It’s-never-too-late sort of Happy New Year to you!

Some years back, seven or eight years, one client of the agency I was working with at that time woke up on one fine morning of the second week of January, and with some shock and horror, realised that he had not yet thought of printing a new calendar for his company. “Don’t worry! It’s not too late,” he was told, a little later in that morning, when his frantic call was answered by the agency executive. A few hours later, around 11 in the morning, I was greeted, as usual, with an ‘It’s urgent! We’ve to print and deliver it by tomorrow evening’, as I walked in to the office.

“What’s it?” I greeted the executive back, as usual again.

“ A calendar. Since we have no time, just three options will do.” Came the reply.

“Why just three? We have about a year in our hands!” I was trying my best to pretend that I still haven’t learnt how agencies work. Needless to add, I didn’t succeed at it.

A few more hours later, after a good time talking with colleagues about almost everything except a calendar over many coffees and cigarettes, the executive was informed that three options would be impossible by evening, but surely two could be delivered. The executive pretended disappointment, as that was the practice. Ask for more so that what you get wouldn’t be too less.

“The concepts are already ready. And very unique” I informed him.

“Unique too?”

“Yes. Not unique, as usual. But truly unique. Unique as in U.N.I.Q.U.E.” I could see him smelling a fish, as I announced that.

“It will have dates on it? I want all the months and all the dates on it!”

“It sure does. We don’t have enough time to shoot a pin-up calendar without dates!”

“Are you going to suggest me to buy already printed calendars and stick our client’s logo on it?” The executive had started to think creative, as he usually do when he turns to be too sceptical.

“That’s a brilliant! I never thought of it! We can keep that as the third option.” I was sincerely thrilled at the idea.

“What are your two U.N.I.Q.U.E. concepts then?” He asked, while preparing his best for the worst to come.

“A calendar that starts its dates on 21^st of March, and one that starts on 1^st of April”

“What?”

“A zodiac year calendar. Or, a financial year calendar. Our client can take his pick. And now you have figured out a third option too. In case…”

“But…”

“I told you. These are U.N.I.Q.U.E. concepts, worth to win a few awards” I beamed. I never knew these kind of calendars existed. Neither did anyone in my office or the client’s.

The conversation ended at that. The assignment was approved and eventually dropped by the client, who later realised that he can do business without a calendar of his own. And he also knew a calendar of his own wouldn’t have helped his business anyway. At least, for that year.

I had almost forgotten about this incident. Every working day in medium size advertising agencies having clients with no big budgets and/or stupid Communication Managers, is filled with such. What they say is true. Advertising is indeed fun. I remembered about this conversation, when, I was staring at this year’s calendar that sits right in front of me. I had just turned its first leaf; the dates on it starts on December 22^nd.

Another reason that prompted me to write this piece was reading my friend JM’s once-upon-a-time-an-excellent blog. “One thing I don't want to do is tell more lies to myself,” he has written. If you can count that as a resolution, it’s a very brave one. If one is honest about it, that is. The allusions about truth can be pretty tricky. For anyone. Everyone that I know of, who went searching for it ended up finding a void, namely God and its derivatives. The end seldom justifies the means. And there are people, who stop before the first rock that blocks their way.

If you are one who’s been told many times that you should take praise and criticism in the same vain, I’ll offer you my two-paisa wisdom to it. You were told very wrong. What you believed, if you had believed, is the perfect recipe for vegetation, not one that develops intellectual and emotional maturity. Laugh whenever you can, and cry when it’s must.

I could have written about something else. About the new racism raw between Indian and Australian cricket teams. Or about Tata’s new car, and why I’m ashamed of that mass exploitation, which is hailed as the greatest success of the New Indian. Or about the finest bike ride I had so far, and why that made me feel guilty. Or about the biggest joke of recent years – the new Reliance IPO. Instead, I would wish you a very happy New Year ahead. It’s at least, a lot easier. Let me add few more words about the New Year wish. It’s not going to be happy, even if billions sincerely wish so. Before calling me negative, pessimistic, cynical, or anything more, remember the fact that the year just passed on wasn’t very happy either and you were fine with it. The last day of December and the first day of January have never been too far. And things might change overnight, just might.

Sreesanth must be a commie, ponders captain Ponting

Indians are caught behind the wicket on a racist googly from none other than the masters of the game, the Australians. The majority of Indians believe the whites are superior in everything they do and fancies to imitate them to near perfection. Including, their racist behaviour. But before coming to that aspect of India Shining, let me clarify my thoughts on the alleged racist abuse against the Australian cricketer Andrew Symonds. I doubt how many people knows about his West Indian lineage; and it would be a safe assumption that the crowd were booing at his braided hair and painted lips than his tanned yet fairer skin. And it was not Symonds, but the Australian media who brought in the racist interpretation. Here Symonds is the scapegoat, and it is evident from his later comments that he realises that. He grew up in Australia, and knows a thing or two about racism.

Then I read about what the Australian captain is reported to have said. “They’re fairly passive sort of people, Indians, and he’s probably one from [the] left field.” Ponting said, referring to Indian pacer S. Sreesanth and his aggression in the field, according to the report. May be he should barter his name, Santhakumaran Sreesanth meaning ‘calm young boy of serene grace’, with Rudra Pratap Singh. Pointing has of course seen the red flags fluttering alongside the Indian national flags among the crowd in Kochi, Sreesanth’s home ground. Now, it’s not about Ponting’s commie-phobia, but about his trouble in accepting Indians not being a passive sort of people, as they are supposed to be. I’m not very sure Ponting had to say the same when he was India for the first time for a tour, in 2000 or ’01, about the girl he tried to molest in a pub. I always thought he looked a lot like that guy called George W. Bush. I know, Ponting doesn’t deserve such a huge insult.

The media, and general sentiment about the issue among the public, both in India and Australia is almost consentaneous. Indians played badly and behaved badly in the field, losing a series at home for 2-4. There was a time, not long ago, being in the Indian team required much more than talent, and a time when the players were ‘safe’ in the team in whichever manner they played. Winning was only for personal gratification of not losing, with almost no responsibility on the team. Making such an accusation is not without considering those few exceptions, but it is a just summary. Things have changed, because old ways are inadequate to sustain the fast growing business. Talent has of a little more importance in the selection criteria now.

I stopped watching test matches, ball by ball, quite a long time back. Still some of that old love is left in me. Cricket is not as charged up game as football, the first love. Well, when you put a ball between two strong legs, you ought get a good supply of testosterone, and cricket can’t match that excitement. The beauty of cricket is in its subtleties. The late cuts, or the leg break that whisks the bail off the off stump. Its beauty is in the lack of a second chance. It takes only 10 balls to finish a game, and it’s all about evading those ten deadly balls. Its beauty is in the abundance of chances. It takes only a few overs to turn the game around. A backhand half volley of Jim Courier from the baseline would inspire one to yawn, but an almost same movement before the wickets will give you a beauty of a cover drive.

Sledging is an acceptable practice in cricket. It’s no great surprise that two teams that uses it to the hilt are the now mellowed down South Africa, and Australia. “They pretend the aggression and that sort of backfired,” commented Australian coach after the India tour. To me it’s a clear admission, or claim, that Australians don’t pretend it, but mean it. “The Australians match the personal aggression with the bat and ball,” wrote enlightened Indian media. The trouble I have here is not whether Indians can use sledging successfully, or can win the game without it. My trouble is taking the argument that it is right for Australians and not for Indians, in a good sports man’s spirit. My trouble is in accepting that Australians are naturally aggressive and Indians are passive, and to buy the opinion that it should be so. It’s nothing but well accepted double standards – one so fair and one not so fair.

The Australian team is the finest among all current teams. You have records to prove that. Captain Ricky Pointing is arguably the best among the captains. They have reasonably good bowlers and about alright batsmen. They field well, and win games. The experts call it winning by playing as a team. Sledging is not personal insult, but a pressure mounting tactic, they explain. All true, from the surface. Indian bowlers are never counted as above average, that’s after beating every side they played against. When they say Indians can’t field well, they should give the extra credit to the bowlers for taking wickets without adequate field support. When they say Indians can’t field well, they shouldn’t be giving much credit to the batsmen scoring against them. When they say Australian fielding is impeccable, they should also admit each run scored by Indians against their finest bowlers is of the highest order, and worthier many times over that scored by their batsmen. But to see it like that one should evaluate the game beyond the scorecards. Winning is all that matters, they tell me. And when Indians win, they tell me Australians didn’t play their usual game.

It’s not the story of this series, it’s the same story that I’m hearing ever since I started reading sports columns. It was a very rare occasion of losing a series at home. Two of the four matches could have been won, if it were not for a few mistakes; and it would have been a 4-2 series win. That’s a lame argument in justifying the loss, but if Indians had won I would have got to read that they won by chance and sledging. I have nothing against losing, and don’t believe winning is the only thing. Indians usually win all the series matches at home, and rarely win any abroad. Indians rarely win abroad only means someone else wins at home; still, I never have read about that point of view. The people, who tell me Indians make pitches that support spin bowlers, don’t tell me all others make pitches to support their fast bowlers. This imposed feeling of guilt, and lack of self-esteem is not a very surprising thing for a nation that was colonised for over 200 years.

“Whatever logic you may say, but it’s a fact that we are way behind the Whites – in physical and psychological capabilities.” One of my good friends, who has seen a bit of the world informs me. “May be, it’s purely for socio-environmental reasons,” he adds in an attempt to cover-up the factual error in the argument. He is not alone in this view, he has got majority of Indians with him. Including most of the cricketers. And that shows on the field. With such an attitude, the best thing one can aim for is measuring up to them, once in a while, and then calling it luck. That’s why very often we end up reading Indians won because the opposition didn’t play their best game.

The induced aggression seen recently among Indian bowlers has something to credit to their coach Venkitesh Prasad. He is one who had to take it lying down during his playing career. And this attitude change should go deeper than the expressions. It can only be called a change on the day people start to accept it as not just mere pretension. And the up coming Australian tour can be a real test for it. If some of the eleven can prove it, then the rest of the billion can try to follow it.

While Australia is a topic of discussion, I would like to bring back another subject, that’s not so cricket, related to Australia. I had posted this piece sometime back, explaining the racist, genocidal policy of the Australian government, and called for to sign an online petition put up by Ridwan Laher. That post was the most visited on this blog to this day, getting more than 2000 hits for that page in a week. And hardly anyone among those visitors decided to sign the petition. I got some responses saying they are afraid that would affect their job, because the companies they work for has Australian clients. Another person wrote in and said she’s planning to travel to Australia for higher studies, and do not want to risk her visa. All you people, if wish, can sign the petition as anonymous. Still, I suggest you not to do it. A short but credible list is always more powerful than an inflated one. Those who like to spread the word through their blogs can get the banner from Tom.

Another thousand miles

Blisters on your bum can do wonders to your mind. Surprisingly in a good way, provided that you earn those burning blisters in the right way. There are quite a few such good ways on the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border. This borderline runs across the Western Ghats, which geologically is not a true mountain, but a faulted edge of the Deccan Plateau. Still, at elevations of 3000-6000 ft, the ranges sure give you a true feeling of the mountains. And monsoons are the time to ride through them, if you believe your skin is naturally waterproof.

There are ten excellent routes across the 600 km long Ghats that we have travelled, of which six are on the Kerala – Tamil Nadu border, and the rest four on the Karnataka border. Two of these routes, the Teni-Munnar and Athirapalli-Pollachi, are so frequented by us that we know them as much as we know the streets we ended up living. So much so that, the teashop owners on the route know us, and greet us with ‘It’s been a long time!’ when we pull up. Well, this time, it had been a long time indeed. Even the guard at one of the check posts exhibited his familiarity by asking, “Veettil poyittu varua, alle?” (On the way back from home, eh?) It’s a great to feel home, while on the roads.

If you ask me which is the most beautiful of these ten routes, I’d be fighting in my mind for an answer. Either the Athirapalli-Pollachi route, which has countless waterfalls by your left and right along its 40 hairpin bends, or the Bathery-Ooty route lined with majestic, centenarian Eucalyptus trees could be called the best. Then, the Teni-Munnar and the Udumalaipettai-Marayoor routes are equally good. The Tenmala-Tenkasi and Kumali-Kambam ones are not any less good. The Mysore-Mattannoor and Madikeri-Badiaduka routes too equal in their beauty. It’s a tough time deciding, and an easy time riding. By the way, there’s this overcrowded National Highway 47 that takes you from Palaghat to Coimbatore, through the dried-up, plain land gap in the Western Ghats, which we would never consider taking. All these Ghat routes are pretty much deserted. This time, we hardly saw two or three vehicles, while we were crossing the uninhabited stretches of the route.

There were a couple of unpleasant incidents too for us. In one, we tore our jackets at the elbows. No great fun. But we were happy that we didn’t buy the Rs. 17,000 jackets we had plans to buy. Then the next day morning, we maimed a son-of-a-bitch. A very bad feeling for another few hours. Still, was consoled by the thought that it didn’t tear more of our jackets, or killed that son-of-a-bitch, which didn’t listen to its mommy and was looking only one way while crossing a two-lane National Highway.

Apart from that, and a broken clutch cable – which we changed in a record time, the bike was in as good mood as ours, with its engine sounding like a song. With a puny 350cc engine that’s placed too high on the bike, a Bullet may not make a decent cruiser. Still, the machine is simple and sturdy enough to make a real good companion on the road. It rarely gives problems, and even if it does can be fixed by yourself. The only instance it gave a serious trouble in the 50,000+ km long company so far, was when one of its valves got screwed up. It took an hour to find a mechanic who knows to work on a Bullet, and he took the whole day to change the valve, granting us a great time with chilled beers after chilled beers on that boiling-hot day. The next day morning we woke up and changed the route we had planned, only to have a pretty nice surprise. Instead of a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty-Chennai, we ended up doing a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore -Madikeri-Bangalore-Chennai. Nothing to complain. The general rule we follow while riding – to ride half the days you have in one direction, and then find another route back, avoiding the roads you already have taken – proved to be the best riding plan. The extra beer was only a treat we deserved. Hope, the roads will never run out.

During monsoons, the greenery of the Western Ghats, especially the South Western montane rain forests, is contagious in every sense of the word. The lush green life almost vaporises into the air, filling it, and filling you in turn. And when the drizzling stops, the mist comes folding you in its cold, moist comfort. As the roads take you winding the hills, one after the other, cute dark green pyramids of little hills turbaned with light, lone, white clouds, play hide and seek with you. When you are riding towards west, there’s nothing much of a chance with the South Western monsoon. It will come pouring, when you least wanted it, right when the wind had dried your wet clothes from the previous shower. But when you are riding to the east, you can play chase with the hovering rain cloud, and can even beat it. On the plains, you have a better chance of winning, than on the hills where every alternate turn will take you back under the clouds. And if you stop for a tea, like the legendary, lazy rabbit, the cloud will take you over, and wait for you to finish the tea to splash its grace on you. And there are times, when you think you have almost left the clouds behind, but still at your heels, and the road takes a right turn, right in to the middle of the cloud. Right then, with a childlike excitement, the clouds shower the rains, and the losers grin a stupid grin, warning each other to be careful on the slippery road.

Once the Ghats are left behind, you are out in the scorching sun again. But, during monsoons, the clouds cover up the sun most time of the day and give you the best riding climate possible on that terrain. Still, the plains are boring in comparison, even with the fresh greenery of the fields, and swelled up rivers that unless stay as depressing stretches of sand dunes most part of the year – credits to over 50 dams that are on the South Western Ghats. When you are back on the National Highway pestered with trucks, and buses, and cars – all of them believe asphalt roads are not for bikes; bikers don’t pay toll at tolled roads, after all – there’s only one thing to look forward to, other than a truck coming against you on your lane. The evening, and the drink.

The drinking dens in Tamil Nadu are very different from the ones you see in the neighbouring states. I have written about them earlier, still they are worth telling again. Through out India, one can find same services offered in different classes, under the same roof. An economically viable colonial hangover. In trains there are up to five different classes of comfort – or discomfort, depending on the end you are looking at – provided, obviously, at five different rates. At a bus station we have three or more different ‘types’ of buses that commute the same routes – equal distances, almost equal speeds, but very different rates. At a restaurant, one can find the cheapest self-service counter, slightly expensive service area, and a premium priced air-conditioned dining area. To substantiate the price difference, and the faithfulness to the colonisers, the plates and uniforms of waiters are kept to match the each class. The food served though, is from the same kitchen. Bars are no exception. But slightly different in Tamil Nadu.

Alcoholic beverage marketing is under the complete control of the state government in Tamil Nadu. All the retail shops are owned and operated by the government, with its employed staff. They are called Wineshops for some strange reason, and sell every alcoholic beverage except the wine. These places don’t serve alcohol, as a rule, but only sell you bottled drinks. There will inevitably be a small shop close to it selling disposable cups and water and cola and pickles. Though, drinking in public is an offence punishable under IPC-268 and IPC-502, I never have heard of an instance of the invoking that law in front of a Wineshop. Apparently, IPC-502 says, “Whoever, in a state of intoxication, appears in any public place, or in any place which it is a trespass in him to enter, and there conducts himself in such a manner as to cause annoyance to any person, shall be punished.” You can actually sue someone for talking nonsense, if he/she is drunk.

In contrast to these retail shops, the bars that are licensed to sell and serve alcohol are luxurious. With cosy couches in an air-conditioned hall, and 5 to 6 varieties of snacks on the house with the drink. They also put low wattage bulbs in different colours to lighten up this luxury. The bar we walked into went a step further. They serve every drink, except beer, in wine glasses, may be with the same allusion as of the Wineshops. No, not even brandy glasses. That too with stirrers, which are logically placed upside down in each drink. While paddling in the rum and water in our glasses with the broadened end of the stirrer, my companion said, “the laughs are on the house!” “Very entertaining place,” I replied through the laughter. And there were no more miles to go before we sleep.

God save goddamn atheists!

Of late, many Buddhas have been laughing. Laughing all the way to their banks. It’s of course a pleasant change. Atheism, today, is a very profitable, and thus successful, and thus desirable, business. Hemant Mehta, who authored the recent fly-of-the-stands I Sold My Soul on eBay, is one such blessed atheist. He claims to be a very friendly atheist; so friendly that he’s happy giving speeches even at churches. If they are willing to pay, that is. You can read him without paying a penny at Friendly Atheist and eBay Atheist.

I’m an atheist only as much as I’m a Christian, and that would probably categorise myself to be called a Hindu. Thank God! Atheists are only atheists! One fornicating atheist can differ in his or her reasoning from another, and still be saved from burning for eternity in hell. For that reason I’m free to agree or disagree with JP, who writes in Criminalenglish. He had posted an interesting read on the subject sometime back, which has some questions listed by Hemant Mehta, with JP’s own answers to them. These are questions that are commonly asked to atheists by the naturally sceptical theists. Theists, against popular belief, always look for rational answers. Well, not always, but for sure, always from atheists. Here are their logical questions rooted in Christian theology, and my not-so-very-logical answers rooted in a Christian upbringing.

Why do you not believe in God?
More or less for the similar reasons why I don’t listen to Britney Hilton or watch Bollywood movies. I don’t enjoy it; and I don’t feel it’s necessary. Call my answer a glib. Britney is not God, you might say. Thank God for that! I’m too kinda friendly sort to theists. Whenever one of those evangelic believers sincerely starts feeling sad for my soul, I reassure them with their own words. There’s nothing rational about faith. It’s God’s grace. You either have it, or you don’t. And if you are really worried about my rotten soul, please run to the next church, fall on you knees, and tell the God to courier one big piece of grace as soon as possible to my address. You will have to pay in hard cash at the Church; I don’t think they have started accepting credit cards.

If you want a theological reasoning, I can give you one. A very Christian one. I have my answer in Mathew 19:16-19. When a man came and asked Jesus, what should he do to have eternal life, he was asked to follow the Commandments. The man asked which commandments; and Jesus deliberately omitted the first three of them. The only three that has anything to do with God and Humans. The first three commandments tell that there’s only one god, and every one should believe only that god. Take your pick. Believe in your Bible, or believe in your God.

Where do your morals come from?

Thank you for assuming that I have some. I’m not a nihilist. The cardinal sins are my fundamental virtues. Lust help me to see beauty in every woman. Gluttony enhances my sensual pleasures. Greed differentiates living and surviving for me. Sloth saves me from the insecurities of the rat race. Wrath keeps the fire in me burning. Envy gives reasons for me to grow and look forward. Pride breaths life into me. Now, how did I realise that these are virtues, and not sins? Use your head, and you might find out.

What is the meaning of life?

Currently there are over 6 billion meanings that are strutting around. Some are similar, but never the same. You are free to choose what suits you. Life is existentialist.

Is atheism a religion?

What’s that you call a religion? A set of canonical, irrational laws? A group of meaningless rituals? A parasitical clergy? A huge mass blindly follows an irrational way of living? In those terms, atheism has a long way to go to qualify itself as a religion. Atheism is almost as old, or even older than, theism. There were well established atheist schools of thought that denied the existence of a creationist God as early as in 500 BC in India. There was even the classification of atheists who believed in the scriptures and those who don’t. Samkhya and Mimasma sects of Astika school and Buddhism, Jainism, and Charvaka sect of Nastika school of thought. Even the theists were rational sceptics. “You should reject an illogical task like a straw even if the order comes from Bhrahma,” said Brahspati, one of the authors of Rig Veda. “Regard only that which is an object of perception, and cast behind your back whatever is beyond the reach of your senses,” wrote Maharshi Valmiki in Ramayana. The rationalist philosophy, unlike what Christians believe, is a few centuries older than Plato. And there were people who debated about enlightenment, a few millennia before Emmanuel Kant gather up the courage to ask, “What is enlightenment?”

If you don’t pray, what do you do during troubling times?

If you pray hard, you won’t miss the bus, and the boat. When I was younger, that’s when I was in school; I was a very pious theist. For six years I defied the universal law – children walk to school and run back home. The distance to my school was about 800 meters, and situates over a hill that looked steeper than Everest in those days. All of 183 steps to the courtyard. The regular school assembly started at 9:50 and ended at 10:10. The teacher arrived in the class, if he also is not late for school, at 10:13, giving you three crucial minutes to sneak in. And I used to, very promptly, leave for school at exactly 9:57, with a bag that weighed about 3-4 Kg. En route, there were four dog-points where unchained dogs waited. One has to slow down, not to invoke the wrath of the holy canines, even if he’s trying to break the record of 24 Remember, o gracious Virgin Marys in 7 minutes. Praise thy lord! The dogs, and the teachers, never barked at me on a single day for 6 years! The dear Lord was also manipulating the question papers and already written answer sheets for these 6 years, for a charge of one rupee per paper, and five for a really badly attempted one. Let me testify once again that it had worked perfectly. But later, I figured out it would be a great kindness, if I give enough respect to my efforts. I really don’t think 24 Remember, o gracious Virgin Marys in 7 minutes would have teleported me, or God had changed the printed questions or written down answers. Now, I pray to give me back my money.

Should atheists be trying to convince others to stop believing in God?

Those who has strong sense of social responsibility, and genuinely worried about the exploits of religion should. As for myself, I believe strongly in individual responsibility.

Weren’t some of the worst atrocities in the 20th century committed by atheists?

Yes. Just some, though. Most of the atrocities were committed by committed believers. Mussolini was almost a good Christian by the time he was the dictator. Hitler too by no means was an atheist. Neither is George W. Bush. Or Shimon Peres. Or Osama Bin Laden. And why specifically 20^th century? May be to avoid the discussion on Crusades and Inquisitions and the Churches’ whole-hearted support to colonisation, I think.

How could billions of people be wrong when it comes to belief in God?

That’s a very democratic way of trying to win the argument. And reason to believe Christianity is the right religion as of now. It’s not a question of majority, and even if it is, the theists are at the losing end. Because, I believe no one really believes in God, whichever religion they belong to. Believers support the rituals in the mere hope of that might help, and for the lack of balls to take any risk in life without it. If you disagree, show me one person, ever lived or living, who followed every word of the scriptures of his or her religion as it is written.

Why does the universe exist?

Now, don’t expect every atheist to be an evolutionary physicist. It was there thirty years back, and I hope it’ll be there for another 30 years. That’s more than I could ask for.

How did life originate?

Mine? My daddy and mommy copulated, I think. An amoeba just heard the question and you got it into splits. Whether it was the chicken or the egg first originated, neither would sing hallelujah, for sure.

Is all religion harmful?

Is the kitchen knife in the hands of a rapist harmful?

What’s so bad about religious moderates?

Are opportunism, hypocrisy, and passiveness to exploitation also taught as great religious values?

Is there anything redeeming about religion?

Yes. Some believers do get enlightenment, open their eyes and might start using their heads before maggots start feasting on their brains. All the egalitarian philosophies are rooted in religious values and talks against the fallacies.

What if you’re wrong about God (and He does exist)?

In that case, She will have one less person lamenting to her.

Shouldn’t all religious beliefs be respected?

Of course. But not without including all the contradictions. Once you are managed to do that with a sensible head, that might make enough sense to give up almost all the beliefs.

Are atheists smarter than theists?

I think so. No atheist will be sceptical enough to ask, ‘Are theists smarter than atheists?’

How do you deal with the historical Jesus if you don’t believe in his divinity?

You mean, Biblical, I guess. Well, I like that guy a lot. When asked to turn stones into bread, he said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone’ (Mathew 4:4). And when asked to turn water into wine, he said, ‘Fill all the pots with water’ (John 2:7). How can I not like him? He also said, ‘the Sabbath is made for man, and not man for the Sabbath’ (Mark 2:27). Isn’t this philosophy any less existentialist?

Would the world be better off without any religion?

To me, it would mean no more festivals! No poorams and utsavams. No pooja holidays. No Christmas. No long weekend on Easter. (Now you know, why they call it the day Christ was crucified a Good Friday.) I’ll better opt to have all religions and it’s stupid believers around.

What happens when we die?

“What do I care? Put me in an oil expeller and run the mill, if you want,” answered the wise Sri Narayana Guru, when asked how his body should be treated after his samadhi. “If a beast slain in the Jyothishtoma rite will itself go to heaven, why then does not the sacrificer forthwith offer his own father?” Asked Charvaka. If I they are going to do what I ask, I would ask them to turn my body into fine ash in an electric crematorium, and put it in a toilet and flush it proper. One has to live all his life amidst thick shit. And just by the time he starts to feel okay with it, you shouldn’t make him feel out of place. I just hope they won’t leave my body in a morgue full of necrophiliacs. Not because, I’ll suffer from agraphobia after death, but only because I’m hedonistic to the core.

I’m a racist, and other terrible truths you don’t want to know about me

No one, absolutely no one, has ever fucked up as many of twentieth century human minds as Nietzsche did. People love to talk about themselves; and at the same time, people are timid about doing so. And to them, to all of us, that line from Nietzsche, comes as a very comforting, see-through blanket. He wrote, and I quote, “Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.” The tricky part is that ‘can be’.

After the great invention of the idea called forwarded mails, the next big thing that goes around the netted world is tags. A privilege for a few among the 200 odd millions of human beings who call themselves bloggers. A rarity dubbed as privilege, just like Napoleon’s aluminium cutlery. And, with great pleasure and pride, let me announce the news that me too is tagged.

Amooma, the youngest granny alive in the blogosphere, pulled out her Pen Knife and asked me in a grunting voice that is reminiscent of the legendary Ma Baker – “Confess your secrets to the world now, or…” Someone who doesn’t know how to swim and caught between the devil and deep blue sea would most probably try to strike a deal with the devil. And I’ve decided not to invite the wrath of the granny.

There are three rules that I must follow, which can be summerised into two. 1. Write about eight random facts/habits about oneself, and 2. Ask eight other people to do the same. Though the prime motive of the game is to popularise one’s blog by the network it can build, it can also serve to the purpose of providing the pleasures one can get by peeping into someone else’s silly life.

While tagging me, Amooma had described me as a person full of paradoxes – not because she knows me that well, but because of her love for wordplay. But she is absolutely right about me. The reason is, everyone, and everything can be seen as a paradox. Or, like what they say, every coin has two sides to it. Cheques don’t have, but they will make you sign on the back to make it up. All facts I’m going to disclose are paradoxes. It would give me two very brilliant advantages. Firstly, I can bring down the number to four, because they come in pairs – but preferring to play fair, I have decided to keep it eight instead. Secondly, whatever I’m going to say would be also true when you negate them. The idea fits perfect for me.

While telling the facts about oneself it’s very import to number them carefully. Otherwise, people will miss them, because people take facts that lie between the lines for granted. I must have told twenty or thirty facts about me so far in this passage, which many of my readers have missed to notice. That’s how the world is. Consider the first line of the novel Moby Dick, which would be, arguably, the most brilliant opening line for a novel ever been written. It reads: Call me Ishmael. That simple, 3-word imperative sentence actually tells many facts about that person. Let’s count them.

1. His name is not Ishmael
2. He doesn’t want to tell his real name, or he has no permanent name.
3. He doesn’t believe his name is very important, but knows people always need names.
4. He likes, or at least doesn’t dislike, the name Ishmael.
5. He has no other documental evidence for his name.
6. He’s a vagabond, because only a vagabond can afford to live without a name.
7. He is not related to anyone in the story, by blood or bond.
8. He’s not a fanatic believer of Judaism, or Christianity.

Here you go! You have eight facts, implied, if not explicit, among those three simple words. And there are many more that you can find. But then, I can’t say: Call me Herman.

There’s one small trouble with facts about people. They do change with time. One might end up loving madly something he or she used to hate from the bottom of the heart. Train journeys, as in my case. Or will become comfortable with something, which was not very enjoyable, like talking on the phone. Or even hate something, which once used to be one beautiful dream, like shaving the face. This means, there's the inevitable condition – I’m free to change any of the following facts without prior notice or permission at any time in the future.

Well, I’m a very secretive person, almost cynical. And I go around throwing statements that I’m this and I’m that! I grew up reading c-grade literary weeklies in Malayalam. They were called Ma weeklies, because all their names started with a Ma. Mangalam, Manorama, Manorajyam. The name, Ma weeklies, was coined by the very intellectual readers of another weekly, which publishes b-grade novels. Ironically, that too was a Ma weekly – Mathrubhumi. Mathrubhumi has played a great role in Malayalam literature, flourishing it in the 60s and 70s, and nipping every budding writer during 80s. We had textbooks big enough to keep these weeklies inside without getting caught. The first lesson in keeping things secret. And the stories told me how important it is to keep secrets. You can be blackmailed, tormented, or even killed if your secrets are out! And if the secret is your secret moles, you might have to commit suicide. It still gives me a shuddering chill through my spine, when I hear, “hey, you have a mole here!” I’m a regular guy; I can’t wear my underwear over my pants.

Two. I wish at least one of my fingers were a screwdriver. I opened a computer for the first time on the very next day I got one – it was a rented one. I was very disappointed with it, there’s nothing much one can dismantle inside a computer. Have opened almost every single tape recorder that had stayed near me for more than a week. And to my good luck, the power promptly went off, whenever a porn videotape was inserted into the player. Opened the carburetor, when the tank nozzle was clogged - because I was waiting for a good reason to open the carburetor for a long time. The temptation is almost equal to that of stripping a girl, when you get a free hand. All you would want is to screw it back properly. Machines have a mind of their own. And deep down in their hearts, they love being pampered. Normally, every machine will start working if you just open it up and close – whether it’s a simple cigarette lighter, or a clock, or a motorbike engine.

Three. Nothing disgusts me. Well, almost. Those things that are generally described as disgusting or horrifying seldom make an impact on me. A rotting corpse under the debris, or a bleeding person at an accident site. A cockroach’s leg in my food or a piece of recently discarded faecal matter on the pavement. But, seeing people making a dramatic display of disgust at such trivial things disgusts me!

Four. I’m a racist. More precisely, I’m religiously anti-white. Most of the few people I truly respect and look up to are whites – the writers, the musicians, the moviemakers, the sportspersons, the sailors, the mountaineers, the philosophers. Many of the most interesting people I’ve met in my life so far are whites. Many of the few regular readers of this blog are whites. The dislike is not personal, but more general and prejudicial. For the unavenged injustice done by the white communities all across the world. There’s no single white nation that didn’t grow rich without insane exploitation of other countries, or communities. Razing communities and cultures and peoples. When it’s a historical fact that India’s share of world’s wealth fell from the pre-colonial 22.6% to a low of post-colonial 3.6%, I have great difficulty to accept that the best way for human development is of what the West practise. And they haven’t stopped doing it, whether it’s the indirect exploitation with trade laws favourable only to them, or direct brutality of the kind they do to the aborigines in Australia. When a whitey shoots an African, or an African shoots a whitey, it’s another whitey who gets richer. And when they talk about liberty, equality and fraternity, it disgusts me!

Five. I do get angry. I’m pretty much an indifferent person, I rarely get irritated, or even bored. I’m too lazy to acknowledge insults most of the time. If a stranger spits on my face, it’s most probable that I’d wipe it and ask ‘why did you do that?’ But I do lose my cool for the silliest of reasons. If I am very, very angry, I’ll go mad. If I’m very angry, I’ll go silent. If I’m angry, I’ll ask for an explanation.

Six. I’m scared of the traffic. I’m scared to cross the roads without traffic lights. It’s almost impossible for me to cross roads with traffic in both directions and have no dividers. And I’m equally scared to ride a bike in the traffic. I once rode a scooter from Chennai to Bangalore, and the last 10 kilometres inside the city almost gave me a heart attack. So much so that, after riding with my brother for over 50,000 kilometres, he wanted to make a tee shirt for himself, with the line on its back – IF YOU CAN READ THIS, MY BRO GOT MARRIED, OR LEARNT TO RIDE. You will never read it.

Seven. I’m a dispelled member of Workaholics Anonymous. Not because I couldn’t quit working, but because they couldn’t. As we all know, the idea is inspired from AA. And one of the hardest facts about an alcoholic is: one drink is too much, and a thousand is not enough. My firm belief is that it should be the same for a workaholic. They didn’t agree. They are okay with working moderately! Like an alcoholic having just six drinks a day? Not happening. I quit. And I’m seriously planning to establish the true Workaholics Anonymous. Or shall I name it after me? I’m procrastinating it only because it’s work.

Eight. I’m a virgin. It’s a very embarrassing statement to make in a metrosexual world for a heterosexual man, where even queers are cool. “Can’t you even take a girl out and get her drunk, and be done with it?” Ask the metrosexual guys. “Can’t you just tell them that they are very different and listen to their crap for an hour or two, and be done with it?” Ask the metrosexual girls (Yes, the adjective is not just for men anymore. Gender neutrality, you know). NO. Says me. I’m a man of ideologies. I’m usually an honest one too. That statement about honesty can surely put me into trouble! And, when I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. I ask in immaculate innocence. “Come again?” And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Hail Mary! Blessed art thou! So am I.

That’s eight for eight. Now I need to tell eight people to do the somersaults. I would rather ask the same person to do it eight times instead. Someone, who’s really good in changing facts too often. I tag George W. Bush (Jr.). It’s still debatable whether this Harvard Business School graduate can read, but I’m pretty sure that he got a blog with a pink template with cute little flowers, where he writes sweet little poems. Don’t believe me. Believe it only when CIA releases its secret documents after 20 years. Then you will read about how they were popularising his blog among Eye-rackey children and African children, to use it as the most potent brain-damaging tool. And if, even he won’t take up my tag, who else will? So George, you have 560 days more to do it.

The great bank robbery

“Hello! I’m Sweet Mouth, from Cut Throat Inc. Do you like to have a credit card, sir?”

“Of course! I would love to have one!”

“Sir, we have silver, gold, platinum…”

“Wait! I’ll tell you my requirements, and probably you can choose the best one for me.”

“Sure, sir.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“That’s absolutely fine, sir. All you need is three month’s bank statement.”

“I don’t have a bank account, either.”

“Don’t worry sir. You can open an account with us.”

“I don’t have any address proof, I stay in a small room that has no documents.”

“It’s ok sir. You can give me your telephone bill, that would be enough.”

“I use a pre-paid connection. You were lucky to get me, it will get expired by midnight”

“I’m sorry, sir… I don’t think…”

“Don’t say it. I need a credit card. Nobody would need a credit card as much as I do now!”

“But, sir…”

“I’m ok with a copper, or wood, or plastic… or even a paper one”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t help you, sir. You don’t have a salary slip or bank statement…”

“That’s exactly why I need a credit card! If I have money in the bank, why would I want a credit card?

“You are right, sir. But…”

“Alright Sweet Mouth, please let me know if you come up with any plan that suits people like me.”

“Sure sir. Thank you for talking sir. Bye, and have a nice day!”

That particular kind of ‘nice day’ she wished me about four years back is yet to arrive. A nice day, with one or more credit card bills, a 3-year personal loan, a 5-year vehicle loan, and 20-year old housing loan to pay off. This sort of mortgaged life is one of the most desirable options one is left with these days. And it is pretty difficult to choose the easier way of living.

Today, one can’t live without banks. I still can keep my money stuffed inside my bed, and it will give almost the same amount of interest any bank would. But to do that, I’ll have to take the money out of the bank first, that’s the catch. No one pays in hard cash. Even bearer cheques are hard to get. That’s the second catch, or the catch on the catch – you can’t survive without a bank account.

Fifteen years back, when I opened my first bank account, all needed was two signatures from my father and three from me. And two passport size photographs and fifty rupees. With another fifty rupees I would have got a chequebook too! Opening a bank account was not that easy once I moved out of the little town where everyone in the bank from the peon to the manager knew not just me, but even my forefathers. But then, I had the sweet option to live without a bank account. Salaries were given in hard cash, or bearer cheques as you demand. And then came the new age banks. Banks with carpeted floors, flower vases with fresh flowers, and couches to sit and wait. And when I entered in one such bank for the first time, about six years back, I was offered a comfortable chair, coffee and a bank account. All they had asked for was three of four of my signatures. The sweet chap with a tasteless brown necktie didn’t even ask for my photographs; he shot me instead, with a Polaroid camera. And if you see that photograph, you won’t fail to notice the puzzled wonderment in my half-popped out eyes. And in three or four days, the magic card and its secret code reached me in separate mails. The world had really changed; I had no other option, but to believe.

The traditional banking used to be one of the simplest businesses on earth. With an easier logistics than a teashop. You take money from people giving them an interest, and then you give it to other people for a higher interest. But with this simple way of business it’s almost impossible for banks to have cozy couches and coffee for their customers. And just for the comfort and convenience of their customers, these poor new age banks are pushed to adopt dubious methods, departing from their simple business model.

For a person like me an offer like allowing zero balance was the most comforting of all thoughts. There were innumerable instances the thought of my-hundred rupees-that-I-can’t-have came tormenting, while coughing-up for the cheapest, yet precious, bottle of alcohol. The new banks only demanded an average quarterly balance of five thousand rupees, and I can withdraw to the last paise. It took exactly three months for me to figure out the new business model of these generous banks. Average quarterly balance means I have to keep at least five thousand rupees in the bank, just like a lifetime fixed deposit! Not exactly like a fixed deposit, because they wouldn’t be giving me the 16-20% interest on my deposit as the old, grumpy banks. And if I didn’t keep the balance they will charge 40% interest on the amount as a fine! Not at all fine with me. Still I can have zero balance, only if the amount is a multiple of hundred, because ATMs keep only hundred rupees notes. And if try to withdraw the amount less than hundred from their cash counter, they will charge hundred rupees as the service charge. That means, the banks can keep the change. When was the last time, you tipped like that while being sober?

It’s not just an almost interest free, lifetime fixed deposit, and free change I’m giving to the bank. Just for my added convenience of cozy couches and one time coffee. I’ll pay hundred rupees every year for my ATM card; and I’ll pay usage charges if I access the ATM more than thrice a day when I’m in town, or more than twice in a month when I’m outstation. If I use my card to make a purchase, I’ll pay a service charge for that convenience too. Cheques are more profitable, especially if they bounce. If a cheque is bounced, the bank doesn’t have to pay anyone. Not just that, they will charge fine from the one who issued the cheque, and from the one who presented it!

At this point, I’m more than tempted to tell an anecdote. One Mr. Nice Guy opened a bank account to help his MNC-bank-executive friend, who had a tough time with the necktie and the sales target around his neck. Mr. Nice Guy gave five thousand rupees, and three days later his ATM card and secret code came in different mails. A couple days later the code for telebanking came by another mail. And a few days later another mail came with the codes for Internet banking. Mr. Nice Guy didn’t bother to open any of these mails, because his only good intention was to help his friend to reach closer to his target, not to use the account. About two years later, Mr. Nice Guy went to the bank to close his account and collect his five thousand rupees and its nominal interest, and found his account has hardly two thousand rupees. A sweet bank employee explained it very sweetly to the furious Mr. Nice Guy. He was charged hundred rupees for his Internet banking facility, making his balance in the account to rupees four thousand and nine hundred only. And every quarter, he was paying the fine for not keeping his average quarterly balance of five thousand rupees, like a very comfortable customer.

Since I had learnt the secret behind the cozy couches and stories under the carpets the hardest way, I was not very surprised to read the news that in US alone banks make 40-50 billion USD through unexplained service charges. Service charges for giving you back your own hard earned money, which you had lent to the bank! And this figure is only for personal banking. I couldn’t find the corresponding figure for India, even after googling for hours for it. But, I’m sure, even if the amount they make in profits would be less in India, the percentage wouldn’t be much less. And I believe, even the ones who will explode with anger at a rickshaw driver for two extra rupees are more than comfortable with these glossy banks’ grand robbery. Now I understand what they exactly meant by zero balance.

“But – you see, a bank or a company can’t do that, because those creatures don’t breath air, don’t eat side-meat. They breathe profits; they eat interest on money. If they don’t get it, they die the way you die without air, without side-meat. It’s a bad thing, but it’s so. It’s just so.”

– From The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.

Confessions of innocent minds

It’s something I’m so sure about. Well, almost. The last t thing I do look like is a six feet tall wooden box with netted windows on its two opposite sides, and a supposedly holy soul that has knowledge over right and wrong residing inside it. Agreed that my ears are huge, but not as big as small, netted windows. But people, quite a few of them in the last month, came up to me and made me wonder whether I really look like a confession box. And I kindly forgive them without even asking to say five Hail Marys. Thinking back, I see that it’s been happening with me for years and years, and I can’t remember ever since. May be, I just had an overdose of it in the last few weeks.

They tell me things I never wanted to know, without being asked to. I’m not talking about people who are friends, and may want to excrete the disintegrated thoughts in their heads once in a while, and use my big ears for a comfortable commode. They make me feel wanted, and when they look relieved I would be stinking with pride. That much silly a person is what I’m. But here I wasn’t referring to them, but people, whom I never have met before, and won’t ever meet again. Like a person, who stands in front of you in a queue, or stands next to you in a bus stop, or the auto-rickshaw driver, or the bus conductor. And these people don’t leave me with a feeling of silly pride, but more of wonderment and an unwanted burden of knowledge.

May be this is happening to not just me, but to you too, and to everyone else. I wanted to know. I smile at the fellow, who’s waiting for the elevator to come down, and tell him that the beef masala in Indian Coffee house is the best. He didn’t smile back like I would have done hearing something of that sort; and with a slightly bewildered look on his otherwise blank and bandaged face, he tells me that Dr. Venu’s consulting room is on the ground floor itself. I should have replied him that it is raining in Cheerapunjee, but I didn’t. I don’t even tell him that I don’t want to know where Dr. Venu sits to consult, and starts to climb up the stairs, thinking why I can’t respond the way that fellow did when someone tells me beef or potato in someplace is the best. The next day, I learn from the board that lists the entire faculty in the hospital that this Dr. Venu is the consultant psychiatrist. So, that must be it! All these people who tells me things are freaks. Or at least, I should think that they are.

Granted that there are more crazy people in this world than anybody would want. But is it that they recognize one belongs to their religion when they see me? I have every right to disagree; it just can’t be so. If it were so, I would have done the same to them too, right? And I don’t. So the blame naturally would come back to my looks. Everyone knows people generally go by looks, at least in the case of perfect strangers. My good friends tell me that I got looks good enough to make little kids trust in their mothers’ love and cling to it with their good little lives. And to make big girls believe in what their mothers told them about strangers. Anyways, for sure, I don’t look as an easily approachable thing as a trash can. And hear what happens to me!

An auto-rickshaw driver tells me that the Government should bring a rule to make it compulsory for rickshaws to have transparent roofs, so that childish couples stop cuddling together behind his back. He tells me that he has given it a good thought for a good time. I don’t ask him how long he was waiting for the good guy to turn up to expose his brilliant idea. A lift operator tells me that for the last three and a half years he’s going up and down and hasn’t reached anywhere. I smile, trying to look like I understand him, and don’t tell him to quit his job and take a walk. I don’t have the heart to hear that he got a wife and three kids and an ailing mother, and he has to go up and down to run a family. A recently married nurse, with really beautiful eyes and fairly beautiful body, tells me that she should have cut her hair short before the marriage, because she wants to cut her hair short and her husband doesn’t allow. I smile again, trying again to look like that I understand, and don’t ask her to cut off the relationship and hair in one go. The guy who sits next to me in train tells me that he got two TVs at home – one for his parents and one for his grandmother, because they want to watch different serials at the same time – and he doesn’t get to see TV. He doesn’t stop there. He says that he used to watch the serial about Sree Ayyappan’s legend with his grandmother, and he has stopped it because the actor has put on weight over the past year, damaging the image he used to get when praying to Sree Ayyappan. No, he didn’t dump this piece of invaluable information during a conversation. It was a stimulus, not a response; and the response he got was a smile that would look more like dumb than understanding. He told me all these, just like that, when I was listening to Mr. Enderby’s belchs, burps and farts.

When I come to think of it, books are just like these people. They tell you same or similar things when you are least suspecting. But there’s this big factor of choice, to make a difference. As for Mr. Enterby, Anthony Burgess wrote the story in four small volumes. And with my kind of luck I find the second volume first. I wait for a couple of months without opening the second volume, and find the third one– on which the blurb says it’s the last of the Enderby trilogy. Then two or three more months later I see the fourth volume, which the author had no plans to write when he published the third one. And beside that fourth volume I find the spanking new edition of Complete Enderby with all the four volumes in one, and would cost me less than the price of four books together. Just to substantiate my long wait for the first volume, I pick up the fourth volume and choose to give it a chance till I get hold of the first volume. And about a year after I picked up the second volume, I find a 1969 edition, which claims to be the Complete Enderby with only the first two volumes in one. Well, a classic example of how does 20^th century literature, or at least the blurbs on those books, look anachronic today. But like I said, there’s this big factor of choice, to make a difference. I waited for a year, patiently, to hear the belchs, burps and farts of Mr. Enderby, and he will lock up his gas factory on my wish, if I bothered to close the book and look out through the window. May be, that’s the reason why I happily pay for the book, and deter to show any gratitude when I get the same or similar things from people for free.

I haven’t told you anything yet. On a ten minutes bus ride, the guy sits next to me says that he’s recently returned from U.S. of A., and has no plans to go back. He tells me that he’s researching on the activities of black powers and devil worshippers in India - who work with the help from their headquarters in America. He tells me about the Goat of Mendes, and the Intellectual Decompression Chamber. He tells me that they spread their messages through advertisements of consumer goods. He tells me that every meaningless headline in any advertisement is a Satanic message smartly hidden, and will decipher itself in our subconscious mind. I resort to chance, and my stop arrives. On another bus ride, a longer one of about two hours this time, the guy sits next to me says he built a two-story, 5,000 sq. ft. house about 20 years back with just Rs. 60,000. He tells me that he’s a retired physics professor and was wise to get Laurie Baker’s student to design and build his house. He says if everyone in Kerala were as wise as him, the sand prices wouldn’t have reached today’s Rs. 7,000 for a truckload from Rs. 150 that was the price 20 years back. He tells me if everyone has adopted Laurie Baker’s methods in construction, there would have been still sand left in Kerala’s riverbeds; and it’s this sand stealing that lowered the groundwater platform making our rivers and wells go dry. I converse with him without a choice with monosyllable sentences for two hours. I didn’t even tell him that it’s also a wise idea to dig one’s own grave.

I told you about just five or six people. And I met about a hundred of them in the last 3-4 weeks. As I’m writing this piece, I dream of a beautiful world where every single one of them were a computer literate, and had Internet access, and ran their own blogs to write about the things they want to talk about. On a second thought, I think it’s better the way as it is. If that were the situation, each one of them would have asked me to read their blogs instead, making me write down a hundred URLs. And I wouldn’t have been left with anything to write about in my blog.

Timepass

Timepass is the name of a bourgeois bar in the holy town of Palani in Tamilnadu. Bourgeois, the adjective, was coined by the fellow-alcohol-aficionado with whom I was travelling. In his observation, there are not many places for a bourgeoisie drunkard in Tamilnadu. You have the wine shops that sell everything except wine all over the state. These shops owned and run by the State, and very much a proletariat’s place. For a bar to be bourgeois needs swing door, cushioned chairs, and inevitably, yellowish grim lighting. These places serve alcoholic drinks at 2 to 4 times higher price, depending on the quality of the swinging front door, than in the wine shops. These doors, by default, work as push-to-open from both sides, as there won’t be many who want to go out in the evening, or any who can go in at the closing time.

This particular bar, Timepass, has got a curious thing on the wall near the counter. A regular size wall clock with its hands moving anti-clockwise. More than confusing the time that has passed, it provides to the purpose of the badly needed excuse to a customer. When the waiter comes to tell you it’s the closing time, you can stare at the clock for two minutes and tell him, there still are two more hours to 11. I don’t think not many customers see this opportunity and try to exploit it to their benefit, as the clock is still there, and was there two years back. But then, bourgeoisies never had much trust in rebellion.

And while the clock was steadily tock-ticking, we were chewing on the snacks and masticating memories of encounters with policemen we met on the road. The subject was on the top of our minds, because that day afternoon too we were stopped at a border check-post. The policemen at border check-posts never wear caps. The cap sits on the table all day, looking over the procedures, and listening to the noises of the wireless equipment stands next to it.

The bag tied on to the luggage rack of the bike, is full of explosives, the one who stopped us was almost sure. I am still wondering how he would have reacted if he had found anything that he expected. He looked a lot relieved seeing only spare clothes, some clean and some dirty, and a couple books in the bag. Clutching at straws, he was hanging on to the elastic strap we use to tie the rain jackets over the bag when it’s not raining. He wanted to know whether we strangle people on the road with that elastic band, and pull out their eyes with the hooks. Though, all he could ask was why we are carrying around a suspicious elastic string with deadly metal hooks. At the end, he consoled us saying that we just look like thugs, but are actually not. He warned us against the danger too. That every single policeman who spots us will trouble us. He was a good pastime, and cut short our time in Timepass by half an hour.

We took his warning lightly. But he was right about this brothers and sisters,-in-arms. Two days later, we were stopped and checked five times. Longtime back, a bunch of policemen had warned us not to walk to the peninsular tip at Dhanushkodi, because the naval guards might shoot us down. We did walk to the tip and came walking back without any extra holes on our bodies. May be, we were lucky. Or they were. They might have had enough quails (read crows or cranes) to shoot down that day. On another occasion, they had warned us for carrying a Swiss Army Knife. They had said, highway petrol officers would put us behind the bars and charge us as highway robbers. That too didn’t happen after travelling with the same knife for thousands of kilometres.

Policemen are the most brilliant pessimists I have ever met in my life. Still once in a while they get unpleasant surprises. Like when they see that you actually carry all the required documents. But this guy’s intentions were noble. This committed officer at the border check-post, all alone almost hundred kilometres away from any support staff, was not risking his life, armed only with a cane baton and an unloaded 303 back in his cabin, not in an effort to squeeze out a 50 rupees note out of our wallets, but to ensure the safety of millions. Unfortunately we were not villainous enough to make him a hero.

It’s cinema that spoils our policemen, observed my companion. In reel life policemen look like policemen, and thugs and terrorists look like thugs and terrorists. Sadly for us, in real life only policemen look like policemen. You can never argue with a person who wears a uniform, whether it is a nurse, a waiter, or a policeman. The most sensible thing is to listen to them, and tell them what they like to hear. And never try to tell them anything that they already don’t know.

Two days after the drinks at Timepass was a day that commemorates the death of a freedom fighter belongs to the region, and we were travelling from Madurai to Tanjavur. Police barricades were made at every junction anticipating some trouble from the admirers of the local hero. It’s a tricky situation. The observant of the day has to shout patriotic slogans, but has no idea against or in favour of whom. When this patriotic spirit is spiced up with local spirits, police barricades at the places where the procession pass through are a necessary backdrop for this ironic comedy. And it was our third involuntary stoppage at one such junction.

They want to know where we are coming from and where we are going. We always start from a place, and hope to reach the same place. But that answer is not something the protectors of the people like to hear. So, we told them the place we started in the morning and the place we wished to reach by evening. The lady officer in charge of the battalion at the junction gets suspicious. She wants to know if our intention is touring the locations, why are we not doing it in DVD coaches; preferably in the ones those have window curtains.

Now, the basic rule for any uniform-wearing personnel is the blind following of the hierarchy. If your boss is suspicious, you too are suspicious, by default. This is generally referred as discipline, and causes chaos, or aggravates, most of the time. The low ranked actors re-enters the scene. And about twenty five policemen, and women, gathers around in anticipation. The job of the outer circle of these curious things in khakis is to chase away the inquisitive public. And all wanted to know what’s in the bag. The bag opens, once again, to reveal its unglamorous contents, including a couple of books wrapped in polyethylene bags.

Books, of course, are meant for the curious. They wanted to know whether they are ‘crime’ novels. No, they aren’t, the one you are flipping through is about the author’s misadventures as a petty criminal, when he was a narcotic addict, and drug pusher. The latter part of the answer was a just thought that was dead before born. Yes, there’s a camera that’s been double wrapped in the bag! “What is this? A camera! Call Mariyappa! He knows everything about cameras!” Orders the queen bee. Constable Mariyappa pushes his way through his less-privileged colleagues, with a hand held camera in his hand, and starts shooting the procedures with the fervour of a greenhorn journalist. He inspects our camera, and turns to his boss helplessly. “It’s not a digital camera. I know to check pictures stored only in a digital camera.”

Now they are utterly disappointed, but still as clueless, after seeing the unexciting contents of the bag, and a camera that doesn’t have digital image preview. What they want to know now is why are we taking this bad road, when there’s a very good NH connecting our starting point and destination. There are no bad roads, and we were looking for the longest possible route; I wanted to tell them, but didn’t. Instead, I told them we thought this route is shorter. No, this one is longer, and in a worse condition compared to the NH; the officer is not convinced, as he is not supposed to. The roads in Tamilnadu are almost as good as national highways, I said in an attempt of justification. No, not as good as an NH, the state policeman replied modestly, as if he’s been flattered.

We are ready to continue our ride after 30 minutes of interrogation and scrutiny. But the lady officer in charge still can’t make a decision. With her short, thin frame, and what-do-I-do-now look on her face, she resembled a high school kid with a big fake moustache, playing the part of a tough guy who forgot the lines during an emotionally intense scene in a play he was acting at the school competitions. It could be the moment of my life, she must have been thinking, feeling the weight of the situation on her tiny shoulders. The two stars weigh a tonne now. The hearts of every single man in uniform, and the two on the other side of the fence, filled with compassion and genuine helplessness. One of the senior constables suggested that we could be allowed to leave. And the lady, gave her consent with a silent glance.

You would be going through the same drama for another twenty times, said one among them as we started off again. One is good pastime. Twenty are real waste of time. If you have walked on the roads of Bangalore after midnight, you will understand what we were feeling right then. In that place, and time, you will find a pack of street dogs at every 300 meters or so. And they are not there to respect the rights of a pedestrian. They will stare at you, and if your eyes meet theirs, they will bark! Seldom, they bite too. The trick is not looking at them in their eyes, and walk past as composed as you possibly can, while feeling their stares right at the back of your head. They still might bark, or bite. But seldom. The same might work with policemen, I suggested to my companion. And it worked with a pretty good success rate. We were stopped only in two more instances. Now, I didn’t suggest this analogy with any intentions of insult. I respect dogs a lot.

And time passes, without making any major changes, and repeating same mistakes.

If only she had loved herself, as much as he loved himself

She asked him to write. She asked him to write more. She asked him to write more about him. She asked him to write something about her. She, who doesn’t like asking.

He said no. He said no again. He said no yet again. He will say no for one more time. He, who knows what an unwanted yes is, and still, cannot tell it from a wanted one.

She thinks he is too good to be true. He thinks she is too good for him. She and he don’t know one important thing. It is also true that it would be too bad if they don’t have each other.

This piece is not about her. It’s not about him either. It’s about everything else. It’s about everyone except him and her. That’s because, she thinks, everything else is more important than him or her. And that’s also because, he thinks, it’s not right to tell her that she’s wrong.

Right is one of the most ambiguous words. It means many things and it’s seldom right. One doesn’t feel the right to define it, or when one does it’s either wrong, or loses its direction. I am writing this knowing that he and she will read it. He and she will think it was not right to write about it. Still, I have the right to write it, for he’s mine as much as she’s mine.

Owning is a feeling that is most difficult to rely on. One can’t own a thing unless everyone else approves the ownership. But one can always go around it and redefine the very concept of ownership. That is what I would do, because, it’s easier than trusting everyone for a thing I own. The only thing I have to do is to deny every one else. This philosophy is priceless; as it makes me own anything I want to. Thus, I can own myself, him, her, and everyone else. At this moment, I want to own only him and her. I own them. So can and does, anyone, who wants to own him and her. And, to my trouble, there are many who want to.

Every single self is selfish. Only a few are aware of it, and even few among them respect its existence. It’s with the rest – who doesn’t know the existence of their selfishness, and thus, are selfless – I have to fight for my rightly owned ownership. Then, it becomes a fight between a lonely selfishness and a huge mass of selflessness. Ownerships, naturally and in the name of virtuosity, switch sides. Right is being redefined, as usual, with wrong virtues. Selfishness loses the self, and joins the veteran loser, named me. They beat me with my rules. I am, once again, ridiculed for my selfishness in contrast to their selflessness.

Now, it’s them who own her and him. I am here to approve their ownership, by letting him to lose her, by letting her to lose him, and me losing both. I should be happy being the best loser, owning nothing but my own selfishness. Losers with nothing more to lose are a desperate lot. They will never let the last thing they own – their selfishness. My selfishness is bruised from the lashes of their selflessness. And my selfishness wants its blood to ask for vengeance. It has only me to go to ask for help. It’s the only thing I own. We have only each other, and no one else.

That is reason why I stand by my selfishness and decide to put up a fight against them of the selfless. My fight is for him and her, whom I want to own forever. My lonely battle is to save my selfishness from its loneliness by gifting it the company of him and her. I know they don’t love her or him. That won’t win me my war. Because I also know, they love her and his ownership, selflessly. Selfishness has seldom won a battle against selflessness, and even on the rare occasions when it did, selfishness had to lose its self in the effort. That prompts me to have second thoughts. If I have to lose my selfishness to own him and her, the same him and her I want to gift to my selfishness, is it a battle worth fighting? Yes, it is. If I couldn’t win him and her from them, still I will have my selfishness with me. He and she are worth more than my selfishness, after all.

Those have his ownership will hate her, for losing his ownership. Those have her ownership will hate him for losing her ownership. If they lose their respective ownerships, they will hate him, her and each other. They will have to hate in the name of their selflessness. Poor them. When they lose they won’t even have their selfishness to console them. It’s not a battle they can afford to lose, or they should lose. They will dress him and her in armours of their selfless love to fight against me. Him and her, my selfishness loves. Him and her, I want to own at the cost of my selfishness. It’s not him or her I can fight with, but the rest. He and she can defeat me without a fight, and they will.

I am lost before the fight. I walk away without looking back. Blaming the ones who love his ownership, and hate everyone who come to claim it. Blaming the ones who love her ownership, and hate everyone who come to claim it. Blaming her for putting on that armour of selfless love her owners offered for fighting against me. Blaming him for not respecting his selfishness and not listening to its commands. And feeling guilty for worrying for him and her, when I should have been content with company of my selfishness. Only if, he had given her what she wouldn’t ask, or she would have asked what he wanted to give, I would have been sleeping peacefully tonight. It’s already too late, she had told him.

This piece is written by a demand from a very dear friend of mine, and is dedicated to that invaluable friendship.