal too, and with every bite brings back sepia toned mindscapes of Mr. Sem Boothalingam and her spectacular pair.

The Curious Matter of RK

In my spare time, I have this rather unalterable habit of hanging out at my local mechanic. It is something like a tremendously de-glorified version of that popular series on Discovery - Orange County Choppers. The only difference here is that the people are a lot under-nourished, the tools are virtually non-existent and not much headway has been made in the areas of hygiene since the stone age. But the desire to be around cars overpowers everything else, even common sense.
So, a couple of days ago I was hanging out at the mechanic's with a friend of mine, and was shooting mental hoops. A group of solid citizens were standing close to me, talking things that only they could claim to understand. But the mildly disturbing thing was that they were gesturing in my direction for some time. Suddenly, one guy walked up to me and shook my hand and introduced himself as some kansamy. He then proceeded to ask me for a "chance". He said that he could sing very well and I just had to give him one opportunity, and that he wouldn't let me down. I said, I would love to help him out, but just didn't know anybody in the singing business. He then became aggressive, and started threatening me with things like he will start singing right there. Suddenly, another odoriferous creature that was hanging around pounced in our midst and started stuttering strange requests with atleast a zillion "saar".
As they started to form a circle around me, chanting "saar... saar.... saar", I guided the cheap plastic headed scooter key made of tin, between my fingers, and started to meditate on Bruce Lee. That was when the mechanic arrived, and shooed them away. Some ten seconds later Mr. Tenor came up to me again with extended hands and said, "Sorry saar. I thought you were RK of Sun TV. You have the same cut out. Eskoos." and left the general area.
I made it a point to google who this RK bloke was, to no avail. I tried all probable keywords like, "ghastly singer, ugly man good voice, regional hotshot" and so on, but there was not even the slightest of hits. I even queried the prolific blogger jawaman but even he was clueless.
If I am Clark Kent and people are getting suspicious, who in the name of the pluguglies of South India, is Superman?

Aggravated Wall

One of my uncles is here in my house getting his cataracts expunged. The obvious choice - Agarwal Eye Hospital. Eons ago, in my school days, I was finding some difficulty in focusing and concentrating on female forms more than twenty feet away. I panicked, and set up an appointment with Agarwal Eye Hospital. I pedaled my rusty Raleigh to the hospital wondering whether glasses would make me look distinguished or scholarly, with no clue of the trial that lay ahead of me. The whole hospital was constructed in a circular pattern, and if you walked fast enough you could actually go back in time. All the doctors were from some other planet and spoke hindi. Very loudly. I was given an extremely cheap plastic folder with a label that had my name spelt wrong. I was asked to go to Room 105. I walked down the corridor, and suddenly I was back in the reception area. I steeled myself and walked down the corridor again, checking my watch occasionally to see if I am going back in time. I located the Room and the million people waiting outside it. Went inside after a long wait and I was asked to put my face on a machine that looked like something Dr. Kevorkian made in his spare time. After that I was asked to go to another room and then to another. Samples of almost all of my bodily fluids were taken, and something scribbled on the cheap plastic folder, at every pit stop. Every doctor would either scream "Nyaekshht" or slam on an antiquated buzzer that would emit visible shock waves. This process lasted for a few hours, and by the end of it I was a hundred percent sure that they were cloning me.
It was only after an extremely cute doctorish thing prescribed glasses that I officially declared the saga to have a happy ending. Some years later, I was forced by close family to go and have another check-up. I was surprised to see that the cute doctorish thing had almost blossomed into an aunty, and was twitching some responsible looking eyebrows. I discharged all the designated fluids, and answered all questions, asked in horribly pathetic tamil, in equally horribly pathetic hindi, and was finally given a phenomenal sales pitch from some hybrid Agarwal to undergo a laser corrective surgery, and be rid of glasses forever. I pursed my lips and turned down the offer on the grounds that glasses make me look scholarly (which I am not), innocent (which I am not), and that I would rather avoid going under the knife for cosmetic reasons (read I am scared shitless of operating theaters).
I can stand the sight of blood only if it spurts from a major artery after being bitten by a vampire or a zombie, in a movie.
Several years later, I went today, to the circular hospital with my uncle. As I drove up to the entrance, I was so shocked that my laces came undone. The exact same crew manned the circus. Even the watchman at the gate. Almost all of the doctors and the nurses were in different stages of decay, and hobbled around in scrubs everywhere. There were fresh recruits, everybody in scrubs, with the same look that those blokes wearing huge turbans in weddings have. You know, the kind that are waited upon and people grovel at their feet whenever they discharge a frown. I saw a couple of fresh hindi interns near the elevator, oblivious of their surroundings, coffee in hand. The male scrub was leaning on the wall with a smirk on his face while the female scrub was talking rabid sentences that ended with "hai na". This is called the Indian make out, and fondly referred to as "peanut" (kadalai) in Dosaland where I exist. The original circular monstrosity was almost entirely demolished, with debris equally distributed everywhere, and there was a new circular monstrosity behind the main building, which was where the kadalai was going on. The would-be patients with whatever levels of blindness they be in will have to walk through the debris to the new circular building. I thought long and hard about the circular concept at Agarwal Eye Hospital, and my only conclusion was that if some doctor went "OOOPS" during some operation, and the kith and kin started chasing the said doctor, they would keep running around in circles, forever. (Unless some mama would trip someone with his umbrella.)
We were asked to remove our footwear some 50 feet away from the Consultation and Operating area, so that by the time we reach the supposedly dust-free room, our feet would be covered in at least seven layers of filth. Which we will proceed to deposit all over the waiting hall. My uncle was called in and they broadcasted the entire thing on close circuit TV. It was exactly a gore flick without names and credits. I didn't care too much for sharp metal rods poking and tearing at my uncle's unconscious eyeball, so I diverted my attention to browsing the net on my HTC Touch, over the unsecured wi-fi. The mayhem was done with in some twenty minutes and my uncle walked back with a huge plaster over his eye. Almost immediately another bleary eyeball burst onto the TV and a perfectly spherical woman with a few pounds of jewelery and a jasmine garland on her head, started watching intently. I realized that the Agarwallians may be a bit lost in the aspect of sensitivity, considering that they've raked up more eyeballs than even the most popular TV serial.
The moment I paid the bill for my uncle, the entire crew of the circus started smiling. That would mean only one thing - Bhakshish. Everybody expected a tip. I tried to tell the coffee vendor, who had rushed to us leaving the coffee machine unmanned, that Bakshish is a crime implying a sum or gift given that alters the behavior of the person in ways not consistent with the duties of that person. (wikipedia, not me). But I saw from the corner of my eye an army of agarwallians heading our way. So, we actually beat the hasty retreat, down the fire exit ramp, avoiding the elevator man (partly due his halitosis, that we endured on the way up).
But the shocking, startling and very disappointing thing was when the post operative consultation was kept in the old building, amidst the debris. There was dust everywhere, and a passive Ponnuthaayee was sweeping the place raising a mini-dust storm. Since this was a bit over the top, I asked one of the permanent fixtures there, the reason behind this palpably idiotic activity. The answer was, (brace yourself), Vaasthu. Apparently the Queen bee Agarwall, who the other fixtures referred to as "Big Madam", insisted that they be consulted upon amidst the debris, owing to sentimental reasons.
The combination of Ummaachee (God in everything) and the term "Big Madam" proved too much for me, and I was laughing so hard that my laces came undone.

Imagine...

There could be a statistic on the number of times this has happened to some poor South Indian.

Thoo-Thum

In Madras, where I exist, we've always been paranoid about water. At first the paranoia had been about the lack of water, but lately there has been a lot of rain, here and on higher ground, chiefly due to the efforts of musicians in Narada Gana Sabha and some stout maamees of deep faith servicing Godly bearded blokes chanting precipitating mantras. It was just that they chose not to chant these mantras for several years, as they had better things to do like take prolonged pungent oil baths. But the maamees took matters into their own paws and deployed words like, "Guruji" and "Bikshai" and attached "olyo" to the ends of all the words they could gather (viz. paathaelolyo, kaettaelolyo, Ambujam ponaalolyo and so on.). The Godly blokes had no other go but to start chanting the mantras that brought about rain.
So, these days water is not a big problem. The Corporation supplies blackish foaming liquid through the water pipes happily, continuously. So, we dilute that with water from our bore well, pass it through Aquaguard. (Appliance makers who flaunt their worth with several certificates from ominous sounding Government bodies, and perhaps the universal belief that the dead don't complain.) For every glass of water that is drunk, eyes wander to the sides to see what the other fellow creatures do. And I was comfortable in knowing that almost all of my acquaintances were employing the same principle of purification.
There was the category that merely buys bottled water and they believe firmly that the water in those bubble tops are as pure as they get. Most of these containers look so worn out and used, that I used to think that our PT Instructor (God rest his egg eating soul) drank straight from these bubble tops and hit the students on the head with the empty containers. But nothing ever happens to the water buyers. I think it is in the deep belief system that we have for almost everything, that, unless we see floating human body parts in a bubble top, the water in it is fit for drinking.
I have a very long way to go before I become so self-convincing. So, I took the water purifier route. But it all changed a few days ago. A cousin, was also as adequately Aquaguarded as I was, called me and informed me that he needed the expert opinion of our family doctor. Our family doctor is probably the last of the breed, he is a person who makes house calls, accepts whatever money you give him and gives his frank opinion when we need to see an expert if the problem is serious (and warrants an expert's opinion). And he fixes an appointment with the experts. So, I referred my cousin to our doc on call, and the results came back laden with hepatitis. Not just for the cousin, but for his whole family. The family doc said that the most likely cause was water.
Since I didn't have enough time to raise my immunity levels, I had two options. I could convince myself that my cousin and his family strayed into Dumeel Kuppam accidentally, where they were offered water from a helpful Ottai Mooku Aandal, the estranged wife of Nenjumudi Nagappan. Or I could abandon the mere purification stuff, and go for for a much better process. I decided to buy the Reverse Osmosis unit that the Aquaguardians are marketing like crazy. Snazzy stuff, horribly expensive, but extremely convenient. And the water comes with all forms of certificates known to medical kind, so many that they have printed it out on a separate booklet with a very yummy model on the cover, drinking a glass of water like it was "come hither" nectar. So, if I am to die, it will have to be in battle, car crash, overdose of lectures from neighborhood maamaas, freak sighting of a class of girls from some deep interior-town in south India, wearing tight tshirts, jeans, but with big red bindis and long oil plaited flattened hair.
But I figure, the water I drink is safe enough for me.

The Modest Megalomaniac

My younger brother is quite a creature. When we were growing up, he had this punchline of his, "Dai Naharasa, Aandavan da nee" meaning "Hey Naharasa, You are God", loosely adapted from some horrible tamil movie where a megalomaniac villain called himself God, whenever he does anything noteworthy. There were times when entire Mylaporean armies have chased my brother with noble intentions of Murder-Death-Kill, but haven't even remotely succeeded. Mainly because my younger brother would calmly throw bodily fluids at them. "Nee Aandavan da" was usually followed by a tonsilar "OH" or a "AAHA". Nerves had short-circuited, and veins have popped, but till date no one has been able to do anything about this. Luckily, after we grew up (biologically speaking), the Naharasa stopped, more because of lack of circumstance, than intent.
And now that my younger brother is on the road to becoming a rich and famous scientist, there is a silver lining of hope that we may be rid of this "Aandavan da Nee" forever.
Survivors of "Dai Naharasa, Aandavan da nee" (a small circle of close friends in whose life destiny played this dirty hand) will be able to appreciate this post the most. For others, this picture would just about sum up the feeling. I drew it in a fit of rage, on a scrap of paper lying nearby, after a particularly violent bout of "Aandavan da nee" many years ago. My mother handed me this parchment a few days before she left for the USA, without as much as a "Be Advised". This drawing brought up such vivid memories that I had to be revived with Gatorade and Pankaja Kasthuri.

Is this viable technology?

Because if it is, then my fellow uncles and aunties are going to be rich beyond their wildest dreams. If you spend some time with some of the uncle-members of my family, you will start to wonder if they are actually breathing through their asses. So, if this technology is actually viable please let me know, you can retire on the retainer.

I call me Mr. Clutter

No matter what I do, my desk is always cluttered. Any attempt at bringing order to my desktop, lasts a few hours at the most. I have given up trying to make my living pod look organized and as a eulogy, I reached out for the pixel clicker and took a picture.

May the total energies spent on attempts to organize my desktop rest in peace. The world shall proclaim this day as the day Mr. Clutter came into existence.

Who am I

Here's a question:

I was...

30 years old at the time of the 9-11 attack on America

28 years old on the first day of Y2K

26 years old when Princess Diana was killed in a car crash

24 years old at the time of Oklahoma City bombing

23 years old when O. J. Simpson was charged with murder

21 years old at the time of the 93 bombing of the World Trade Center

19 years old when Operation Desert Storm began

18 years old during the fall of the Berlin Wall

14 years old when the space shuttle Challenger exploded

12 years old when Apple introduced the Macintosh

12 years old during Sally Ride's travel in space

10 years old when Pres. Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr.

8 years old at the time the Iran hostage crisis began

5 years old on the U.S.'s bicentennial Fourth of July

3 years old when President Nixon left office

a 1 year old when Alabama Gov. George C. Wallace was shot

I am…

54 years 5 months younger than Walter Cronkite.

49 years 9 months younger than Nancy Reagan.

46 years 10 months younger than George Herbert Bush.

39 years 6 months younger than Barbara Walters.

37 years 4 months younger than Larry King.

31 years 2 months younger than Ted Koppel.

27 years 9 months younger than Geraldo Rivera.

24 years 9 months younger than George W. Bush.

19 years 8 months younger than Jesse Ventura.

15 years 5 months younger than Bill Gates.

10 years 7 months younger than Cal Ripken Jr.

4 years 9 months younger than Mike Tyson.

8 months younger than Jennifer Lopez.

4 years 9 months older than Tiger Woods.

11 years 3 months older than Prince William.

Who am I?


Here's the answer:

I have no clue.


I just punched in my date of birth in this website - http://www.frontiernet.net/~cdm/age1.html and the screen was littered with relative data about incidents and people almost completely irrelevant to me. (Except, of course Jennifer Lopez. I am 8 months younger than her - so she can boss me around. Arrrrr.)


I read through the result word by relative word, and now I have forgotten who I am. Good thing that I have a 4 page manuscript written by a numerologist, a few minutes after I was born, prophesising great deeds that I would do in my life, the monumental heights to which I would rise, to be called the King of Man, and the stellar education I would receive. (It is said that I would become either an accountant or an engineer or a doctor or an IAS or MTech or a businessman) If for some sacrilegious reason I wanted to disprove destiny, I have only the career choices of sewer cleaner, Autorickshaw wallah, and RTO broker left out from the list.
So, I guess I will just stick to the prophecy and settle for King of Man.

WHOAA !!!

Muttuthaangi Pasai-Otti

When I printed out this bumper sticker for my new (old) car, I was sure that I would be stopped at all signals by "youth" in Jeans and Funk and asked for some stickers to be delivered to Padayaachi Hostel, but surprisingly none of that happened. Instead, I got a lot of stern disapproving stares from time-warped elderlies in Bajaj Chetaks.


That's when i realized that this is funny only for people like me. People who are blue-blooded South Indian, who view the culture like a visitor, but do not associate themselves with any other culture (example, funk). Currently the population of this demographic is one.

Project Odorator

Today I seriously feel the shortcoming of the medium of internet. The inability to transmit and sample odor. Our gardener, Mr. Pearlbell, (Muthumani) descended on the household with some bags and a huge spray gun this evening. He mixed a seriously deadly looking combination, the contents of which were supposed to be, "Poonga" leaf powder, Neem leaf powder, "Erukkam" leaf powder, cow dung, cow pee, milk and ghee. He then sprayed 20 litres of this mix over the entire garden. The smell was something that I can never convey in its entire glory, try as I might.

I am a creature born on the banks of arguably the smelliest waterway in the world, and so I am no stranger to odor. We South Indians, remove our polyester shirts after a hard, sweaty day at work, take a proper shower in phenomenally chlorinated water using soaps like Lifebuoy and Hamam (made using blotting paper, foaming agent and powdered bricks), then apply Ponds powder and wear the same shirt again. We do this because we think that shirts are so expensive that we need to make what we have last for atleast a few years. Besides the smell of saturated Ponds and dried sweat on polyester is a known anti-mosquito agent.

But this leaf-protecting spray is something else. I remember in the days of early school, I was forced to attend music class. I was forced to take a cycle-rickshaw driven by a chap called Ko-Ball. This guy never bathed, never shaved, never changed clothes and never got sober. And I used to be downwind from him all the way to the music class and back. This garden spray brought back all those memories with a psychedelic twist, and then some.

Imagine bottling up this spray in a pressurized container. Everytime we pass an auto-rickshaw we can spray some on the driver. We can spray bus drivers, foul-mouthing government servants. We can fill up balloons and drop them inside cop cars after we pay them their bribe. We can actually up the ante by bursting a few balloons inside a public lavatory.

I don't think I have just a product, I think I have an entire product category.

EAR IRRIGATION SUCCESSFUL

Today I had my ears cleaned at an expense of Rs 120. That would be Rs. 60 per ear. The technology was quite simple. I went to watch Guru at Inox, and the sound cleaned my ears completely. Even when I had my hands clamped on my ears through the length of the movie, I could feel the booming concussion waves hitting my body.

As a result of this movie, my ears are totally clean, and the city has become mysteriously quiet, and everybody is moving their mouths like guppies. The last time I went to something of this amplitude was when a few friends of mine and I decided to simulate the simple folk in a town called Arni and went to a local theater that showed Rajini movie. The collective screaming was so intensely high-decibel that bats fell off the roofs, charred to death. We were clad in dhotis and lungis and since we were dressed appropriately for the occasion, we participated in the screaming as well. I had to surgically re-attach my voice box after that.

The prolific blogger Jawaman, said that he had coughed a couple of times and so was going to play it safe, drink tea and recline in an armchair with a T S Elliot, as he felt a chill in the air. So the mysterious blogger Neeluking and I had to go to the movie alone. The deafening sound inside the theater, mutated a few chromosomes of Neeluking, and he decided that he was going to enter politics, in full swing. His plans were to join Janata Party and serve the country.

I seriously don't expect my hearing to come back this week. Atleast my ear is free of wax now.

Fag for Finger

Like our able-bodied Advocate-in-charge, (http://neelulogic.blogspot.com/2006/12/hero-ism.html), I used to have a thing for the "Hero" fountain pen. I even own the coveted light green fountain pen. But with this Hero that I bought recently, the respect for the brand fell drastically in my Respect Barometer, to the level of the Mosquito Swatter I had featured earlier (http://superthumby.blogspot.com/2007/01/flied-mosquito.html).


It's about time that the chinese accept the fact that they cannot learn english. At the same time they are giving the work of translation to people who know traditional and simplified chinese and english. They need to understand that there is no such thing as a son of Kung-fu and Tater Daze, (except probably Steven Seagal). All they need to do is to send their product catalogues to me over email, written in their fabulous english interpretation, and give me a couple of days each for me to convert it into sensible, civilized matter. For the severe mental trauma I will undergo, I will charge USD 200 for a catalogue of 10 pages. Considering that they sell a billion pieces of everything they make, it will be a drop in the ocean. Besides, since I mentioned 10 pages, they will invariably send the data formatted to 10 pages of size of 3 metres by 4 metres each page at a point size of 3, arial condensed. But, what the hell, I am used to such stuff.

So, what are you waiting for? Touch-request through the email opening of me to see working to be completed and satisfied with smilingly push US Dollars to my PayPal, making business global through successully avoiding ridicule by Jay Leno.

18 Pattees and some placenta

On this fateful day, I saw the ending of a tamil movie. The all star cast included Mr. Sarath kumar acting in 2 roles differentiated only by the elder Sarath Kumar having gigantic eyebrows. All through the movie, everybody worked with folded hands, bent heads and real massive doses of ass kissing of the senior Bush-browed Sarath Kumar. I joined in the turmeric and puberty mayhem only towards the end. The bad man is a fat guy with huge man-breasts, and is fighting Sarath kumar senior. Sarath kumar junior is on his way through the padhinettu patti fighting lungi assailants. Sarath kumar junior's wife is on the ground, in labour, right where Mr. Eyebrows is fighting Man Breasts, while Mrs. Eyebrows and other filthy fat women are cluttering around the woman in labor looking at each other and bashing in their foreheads.

Now, Fat-Man-Breasts Bad guy is killed by his own mother, using farm equipment, and at the same time, his wife (who's also a member of the Cervix-in-labor Watch Committee) inadvertantly wipes her forehead and thus REMOVES HER POTTU.

Then Mr. Eyebrows talks to the grieving mother of Mr. Man Breasts who says a record portion of "Inguttu, Anguttu and Yendra Mavan" and informs Mr. Eyebrows that he has passed a wrong judgement as a Naattaamai. Claps of thunder and Hurricane Edna fights Hurricane Linda, later, Mr. Eyebrows sinks to the ground in a heap. Dead. About the exact same time, Mrs. Sarath Kumar junior, who was in labour screaming so loud that every constipated old man in the Padhinettu Pattee rushed to the toilet, finally delivers a child. And guess what... as the baby comes out, a HUGE WAVE OF AMNIOTIC FLUID SPLASHES ON Mrs. EYEBROWS FACE, THEREBY ERASING HER POTTU.

If a rating system similar to the MPAA of USA is employed here, they are in for a big challenge. Would you give a rating R or X to Amniotic fluid splashing on the face thereby symbolically making a woman a widow by erasing the POTTU?

That is the question, Mr. Pap Smear.