பாரதியின் பாட்டு!

கொல்கத்தா நகரத்தை தொட்டு ஓடும் ஹூக்லி என்ற கங்கை நதியின் அக்கரையில் உள்ள நகரம்தான் ஹஊரா. ஆங்கிலையர்கள் காலத்திலிருந்தே, பத்தாம் வகுப்பு முடித்தப்பின், shorthand தட்டச்சு கற்றுக்கொண்டு வேலை வாய்ப்பு தேடி வரும் தமிழர்களை கண்டு காற்ற ஊருதான் ஹௌரா.ஏதோ ஒரு அலுவலகத்தில் வேலை செய்துக்கொண்டு, இரவு பள்ளியில் மேல்படிப்பு படித்துவிட்டு, வாழ்க்கையில் முன்னேற்றம் கண்டப்பின் அக்கரையில் உள்ள கொல்கத்தா நகரத்திற்கு மாரி செல்ல நம் முன்னோர்களுக்கு ஒரு கட்டுப்பாடு. இது வரலாறு. நான் கல்லூரியில் படிக்கும் நாட்களில் சில வருடங்கள் இந்த ஹௌரா நகரத்தில்தான் வசித்து வந்தேன்.அந்த நாட்களில் ஹௌராவில் சுமார் முன்னூறுக்கும் மேல் தமிழர் குடும்பங்கள் வசித்து வந்திருந்தார்கள். வயிற்றுபசியை போக்க, நாடு விட்டு நாடு வந்த தமிழ்யர்களுக்கு, ஹௌராவில் திருவள்ளுவர் கலை மன்றம் மற்றும் தென் இந்தியர் சங்கம் தமிழ்நாட்டின் கலாச்சாரம் மற்றும் தாய்மொழியின் பசியை தீர்க்க தொடங்கிய இரண்டு அமைப்புகள். இந்த இரண்டு சங்கங்களும், இவ்வூரில் வாழ்யும் தமிழர்களின் தமிழ்நாடு உடன் தொடர்பு விட்டுபோகாமல் இருக்கும் முயற்சியில் ஈடு பட்டு வந்தார்கள். தமிழ் நூலகம், தமிழ் கற்றுக்கொடுக்கும் ஆரம்ப பள்ளி நடத்தி வந்தார்கள், இன்றும் நடத்திக்கொண்டிருக்கிறார்கள். அதன்போலவே திருக்குறள், திருப்பாவை, திருவெம்பாவை,கர்நாடிக் சங்கீதம், நாமசங்கீர்த்தனம், கோலம் போன்ற போட்டிகளும் நடத்திக்கொண்டு இருக்கிறார்கள். என்னை பொறுத்தவரை இது அனைதுக்கும்மேல் எனக்கு மிக பிரியமான நிகழ்ச்சி, வருடா வருடம் கலை மன்றம் நடத்திவரும் பாரதி விழா தான். இந்த விழாவில் மகாகவியின் நூல்கள், சிந்தனைகள், பாடல்களை அடிபடியாக வைத்து நடக்கும் பட்டி மன்றம், பேச்சு போட்டி, பாட்டு போட்டி அமோகமாக இருக்கும். இங்கு ஒரு உண்மை. தமிழ் படிக்கதெரியாத நான்,பாரதியின் நூல்களை ஆங்கிலத்தில் மொழி மாற்றம் சைய்யபட்ட புத்தகங்களில் படித்துள்ளேன். ஆகையால் என்னை பொருத்தமட்டில் நான் ஒரு பாரதி பக்தன்.தீவிரமான பாரதி விசிரி, ஏன் வெறியன்னு கூட சொல்லலாம்.  

இம்மாதிரியான் வெறியில் இருக்கும் நிலமையில் ஒரு முறை நானும் பாரதி விழாவில் பாட்டு போட்டியில் பாட வேண்டும் என்று தீர்மானித்தேன். பாடலை சொதப்பிடுவேனோ என்ற சந்தேகம், தயக்கம்,  பயம் கலந்திருந்த சூழ்நிலையில் " எதுக்கும் நம் நண்பர்களிடம் அபிப்ராயம் கேட்டு பாக்கலாம்" என்று நினைத்தேன், அவர்களிடம் கேட்டேன். ஒருவன் "ஹாஹாஹாஹாஹாஹா, மச்சி ஜோக்கடிக்காதே" என்றான். "ஒனக்கு செரியா தமிழ் பேசவே வராது, இதுல  பாட்டு ஒன்னு கோரையா?" என்று கேட்டான் இன்னொருவன். "வேணா டி. ஏன் ஒனக்கு வீண் வம்பு? வாங்கி கட்டிக்காதே" என்று எச்சரித்தான் மற்றொருவன். சும்மா இருந்த மாட்டை கிள்ளி பார்த்த கதை மாதிரி ஏன் டா இவங்களை கேட்டோம்னு ஆகிவிட்டது. பலதடவை யோசித்தேன்.  "பயம் ஏன்?" என்றது மனம். "இப்படி ஒரு சோதனை தேவையா?" என்று கேட்டது அறிவு. கடைசியில் பூவா - தலையா போட்டு பார்த்துவிட்டு போட்டியில் கலர்ந்துகொள்ள பெயரை கொடுத்துவிட்டேன்.

போட்டியின் நாள் கிட்ட வர வர, காலை, மாலை, நேரம் காலம் கிடையாமல் வாயை தொரந்தால்வாயை மூடினால் ஒரே பாரதிமயம்.சுர்யோதயமில் இருந்து படுக்கும் நேரம் வரை பாரதி படிய பாட்டின் பயிற்சிதான். சாப்பிடும் நேரம், படிக்கும் வேளை, கடை வீதியில், கல்லூரியில் ஏன் குளிக்கும் அறையில் கூட பாரதி தான். நான் பாரதியின் பாட்டை படித்த அளவுக்கு பரிச்சைக்கு கூட படித்ததில்லை. பாரதியே என் பேச்சு, பாரதியே என் மூச்சு, பாரதியே என் ஜோலியாகிவிட்டது. திடிரென போட்டியின் நாள், போட்டியின் நேரம் வந்துவிட்டது.

செரியன நேரத்தில் போட்டி நடக்கும் அரங்கத்திற்குள் நுழைந்தேன்.  நுழையும்போதே அசதியில் புளி கரைக்க ஆரம்பித்தது. "தைரியமா இருடா" என்று நானே எனக்கு ஊக்கம் அளித்துக்கொண்டு மேடை அருகில் ஒரு நாற்ககலியில் அமர்ந்தேன். பாட்டு போட்டிக்குமுன் பேச்சு போட்டி நடக்க இருந்தது, நடந்தது. அனால் என்ன நடந்தது, எப்போ முடிந்தது என்று எனக்கு ஒன்றும் ஞாபகம் இல்லை.ஸ்லோகங்கள் சொல்வதுப்போல் என் தியானம் எல்லாம் பாரதியின் பாட்டின்மேல் தான். பாட்டின் நடுவில் சற்று நிமிர்ந்து பார்த்தேன். என்னை சுற்றி என் நண்பர்கள் எல்லோரும் ஒரு கூட்டமாய் ஒட்காந்திருந்தார்கள். " மச்சி, தூள் கேளப்பிடு" என்றான் ஒருவன். "கமான் பிரதர், இன்னிக்கி பாரதியார உண்டு இல்லைன்னு ஆக்கிடு" என்றான் மற்றொருவன்."சூபெர் டி, இன்னிக்கி உன் பாட்டதான் கேட்க வந்திருகோம்" என்று கூறினான் இன்னொருவன். அடிஷனல் பிரஷர்! தலை குனிந்து மறுபடியும் பாரதியின் திசையில் கவனத்தை திருப்பினேன். திடிரென மைக்கில் " அடுத்தபடியாக பாடுபவர் திரு ஆனந்த் அவர்கள்" என அன்னௌன்செமென்ட். "யாரோ ஆனந்தாம்" என்று விட்டுவிட்டேன். அப்பொழுதுதான் என் நண்பர்கள் எல்லோரும் ஒரே குரலில் " டேய்! படுபாவி, நீதாண்டா! போ! கெளம்பு!" என்று கத்தினார்கள். அவர்கள் கத்தியப்பிந்தன் எனக்கே ஒரைச்சுது. "அடப்பாவி, அதுக்குலேயே நம்பள கூப்டாங்களா?"  என்று அடிச்சு புடிச்சு தட்டு தடுமாரி விழுந்து உருண்டு ஒரு வழியாய் மேடைக்கு பொய் சேர்த்தேன்.

மேடையில் நின்று பார்தப்பிந்தான் தெரிந்தது, அங்கு சுமார் ஐநூறுக்கும்மேல் மக்கள் உள்ளனர் என்று. Housefull ! "ஜமாஇசுடு குரு! வெளுத்துக்கட்டு!" என்று நண்பர்கள் எல்லோரும் அரசியல் மாநாட்டில் தொண்டர்கள் பாணியில்  ஒரே ஆர்பாட்டம். நடுவில் CSK பட்டாலம்போல் விசில் வேற. கூட்டத்தை பார்த்தவுடன் கைகள் நடுங்க ஆரமிதன. கைகளை பாக்கேட்க்குள் நுழைத்தேன், கால்களும் நடுங்கரமிதது. வேடனை பார்த்த பரவைகலைபோல் பாரதி என்னை அம்போன்னு விட்டு மறைந்தார். இதயம் இசைஞானியின் மிருதங்கம்போல் இடிக்க ஆரமித்தது. நாக்கு கழுதுசுருக்கைபோல் சுற்றிக்கொண்டது, வாயோ அத்திப்பட்டி கிராமம்போல் காய்ந்துவிட்டது, கண்ணெல்லாம் ஒரே இருட்டு. பாட முயற்சி செய்தால் வெரும் காத்துதேன் வந்தது. ஐந்து நிமிடங்களுக்கு மைக்கின் முன்னால் பேந்த பேந்த முழுசிட்டு மேடையை விட்டு இறங்கினேன். அவமானம்! அவமானம்!

"பின்னிட்டே மச்சான்" "தூள் டக்கர்" "சூபர் டி ராசா" " டேய் நீ பாடவந்தியா

இல்ல நடிக்கவந்தியா?" "விடுங்க பாஸ், இந்த முறை மைக்கு வரை போனீங்க, அடுத்த முறை பாடவும் செய்வீங்க". ஆம், இதுதான் என் முயற்சிக்கு வந்த விமர்சனம். நக்கல், நய்யாண்டி, அனுதாபம், பரிதாபம் கலர்ந்த ஆயிரம் கண்கள் என்மேல் பாய்ந்தன. "இதுக்கு மேலேயும் இங்க இருந்தா கேவலம், எஸ்கேப் டா வெளக்கென்ன" என்று என்னை நானே திட்டிக்கொண்டு இடத்தை விட்டு ஓடினேன். வெட்கத்தில் விழிந்த நான்,  என் கால்கள் எங்கு கொண்டு போனதோ அங்கேயே நானும் சென்றேன்.  மயக்கமும், சிந்தனையும் கலைந்த அந்த ஒரு நொடியில் பார்த்தால், என் கால்கள் என்னை கங்கைக்கரைக்கு கொண்டு வந்திருந்தது. "இவ்வவளவு கேவலம் பட்டப்பின் வாழ்வதே வேஸ்ட், இப்படி வாழுவதற்கு சாகுவதே மேல்" என்று தீர்மானித்தேன். கங்கையில் ஒரு தாவு தாவினேன். சட என்று தூக்கம் கலைந்தது!

என் கணவில் நான் பாடிய மகாகவி பாரதியின் பாடல் இதோ --à

http://www.raaga.com/play/?id=263640

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

பி.கு: உதவிக்கி நன்றி @ImSarath7, @VETTIAAN மற்றும் @OviyaBalan

முதல் முயற்சி!

ஒரு பொருள் நம்மை பிரிந்தப்பிந்தான் அதன் மதிப்பு நமக்கு புரியும் என்பது பழமொழி. அதன்ப்போலவே நமக்கு கிடைக்காத போருல்மேல்தான் நமக்கு ஆர்வம் அதிகமாய் இருக்கும என்பது இன்னொரு பழமொழி. என்னை பொருத்தமட்டில் மேல் வரிசைகளில் கூறிய இரண்டு மொழியும் என் விஷயத்தில் நூறு சதவீதம் போருந்தினதாகும். என் வாழ்க்கையின் மிகப்பெரிய குறை என்னவென்றால், எனக்கு தமிழ் எழுத படிக்க தெரியாததுதான். வட இந்தியாவில் பிறந்து, அங்கேயே வளர்ந்து படிப்பறிவு பெற்ற தமிழன் நான். இச்சுழ்நிலையில் உலகமொழி ஆங்கிலமும், ராஷ்டிரா பாஷா என்கிற தேசிய மொழியான ஹிந்தியும் படிக்க ஒரு வாய்ப்பும் ஒரு கட்டாயமும் ஏற்பட்டது. தாய்மொழி தமிழை பொறுத்தவரை நான் பசிஎடுதும் பால் கிடைக்காத ஒரு குழந்தை, தாயில்லா அனாதைப்போல் வளர்ந்து வந்தேன். பாலைவனத்தில் நீரில்ல ஒரு அப்பாவி நான் என்றும் சொல்லலாம். ஆகையால் தமிழ்மண்மீதும், தமிழ்மொழிமீதும், தமிழ் காவியங்கல்மீதும், தமிழ் பாடங்கல்மீதும், தமிழ் திரைப்படங்கல்மீடும் ( அத மறக்க முடியுமா?) எனக்கு ஒரு அளக்க முடியாத அன்பு,பாசம்,பற்று. அதனால்தான் இக்கட்டுரையின் முதல் வரிகளிலே பழமொழி மழை. பல வருடங்கள் வட இந்தியாவில் வாழ்ந்துவிட்டு, உத்தியோகத்திற்கு போகும் வயதில் நாடு திரும்பிய எனக்கு, தமிழ் கட்ட்ருக்கொள்ள ஆர்வம் இருந்தப்பின்னும், நேரத்தின் நெருக்கடியால் நான் இன்னும் இம்மொழியில் புலமை இல்லாத ஒருவன் தான்.

சில மாதங்களுக்குமுன் நான் முதல் முறையாக ஆங்கிலத்தில் ப்ளொக்ஸ் எழுத துணிந்தேன். கடந்த சில மாதங்களாய் எழுதிக்கொண்டுதான் இருக்கின்றேன். எழுத துணிந்த எனக்கு மனதில் ஒரு சின்ன வருத்தம். தமிழனாய் பொறந்து, தமிழனாய் வளர்ந்து, தமிழ்நாட்டில் வசிக்கும் நான் தமிழில் எழுத தெறியாத ஆசாமியா இருக்கேனே என்று. ஆங்கிலத்தில் எழுதுவதிலும் நான் பெரிய கொம்பன் ஒன்றும் இல்லை ஆனாலும் தமிழ் மொழியின் ருசியும், ரசனையும் வேறெங்கும் உண்டோ? என் ஆங்கில கட்டுரைகளை படித்த சில நண்பர்கள் அதை தாறு மாறாக விமர்சித்து என்னை அக்குவேர் ஆணிவேராக பிரித்து வைத்தார்கள். கோபமும் நையாண்டியும் கலர்ந்த வார்த்தைகளால் கலாஐதார்கல். அனால் நான் கவலை படவில்லை. பரவாஇல்லை என்று மன்னித்துவிட்டேன். ஏனனில் எழுத்தாளர்கள் வாழ்க்கையில் இதெல்லாம் சகஜமப்பா, இல்லையா? அத்தோட விட்டார்களா? இல்லை. த்விட்டேரில் சில மதிப்புக்குரிய போல்லோவேர்கள், எனக்கு தமிழ் எழுத படிக்க தெரியாது என்று தெரிந்து வைத்துக்கொன்று "ஆங்கிலத்தில் ப்ளொக்ஸ் எழ்துபவர்கள் பலர் உள்ளார்கள், நீங்கள் என் ஆங்கிலத்தை விட்டுவிட்டு தமிழில் எழுத கூடாது?" என்று கெட்டு என்னிடமிருது தப்பிக்க முயற்சி செய்தார்கள். ஆனா என்னிடமிருந்து தப்பிக்கும் முயற்சியில் அவர்கள் இரண்டு முக்கியமான விஷயங்களை மறந்துவிட்டார்கள். முதல் விஷயம் என்னவென்றால் எழுத படிக்க தெரியாத எனக்கு தமிழ் பேச தெரியும் அல்லவா? தமிழ் வார்த்தைகளை, ஆங்கில எழுதில் தட்டச்சு செய்தப்பின் அவைகளை சாப்ட்வேர் மூலமாக, தமிழ் எழுத்தாய் மாற்ற முடியும் என்பது அவர்களுக்கு தோன்றவில்லை என்று நினைக்கிறேன். இல்லை, "இப்படி ஒரு வழி இருக்கு, ஆனா இந்த வேலக்கேனைக்கு எங்க இதெல்லாம் டேரியபூவுது!" என்று நினைத்திருப்பார்கள். உண்மையை சொல்லவேண்டும் என்றல் இப்படி ஒரு சாப்ட்வேர் application நை தான் நானும் பல நாட்களாய் தெடிக்கிடு இருந்தென். அவர்கள் காண்பித்த நக்கலும் நய்யண்டியும் குடுத்த உக்கம் தான் என்னை இதை ஒரு வெறியுடன் தேட வைத்தது.

அவர்கள் மறந்த இரண்டாம் விஷயம் என்னவென்றால், நான் ஒரு வெட்கம், மானம், சூடு, சொரணை இல்லாத ஆளு,உப்பு போட்டு சோறு திங்காத ஜன்மம். ஆங்கிலத்தில் இவ்வளவு வாங்கி கட்டிடிண்டபின்னும் மாறாத, அலுத்துக்காத, கவலை, கோவம், வருத்தம் படாத, எருமைமாட்டு முதுகுல  மழை பெஞ்சா மாதிரி கம்முன்னு இருக்கும் எனக்கு தமிழ்ல வாங்கிகட்டிக்க கசக்குமா என்ன? இல்லை இந்த வாய்ப்பைத்தான் நான் விட்டுடுவேனா?

என்னை கலாய்ச்சு, என்னிடம் இருந்து தப்பிக்க முயற்சி செய்தவர்களுக்கு இது ஒரு நல்ல பாடமா இருக்கும்னு நம்புகிறேன். அதுவும் வீணா தமிழ மொழிய வெச்சு கிண்டல் பண்ணவங்களுக்கு விமோசனமே கிடையாது. ஆங்கிலத்தில் நான் அர-கோரையா எழுதினதை படிச்சுட்டு தேமேன்னு இருக்காமல் என்ன தமிழ்ல எழுதச் சொல்லி விளையாட்டு பாக்கலாம்னு கெளம்பின கும்பல் வசமா மாட்டிகிட்டாங்க. இனி ஆங்கிலம் மட்டும் இல்லை, தமிழ்ளேயும் எழுதி அவங்களை படுத்தி எடுப்பேன் என்று தாய் (மொழி)மேல் ஆணை. இப்போ என்ன செய்வீங்கோ? இப்போ என்ன செய்வீங்கோ?

இனிமேலாவது அடங்கி ஒடங்கி மடங்கின நெய் ரோஸ்ட் மாதிரி இருங்க. இதையும் மீறி பெங்காலி, புஞ்சபி, ஹிந்தின்னு அரமிசீன்களோ, எனக்கு இந்த மொழிகளும் பேச தெரியும், இந்த மொழிகளிலும் இதே சாப்ட்வேர் application வேலை செய்யும். ஜாக்ரதை!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

பி.கு.:தமிழில் என் முதல் முயற்சி. ஆசிர்வதிப்பீர் என்று நம்புகிறேன், ஆவலுடன் எதிர்பார்க்கிறேன். 

I just got my century!

Every dog has its day. And why shouldn’t it be so? The also rans, the me toos, the taken for granteds, the making up the numbers, the part of the furnitures. I can go on and on about the souls who are so near the headlines but end up not even as sidelights, the after thoughts who are always the part of the chorus, the post scripts.  Never the highlight, never the headlines and never noticed. Until that moment when the dog wags the tail as the saying goes. There are many instances and millions of examples of the above. No, I am not referring to second leads. The Rahul Dravids to Sachin Tendulkars, the Shashi Kapoors to Amitabh Bachchans who get lesser importance, but get importance they did nevertheless. I am referring to the ones who make up the scenery without being noticed at all. Like the 300+ dancers behind the heroine in a Bollywood potboiler, the crooners who fill in the “La la la la” part of the song while the lead vocalist belts out the lyrics, the villain-in-chief’s adi aaLu who get the pasting from the hero. Who knows them? I mean, seriously! And then the exceptional day arrives when everything is turned topsy turvy. One such day was 5^th of July when I came out of the shadows and hit the limelight. That’s the day when even twitter celebrated by trending me all over India, the day the people finally understood my importance. The day my price hit the stratosphere. The day I hit a century. Sing hosannas friends. I have arrived. I, Tomato! Tamatar, Thakkali!

I have always been the substance while everyone around me celebrated the fluff; the beauty which is skin deep. I mean can you imagine anyone more versatile than me? I just have this wonderful habit of merging into the scene so beautifully, so naturally. No wonder you miss noticing me most of the time. I start your meal as the quintessential soup. I am the primary nibble in the green salad till the starters arrive. For people with class I am the drink of the evening. Imagine a bloody mary without me! Whether as chutney or ketchup, sauce or thokku I am the first choice fill in dish for the pressed-for-time homemakers or when cooks take a vacation.

I am also a chameleon of the grade one variety. From Rasams to sabji, tadka or gravy, I mix with everything. No one from the veggie land or my cousins who walk, fly or swim have any issues with me. I mix wonderfully with every one of them. In most cases the lead artists on your dining table will be tasteless tinsel without the key role I play as a silent partner. But all this effort that I put in, all this sacrifice that I graciously submitted to resulted in me not being given the importance due to me till I decided to hit you where it hurts, your wallet. And now I have got my rightful dues, headlines finally. Der aaye durust aaye, better late than never, latea vandhalum latesta vandhen. Pardon my song-n-dance about this but I am sure you appreciate that it is not often I get the top billing, not just another day when you shell out Rs.100.00 for a KG for the juiciest of me!

And see what I have achieved! I am told by my reliable sources that the Saravana Bhavan chain of restaurants in Chennai have overnight changed their menu. The Thakkali chutney is main course now and comes @ Rs.120.00 a bowl while the dosai comes free with every bowl ordered. In Kolkata the baudis and bhodroloks have planned an agitation to demand that I be supplied at subsidized rates at ‘Fair price shops’ (Ration shops you ignoramus). I am also informed that The Didi was planning to withdraw support to the Central Govt. on this point till someone reminded her that she had already done so earlier. A major fight broke out at Hatwa Market in Patna over my availability. The warring sides accusing the other of hoarding and black marketing me in an attempt to deny the pleasure of having me for lunch with the staple litti and chokha. Meanwhile there are rumours that certain elements in Ahmedabad have ‘modified’ my price by adding a few zeros to my actual going rate to create scare mongering of National scale. In Mumbai security has been tightened around every kitchen and terrace garden. My sources in the Intelligence agencies claim to have an intercept wherein a plot involving a ‘foreign’ group has come to light. The group in question is planning to raid of all the gardens and finish me and cause untold damage to the Wholesale Price Index. Yet another of my sources confirms that a certain National party has decided to take out a rally against its own Govt in the National Capital Region. It is the rallyist’s hope that the aam aadmi will throw enough of my ilk at them in fury. The same will be then carefully collected and sold, the sales proceed will go on to fund the next Assembly election.

While all this has been music to my ears, this sudden turning of the searchlights on me and the resultant importance though has led to an unfortunate churning in our veggie land. Mr. Onion is supposedly very miffed at my sudden rise in prominence as it has been his forte thus far to send Govts packing in the past. Guess one cannot please everybody. The other breaking news, fresh from the oven is that the next in the queue to grab the headlines and all set to better his highest score is my other ‘invisible’ friend, Senor Salt! 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

PS: @ImDp_ informs me that they call me ‘Pomidor’ in Russia. Never knew this. 

I have no TIME!

If ever a survey were to be conducted to find out the most common excuse for not doing a particular thing, “I don’t have the time” is likely to be the winner all hands down. Unless the activity in question does not come with a do-by-date deadline most other activities often suffer from the above excuse. Let us do an exercise. Without quoting the above excuse, spare a few minutes to look back at your last week. How many times have you not done something that you either wanted to or had an opportunity but never did it because you thought you didn’t have the time? I will for our understanding leave out activities which depends on the cooperation of multiple people and concentrate on us, the individual.

A confession. This note was triggered by a few Tweepals and friends who wondered how I got the time to write these frequent notes given the work pressure, constant travel et el that my work envisaged. I will not indulge in any meaningless bilge like “passion for writing” as the reason and narrow down to the core of the question, Time. The most quoted corroborator for the ‘no time’ excuse is our work. Earning bread or studies being the partner-in-crime. So to further facilitate the easy understanding of the issue under discussion, let us stick to one area of our primary activity, work in my case. And since waiting for you to look back would be time consuming, let me as usual volunteer.

I take you back to the time when I started my career as a frontline sales officer with a territory which comprised of about 20 cities in East India. As you would have guessed this gave me enough reasons to constantly crib about the lack of time and the resultant heart burn. Trains or buses running behind schedule, lack of connectivity between cities, natural calamities like landslides, floods or manmade ones like flash bandhs/hartals etc. And finally the more mundane ones like the slow business sentiments conspiring with the elements to force multiple visits to a customer, unforeseen engagements of the client like an accident or a death or simply a big queue of suppliers ahead of you to meet the customer. The more I ran the more I was behind schedule and soon I resembled a sleepless zombie, a lost ant. A natural sense of irritation graduated to a sense of victimhood, the visible target of the rage being the company who had possibly given me the quarterly target to be achieved in a month. Simply put 48 hours was not enough time in day for me. And naturally my work suffered and my hobbies lay buried.

I was I must confess very fortunate to work with a mentor at a time when ‘Bosses’ were in vogue. The mentor in question post a routine review meeting held me back for a chat. I stayed back with trepidation assuming the pink slip was about to be served. He gave me not the slip as I feared but a few sheets with columns printed on them titled ‘Time Table’. No, not a new schedule or a reworked Permanent Journey Plan, PJP in Salesmenspeak but blank sheets, but for the columns a La ‘XL’ sheet with the cells bordered. I was advised to fill the exact time taken by me on each activity. Note, all activities. Most obscure ones to the most important. Work related and otherwise. In short map my time, every minute of it, for one week. The only note of caution thrown at me was to log every activity sincerely along with an assurance that no negative action would be taken based on this exercise. Out of a combination of curiosity and fear of reprisal, I started to jot down every minute, every second of my life for the next seven days. And then on the prescribed day presented the same to my mentor.

I was asked to read out aloud the log of all my action from the moment I entered the office to the end of office hours and the time I spent doing them. As I started to read aloud the words jumped at me. It took me eight minutes to travel the distance of 30ft from the office entrance to my seat. I overshot every tea break by about 13 minutes and lunch break by another 14, there were on an average 7 smoke breaks lasting 12 minutes each, colleagues dropping in for a casual chit-chat into the cabin and vice versa about 22 minutes, 7 minutes was spent on loo breaks and 10 minutes was consumed on pack up. I was told to calculate the time overruns and spent on ‘unproductive’ work. He of course was gracious enough to concede that the ‘loo break’ need not be categorized as either. The next 10 minutes was spent on a discussion, he talking and me listening. I was given a few guru mantra which I share with you now:

1.       Identify the wastage of resources, in this case time.

2.       Reduce the wastage and with practice eradicate it.

3.       Resources saved are resources earned, redeploy the same productively.

4.       Keep a tight leash on controllable factors through discipline.

5.       Be aware and be prepared for the possible uncontrollable ones.

6.       Spread this process among those who play a role leading to wastage of your resources.

Lastly I was given a friendly advice to replicate the same exercise on my personal time too. Since then I have discovered hours in a day I never knew existed. You want an example? I am belting out these words even as Kovai Express burns the tracks taking me towards home. Now go ahead and try it for yourself, benefit from this and spread the word around.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

P.S.: This ‘XL’ sheet time table formula works equally well when applied to your monthly expenses and savings. Try that too.

I am no Cricketer!

I would have been a Cricketer but………………………………………….! Many among us Indians would identify with this statement, the missing words in the ‘fill in the blank’ being different to individual cases. With the game being the most powerful among organized religions in the country and the players virtual demigods, there is an official God too, it doesn't take any research or survey to know that a huge majority of Indians dream of becoming a Cricketer. Given the opportunity to earn pots of gold, it is now a viable; nay lucrative career option too. Not to forget the endorsement opportunities, the glitz, the glamour and fawning attention of the members of the fairer sex. The only hitch in the above scenario is, a place in the Indian Cricket team is possibly the most competitive career option. Including the fringe, you have to be one among a group of 20-30 players, 15 in a squad and just 11 in a team. Despite  more tournaments joining the circuit, the gravy train still reaches only the top 100 odd players. This out of approximately half a billion aspirants. The mind boggles, the computer refuses to calculate the odds. No wonder then that almost all Indian men will have a story of regret to fill the above blank with.

As you have rightly guessed, this is my story. One of unfulfilled ambition, of dashed hopes, broken dreams. I know how it feels to be a Romeo, a Majnu, the Ek Duje Ke Liye Kamal Hassan, of unrequited love. Like most budding cricketers, I too started in the drawing room and moved out to gully cricket.  I started as an outstanding player (a euphemism for a ball boy) and gradually moved into the locality playing eleven. As you know everyone playing gully cricket is an all rounder and I claimed to be one too. After a few years of regular practice and playing I came up against The Wall (simile Mates, not a real wall or Rahul Dravid) and that was the end of my ambitions of playing the game professionally. I was found out, I was sorted out. I didn't have the skills necessary to excel in the modern game. I was simply not good enough.

Like most budding Cricketers I too was blessed with certain amount of talent and a fair degree of skills in batting, bowling and fielding. These I soon found out were not enough to break into headlines. I was found wanting in some key areas, unfortunately. The first among these was being genetically engineered with a structure which was all of two-packs which no amount of gymming could convert into anything more substantial. Not that it affected my primary cricketing skills but it affected my ‘X-Factor’. The matter was further compounded by the fact that I was and am a teetotaler, liquor a sacrilege for me. All this meant I could never compete with those star batsmen who at the drop of the hat could confidently invade a pub, drink like a fish and still swing their fists with unerring accuracy and belt the opposition batsman black, ‘beetRoot’ red and blue.

The next short coming of mine which was quite obvious pretty early in my career even to me was my inability to use ‘colourful’ language. An upbringing which insisted that womenfolk be treated like the Sacred Feminine, I could never summon the courage to question the parentage, the well being of the mothers and sisters of the players in the opposition and occasionally of their fans in the stands and the Umpires. Nor could I get myself to shout ‘that’ word, a popular everyday slang, synonym of copulation/intercourse after taking a catch or dropping one. In spite of provocation from the opposition and the large hearted assistance that my teammates offered, I just couldn't muster the necessary energy to indulge in any verbal diarrhea, my limited and supposedly infamous vocabulary ditching me every time. After some time I just gave up trying.

Among my other small failings were not being a compulsive party hopper, not enjoying dancing especially in Gangnam Style, a distinct hatred to declaring myself physically fit when I was not so and blessed with poor acting skills. The last mentioned was a serious problem while going for those vociferous appeals. Without that I was sure I couldn't even become a ‘Buttler’ in the English dressing room.

The last but possibly the most important weakness of mine was an allergy to towels. No, no, let me clarify, not to all towels. I mean no one hates towels per se; at least not the ones who believe taking a shower is an effective and hygienic way to remain healthy. And I indulge in this water treatment as many times as Lord Varuna or the Corporation of Coimbatore would permit me. Nor do I have any problem with the gamcha, popular in East India though considered very down market. I didn’t honestly have an objection to a hand kerchief either. My allergy was to the smaller towels which are supposedly convenient to carry around by tucking them onto our trousers and are gaining in popularity. That effectively ended my tryst with Cricket as a player. Suffices to say from ambitions of being a ring leader, I now don’t qualify to even being a cheerleader.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is fiction. Dedicated to the honest, hardworking and model Cricketers like the one mentioned by name and nickname in the note. And hope @arj_90 likes this.

The Housewife!

 Every man is a closet misogynist. And I mean it. You know it too. Touch your heart and be honest, brutally honest to yourself and you will realize, you agree. And if you disagree, you are either being dishonest or an exception, a rarity. I can unmask the former, men who disagree with a single word. Housewife! How many of you have used this word, are still using it and seen people use it and have been sanguine about it? Everyone does it and everyone knows it. Ever since the evolutions of the homosapien men have been misogynists and continue to be one and any view even slightly divergent to this is considered blasphemy or is mere lip service.

If you are looking to put a face to such people and are too embarrassed to think of yourself or anyone among your family and friends, let me volunteer. The description fits me to the T. Without sugar coating it I am that pure, unadulterated Male Chauvinist Pig, of Grade A variety. From the moment I hand over the wads of notes to my wife for monthly rations etc., I constantly remind her of me the prima donna, strutting around like a well plumed peacock and my wish being her command. And why shouldn’t it be so? After all I am the provider. It is I who am often sacrificing my personal life and time to go on constant tours, eat unhealthy, unhygienic, tasteless food, sacrificing sleep most of the times, missing out on family pleasures and striving to achieve betterment in my career and a social standing for her to be proud of. I mean who doesn’t like to be called the wife of a Senior Manager or Sales Head of an A list company? And if in the bargain I demand to be treated like numero uno at home, why not? It was with such a mindset, I once granted her the permission for a porandha aathu visit during Navaratri. And babysit too as a bonus. While bestowing the boon I refrained from telling her that neither I nor the children were really keen to spend three nights in a godforsaken village in the remotest part of Palakkad which had a Bhagavathy temple as its only source of entertainment.

For the children of course the prospect of spending a couple of days with papa alone was like what students feel when the school teacher takes an unexpected leave. The first day went off like a breeze. The milk was lapped up in a jiffy, breakfast at Annapoorna, lunch at Pizza Hut, chaat for tiffin, interspersed with packets of Kurkure and Lays and the night rounded off with a visit to McDonald’s. The excitement during the day included a game of badminton with the daughter and cricket in the drawing room with the son. To be honest, I had never seen my children happier than this. As I said good night to the world, I was left wondering on the cushy life my wife enjoyed while I had to slog it out like an ant perennially in search of a living.

Day two was of course a different matter, a different world altogether. The milk that was lapped up in a jiffy on day one had to be heated up multiple times before the same was as much as sipped. The menu of another round of Pizza or Burger was stonewalled and demands for “amma pannara thakkali rasam” and Biryani were put forward. Suggestions to the contrary were shooed away with threats to go on a hunger strike. My daughter deluged me with multiple diagrams to be drawn for her Science class which needed to be submitted once the school reopened. Cajoling my son to visit the potty with multiple inducements thrown in took up the rest of the morning. What started as Biryani finally ended up being pongal/khichdi type concoction and the thakkali rasam had thakkali on one side and rasam on the other. Having pushed the experiments down their throats the children were forced to hit the bed for a much needed (for me) siesta. A few snores into the act, I was woken up by an earthquake hitting the drawing room where the 2/2 and the 4/4 who had left the bed were amidst a verbal duel over the right to the remote. On getting the coherence back, a few friendly words of wisdom delivered at a decibel level not permitted anywhere except at bomb testing facilities, temporary truce was achieved. Multiple suggestions for an evening outing were shot down by His Majesty and Her Highness as stupid and I was dragged down to a water theme park just around the closing time. Dinner comprised of rotis which were more or less the exact replicas of multiple maps. Amidst peals of laughter and ridicule the son consumed Australia and North America while my daughter ate South America and another South America. Eurasia was split into two and Europe went to the girl and Asia to the boy. By now of course I was on the verge of a collapse. The whole world was revolving around at speeds unimagined before. Suffices to say I needed a respite. Even the prospect of pataoing Mukesh Ambani to will his wealth away to me or facing a fully charged up Dale Steyn in the badlands of Durban seemed like taking candy from a child. I plodded through the day and finally tucked the brats in. As I said good night to the world, I thanked my stars that I didn’t have to prepare them to school the next day.   

The world moved back to its saner characteristics on day three when my wife made her earlier than expected return. To say I was relieved would be an understatement, I was overwhelmed. I was in a sort of a daze as my wife shared her stories from Palakkad over a cup of coffee. My mind only replaying the past 48 hours. I was woken up from the stupor when I heard my wife speaking something about  dharisanam of the Goddess. Goddess! The word hit me like a sledgehammer! Realisation stared at me. The MCP took a body blow. That moment onwards I stopped searching for Goddesses in Sanctum Sanctorums. The Goddess was with me, speaking to me, taking care of me, my family and my world. My Goddess is no housewife. My Goddess is my Homemaker.

PAKed Off!

India overcame multiple rain delays to defeat Pakistan in their last league match in the Champion Trophy at Edgbaston. Billed as the marquee match of the tournament and tickets for which were sold out within hours of being put on sale, a full house saw India carve out a rain ravaged yet a memorable win over arch rivals in the inconsequential match. India has already qualified for the semi final and Pakistan already knocked out of the championship. The South Asian derby ended up a damp squib with the rain causing more trouble for the Indians than their rivals from across the border.

Chasing 168 in 40 overs as per Duckworth Lewis method, reduced to 110 in 27.5 over after another rain delay and finally to 102 in 22 overs after yet another shower, India clinically polished of the target in the 20^th over for the loss of 2 wickets. The opening firm of Shikhar Dhawan and Rohit Sharma put on 58 before Ajmal removed Rohit Sharma for a sedate 18. Dhawan fell two short of his 50 to Wahab Riaz caught in the deep. With the Kookaburra ball not swinging much and the spinners rendered ineffective by the openers, the Indians finished of the game in a hurry. Bhuvaneshwar Kumar was named the Man of the Match for his economical and effective spell of 2 wickets for 19 runs of 8 overs.

Earlier, M S Dhoni on winning the toss put Pakistan into bat keeping in mind the possibility of the match being rain effected. Pakistan’s top order batting woes continued as the Indian bowlers lead by Bhuvaneshwar Kumar reduced Pakistan to 70 for 3 before the first rain break.On resumption Pakistan were  dealt a body blow when Ravindra Jadeja removed Misbah Ul Haq, by far their most accomplished and consistent batsman. From then on it was a case of regular fall of wickets and Pakistan finished all out for a very modest 165, later revised to 168 under D/L Method. Pakistan’s problems were compounded by electric fielding by the Indian unit, cutting off certain boundaries and building the pressure by some smart catches and creating run out opportunities. The bowlers came to the party by maintaining consistent line and length leading to the inevitable procession of Pakistani batsman to the pavilion.

India now plays the team placed 2^nd  in Group B on 20^th June for a place in the final.

IDEA!

It has been eight weeks since I made my appearance here in Blogosphere. Yes, the stats are accurate. Not that this deserves a round of applause or raising the laptop as an acknowledgement of the same. What started on an impulse is now showing signs of turning into an exercise heading towards doom. If the sermon seems rather perplexing, I don’t blame you especially when I am in the same boat as you. Let me try and weave my way out of this mutual perplexity.

It all started a few weeks ago while browsing through the writings of a ‘confused’ person during one of my infrequent chats on the micro blogging site Twitter. During the course of the chat I was informed by the same ‘confused’ person that blogging is quite an easy way to share ones thoughts and explain the same in depth unlike the ration of 140 characters imposed by Twitter. And thus was born the blogspot under discussion. Thus having opened an account on an impulse, I readied up what I thought was a useful note which did not impose the restriction of 140 characters on me. And proceeded to invite every handle on my Twitter timeline to have a look at it. Either out of curiosity or out of courtesy, a few of my ‘followers’ and ‘follows’ did submit themselves graciously to the punishment and either because they liked what they read or out of sheer politeness responded to my scribbles. Responses ranging from “Nyc one, Hahaha, Good one Mate” etc buoyed me up and the next few weeks saw me churn out ‘stuff’ with a clock work regularity.

I have of course read about something called a writer’s block. Without claiming to be one I experienced the phenomenon for the first time in eight to ten weeks. The first few weeks passed off like a breeze because everybody and anybody can write on subjects related to their work, their hobbies or their pet peeves. It took me all of eight weeks to cover the entire ground mentioned above from Rapists to Cinema. And then I hit the dead end. What do I write next? Nothing seemed to strike me good enough to write about. In short as we salesman types often say, Stock out! Sarakku kaali! Maal khallas! The mood at first  was to just stop writing any further and leave it at that. But two things prompted me to continue my struggle. Firstly the blog promotion site said that you must blog regularly and only then you will continue to get eyeballs. However much one may write for one’s own satisfaction, what is the point if you don’t have anyone else reading it. Secondly polite or otherwise, the response that one periodically got through tweets was indeed quite satisfying. So to stop writing was out of question. And back I was to where I started…what to write next?

One thought was to possibly churn out another few hundred words on things related to one’s work, hobbies or pet peeves all over again. It then struck me I had already done that to Salesmen, Rapists and Movies. How much more can I arachufy the already aracha maavu? (Essentially keep serving the same stale stuff in new avtaars) . I am sure none of you want to see a ‘I,Rapist -3’,’ Boss can’t achieve targets’ or ‘MasalaBoy’ next, not for one more decade  at least. The other thing left to write about, Cricket was laced with risk. With the game being the universal religion in the country, I sincerely doubt my ability to write a couple of lines without being deluged with a “You are wrong!” kind of feedback. The via media was to take up a generic discussion on Cricket and dish out the same. The only problem with this is that there is no thought or opinion on Cricket which is not already burning the wires in the world, virtual and real. Neither have I the ability, gyaan or the exclusive byline to break the clutter. Another me too? I am sure you would agree I am being smart and prudent!

The other thought was to visit some obscure, unknown website and do a quick ctrl C, ctrl V and be done away with especially given the effectiveness of copyright laws in the country. The fear of course was what if some smart aleck on this platform did search out the source and………… Well there is no dearth of passionate trolls in the virtual world. The other fear was; good, bad or ugly whatever I dished out was at least original. Even this had elicited a few “where did you download this from?” kind of questions. I had with great difficulty managed a “Sumaara ezhudinalum pulvannu othukitirukanga” a La Poet Dharmi in Thiruvilayadal and I don’t dare risk this. (Suggestion to non Tamils here: Boss! Learn the language. It is beautiful and I find it impossible to translate the above sentence!)

After a long exercise of browsing through newspapers, television, internet for some inspiration and a few agonizing hours spent resulting in complete blankness, I decided  the best course of action left for me to pursue was to explain my difficulty to you and solicit your help………………….Give  me an Idea Mate!  Please!

______________________________________________________________________

Dedicated to the not at all ‘confused’ @jay_ambadi!

MasalaBhais!

                       Anand iTomato International

                                                    Presents       

                      JOSEPH JANI JAYASHANKAR

               

 Story, Screenplay, Dialogue, Art Direction, Direction, Producer, Audience: @aThakkali

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Opening Scene:

Nagpur Railway Station. Hail storm coupled with gale storm. Power failure at the station. Just below the foot overbridge on Platform No.2, a middle class type women, bellowing in pain, obviously pregnant. Three women Samaritans tie a saree around the grills and assist the delivery while chanting “Aal izz well”. And “whoaaaaa” first cry of the baby. In an instant later a cry from the pregnant women and “whoaaaa” another first cry of another baby. Just as the Samaritans think there is no more stock left, “whoaaaaaa” yet another first cry of yet another baby. Triplets as they are called or as we put it more poetically in India ‘If 2-in-1 is Twins, 3-in-1 is Thrins’. As the lightning flashes, we see the three babies Milky white, Wheatish and Pitch Black in complexion respectively. Dr.Chaddha’s over enthusiasm or oversight while drunk we don’t know but Vicky, Micky and Chikky Donor have had their desired impact. The three childless Samaritans decide to adopt a baby each as their biological mother had just done an expected Heavenwards Ho! Arguments break out among the Samaritans as to who will get which baby as everyone wants Vicky’s gora-gora fair n lovely milky white baby and there are no takers for Micky’s and Chikky’s progenies. A prolonged verbal jujitsu later a compromise is worked out. A session of Inki Pinki Ponky ensures just distribution of spoils. Mrs.Jessica D’Souza takes her baby, christened Joseph and boards the G T Express to New Delhi. Begum Juveria Ahmed collects her baby named Jani and boards the Rajdhani Express to Kolkata.        Tmt. Janaki Seetharaman picks up her bundle of joy branded Jayashankar and settles down in the First AC cabin of TamilNadu Express enroute to Chennai.

ACT I, Location-New Delhi:

Joseph D Souza is busy studying. Fawned over by his doting mother and deluged with multiple cups of ‘kadak chai’ all in preparation for the entrance exam for that magic medical seat in AIIMS. To cut the flash back short and come to the present immediately, indeed Joseph the well behaved, Mamma’s favourite, goody-goody boy did get that Medical seat and is now a very successful surgeon in Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital. Along the way, a love story developed and Joseph D’Souza was joined in Holy Matrimony by Jaspreet Dhillon, a feisty Sikhni from Saharanpur and blessed with John and Jack to carry forward Vicky Donor’s genes. John and Jack by the way have fallen in love with the same girl, a certain Jessia Khan.

                                           Dr.Joseph “Mammukka” D’Souza

------------------------------------------INTERMISSION------------------------------------------------

ACT II, Location – Kolkata:

Jani Ahmed is busy studying. Fawned over by his doting mother and deluged with multiple cups of ‘Lebu cha’ all in preparation for the entrance exam for that magic Engineering seat in IIT,Kharagpur. To cut the flash back short and come to the present immediately, indeed Jani the well behaved, Ammi’s favourite, goody-goody boy did get that Engineering seat and is now very successful as Chief Engineer  in Kolaghat Thermal Power Ltd. Along the way, a love story developed and Jani Ahmed was joined in Holy Nikaah by Jabakusum Bagchi, a feisty Bangalan from Birbhum and blessed with Jehan Mubarak and Jamal Mubarak to carry forward Micky Donor’s genes. Jamal and Jehan by the way have fallen in love with the same girl, a certain Jayanthi Natarajan.

                                                Jani ‘Lalettan’ Ahmed, Engineer.

ACT III, Location – Chennai:

                                                Jayashankar “Bob” Seetharaman

Jayashankar Seetharaman is busy studying. Fussed over by his dominating mother and deluged with multiple tumblers of ‘filter kaapi’ all in preparation for the entrance exam for either that magic Engineering seat or that magic Medical seat in any College. To cut the flash back short and come to the present immediately, indeed Jayashankar the well behaved, Amma’s favourite, goody-goody boy did not get that Engineering or Medical seat and ended up becoming a ‘suit-Boot-Tie’ type MBA from Anna University (thru correspondence) and is now very successful as Sales Manager in TVS Motors Ltd . Along the way, a love story developed and Jayashankar Seetharaman was joined in Holy Kalyanam by Jahira Banu, a feisty Mopplah mol from Malappuram and blessed with Jambulingam and Janardhanan to carry forward Chikky Donor’s genes. Jambulingam and Janardhanan by the way have fallen in love with the same girl, a certain Jaspinder Narula.

-------------------------------------------THE END-------------------------------------------------------

What do you mean by that “Hain? The End-a?” Of course this is the end. What did you think? This is a Malayalam remake of Amar Akbar Anthony or Ram Robert Rahim? NO, it is not. And I am no Manmohan Desai!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank You my friends @Catch_Mazhar and @RainuBhuviHolic for all the help. Hope my friends @Cric_Talks and @Venkrek are happy!