2011

Yet another year in history. People look forward on every New Year's day. Let me do a rewind, about a special year in my mediocre life.


December
The regular drill of wishing my colleagues and friends a merry Christmas, a third prize in an office competition in the form of cakes and more cakes. Beautiful.

November
Precursors to Christmas, weather turning cold and a trip to the hills to make sure that my best buddy comes back married!

October
Planned a surprise get-together, only to be surprised. Another round of exams, same results. Indian Rupee.

September
Onam. Realised that my baby cousins are of my height now. Nephews call me by name. Tony's married. Pranayam.




August
Waiting to go home.

July
Calicut trip with Aby to marry off Joby. Empty pocket halts higher education. Salt N Pepper.

June
On my own now. Boredom drived me nuts, embraces cinema theatres to escape. Adaminte Makan Abu.

May
Wedding month: Ambi, Mithun, Santosh, Sandip… Marathon trip between Coimbatore and Calicut.

April
Vishu. Higher studies ambitions soar high. Urumi.


March
Temperature soars. Starts planning for education abroad.

February
Uneventful

January
Defies gravity as the clock struck 12 on January 1. Friends were literally throwing and catcking me! Traffic. Happy New Year.

How stuff works

Tips to a rookie reporter by a veteran:

Something good happens + stock market goes up = Easy job

Something bad happens + stock market goes down = Equally easy job

Something good happens + stock market goes down = Difficult, but manageable

Something bad happens + stock market goes up = You are screwed!

Wedding bells, beeps, texts...

(For new readers: All characters involved are my friends, so no introduction. Check the links for more details)

“6 Missed Calls,” flashed my phone when I came back from the terrace with a bundle of clothes. I picked it up, it rang again, and Tony started scolding: “Where the hell were you?”

He had called up to invite for his wedding. In the Netherlands for an on-site project, he could not go for the traditional, wedding-card way of inviting. Mobile phone came handy. A detailed mail followed, with a map of the marriage venue.

Jayadevan, engaged last month, also plans to dial. Getting married in October, he hasn’t printed the cards yet. “Illeda, I’ll call them up,” he said. “That’s easy. All my friends are on my call list. Moreover, my relatives are spread across north Kerala. Where’s the time to go door-to-door?”

Two years ago, for Aby’s marriage, we had scanned an entire street of stationary stores at Sultanpet, Bangalore to find that right card, a month before his marriage. For Mithun, his parents took care of the card business. Our Bangalore Family was the local organising committee for both the functions.

Even Visy, who is getting married to Dev next week, got the card printed from Kerala. She had it scanned, albeit tilted, and mailed to her list of friends and acquaintances. “But I have to go and personally call many in Bangalore,” she said, a week before the card was printed.

A simple update in Facebook also had good results, but limited to your circle of online friends (For health reasons, my buddies tend to keep their family away from their Facebook profile!). Visy updated her status as ‘Engaged’, a good 20 days after the July 13 function. Comments poured in, from “Congratulations” to “Mutants and more mutants!”

Megha was more prompt in updating about her engagement to Vatsa. All her friends commented and got the date of marriage as reply. Sajin did it even better. He put up an event in Facebook on his marriage, giving complete details, tagging all his friends. So did Prem, for his sister’s marriage.

Call, Facebook or SMS, all of them cared to send e-mails – some with “in-house” graphics, some in plain text – most had scans of the invitation card. Back in Kerala, Sreeraj hasn't even started planning for his marriage in October!

With four friends tying the knot till date and many more to follow, 2011 is the “Wedding Year” in my buddy list. Tony and Visy are leaving for Kerala today, both getting married in Thrissur within a gap of four days. Wish you happy days ahead, guys. And the rest of the gang who are getting married soon (attention Jayadevan, Devina, Megha, Vatsa), you are free to call!

Packing time

These cups belong to my family in Bangalore – the original family. These were picked up first when we went shopping for our house; one for each. Those were the days when we used to make tea regularly in the morning. After more than three years, the cups would be off the shelf permanently. We are leaving what was our home in Bangalore; what Thomman called “the base camp of our gang”.

Ours was the best-maintained bachelor pad among our friends and acquaintances, and this is certified by our elder relatives who dropped by. A well-run kitchen, cleaner rooms and, last but not least, properly maintained accounts.

Compared to many of our Bangalore friends, we had a comfy setting. We didn’t have much furniture, but definitely had all the gadgets to make our life comfortable – from TV to washing machine. Being a proper two-bedroom apartment, our house was the nest for all our visiting friends.

The past four years was, in many ways, crucial in our life. The best and the common experience was art of surviving outside your hometown. Managing time and money, learning household chores and – oh yes – cooking! When we moved into the house, the first request Aby made was to keep instant noodles and bread-butter combo away. We stuck to it, and learned to cook. Before coming to Bangalore, all I knew was to make omlette and tea. Now I can cook edible stuff.

New Year eves were the best days at our home. Friends from Kerala would visit us, taking the membership up to even 18 at times. Once, five of us had to take a walk because there was no place to sleep. They came back and slept when the early-morning-shift guys got up and left.

We planned everything – from weekend outings to crucial thing like marriages – sitting in our big hall. Aby was the first to have a debate with us before going home and declaring his marriage plans to his parents. His marriage was a major occasion for us.

Mithun’s marriage followed. He straightened up his decade-long knotty affair two weeks back. A week before, Aby celebrated his second wedding anniversary. Tony’s also getting engaged shortly, he left for an on-site project in the Netherlands a day before Mithun’s marriage. Returning, he’ll land in the red carpet that will take him to the aisle. With that, the party comes to an end. Today is our last day in the house. Sheer coincidence – it’s Jeeson’s birthday.

Mithun and Aby joined us for the party. We’ll hand over the keys tomorrow. The shelf is empty now. It’s packing time.

Hum Dono

I was the only youngster in the theatre, as expected. The rest was a small crowd of elders. The objective was common — to see vintage Dev Anand in colour.

The movie started with a small epilogue from the evergreen star, about the movie and the restoration process. He recited the famous song: “Main zindagi ka saath nibhata chala gaya..”, and the small crowd completed it, “har fikr ko dhuwe mein udata chala gaya!”.

The digitalised title card of Navketan Films was frozen on the screen, unlike the shivering one from the traditional projector peppered with black vertical lines, denoted the restoration. The background music during the rest of the titles were that of newly added — that was easy to detect.

Anand (Dev Anand) and Meeta (Sadhana) came on screen. For a good five minutes, they emoted with their eyes and gestures -- no words at all. Then, when Meeta was about to leave, Anand requested her to stay, breaking into a song. Mohammad Rafi’s divine voice flowed: “Abhi na jaao chod kar, ke dil abhi bharaa nahin..”. And I sat there, with my eyes moist.

Hum Dono. Wakai rangeen!

Tweeters

“Beep beep!” It was her reply.

“Come on, hurry up. It’s already late!” Mom was on the point of losing her cool. He was sending SMSes.

“These roads are pretty bad, aren’t they?” Dad was complaining on the way, as he struggled to drive. He was sending SMSes.

“Welcome! Welcome!” His prospective father-in-law was overjoyed. He was still sending SMSes.

She came, everyone was in smiles.

“Let them talk for some time,” said her uncle.

They left the couple alone.

They stared at each other. There was nothing left to talk.

Goodbye, our Superman!

The rituals were over this morning. With this ends a story of a self-made man. My uncle. Our Superman!

Right from my childhood, I’ve been hearing tales of his heroism — climbing the super-tall coconut palms during childhood; riding his bicycle with six more persons on it as a teenager; fighting with our grandpa and leaving the house to live on his own; writing and topping exams as child’s play; single-handedly rescuing the local cricket club in Gujarat from a shameful defeat... the list goes on!

He was never the Santa-Claus uncle who showered gifts and sweets whenever he visited us. He was the one to be admired, from a safe distance! After all, he was the one who tamed the wild Bombay Poocha (cat) and tied it up in the corner room, which we called Poocha muri! (The Bombay Poocha story was made up by our granny, to keep me away from my injured mother, who was being nursed in that room. And Bombay Poocha became another tale in the legacy of Mr CS Bhamakrishnan, our Mani Vallyachan).

A rebel by birth, he was second son, as well as the biggest nemesis, of our extra-strict, hyper-tempered, disciplinarian grandpa. He was beaten up countless times. Finally, Vallyachan broke the chain, ran away, went as far as Bombay and then to Gujarat, and built a life of his own, on his own.

He lead a free, but disciplined, lifestyle. As always, he stood bluntly adamant on his stances. Elders sure envied his freedom. Once, after a heated debate with his wife, a younger uncle said, looking and our Vallyachan sleeping peacefully, “Look at this man. Anything bothering him? Nah!”

“You are basically wrong,” once his brother-in-law told him. “Even my father used to say that,” Vallyachan retorted calmly.

He played the status of a rocking bachelor to the hilt. By the gallons he used to drink, he could be classified as the biggest alcoholic of the family. But, in all these years, we have never seen him lose his temper or cool under the influence of liquor. Another feat, possible only by our Superman.

His cousin made him say his life story in one of those ‘spirited’ evenings. As a parting question, she asked: “Mani Anna, do you regret anything when you look back?”
“Never!” came the answer.

I visited his lair last for his retirement party. He had completed a meritorious service spanning close to three decades without joining any employee union. Nobody could pursue him to do so.

I was planning to visit him this April. There were many questions to be asked, may thing to be told. And I woke up last Wednesday, hearing the worst, the unbelievable.

My mind was already troubled, but became numb once I reached Kollam. They brought him home in a coffin. I thought I would stay strong, but broke down as we held him — my arms supported his frozen head.

An atheist to the core, he neither believed nor attended in any of the rituals. We cremated him with complete rituals. But we spared him from one thing — the sandalwood paste on his forehead. It was the mark of a Malayalee Hindu, which he scoffed all his life.

Back in Bangalore, troubled by his memories and the realities here, I was restless. I typed out a mail to him, listing the many things I thought about him, asking all the questions unasked, telling all the things unsaid...

Goodbye, our Superman!

Aakashavaani

Necessity is the mother of invention, they say. For me, a necessity lead to a discovery. The discovery was that the old radio was still working, but the need was far more than just entertainment.

Chicken pox had put me under a 21-day quarantine. The first day seemed all right — I was at my home, my condition was OK. By evening, the viruses started showing their might. I was feeling the itch and the temperature, ending up with a sleepless night. The next day was the worst.

All alone in my room, I was desperate to speak to somebody, to see TV, to hear songs. The horrendous onset and irritating advance of the disease, and the discomfort of boils on my face and torso had left me desperately wishing for sleep and relief.

Call from friends were my only solace, but solitary confinement made hours in between extra long. It touched the nadir on the second evening. In a fit of rage and desperation, I dragged my ailing physique up the table and started searching the storage cabinets. There I made a prized discovery — an old radio! A boon in the shape of a red Panasonic two-in-one!

I was so excited that I didn’t wait even to dust the unused equipment. Iplugged it, switched it on, and there it beeped — All India Radio a.k.a. Aakashavaani!

All the effort and the excitement had left me exhausted. I set the tun-ing right and went to sleep. Next morning, at 5.50, my cellphone woke me up. I switched on the radio, and heard ‘Vande mataram’ and ‘subhashitam’ from the Thiruvananthapuram AIR station — for the first time in a decade.

Nothing had changed. The signature tune, the background scores for the programmes, even Baldevanand Sagar who read the Sanskrit news! I can say for sure the most common Sanskrit sentences in Kerala are “Samprati vaartaaha shruyantam. Pravaachakaha Baladeva-nanda Sagaraha.” (You are listening to the news. Read by Baldeva-nand Sagar)

Long back, our days started listening to that. Grandma was very par-ticular about that, and she regularly woke me up to switch on the radio for her. Doordarshan was hardly a competition for AIR, but cable television was. TV channels were evolving by the day, but AIR never bothered to change.

Thank God it didn’t, for I wasn’t just hearing the radio. Familiar tunes, familiar voices, even songs! I was reliving those moments, of home food, before we were spoiled by the fast food served in satellite dishes.

Bahujana hitaya, bahujana sukhaya...

It's over, isn't it?

Finally, the verdict is out. The fine print is yet to be out, and it will take some time for the radicals to interpret. But, the embers won’t be burning, at least till then.

I was in my first standard when the incident happened. Three images — some people over the mosque, Lal Krishna Advani, and ruffians with saffron headbands — are still vivid in my mind. The mosque picture was on the paper on December 7, 1991. The rest was in the India Today issue that came next week.

I always craved for a holiday, but I somehow sensed that the strike on December 7 — anyway a Saturday — was not for good. Back in school on Monday, my classmates were animatedly talking about the incidents, giving out their own versions, with no much idea of the actual event. I asked my class teacher and mentor why they did so, and she replied: “People are out of their mind.”

There were riots, and bomb blasts followed. Talks among elders back home, and their reactions on the event and the incidents that followed, galvanised the fact in my mind that radicals are to be kept away from your company, and radical thoughts away from your mind. I still stick to it.

Years went by, and December 6 went past without any trouble. But the skies were turning dark lately. A compartment was burnt, then Mahatma Gandhi’s land burned. But I considered myself lucky, being I Kerala, the heartland of the Leftist-secularist thoughts. I got a rude awakening recently.

A professor’s hand was hacked for using the name Mohammed. The skies have indeed turned dark. Radicals are everywhere.

History proves that their thirst for evil is never quenched. The verdict turns to be an interim relief. At least until the radicals come up with another reason for bloodshed.

Hey Ram...

Onam, me, and certain thoughts

It was 1.45 am when Aral took me to the bus stand. The next bus to Chennai was at 2, which didn’t turn up. The next bus was at 4.30 am. A two-and-a-half-hour wait at the deserted bus stand, with biting cold and mosquitoes testing my fever-hit physique. I can endure things worse than this, but can’t afford the prospects of staying back in Bangalore during Onam…

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say. I longed for Onam like never before after I started living on my own. Lonely life in Chennai had made me terribly homesick, and I looked forward for the day. To make it appear nearer, a dear friend advised me to count just Sundays! There was another reason also — it had been a year since grandma died, and I had to be there to do the rituals. I couldn’t sleep in the train. Then I heard the sweetest voice I heard that year — that of a railway announcer: “Palakkad Junction welcomes you.” I rolled on, to sleep with a smile…

Four Ms and an O — Mammootty, Mohanlal, Mundu, Moustache and Onam — define a Malayalee, say my colleagues. For a person like me who has spent his first 22 years of his life in Malluland, Onam comes integrated within. It was a part of my life, always.

As a child, anticipation for the festivities would begin in August. Independence Day was a precursor. Then, like the big hurdle before the finishing point, would come the first quarter series of examinations — what we would call Onam exams.

The relief of the exams getting over makes the 10-day Onam holiday sweeter. Each Onam left me with a bounty of bittersweet memories — dressing up to play the leopard and the hunter; toy guns with rolls of fire rounds we call ‘pottaz’; a set of imported sketch pens; an envelope full of stamps; my childhood sweetheart; lonely nights at my grandma’s place; her death; my first homecoming after I moved out… And there was grandpa ready to put the mandatory swing on the big mango tree.

He left us last December. As per matriarchal tradition, my family should abstain from festivities for a year. I still don’t know what got into my head — maybe the growing up part had robbed the fervor for the festivity — but I decided that I won’t go home this time.

Life has taken us, the ‘kids’ of the family, to various places. We were too busy to bother about pleasures of the yore.

It didn’t take long to realise that I was wrong. I was turning restless. Then, my aunt called — an invitation to spend the eve of Onam at her place, in Vellore, six hours away from Bangalore. She was in no position to take a leave for Onam on Monday. My cousin in Chennai too was coming down. So I took the early-morning trip, braving the fever and the cold.

We had a good Onam feast. Onam songs playing from the computer and the special programmes in Malayalam channels did provide an ambience. Then, a call came from Malluland.

“We’re off to the temple. It’s only the two of us here,” said my cousin sister.

I should have been there, but here I am, miles away from what Onam means to me — my village, my home, my dear and near. I painfully realise that I am still a nostalgic, emotional fool. I still crave for my Onam.

Commonwealth or Conman's wealth?

What would you do when your interests are at stake? You will desperately appeal to all those involved, so that you don’t lose anything. The picture is such an appeal, written by some crafty public relations executive and signed by Subrata Roy of the Sahara group, set to come out in papers of tomorrow, August 7.

“All our countrymen are feeling, talking, reacting so negatively to-wards the forthcoming Commonwealth Games at such time when they should be participating in, contributing to and celebrating it as the Grand Festival of India.”

I think either Mr Subrata Roy hasn’t properly read the draft, or he is out of his mind. Loot in the name of sports has been going on for quite some time; and we have superstars like IPL’s Modi; but this is something different.

Those involved in the commonwealth games were looting our money, which includes the four-digit tax I paid last week. India, half of whose population is struggling to meet even their daily ends, spending astronomical sums on such events is itself a crime — yes, I stick to the word. And it’s official that the government has diverted funds meant for the development of the backward classes towards this sham game.

“I am asking in all humility and cordiality whether for the wrongs of maybe a hundred people should the hopes & aspirations of 1.2 billion people be crushed,” goes the advertisement. Whose aspirations? Of the soldier in Siachen, who is fighting the biting cold and death in chilling terrain? Of the farmer in Kerala, who is crying over his flooded lands because our government had no funds to build stormwater canals? Or of the urban youth, who are hooked to their cellphones and gadgets, blissfully unaware of what is happening in the rest of the country?

The advertisement agrees that the media is doing its job, but goes on to say that the “media has already overdone it, causing a very big damage and maligning the image of the country”. My foot! When somebody starts looting your home when there is a function going on, what would you do Mr Subrata Roy? Stop the burglar or enjoy the function? Don’t you feel ashamed to put the blame on the media while the fact is that the ‘babu’s behind the scam are the ones who were “maligning the image of the country”?

We all know that public memory is short. And it is really sorry to see our nation’s image getting a dent, but I sincerely believe that this is the perfect time to bring up the issue. You strike the iron when it is hot. Once the games are over, media will stray to other hot topics, and this too will be sidelined — like Satyam’s Raju displaced by Lalit Modi; and Modi himself by Kalmadi.

As for the proper conduct of the event, those who are really interested in the development of sports and games will relentlessly work towards it, and they will have the support of the citizens. But sponsors are there not for the victory of sports, but for their share in the accounts and newspapers.

“The immediate need is to create an exceedingly positive environment for the present organizers,” goes on the release. I am sorry to say, but my biased mind understood it as “shut up and let the games continue, so that organisers like us can get what we want”. Let the loot go on!

Fight or flight

Here is a story about a complex situation of feeling desperation, pain and anxiety together. Ever been in such a scene? My friend did. Yesterday, mid-air!

She was on her flight to Delhi, when a co-passenger war transforming from indecent to bully to groper to sociopath. It started slowly as encroaching her seating space. Then gradually he made the two seats next to her as his personal reclining space. Then his hands began to have certain ‘innocuous’ movements.

Panicked, she stood up and asked the not-so-gentle man to behave properly. He did not. She pushed the ‘panic button’ and air-hostesses came running. Seeing their short skirts, our bully turned even aggressive. He started manhandling them; even tore the shirt of one; and turned to my hapless friend.

His arms were at her throat, when — here enter the villains of the story — she begged for help to a duo sitting in front of her. One was as old as her father and the other of her elder brother’s age. She pleaded in Malayalam, English and Hindi, but the too-gentle men did not move a finger.

Then my friend decided to take the matter in her own hands — literally. With all the power she had, she punched the sociopath on his face. That was more than enough to push him out of the way. She moved out of the place, and demanded to see the captain of the flight. Then she saw another girl, sobbing.

The girl was apparently our bully’s first victim. She silently suffered. Then the groper confidently turned to my friend, but she was definitely not willing to be a prey.

The entire cabin crew came there and warned the guy that they have the power to take the flight back and dump him at the boarding point. They asked the passengers if they have any objection. Only two passengers had problem — you guessed it right — the oldie-youth duo!

She moved to the executive class, but the bully followed her there too. Then the cabin crew intervened, dragged him back and made sure that he will not create any more trouble.

The flight landed safely, but my friend was far from safe. Our bully had turned vindictive now, and started following her. She hid in a cloth store. By that time, the flight operator had him booked.

Now please check these characters.

1. My friend: She valued her esteem and modesty, and decided to speak and act for her. A lesson for all females and a threat for all the unmentionables in the garb of males. I feel proud to be her friend.

2. The sociopath: Hidden among most men, the sex-starved bullies come out when a woman is conveniently close. The ones in costly attire start with lecherous talk, the crude ones believe in action. Products of improper guidance, deserve asylums.

3. The sobbing girl: Specimen of the silently-suffering femininity. Such behaviour often provides the undesirable confidence to the sex-starved bullies to continue their filthy ways.

4. The oldie-laddie duo: They qualify to be the real villains of the story. The greatest deterrent for any bully from misbehaving is the chance of good thrashing from real men. It’s bad enough that these two didn’t care to help a helpless girl, but they were also against diverting the flight to the starting point. They were not only cowardly, but selfish also. A shame for the clan of true men.

Now that you have read the post, please take the pain of typing down your observation on the aforementioned four characters. Now, for all those male chauvinists who would instantly conclude the woman in the picture ‘would have wore provocative clothes’, my friend was in a full-sleeve kurta, pyjama and had a shawl. Now don’t ask her to be tucked up from tip to toe, please.

Akshaya Tritiya, Ads and the stupid YOU

Finally, the season for the biggest farce of the year is here — Akshaya Tritiya. Grab hold of at least 10 persons who turned immensely wealthy because of the so-called lucky occasion, and I bet all 10 would be gold traders. They became rich because they did not buy gold, but they sold it. That is the power of advertisement.

Nobody knew the ‘auspicious’ occasion before 2000. Some wise guy dug up a hidden link of good luck, linked it with gold, and presto! All jewellers were lapping up the bogus. Their greatest weapon — advertisement.

"The process starts with the manufacturer or his agent coming to me with their product for a catchy advertisement. I then look at the product, assess the stupidity of the viewer on a mental scale, and create an ad with a measure more," said Joy (name changed), owner of a major advertising firm. "I make the ads, so know I should keep away from the products that I don’t need."

Going by the ethics, media should refuse to take ads that mislead the public. The saddest point is that it will not happen. Newspapers and channels survive on advertisement money, and they will neglect anything to retain it.

As an intern in a Bangalore newspaper in April 2005, I had filed a report based on a personal survey on Akshaya Tritiya, busting its tall claims of super-luck. The bureau chief of the newspaper took the copy, and it vanished into thin air. "Sorry son, but the editor did not clear it," was the explanation I got from him. The reason was apparent — it was the ad season.

To know how silly advertisements can be, just check any of the ‘male deodorant’ ads. Sadly, most of the men fall for the impossible claim of attracting all women with just a whiff of some chemicals. Yes, there were some painful realisations, LIKE THIS. Even though this is a genuine case of tricking the consumers, the press or the channels will not report this, for they will lose the crumbs fed by the multinational company in the form of ads.

Think. Did that fairness cream make you fair enough? Was that gold pendant lucky enough? Did the fruit drink energise you enough? Did you finally get to see the Bollywood beauty/hunk? NO. But you still buy those products. Advertisements are powerful enough to fool you because you allow them to do so.

Kerala Cafe's home!

Finally, I got the Kerala Cafe DVD yesterday. Every week during my elongated stay back home, I never missed a chance to peek into the local video store. Fresh titles, mostly 6-7-month-old films, were al-ready having their video releases, not Kerala Cafe.

I was hooked by the movie the day I saw that. Malayalam movies are usually late releases in Bangalore. So the first feed on any film would be the online reviews and my movie-buff journalist friend back in Pathanamthitta. All were going gung-ho over the movie. We finally saw it in a multiplex, a month after its release back home.

I wished my non-Malayalee friends could enjoy it, and badly wanted the DVD to have good subtitles. I messaged Shankar Ramakrishnan, one of the 10 directors in the project, enquiring about the subtitles. He said the festival version of the movie was subtitled and asked if it’s good. I hadn’t seen it, but I assured him I would at the very first chance.

A month passed, I was in Kerala. My cousins and relatives who missed the film were keenly awaiting the video release. My regular visits to the video stores didn’t yield any result. After 50 days, I came back to Bangalore, into the routine of bylines and deadlines. Before starting the shift that Saturday, I took a walk to a video store in Brigade Road. I was just browsing through the Malayalam titles as always, and there it was: both in DVD and VCD!

Back home by 1am, I hit the buttons of our DVD player. Sleep could wait. Sadly, the subtitles inserted by the DVD-makers were a bit disappointing. Maybe because of the beautiful impression cast by the movie on me, but I seriously think even I would have done a better job.

However, even the average subtitles couldn’t let me stop enjoying the movie. A good work. I love it.

Fifty days of solitude

I was packing my stuff yesterday, when Sandip called. After a 50-day forced vacation, I was going back to my three-year-old routine. “Hmm, so your 50 days of solitude is over, eh,” he asked. “Aliya,” I said. “You just gave me the perfect headline for a long-pending desire to write something on my stay.”

Except for my cousin’s marriage and the associated short trips, everything was pretty much the same: liquid diet, TV and visitors. And the toughest part was the third. When they come to see me, my mother promptly inform them that I am not in a position to either speak properly or eat any solid food. Even then, they wouldn’t avoid the mandatory question, “How did this happen?” Everybody wants to know from my mouth, which I couldn’t open at all. I would try to mutter something, accompanied by my gestures, and they would promptly reply in sign language to keep quiet! Funny, they ask me to speak, and when I start, they gesture to stop instead of saying!

Brushing my teeth was another problem. I could manage to clean the outer portion of my teeth. For the inside, I had to use a mouthwash that tasted horrible. Food, strictly liquid, was once in two hours: mostly milk, juice or rice porridge.

Speaking problem had limited my movements outside home. After four long weeks, my parents allowed me two days out. It was my cousin's marriage. There also, I had to go frequently to get my cup of juice. Of course, all my relatives there came and asked about my condition. My parents and the doctor wanted me to be quiet, but I ended up describing my fall to every other person. The worst part was when they finished the feast and asked me "Did you have lunch?" and the quick "Oh, sorry!"

Meanwhile, I also managed to find a few hours to brush up my driving skills. Yes, it was tough convincing my parents, especially my father, who wouldn’t give even his bicycle to me. They were also worried over the deaths and mishaps that continued to occur in our social circle. After a few days, came the Utsavam.

For the past seven years, my Utsavam started with a slow walk with my ailing grandfather to the temple ground, where he would happily see all the festivities. I would escort him back home and roam around till midnight, till ‘Aaraattu’. This time, I did not feel like even stepping out of my house. I lay lazily that evening, flipping the channels. By nine, I had a change of mind. I loaded my camera and went out. I could not miss the ‘Aaraattu’. But my closed mouth kept away the most important part of the festival from me: sugarcane!

All these days, I had a wish to go and see the famous lighthouse in Kollam, but could not. Something or the other used to come up everyday to alter my plan. But I finally managed to go there, on the eve of my departure. A bird’s-eye view of my town, the sea and the new port was simply superb.

My grandfather was my granny’s only company during daytime. Indu would be at the college and my parents would be at their respective workplaces. After his death, I was there, bound to my house due to the injury. Not anymore. I was leaving, after 50 days with her. I was feeling kind of uneasy. Then, Sreeraj came. We had a chat, and he suddenly came up with the idea of a last-minute game of business, the Indian version of Monopoly. We were re-living our school days, and it lifted my mood greatly. I could happily board the bus.

There was still fog when the bus stopped at Madiwala this morning. But Tony warned me that the days are hot, hotter than even the ever-sweating Chennai. Took some time to tidy up my cabin and settle down. Here I am, in my office, still waiting for that proper bite. Back to boring Bangalore days, back to my boring routine. One thing is for sure. Unless there is an emergency, I’ll have to wait much longer for my next trip back home.

A (girl) student's suicide: Live

The news was more than enough to make a dreary evening lively. Channels were hotly telecasting the shocking news that plus-two student Shweta Krishnan has committed suicide, or she was about to...

With a fervour you feel when you get a prize catch, the star newsreader of our times adjusted his spectacles and made his usual high-pitch talk on the matter. "The incident happened just a few minutes ago. Shweta Krishnan, student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, bunked her classes to go to a movie with two others. In the evening, when she returned to get her books, her class-teacher caught her red-handed and scolded her in a VERY VERY (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used) harsh manner," he continued with dramatic pauses.

"She was sent to the hostel after that. Now the question is did she commit suicide or not. We are restraining ourselves form giving out the name of this school at First Cross, Ragaramapura, Vishwa Samaj Road, Karol Bagh, Delhi -110005, because we value privacy and uphold journalistic ethics higher than other news channels. Our associate to the deputy assistant chief news editor Charkha Butt is on line with more details and exclusive visuals of... er.. a possible suicide," he continued.

"Charkha.... Charkha, what are the latest updates? Is the student dead? Has she committed suicide?"

"Yes, Aplomb. I'm here, right at the gate of the girl's hostel. They have RESTRICTED (capital letters to emphasise the tone that she used) us from entering the compound. The gate is still closed, but we can see the gathering of girls at the respective balconies of the respective floors. They seem to be waving at me... (chuckles, but changes tone suddenly) but actually they are crying for media help. According to the very few text messages from some of the girls inside who have mobile phones, Shweta had bolted the door of her room. As of now, her death is not confirmed, Aplomb."

"OK Charkha, let's leave the matter of her death for a moment. What was the subject she bunked? Was she scoring low in that subject? Was there a potential harassment from the particular teacher? Which theater did she go to after bunking the class? Which was the film? Who all were there with her?"

"(uff!) Aplomb, four hours is too long for any subject, so I don't think that matter is relevant. As for the theaters, sources are giving different names. Anyway, our cameramen are there in all these theatres to catch girl students in uniform, so that we don't miss any other potential suicides. Most of our sources are sticking to English films."

"(English, eh?) OK Charkha... These two persons who were with Shweta... were they men? Were they seated together? Our viewers are anxious to know more details about it!"

"One was a man and the other was a lady, both clad in jeans and T-shirt... that's what our sources say. They left the from the school in a car. After the school, they went to a restaurant and had food. No more details are available now, Aplomb."

"Thank you, Charkha. Our correspondent Manjith Mental is on the phone. He's inside the hostel now with more details. Let me remind our viewers that we are restraining ourselves form giving out the name of this school at First Cross, Ragaramapura, Vishwa Samaj Road, Karol Bagh, Delhi -110005, because we value privacy and uphold journalistic ethics higher than other news channels. Now, Manjith is with us..."

Screen changes, Shweta beams on the left side, Manjith on the right.

"Manjith, what are the updates on her death... er.. attempt to suicide? Manjith? Manjith.... Manjith (you) Mental... Looks liker there is a technical difficulty."

"Keepp.. beep.. bopp..blurrrrrrrrrrrlrl.. Aplomb."

"Manjith.. Manjith, did you manage to get inside the girls hostel?"

"Yes Aplomb, I'm inside. Shweta's room is still closed. Hostel warden and other students are standing outside."

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room flashed on the screen alternatively.

"OK Manjith. Who is this warden? How old is she? How does she look like?"

"APLOMB (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used), she's a lady of close to forty years... Mrs Bakshi... good-looking modern lady. Girls call her aunty."

"Ok, what does aunty say about Shweta's attempt to suicide?

"As of now, I could not talk to her, Aplomb. She's talking over two cellphones at the same time now. Girls are beating at the door of the room shrieking Shweta, Shweta, Shwe.."

"Thank you Manjith. Now tell us whether this girl Shweta had any affair. Now we can safely assume that she went to the movie with a boy, and they were roaming around the city for quite some time before they went to a rest.. er... hotel. Did they take a room in that hotel? How long did they spend there? What was the room number? Which hotel?"

"Aplomb, there is a possibility of an affair, Shweta being a plus-two student. But no details are available right now, I'll get back to you as soon as I get any information."

"Thank you Manjith. We'll take a short break, but don't go away dear viewers. We'll be right back with more details and exclusive visuals of the suicide... issue of seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city. Stay tuned."

Three ads: A car screeched in one, Aplomb screeched in the other two.

Ads over. "Welcome back to the details of the most sensational suicide issue of our times, which has the entire country at her toes," Aplomb started in a higher pitch, but halted. Screen was flashing 'TIMELY IMPACT' (capital letters because they actually used that).

"In a fresh development, youth wing of a major opposition party staged a protest march in front of the hostel demanding the resignation of the Union Education Minister, claiming that the education ministry was responsible for the increasing number of suicides of girl students in the country. They, they, they... the reports say the march turned violent. The protesters destroyed the gates of both the school and the hostel, and the youth wing of the ruling party came to counter them. Police did a lathi-charge. Twenty persons, mostly onlookers, are admitted in various hospitals." Aplomb was really charged up.

"Now, in the very first reaction on this issue from the officials, EXCLUSIVE on our channel, the Chief Minister has revealed EXCLUSIVELY on our channel that she will declare a judicial enquiry on the issue. She has exclusively informed us that the Union Education Minister will visit the school and the hostel as part of a preliminary enquiry," Aplomb finished in one breath, proudly. (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used)

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room kept coming on screen every 3-4 minutes.

"Charkha Butt is with us with more details on Shweta's death. Tell us Charkha... Charkha?"

"Yes, Aplomb."

"Charkha, what is happening there? Did seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, finally commit suicide?"

"Aplomb, we still haven't got any conformation of her death. The room is still closed."

"Now, there is absolutely no chance of opening the door if Shweta has actually committed suicide. Ok Charkha. Depending on the situation there, can you elaborate on the possible methods of a suicide? Is there a chance of writing a suicide note?"

"Aplomb, there is no chance of jumping down from the building of the ladies hostel, because Shweta has locked the room from inside. There is no chance for poisoning also, because the move was a result of a sudden impulse caused by the terrible rebuke allegedly made by her teacher..."

A beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students in front of the room kept coming on screen every 3-4 minutes, now with a blood-stained knife on the background. Music matches that of a horror movie.

"OK Charkha. So, that leaves the possibility of a hanging or, or, or cutting her veins using a blade...."

"But think of it, Aplomb. If that suicide really happens, won't the class-teacher be blamed? Isn't it time for these disciplinarians to mind their words? Will they realise how much a student is hurt when they abuses them verbally?" Charkha was fuming."Why are these so-called moralists against teenage love..."

"Excuse us Charkha, Manjith is on the phone with exclusive details."

Beaming Shweta and the hind-portion of the girl students. Blood stains thicker, background music louder.

"Tell us, Manjith. Who was Shweta's lover? How many hours did they spend in the hotel room?"

"Aplomb, the Principal of the school is with us..."

"Yes, Manjith. Dear viewers, the Principal of the school is with us, EXCLUSIVELY on this channel (capital letters to emphasise the tone that he used). Tell us Manjith. Is it confirmed that seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, was out with her boyfriend? Dear viewers, our conclusion that the teacher's abuse as resulted in this situation is slowly turning right."

"Aplomb, what the Principal says is..." Line cut.

"Manjith... Manjith Mental...."

"Aplomb." Manjith on the phone, voice noticeably toned down. "The Principal says Shweta's brother and sister were the ones who took her. They had come from Mumbai and had the permission of the principal. They went out for a shopping, movie and had food in a restaurant. The class-teacher had scolded her without knowing all these."

"Thank you Manjith. Charkha is with us with more details from the hostel. Tell us, Charkha. Did seventeen-year-old Shweta, plus-two student in a prestigious higher secondary school in the capital city, commit suicide?"

"Aplomb, Shweta was just taking her bath in the bathroom after latching the door from inside. She has come out now, and she's moving to the dining hall with her roommates."

"Thank you Charkha. Dear viewers, we could not include any other news till now. We'll get back to you with more news in the next bulletin at 10. Stay tuned."

(English adaptation of the short story "Oru Plus-Two Vidyarthiniyude Aatmahatya" by Ashwati Shashikumar, published in Kalakaumudi weekly, dated November 8, 2009. Found the story interesting. Under house-arrest, I had all the time to do the work)

Happy New Year

Where were you on the last days of 2009? Holidaying? At home? Office? I was experiencing my first stay in a hospital, and my maiden venture to an operation theatre! All because of a simple accident. Bike? Car? Nah, just a bicycle!

As always, I was waiting for February to come. For the past three years, my visits to home was either in a February or a September. But grandpa passed away unexpectedly. After a tiring journey, I was in Kollam on the day before Christmas, to see the frozen remains of the man who took care of my childhood. All the relatives were there, and the bosses were kind enough to grant me leave. I was supposed to be back in Bangalore after six days, but had a fall on the last day of my stay.

Early morning on the sixth day, the date of my return trip, we were heading towards the cremation ground to collect ashes for the post-burial rituals. Hartal had limited our entourage to five two-wheelers, all occupied, which left me with a bicycle. I was speeding, there was a bump on the road, the cycle skidded, I was hurled forward. That split-second wasn't enough for me to bring my arms forward. I landed on my chin.

"Keee..." blew a low whistle inside my ears. I managed to get up, but couldn't hear anything. Somebody came running towards me, caught hold of my shaking physique and made me sit on a concrete slab. By then, it was complete blackout. After a minute, I started hearing voices. Eyesight slowly returned. Maman was there, he gave me some water. My body was still trembling. I could sense something wrong with my lower jaw. The bite was just not right. Relatives took me to the hospital. There, an x-ray report confirmed my fears - a broken lower jaw!

Till then, I was praying that there shouldn't be any fracture. Now, the only thing that I didn't want was a surgery. Thankfully, the doc gave an alternative - metal braces for six weeks. OK, cool, I thought. They'll stick hinges on my teeth, tie it up, and silence! I got a rude awakening that evening, inside the operation theatre. They were going to sew the braces to my gums, and I realised it only after they injected anesthesia on my gums.

By the time they finished the embroidery work with metal wires on my upper gum, the drug's effect on the lower gum ran dry. They poked the needle, I screamed, and they injected the drug again...

After three days in the hospital and loads of injections (as I couldn't eat the pills), I landed back home. The picture is clear now. For the next six weeks, no eating, no speaking. Just drinking and, of course, typing!

Sangeetha Theatre

It was drizzling when we hurriedly entered the premises of Manoranjan Theatre. A moment ago, we were racing the maddening traffic. Inside, the atmosphere was totally different from any Bangalore theatre, but very familiar.

It was not like any of the single-screens in Bangalore. The big compound, stone-tiled walls, the silence, the long range of hard chairs inside the small hall and the glass slides projecting local advertisements were vastly different, but strikingly familiar. I felt I was inside Sangeetha Theatre.

There were three movie theatres in our village. Sangeetha was the closest to my home; hardly ten-minutes by foot. My early movie memories are bonded with Sangeetha; a perfect specimen of old-world talkies. Tatched roof, bamboo walls and a large white cloth tied up in the end of the hall.

The earliest movies I can recall is Balachandra Menon’s Njangalude Kochu Doctor and Adoor’s renowned film Mathilukal. A screeching table bell announced the start of the show. Screenings usually started with ad slides and then a Film’s Division documentary.

Going to films then was a family outing. The entire assembly would definitely count more than ten. Even as a child, I never slept during the second shows. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and peanuts was the trademark. I liked it more than the AC perfume of Capithan’s, Sangeetha’s biggest competition in the locality.

Going to the town for a movie was more of an annual privilege, which came mostly during the summer vacations. It would be either my father, who came once in two years, or one of my uncles who took us to the movies.

Folks back home cleverly waited for a superhit movie to come in either of the local theatres, so that they can avoid the pain of taking the platoon all the way up to the town. Going to the movie hall with friends was strictly forbidden. (I had to wait till my plus-two classes to get a sanction.)

College was anarchy. Frequent strikes, frequent flow of money and all the time in the world left me a regular theatre guy. Even then, I had to be careful, because I always had a chance of bumping into an acquaintance. News would reach home in no time, as the town was very small, my family was big, and all the elders maintained their contacts well.

But that didn’t deter me from enjoying my new-found freedom. Theatres in the town -- Grand, Prince, Pranavam, Archana, Aradhana, Dhanya -- all became my current Sangeethas.

On such a day in 2002, blessed with college strike, I went to Kumar, the oldest A-class theatre in the town. The owners had painstakingly maintained the old appearance of the theatre. I suddenly remembered that the last time I stepped in was during the summer vacation of 1996, with my parents.

The next year, I attended first film festival for the first time -- in Thiruvananthapuram.

By then, Sangeetha was shut down due to losses. Cable TV and video piracy had made the run-down theatre an unattractive option for the families nearby. The commemoration shields of hit films in the 80’s, which decorated its office, were sold off as scrap. The theatre was pulled down. By then, my graduation classes were also over and I moved out of Kollam in 2005.

The very first day of our journalism classes in Kottayam, we made a plan to go for a second show. New Sangeethas were waiting for me in the town. But the strict schedule had forced us to be choosy on films. And the town had film festivals hosted by various colleges, giving us frequent glimpses of World Cinema. My Chennaiwala classmate, an ardent movie buff, never missed any of the Tamil films, even flops, that came to town. I used to tease him, but ended up in the same situation within a few months.

June 2006, Chennai. First job. First attempt to live outside Kerala. Terribly homesick, I used to look out for Malayalam releases. Sangam Cinemas was my Sangeetha there. They used to screen Malayalam movies regularly. I was alone most of the time, as my roomie-cum-colleague had stopped going to theatres long back. Even then, I used to locate company whenever possible.

Blessing came in the form of my roommate and colleague, with his laptop and two suitcases full of DVDs of Indian and foreign films. Needless to say, my day time was spent well!

Next June, I moved to Bangalore. Here, I found Sangeeth, which regularly screened Malayalam movies. But it was like any other city theatre — bang in the middle of the crowd. And, by chance, we found ourselves in Manoranjan.

The big compound, stone-tiled walls, the silence, the long range of hard chairs inside the small hall and the glass slides projecting local advertisements were vastly different from the regular screens, but strikingly familiar. After long, I was reliving the old days. I was inside Sangeetha Theatre.

Remember, remember, 26th of November

It’s been a year, and I still remember every single detail as if it was yesterday. November 26, 2008, was the day I realised the thrill of being in a newsroom.

My journalism teacher once said: "Bad news is good news for us." Inhuman, you would say. But that is a fact. The otherwise sloppy office of the business paper for which I work turned literally abuzz with real updates of copies during the evening of that fateful Wednesday, and the three days that followed. All spoke of only the death toll of soldiers, terrorists and civilians.

The first visual I saw was the TV grab showing the shooting at Leopold Cafe. Then, news agency tickers began to stream in. 10 dead, VT station attacked; 20 dead, Oberoi under siege; 30 dead, attackers enter Taj... My paper, which always winds up before midnight, was active till 3 in the morning.

The report was re-written umpteen times before finalising the death toll at 70. Picture of the terrorist who was shooting at VT station was ditched because we had no confirmation about it. Next day, almost all newspapers had that face, which became later the face of terrorism: Kasab.

We went to sleep thinking that the operation would be over by next morning. It didn’t happen. India stood still for the next three days.

Fierce incidents have happened before in our country, but this was the biggest that had happened after visual media was infested by private players. Print and internet were far behind in competition. Journalists, including me, was literally celebrating the event, while general public, including my family, was mourning; praying.

Sad, but true. November 26, 2008, was the day I realised the thrill of being in a newsroom.

Goodbye, dear writer...

Ambazhathil Karunakaran Lohithadas

Born: May 10, 1955
Died: June 28, 2009

Bloopers in print

Scene 1
Place: Room No. 42, Airlines Hotel, Bangalore
Characters: R, U, M, K and me
Time: 12.30 am
(three on the bed, M on a chair. U is leaning on the wall, R reclining, K and me sitting cross-legged. Scene opens in the discussion)

U: (lights a cigarette) Mistakes happen everywhere yaar. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

R: (sits up on the bed, smiling) Listen, jab mein Express mein tha, tab I was put on sports pages once. Two days I did fine. On the third day, there was this shooting match in Hyderabad. There was this guy Rathore, there was Narang... and Narang scored a second. I made the page, and was stuck with the headline. I typed ‘Rathore roars, Narang loses.’ White space phir bhi baaki tha, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints.’ Even then there was white space, so I typed ‘Narang disappoints again’ and increased the font size. The next day, my news editor called up. (changes the tone, says animatedly)
"Ram, Narang had scored yesterday. And you say disappoints?"
"No sir!"
"He had won national and international tournaments before, and you say disappoints again?!!"
"No sir!!"
"Will you do this? Again?"
"No sir!!!"
(whole group laughs)

U: (smiling) Ek baar na maine ek photo pe gapla kiya tha. In DC. Ram Reddy had bought 5 two-seater jets. So we published this photo of a firang and Reddy standing in front of an aircraft. Maine page kiya, showed it to the seniors, and send it for printing. I was in an auto on my way back ke Olga ne phone kiya, "arre, you’ve put the caption wrong. Ram Reddy is the right wala guy, but you’ve put it left!" Man! I asked the autowala "turn kar turn kar" and rushed to the office.

R: Tu ne K ka Sania story sunaa hai? (turning to K, smiling) Bol na.

K: Bataa, tu bataa.

R: There was this one-day match in Hyderabad, theek hai? And our K went to cover it. Now, there were sports reporters to cover the match, toh he had to pick the side-stories. Toh he decided to go for the celebrities who came to the match. Nagarjuna tha, Venkatesh tha, yeh tha, woh tha.. (a small pause) Sania Mirza thi. Copy file kiya, print nikla. The very next day, there was another statement from Sania Mirza, from Delhi! She was playing a match there!

K: What happened is that I saw a spectacled girl in the VIP section, who looked like Sania. I checked with a Telugu newspaper guy and he confirmed it: "Ya, ya, Sania was there." Phir maine socha ki will check the photos in the office and confirm. I was back in the office and was busy with some another stuff."

U: (interfering )And it went unnoticed.

K: Nahi, everybody knew it. They knew it. But nobody made it an issue. They were short of staff, so they didn’t want me out. Koi aur hota toh he would’ve been screwed.

Me: Even I also had made such a thing. When I had joined DC as a trainee. What they made me to do was international pages. (looking at U) You know how that is, right? (U nodds). Delhi se aata hai, you just have to change the masthead from AA to DC and the placeline. The page came, I changed it, showed it to seniors and sent it to print. Next day was my off. I came the day after, they showed me the page. Top story, eight-column banner headline "Iraq prepares for attack." It was supposed to be Israel, not Iraq!
(laugh)

Me: And a week after, a new girl came for a test and interview. After the test, she came, sat near my desk and picked up the very same paper from the pile. "Iraq prepares for attack? Can’t be. This is a mistake," she told me. "Ya, there is a sub here. Stupid. It’s his handiwork."
(laugh)

M: There are bigger goof-ups in these stringer copies. Once, when I was in Kochi, I got this copy of an elephant creating ruckus. The story went like this "The elephant went into fields, did this.. that.." and last sentence was like this: "...and the elephant went back to sleep!"
(gathering is roaring with laughter)

Me: Two weeks ago even I edited something like this. It was about somebody committing suicide over the LTTE issue. The line was "the deceased person was arrested earlier for committing suicide on the same issue!"

R: (giggling): Really?

U: See (lights a cigarette) I told you na. There are enough stuff to write a book on it. (leans on the wall)

Back to inch 14

Finally, the last piece, the 29-inch TV, was packed this morning. We had an instant replacement: our 14-inch grainy, tiny Khind. But there was a huge gap in the TV cabinet. And after six-month-long big-screen TV watching, our tiny Khind seemed even tinier. Size does matter.

Interestingly, both the TVs were bought by Aby. Khind was our solitary source of entertainment when we moved into our present home. We were happy with the grainy pictures within the 14-inch frame. Then Aby and Mithun went for a mega electronics shopping. With marriage due, Aby chose a good offer of a TV-DVD player-home theatre system combo for 15K. And that changed everything.

The tiny Khind was dumped next to the newspaper stack, and we never bothered to dust it even once. Music, movies, even TV programmes were booming in good-quality sound. Then Aby’s marriage was confirmed. DVD player and home theatre system was packed on Tuesday. We saw programmes big-screen for one last time on Wednesday morning.

We always knew that the set would go to Aby’s new home, but actually seeing Khind taking over the TV cabinet was a little hard to digest. Looked like a squirrel in a bulldog’s kennel. Why do I feel like turning philosophical?

Empty rack

There are six racks in our TV-stand cabinet, three each on each side. The topmost one on the left was emptied the day before. Seeing it empty, I felt uneasy. It was Aby’s rack.

Departures from our original family is nothing new to us. Vinod, a.k.a Thomman, left first. After passing some months in a call centre, he got a job in Baroda, and was later transferred to Mumbai. Then Raku left for Doha, to be under the shelter of his family.

But then, we never felt the void. Lal and Jeeson replaced the first two vacancies. And there lies the problem. Replacement may come for Aby, but our home would never be the same. (And with him, leaves our big-screen TV-home theatre system-DVD player trio, our present source of entertainment!)

Me, Mithun and Aby met at MASCOM, when we had absolutely not idea of what’s waiting for us in the future. He moved to Madurai, Mithun to Kochi and me to Chennai. The only thing that he knew then was that his girlfriend would be his wife, come what may.

Then, by coincidence, our career lead us to the same organisation. Mithun landed in Bangalore first, he next, followed by me. And we moved to this house. What makes him different is his uncanny ability to irritate. No matter how calm and composed you are, you are sure to blow your fuse, once he starts enjoying irritating you. That had a major role in making our den ever-lively.

He’ll lose his 'bachelority' this weekend. Another phase in his life, we are part of his run to make that phase easy, or rather less tough. Seeing this, the only thing that comes to our mind is the unknown pack of cards waiting for us. And like photographer said once, the cards choose us.

Summer showers

Mid-summer showers...

Branches bowing with the weight of mangoes...

A hand playfully moving between the serial drops...

Droplets streaming down the eyebrows, cheeks...

All these are pulling my mind miles away...

Marriage: A reality check

What’s the first thing you should secure after your marriage is fixed? I’d say a ready source of fund above Rs 80,000. That’s the minimum amount you have to pay in advance for a rented house. This is not for the lucky few who’s well settled in their hometowns with a properly arranged marriage and attached ‘gifts’ from in-laws. This is for guys like us who make a living far away from their hometown. And if yours is a love marriage, the situation turns tougher.

We are facing such a situation. Aby’s getting married this May to his sweetheart for six years. She has secured a job as a teacher in Bangalore. For the last few days, the mission was to find a decent house that’s big enough and affordable.

Priorities were many. It has to be sufficiently close to the girl’s workplace, monthly rent has to be below Rs 7,000, it has to be big enough to accommodate the frequenting relatives and the area should be safe and decent.

It seemed houseowners in Bangalore still have no clue about how big the recession is. They were ready to give the usual concession for families, nothing more than that. A one bedroom-house-kitchen still commanded rates as high as Rs 15,000 even in the not-so-posh areas. And sub-5,000 places were shabby like hell.

But he managed to find a decent den, big enough and affordable. And the landlady was ready to cut the advance amount also. He’s finally setting up his home this May.
After all the mad rush, he heaved and said: “Better go for a properly arranged set-up, and make sure that the girl gets good salary!”

Aby was always sure that she would be his life partner. Luckily, the risks associated with love marriage were mitigated in their case. With no plans like that, my cards look blank. Whatever the likes of Karan Johar and Yash Chopra say, ‘shaadi’ is still a matter of money as long as you care how you live.

You must vote

To vote or not. My blogger friend was in a dilemma. I seriously don’t think that’s a dilemma at all. Even if you are totally in dark of the smallest political news in circulation, you should go and vote, unless all the candidates share an equally shady history.

I believe you are not eligible to crib about the state of the nation unless you exercise your franchise. Sadly, I missed my chance this time. With the weekend exams going on and the office running on skeletal staff, taking a two-day off to go and cast your vote was a strict no-no.

Elections had always fascinated me. In childhood, the colourful campaigns and posters generated interest. Later, it was the political equations and personal leanings. The old-fashioned bullock-cart-and-drums appeal were still there during my kindergarten days. I still remember S Krishnakumar waving from his car that went past our house after being elected as Kollam MP for the third time in 1991. He was in Congress then.

My first chance to vote came in the Lok Sabha elections of 2004. CPI(M)’s P Rajendran got my vote. I stood faithful to my family’s Left leaning. And PR was truly worthy for my vote.

Next chance came in the Assembly elections 2006. I cast my vote and came home, only to face my Chittappan and his wife disappointed. Staunch Left supporters, both were not in the voters’ list.

Had I been home now, this would have been my third vote. Hope I won’t miss it next time.

Texting thoughts, taxing thoughts

Festivals and greetings. Inseparable. Every special occasion brings a bevy of e-greetings and SMSes. This Vishu, I was a bit worried. Every greeting message was testing the memory limits of my 1100. What’s the big deal, delete old stuff, you’d say. There lies the problem. I love treasuring messages.

I got my phone as my father’s gift, close to Vishu three years ago. I was packing to go Bangalore for my internship. As I was leaving home on my own for the first time, my concerned parents deemed mobilephone as an unavoidable accessory to keep in touch and to boost my job-hunting.

Greetings for that year’s Vishu flowed in as my number went around the circle of family and friends. Handling a cellphone for the first time, I never bothered to delete any message. By the time I finished my three-week internship, my inbox was full. Then I decided to retain only greetings.

Three years and innumerable messages later, my mobilephone has been flashing ‘No space for new messages’ text increasingly these days. For the past one year, I had retained enough capacity for just one more fairly large message. And when the inflow goes past the limit, I start editing.

Usual ‘hi-hello’ and ad messages were deleted on the spot. Then there were some messages with no names. The senders had changed their numbers and I had deleted the old contact details, making the messages unrecognisable and easy prey for my deleting exercise.

Now, that chance is also becoming slim, but incoming messages are not. This Vishu, I had no choice but to cut ‘repeat texts’ sent by more than one contacts. Time to change the phone? Nah! My model was the simplest and the most user-friendly model available. This model has the habit of making its owners fall in love with it. I remember a colleague grieving online about replacing her 1100. Other than the limited memory for contacts and SMSes, my phone was as good as new. Sturdy and simple, it has braved many big falls from my hand.

It currently has 72 SMSes in its inbox, an insignificantly small number when compared to the high-end phones available at cheaper rates. The oldest one came three years back from Mathew during my internship days, warning about the ruckus in Bangalore after the death of Rajkumar.

That was two days before Vishu. Will I be still treasuring my 1101 next Vishu? Let’s see.

Vishu

I woke up, sprang up from my bed and stared at the phone. It was 4 am. Phew, I made it! I was not late. I had to prepare Vishukkani.

This is my fourth Vishu in a row when I miss home. Vishu was one of the many pleasures robbed by career from many youngsters of my generation. Though not as big as Onam, Vishu had the added attraction that it came during the summer vacation.

I used to voluntarily wake up early during the vacation days then. But on the Vishu day, ammoomma would beat us all, however hard you try. There was a good reason: she had to prepare the Vishukkani. The very first sight of the auspicious Vishukkani, the silver coins from elders, the early morning bath and the walk to temple and then to my ancestral house, and the fun we shared with our cousins...

By the time we are back, we would’ve collected a huge (by the standards of a school kid) amount. There would be enormous plans about how to use it, but all the collection would promptly end in amma’s purse. This routine went on for many years. The only break I had was in 1997, when I was in Gujarat, at my uncle’s place.

Then came the Vishu of 2002. Awaiting the plus-two results, I spent the Vishu eve at my ancestral home. My aunt, who was taking care of my grandmother, was out of station. I was put in charge of the house, her son and that year’s Vishukkani. I was turning 18 that June, I was experiencing the transition from a teenager to an adult.
Then the three years in college, and by the Vishu of 2005, I had decided to take up journalism.

I was out of home on my own during my internship in 2006. My first Vishu without a Vishukkani. By the next Vishu, I was a sub-editor in a Chennai daily. I never thought twice before catching the bus to Vellore on that Vishu eve. My aunt had moved to Vellore. They were in their new home. I reached there around 5 in the morning, and the very first sight I saw inside the house was a beautifully arranged Vishukkani.

I moved to Bangalore after two months. Then came last year’s Vishu. That time, I was hell-bent on setting up a Vishukkani. I managed it somehow, with Raku’s (remember?) chain in place of gold and a candle substituting the mandatory lamp. But I missed the most important component: the bunch of kanikkonna flower.

I played the granny, waking up each one, leading them with their eyes covered, and making sure that what they saw first that day was the Vishukkani. It wasn’t a total surprise; Raku knew it. Guys were very happy, and I was happy seeing them happy.

This year, I decided to keep every hint of Vishukkani under wraps. Mithun and Aby were out, with me left alone for precious three hours before lunch. As soon as they were out, I tiptoed to our regular vegetable stall, and there awaited my bonus of the year: A bunch of kanikkonna flowers.

I was planning to set up everything after everyone was asleep, and I dozed off. But I managed to set it up well before the first one was awake. Lal was about to spring up from the bed; it was time for him to reach the call centre. I covered his eyes just in time, and he became the first one to see the Vishukkani.

I was happy that our gang was feeling at home, but the phone calls from Kerala and the TV shows were more than enough to make me feel homesick. I know it’s pointless being nostalgic. But I still wonder where will my next Vishu be.