Jimmy The Kid

Came home to find a brand new photo scanner. So I dug out some old family photographs and VOILA! Here's me, when I was actually a kid (Can't believe there was actually a time when I used to look quite bearable) ...

Ho, ho, ho?

It's Christmas eve and the air has a slight nip to it.
I edge my way through a busy City street, even as drunken revellers jostle me as they yell, "Happy Christmas!!" to nobody in particular. Check for my wallet... Whew! Still around...
Engulfed by a flood of humanity. Here's an old lady, out for a nice Christmas dinner with her daughter and son-in-law. There's this kid, and you can tell he is a brat by the way he is squealing for that Buzz Lightyear figurine on the toystore window. There are these punks, hair cropped short and dyed pimento red, animatedly arguing whether it's time yet for their next joint.
There are tens of thousands on Brigade Road, each trying to celebrate Christmas in his (or her) own special way. Me? I am just trying to reach the other side of the street - and quite unsuccessfully at that.
Finally, I turn into a dark alley. Getting late for office, so I might as well take the shorter way out of this shit.
It's calmer here. The only people around now are couples, busy whispering sweet-nothings to the other or doing stuff that has helped make a superstar out of Emraan Hashmi. Much better, as long as I keep my eyes on the muck-splattered road.
Someone paws at my hand. I looked down to see a street urchin selling Santa Claus topees. Shrug Shrug.
He starts scratching my shoulder again. "Please sir, one.. just take just one," he tries again, in broken English. I quicken my pace but my nemesis seems to be relentless in my pursuit.
And just when I'm about to break into a jog, I look back. The guy has left me for another - this time it's a phirang, a.k.a. an American tourist, complete with a blonde beard, rucksack et al.
Now, although these creatures are generally supposed to be easy prey, I have my doubts about this particular specimen. At nearly seven feet, he towers over the urchin - his bodylanguage anything but pleasant.
The victim backs away, in the newfound knowledge of impending doom. But he isn't that lucky. The phirang reaches out, snatches two Santa topees from him and throws them into the gushing sewer.
The kid starts crying but the giant wouldn't care less. He tries to spit on him, somehow bungles up and sends saliva dribbling down his beard to create a damp patch on the checkered shirt below. Which proves to be too much for the kid, sending him down the street at full speed.
I close my eyes - maybe to stop looking at the hated person for a split second.
"I am sure he's related to Bush in some way," I hear a male voice say, followed by a woman's giggle. So I wasn't the sole witness to this incident.
Time Out. I turn and walk up the stairs to my office.
Enough of Christmas - work beckons.

PS. This pic is also from the net, but come visiting anyway ;)

Oh, Take Me Back To The Start...

I opened my eyes. There was light now, and it was starting to get warmer. And, well, there was this strangely familiar hue to everything...
I jumped up to look out the window and yes, there she was...
The green, green grass of home. The cows, the trees, the lungi-clad people - all racing into the landscape with the speed of sound even as the sun peeped shyly through the rustling sky above. We were in Kerala now!
Yes, I was in God's Own Country and even the fact that I was sitting in a bus - breathing tinned air - wasn't making me miss any of it...
Though my parents were born in Kerala - not I; though I learnt the language (supposedly) just a couple of years ago; though I swear I hate anything remotely Mallu - there is something in me that just can't get enough of the place.
It ain't just the greenery or the air. It's also the elderly lady squabbling loudly with the fishmonger on the street, the drunkard staggering his way to a pissed wife under the setting sun, the smoke from kitchen chimneys trying to roast the coconuts dry, and the loud ammachis enquiring about your identity from the other side of the rubber plantation.
Kerala, whatever ills it may have, is still Kerala. Do whatever you want to with it, O rulers of this land, just don't make it the concrete jungle you are threatening to...

Greetings from the greener side :)

Entering MCC

The year was 1998.
I was standing right in front of the entrance of the Madras Christian College, where I was supposed to spend the next three years of my life. Beyond was a whole new world; it sure looked green from the outside, but then - who knew what the insides held for me.
The guys at the main gate would not let my auto in. So I lugged my stuff out of it and held out a couple of tenners for the driver, thinking that I shall let him keep the change. The guy looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or get pissed - nobody dismisses an auto guy away with just twenty bucks in Chennai.
Of course, I did not know that.
"Eighty," he mumbled menacingly and started taking off his shirt. His chest had a big tiger on it.
I gave him the money and started edging away. Tigers are not nice, especially if they are tattooed on someone who looks like Schwarzenegger's meaner brother.
Looked back only after I had crossed the gate. The guy was chugging off in his yellow monster and I could swear he was saying something about someone up my family tree.
I sighed with relief and walked down the Thomas Hall road. This certainly didn't seem like a good start to a whole new life.
MCC was beautiful - and scary! Huge trees stood on both sides of the path, their green boughs forming a wide roof over my head. Shafts of light cut through the air to form yellow botches on the weathered tar road below. And the sounds of birds were everywhere, like I had stepped into some weird wildlife sactuary...
Humanity, in general, seemed to be absent from the scene. Down the road, under the Zoology water tank, I saw - naw, it couldn't be - maybe a lean cow or something. But then, there came another - a smaller one. And yes, they definitely WERE deer.
What kind of place was this?!
Now, if you guys have ever been seniors in college, you would know how to spot greenhorns. They are generally the ones with shaven faces and well-combed heads - searching confusedly for the water fountain or the stairway to the second floor with 'I'm Lost' writ large on the face. Which, in this case, was me.
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder, making me look up.
It was this tall scary-looking guy with shaggy hair flowing down his shoulders, and there were six (or maybe seven) rings on each of his ears. By his side was this woman who would have looked more like a woman if she hadn't been so liberal on facial hardware. As such, she looked like one of those extras out of Van Damme's Cyborg.
"What's your name?" the he-monster asked.
"Jimmy," I said, almost in a whisper. The scary duo glared at me as if I had committed some unspeakable offence.
This time, it was the she-monster who screeched at me: "What?! Don't you have anything else to go with it? Are you a b*****d?!"
Now, where I come from - the 'B' word is taboo. Calling someone the 'B' word is equivalent to asking the dude for a swift kick right where it hurts. Therefore, I bristled and prepared to lash out in a fit of righteous anger.
But good sense prevailed, and I didn't. Probably one of the reasons why I am alive enough to be blogging about this today.
"Jimmy Jacob," I mumbled, hoping that this nightmare would end. And thankfully, the monsters seemed to have become quite bored with me already. They let me go, but not before giving me a look of utter disgust.
My destination came into plain sight. At first, it seemed like nothing much to look at... just a spread-out yellow structure with 'Bishop Heber Hall' written above its entrance. Little did I know then that five (not three) years later, I would be walking out of it with a tear running down my cheek.
My luggage and I crossed the hedge and it was with great anxiety that I climbed the steps to the main hall. Staring at me from the other end of a giant outdoor hall was a plaque with these words painted on it:
Nisi Dominus Frustra.

Calvin and Me

There's no problem so awful that you can't add some guilt to it and make it even worse!
- The Essential Calvin and Hobbes

Went down to Bookworm (TM) the other evening.
For quite a simple reason, actually - buy a few of those five-buck Batman comics and hurry back without making the mistake of glancing at those alluring (and more importantly, expensive) Asterix and Tintins.
After all, I am just a poor sub-editor in Bangalore.
But then, as fate would have it - lying right next to the stack of DC comics was a copy of Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Snow Goons, and the cover had our heroes crouching behind a tree to hide from a frowning two-headed snowman. I just had to have it.
So what if it cost me everything I needed to live through the week (payday was next Wednesday); some things are just meant to be bought — whether it comes at the price of your next meal or not...
Now, believe me, Calvin and Hobbes comes in that category of ‘some things’. Loved them when I was a kid, still love them at twenty-seven and I would bet that I remain their number one fan at 89.
Well, I never had a stuffed tiger who could be my imaginary friend in happiness and sorrow. Nor did I get to make decapitated snowmen in my backyard — hell, the only snow I see is in the refrigerator. But this shouldn’t mean that I can’t relate with the Guy.
Everyone can, I guess... at least to some measly extent.
Monsters under my bed, for example. For years, I was scared of the boogieman — always preferring to keep my eyes closed than see that shirt, hanging innocently on the peg, turn into a snarling monster.
Calvin, however, treats the monsters differently. As long as he takes advantage of the fact that they are “all teeth and digestive tract” and doesn’t believe it when they say they are li’l dust balls, they can do him no harm. That is, if Hobbes doesn’t push him down for some allegedly fresh salmon.
And yes, there was the time when I (like Calvin) came upon the idea that history, evolution and even the big bang had occurred for the sole purpose of creating the one person — me. And therefore (QED ... whatever), I was the all-powerful, or shall we call it... ‘The Reason.’
Of course, I ditched the idea the next time my dad made me eat boiled beans and carrot at the dinner table. Apparently, he was one of those who believe that eating crap builds character.

Calvin

The only philosopher worth the name...

Changing seasons...

The scalding summer

Harshad always knew that his father was a cruel man; and worse, a cruel village landlord.
Indeed, Thakur Balbir Singh never cared for the starving villagers — every favour had to come at a much greater price.
For instance... take the case of poor old Balua, he thought. The 80-year-old man had come begging for a bag of grain the day before; and his father had been making him toil for it under the hot sun ever since. First he had made him dig trenches around the village, then he made him plough the fields and now, he was making him wash the pigs — without even according him the benefit of a proper meal.
And yet, the villagers respected the landlord. The more he exploited them, the more his henchmen pillaged and beat up the commonfolk — the lower they knelt before him.
“Sooner or later, the Thakur will fall,” thought Harshad, “And justice will be served...”
He was truly ashamed of his father.

Spring comes-a-visiting

Then, one day, a cool breeze wafted across the region — very different from the usually scalding sandstorms that characterised it. “Here it is,” thought Harshad, “The winds of change are here...”
A messenger came running towards their palatial residence. “Thakursaab! Ranisaheba has come! She’s come back to town!”
Ranisaheba. Harshad had heard many a tale about her. Fifteen years ago, she had been the Thakur’s sworn enemy. That is, until the Thakur used his goons to drive her away.But now she was back. And the boy knew what this meant.
The beginning of the end.
“She’s back!” gasped the messenger, “And she is trying to win the villagers over. Even as we speak, she’s feeding them all at her haveli!”
The Thakur’s wife fainted and all the faces in the vicinity turned pale. But if Harshad expected to see any sign of disappointment on his father’s face, he was sadly mistaken.
“Ha! What’s wrong with you people?” the landlord hollered jovially, his giant mustache glinting in the sunlight: “Go get yourself something to drink and lighten up!”
“Overconfidence and pride. They will fade away with the setting sun,” murmered Harshad to himself a little too glumly.
Days followed months and the reports that flowed in weren’t very encouraging. The Ranisaheba was now feeding them by the horde. She had erected a pandal outside her palace, where her servants used to serve the villagers food — morning, noon and night. Hell, she was even constructing houses for some of them!
On the other side of the equation, the Thakur did not have villagers coming in for favours anymore. He could not even find people to grow crops on his land, leave alone make them work like slaves. And whenever he ventured into the village, the commonfolk would spit loudly to show their contempt for him.
And no, Thakur could not beat them into submission. Probably because all his henchmen had ditched him for the competition.
But, for some reason, the Thakur did not seem worried. And whenever Harshad asked him why, he would repeat an age-old cliche: “Patience. Time heals all wounds.”

The autumn of spring

And then, the tide started turning again.
According to newer reports, the Ranisaheba was not doing that well anymore. By splurging her wealth on the villagefolk and distributing it among them, she had achieved near-bankruptcy. She was now selling off the antiques in her haveli to keep up with the feed-the-poor routinue.
Harshad respected the Ranisaheba... but now, in her newfound poverty — he could feel himself pitying her. The reports started getting increasingly distressing: Ranisaheba could not feed the villagers today; Even now, they are squatting under the pandal, waiting for food. And a few days later: A few villagers tried to attack her while she was coming out of the haveli. She doesn’t even wear good clothes now. And they all spit on her.
This was all very confusing for Harshad. The Ranisaheba had been more generous than Raja Harishchandra himself... but all the villagers felt for her was hate.
He glanced at the aging Thakur; he seemed neither happy nor sad — just a tad impatient.
The weather was getting hot again. And dust-ghosts now whirled around at regular intervals, as if searching for a place to rest. As if hailing the return of the old days.

Summer’s here... again

A month later, Harshad saw the messenger again. This time, he had good news.
Last night, several armed villagers had entered the Ranisaheba’s haveli through a bedroom window on the first floor. They had stabbed Ranisaheba and her five-year-old boy, then burnt down the building. Nothing remained of the good samaritan now — just ashes.
Thakur Balbir Singh laughed loudly. Then he ordered a bottle of whiskey, which he consumed with a few of his closest associates. That night, revelry reigned in the Thakur’s residence.
The next morning, Harshad went to him again. And sitting on the edge of the bed, he asked him: “Father, how did you know this would happen?”
And the Thakur turned to him, whiskey still on his breath: “Son, I know I’m a hard man. But I’m like this for a purpose.”
Then, settling down, he said: “The Ranisaheba was a good person ... wanting to help the villagefolk and all that. But she couldn’t understand the very people she was trying to help, and therein lay her mistake.”
“Her mistake?” Harshad did not know what to think.
“Yes. It’s very simple, actually,” said the Thakur, “When the Ranisaheba first started helping out the commonfolk, they were grateful and happy. But as time went by, they forgot that she was doing them a favour ... the daily meals became their right. And God forbid, humans hate being deprived of their rights...”
Harshad understood. And when he looked to his side, he saw old Balua .... he had come after eight long months for another bag of grain.
“True,” thought Harshad, as he watched the Thakur handing a shovel to the elderly person, “My father must be a cruel man, but a wise one at that...”
For the first time, he felt proud of being the son of Thakur Balbir Singh.

The dawn of winter

Years passed... and one day, the Thakur eased into his chair.
The cold had set in now, and the desert night wore that spooky , mournful look — as if hailing in a whole world of change.
A couple of hours later, his wife, the Thakurain, tried to wake him up for dinner. But he didn’t.
He had passed into the afterlife with a smile on his face.
This story has no connection with the Ranisaheba one. Nor was the Thakur paying for all the hardships he had caused the villagefolk. It was just that his time had come.
Life, like all other things, must pass.