What... me, chicken?!

I’m not yellow, just non-violent — or so I would like myself to believe.
Like the other day, when my bike accidentally scraped against a run-down Maruti car at the MG Road junction. The mistake was as much the car driver's as it was mine but then, he had the advantage of language. So, as he let loose a barrage of abuses in Kannada, I just stood there behind blinking eyes and wondered Oh shit, what a mess...
Sure, calling his mother a few names in English would have been in order right then, but... well... that's my problem - I think a lot. Especially before a fight.
Like back then, while the guy was hollering in a tongue as alien as the Martian Manhunter, I was busy thinking if resistance would be worth waking up with a black eye the next morning. And by the time the wheels in my head had stopped grinding, the dude was already walking back to his car with a wind of accomplishment about him.
There on the street, amid thousands of strangers, I emerged the loser. Or, upon looking at things from a different perspective, the more sensible of the two.
You may think it's weird, but I find squabbling very difficult - especially if my opponent is talking a different language. I hate languages I don't understand (you must have gathered just as much from my earlier post) and many a time it has landed me in uncomfortable situations - and once in the railway clink.
But then, there is a silver lining to this cloud also. Because if there’s a man who’s tearing through his gullet to get at me, I can remain grinning like a plum-faced baboon without knowing that he has already cursed all the members on my family tree, and is currently giving unpleasant names to my unborn children.
Come to think of it, even my schooldays were completely lacking in brawls and love affairs, probably because I was the principal’s son. While the reason for people not choosing to fight with me is quite evident, I think the girls kept away from me because they (quite obviously) dreaded the possibility of having their rule-by-the-rod headmaster as a prospective father-in-law. And so, there it was — a childhood completely lacking in love as well as war.
But tell you what... I am quite capable of intelligent conversation. But that is just about the last thing anybody wants to do while preparing to box the other’s ears in. Which is probably why I manage just a little beyond ‘Duh!’ in such a situation, whether I am in the right or wrong. Very much like a Calvin-Moe situation.
Well, whatever. I bet late Mr MK Gandhi is proud of me. Even though I prefer denim cottons to loin cloth.

On war, tongues and the Tour de Babel

Found myself with the Bible the other day. Which does not happen very often, I must admit with considerable guilt. Anyway, I read about the Noah affair — when Yahweh realised that he had made a mistake in creating man and sent 40 days and 40 nights of torrential rain, destroying all that lived or moved on Earth. Except for the ones in the Ark, of course.
Then I moved on to the Tower of Babel chapter, which had humankind attempting to build a tower that would touch the sky and protect it from the Great One, the next time he got into a destructive mood. And what did He do to stop them?
Fire? Acid? Big chunks of hail?
Naah, nothing so crude. Yahweh just gave them different tongues, and suddenly they were mouthing stuff that nobody could understand. The great army that set out to build the tower was reduced to becoming smaller legions that babbled nonsense, which others could not understand. And the project was doomed.
And so was man.
Many believe that Yahweh did this just to stop them from building the tower. But, according to me, it was to make humankind destroy itself — divide it into nations that spend all their energies in defending their kind, which are usually bound by language and skin. And apparently, Yahweh seems to be succeeding.
Now, one thing I’ll never understand is — why do we have to go all hoop-la over language? It was just meant to let you communicate with another (just like religion was meant to make sure you don’t go murder your neighbour), and that’s that. Why does anybody have to take so much pride in it, then go fetch a sickle to endanger your life as well as someone else’s? Simple logic, that.
And then there’s war. “It’s a beautiful thing,” they will make you believe ... “Die for your country. It’s a man’s life.” Crap.
How can murdering another person — even if it’s with the consent of the government — ever make you a better human being? Do you really think that having somebody’s blood on your hands is going to help the screaming little orphan that’s wandering down a dirty alley in your remote hometown? And do you think the enemy is fighting for a cause any less ‘nobler’ than yours?
No, the enemy has very similar reasons for fighting against you. And the orphan’s screaming because it has had to forfeit its lunch for the machine-gun in your hands.
But then, you are just a part of the great design; and it’s upto you to help humankind destroy itself...

The end?

She didn’t have no money,
No home to call her own,
No loved one to speak to,
On the other end of the phone.

But she had dreams... yeah,
Dreams that told her why,
Her life was too great to waste,
On tears and dried rye.

That’s the place to go,
The greenest there’s to be,
Rivers of milk n’ honey,
Flowing into a great blue sea.

So she packed her bags one day,
Figuratively, (of course) — coz she had none,
Then walked, a step at a time,
Slowly into the setting sun.

This is her story; not mine,
On what happened next I have but a worm’s clue,
Maybe she died, maybe she lived,
Maybe she became Mrs Gates - oh, wish I knew...

Chris Tucker must die (Or be gagged, at least)

Watched Rush Hour because they were showing it on some local TV channel. And, quite understandably, arrived at this sordid conclusion...

One last drink, and that’s it...

Everything must pass, and that includes the good ol’ days.
It was the summer of 2003, and I was sitting on the bridge connecting C and D block contemplating about the days gone by.
The sun, an unusual brilliant red, was slowly setting behind a silhouetted Heber chapel. And except for the cries of a few kites winging their way across the moody sky, everything was silent. Nostalgically silent.
Yes, I spent my last real evening in Heber alone. Because sometimes you need to be by yourself and talk to the wind.
In the distance — in the centre of the lawn — I could see the famous natural pond. Its water was still, obviously because nobody had been ducked for sometime in the near past.
Five years had passed since I was first cast into that stony pit full of man-made urea... because I did not know which department a certain senior belonged to. I had cried then — cried in shame — and vowed that one day I would be avenged. But that changed, with time.
The pond became a loving symbol of the hall, where I spent almost 1,553 days and enjoyed every moment of it. What’s more, at the end of it, I found myself justifying the act of ‘ducking’ before a college lecturer who could not understand why an ‘educated’ kid like me would approve of an act as barbaric as throwing someone into a pond full of pee.
But then, I had been there, done that ... and I knew that the view was a lot different from the inside.
The first year was spent in fear — the kind of fear you would like to savour, let tingle down your spine and hope that it doesn’t get over all too quickly. The fear that some zombie senior may hear you tip-toeing down the hallway in the dead of the night and decide that its time he let somebody have the infamous ‘upside-down’ (In this form of torture, they hang you headfirst from the rooftop — giving you a Man-Bat view of the world). The fear that the worm they have sent creeping down your shirt may actually have poison pinchers. The fear that you may, at any moment, have to go underwater just because some senior wants to see you play blue whale.
Back then, I hated every one of these moments. But, forgive me, I was just a boy then — too juvenile to know that I was having the time of my life.
And that day of June 2003 hailed the end of my stay in paradise. The beautiful friendships, the long walks to the maingate for a Muthappa tea, the nights of singing-along to the strains of a strumming guitar, the drunken brawls over that last drop of Old Monk, the cussing and screaming and head-banging while Pentagon played Ugly Kid Joe, the wall-scaling antics after a late night in the city — everything.
From the next day on, my life was going to be a whole new one. Maybe I would get a new job, maybe I would study further ... but whatever happened next, I knew it would never match the one I had in Heber.
“Hey! How about coming out for a tea?!” I looked up, pulled rudely out of my thoughts.
It was Fela, wearing his favourite orange T-shirt. I lifted myself up and we slowly walked to the maingate — and then to Star Wines — where we boozed ourselves senseless.
It was dark, and the crickets were having one hell of a time.

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 ;)