A bird in the hand

It took a litre of water after Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani to regain senses. However, I'm going to refrain from sharing my ordeal of sitting through the entirety of the disastrous attempt at slapstick comedy. If not for the one thing that kept me engaged through the god-forsaken tribulation, I might have as well walked out of the theatre the moment we walked in.

And at last, thankfully for me, or not, it ended. It was time to head back home in the lavish Coimbatore bucket down.

The heavens have been generous to south India over the past few days. Add the proximity to the Nilgiris to the equation, and we arrive at the sum of a day-long splendid weather, chilly nights, foggy mountains in the distant horizon, and not the slightest trace of sunlight till as far as the eye can see. Of course, riding back home in this weather can be a bit of a malady.

In the middle of a down pour, a water-logged Avinashi Road, and a traffic signal; I drift back to about 20 months from now. Dejected from having screwed up the CAT, having lost all hopes of doing anything at all, with no idea what-so-ever of what lay in store for me, and a few tens of ideas ranging from running away from home to killing myself – just for the heck of it – I was still working with Scope International. Without the slightest clue of what it meant for me, I had somehow gotten the MAT application form filled up and had got a chance to attempt the MAT in February. Even then, burning the midnight oil watching movies and browsing the internet for random shit, loafing about the streets of Chennai and living life with seemingly no sense of direction was commonplace. To make it worse, there was always the confidence whoever I met, "You'll make it, man.. you'll make it big someday." How I used to wish I could teleport myself to someday, if it ever existed!

It was a week from the MAT when Mayur bhai and Ankit had decided on taking a sabbatical. Knowing pretty well that I hadn't moved a muscle in the right direction since having submitted the MAT application form and that nothing I did would help take me any closer to cracking the MAT, I faithfully looked on as they got their leave approved. The MAT came and went, and the results were out in nearly no time at all. We'd all done fairly well, Mayur bhai especially well. But he was the one who took the brave step of not pursuing full time higher education, and took up business instead. Silently, I appreciated his educated and informed decision. Now Ankit and I were left behind. And of us both, he was the more sincere one – far more committed than I ever was about making it to a decent-enough b-school.

Of the plethora of b-schools in the MAT booklet, we had to shortlist 5 b-schools to which our MAT scores would be sent by the AIMA itself. Ankit had gotten the assistance of Salim at IMS to shortlist his 5, I simply copied Ankit's 5. So here we were with our choice of 5 b-schools and we commenced the process of visiting each of these to decide on 'the one'. The list – not necessarily in order of priority – being Christ University, MS Ramaiah and IBMR at Bangalore, and PSGIM at Coimbatore. I don't remember what the 5^th option was. Finally, we landed up here at Coimbatore. And after a year and half, I can say with certainty that it was for the good. Not because PSG was the better of the institutes, nor because it paid any more being at PSG; but simply because these 18 months gave me so much that if I ever believed in a God, I'd be at his feet today thanking Him (or Her) for having given me all He (or She) did.

Standing there at the traffic signal in the pouring rain, I couldn't help wonder how different life could have been. What if I hadn't chosen PSG, what if I went to Bangalore? What if any of those who made these past few months so special had not chosen PSG, and chosen some other b-school, some other course? Would these days have been equally special? Perhaps not.

What if my name was not Surya Prakash, and if it was Dhruv? Would I have been sitting next to Deepti in class? Would I have not known Vaishnavi Krishnan, would she have not invited me for her wedding? BTW, I have to be at her wedding reception in about 18 hours from now. Poor thing's getting wedded off. If not for me being at PSG, would I have known Fazin with his camera and chubby feet? Would I have known Shruthe with her 'Aye, go ya!' Would I have known Bubby 'Teddy Bear' Bisani? Would I have known Guru 'Girlfriend' Moorthy, or Rishabh aka Vito Corleone aka Trigonometry aka Kaalia aka Supandi? Would I have known Rajeshworry 'Blueberry' 'Limca girl'? Would life have been equally munificent and would I have gotten the gift of a pigsy little piglet with the tiniest set of chubby little fingers ever? Would Naveen have still assisted me with doing my joke of a summer project at India Cements? Would I have ever called Nishath 'Bunny' and would I have known that 'Chalo!' can be such a catchphrase? I'm missing a lot of names, I'm sure. But that's not the point, anyway. Point is, would life have been the same?

College is nearing its fag end, and perhaps that's why the nostalgic poignancy. As much as I've hated the things I have hated about having being here, I'm going to miss all of this very bad. Some things more than the others; other things still, the most. And in this one tiny corner of me, every time I hear anything remotely similar to any of the names above or have a moment's grace to myself, I'm going to think of this block on Avinashi Road where I spent 2 years of my life and I'm going to ask myself this question; 'Why DO we have to move on?'

Maybe somewhere else, I would have had a totally different bunch of people around me and chances are I might have been equally thankful. I might never know. But this one time at a Sunday school that I once attended, a lovely lady beautifully illustrated to me that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Today I realise, I couldn't agree more.

Rebound

What happened?

Nothing.

Nothing? Really?

Yes, why? *makes a face as if to have no clue*

Oh, come on! You don't know what I'm talking about?

Fuck off, man. I'm not in the mood. *makes a frustrated face*

I know, and you know very well too that it's the same thing that I'm asking about.

I have no idea, and even if I did I don't see why it should be of any interest to you.

Go on.

Just get the fuck off, man. I'm telling you this is a very bad time. *starts walking away*

*shouts out* ...and it will continue to be, unless you come to terms with what's right in front of you.

*turns back, looks, and continues walking*

*runs and catches up* *gasps a little* Okay, fine. Let's not talk about it if you don't want to.

*Keeps walking at a pace, as if not interested in what's being said* Yeah, like anybody was even talking.

*Tries keeping up with the pace* You know what your problem is, you're the biggest ego-maniac I've ever seen. You don't see it, but believe me that's what's killing you. You're insanely depressive, AND depressing.

*Continues walking at a high pace* *shows the middle finger*

*Almost running now* That's what you got too, didn't you?

*Comes to a jerking halt* *Almost fuming* Listen, man.. I don't know what you're thinking, and quite frankly I give a fuck. Please.. do yourself and me and a favour, and disappear.

*Grins a sly grin* You'll just never give in, will you?

*Frets* *Swings head to one side while inhaling deeply, and then quickly jerks head as if to look up and then back to the other side* *Catches hold of the collar in almost an instant reaction* Asshole, ONE more sentence.. ONE more sentence and I'll have you wasted. Run away. Don't you fucking get it I don't want you around?

*Almost gets shaken off his ground with the jerk* *But recovers immediately, and shakes hands off collar* *While adjusting collar and shirt* What're you getting out of this? Huh? Does this make you feel any more a man? Or are you just covering up for being the sulking bitch you really are?

*Loses all self-control* *Pushes him to the ground* Stay there! Ass-licking, crack whore! *Darts off*

*Is on the ground, takes his hands off the ground and dusts them* *Keeps looking on as he disappears out of sight*

WHAT is it?

Jerkin-effect – the outside cold-inside warm effect that results out of wearing only a jerkin in the rain. The legs usually get drenched, and give a feeling of "exciting" chillness and the trunk remains comfortably warm.

If I remember right, Senthil told me about it about a week ago. But he wasn't sure where it was being screened. "It might be playing at KG Big Cinemas," he supposed.

Now, I am not particularly an MJ fan. In fact, I'm not sure I've even heard a lot of his songs other than perhaps Beat It, The Earth Song and They Don't Care About Us. It hadn't been long since his sad demise, and I was surprised beyond measure on learning of the kind of a fan following he had. With all due respect to the 'King of Pop', I hadn't the slightest clue MJ was him. And now that he was no more, I felt this urge to get to know him better. Or at least to get to know why he was what he was considered to be.

When I first heard of 'This Is It', with its Michael Jackson poster et all, I couldn't imagine what it was. I mean, it certainly couldn't be a "movie" starring him – he was no more. And yet the posters proudly claimed 'Michael Jackson's This Is It'. It took me a little google-ing to find out it was a something of an MJ documentary. However that didn't take me any closer to guessing what it really was and more so why it was such a craze. But I didn't seem to have done much about it, and I let it be.

With all those unanswered questions in mind and not knowing what to expect, I readily agreed to Senthil's proposition of watching it this Tuesday that passed. But thanks to a little confusion about the show timings, we didn't get to watch it. We decided on watching it the next day. So, faithfully as we had decided to, Senthil and I got in touch and confirmed our plans of watching it on Wednesday. 'I'll drop in to your place by 9," he suggested. Vinodh was to join us too.

It was drizzling a "beautiful" drizzle then when Senthil and Vinodh arrived at my place by 9ish, and we left for the theatre within a few minutes. An old-theatre styled building, no air conditioning, tickets in the Balcony priced at Rs 30, a mistimed audio system and located in an otherwise prime but then deserted Bashyakarulu Street in RS Puram; Maruthi isn't the best of theatres in Coimbatore. There weren't more than 25 people in a theatre that could accommodate well over 500 – all classes put together.

This Is It started on a brilliant note. Not more than 2 minutes into the documentary, it's intent – 'For the fans..' – and a text introduction later, I was choked and my eyes were almost in tears. But then on, the rest of it was MJ practising/performing his songs for the concert(s). Blame it on either me not having been a big fan or the theatre itself, 30 minutes into This Is It and I was looking at my watch. But then Senthil kept giving me snippets about MJs life and things the 2 hours or so passed. It was time to hit the road and head home.

Walking out the theatre, we realised that while we were inside, the drizzle had turned into a mighty downpour. We could see the water logged roads from the theatre's windows. But it wasn't pouring as heavily then. We had brought our jerkins along, so I suggested we hit the road in the rain. RS Puram is about 7-8 kilometres from Peelamedu. I was expecting a scintillating ride back home in the rain. On my way back, I tried hard to like the movie, but I failed in the attempt. I tried enjoying the rain and what most would call a "sexy ride" back home, I failed again. Despite stretching my hands out wide on a moving bike, looking up at the sky and letting the rain drops poke me in the face till it hurt, breathing the rain in through my nose and other similar desperate attempts at trying to enjoy the rain, I simply couldn't.

Instead of getting back home excited from the "sexy ride", I got back home half drenched.

I couldn't help wonder whether something was fundamentally wrong with me, or whether all ideas of getting drenched in the rain are indeed sadly boring; or whether it took an especially smitten heart of a new-fangled lover boy/girl to "enjoy" the rain. Whatever the reason, I couldn't wait to change into snug, dry clothes and log onto facebook to do some stalking. ;-)

The jerkin effect can get almost anybody to feel like wanting to pee. Me no exception. It's amazing, the thoughts one can think in those few seconds. ;-)

Cheers.

P.S. Alpha, this is perhaps my first post that I am writing when I'm not angry. Although, if you can cut through the prose, you might just get a glimpse of the pang of a miserable actuality. And don't bother asking me what this means. J

It's A Beautiful World

"...there are two kinds of angry people - explosive and implosive. Explosive is the type of individual you see screaming at the cashier for not taking his coupon. Implosive is the cashier who remains quiet day after day and then finally shoots everyone in the store."

- Jack Nicholson as Dr Buddy Rydell in Anger Management (2003)

Agony, anger, annoyance, anxiety, apathy, apprehension, awe, boredom, certainty, cheerfulness, compassion, concern, confidence, contempt, courage, depression, disappointment, disgust, distraction, doubt, embarrassment, empathy, enthusiasm, envy, excitement, fear, frustration, greed, grief, guilt, happiness, impatience, indifference, irritation, jealousy, loneliness, love, lust, panic, peace, pleasure, pride, relieved, revenge, sadness, satisfaction, surprise, suspicion, sympathy, thrill.

Anger.

You sleep till late in the morning, there is someone to nagging you not to and asking you to wake up on time. You want to be lazy, there is somebody asking you not to be. You want to be alone, there are pricks who somehow always know just when it is time when you need it most and intrude in on you just then. Phone calls when you don't want them, text messages when you're least interested. Visitors when you least care. There is always somebody who is "in town" who you have to visit, somebody alwaying "needing you" by them, a wedding, a funeral, a get-together, a break-up, something or the other. Everybody expects you to be a "people person". You are expected to be nice and polite and all that shit.

Truth is, we live in a fake world. Everything is fake. The smile on everybody's face, the happiness, and the so-called I-am-happy-for-you-s, the concern that everybody has gotten so perfect at portraying that we ourselves forget it is but ersatz. Nobody, and I mean N-O-B-O-D-Y, cares a fuck about what happens to another as long as one's personal means are met. People make friends just to be sure THEY are not lonely, people marry so that they have somebody to "support" them - whatever that means. This whole concept of society is a big fat lie, all people are interested in is to be sure that their interests are protected. Parents want childrens for their old age, and the children rightly live up to that by dumping the parents just-in-time. The Toyota Way. People get pets for selfish motives, all those liars who say they earn for their "loved ones" really care only as much as a earthworm does about the world econommy. People fear "God" not because they care for anybody's good, but because they care more about themselves. There is a ulterior motive behind everything that people do. And the way we are going, I don'e any longer see any fault with being that way. It's like if you don't mirror, you get f-ed, figuratively and otherwise.

And inspite of all this one is expected to be nicey-nicey and "good" and courteous and like the fart of a dung beetle, when all you may care about is to be sure to plant a strong upheave one of the lower limbs somewhere by the pelvis of whoever expects you to be so.

Behind their masks, people are full of arrogance, backbiting, narrow-mindedness, rudeness, selfishness, superficiality and treachery. It has become very simple to tell real compassion apart, simply because it doesn't exist anymore. It's gone with the dodos.

I am tired of being the cashier, I've had enough. Give me a gun, I want to shoot you. But before that, I must go find Lou Zer and Jack Mehoff. Till next time, this is Deja Moo - The Cow's Opinion.

Children - Little, Beautiful Children

They're okay while they're small. Or little, if that's the word. When they can't speak, or make any noise - when they're mute. When they're like these stuffed toys you get in the stores that you can hug and sleep. Knowing happily that no matter what they'll never speak and that you'll never EVER wake up wet. But these good days with happy hours don't usually last long.

Before you know it, they learn to speak. They scream and shout and blow your head off. They make you wish you were born deaf, or atleast that you lost your ears. Then they cry and throw tantrums. And the worst part of it, is you don't even get to figure why. They pee and poop and puke and dirty everything that they lay their hands - or any other body part - on. As if things weren't messy enough, their noses start flowing like the Brahmaputra. BTW, and FYI, eventhough the Ganges is the longest flowing river in India, the Brahmaputra displaces the most water. Although its Indian-ness is debateable because it flows through more than one country and it even has its mouth in Bangladesh. Anyhow, this is not a Geography lecture. So I was saying, there noses flow like the Brahmaputra. With every exhale, the bubble builds up and appears as if about to burst, and with the ensuing inhale it gets sucked in and the flip-flapping sound it makes with the walls of the nostrils.. it makes you want to throw up. Argh!

They're so dirty and messed up, keeping them clean is the task of 8 pairs of hands at work 60 hours a day. And yet, no matter how clean one tries to keep them they always manage to dirty themselves up in less then a nanosecond. It's like they train themselves in the 'Art of Dirtying' for the nine months while they're in the womb. From their expertise, I can say it must be one-helluva training centre. Er, do you think this centre also imparts training in the art of.. you know.. ahem.. okay, I'm digressing now. Back on track, back on track!

Urgh! Dirty little.. little thing like things.

Then you have to admit them in schools, given them "education". WHY?! There's that rule of halves that some asscrack came up with, right? Something that goes you forget half of blah and half of blah, half of blah and blah and blah and blah blah blah. So, then.. W-H-Y? Hell, I hate those know-it-all teachers in the schools who behave as though they're authors of 'How To Raise The Perfect Thing' and as though they actually know anything about raising these things. Truth is, they know jack. Dogs and other-gender-of-dogs! And the kind of dosh it takes to get one of these things admitted in these self proclaimed "temples of wisdom", what about that? Where does one get that kind of dough from, do the F-tards sitting behind the big desks even wonder? B-tards! Temples with entry fee.

It's not like the things give a shit. You were, and probably are, a thing too, yes? Did you give a damn? How muxh of your "school-time" did you spend "learning"? Anyway, who gives a F? Why should you? F you, why should I?

Then these things grow up and have whims of their own. They haves likes and dislikes and shit. Dipshits want to be some loser independent things, they want freedom of speech, freedom of expression and crap like that when probably what they deserved was to be wasted in the bathroom or on a sanitary pad. Wonder where they learn the terminology from. Bloody TV and media.

And they grow up and want to have things of their own. As if there weren't enough things around. Thanks, but no thanks. Here in our so-called maadhar-land, we are well over a 100 million strong and growing. We've run out of space. Of course, a few lucky farts still live on easy street but barring them, we're more than we can be.

Okay, enough of it for today. So.. don't fret, get a pet. Yes, bring home a pet instead. Like I did when I got Zatarra.

Till next time - this is Deja Moo, The Cow's Opinion.

Deja Moo - The Cow's Opinion

It's been a while now since I "blogging". Started it enthusiastically with enough persuasion from Fazin but then I realised although I had these ideas in my head I couldn't word them. Either, they weren't ideas at all or they weren't strong enough for me to stand by them. A psychiatric would call it the W.I.M.P. syndrome but I'd like to believe otherwise. Or perhaps these ideas, I thought were so unlike the "me" I revealed that I was way too sceptical to speak of them.

So, whatever the reason, I started out with one post and the number has gotten any bigger ever since. So now, I have decided that I shall quit "blogging". (See, Mr Psychiatrist that's not the characteristic of a W.I.M.P.?)

Now, that doesn't mean that there shall be no more posting at this blog but just that I shall be passing the baton to my very good friend, my alter ego and my confidante - The Cow.

Gentlemen and gentlemen, I give you Deja Moo. Cheers.

First shot at blogging

I am starting to write hoping I’d, in the process, stumble on something that I can write about. Thus far, no luck.

There are a few random thoughts that I think I can develop, but I’m just too apprehensive because this being my first post, I want for it to be “great”. I delve a little deeper, is my writing a medium for me to express myself or is this some publicity stunt? F#$k, it is no publicity stunt, so I’m just going to write what I think, what I feel, the way I feel it. Uncensored. Unconditioned.

Most of us, we, spend most of our lives without realising that most of what we do is in utter frivolity and futility. Take, for instance, our existence. We are born in what could have been merely an act of pleasure. We are then brought up. Why, I wonder? Why do parents parent? I don’t see a point in toiling one’s ass off just because something one helped bring into existence needs to be supported. Compassion. Why is there compassion? People are born, people die. People come close, people go away. It is the way. Why do we get so involved in the trivial tangles of quick sand-ish things that are so engrossing that once we’re in there, they’re all that there seems to be? Anyhow, I’m deviating. So yes, we are brought up. We grow, we go through...

Bah, I’m bored. Later.