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.  

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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!

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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

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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.

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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!

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

MasalaMan!

Before I fell in love with Coffee, Cricket, Music or my Wife, I fell in love with Cinema. This I can say with conviction though it is based on hearsay.  I have been informed through reliable sources i.e., my mother that my tryst with the world of motion pictures started well before I had control over either my motion or my motions. The story of my first visit to the dank and darkened Cinema is oft repeated and oft quoted episode in the family circles and will find prominent place in my autobiography as and when it is written. To give you a peep into the same, I am supposed to have let everyone in the cinema know how much I appreciate this medium. So much enthusiasm that a feeding bottle thrust into my mouth could not keep me quiet. I am also informed that my debut movie was called ‘Haathi Mere Saathi’ and my father was banished from the hall due to my enthusiasm and managed to only see the tail and the trunk of the lead artist of the film, an elephant aka Ramu because that is all he could see from the keyhole outside the hall screening the film.

Ever since then, the world of make believe has had an impact on me like no other, including education. My real and reel life were so intermingled that I wore Rajesh Khanna’s Guru shirts, sported Amitabh Bachchan’s kaan chanpa hair cut, Kamal Hassan’s moustache, Govinda’s green-shirt-yellow-trousers ensemble, even a hint of Ramarajan’s lipstick. The only thing I could not master was that flip-to-the-lip-cigarette a la Super Star Rajnikanth. I fell in love like Rishi Kapoor, nursed my broken heart like Dilip Kumar, smiled divinely like Uttam Kumar, cried like Sivaji Ganesan, danced like Jumping Jack  Jeetendra , laughed like Gabbar Singh and fought like…………...no, no, NO fighting. Not with the two-packs structure I possessed like Dhanush! I even refuse going to temples because Bhagwan Krishna doesn't have even a fleeting resemblance to N T Rama Rao.  

I have often been badgered on my down market tastes by either the hoi polloi, Starbucks swigging South ‘Bohmbaye’ types who swear by Hollywood or the bearded Jholawalas who over gallons of watery liquids in Indian coffee Houses interrupted by measured drags of  Charminar or Beedi at the rate of one puff every 38 seconds dissected that ‘the past, the present, the future’ scene in a Mrinal Sen’s Black & White “A” film. A for Awards film I mean branded 'New Wave Cinema' by mainstream media. I am not the kind who would like to be seen within a mile’s distance of ‘A’ films. Sorry to disappoint you Ritwik Ghataks, Satyajit Rays, Shyam Benegals, Adoor Gopalakrishnans, G.Aravindans etc. I refuse to sit in a cinema to watch your classics which require me to read film reviews to understand how noble your motives were, how eloquent your frames were and how you have pushed the envelope of world Cinema. I am not a banner boy of Hollywood either.  I refuse to see those Hollywood comedies as my handicap of not being an EMT (English Medium Types you dummkopf) does not permit me to understand those heavily accented dialogues. I refuse to see the Hollywood rom-coms also. How can you have a romantic film without at least one love song every 3 reels. I concede grudgingly that I don’t mind the Jurassic Parks, the Godzillas, the Anacondas, the King Kongs provided the lead characters i.e., the Dinos, Lizards, Snakes, Chimps etc speak in Hindi, Tamil or Telugu. Who cares about minor details like DNAs or radiation etc as long as they gobble up people every few scenes, destroy vehicles, massacre Manhattan  and reduce it to a rubble, which I must agree is pretty fun. But only if they are dubbed in……

I am the quintessential MasalaMan as you have rightly guessed. Fan of the largest film Industry in the World, Indian Cinema; Bollywood, Kollywood, Mollywood, Sandalwood, Tollywood and Tollywood no bar. No, not an editing error. You read it right. The Telugu and Bengali filmdom sport the same woody nomenclature. Plus some more who have not yet been fortunate enough to have the honour of a wood thrust on them, Bhojpuri, Assamese, Marathi industries comes to mind. The kind of films which are not only loved through the length and breadth of this country and the Diaspora but increasingly native audiences ranging from the Arabs to the residents of the first world countries. The Films which even as we speak,  are enhancing India’s Soft Power from the multiplexes in Americas and Europe to the touring talkies of Ethiopia and Papua New Guinea. From lost in a Kumbh mela, separated at birth twins, three brothers paying a tribute to Indian Secularism, love triangles, rich-girl-poor guy love affair or its alternate rich-guy-poor-girl love affair, Manoj Kumar led East or West India is the best  or saving the Motherland from umpteen ‘foreign hands’ like Karuppu MGR ‘Captain’ Vijaykanth, I lap up everything. Show me one Hollywood film which has a hero who can jump 4000 feet vertically upwards and kick a villain bang on his head which appears magically on every floor of a building without setting foot on terra firma? Can a Hollywood musical put out miraculously the appearance of 300+ junior artists who can dance with absolute synchronization without as much as breaking a sweat? Can a Hollywood hunk single handedly kill a fully grown crocodile with a single punch? Our original super hero HanuMan can in one stroke reduce all your Super, Bat, Spider Men to a nobody. Daara Singhji da jawaab nahi! The Hulk is nothing more than a Dharam Paaji on steroids. Even your curry westerns are tasteless without our “mehbooba o mehbooba”. While we have not yet graduated to saving the world, Ra.One ki kasam, we are getting there.

So before you say anything derogatory about this dream world of mine……..........Mind It!

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PS: MasalaMan2 is at planning stage. Scripting will start if this receives overwhelming response at Box-Office like 50 RTs on Twitter, 25 Likes on Facebook and anything over 0* from @taran_adarsh! 

AMMA!

AMMA! AMMA!

My daughter came home running one evening, rang the door bell a million times in a second and continued yelling as if there has been a fire in the neighbourhood. I was startled and jumped and unlocked the door. There stood my child shivering like a leaf during a strong gale wind. Before I could even enquire as to what happened, “Amma engey?” she shouted. (Where is Mother?) Since my wife had gone out on an errand, I enquired as to what was wrong. “Amma illaya?” (Isn’t Mother home?) She blurted and ran straight into her room and bolted it from inside. Shocked, I was shell shocked! Any amount of knocking, cajoling, kicking in anger could not induce her to open the door. I was totally dumb stuck to say the least and stood there for a few minutes outside her door like a loyal poodle completely blank. “Ammava koopidu, Ammava koopidu!” (Call mother, call mother!) was the only sounds I heard her make amidst a series of sobs and sighs. That jolted me out of my utter indecision. A few anxious phone calls later my Wife arrived. The door opened and “Appava pochullu, Appava pochollu” (Send Father away!) was the only thing I could hear before I was bolted out of the room again. Every possible thought flashed in my mind. What for gossake had I done to hurt my child so much that she would not tell me what has upset her and take the extreme step of barring me from entering  her room. Think as much as I may, I couldn’t remember any such incident. I couldn’t even remotely imagine hurting my child! For wasn’t I her best friend?

A few minutes later the door opened, my wife stepped out with a mixture of concern and caution in her eyes. Our daughter had ‘grown up’! ‘Beti badi ho gayee hain!’. My daughter had had her first menstrual periods. News! And I just didn’t know how to react. I mean how is a father supposed to react to such an information? Never ever had I read an article or seen a movie which captured a father in such a scenario. Should I be delighted or horrified? Should I laugh, giggle, maintain silence or mourn? Anxious and confused is what I was to be honest.

The subsequent events proved that the above paragraphs ware just the trailer of the larger film to follow. My wife was confused too but maybe to a slightly lesser degree. She knew what to do for our daughter but was equally clueless as to what to do about our daughter. A SOS to my Parents we decided, was the best course of action. And then all hell broke loose. “Inform all the relatives about the ‘good news’, call the vadhiyar and fix a good day for shobhanam, hire a mandapam, organize a huge luncheon, what will the mama aathu seer be?, buy jewellery, is there a caterer who can serve ‘puttu?’’ In short let us celebrate! To say this left us further confused would be an understatement. The next terrifying thought was what would our relatives say? Knowing them the likely responses would be “Congratulations, so the girl is all ready for marriage haan?” one would say. “Ask her to be very careful now, avo vayasukku vandhutta” would warn another. “Bad timing, the gold prices are very high now” would be yet another.

And then it stuck us! Our child! Our sweet little child was suddenly pushed to the background while we were contemplating about what to do and how to respond to the society, debating on how to manage the celebration, agonizing on the various feedback, suggestions of family and well wishers that will pour in. If we were this confused, what would our daughter be going through? In our selfish anxiety to be seen doing it the right way, we had completely forgotten about the main character of the story. What is she thinking? What are her feelings right now? Is she happy? Is she thrilled, scared, annoyed, angry, ashamed? How is she taking it? And how would she take whatever that seems to be in store for her? How will she react on being made to go through the above celebrations? That bath in water mixed with turmeric powder. Her public exhibition sitting atop a peacock shaped throne?  What will be her response? Dilemma, dilemma, for her and for us with no solution in sight.

 Sleep they say clears the cobwebs. In our hour of confusion laced with a tingling sense of subdued excitement, we decided to sleep it over. With the early morning rays dawned upon us the refreshing clarity of what to do next. Clarity that had refused to manifest the whole of last evening. No, my daughter has not ‘grown up’ overnight. A few droplets of blood does not mean her world has changed, she has changed. Nature had blessed her with a biological make up for being the female of the species and nature was just doing its job. Once the clarity struck, the future course of action to be taken was surprisingly simple. We would speak to our child, frankly, openly, calmly. Tell her what she already knows, what she had anyway studied in her science books, explain to her on how to use a sanitary towel, remove the stigma, the embarrassment, the shame attached to such events and live a normal, normal life. Normal. Such a small, mundane, everyday word, with so much significance. Nature made her a girl, biological metamorphosis just another stepping stone, time will make her a woman, a fine woman we believe. And till that happens, we will not steal her childhood; she will do all that she did before ‘those four days’ notwithstanding. And we will continue to be what we were, we are, her best friends! The relatives and society in the meanwhile can stay out of this!

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Glossary :

Vadhyar : Priest
Shobhanam : Ausipicious Ceremony
Mandapam: Ceremonial Hall/Auditorium
Mama aathu seer: Gifts from Maternal uncle (as is the practice)
Puttu: A variety of sweet.

Good Boyz Finish First!

Good Boyz finish first! Well, well my cynical friends, go right ahead, don’t suppress your laughter! I knew the derision that will be directed at me and the ridicule expressed even as I wrote the first words. And I don’t blame you. Why , just why should one believe in such an old fashioned principle which is so far removed from the reality that confronts us every day? Corruption, rapes, murders, robbery, scams, adulteration, the list is endless. This is not unique to our society and our country. Indira Gandhi once famously remarked that “corruption is a global phenomenon” when allegation after allegation of malpractices hit her government. The time one feels has stood still, only the lead characters have traded place. It wouldn’t be beyond you if you took the statement with a table spoon full of salt! The other important aspect of note is while the issues are universal, in India our justice delivery mechanism is so slow or flawed and at times influenced by the mighty, moneyed and powerful that one feels so whenever such high sounding wisdom is spouted. I don’t blame you. But as I said, Good Boyz finish first.

Good news doesn’t sell. Good news is like a film division documentary. Good news is found in the propaganda advertisements of various Govts. Haven’t we heard all this and more? But then old fashion though it may sound and seem in this kaliyuga, good triumphs, always does. The problem is we have programmed our minds to look at the negativity. A black (evil) spot on a blank milk white paper (Good) stands out doesn’t it? Doesn’t mean that the entire paper is evil. In fact it is just the opposite! The exception. There is good everywhere too if we dared or cared to look. Still not convinced?

Let me point you out the instance of Good Boyz finish first. It has been right in front of your eyes. For our passionate countrymen it has been top of our mind too. Yes! I mean the IPL! You either loved it or hated it but you couldn’t just ignore it. From TV screens to newspaper headlines. From chatrooms to water cooler meetings. IPL has for the past seventy odd days dominated every conversation. And now that the winner has been declared, you have still not noticed it enough to celebrate the winners. No! You read it right! I am not referring to the past editions. I speak about IPL 6. Confused? Well you just proved my words right. The good boyz have come first again, only you have not noticed it!

 I of course refer to the ‘Fairplay Award’ won yet again by the Chennai Super Kings, their fourth such achievement in six editions of this high decibel, exciting and as expected often controversial tournament. Led by the astute Captain Thala M S Dhoni, dubbed “captain Cool”, the team has displayed excellent cricketing skills and have done this while maintaining the spirit of the game and the decorum a tournament with such huge following spread across all sections and spectrum of the multitude that has been dancing to ‘dil jumping jhapaang’ for the past two month demands. Consistency has marked this bunch of players from varied background but moulded into a selection of 'play hard but play fair' cricketers, season after season.

And the defending champions? Another team lead by another Player who epitomizes the word ‘gentleman’ in the description of the sport we love, the ‘gentleman’s Game’! Rahul Sharad Dravid, possibly the most universally loved cricketer of this generation, across every continent where the game is played and followed and more so in India. I am convinced the respect bordering on love for him transcends beyond his cricketing skills, as there have been many in the past who have matched and many are likely in the future to match his cricketing achievements. But a combination of impeccable behavior, his ability to inculcate the same into his bunch of talented cricketers and the understated authority has rubbed on to the Rajasthan Royals, winners last year and a close third this year. The goodwill that the Royals and their Captain command is so overwhelming that the supposed scandalous behavior of some of the players in this team doesn’t as much as scratch the surface of the squeaky clean reputation of The Wall and his bunch of hard working cricketers. And does it surprise anyone that the two champions are also in with a chance to triumph in the other competition this year, winning the tournament itself?

Irrespective of how things go from here in the playoffs, for me the Good Boyz have already won. I hope the two teams clash in the finals of IPL 6 too. May the better among the Good Boyz win!
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I hope my friend Redwan Kabir @Redwaannn, from Amaar Shonar Bangla is happy! 

Loveography

STATUTORY WARNING: THIS IS MY LOVE STORY. MY LOVEOGRAPHY. CERTAIN DESCRIPTIONS ARE RISQUE AND BORDER ON THE EXPLICIT.  READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. CULTURE VULTURES KINDLY EXCUSE.

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I LOVE YOU! You know I love you. And I never tire of declaring my love for you again and again, as many times as possible. If given a choice I would sing ‘bhajanai of these three magic words every minute, every second for you. For I don’t want an iota of doubt in your or for that matter anyone’s mind about this fact, no ambiguity at all that you are my love.

Remember the time when we first met ? Eons ago? I do. Vividly. I think I was barely out of the school uniform and the wisdom tooth was not even in its infancy. Or so it feels now. And I didn’t know or care to know if you felt like a cradle snatcher. I remember my first sight of you. Equally vividly. Cupid struck! Manmadhan ambu hit bullseye. It was love at first sight and lust at first sight, nothing more and nothing less. And You? My God! What a sight you were. Your dusky complexion, almost bordering on black, which seduced me instantly. Not for me the gori-gori fair n lovely milky white kind. And I think you sensed it too, that very instant. Your figure. Flowing lissomely like a river post a torrential rain. Exuding the fiery halo of the lava from a freshly erupted volcano. Your touch. Warm and welcoming, hot and inviting at the same time. Your smell as you came near. No perfume, no flowers, no aroma, no manmade concoction could match it however much the Shellys and Tagores may try and make me believe otherwise. Natural some said and if so, nature had reserved the very best for you.

From loving you to becoming your slave was but one swift journey. I remember the day when I moved out, in freedom and you moved in with me. Free to love you, beyond spying eyes, beyond stern looks of disapproval and well beyond the well intentioned but terribly annoying and futile words of wisdom which would try to wean me away from you.  How were they to know what you meant to me? My love for you, taller than the tallest mountain, deeper than the deepest ocean. How were they to know your soothing touch which woke me up? A simple touch with which you would steal me away from the sleep which had usurped my attention. The feeling of bliss when I put my arms around you, gingerly first, gradually into a tight hug. And then the first kiss of the day! A peck, a much tighter one and finally a full mouthed deep deep passionate kiss. Again and again. Enough to drive everything away from my conscious, set my mind afire, body reacting to the sheer pleasure of the magic that you weaved on me, hungry heart consumed with desire. A few minutes were all that it took you to reduce me to putty in your hands. And then enlightenment! Mind and body filled with the peace, content, energy and enthusiasm unknown before. Totally satisfied.

The childlike eagerness, the glee I felt as I made my way back home. Knowing you would be waiting equally eagerly to ring me in with a warm embrace. One look at you and I would perk up in a giffy, the tired dog up and running, on his way to welcome the night pregnant with possibilities that lay ahead. Your love, your affection, the attention and I was a new man, rejuvenated, reborn. The headaches and  the hearthaches, the appointments and the disappointments , the frustrations and the outrage, the hard fought wins and the confidence pricking failures, the close shaves, the day of misery fades away into oblivion by the time I am through with you and the world feels not so bad a place after all. Thats you! My peace of mind, my moksha, my nirvana, my holy grail, my elixir of life!

I would be lying if I said that between seeing you and seeing you again you were removed from my conscious. It would be a blatant lie. During boring client presentations, mundane meetings, tasteless luncheons, hectic running around from point to point like a lost ant, never never were you away from my thoughts. It was your memories which made it all tolerable, bearable. If only I could take you along with me, every day, everywhere.

I LOVE YOU! You know I love you. And I never tire of declaring my love for you again and again, as many times as possible. Let there not be an iota of doubt in your or for that matter anyone’s mind about this fact, no ambiguity at all that you are my love. My one and only love. The greatest of God’s creation:

 My cup of strong filter coffee!

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PS: The story doesn’t apply to Bangalore where even small ‘Darshinis’ serve awesome filter coffee. Very very relevant to the rest of India where one has to hunt down Annapoornas or Saravana Bhavans for a sip of this necter!

Boss!

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Oooohahahahahahahahahahahaha! (cough,cough)!

Please pardon me! I know this is not a civil way to start a conversation. I mean with a laughter which threatens to overshoot the decibel levels prescribed by the Hon’ble Supreme Court for fire crackers. But then I just could not hold back given the hilarious scenario drawn out by this sweet little ignorant friend of mine. I am sorry, it should be Boss of mine. Here is a ready refresher for you!

 

Confessions first. No, I was not interested in becoming an Engineer or a Doctor and I didn’t even pretend trying to be one. No I was not keen on an MBA degree and attain the cushy comforts of an AC cabin either. I became what I wanted to, a Salesman. Not to be confused with sales managers, country heads et el who dish out high sounding discourse delivered in lyrical English. I wanted to be the crux of the wheel, the nuts and bolts of a successful sales team which delivered results. The dirty your hands brigade which is in the forefront of a market war. The driver, the accelerator on which depend the entire future of a product, service or the company. The real meaningful work. Not for me the hours spent on ‘XL’ sheets and conjuring up imaginary data. Not for me the frequent bouts with power points to dispense fundas which have no bearing on the market place. I wanted the ‘high’ of putting an entry barrier to competition, convert their customers, switch their consumers, create a network of loyal partners impossible to breach, improve and retain market share or minimize the loss of it. In short I wanted to be the man of action and not just the “Boardroomla punch dialogue” kind of MBAs. Not for me the perils of blood pressure because you are sitting helpless in an AC cabin far away from the front depending on someone else to deliver for you. Not for me the ulcers and indigestion because should you fail, you lose your entire standing among superiors, peers and subordinates. Not for me the fear of a pink slip as there are always millions of openings for a ’25 years expert in field work’ as against the lonely on top kind of positions. To be the kinds who like mosquitoes, cockroaches and Mallus can survive anything.  In a nutshell a soldier who would rather die fighting, win or lose than a General wearing meaningless medals or signing surrender document.

I would be lying if these were the only motivation for me to become a Salesman. Look at the perks I enjoy. My day starts at 11 AM with a visit to the tea kadai patented by us salesman in the market place. Notes are exchanged with salesman of various other companies who in their ignorance start early and come to the joint to report ‘market situation’ and more often than not do my portion of the selling.(I am regularly in a position to make ‘offers’ to salesmen of small 2/2, garage sized ‘local’ companies you see!) A few more rounds of tea, masala vadai and market gossip later, I break to Annachi Mess for my favorite ‘meen’ curry lunch. Depending on the weather an early trek homewards for a couple of hours of siesta is often indulged in. Or another visit to the tea kadai for hot bajjis. Once a week I take a detour to the distributors office, collect all the data of sales done by ‘me’, prepare the report, ‘patao’ the distributor into signing a sales order and walk into the  ‘AC Cabin’ for my weekly dose of ‘blood pressure, ulcers and piles’. The session might last between one to three hours depending on the dates. They are longer during the month ends for obvious reasons. All ‘hot air’ is silently tolerated, defended when possible or deftly redirected when not so. Should the same go beyond tolerable limits, “Business is bad Sir, if you don’t believe me why don’t you come to the market and see for yourself” cools down the temperature. (These AC cabinwallas get out of it only to go home!) Not for me the promotions which I have been regularly rejecting. A much-in-demand man, who every time I get an offer from the competition, cajole my company into giving me a raise. And now I hold the honour of the highest paid salesman in the company! Why wouldn’t I take the promotion you ask? Read further.

ON DUTY is a phrase perfected by our clan of Salesmen.  Marriage to attend? On duty! School fees of children to be paid or the monthly PTM? On duty! Queue up for tickets for the latest Super Star movie to be watched? On duty! Dravid is batting now? On duty!  Dhoni will be batting next? On duty! From bus pass to bike repair, from a visit to Marina to even babysitting. We don’t take time off. We are ON DUTY! In fact the quip doing the rounds is that we salesman should be added to the list of services under ESMA like Police, Hospitals, Fire Service etc! We are always on duty.

 AND the pleasure of frequently ‘bossing’ over these freshly graduated ‘suit-boot-tie’ type MBAs is priceless! No money and definitely no Master card can buy this pinnacle of pleasure. Sheer Nirvana! I call them boss but they know who actually is! Nothing matches the ecstasy of showing them their place, breaking them in, making their bones as the expression is. As you would have guessed, I delight in ‘training’ them. I don’t have AC cabins, company cars, company credit cards, the works and neither do I crave for these as long as I get a regular dose of this tail wagging the dog. The ultimate aphrodisiac.

To reiterate, I am happy, in fact proud of what I am, a Salesman! And why do I get this funny feeling that many of you would like to join me!
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Thanks @Rfed1! Your ‘Boss’ has been a real help!