There were only two kinds of people in my school, the famous and the infamous, others were almost nonexistent or were considered so. Since books and playfields rarely interested me, I quickly graduated to the infamous list although it needed some extraordinary courage and shamelessness.
Defiance of the rules, muddling the uniform, frequenting the TV hall in wee hours (just to prove) and marking my absence at every gathering pushed me to the ranks, but I was not complete, not without an escapade to the next town.
A residential public school with a military back drop that rarely allowed real world expoure wasn't the only thing that stood in my way and the next town. It also included,
1. Dodging the security, that involved changing in to civilian clothes inside one of those dense wild shrubs.
2. Stopping a bus, raising no alarms and not giving away the identity with my crew cut for the next half hour of the journey.
3. Watching a movie or hanging around the town very often infested by the school staff.
4. Reversal of steps one and two. For Javed too it was a virgin act.
Javed was a rich man, meaning he had a hundred rupee note and I was worth only a quarter of it.
Scene 1
I was changing clothes in broad day light and inside a shrub with one of my best friends; a surprise visitor would have doubted our orientation. Javed was dirtying his face with sand, must be some tips from the older guys I thought and I followed suit. The tallest shrub protected our uniforms.
We spent an hour behind a tree before a bus stopped; we found the last seat empty and ducked our heads for the next half hour. When we reached the movie hall running and gasping for breath, the ticket sales had already closed down.
Having no other option other than to roam around the town, the first thing I did was call my mother at her office. I was talking to my mother after three long months and I pretended I was talking to her during an official trip.
The telephone bill was an exorbitant forty rupees; visibly angry Javed reluctantly slipped his hands inside his pant pockets. I was pawned at the phone booth and Javed said he would return in an hour, he had forgotten his 100 rupee note inside his uniform.
Scene 2
Javed is nervous and is sweating overtly, grabbing the attention of the vicinity. Some stranger strikes a conversation with Javed trying to make him comfortable, Javed is relaxed but almost crying. The stranger helps him with some money after hearing a rather bizarre story.
Although the guy at the booth was trying his best to comfort me, I continued sweating. To my relief, Javed returned in twenty minutes I was traded back, phew.
Scene 3
Only stage four was remaining but our heads were already drooping. Lady luck must have been taking a real long break, for when were about to board the bus, we were met right on face by the big mustached English teacher Mr. Jeyaraj. With no valid reasons for us being in the town, we had the right to remain silent.
We were again at the last row and it was showbiz for us. We had the undivided attention of the almost all passengers, hearing our histories and watching him play with our ears (he was known for his long finger nails and his fondness for ears).
I was afraid, the tragedy could prolong if we were handed over at the school gates. It meant public humiliation and a complete Khaki outfit with leather shoes at all places (play field included) for another week. Mr. Jeyaraj stopped the bus exactly where we had boarded only a few hours before, and said "run, you stupid buggers" with a smirk on his face. We lived the expression, "running for lives" till we reached the tree where we had started it all. The uniforms were missing.
Scene 4
We walked inside the hostel, making up faces that brimmed with pride.
Voila! we had done it, well almost.
Mary Ebenezer
The frail old man on the next bed passed away despite the last-ditch efforts of at least four doctors and even more nurses. It was hall 201, the emergency ward,
The next day morning, the doctor on duty prescribed a flurry of tests which included blood tests at three different places, a cranial CT scan and a bladder scan. The blood tests took a lot of time, there were at least 25 people at each counter, and I was almost alone amongst the mostly female queue, each of them holding at least two tubes of brick red blood.
When I reached the counter for the CT scan, the man at the counter was deep asleep on his PC's black keyboard. At least 10 minutes passed before he woke up with a yawn and asked me check out the timings for the scan with the lab. The lab is the last room inside a building that resembles a haunted house, with hanging wires, battered walls and a half lit verandah, I could hear my heart beat every time I walked to the lab alone.
A middle aged woman was lying on the floor in a night gown in front of the lab; another woman sat crouching on the floor beside her. A dark Lab attendant was howling “If you talk rules once again, you will never have your scan done". The crouching woman mumbled she had been waiting for over an hour beside her sister who needed a pelvic CT scan. A younger woman was holding a few months old child in her hands, the child's head was completely dressed on one side. Two more middle aged women sat with their teen aged children. We were asked to be at the Lab at 07.30pm that evening.
The next day morning, the post graduate student-duty doctor wanted the CT scan results, but the results were only to be available in the evening. My brother was refused the report by the same dark attendant. Armed with a written request from the doctor he went to the lab again for the scan and the reports, this time he was offered both but the report was priced at 100 rupees. When he came back he only had the scan in hand.
On the sixth day my cousin was discharged from the hospital as his legs had found some movement and more importantly there was a dearth of the available beds. I wished our neighbors a fast recovery and as I was leaving, I saw the ever smiling Ebenezer walk inside the ward for her night shift. For some reason I said "See you Madam".
"Don't ever say 'see you' when you leave a hospital, always say goodbye, Now good bye, I have people to look after" she retorted.
Before I could bid her bye she was already walking away trying to silence the noise inside the ward. For the first time in almost a week I had a smile on my face.
May be It was..
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I was never so frustrated at least in the recent times. I pay, never mind if my friend does, 3000 bucks for a New Year bash and what was I supposed to do? Watch some wowow babe dance with some one who made me feel I was a handsome prince. That was not all, we had to watch them from a balcony standing all the while, not minding the trampling legs (some moron had combat boots on), because the place couldn’t seat more than 25 people and we had 100 single men for the bash. Although the number of single men around helped me resurrect my confidence levels, some how I thought I needed blood pressure pills.
It was supposed to be 'the night', with my school buddies around some of them after almost a decade, I could only grumble. We had already swigged two rounds of a drink that I had only heard of, from people used to shopping at the airports and holidaying in tax free zones. My friends aren't grumblers; soon I was outside silently watching an animated conversation between my friends and some official looking butterball. A faint smile was beginning to appear on all their faces.
We marched in to another place all the while being watched by people who seemed so interested in my white T-shirt and jeans. Was I hallucinating? I am not sure. Not that it bothered me, but being in a dimly lit hall again seemed to increase my comfort levels. The music inside was loud and blaring, obvious indications of 'this was not a room made for a dance floor'. It was a conference hall, which we soon found out from a plaque carelessly covered with a blind. Not one inside looked like he/she has ever danced in his life before. Throw your hands up in the air, jump move around, don’t even bother about the beat and yes bump someone, and what do we have?? A new year's dance floor, yuck.
One fat girl/ lady was looking like a total freak shaking her long hair like Shakira doing her pelvis. The other guy must be living in a joint family for he was doing things with his wife (I suppose) my father would have called lewd, given the situation and vicinity. We tried dancing a little in the one corner that seemed empty, only to be pushed off the dance floor in a few minutes by a gang of four girls and one 'I am rich and dumb' looking guy. So much for the arguments and the dance floor, we were only gulping up the foreign brand, breaking our previous records and trying to make up for the paid sum the next half hour. One of my friends even shrugged of an interested dancer of the opposite gender.
A drink, a bit of dance, anothar dirnk and soime more or dlance, a litkle mire drijnk and likkee nore dsance (alright, alright I copied it from a joke!!). It went on until all our previous records were broken, our clothes drenched, the old year gone, my friends out of their jackets and I saw this cute small girl dancing all to herself. Very often I had chased children away from my vicinity, even my brother's daughter stays a foot away when she talks to me. For some godforsaken reason this girl in black pants, rose tops and a black jacket was moving towards me smiling or was she laughing? I moved my limbs as if to dance, she mimicked my movements and we started to dance. Very soon she ditched me for my friends all of them playing her pair in tandem.
At her age, I would have most probably been tripping on my toes and here she was dancing like a ballerina (doesn't the word mean a beautiful dancer?), in sync with the beat and movements that made me go wow. I was kneeling most of the time to match my little girl's height; I still stood a few inches tall. We even played the movements we used a decade before at high school, a moment of nostalgia took over. Whenever we took a break for a breather she hugged me tight (because I was her height) and asked us come back soon. I wonder if I never smelt of the drink all the while because in the morning I had a breath a skunk would have frowned upon. Some more kids were starting to dance, her parents were so wonderfully enjoying the moment and in all the noise one of my friends bent closer and told me “May be it was worth all of it or was it more?”
The music was fading away and as I sat down, Sai-preetha leapt on to my lap and started to sleep, I am not very sure what I felt at that moment, I think it felt good probably very good patting the girl to sleep. We had danced close to two hours, it was soon time to go and Sai was awake, I got my first kiss this year and a long one. Though I talked to her parents a lot that night mostly to tell them they had the most beautiful daughter on earth, for some reason I did not take a number, or leave one. Even after two days we were still talking about her and my friend kept telling us “May be it was worth all of it and more eh?”.
It was supposed to be 'the night', with my school buddies around some of them after almost a decade, I could only grumble. We had already swigged two rounds of a drink that I had only heard of, from people used to shopping at the airports and holidaying in tax free zones. My friends aren't grumblers; soon I was outside silently watching an animated conversation between my friends and some official looking butterball. A faint smile was beginning to appear on all their faces.
We marched in to another place all the while being watched by people who seemed so interested in my white T-shirt and jeans. Was I hallucinating? I am not sure. Not that it bothered me, but being in a dimly lit hall again seemed to increase my comfort levels. The music inside was loud and blaring, obvious indications of 'this was not a room made for a dance floor'. It was a conference hall, which we soon found out from a plaque carelessly covered with a blind. Not one inside looked like he/she has ever danced in his life before. Throw your hands up in the air, jump move around, don’t even bother about the beat and yes bump someone, and what do we have?? A new year's dance floor, yuck.
One fat girl/ lady was looking like a total freak shaking her long hair like Shakira doing her pelvis. The other guy must be living in a joint family for he was doing things with his wife (I suppose) my father would have called lewd, given the situation and vicinity. We tried dancing a little in the one corner that seemed empty, only to be pushed off the dance floor in a few minutes by a gang of four girls and one 'I am rich and dumb' looking guy. So much for the arguments and the dance floor, we were only gulping up the foreign brand, breaking our previous records and trying to make up for the paid sum the next half hour. One of my friends even shrugged of an interested dancer of the opposite gender.
A drink, a bit of dance, anothar dirnk and soime more or dlance, a litkle mire drijnk and likkee nore dsance (alright, alright I copied it from a joke!!). It went on until all our previous records were broken, our clothes drenched, the old year gone, my friends out of their jackets and I saw this cute small girl dancing all to herself. Very often I had chased children away from my vicinity, even my brother's daughter stays a foot away when she talks to me. For some godforsaken reason this girl in black pants, rose tops and a black jacket was moving towards me smiling or was she laughing? I moved my limbs as if to dance, she mimicked my movements and we started to dance. Very soon she ditched me for my friends all of them playing her pair in tandem.
At her age, I would have most probably been tripping on my toes and here she was dancing like a ballerina (doesn't the word mean a beautiful dancer?), in sync with the beat and movements that made me go wow. I was kneeling most of the time to match my little girl's height; I still stood a few inches tall. We even played the movements we used a decade before at high school, a moment of nostalgia took over. Whenever we took a break for a breather she hugged me tight (because I was her height) and asked us come back soon. I wonder if I never smelt of the drink all the while because in the morning I had a breath a skunk would have frowned upon. Some more kids were starting to dance, her parents were so wonderfully enjoying the moment and in all the noise one of my friends bent closer and told me “May be it was worth all of it or was it more?”
The music was fading away and as I sat down, Sai-preetha leapt on to my lap and started to sleep, I am not very sure what I felt at that moment, I think it felt good probably very good patting the girl to sleep. We had danced close to two hours, it was soon time to go and Sai was awake, I got my first kiss this year and a long one. Though I talked to her parents a lot that night mostly to tell them they had the most beautiful daughter on earth, for some reason I did not take a number, or leave one. Even after two days we were still talking about her and my friend kept telling us “May be it was worth all of it and more eh?”.
Hyundai Accent
That day I saw one of the new Hyundai cars commissioned to the Chennai city Police department, it was a welcome change from the stale Blue-black jeeps, I thought. What I didn't know at that time was, I would, the very day be intercepted by one of those shiny white vehicles.
3.00 am that night: I am not sure if having a cup of tea at this hour of the night is a crime under the Indian penal code But When I and my friend were just about leaving the shop on a Pulsar, I heard a siren whine loud and clear.
"Pondy registration Pulsar, vandiya niruthunge " blared a megaphone, along with the whine. simply meaning " You morons on the Black pulsar stop the vehicle".
I, at first did not remember that the bike's registration number started PY 01 and continued working the accelerator. My friend's hands gripped my shoulders but it was sometime before I realized the graveness of the situation and came to a screeching halt a feet away from the new shiny white Hyundai. The car was perpendicular to the road. The police man's face inside was redder than the indicator on the top of his car. He came out with a scrap pad and a pen in his hand and so did his driver.
The cop: what is your name?
Me: Kumar.
The cop: and yours?
My friend: Ram
The cop: didn't you guys hear the siren?
My friend: yes we did, but...
The cop: at least the yelling over the megaphone?? What do you guys do? Software Engineers? Call centre?
Me: Sir, I am a Power electronics Engineer, with...
The cop: you are a what??
Me: I am an Electronics (He was lost...) I am a software Engineer..
The cop: and you?
My friend: I am running a consultancy.
The cop: running a what??
My friend: Business consultancy, staffing and setting up of BPOs(Obvious reaction of I did not understand a thing on the cops face!!!) er.. I am running a call centre.
Even as the driver was adding more scribbles on his pad, his walky went out loud. “Control room, Control room calling, (number and name of the station were pronounced )"
Control room: “Sir, one more on the list sir”
The cop: yes.
control room : " Male, wheatish, acne marks on face, alleged name Sekhar, mole on mid forehead, left chest, last seen with long hair(couldn't get a few words because of the noisy walky) wanted for theft and extortion, over.
The cop: okay. I only have a Kumar and Ram here, anyone’s on wanted list with these names??
(I and my friend simply looked at each other suppressing a smile)
Control room: Not anyone I know of let me check sir, over.
The cop: over.
I felt I almost fit in Sekhar's shoes whoever the hell he was. My reason of being on the road at 3.00 am was probably not convincing, we were asked to empty our pockets, checked for drunken driving, and were asked to hand over the bike's keys. We were soon inside a Toyota Qualis on the way to the police station, while some Policeman rode the Pulsar.
That was the first time I ever went inside a police station. There were at least five half-uniformed men, only one of them was awake. After another 15 minutes of answering another set of questions which included audacious ones like "if I had my underwear on and if I was in to drugs" and serious ones like "If I had my license and an NOC for the vehicle " (I neither had a license nor a NOC, I simply shook my head in the negative), we were allotted a wooden bench on one corner of the room. .
The station was neat, the big binders and papers, the weapons, tables everything was in order. Pictures of yesteryear leaders adorned the walls in symmetry. The wandering of my eyes stopped when I saw two young men in only their boxers crouching inside one of the cells, I started to sweat. After sometime we were offered tea by a boy of probably 15-16, which I gleefully accepted while my friend preferred to sleep sitting upright on the bench.
It was almost 5.00am and a good one and half hours of looking at the wall, when one of the older uniforms summoned us. The cop who had brought us to the station was sleeping on his table with a snore. The old man jotted down only our names and asked us to collect the vehicle at 8.00 am sharp in the morning. We walked almost a mile to my house.
When I woke up it was 8.00 am already. I woke up my friend and we were on another bike very soon in rumpled clothes, half brushed and half made up. The old man was almost leaving his table when we rushed in. He simply gave us the keys and more importantly with no questions. The two men inside the cell were still crouching as they were 3 hours before.
As I got out I saw the Hyundai Accent parked in front of the station, like an angry kid I wanted to break at least one of those shiny glasses.
3.00 am that night: I am not sure if having a cup of tea at this hour of the night is a crime under the Indian penal code But When I and my friend were just about leaving the shop on a Pulsar, I heard a siren whine loud and clear.
"Pondy registration Pulsar, vandiya niruthunge " blared a megaphone, along with the whine. simply meaning " You morons on the Black pulsar stop the vehicle".
I, at first did not remember that the bike's registration number started PY 01 and continued working the accelerator. My friend's hands gripped my shoulders but it was sometime before I realized the graveness of the situation and came to a screeching halt a feet away from the new shiny white Hyundai. The car was perpendicular to the road. The police man's face inside was redder than the indicator on the top of his car. He came out with a scrap pad and a pen in his hand and so did his driver.
The cop: what is your name?
Me: Kumar.
The cop: and yours?
My friend: Ram
The cop: didn't you guys hear the siren?
My friend: yes we did, but...
The cop: at least the yelling over the megaphone?? What do you guys do? Software Engineers? Call centre?
Me: Sir, I am a Power electronics Engineer, with...
The cop: you are a what??
Me: I am an Electronics (He was lost...) I am a software Engineer..
The cop: and you?
My friend: I am running a consultancy.
The cop: running a what??
My friend: Business consultancy, staffing and setting up of BPOs(Obvious reaction of I did not understand a thing on the cops face!!!) er.. I am running a call centre.
Even as the driver was adding more scribbles on his pad, his walky went out loud. “Control room, Control room calling, (number and name of the station were pronounced )"
Control room: “Sir, one more on the list sir”
The cop: yes.
control room : " Male, wheatish, acne marks on face, alleged name Sekhar, mole on mid forehead, left chest, last seen with long hair(couldn't get a few words because of the noisy walky) wanted for theft and extortion, over.
The cop: okay. I only have a Kumar and Ram here, anyone’s on wanted list with these names??
(I and my friend simply looked at each other suppressing a smile)
Control room: Not anyone I know of let me check sir, over.
The cop: over.
I felt I almost fit in Sekhar's shoes whoever the hell he was. My reason of being on the road at 3.00 am was probably not convincing, we were asked to empty our pockets, checked for drunken driving, and were asked to hand over the bike's keys. We were soon inside a Toyota Qualis on the way to the police station, while some Policeman rode the Pulsar.
That was the first time I ever went inside a police station. There were at least five half-uniformed men, only one of them was awake. After another 15 minutes of answering another set of questions which included audacious ones like "if I had my underwear on and if I was in to drugs" and serious ones like "If I had my license and an NOC for the vehicle " (I neither had a license nor a NOC, I simply shook my head in the negative), we were allotted a wooden bench on one corner of the room. .
The station was neat, the big binders and papers, the weapons, tables everything was in order. Pictures of yesteryear leaders adorned the walls in symmetry. The wandering of my eyes stopped when I saw two young men in only their boxers crouching inside one of the cells, I started to sweat. After sometime we were offered tea by a boy of probably 15-16, which I gleefully accepted while my friend preferred to sleep sitting upright on the bench.
It was almost 5.00am and a good one and half hours of looking at the wall, when one of the older uniforms summoned us. The cop who had brought us to the station was sleeping on his table with a snore. The old man jotted down only our names and asked us to collect the vehicle at 8.00 am sharp in the morning. We walked almost a mile to my house.
When I woke up it was 8.00 am already. I woke up my friend and we were on another bike very soon in rumpled clothes, half brushed and half made up. The old man was almost leaving his table when we rushed in. He simply gave us the keys and more importantly with no questions. The two men inside the cell were still crouching as they were 3 hours before.
As I got out I saw the Hyundai Accent parked in front of the station, like an angry kid I wanted to break at least one of those shiny glasses.
I love you Dad
The first day I saw him he was in his starched white clothes, very odd for that dingy, cramped place. He kept looking at me anxiously while I drank at the local wine shop, I thought he was one of those drunkards who have a few rupees less for their second drink. When I was just about leaving, I gave him a few coins. He asked me what I wanted and I blinked. It was actually the first day at work for him.
I sat down and I suggested him change to some less clean clothes. He came back after a few minutes, in a black but clean shirt and soon found people seeking him. His job is to clean the ever-dirty tables, collect the empty bottles and of course wait on drunken people for a tip. That day I had very little money left in my pocket; I emptied it and walked back home.
The shop is on the way to my house and I saw him often. For some one who once owned a grocery shop in Tuticorin, he shows no signs of discomfort working there although I had seen him wiping his eyes sometimes. Every time I see his eyes wet, he pretends and with a beautiful smile.
He is 52 yrs old, married and has a son and a daughter, both at college. I am not sure if his family knows about his whereabouts or the nature of his job but by the first week of every month he sends them all the money he had carefully saved the previous month.
When I first saw him, it had been almost five months since he had come to Chennai. A new super market in the same street as his shop had put him out of business and soon in a pool of debts. When the moneylenders had started to frequent his house, his son and daughter had gone against him, blaming him for everything and one night he finds himself a seat inside a train to Chennai.
Nothing seems to have changed for him though; his beautiful daughter (I forgot her name), his ever-angry son Muthu, his faithful wife Aandaal, the house that he once owned, the shop he dreams of running again someday, everything is on his head and all the time. He even carries around a photograph of the four of them together at Ooty, in good times.
I still go to the wine shop, albeit rarely and sometimes just to see him. I see Arogiyaraj running around with bottles, helping people and cleaning the tables. He is thinking of a day job now and is already working as a security (part time) in one of those big apartments in Thiruvanmiyur. He makes sure I am being taken care, even when he is not available, but for some reason doesn’t accept my tip these days.
I don’t know why, but everytime I leave the shop after seeing him, I find myself saying, “I love you dad”.
I sat down and I suggested him change to some less clean clothes. He came back after a few minutes, in a black but clean shirt and soon found people seeking him. His job is to clean the ever-dirty tables, collect the empty bottles and of course wait on drunken people for a tip. That day I had very little money left in my pocket; I emptied it and walked back home.
The shop is on the way to my house and I saw him often. For some one who once owned a grocery shop in Tuticorin, he shows no signs of discomfort working there although I had seen him wiping his eyes sometimes. Every time I see his eyes wet, he pretends and with a beautiful smile.
He is 52 yrs old, married and has a son and a daughter, both at college. I am not sure if his family knows about his whereabouts or the nature of his job but by the first week of every month he sends them all the money he had carefully saved the previous month.
When I first saw him, it had been almost five months since he had come to Chennai. A new super market in the same street as his shop had put him out of business and soon in a pool of debts. When the moneylenders had started to frequent his house, his son and daughter had gone against him, blaming him for everything and one night he finds himself a seat inside a train to Chennai.
Nothing seems to have changed for him though; his beautiful daughter (I forgot her name), his ever-angry son Muthu, his faithful wife Aandaal, the house that he once owned, the shop he dreams of running again someday, everything is on his head and all the time. He even carries around a photograph of the four of them together at Ooty, in good times.
I still go to the wine shop, albeit rarely and sometimes just to see him. I see Arogiyaraj running around with bottles, helping people and cleaning the tables. He is thinking of a day job now and is already working as a security (part time) in one of those big apartments in Thiruvanmiyur. He makes sure I am being taken care, even when he is not available, but for some reason doesn’t accept my tip these days.
I don’t know why, but everytime I leave the shop after seeing him, I find myself saying, “I love you dad”.
Ever felt like..
I was lying on a pile of fine gravel looking at the dark starless sky. My legs hurt and I felt something big inside my pant pockets.
We must have started from Chennai at about 7.15 pm that day. Muru and Param were on a Yamaha RX 135 and I was on the pillion of Vicky's black Pulsar 150 cc, it was our friend’s marriage the next day. The traffic kept a check on the speedometer until we were on the national highway. We filled gas at about 10 kms from the start and had the Yamaha checked for air.
At about 25 kms the Yamaha had a flat tyre and we had to push it a good distance till we found a repair shop. While the vehicle was attended to I found a shop that sold cold beer. I bought two bottles for just the pillion riders, Param and me; the two beers were divided in to 4 equal parts.
After some distance the highway was looking clean and tempting, we were soon touching the 80 kmph mark. There was a gentle drizzle, I lifted my hands up, let the cool air strike my face, mmm... bliss. In a few minutes the dial was showing 85 kmph.
"On a dark desert highway, Cool wind in my hair..." I was whistling the Eagles number with my hands still in the air when we touched 90 Kmph, ever felt like God? I did.
All through this we were trailing the Yamaha and Vicky on his first long ride was enjoying every moment. The Dial now read 95kmph.
I thought I saw a 'take diversion --->' sign a few feet away and when I turned straight, I heard Param shout "shit ..", the Yamaha was in the air.
The next Instant I too was..
I was lying on a pile of fine gravel looking at the dark starless sky. My legs hurt and I felt something big inside my pant pockets.
I was on the speedometer, the rear view mirror of the Pulsar inside my pant pocket. I couldn't move for a long time, my heart was racing and my mind was crowded with thoughts. I desperately tried to move, I couldn't. After sometime all three of my friends were standing around me, I smiled and Vicky helped me stand.
"Cigarettes please " It was me..
"Can I call the ambulance ?" it was Param
"ungo... ", an obscenity, Muru. We laughed and heartily.
I had fallen on the Pulsar, Vicky a little away and Param on Muru. Only Muru had a helmet on, the helmet had cracked. The fine gravel had cushioned us to only a few bruises. The Pulsar was half inside the pile of gravel, its blinkers gone, scratched all over and the gear lever bent to an awkward angle. The Yamaha's blinkers too were missing, the break pedal was shaky and the helmet had to be disposed.
Vicky was struggling to ride when we started, my legs hurt and we sat down on one side of the highway. Param was giving my legs a massage when I heard my mobile ring. It was my friend in Chennai, after a minute of my silence he disconnected. I kept the phone beside me and continued to wince.
Five minutes later we were on the road again, the speedometer read 45kmph, Param was riding the Pulsar. After a while I thought I heard my phone ring, I searched for the phone and we turned back. Just about a kilometer on the way back, it started to rain. An hour of searching my mobile only drenched us.
We reached the Marriage hall at about 12.15 am, the next day. When Vicky woke us up in the morning, it was 7.30; my friend had been married for two hours. It was a Thursday and I was supposed to be at my office, we spent the day at Muru's home. We started back in the evening, with the speedometer reading 65kmph, it was warm and sunny.
After a while, dark clouds cast the sky, there was a gentle breeze and the traffic seemed thinner than the previous night.
I looked at the dial it read 80 kmph, ever felt like God?
We must have started from Chennai at about 7.15 pm that day. Muru and Param were on a Yamaha RX 135 and I was on the pillion of Vicky's black Pulsar 150 cc, it was our friend’s marriage the next day. The traffic kept a check on the speedometer until we were on the national highway. We filled gas at about 10 kms from the start and had the Yamaha checked for air.
At about 25 kms the Yamaha had a flat tyre and we had to push it a good distance till we found a repair shop. While the vehicle was attended to I found a shop that sold cold beer. I bought two bottles for just the pillion riders, Param and me; the two beers were divided in to 4 equal parts.
After some distance the highway was looking clean and tempting, we were soon touching the 80 kmph mark. There was a gentle drizzle, I lifted my hands up, let the cool air strike my face, mmm... bliss. In a few minutes the dial was showing 85 kmph.
"On a dark desert highway, Cool wind in my hair..." I was whistling the Eagles number with my hands still in the air when we touched 90 Kmph, ever felt like God? I did.
All through this we were trailing the Yamaha and Vicky on his first long ride was enjoying every moment. The Dial now read 95kmph.
I thought I saw a 'take diversion --->' sign a few feet away and when I turned straight, I heard Param shout "shit ..", the Yamaha was in the air.
The next Instant I too was..
I was lying on a pile of fine gravel looking at the dark starless sky. My legs hurt and I felt something big inside my pant pockets.
I was on the speedometer, the rear view mirror of the Pulsar inside my pant pocket. I couldn't move for a long time, my heart was racing and my mind was crowded with thoughts. I desperately tried to move, I couldn't. After sometime all three of my friends were standing around me, I smiled and Vicky helped me stand.
"Cigarettes please " It was me..
"Can I call the ambulance ?" it was Param
"ungo... ", an obscenity, Muru. We laughed and heartily.
I had fallen on the Pulsar, Vicky a little away and Param on Muru. Only Muru had a helmet on, the helmet had cracked. The fine gravel had cushioned us to only a few bruises. The Pulsar was half inside the pile of gravel, its blinkers gone, scratched all over and the gear lever bent to an awkward angle. The Yamaha's blinkers too were missing, the break pedal was shaky and the helmet had to be disposed.
Vicky was struggling to ride when we started, my legs hurt and we sat down on one side of the highway. Param was giving my legs a massage when I heard my mobile ring. It was my friend in Chennai, after a minute of my silence he disconnected. I kept the phone beside me and continued to wince.
Five minutes later we were on the road again, the speedometer read 45kmph, Param was riding the Pulsar. After a while I thought I heard my phone ring, I searched for the phone and we turned back. Just about a kilometer on the way back, it started to rain. An hour of searching my mobile only drenched us.
We reached the Marriage hall at about 12.15 am, the next day. When Vicky woke us up in the morning, it was 7.30; my friend had been married for two hours. It was a Thursday and I was supposed to be at my office, we spent the day at Muru's home. We started back in the evening, with the speedometer reading 65kmph, it was warm and sunny.
After a while, dark clouds cast the sky, there was a gentle breeze and the traffic seemed thinner than the previous night.
I looked at the dial it read 80 kmph, ever felt like God?
Autograph
After a very long time I found myself walking through the streets of my hometown today. I had to, as I was in search of a tablet for my father. The walk took me to K.A Street, the place that had been so much a part of my growing up. It had at least been fifteen years since I was there and the street did not resemble anything of what my memory could recollect. Tall buildings stand where huts and thatched roofs once stood, Shops cramp the places that had once been barren.
My Barber's shop is still at the beginning of the street as it was before, but it’s called a parlour now. I always addressed my barber, sir, because my father addressed him that way. I saw sir, he was wielding his scissors just like he used to a long time ago, only he was a lot older with wrinkles filling up his face and his hair almost silver.
There was a cylinder blast at the end of the street in the mid 90s and sixteen people were killed, I remember that incident because that was the first time I ever saw my hometown featured in an English newspaper. May be that was why Commercial tailors was not at the place where I remember it stood. I found the shop a little away and the older man I knew (I do not know his name) was not seen. His son stood cutting a piece of cloth, his hair graying up around his ears.
The state bank of India still stands at the same place in front of my school; it looked old and tired.
My heart almost skipped a beat when I saw my school but 'Immanuel, English, Nursery and Primary school' was almost unrecognizable, sandwiched between two big hardware shops. The paint had worn out and the name wasn't even clear.
I couldn't pull myself to walk in to the school although it was a working afternoon. For a moment I had those days coming back to me, Asirvatham sir my school correspondent and once my Mom's professor, Manjula Madam, Sasi madam, the black boards and the wooden tables, the store room under the stairs that helped me sleep, the big brass bell I was once the in charge of, Christmas celebrations when I was the Inn keeper once (Jesus was born in my Inn!) and one of the three wise men the other time, the temple beside the school, Prathap's moped, Sunny's fancy bags, Satheesh's handwriting, Yuvaraj's jokes, Maha.... A honking black car startled me.
Asirvatham sir had passed away a long time back and Sunny I learnt very recently is also no more.
The old lady at the end of the road still busily sat, making Vadas, with her son. Her son, the small kid I remember now looks a lot older than me. I tried a vada; at least nothing had changed about the taste.
Gupta Medicals was at the same place on the other side of the road and the once dark handsome guy now sat bald, tired and darker. When I went up to the shop, I saw someone very familiar standing in front of the shop. It was Shyam, Sunny's brother; he was only a few years older to me at school and looked almost like Sunny. Just beside him stood a beautiful, pregnant lady clinging on to his shoulders. He didn't seem to remember me, not that I wanted him to and somehow I didn't want to ask him about Sunny either.
I didn’t find the medicine today but when I left the street I thought I heard the old brass bell ring.
My Barber's shop is still at the beginning of the street as it was before, but it’s called a parlour now. I always addressed my barber, sir, because my father addressed him that way. I saw sir, he was wielding his scissors just like he used to a long time ago, only he was a lot older with wrinkles filling up his face and his hair almost silver.
There was a cylinder blast at the end of the street in the mid 90s and sixteen people were killed, I remember that incident because that was the first time I ever saw my hometown featured in an English newspaper. May be that was why Commercial tailors was not at the place where I remember it stood. I found the shop a little away and the older man I knew (I do not know his name) was not seen. His son stood cutting a piece of cloth, his hair graying up around his ears.
The state bank of India still stands at the same place in front of my school; it looked old and tired.
My heart almost skipped a beat when I saw my school but 'Immanuel, English, Nursery and Primary school' was almost unrecognizable, sandwiched between two big hardware shops. The paint had worn out and the name wasn't even clear.
I couldn't pull myself to walk in to the school although it was a working afternoon. For a moment I had those days coming back to me, Asirvatham sir my school correspondent and once my Mom's professor, Manjula Madam, Sasi madam, the black boards and the wooden tables, the store room under the stairs that helped me sleep, the big brass bell I was once the in charge of, Christmas celebrations when I was the Inn keeper once (Jesus was born in my Inn!) and one of the three wise men the other time, the temple beside the school, Prathap's moped, Sunny's fancy bags, Satheesh's handwriting, Yuvaraj's jokes, Maha.... A honking black car startled me.
Asirvatham sir had passed away a long time back and Sunny I learnt very recently is also no more.
The old lady at the end of the road still busily sat, making Vadas, with her son. Her son, the small kid I remember now looks a lot older than me. I tried a vada; at least nothing had changed about the taste.
Gupta Medicals was at the same place on the other side of the road and the once dark handsome guy now sat bald, tired and darker. When I went up to the shop, I saw someone very familiar standing in front of the shop. It was Shyam, Sunny's brother; he was only a few years older to me at school and looked almost like Sunny. Just beside him stood a beautiful, pregnant lady clinging on to his shoulders. He didn't seem to remember me, not that I wanted him to and somehow I didn't want to ask him about Sunny either.
I didn’t find the medicine today but when I left the street I thought I heard the old brass bell ring.
Three coffees and a sweetmeat.
"Be a man," my friend told me.We were both lying on the terrace of my hostel looking at the star-studded sky. It was just about three months since I had joined college and I thought I was in love. Maha was beautiful, my first girl friend after seven years at a residential boys' school. Three months around her I was almost convinced I was in love. I even carried her photograph wherever I went. I had told my friend about it. He was more excited than I was and he was her best friend too.
"I think she loves you more than you think she does, go ahead let her know what you think" continued my friend, "In a few days time we are going on a vacation, aren't we? I will arrange for a rendezvous and you are proposing her!!! ", it was almost a command and he stood up and walked away. The cold night was getting warm.
The next four days were hard to move. I skipped classes on two of those days and slept in the classroom on the other two days as I had not slept in the nights. Just a day before I called up my mother and told her I was proposing a girl. I was disappointed when she simply said, " You still have a day to think about it".
It was the day and I wore my favorite black pair of pants with a borrowed cream-colored shirt and shiny black shoes (borrowed of course). All the three of us left my college to the Bus station where she and my friend would take a bus to their hometown. There were a good three hours left for their bus and we went to a coffee shop.
I ordered for a cup of coffee and a sweetmeat I thought was fresh, while they sat sipping teas. When we left it was almost an hour, I had had three coffees.
She wanted to make a call. We had to go to a telephone booth and while she went inside one of the cabins, my friend silently left telling me "f*** you man, all the best ". I was all alone and sweating when she came out and looked for him, my friend.
"Maha.. " I started "Yes, Kumar" she continued. "I think.... I thi " I couldn't continue.. "You think what? And where is Joe? ".
I couldn't stand it any longer, I mustered up all the courage I could and I started "I.." . She wasn't even looking at me when she said impatiently " I what?" something’s wrong with you Kumar?? ". I couldn’t look at her.
"I think I like you more than you think I do! " I finally said, " and what does that mean?" she asked without a wink. "I mean.. I think.. Maha to live with you all my.., I mean I think I am in l.. l.. ", no it never came out of my mouth. I tried looking at the wall posters around, Heavens why were all the theatres running ‘B’ grade movies?
"So this is what the fuss is all about! Kumar, I think you are mistaken because I never had such a thing towards you ", Maha sounded indifferent.
I was feeling uneasy; three coffees with sweetmeat are definitely not good for your stomach when you propose.
"You are such a good friend and I would always..." she went on but I couldn’t listen to her anymore.
Joe was smiling at me when he returned.
"Is there a washroom around " I asked him. "Yes there's one around the corner, but is something wrong?" he retorted.
"Yes, think I need to retire", I did not wish them good-bye.
I should call Mom very soon, I thought as I left.
"I think she loves you more than you think she does, go ahead let her know what you think" continued my friend, "In a few days time we are going on a vacation, aren't we? I will arrange for a rendezvous and you are proposing her!!! ", it was almost a command and he stood up and walked away. The cold night was getting warm.
The next four days were hard to move. I skipped classes on two of those days and slept in the classroom on the other two days as I had not slept in the nights. Just a day before I called up my mother and told her I was proposing a girl. I was disappointed when she simply said, " You still have a day to think about it".
It was the day and I wore my favorite black pair of pants with a borrowed cream-colored shirt and shiny black shoes (borrowed of course). All the three of us left my college to the Bus station where she and my friend would take a bus to their hometown. There were a good three hours left for their bus and we went to a coffee shop.
I ordered for a cup of coffee and a sweetmeat I thought was fresh, while they sat sipping teas. When we left it was almost an hour, I had had three coffees.
She wanted to make a call. We had to go to a telephone booth and while she went inside one of the cabins, my friend silently left telling me "f*** you man, all the best ". I was all alone and sweating when she came out and looked for him, my friend.
"Maha.. " I started "Yes, Kumar" she continued. "I think.... I thi " I couldn't continue.. "You think what? And where is Joe? ".
I couldn't stand it any longer, I mustered up all the courage I could and I started "I.." . She wasn't even looking at me when she said impatiently " I what?" something’s wrong with you Kumar?? ". I couldn’t look at her.
"I think I like you more than you think I do! " I finally said, " and what does that mean?" she asked without a wink. "I mean.. I think.. Maha to live with you all my.., I mean I think I am in l.. l.. ", no it never came out of my mouth. I tried looking at the wall posters around, Heavens why were all the theatres running ‘B’ grade movies?
"So this is what the fuss is all about! Kumar, I think you are mistaken because I never had such a thing towards you ", Maha sounded indifferent.
I was feeling uneasy; three coffees with sweetmeat are definitely not good for your stomach when you propose.
"You are such a good friend and I would always..." she went on but I couldn’t listen to her anymore.
Joe was smiling at me when he returned.
"Is there a washroom around " I asked him. "Yes there's one around the corner, but is something wrong?" he retorted.
"Yes, think I need to retire", I did not wish them good-bye.
I should call Mom very soon, I thought as I left.
Cigarettes
It was around 10.00 pm when we got out of the bar. Alex wanted cigarettes; I waited beside his black Pulsar while he went to fetch some.
At the other side of the road there was this pretty girl in black, with an obvious reaction of waiting for someone.
Triplicane shelters almost half the bachelor population of Chennai, predominantly men. There are lodging houses everywhere cheap, unsafe, unclean, and cramped but people live, well at least.
A young girl in a flowery green dress was walking with two boys, laughing and playing. That thing around her neck told me she was married, too young I thought.
Alex was already puffing up a cigarette.
Professionals, Working men, Tourists, Students, Businessmen, Job seekers, tarts (find the meaning on your dictionary), and the original residents keep the lamps burning until after midnight and get to life before even the sun does. Languages, Ethnicity, origins, profession don't matter, life moves on.
I felt someone hug me from behind; I turned around to see not a man, not a woman, a transsexual (I don't even know if the word is derogatory). She left me, giggled and walked away.
She should have taken only moved a little away when, someone kicked her on her groin and She crouched in pain. I didn't move, I stood there blinking and helpless. Finally I found the courage to go towards her. She got up holding my hands and slapped me on my face. She walked away nursing her groin, it didn't hurt my face.
My friend smiled at me and lit another cigarette.
Just beside the shop there was this unkempt guy in rags eating from beside a litterbin. I saw someone get off his car and give him a fresh packet of food but he continued eating. I went near him; he looked at me, wiped his hands on his already murky clothing and ran away clutching the food packet.
I saw the girl in green slapped by someone. He must be her husband and he must have been drunk, for he was trying to hug her on the road. She was avoiding him and he slapped her once more.
I asked my friend about the girl in black on the other side of the road, she had been there for almost ten minutes now. He told me she was a tart and lit another cigarette.
She was cute damn it, she can't be a tart, I mean, we can't just imagine, she could even be waiting for her friend, thoughts were filling up my head may be because I had never seen one.
This time the guy's hands found her stomach and she screamed in pain, Alex was getting restless. He stubbed his cigarette with his shoes and kick started his auto start Pulsar, I sat behind him. He stopped the bike beside the girl and her husband. The guy backed off a little, when we both got off the vehicle, the guy moved away.
He lit up another cigarette. I borrowed one.
I saw the girl in black talking to an older man, Alex looked at me smiling, I still was not convinced. The guy in rags was crouching beside the litterbin again. We stood there until the cigarettes were over.
We reached his lodging house a little away from where we had stood. I turned around, I was just seeing shadows, but I was sure the girl in flowery green got slapped again.
I lit up the last cigarette.
At the other side of the road there was this pretty girl in black, with an obvious reaction of waiting for someone.
Triplicane shelters almost half the bachelor population of Chennai, predominantly men. There are lodging houses everywhere cheap, unsafe, unclean, and cramped but people live, well at least.
A young girl in a flowery green dress was walking with two boys, laughing and playing. That thing around her neck told me she was married, too young I thought.
Alex was already puffing up a cigarette.
Professionals, Working men, Tourists, Students, Businessmen, Job seekers, tarts (find the meaning on your dictionary), and the original residents keep the lamps burning until after midnight and get to life before even the sun does. Languages, Ethnicity, origins, profession don't matter, life moves on.
I felt someone hug me from behind; I turned around to see not a man, not a woman, a transsexual (I don't even know if the word is derogatory). She left me, giggled and walked away.
She should have taken only moved a little away when, someone kicked her on her groin and She crouched in pain. I didn't move, I stood there blinking and helpless. Finally I found the courage to go towards her. She got up holding my hands and slapped me on my face. She walked away nursing her groin, it didn't hurt my face.
My friend smiled at me and lit another cigarette.
Just beside the shop there was this unkempt guy in rags eating from beside a litterbin. I saw someone get off his car and give him a fresh packet of food but he continued eating. I went near him; he looked at me, wiped his hands on his already murky clothing and ran away clutching the food packet.
I saw the girl in green slapped by someone. He must be her husband and he must have been drunk, for he was trying to hug her on the road. She was avoiding him and he slapped her once more.
I asked my friend about the girl in black on the other side of the road, she had been there for almost ten minutes now. He told me she was a tart and lit another cigarette.
She was cute damn it, she can't be a tart, I mean, we can't just imagine, she could even be waiting for her friend, thoughts were filling up my head may be because I had never seen one.
This time the guy's hands found her stomach and she screamed in pain, Alex was getting restless. He stubbed his cigarette with his shoes and kick started his auto start Pulsar, I sat behind him. He stopped the bike beside the girl and her husband. The guy backed off a little, when we both got off the vehicle, the guy moved away.
He lit up another cigarette. I borrowed one.
I saw the girl in black talking to an older man, Alex looked at me smiling, I still was not convinced. The guy in rags was crouching beside the litterbin again. We stood there until the cigarettes were over.
We reached his lodging house a little away from where we had stood. I turned around, I was just seeing shadows, but I was sure the girl in flowery green got slapped again.
I lit up the last cigarette.
Smile.
My brother had called me up early that morning with the news and I prayed it was just a dream.
I have known Rajiv and his family from the time I started to remember things. We went to the same school just like my father and his father (Raghunathan sir) had in 1950s. Their family was always happy and laughing, like my mother once said, I think they even laughed in their sleep. Not that they had no problems, somehow they managed to keep smiling and made people smile.
I remember the days when his father, my father and one of their colleagues (Selvam sir) came together for a silent drink in our back yard only to get noisy after sometime. I remember when my father had a stroke in 1991, Rajiv’s family had prayed for him. When he recovered we had taken a procession to the church. I remember the times when our families were not in good terms and Raghunathan sir and Selvam sir still found the way to our backyard. My father still remembers the tiny frock he got for Raghunathan sir's daughter (she is now a mother of three children with the eldest one going to college).
It was a Sunday morning when my brother had called me up and I was not very convinced that someone I had known so well could die; Raghunathan sir was no more. I left for my good old hometown and even as I was reaching their house the place wore a festive look with crackers, music and wait, was it not supposed to be a funeral? It was a funeral and in Tamil Nadu funerals are held this way.
Raghunathan Sir still carried the smile on his face, only he was in a freezer box draped in a white shirt and dark pants. I placed the flowers I had gotten for him and if not for the crowd I would have said "Morning sir" and smiled at him as always.
For the first time in my life I saw Rajiv cry, his sisters and his mother cry. I did not say a word to Rajiv, for I did know what I was supposed to say at a funeral, this was my first. His mother hugged me with her big hands and said "Look at Daddy, can't take the smile of his face, can you? Wake him up, he's been sleeping for long", my eyes were wet, when I walked away after sometime.
My father was crying, Selvam sir was, my mother was, my brothers were, my grandma was and the whole place was. Only Raghunathan sir's seven-year-old granddaughter was running around laughing with my brother's son. They both attend the same school like their grandpas did 50 years before. When my brother and his friends, who are closer to Rajiv than I am, came in with a garland that needed two men to carry it, they were dancing like mad men. When they reached sir they did not move for a very long time, when they did, they were crying and like kids. I had not known if my brother and his friends could cry.
It was time for the procession and I helped pull the cart that carried Sir a distance I would have frowned to cycle. After the rituals were over at the cemetery, it was time to place sir inside the coffin. I held sir in my hands, his body was very cold because of the freezer box but was he dead? I don’t know but in my hands he was so much alive. May he was just sleeping, may be he was even breathing, I wanted to feel his pulse, I wanted to feel his breath and all I did was to help him inside the coffin.
Sir was still smiling when his thick glasses were removed and I was asked to loosen up his shirt. Rajiv and sir's grandsons were crying unconsolably even as the coffin was being closed. I saw sir, I saw them close the coffin and I cried.
My brothers friends were there in Rajiv's house when I went there the next day. After a cup of cofee when I left Rajiv was forcing a smile at me.
May be he will smile in a few days.
I have known Rajiv and his family from the time I started to remember things. We went to the same school just like my father and his father (Raghunathan sir) had in 1950s. Their family was always happy and laughing, like my mother once said, I think they even laughed in their sleep. Not that they had no problems, somehow they managed to keep smiling and made people smile.
I remember the days when his father, my father and one of their colleagues (Selvam sir) came together for a silent drink in our back yard only to get noisy after sometime. I remember when my father had a stroke in 1991, Rajiv’s family had prayed for him. When he recovered we had taken a procession to the church. I remember the times when our families were not in good terms and Raghunathan sir and Selvam sir still found the way to our backyard. My father still remembers the tiny frock he got for Raghunathan sir's daughter (she is now a mother of three children with the eldest one going to college).
It was a Sunday morning when my brother had called me up and I was not very convinced that someone I had known so well could die; Raghunathan sir was no more. I left for my good old hometown and even as I was reaching their house the place wore a festive look with crackers, music and wait, was it not supposed to be a funeral? It was a funeral and in Tamil Nadu funerals are held this way.
Raghunathan Sir still carried the smile on his face, only he was in a freezer box draped in a white shirt and dark pants. I placed the flowers I had gotten for him and if not for the crowd I would have said "Morning sir" and smiled at him as always.
For the first time in my life I saw Rajiv cry, his sisters and his mother cry. I did not say a word to Rajiv, for I did know what I was supposed to say at a funeral, this was my first. His mother hugged me with her big hands and said "Look at Daddy, can't take the smile of his face, can you? Wake him up, he's been sleeping for long", my eyes were wet, when I walked away after sometime.
My father was crying, Selvam sir was, my mother was, my brothers were, my grandma was and the whole place was. Only Raghunathan sir's seven-year-old granddaughter was running around laughing with my brother's son. They both attend the same school like their grandpas did 50 years before. When my brother and his friends, who are closer to Rajiv than I am, came in with a garland that needed two men to carry it, they were dancing like mad men. When they reached sir they did not move for a very long time, when they did, they were crying and like kids. I had not known if my brother and his friends could cry.
It was time for the procession and I helped pull the cart that carried Sir a distance I would have frowned to cycle. After the rituals were over at the cemetery, it was time to place sir inside the coffin. I held sir in my hands, his body was very cold because of the freezer box but was he dead? I don’t know but in my hands he was so much alive. May he was just sleeping, may be he was even breathing, I wanted to feel his pulse, I wanted to feel his breath and all I did was to help him inside the coffin.
Sir was still smiling when his thick glasses were removed and I was asked to loosen up his shirt. Rajiv and sir's grandsons were crying unconsolably even as the coffin was being closed. I saw sir, I saw them close the coffin and I cried.
My brothers friends were there in Rajiv's house when I went there the next day. After a cup of cofee when I left Rajiv was forcing a smile at me.
May be he will smile in a few days.
Passed .. out
Me: hello?
Voice over the phone: (a female) is this Mr. Kumar? (huh!! not another credit card !!!)
Me: ya, tell me.
Voice over phone: We are calling from (some MNC) Hyderabad; Remember I had called you yesterday Mr. Kumar? Are you ready to take your interview Mr kumar?
Me: (shit!!) of course ya, I mean yes ma.. Madam
Vop: Kindly hold on for a moment, Mr. Kumar, (some music played)
Me: (I was breathing like I had asthma! ran to the 'C' programming book that was on my table)
Vop: Mr. Kumar?
Me: Yes sir,
Vop: I am (some name) and also here with me there is Mr (some other name), can we proceed on Mr. Kumar?
Me: Yes Mr mm???(My!! what was his name?), i mean err.. Yes sir
Vop: All right, what is your current profile like Mr. Kumar?
Me: Sir actually My company is an organization working on.. (I went on blah blah, must have been impressed he he)
Vop: what exactly do you do?
Me: Sir I am a design Engineer,
Vop: Software or hardware?
Me: I the.. I do both.. I do the coding, the hardware design
Vop: so there are no team members?
Me: Yes, I mean No, there are
Vop: what do they do?
Me: both software and hardware..
Vop: and you?
Me: (blink blink!!)
Vop: that’s fine Mr. Kumar, before moving on.. How much do you think you can rate yourself in 'c' out of 10?
Me: (bah..) sir may be 5 , 6 , I think 7 sir
Vop: that is interesting Mr. Kumar, can we proceed?
Me: YES sir (confidence!! you see)
Vop: All right tell me what is the difference between a structure and an union?
Me: memory allotted for an instance of an Union would be only the.. Blah blah (and the answer was correct, I told you 7 didn’t I?)
Vop: good Mr. Kumar (thank u).. Okay, what is a void pointer?
Me: (rush the pages on the book.. where the hec.. ahh! time is running)
Vop: Mr. Kumar? Are you with us?
Me: ye..s sir(where the hell?) i mean.. a void poi
Vop: can we go to the next question?
Me: (page not found!!!) a void pointer points to Null (please don’t ask me what is null)
Vop: mmm... So what is a null pointer?
Me: f**k !! (Did i say the 'f' word?) Oh shit!! (Great! i also said the 's' word), i am sorry sir ... I mean
Vop: (could hear them laughing, I was thinking of cutting the call), its okay Mr. Kumar..
Me: sir.. Vop: do you know Telugu by any chance?
Me: (breathe easy ooh..): I think I can talk a little Sir..
Vop: Äh+îQ_+ÄAƒ±»_+îD_+æEîm+6+_à-¦*&$# (something in telugu)
Me: Sir?
Vop: Äh+îQ_+ÄAƒ±»_+îD_+æEîm+6+_à-¦*&$# (the same thing in telugu)
Me: (silence, goodness me technical was better!)
Vop: That’s okay Mr Kumar, ha ha.. Telugu is not a prerequisite (a**), it was just to cool you down okay tell me, what does Malloc do?
Me: (some thing I know at last) The function allots memory dynamically.. During the run time..(Blah blah.. wow)
Vop: good, so what is the difference between 'C'alloc and 'M'alloc?
Me: (its over dear! I didn't want to open the book)
Vop: Mr. Kumar?..................... Me: yes sir 'C'alloc is ..er.. I don’t know.
Vop: Okay Mr. Kumar, what the difference between pointer to an array and an array of pointers..
Me: (I knew the answer and I do not know why, but I remained silent)
Vop: Mr. Kumar.. ................... Me: Yes sir
Vop: all right we will move on, how much can you rate yourself in C++?
Me: Sir, can we stop here?
Vop: fine Mr. Kumar, we will stop here and nice talking to you all this time, we will get back to you very soon.
Me: fuc..
Vop: yes Mr. Kumar
Me: Nice talking to you too sir..
Its been two years since ...!!!
Voice over the phone: (a female) is this Mr. Kumar? (huh!! not another credit card !!!)
Me: ya, tell me.
Voice over phone: We are calling from (some MNC) Hyderabad; Remember I had called you yesterday Mr. Kumar? Are you ready to take your interview Mr kumar?
Me: (shit!!) of course ya, I mean yes ma.. Madam
Vop: Kindly hold on for a moment, Mr. Kumar, (some music played)
Me: (I was breathing like I had asthma! ran to the 'C' programming book that was on my table)
Vop: Mr. Kumar?
Me: Yes sir,
Vop: I am (some name) and also here with me there is Mr (some other name), can we proceed on Mr. Kumar?
Me: Yes Mr mm???(My!! what was his name?), i mean err.. Yes sir
Vop: All right, what is your current profile like Mr. Kumar?
Me: Sir actually My company is an organization working on.. (I went on blah blah, must have been impressed he he)
Vop: what exactly do you do?
Me: Sir I am a design Engineer,
Vop: Software or hardware?
Me: I the.. I do both.. I do the coding, the hardware design
Vop: so there are no team members?
Me: Yes, I mean No, there are
Vop: what do they do?
Me: both software and hardware..
Vop: and you?
Me: (blink blink!!)
Vop: that’s fine Mr. Kumar, before moving on.. How much do you think you can rate yourself in 'c' out of 10?
Me: (bah..) sir may be 5 , 6 , I think 7 sir
Vop: that is interesting Mr. Kumar, can we proceed?
Me: YES sir (confidence!! you see)
Vop: All right tell me what is the difference between a structure and an union?
Me: memory allotted for an instance of an Union would be only the.. Blah blah (and the answer was correct, I told you 7 didn’t I?)
Vop: good Mr. Kumar (thank u).. Okay, what is a void pointer?
Me: (rush the pages on the book.. where the hec.. ahh! time is running)
Vop: Mr. Kumar? Are you with us?
Me: ye..s sir(where the hell?) i mean.. a void poi
Vop: can we go to the next question?
Me: (page not found!!!) a void pointer points to Null (please don’t ask me what is null)
Vop: mmm... So what is a null pointer?
Me: f**k !! (Did i say the 'f' word?) Oh shit!! (Great! i also said the 's' word), i am sorry sir ... I mean
Vop: (could hear them laughing, I was thinking of cutting the call), its okay Mr. Kumar..
Me: sir.. Vop: do you know Telugu by any chance?
Me: (breathe easy ooh..): I think I can talk a little Sir..
Vop: Äh+îQ_+ÄAƒ±»_+îD_+æEîm+6+_à-¦*&$# (something in telugu)
Me: Sir?
Vop: Äh+îQ_+ÄAƒ±»_+îD_+æEîm+6+_à-¦*&$# (the same thing in telugu)
Me: (silence, goodness me technical was better!)
Vop: That’s okay Mr Kumar, ha ha.. Telugu is not a prerequisite (a**), it was just to cool you down okay tell me, what does Malloc do?
Me: (some thing I know at last) The function allots memory dynamically.. During the run time..(Blah blah.. wow)
Vop: good, so what is the difference between 'C'alloc and 'M'alloc?
Me: (its over dear! I didn't want to open the book)
Vop: Mr. Kumar?..................... Me: yes sir 'C'alloc is ..er.. I don’t know.
Vop: Okay Mr. Kumar, what the difference between pointer to an array and an array of pointers..
Me: (I knew the answer and I do not know why, but I remained silent)
Vop: Mr. Kumar.. ................... Me: Yes sir
Vop: all right we will move on, how much can you rate yourself in C++?
Me: Sir, can we stop here?
Vop: fine Mr. Kumar, we will stop here and nice talking to you all this time, we will get back to you very soon.
Me: fuc..
Vop: yes Mr. Kumar
Me: Nice talking to you too sir..
Its been two years since ...!!!
One..
19.11.1982 0532 hrs,
Place: Christian medical college hospital Vellore, Kamala Nehru ward.
I was born after a cesarean. I was christened Kumar.
Some time during the early 1982,
Place: An obscure village in the Vellore Dist, Tamil Nadu
My Father's brother had a Baby boy. They called my brother Arul.
1985 July
I went to school; I don't know what Arul was doing then.
1985-1993
Every year during the summer I went to the village. And every time I went, I carried some old clothes for Arul. In turn I had the taste of the village life, running around with him to steal mangoes, to swim (although I never learnt), to fish, to..
1993 June 5
I was sent to a Residential Public School today. When I had been to the village this summer, Arul wasn't available for play; I spoke to him while he sat rolling beedis (cheap cigarettes).
1994-2000
By now I was rarely going to the village as I spent most part of the year at school, although Arul came to see me whenever I went home. We were both growing up and I always was a little taller than him but somehow he looked bigger than me.
1998 May
I had my 10th standard results, I was in the village and Arul had been sent of to work at a leather factory. I made 84%.
2000 May
I had my 12th standard and my services selection board interview results. Arul was back from the factory; he again took to rolling beedis. He had worked 12-hour shifts for a meager pay and had to almost runaway from the factory. I made 64% in my higher secondary exams and failed to clear the interview.
2000 August
I joined a college in Bangalore paying up. Arul now had learned to roll enough beedis to pay up some debts of his father.
2001 August, I don’t know the date
Arul married a beautiful young girl from the nearby village, chosen by his father, a drunkard. She was very young and looked no more than 16, my sister told me because I had stopped going to the village. I had learnt to smoke, drink and flirt.
2002 March 3
I proposed a Christian girl from another state. Around the same time Arul had a baby girl and the baby was beautiful my sister told me.
2003 February
I was placed in a private firm in one of the campus interviews. Arul had another baby girl around the same time.
2005 May 7
The last time I saw my girl friend. Arul had a third girl, his parents were supposedly unhappy with Arul's wife not giving a male heir to the family, Arul stood by his wife, but things weren't smooth in the family. Arul was sending his eldest girl to an English school.
2006 March 3
I was celebrating the day I had proposed before four years, drunk inside a bar. Arul's wife and all their three children were found drowned and dead inside a well even as Arul was playing cricket with his friends. Arul was beaten up by his wife's relatives and handed over to the police.
2006 May 7, My house 1100hrs
I was looking at the newspaper clipping that carried a photo of Arul’s wife and children lying young, innocent and dead when Arul had come to my house. He was on bail. Bearded and gaunt, for the first time he looked smaller and older than me. He kept telling me he was innocent and his baby was beautiful. I could say nothing to him, I cried with him.
2006 June 1, 1230 hrs.
I am writing a cold blog about Arul. Arul probably is in the court to mark his presence in a register, as he is supposed to every alternate day at 1230hrs.
Place: Christian medical college hospital Vellore, Kamala Nehru ward.
I was born after a cesarean. I was christened Kumar.
Some time during the early 1982,
Place: An obscure village in the Vellore Dist, Tamil Nadu
My Father's brother had a Baby boy. They called my brother Arul.
1985 July
I went to school; I don't know what Arul was doing then.
1985-1993
Every year during the summer I went to the village. And every time I went, I carried some old clothes for Arul. In turn I had the taste of the village life, running around with him to steal mangoes, to swim (although I never learnt), to fish, to..
1993 June 5
I was sent to a Residential Public School today. When I had been to the village this summer, Arul wasn't available for play; I spoke to him while he sat rolling beedis (cheap cigarettes).
1994-2000
By now I was rarely going to the village as I spent most part of the year at school, although Arul came to see me whenever I went home. We were both growing up and I always was a little taller than him but somehow he looked bigger than me.
1998 May
I had my 10th standard results, I was in the village and Arul had been sent of to work at a leather factory. I made 84%.
2000 May
I had my 12th standard and my services selection board interview results. Arul was back from the factory; he again took to rolling beedis. He had worked 12-hour shifts for a meager pay and had to almost runaway from the factory. I made 64% in my higher secondary exams and failed to clear the interview.
2000 August
I joined a college in Bangalore paying up. Arul now had learned to roll enough beedis to pay up some debts of his father.
2001 August, I don’t know the date
Arul married a beautiful young girl from the nearby village, chosen by his father, a drunkard. She was very young and looked no more than 16, my sister told me because I had stopped going to the village. I had learnt to smoke, drink and flirt.
2002 March 3
I proposed a Christian girl from another state. Around the same time Arul had a baby girl and the baby was beautiful my sister told me.
2003 February
I was placed in a private firm in one of the campus interviews. Arul had another baby girl around the same time.
2005 May 7
The last time I saw my girl friend. Arul had a third girl, his parents were supposedly unhappy with Arul's wife not giving a male heir to the family, Arul stood by his wife, but things weren't smooth in the family. Arul was sending his eldest girl to an English school.
2006 March 3
I was celebrating the day I had proposed before four years, drunk inside a bar. Arul's wife and all their three children were found drowned and dead inside a well even as Arul was playing cricket with his friends. Arul was beaten up by his wife's relatives and handed over to the police.
2006 May 7, My house 1100hrs
I was looking at the newspaper clipping that carried a photo of Arul’s wife and children lying young, innocent and dead when Arul had come to my house. He was on bail. Bearded and gaunt, for the first time he looked smaller and older than me. He kept telling me he was innocent and his baby was beautiful. I could say nothing to him, I cried with him.
2006 June 1, 1230 hrs.
I am writing a cold blog about Arul. Arul probably is in the court to mark his presence in a register, as he is supposed to every alternate day at 1230hrs.
Another night, another place, another journey
Stranded drunk in a railway station in the middle of the night was not a new thing for me. I tried ‘India today’, Sidney Sheldon, coffee and grapes for company. That night I had neither the choice of trains nor the class I was supposed to travel, all I had was a general ticket to Bangalore in my shirt pocket. The Nizamuddin express that was supposed to come in at 10.30 to the Miraj Junction was, like the ticket vendor said, ‘as usual late by about two hours’.
When the train came in at last one general compartment was looking like a gas chamber of the nazi period, packed to the maximum. People were everywhere, on the benches, on the luggage rails, on the floor and at the door. Another compartment was already latched from inside, knocks and bangs on the door evoked little response from the mostly Muslim, burka clad inmates who went on with their squabble.
The compartment I had to get in had some space for only my legs just beside an old woman who was comfortably lying on the way to the washroom also in a torn old brown burka. I looked in to the compartment to see so many burkas and kufies (white caps) that, for a moment I thought if Muslims were really a minority in India.
I must have stood in the same posture for about an hour until I felt my bag was weighing me down. A thirty looking man, with a black baseball cap, helped me stuff the bag under a bench. By now some boys looking no older than teens and sitting at the door started sharing a pack of tobacco, I wanted to say something, but then I remembered I was drunk. The boys were now speaking in Urdu, and their names said they were all Muslims. I muttered “Muslims”, it must have been loud because the black cap was smiling at me.
The black cap asked me something in Kannada, I replied him back in the broken Kannada I knew. We spoke in Kannada for some time of which the only thing that I understood was I never knew Kannada. The winds were too cold now and the doors had to be bolted and almost the whole compartment was sleeping except the few of us who were standing. My new friend made some place for me so that I could crouch while he stood. I was dead tired and I must have slept for over an hour in that position.
I felt someone waking me up, my friend was sitting on the upper berth (can it be called one??). He was calling me from there, while I was still crouching. We were in some station and more importantly some of the burkas were getting down. I climbed on to the seat and sat down with him. Thirsty I took my half-full water bottle and was looking at it when something on the label stuck me. The label read “Durga – distilled water”- for battery use only”, I felt sick in my stomach.
There was another man sitting to my right holding a small, may be a few months old baby girl. I bent down to look at the girl and his watch, it read 3.00 am. I slept and woke up again to something pulling my hands and I did not sleep again. The baby was almost out of her father’s hands precariously moving and trying to hold on to my fingers. I tried waking him and he was sleeping like he hadn’t slept for years. I picked up the girl and started playing with her. She was beautiful and didn’t mind playing with me, while I lost all my sleep falling in love with her charms.
After about an hour of playing she probably was tired of me and she started wailing waking up everyone except her father. Her mother who too was in a black burka was surprised and quickly apologized before taking my sweet heart away. My friend beside me was also awake and I started complaining about the way the Muslims were, he seemed like he was very intently listening to me but never said anything. Not that I had anything against Muslims, I told him, it was just the day and he was seeing it all. At about 5.20 he silently closed his eyes and I think he prayed while some others in the compartment began their Namaz, facing east.
Nothing eventual happened until the morning when I had to catch another train to Bangalore from Hubli. When the train stopped at Hubli, my friend simply said, “run” and started running with his baggage. I had to find my bag, my sneakers before I could run and when I reached the other train it was already half full. I walked the length of the train and a hand from one of the bogies startled me to a stop, my friend was sitting inside grinning; there was an empty seat for me in front of him.
This train wasn’t as crowded as the first and I could even lie down for a nap. I woke up, brushed and had my breakfast and went to sleep while my friend was sleeping through all these. My friend woke me up with two fresh packets in his hand for breakfast; ashamed to admit I had had breakfast, I had to eat again. I must have looked like I was starving before I met him because through out the journey he fed me with anything palatable. For a moment I even had a fear, if he was tricking me in to something. When the ticket checker came in, I found a Muslim family traveling free because one of the guys was a railway employee. We again had a topic and I did most of the talking while he listened with the same intent.
Before long it was afternoon and we were in Bangalore and had to part ways. Although we had spoken a lot, I knew nothing of him personally except he was from some place called Chinthamani road. I didn’t want another anecdote of mine with a stranger and no name. I asked him his name and he did not reply untill we had reached the entrance of the Bangalore junction.
He smiled, shook my hands and said, “My name is Abdul Razzaq and Jasche, it was nice knowing you”, before joining the crowd and fading away.
For the second time that day, I felt sick in my stomach.
Uniform
I walk to find my way to office everyday through the dusty, uneven roads of Thiruvanmiyur, (Chennai aka Madras) alongside a horde of tag sporting Software Engineers. The walk and the vicinity everyday is almost the same, except when I am late and running. With an almost silent, green stretch and only tall buildings rising up, the walk is serene in the beginning.
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
Today again in the very next block to mine, the small beautiful boy is waiting for his "billabong high" (a crèche) cab unwilling to let go his mom's hand. Two blocks down I do not miss the pony-tailed girl in her green uniform (alongside a German shepherd) as she passes by me on a chauffer driven Hyundai Sonata.
Two boys playing on some hand held gadget in neatly pressed white shirts and half pants, are waiting for their school bus. A cute girl dressed in green and white clings on to her mom even as she is taken on a Kinetic Honda and a scary ride with her mom's timid driving and an ever-honking horn. A small, dark but cute bespectacled girl waits alone at the last building of the road, frowning impatiently, just as the geography seems to abruptly change.
The buildings are not taller anymore and it isn't silent anymore.
This father as always is in time taking four children (on some days five) and their overweight bags on a bicycle. The man who runs the roadside hotel around the corner is as usual taking at least ten children on his fish cart / tricycle to school. Groups of children in uniform, many of them barefooted, walk happily talking of things ranging from their maths teacher to M S Dhoni. Uniforms don’t look like uniforms on them, as most of them are torn, button less, patched and murky. A large part of this crowd carries UNICEF sponsored bags, dirty and filled with graffiti of their own kind. Some older guys wear better clothes, carry better bags and are on their bicycles, although it is mostly three guys to one bicycle.
Just in front of a big temple some street urchins in soiled clothes are playing cricket with a paper ball and a wooden plank, seemingly worried of their game being disturbed by the passing school children and the audience in me. A school boy coming out of the temple is talking on his black mobile phone even as an old man waits holding his car door open. I walk slowly till I lose sight of the game and the old man stands waiting, holding the door.
I am now at the bus terminus and amongst a different colour. The bus as usual is packed with bags occupying more space that the children. Some bags I think can even pull the children with them, good heavens, I never had to carry books all my life. As the bus spurts to life and drudges labouriously a lot more of the uniforms fly in from nowhere and cling on to the doors and windows like spider men.
On the other side of the road the cab for the 'Clark's school for the deaf' waits for the children. The children inside wear no uniforms, but something else is common - they invariably are smiling, staring at the windows and are wearing their hearing aids.
Just as the bus is moving out of the terminus I see a familiar sight at the cycle shop. The dark schoolgirl is at her father’s (I suppose) shop with her little sister as usual mending to her vehicles tyres. When it is over, the smaller girl gives the vehicle a push with all her might and as it gains momentum, jumps on to her handicapped sister’s tricycle waving wildly at their father.
The bus is now on the road and moving with clowds of smoke gushing out of the old vehicle .
NH4
Two hours had passed when my friend tired of showing up his hands asked me do it. With the traffic dwindling and every passing vehicle considering us another lamppost, I lost all hope. On a highway of an unknown town at 11.00 pm with a heavy baggage and a little knowledge of the local language I somehow was convinced I was going to spend the night under moonlight. We were stranded on the Bangalore-Kohlapur highway NH4 as we had missed the last Bus to Bangalore from Kohlapur. I half-heartedly lifted up my hands waiting for a miracle to happen when a vehicle slowly came to a halt in front of us.
It was a Truck and I actually felt myself smiling for the first time on that fateful day. After some negotiations with the Truck driver who wore a black shirt, we finally got inside the truck only to hear them talking in my own language. I was elated to take over from my Hindi speaking friend who had helped me all the way. We were happy but a little scared because it was all happening so easily and the truck carrying onions, my friend and me had already started. A heavy wallet with both of us did not help the cause either. I jotted down the truck number on my mobile and we planned to keep vigil in turns.
It was my turn and I was trying to keep myself awake when just about a kilometer down I saw a board that read ' Bangalore -> 620 Kms ', I lost all sleep. Life definitely is a cycle or why would I, who had traveled to Pune by a flight, on the way back be sitting on a wooden plank inside an old truck that carried onions? In the three hours that followed I saw my sleeping friend hitting his head about on almost all the walls of the cramped cabin. We had to speak loudly in the cabin, to beat the old engine's roar, which not only helped us hear but also seem to keep the driver awake. He kept talking all the way of his boss-the man with the black shirt, his recent marriage and of his Mother.
Traveling in the dark at 40kms/hr, which I later learnt helped them keep up the mileage I thought I was seeing the moon and the beautiful star-studded night sky after a very very long time. We stopped after about 75 kms for what was just the first one of the several tea flavours that I had to taste in the 24 hours that followed. It got colder through the night and the pit stops increased as the driver stopped frequently to keep himself awake with tobacco, cigerettes, water and tea. I woke up after having hit myself to an Iron bar and I realized I must have dozed off after having spent five hours on the wooden plank. I crouched to a corner of the already occupied bed and slept for about an hour before a terribly cold breeze woke me up. The visibility was near zero, with thick fog filling up the road and the truck moving at less than 10 Kms/ hr.
I fell asleep again and woke up only when the driver called me for another cup of tea and another round of his boosters. My friend who was supposed to keep awake was leaning on to the drivers seat and sleeping. When we got back to the truck, I could see the horizon clearing up a little and the sun was slowly coming up. I don’t remember a time when I had watched the sun come up, I was not going to miss it, I kept myself awake with one of the driver's possessions. The Truck was traveling southeast facing the sun, the scene looked like a picture postcard and I was missing my camera.
I fell asleep on the unkempt bed with my friend keeping up the vigil now and the other driver taking the wheel. Traveling on road definitely has its own vantages, I woke up after about two hours to see the beautiful green landscapes of North Karnataka and I was sorely missing my camera now.
We stopped to freshen up and I had the breakfast of my life, in a hotel that looked like it was directly taken out of the sets of Black hawk down. Nothing special was on the menu and everyone seemed to be eating the same dish. Unkempt hair, stained teeth, soiled shirts and pants and smiling faces – is all you will need to describe a truck driver. Talking to a few of them in the broken Hindi I knew I sensed Irony; they ferried apples from Himachal, granites from Gujarat, onions and cashew from Pune, vanilla and pepper from Kerala and many other things that only fall in the budget of the shiny part of India.
The lone telephone booth was crowded with anxious husbands, fathers and sons (our truck driver included) wanting to let their family know they were safe. When we were leaving I slipped and hurt my cheek trying to climb the truck, may be I wanted to stay a little longer in that cramped, dirty place.
The day journey was a lot different; I was now able to see the scenic landscapes as we drudged still on the 50-kms/hr mark. I lost count of the number of crushed, burnt out, mangled trucks on the way, of which both the drivers never talked about or seemed to pretend they had never seen. On the way we tasted some fruits, which I had not even seen or heard of, drank murky water, which surprisingly tasted good and did every other thing that for long I had considered unhygienic.
After having traveled 622 kilometers inside a 3m X 1m cabin for 18 hours and 34 minutes, we got down at Bangalore tired, dirty and cramped. One of the drivers was sleeping; we did not wake him up, for he had driven for most of the journey. The black shirt pocketed the money I gave him without counting. We just said a bye and the truck slowly started as we stood and waved at just the onions. When the truck was around the corner the black shirt – we never asked his name and we just called him Bhai (meaning brother)- stopped for a split second before he went on his way. The last thing I saw of the truck was the words National-Permit painted in black on the back of the truck.
It was a Truck and I actually felt myself smiling for the first time on that fateful day. After some negotiations with the Truck driver who wore a black shirt, we finally got inside the truck only to hear them talking in my own language. I was elated to take over from my Hindi speaking friend who had helped me all the way. We were happy but a little scared because it was all happening so easily and the truck carrying onions, my friend and me had already started. A heavy wallet with both of us did not help the cause either. I jotted down the truck number on my mobile and we planned to keep vigil in turns.
It was my turn and I was trying to keep myself awake when just about a kilometer down I saw a board that read ' Bangalore -> 620 Kms ', I lost all sleep. Life definitely is a cycle or why would I, who had traveled to Pune by a flight, on the way back be sitting on a wooden plank inside an old truck that carried onions? In the three hours that followed I saw my sleeping friend hitting his head about on almost all the walls of the cramped cabin. We had to speak loudly in the cabin, to beat the old engine's roar, which not only helped us hear but also seem to keep the driver awake. He kept talking all the way of his boss-the man with the black shirt, his recent marriage and of his Mother.
Traveling in the dark at 40kms/hr, which I later learnt helped them keep up the mileage I thought I was seeing the moon and the beautiful star-studded night sky after a very very long time. We stopped after about 75 kms for what was just the first one of the several tea flavours that I had to taste in the 24 hours that followed. It got colder through the night and the pit stops increased as the driver stopped frequently to keep himself awake with tobacco, cigerettes, water and tea. I woke up after having hit myself to an Iron bar and I realized I must have dozed off after having spent five hours on the wooden plank. I crouched to a corner of the already occupied bed and slept for about an hour before a terribly cold breeze woke me up. The visibility was near zero, with thick fog filling up the road and the truck moving at less than 10 Kms/ hr.
I fell asleep again and woke up only when the driver called me for another cup of tea and another round of his boosters. My friend who was supposed to keep awake was leaning on to the drivers seat and sleeping. When we got back to the truck, I could see the horizon clearing up a little and the sun was slowly coming up. I don’t remember a time when I had watched the sun come up, I was not going to miss it, I kept myself awake with one of the driver's possessions. The Truck was traveling southeast facing the sun, the scene looked like a picture postcard and I was missing my camera.
I fell asleep on the unkempt bed with my friend keeping up the vigil now and the other driver taking the wheel. Traveling on road definitely has its own vantages, I woke up after about two hours to see the beautiful green landscapes of North Karnataka and I was sorely missing my camera now.
We stopped to freshen up and I had the breakfast of my life, in a hotel that looked like it was directly taken out of the sets of Black hawk down. Nothing special was on the menu and everyone seemed to be eating the same dish. Unkempt hair, stained teeth, soiled shirts and pants and smiling faces – is all you will need to describe a truck driver. Talking to a few of them in the broken Hindi I knew I sensed Irony; they ferried apples from Himachal, granites from Gujarat, onions and cashew from Pune, vanilla and pepper from Kerala and many other things that only fall in the budget of the shiny part of India.
The lone telephone booth was crowded with anxious husbands, fathers and sons (our truck driver included) wanting to let their family know they were safe. When we were leaving I slipped and hurt my cheek trying to climb the truck, may be I wanted to stay a little longer in that cramped, dirty place.
The day journey was a lot different; I was now able to see the scenic landscapes as we drudged still on the 50-kms/hr mark. I lost count of the number of crushed, burnt out, mangled trucks on the way, of which both the drivers never talked about or seemed to pretend they had never seen. On the way we tasted some fruits, which I had not even seen or heard of, drank murky water, which surprisingly tasted good and did every other thing that for long I had considered unhygienic.
After having traveled 622 kilometers inside a 3m X 1m cabin for 18 hours and 34 minutes, we got down at Bangalore tired, dirty and cramped. One of the drivers was sleeping; we did not wake him up, for he had driven for most of the journey. The black shirt pocketed the money I gave him without counting. We just said a bye and the truck slowly started as we stood and waved at just the onions. When the truck was around the corner the black shirt – we never asked his name and we just called him Bhai (meaning brother)- stopped for a split second before he went on his way. The last thing I saw of the truck was the words National-Permit painted in black on the back of the truck.
I am going on a Jet Plane..
Just before a fortnight I had been to an airport for the first time when my friend's, friend's uncle had left for Germany. I had watched in awe as every flight took off, for more than two hours before I reluctantly left almost forgetting the reason I had been to the airport. And then one fine day I was told by my Manager that I was going to fly, thanks to a delay in the schedule of my work- I was left with little time and they booked me an air ticket.
I got to the airport finally for my first air travel after what I thought were the two longest days of my life. The one-hour that I had to spend at the airport, after a dark but smiling cute girl gave me the boarding pass, seemed even longer. My friend and I sat right in front of the status display waiting for the flights schedule, while my head ran to the days when I had tried touching a flying aircraft.
I was sipping a cold coffee when the status of the Aircraft that I was supposed to board suddenly moved on from SCHEDULED to NOW BOARDING. Like two school, children we ran to the gate 2 only to hear a big man with a even bigger moustache asking us to tag the luggage. We ran back to the counter to get the tags attached and the cute girl at the counter did it smiling. We ran again to Mr. big moustache, who promptly put our luggage in to a conveyor and led me to another man who checked me with what looked like a badminton racket.
When I returned to pick up my luggage, Both our boarding passes were crossed by Mr. Big moustache because I had a wire cutter inside my bag and my friend had a pair of scissors inside his. We ran again to the counter, had our bags screened and thrown in to another conveyor. And just as we started to run back to the Gate -2, I turned back for one last glimpse of the cute girl, she wasn't smiling anymore. The Big moush let us both in and we walked in to the gate to a waiting bus and a frowning driver.
The Mayhem inside the Airport had made me forget I was flying and only when the bus was nearing the Aircraft I actually felt the occasion. Two smiling airhostesses waited at the door inviting us as we both walked in barehanded. I walked a little faster than my friend and captured the window seat only to find myself sitting exactly by the wings of the Aircraft. The airhostesses then instructed us of how to use the seat belts and the emergency oxygen masks. Three of them demonstrated it so rhythmically that I thought the sequence was choreographed.
Ten minutes later the Aircraft started to move, slowly at first, a lot faster two turns later and before I could feel it had picked up height bringing all the blood from my head to my stomach. I had a pain in my neck when I looked straight having watched my city grow smaller and smaller. After about ten minutes of savouring the moment, the height and the airhostesses, I asked for a cup of coffee and I got a glass of hot water, a packet of sugar, some instant coffee and milk powder.
Lucky me, I was making coffee at some dizzy great height in the skies. I had just mixed up the milk powder and the coffee when the plane slightly shuddered pulling down an airhostess and my sugar sachet to the floor. Chaos followed as everyone wanted to know what was happening, the airhostesses lost their smile and panic showed on most of the faces. I started to sweat inside the air-conditioned cabin as I held on tightly on to my handrest beside my friend who was mumbling a prayer silently. Another shudder of the aircraft and there was silence in the whole of the till now noisy flight, except for a very beautiful small girl in a black dress who was enjoying the shudder jumping on her mother's lap.
The Pilot Sumeet (and from no where I got this image of Captain Smith of the Titanic in my head) was on the address system asking the crew to get back to their cabins and assuring us there was no problem and it was just another air pocket, what ever that meant. In a few minutes the air pockets returned to haunt us, the small girl returned to the peak of her voice and my creeps returned to my stomach. I had to pull my window shutter down to keep myself from panicking, when I looked out of the window and at the wildly arching wings. Things got smoother in a few minutes, the crew were on their feet smiling but the small girl started to cry as I tried to concentrate on my now sugarless coffee.
There was an audible sigh of relief inside the plane when the pilot announced the landing and asked us put on our seat belts. After two swings and two more shudders in the air, the aircraft started to descend and the small girl was jumping again. Only when the aircraft came to a screeching halt, my pulse rate started to descend and I found my breath and the sugar sachet.
When it was time to get off the two airhostesses stood again at the doorway thanking us for flying their airlines and the only one I saw smiling back was the small girl in black. And Before I got in to the airport I saw the hostess who had fallen down soothing her bruised shoulders, while somewhere in the vicinity I heard the Eagles sing
'Some dance to remember Some dance to forget'..
I got to the airport finally for my first air travel after what I thought were the two longest days of my life. The one-hour that I had to spend at the airport, after a dark but smiling cute girl gave me the boarding pass, seemed even longer. My friend and I sat right in front of the status display waiting for the flights schedule, while my head ran to the days when I had tried touching a flying aircraft.
I was sipping a cold coffee when the status of the Aircraft that I was supposed to board suddenly moved on from SCHEDULED to NOW BOARDING. Like two school, children we ran to the gate 2 only to hear a big man with a even bigger moustache asking us to tag the luggage. We ran back to the counter to get the tags attached and the cute girl at the counter did it smiling. We ran again to Mr. big moustache, who promptly put our luggage in to a conveyor and led me to another man who checked me with what looked like a badminton racket.
When I returned to pick up my luggage, Both our boarding passes were crossed by Mr. Big moustache because I had a wire cutter inside my bag and my friend had a pair of scissors inside his. We ran again to the counter, had our bags screened and thrown in to another conveyor. And just as we started to run back to the Gate -2, I turned back for one last glimpse of the cute girl, she wasn't smiling anymore. The Big moush let us both in and we walked in to the gate to a waiting bus and a frowning driver.
The Mayhem inside the Airport had made me forget I was flying and only when the bus was nearing the Aircraft I actually felt the occasion. Two smiling airhostesses waited at the door inviting us as we both walked in barehanded. I walked a little faster than my friend and captured the window seat only to find myself sitting exactly by the wings of the Aircraft. The airhostesses then instructed us of how to use the seat belts and the emergency oxygen masks. Three of them demonstrated it so rhythmically that I thought the sequence was choreographed.
Ten minutes later the Aircraft started to move, slowly at first, a lot faster two turns later and before I could feel it had picked up height bringing all the blood from my head to my stomach. I had a pain in my neck when I looked straight having watched my city grow smaller and smaller. After about ten minutes of savouring the moment, the height and the airhostesses, I asked for a cup of coffee and I got a glass of hot water, a packet of sugar, some instant coffee and milk powder.
Lucky me, I was making coffee at some dizzy great height in the skies. I had just mixed up the milk powder and the coffee when the plane slightly shuddered pulling down an airhostess and my sugar sachet to the floor. Chaos followed as everyone wanted to know what was happening, the airhostesses lost their smile and panic showed on most of the faces. I started to sweat inside the air-conditioned cabin as I held on tightly on to my handrest beside my friend who was mumbling a prayer silently. Another shudder of the aircraft and there was silence in the whole of the till now noisy flight, except for a very beautiful small girl in a black dress who was enjoying the shudder jumping on her mother's lap.
The Pilot Sumeet (and from no where I got this image of Captain Smith of the Titanic in my head) was on the address system asking the crew to get back to their cabins and assuring us there was no problem and it was just another air pocket, what ever that meant. In a few minutes the air pockets returned to haunt us, the small girl returned to the peak of her voice and my creeps returned to my stomach. I had to pull my window shutter down to keep myself from panicking, when I looked out of the window and at the wildly arching wings. Things got smoother in a few minutes, the crew were on their feet smiling but the small girl started to cry as I tried to concentrate on my now sugarless coffee.
There was an audible sigh of relief inside the plane when the pilot announced the landing and asked us put on our seat belts. After two swings and two more shudders in the air, the aircraft started to descend and the small girl was jumping again. Only when the aircraft came to a screeching halt, my pulse rate started to descend and I found my breath and the sugar sachet.
When it was time to get off the two airhostesses stood again at the doorway thanking us for flying their airlines and the only one I saw smiling back was the small girl in black. And Before I got in to the airport I saw the hostess who had fallen down soothing her bruised shoulders, while somewhere in the vicinity I heard the Eagles sing
'Some dance to remember Some dance to forget'..
Another beautiful day
The recent rains had ravaged Chennai so much that nothing was in place or in time. One of those days my sister was coming back to Chennai from my home on a train and I was inside a bar drinking with my friends. It was almost 9 pm and I, almost drunk when my sister called me up to tell me that the train was 3 hours late and that she needed me to pick her up as it was getting late.
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
Even as I was thinking of ways to get to the railway station, someone who had drunk a little too much had hit my -a little too much drunk- friend. Before I could make out what had really happened my five friends were fighting out a gang of eight, I for my part ended up with more than a couple of bashes and all the excitement up my head had drained with my sweat but the smell stayed. Only after a patrol vehicle siren was heard the place became calmer. Scared of the sirens and cops, I stayed inside shivering and draining down what ever was left on my now rampaged table. After about an hour and a few anxious moments we left the bar silently in the pelting rain.
One of my generous friends dropped me at about a mile from the station. I had to walk the remaining distance in the rain and with a stupid fear that the brawl at the bar wasn't over yet. I called up one of my friends to keep myself from getting scared. A graveyard and the central jail on the way did not help the cause and I walked like an Olympian. I only breathed when I saw the glaring lights of the Central Railway station, my breath told me I was drunk and the station told me I was meeting my sister.
Waiting in a Station that was already cramped with thousands of people around in a wet pair of dress isn't something that makes you comfortable. Four coffees and a pack of Wrigley’s later I still felt I wasn't ready to meet my sister. With no empty chair in sight I couched in front of Higginbotham’s the book shop, waiting to hear about the train that was already 3 hours late. 'Tap tap' I was woken up by a man in khakis and black shoes asking for my platform tickets, it took sometime for me to realize I was lying on the floor at the central railway station waiting for my sister and the man in front of me was a cop. I did not understand his Hindi and neither did he understand my slurred English. A porter helped me - god knows why - telling the police man that I was his friend.
Three more coffees, a baby, a brawl with some one on whom I had spilt the fourth coffee, a game of cards with the porter and a magazine, managed to keep me awake till the train slowly nudged inside. I caught up with my sister who was tired from a seven hour-long journey that actually takes three hours. I stayed at least a meter away from her for the fear of letting her know that I was drunk. After waiting outside the station for about half an hour we managed to find an auto rickshaw at thrice the actual rate. I spoke very little all through the way, very uncharacteristic of me, she should have thought.
I managed to find my way to my house after dropping my sister at her house only to find knee-deep cold water covering up the whole road to my house. I actually waded to my house puffing up the cigarette I had borrowed from the auto driver and it was 2.00 am the next day when I wearily walked in to my bed happy atleast my sister wouldn't be hurt.
I woke up to my cell phone ringing to find my dear sister on the line. We spoke for sometime about my home, father, my mother and her journey as we had not spoken much the day before . Slowly we ran out of topics and she suddenly asked me if I was drunk the previous day and before I could muster an answer she hung up.
Wide awake and not knowing what to do, I looked at my watch for the start of another day. It was 9.05 am and I remembered lying on my bed that it was monday and I was already late by five minutes for a meeting at my office. and yes another beautiful day had started....
I wish I was..
It was inside one of the numerous hotels around my office that I first saw Loganathan - may be about 20-24 - who looked a little too odd to be a waiter. He had been serving me for a week before we stuck up with a conversation outside the hotel. I would have missed this smartly dressed lad if he hadn't come up to me himself. He was completely different from the uniformed waiter that I was used to, in neatly pressed formals and a shiny black pair of shoes.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
The first few meetings were like, I did most of the talking showing off and he used to just listen with a smile. Slowly as we got along, I found out he was a lot better at talking than the trash I was doing and from then on, I started to listen. He speaks with vigour of life, failures, hope, dreams, hard work and success but with a tint of sadness when it comes to his personal life. From then on everytime someone came to me needing hope, I had the real life story of Loganathan to pull them up. Even when my sister failed to clear her first three interviews I told her the same story over lunch.
Working at a Bicycle repair shop simply wasn't exciting enough for him that one day he runs away from his home town in south Tamilnadu with about 500 Rupees in his pockets and some clothing. In his four years at Chennai he says he has spent days together without food, slept on roadsides, jumped jobs, gotten ways lost, learned to read and write, made friends and for now found a decent place and way to live. A part-time waiter he spends most of the time and all of his energy on the new marketing platform MLM (Multi Level Marketing). Being a waiter he said helps him because he had a place to stay, something to fill up his stomach (he never says eat!!) and of course he has the time to be with his business.
He works twenty hours a day taking breaks during the time he has to travel. He always moves around with a file, the first page of which says ' Loganathan - first croun ambasador of India' (actually meant to be Loganathan - First Crown Ambassador of India) in blocks. I vaguely know that the Crown ambassador is someone who is at the top of the Marketing group.
His Immediate aim he says is a six digit Income per month that he believes he would achieve by 2008. He speaks of Bill gates, Vivekananda and Thomas Alva Edison like he knew them all his life. Any good car on the road would make him smile and he would say " One day I would own a Mercedes". Every time I told him my job sucked, he simply would say, "you should either do only what you enjoy or try and enjoy what you do, otherwise you are lost". The first thing he says every time he picks up your call is "pray you get what ever you wish" and for the amount of life and hope he has, you would only wish he becomes the man he wants to be.
Very recently when he had, as usual lost his job with a hotel because he was down with fever, he refused my offer of buying him a meal even after he had spent a day filling himself up with water. Two days later he treated me with a meal as he had found another hotel to help himself out.
For someone who has not even been to middle school and someone who takes more than a minute to write down your mobile number with the worst spelling you can imagine for your name, his thoughts and ways simply baffle me. I tried to fathom, why with some education and a job I feel so insecure and he with literally nothing looks at life so differently, but in vain.
He sometimes tells me when I am frustrated, that the day he makes it big he would offer me a job that suits me and we would laugh aloud, although both of us know he is not joking.
Jones Diary
It had been an year since I saw this child like handwritting, but I did not have to open the card to really know the sender. Stupid me, I had not even bothered to remember her birthday after I had left college.
Mechanical workshops I thought were normally a 'strictly for men' area, until ofcourse I saw the huge her. Almost 5.7 and large she did not seem out of place inside my college's mechanical workshop as she carried heavy sheets of metal like she was carrying paper. Her face just had a big pair of glasses and an even bigger smile covering almost all of her face and a part of her neck.
I remember the first time I spoke to her, I was wanting a mallet and she did not seem to understand and neither did she bother to. I was so frustrated that I yelled at her and all she did was to grin at me. I walked out of the workshop frustrated and it was almost a day when I learnt she couldn't understand English when spoken or any other language that I knew. I took another day to face her and tell her a sorry in her own language. She smiled again - no it wasn't a grin this time - and gave me a pat on my back and set off to carrying the sheets.
Since I had to frequent the workshop the following weeks, I was getting my back patted a lot and started learning a new language. She taught me the alphabets and the most commonly used expressions. She, I learnt was 30+, unhappily married to someone who spoke her language -I never bothered asking his name- had no kids and lived with her parents. My pats got more frequent as we met everytime I had a boring lecture (atleast two every day), we lunched almost every day together and even spent some time in the evening before she left home.
It was somedays before I knew how to converse (I do not know if its a conversation) fluently, making odd postures and noises. I was amazed at how she could cope up with everything without saying a word. She travelled, she shopped, she worked, she fought and all that without saying a word (not that she did not want to) and She honestly hated people feel sorry for her.
Somedays when I turned my eyes away from a boring lecturer she would be standing at the windows giving me a wicked smile. Somedays she used to even sneak in to my labs and sit beside me mocking an Instructor. She hugged me -the skies would never know why- and cried the day I introduced my father to her. She enjoyed my presence so much, sometimes I felt if I was overdoing something. I loved her presence, she was full of life and had the gut to live every moment although fate had been unkind to her in every way.
It went on until It was last day for me at college, and I was surprised when one of my friends said she did not want to see me. When I found her cuddled in the basement of the workshop with her eyes wet, I broke down myself. We sat in silence for sometime, and with nothing to say, I left telling her a bye in her language- the sign language- because Jones can neither talk nor hear.
Mechanical workshops I thought were normally a 'strictly for men' area, until ofcourse I saw the huge her. Almost 5.7 and large she did not seem out of place inside my college's mechanical workshop as she carried heavy sheets of metal like she was carrying paper. Her face just had a big pair of glasses and an even bigger smile covering almost all of her face and a part of her neck.
I remember the first time I spoke to her, I was wanting a mallet and she did not seem to understand and neither did she bother to. I was so frustrated that I yelled at her and all she did was to grin at me. I walked out of the workshop frustrated and it was almost a day when I learnt she couldn't understand English when spoken or any other language that I knew. I took another day to face her and tell her a sorry in her own language. She smiled again - no it wasn't a grin this time - and gave me a pat on my back and set off to carrying the sheets.
Since I had to frequent the workshop the following weeks, I was getting my back patted a lot and started learning a new language. She taught me the alphabets and the most commonly used expressions. She, I learnt was 30+, unhappily married to someone who spoke her language -I never bothered asking his name- had no kids and lived with her parents. My pats got more frequent as we met everytime I had a boring lecture (atleast two every day), we lunched almost every day together and even spent some time in the evening before she left home.
It was somedays before I knew how to converse (I do not know if its a conversation) fluently, making odd postures and noises. I was amazed at how she could cope up with everything without saying a word. She travelled, she shopped, she worked, she fought and all that without saying a word (not that she did not want to) and She honestly hated people feel sorry for her.
Somedays when I turned my eyes away from a boring lecturer she would be standing at the windows giving me a wicked smile. Somedays she used to even sneak in to my labs and sit beside me mocking an Instructor. She hugged me -the skies would never know why- and cried the day I introduced my father to her. She enjoyed my presence so much, sometimes I felt if I was overdoing something. I loved her presence, she was full of life and had the gut to live every moment although fate had been unkind to her in every way.
It went on until It was last day for me at college, and I was surprised when one of my friends said she did not want to see me. When I found her cuddled in the basement of the workshop with her eyes wet, I broke down myself. We sat in silence for sometime, and with nothing to say, I left telling her a bye in her language- the sign language- because Jones can neither talk nor hear.
The Professor
I have seen few smarter men at his age, seventy isn't an age when soiled shoes would seriously worry you, but for this man it did. The first time I saw him, I was honestly impressed with his clean-shaven face, neatly pressed dress and shining black shoes. I was killing time at my friend Ismail's shop when he came up to me and said "Hello, I am Srinivasan, retired Professor Presidency College" before he firmly shook hands with me. Believe me with an impeccable accent that would put any 'call center' guy to shame. I thought he was there to may be pick something up from the shop but was taken aback when he asked me for a five Rupee coin for a cup of tea. Even as I was wondering about what I was supposed to do, I couldn't help but notice Ismail's disapproval of the conversation. He was already giving me hints like the old man was not in a good state of mind, simply put 'nuts'.
When I refused him the money and asked him leave the shop, he simply turned red. In a moment the old man emptied his pocket, which not only included a rich collection of coins but some heavier bills and on one of them I even thought I saw an old President of the United states.
He burst out with a string of words, (which after some home work I concluded, could be almost the filthiest you can come up with an unabridged Oxford English dictionary) but soon ended up in tears, words hardly coming out of his mouth. He proudly said his only son was in the US working for a multinational (whose name when spelt made my tongue twist to obtuse angles)and he needed no one else. He was now throwing the coins at me, yelling at me to take what ever I wanted. It took my storekeeper friend, two men from the next shop and a piece of chocolate to stop the old man. It wasn't the pain caused by the coins that hurt me (although it did that night) I somehow thought I had hurt the man. The old man left but only with a few more chocolates.
I was curious as hell about the professor and wanted to know something about him. I spent sometime with Ismail, who acknowledged the facts about the professor's son in the US. The son is married and supposedly has children but the last time he came around was almost five to six years ago although he still keeps in touch with his father through 'Western Union'(if you dont know what it is .. It is for money transfers). Ismail was largely indifferent even when he was telling me that the Professor had suffered enough anguish to get some quality education for his only son at some prestigious university in the US. Symptoms of his present condition has first appeared when the son married some one in the US and decided to settle down with Uncle Sam.
I went the next day to the professor’s house just out of curiosity, in the pretext of carrying water from Ismail’s shop. I thought his wife was too old to take care of herself, even as she busily went around with the chores. I picked up a conversation with her God knows how, and she couldn't but stop talking about her man in his prime. I left after sometime happy not just because I had a good cup of coffee but also because I thought at least there was this faithful Indian wife to stand by this man.
I almost left the house when I remembered the black cap that my girl friend had given me was inside the house. When I went back I saw her pulling the Physics Professor in a wet pair of pants to the washroom. She saw me but I pretended I hadn't seen her tears now almost on her wrinkled chin and cheerfully bid her a bye forgetting I had come to pick up my black cap.
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