A Bunch of Lies

"How can you be so irresponsible?" shrieked mum, "If you don't go, I will give you a nice beating!"

I continued to stare at her with glaring eyes. Seriously ma? I'm 24 and you plan to threaten me with a beating?

"Please, Sundar... Mummy is asking you only for your own betterment, yes?"

Now that's more like it! "Alright... I'll go... Today... Happy?"

An hour later, I reached the clinic of a Dr. Lenin at No. 8, Gundu Salai, Natesan Nagar, Puducherry. How on earth do people come up with a street-name like that: Fat Street? Fatso Street? Bomb Street? It was my mother's friend who'd recommended this physician, as her own daughter had apparently witnessed magical results from treatment at his hands. I was skeptical, and so was the man seated outside the empty clinic on a rickety three-and-a-half-legged stool.

"Is the doctor in?" I inquired, only to make him stare at me with more skepticism, get up, and walk inside the clinic never to return. Impatient, I removed my shoes and walked towards the door crowned by Dr. Lenin's name-plaque, wondering if the "doctor who blessed his patients with magical results" would look like a tuxed magician with a tall black hat and a long shiny wand, or a priest with immaculate long and white robes, mustache and beard, holding a brassy kooja, with aromatic healing waters in it, in one hand, and a dusty-old Rudraksha-mala in the another.

I walked in, only to realize that the doctor had already decided to look just like the man on the rickety stool outside the clinic. Darn it!

"What's your problem?" interrogated Dr. Lenin, no sooner than I sat on the "patient's seat" right next to his kingly chair.

I thought the doc's only magical; now I learn that he's also extremely courteous and kind. 

"Hair fall!" I explained, "My scalp gets very oily, sticky and itchy unless I shampoo my hair every single day. I'm not sure if it's the condition of my scalp, or the daily usage of shampoo that causes the hair fall."

He continued to stare at me skeptically. I'm not lying to you doc, for god's sake! Trust me!

"Look at the ground!" he commanded.

"Sorry?"

"LOOK AT THE GROUND!" he roared, even louder.

I obeyed, wondering if I had somehow desecrated his (holy) presence. What spell are you going to unleash on me, O magical doctor? Have mercy!

Click! He turned on his battery-powered torch and peered onto my head.

"Pediculosis capitis" he pronounced, after an intense round of examination long enough to stiffen my neck, as he began to pen his verdict on a prescription letter pad in wriggly letters. The rest of the prescription letter was written in perfectly illegible DoctorScript.

"Pedi-cu-losis ca-pi-tis" I struggled to read from the prescription letter, "What is it, doctor?"

"Dandruff!"

"Dandruff? But I've never had any white flakes fall off my head!"

"Pediculosis means scales... Scales... Mixing with oil... Getting sticky..."

Now why didn't I think of that?

He got up, walked to a few shelves hidden behind thick curtains at a corner of the room, and brought back pills in small paper packets. After giving out confusing oral instructions as to how and when I should take these pills, he comfortably placed his arms on the rests of his chair and gave out an "Anything else?" look.

"Thank you! What's your fee, doctor?"

"Four hundred... For the consultation and the tablets..."

Four hundred? I can't bargain with him, can I? I handed out a 500 rupee note, which he examined with great care to ensure that it's not counterfeit, and handed back a 100 dollar note. Things I could do with four hundred rupees... If it hadn't been for mum, and that nosy friend of hers...

Exiting the clinic, I put on my shoes as I sat on the empty rickety stool outside, and headed home wondering how silly it had been of me to have not known that I had dandruff for so long!

However, I was still skeptical.

So, as soon as I reached home, I switched on my computer and googled about Pediculosis capitis.

The results of the search blew my fuse.

Why?

Because Pediculosis capitis is the medical term for the mundanely common head-lice infestation!

Drat!!!

So the bottom line is, I ended up paying four hundred rupees to a crook who has diagnosed my hair fall problem to be caused due to lice...

...and having a bunch of hair in my hands that I pulled out of my head in complete exasperation!

Now you're happy, mum?



Epilogue:

I called up the doctor from the phone number printed on the prescription letter, and spoke to him 'naively':

"Hello! Dr. Lenin?"

"Yes?"

"I'm the patient you consulted minutes ago..."

"Yes?"

"I looked up Pediculosis capitis on the Internet and learned that it's the medical term for head-lice infestation. But I don't remember you speak of any head-lice. So I called to resolve the confusion. Do I have head-lice, doctor?"

"Internet explanations are always confusing. Don't worry! Take the tablets!"

"But, doctor, every article very clearly explains Pediculosis capitis as head-lice infestation. Also, no article speaks about dandruff or hair fall. What do you comment on this?"

"Eh... Lice causes dandruff... Dandruff causes lice... No confusion... Take tablets!"

"Okay, thanks!"

He's a crook alright!



Dear readers:

Here is a case of daylight robbery. If an educated man can be fooled and robbed so easily, how about the ignorant, illiterate, poor and needy people who seek his help?

I do have his hand-written prescription well preserved.

Is there a way to teach him a lesson?

Thinking Inside the Box

"You think you forgot something?" asked Sagar, wondering why I was staring at the car trunk for so long.

"No, none that I can forget. Let's head home!" I said, quizzically as always, as I joined him on the front of his Santro. It was time to bid good-bye to my abode in Chennai.

It turned out to be a beautiful drive along the East Coast Road to Pondicherry;  fresh rays of a rising sun fell on our shoulders, as the two of us, everyday-soldiers as we were, discussed our everyday-battles that we forge for a living.

"Dude, your stuff are going to be just fine," he said plainly, annoyed by my frequent turns to the rear of the car. "Trust me!" Are they gonna fall off the car or what? Silly old friend of mine!

I let out a weak smile, strong enough to conceal the thought that I couldn't help but not let go of ever since I had boarded the car: How my entire life, and all my assets and possessions, had fit snugly into the mere boot of a car!

And then I began to 'appraise' myself...

First, there's me (i.e., my body, if I'm allowed to call it an asset!), wearing my eye-glasses, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a watch and a pair of all-terrain shoes; my wallet carrying some cash, my ATM cards linked to my salary and savings accounts, my driver's licence, PAN card and all  my other ID cards, and a few seemingly worthless articles that bring back priceless memories only I know of; my Xperia which holds my calendar and to-do lists, along with all my beloved family and friends in its address book.

Second, my backpack carrying a folder that holds all of my certificates and documents - right from school through to college and work - my Acer laptop, a Made-in-India umbrella, a pouch of stationery and another of toiletries, and my personal and professional diaries.

Third, a suitcase that comfortably accommodates all of my modest wardrobe.

Fourth, a king-size bag carrying all of my books, which has grown rapidly from empty to dangerously over-loaded in the last couple years, thanks to a few of my close (and slimy) book-worm friends.

Fifth, a foldaway mat that I sleep on.

And finally, my music production synthesizer keyboard, a pair of Sony monitor-headphones and other music accessories.

Although, in this journey so far, I may not have amassed enough possessions to impress 'chics' or to pass on to progeny, I cannot find a more belittling truth than that I, my asset and life's possessions can all be thrown inside a mere box...

... even when I'm alive and breathing!

For reign or Foreign..?

Republic Day Special - 
Originally penned by me on April 28, 2007

A very sunny afternoon. Walked to the bus stop opposite to college grunting at the scorching weather. I soon realized that I was not the only one grunting... A blond in her mid 20s was dragging her worn out feet across me, 'beneath' an outsized backpack. 

She was plump, wearing trendy convertible cargos; her bright coloured spaghetti top complemented her catchy saffron-tinted sunglasses. She was completely exhausted. 

She accosted me and enquired if the bus to the Pondicherry Beach was due. I affirmed with a grin and gave her specific details of where to alight.

I signaled her the approach of the bus.

We embarked the bus that literally 'brimmed over' with civilians.

Right since I boarded the bus, a pertinent question made me pensive.

... infact so pensive that I failed to alight at my bus stop. 

Having realized that it was too late, I had to alight at the next stop.

I alighted.

... and so did the woman who was the prime reason for that persistent question in my darn head...

I was surprised to see her walking briskly in a direction opposite to that of the beach.

I caught up from behind her and cried, "Pardon me my good lady, I'm afraid you are venturing in the wrong direction..!"

An earnest smile lit up her face. "I thought I needed some repose... This's my inn..." she said, pointing out towards an inn.

"Repose... repose... ??? Ah yes... 'relaxation'...", I thought to myself, smiling, with the satisfaction of comprehending a White woman's words...

"I presume the Ashram Guest House is replete by now..?", I inquired, aware of the fact that tourists like her make seamless plans ahead of their journey.

"By Lord... You're right... I should've booked a dorm in advance...", she sighed...

I then noticed her exquisite Rajasthani necklace. A master-piece indeed. This rose the pertinent question in my head once again...

Silence...

"I bet you're breaking your head on something..?" she asked, both to my surprise and gratification...

"Quite right... I was just thinking... ... ..."

"Yeah, please go on..."

"... what you foreigners find at all in this country... I mean... Is there anything in this place that is worth seeing, notwithstanding the grotesqueries of your travel... I have been curious since I was a lad... Now that I've found the right person to ask..."

Her response took me by sheer surprise...

She began to belly laugh... And said,

"I'm sorry... I'm afraid I'm the wrong person to be asked this question... I'M VERY INDIAN..!"

I was dumbfounded...

She added, with her arms stretched, "My home... No place like it..."

I still didn't recover from it...

"Well, I am very Indian... Don't you recognize this piece of Indian jewelery..?", she added, with a grin...

All I could do was to chuckle... "So where is your 'real' home..?", I asked, still curious...

"Delhi, our country's capital..." was her quick reply... "After bidding goodbye to Manchester, England, once and for all!"

I could see her eyes twinkling with patriotism... Something that never happened in mine...

I glanced at her one last time... Her benign smile... Her refined countenance...

"Happy travelling my fellow 'Indian'..!", I greeted cheerfully...

I walked my way to the bus stand... Only this time pensive with another pertinent question...

"How can an adopted daughter have more love on her mother than the love for the same mother had by her very own son..?"

Epilogue 1:

Exactly four years since I pen this, down to the very day (April 28, 2011), yet another blond uploads her musical cover of one of my most favourite Hindi songs with a spectacular video featuring her wearing not just Indian jewellery, but also Indian attires, and even Indian henna! Blond coincidence?

Epilogue 2:

Another Friday, and I'm set out to catch a bus home from work, curious to meet my niece before she'd go to bed mad at me. A PRTC bus arrived, fully loaded as usual, and I manage to get my bum into the bus.

Inching my way in from the engine-side of the bus, I come to stand next to what was an unusual sight, for me and to some folks nearby.

Seated on the floor of the crowded bus is a blond, well into her 30s. Interestingly, every belonging of hers, right from to her (inexpensive) pink Churidhar, to her luggage bag (adorned by the logo of Pondy Sri Lakshmi Jewellery) on which she's seated and the purse it carried, were all quintessentially Indian. Clearly, she's not a tourist, but a resident, like me.

I want to start a conversation, but, as always, didn't want to sound corny.

 "Hi, do you speak any French?"

 "Oui."

 I notice how completely exhausted she is, gasping for air -- possibly for some strength too.

 "Too bad I can't speak a word of French! Do you know the meaning of the word spelt aah-bey-bey-eh-akson-thegyoo?"

"Monk. You know monk?"

"Yeah, I do, but not many, except the author of this book I'm reading. This Christian Missionary had left France and lived in and traveled throughout southern India for almost 40 years, earning the trust of the natives and documenting their lives along his way."

"Jean Antoine?"

"Sorry?" Zaanantwaan? Why do the French sound like they've swallowed a Japanese kid when they begin to pronounce a French name?!?

"The monk... Jean Antoine?"

"Well, the cover of the book reads Abbe Dubois"

"Yes, Jean Anroine Dubois it is!", she says after letting out a tired chuckle.

"Here, look... A portrait of the monk... Looks like a native... Dressed like a native..."

"Just like me, eh?" she winked, as she pounced to grab a nearby seat of a passenger preparing to alight the bus. She's definitely lived here long enough to master the Indian art of seat-hunting!

As the bus resumed its journey, I watch let her heavy eyes succumb to their weight, and begin to wonder where my own journey is taking me to.

Where will I go?
Who will I meet?

What will I find?

What will I lose?

Can't wait to recall it all as I lay in my own death-bed, far from today, after having lived my life to its fullest...

இரவின் பரிதவிப்பு - Song of the week

இரவின் பரிதவிப்பு (Angst of the night) - my newest music track is now out on Soundcloud. The song has been composed and arranged in my Yamaha MO6 in the likes of contemporary Tamil filmy music. Check it out and tell me if you like it!

 Iravin Parithavippu by shivsu

Elements I adore in my song myself: the upbeat piano intro that races to the top, stops, turns around and gracefully descends down to the start, the rich tapestry of bass which sits at the backdrop and melts life into the song, the minimalistic percussion that fits into the mood of the song, the ‘josh’ of the steel guitar strumming away, and finally, the orchestral twist in the end.

The Lyrics

When my friend Krithi, listened to me jamming the leads on the piano, she felt that the song was itching to narrate a story to the world. Soon, the scene was set – a couple stealthily spending the night together under the moonlight – and we began to pen the lyrics as sung by the girl. She supplied the words and the transitions, and I refined, metered and fit them into the song. For more stories, check out Krithi's blog.

இரவின் பரிதவிப்பு 

என்னவென்று சொல்வதடா இந்த பரிதவிப்பை,

உன் கரம் என்னை அணைக்க...

பொங்கி வரும் காதல் வெள்ளம் பெண்ணின் நாணம் மறைக்க

உன்னில் நான் என்னை இழக்க...

என்னவென்று சொல்வதடா இந்த பரிதவிப்பை,

உன் கரம் என்னை அணைக்க...

பொங்கி வரும் காதல் வெள்ளம் பெண்ணின் நாணம் மறைக்க

உன்னில் நான் என்னை இழக்க...

தீண்டும் உந்தன் விரல் நுனி,

தீயில் விழும் மலர்க்கொடி,

விரும்பினேன்... விலகினேன்...

விலகிய மறு கணம்,

வருந்தியதென் மனம்,

சீண்டினேன்... உனை தீண்டினேன்...


...

... and a couple more stanzas for the section 0:54 to 1:05 in the song. 


I'd love if you guys too contribute to the song and the lyrics!
And stay tuned for the female vocal version of the song coming out soon!!

Just You Wait

Today, while chilling out at the coffee machine in my office (enjoying my 'screen-saver moments" as Russell Peters elegantly puts it), a mellow voice floated in the air and brushed my ears. As I searched the corridor to find the young woman whose singing had caught my attention, I was disappointed. There was nobody on either sides of the corridor, except a janitor mopping the floor.

Before I'd dismissed it as a figment of my imagination (perhaps one of those "audio-enabled-screensavers"?), a closer inspection revealed the true owner of the voice.

The janitor herself.

There she was -- making deft strokes on the floor -- each stroke meticulously dampening every square inch of the floor -- each stroke meticulously following the rhythm of the song.

I couldn't help but witness the office floor be transformed into a Leicester Square stage (complete with strobe lights and live musicians), showcasing the musical of a discreet broom-wielding star.

I soon landed back on the office floor and decided to get close to hear her better. Keeping in mind of her discreetness, I walked towards the lift on the corridor, pressed the button to summon the lift and waited, unaware. Moments before the lift had arrived, I turned to her and said:

"You sing well, akka!"

"Sir?" she cried, with alarm reeking from her eyes.

"I said, you sing very well!"

"Me? What was I... Was I singing?"

"I was having my cup of coffee and I heard you sing. You sing well, seriously."

She blushed. Profusely. And I began to wonder, if there is any jewel in this world which can embellish a woman more than her unfaked blush.

"I head our company's music troupe. Would you like to sing on stage?"

"If I sing, the audience will run away!", she quipped, blushing all the more.

"I think the audience would love to hear you. May I ask your name?"

"Malath..." she stopped, bit her tongue and said, "Usha".

I smiled and took the stairs, knowing for certain that hiding her name can't possibly hide her talent.

I doubt if Henry Higgins has set foot on this world in my shoes, but I sure do look forward to have her singing on stage; only this time, wielding a microphone for a change.


UPDATE (March 03, '11, 17:40 hrs):

Spoke to Usha today. Learned that she has become the laughing stock amongst all of her fellow workers, after one of my colleagues (?!?) inquired my company's facilities team of her whereabouts and if she sings well. All of Usha's coworkers, she laments, now believe that the idea of her singing on stage is a joke!

I spoke to the clearly upset Usha (who now confesses that she can't sing more than two lines of a song), assured her that her coworkers deserve a mighty revenge, and that she must practice hard, get on stage, grab a mic and steal the show!

Hail Higgins!!!

Discourse on SaaS

I take this opportunity to explain a model that has clearly begun to revolutionize the world we live in.

SaaS stands for Spouse as a Service (not to be confused with Sex as a Service).


What is SaaS?

When a spouse (and all the benefits which come with the spouse):

1. are always available in the desired ways and means
2. come with no up-front costs, i.e., you only get to pay for what you use
3. provide you with the ability to easily ramp-up and ramp-down the amount of services that you can receive at any specified time (based on your moods and temperamental levels)

then the spouse is said to be offered as a service.


Why SaaS?

The disadvantages of an on-premise spouse, as offered by conventional matrimony, include:

High CapEx -- CapEx or Capital Expenditure (net expenditure necessary up-front in order to begin enjoying the services of the spouse, e.g., restaurant bills during initial dates, wedding expenses) is high.

High OpEx -- OpEx or Operational Expenditure (recurring costs necessary to maintain the spouse within your premise, e.g., clothes and jewellery) is staggering.

Vendor lock-in -- Owing to [1] you have complete ownership of the spouse (and all the flaws that come with it) and [2] you have already invested considerable time, money and effort in getting used to the spouse, a lock-in is created, removing all possibilities of you trying out another spouse.

Lack of scalability -- You may NOT need all of the services offered by your spouse (and) at all times.

Untapped SMB market --  Most SMBs or Small to Medium-waged Bachelors can never afford to acquire and maintain a full-blown on-premise spouse.

SaaS addresses and eliminates all of the above disadvantages of an on-premise spouse.


Features of interest to a consumer of SaaS

Security -- All of your confidential data (such as bank balances, investments, property) shall be kept secure and highly confidential.

Enhancement -- If you are dissatisfied with a particular service offered by your spouse, this model offers a convenient way of tending to them (faults or change-requests).

Customization -- You would have the ability to customize / tailor your spouse to fit your needs.

Availability -- Your spouse shall now be always available -- especially in those times of hightened emotional / physical need.

Termination -- If you are completely unhappy with the spouse, you have the liberty to terminate the services and find a more fitting spouse.

Integration -- It will now be possible to seamlessly integrate your spouse with your internal systems, such as family and friends.

(Note: All the above come with strict SLAs or Service Level Agreements)

SaaS-y isn't it?!?

Song of the week - Purple Dreams

As I continue to venture in the unknown everyday...
As I come closer to realizing my dreams...
Purple Dreams....

Purple Dreams by shivsu

Song of the week - Lover boy meets girl

What's with all the love songs lately? Beats me!!!


Check it out . . .



Lover boy meets girl by shivsu

Song of the week - Can't help but fall in love with you

I had real fun when composing this (in a lovey-dovey mood at three in the morning :D)...

Folks, do tell me what you think about this scratch!

And watch out for the completed vocal version coming soon!!!


Can't help but fall in love with you by shivsu

Song of the Week: Divinity

Composed by me over a contemplative weekend, played and mixed in my MO . . .

I dedicate this song to the divinity in me and you . . .

Muthal Murai - Revisited

Check out Muthal Murai, my first composition, revisited as a soft ballad.

(Personally, I like this version better!)


Muthal Murai by shivsu

CHALLENGE 17:45

I remember watching The Flintstones when I was a kid. I remember how Fred always gets thrilled and cries, “IT'S QUITTIN' TIME!!!!” as he hears the honk signalling the end of the day's work in the quary he works in – how he'd delightfully board his car (with his tongue out), speeds home, parks his car in his garage with a crash, bursts open front the front door of his house, yelling, 'WILMA, I'M HOME!!!”

Sadly, (atleast for me) things have changed much since the stone-ages. . .

What do I do when it's my “quittin' time” at 17:45? Well, I gear up for the several hours' work ahead of me. I'm not alone – almost my entire team continues to remain at their desk heedless of the time. And, lately, staying back till the wee hours of the night does not arouse a “Jee... why do you stay up so late?!?” or a “That must suck!!!” from our friends and family anymore.

I remember a colleague once requesting leave for a Sunday (!). And when her boss asked why she wanted  leave (!!!), she'd plainly replied, “Sir, I really need to wash my clothes – I've none left in my wardrobe!”

...and another colleague who realized that all his undergarments have been soaking in soap for over a week and he had none to wear the following day (He couldn't bring himself to tell me since when he's been wearing the same underwear)!

...and my married team-mates say that whey they eventually return to their dens, they are always welcomed by their beloved wives giving them (just) the finger!

...and the gentleman who announces over the P.A.S., “The 5:45 pm buses and cabs will leave shortly. Thank you!” little knows that he's been cursed more times than an average human being is cursed in a lifetime!

If you can't find a way back to the stone age, here's my set of tips to anyone who wishes to quit office at their regular office quitting time.

Be a sinner - Your superiors would have (almost) convinced you that it's a sin to quit leave office at regular quitting time at 17:45, and you'd even await the jaws of doom for doing so.

Be a slow-worker – The faster you work, the greater the amount of work pushed into your gutts.

Be uninitiated – Your additional hours of work have a direct and almost mathematical correlation to the amount of additional initiatives you make in your project / work.

Be non-communicative – The more you converse and build relationships with your superiors, the more they'd feel entitled to ask you to work for extra-hours (without paying a pittance more, of course).

Be non-courteous – Don't greet your colleagues. Better still, ignore their greetings too!

Keep your health spoiled at all times – Superiors these days demand 'tangible' reasons to “go early” or “take leave”.

Lose your mobile phone – that's when you really want to be uninterrupted from work calls when you're watching that long promised movie with your spouse and kids on a weekend.

Decline on-site work offers – Insomniacs may ignore this point.

If you're a guy, undergo a sex-change operation – “Company policy” has it that female employees are not allowed to stay back late in the office. (Of course there are other benefits!)

Become a manager – Bear the grunt until you become a 'superior'. Leave office before way your sub-ordinates. Give them your mobile number and tell them you're more available than one can ever be.

(and finally...)

Aim for mediocre grades – If you don't and are reaching for those top-grades, close the browser and get back to work!

I welcome further suggestions from my dear readers...

My First Composition

I was jamming on my synth this weekend and I ended up recording this scratch of my first li'l composition -- played and sequenced in my MO and recorded using Audacity on my laptop. Check it out and tell me what you think!

And I'd welcome and appreciate if you can write lyrics for this scratch.... :) 

MOst Wanted

They say desire is the root cause of all evil -- I ain't sure what evil is in store for me -- but this definitely is the one thing I've desired most in all my life!

Yamaha MO6 - Studio-class Music Production Synthesizer

I bought this baby recently (I had to shell out every penny from all my savings of all the months I worked at my job!!!), took her home and have been spending all my time with her.

MO's more nifty and advanced for me than I'd thought -- I had to struggle a li'l to get any music out when I first got started with the MO. Slowly, but surely, I'm getting closer and closer to the instrument, and one day I hope to become one with it!

Here's a small scratch of the song Manathil from the movie Poonthalir I recorded and mixed at home.

The number's my mum's favourite and she readily agreed to render her voice!

(P.S. There's MOre to come!!!)

Wheels of Fortune

nce upon a time, there lived four car wheels. Born and brought up in Bridgestone, they all then lived under the same chassis of a classic Chevy.

All was fun when they first rolled out into the roads – they were young, their spokes gleaming and with the grooves of their tyres sharply intact. Even during times when some of them were punctured flat, they didn’t feel pretty bad, for they enjoyed a good view of the enchanting meadows on either sides of the road as they switched places with the spare-wheel at the back of the car.

All was fun until they began to get weary of the roads - their spokes were no longer gleaming, and the once sharp grooves of their tyres then abrased by time. And one night, inside the dark and lonely walls of a sleazy garage, one of the rear-wheels had a strange and disquieting thought in his bearings – “Why am I bound to this car along with this other rear wheel? Why is it that only the front-wheels get to remain in the front of the car and get all the view and glory of the road? Why should I be forced to turn in whichever way the front-wheels turn and go in whichever way the front-wheels go? And why should I always have to support the weight of the car with the pressure of the air forced inside my tube?”

The perplexed rear-wheel even tried to get some questions answered from the only folks he knew in this world – his fellow wheels, only in vain.

He began to dream of living a life of freedom with no restraints whatsoever – free to release the constrained air of passion and desire from inside his tube – free to tread to places where he wants to – free to tread his own way.

And so, on a fine spring morning, as soon as he was out of the garage, the young rear-wheel opened the tube-valve and let out all of his air himself. Before soon, the rear of the car was jacked, and he was removed and replaced by the spare at the back of the car. As the car began to move, he slowly unfastened the bolts which secured him to where the spare was. He eventually made his leap of freedom to the inviting asphalt below.

He quickly steered himself away from oncoming traffic and headed to the meadows on the sides of the road. It was for the first time he had touched blades of grass – it felt like heaven.

Sadly, no sooner than he began to enjoy his new sense of freedom, he realized that he was powerless without the car he had belonged to. He had once thought that only he and his fellow wheels had the power to move the car forward (silly he had no notion of what an engine was) and was shocked by his own inability to move even an inch by himself. And with all his air let out, even gravity couldn’t help him much to go places.

With the last traces of momentum gone from him, the plane and lush-green meadows became the once-rear-
wheel’s tomb.

Who has control?

The front-wheels which steer the car? The steering-wheel which commands the front-wheels? The driver who is at the steering-wheel? The rich owner of the car seated behind the driver? The owner’s mistress who he’s going to meet with the flowers in his hands? His money that she’s after?

Is there anybody in this world who is truly free?

Given a chance, would you choose to remain free from the shackles of desire, wealth, deed, responsibility, sacrifice, power, pleasure, pain, friendship, love and humanity?

Self - Service

I was at a restaurant – one of those ‘classy’ ones which, quite proudly, bore the sign “Self Service”. As I was “waiting for my order” at the delivery counter, a strikingly beautiful young woman in a vivacious velvet dress approached the same counter to collect her own order. As I stood there waiting, as she reached out her peachy arms to collect the dishes that were being delivered to her, she made an (innocent) brush over my arms and shoulders; her curly locks soon following suit, whisking her aromas all over me -- like a shaman spreading the spell of incense with the feathers of a peafowl.

However captivating this moment may seem, I was surprised, or rather perturbed by how I reacted.

I uneasily moved aside with a shudder and a look of disdain lighting up all over my face.

I realized that at that very moment, I had learned something more about myself; ventured a little deeper into the depths of me; understood a little more of the inner mechanisms of me.

I unraveled the mystery why I was oblivious to the (innocent) pleasure the moment had to offer which was obvious to any other young man (with his balls intact).

Why?

The feel of a young woman, her touch, her smell, her sound or even her sight fills me with contempt.

Like a bare-footed old tramp disdaining any footwear …

Like a hut-dwelling flower-girl displeased to sleep inside a duchess’s plush bedroom …

Like an old habit scoffing at a new one in the making …

Like a man in darkness cussing at a gush of light …

…

I am too young, my friends say, to even vaguely worry about "issues like these". Nevertheless, I’m sure that as years pass, I shall make it increasingly harder for any woman to enter into my life (or vice versa). Nevertheless, I may one day wake up and realize I’m too old for anything, or still worse, roll over and see the wrong woman – a wrong wife – sleeping across my bed – either blithely ignorant or fully aware of the mistake I made in choosing a life partner – both for me and for her.

…

They say focus is the ability to, out of 100 things, see just one and not see the 99 other. I must say that I have conditioned myself to have acquired a strong sense of focus. And I attribute all my success, however significant or insignificant it may be, in my professional life to this unwavering focus I have hitherto developed.

But all the things I have focused on, from time to time, were missions that well bore both the clarities of objective and deadline.

No wonder my constant and heedfully logical act of self-conditioning has left me unable to handle any romantic relationship hitherto.

For a romantic relationship can possess neither an objective nor a deadline.

But there shall be one thing I’m fortunate about...

I shall know with utmost certainty when love flutters its first wings inside my world purely built on rules, logic, purpose and reason.

For that love shall be in its purest form – devoid of any rules, logic, purpose or reason. And I shall then travel to a world beyond my own.

...

Meanwhile, as I “wait for that order”, I shall try to learn and appreciate the pleasures of all the brushes and whisks made by all vivacious velvet clad beauties…

May be this is (also) what they call “Self Service”.

Why Deny?

 

Why deny thy touch?

Why wean me from thy breasts of love?

Why evade my clutch?

And smile down like a cherub from above?

I fought to steal a win from pain

Sans hands to grope your winsome mane

I fought I fought 'til a morbid fear

Has plagued my world both far and near

No mortal's hand I dare now hold...

You've left my world so bare and cold.

Why deny thy sight?

Why make me shut my eyes in dispair?

Why remove all light

From life which now just hangs by a hair?

I fought to steal a win from pain

Sans eyes to see your curves on flame

I fought I fought 'til I fell down blind

As I gouged my eyes - have no axe to grind.

No beaut of beauties I care now see...

You've sucked my world off charm and glee.

Why deny thy presence?

Why make me lose myself in me?

Why remove all essence

Of reason why I feed and breathe?

I fought to steal a win from pain

Sans need to live a life of feign.

I fought I fought 'til pain engulfed

My body - I drew my sword to myself;

My sinews tore - no pain beset

You've made me part before we met.

THE'I'SM

    Recently, I was asked by my good friend, Viji, if I believe in God.

    ...
    ...

    Albert Einstein was once asked the same question. And here was his reply:

    “I believe in Spinoza's God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a [personal] God who concerns himself with fates and actions of human beings.”

    Courtesy: SJG Archives

    ...
    ...

    My reply was way too snappy! But first,

A Primer on God-belief:

    Atheists disbelieve in the existence of God.
       
    Deists believe that God is the architect of the universe. And like all [human] architects, God only built the         universe and does not control its inhabitants.

    Theists on the other hand believe in a Personal God - He who watches over everything and He who has         complete control over every happening in this world. A theist may be:

    Monotheistic - believing there is and worshipping only one God (and hence one deity).
    Polytheistic - believing there are and worshipping many Gods (and hence many deities).
    Henotheistic - believing there is one God but worshipping many deities.
    Monoaltristic - believing there are many Gods but worshipping only one deity
    Pantheistic - believing that God is the whole [universe]
    Panetheistic - believing that the whole [universe] is in God.

    Fedeists believe that [religious] faiths are independent of reason.

    Agnostics believe that the truth about the existence of God is unknown or unknowable. An agnostic may be:

   
    Strongly Agnostic - "I can't know if God exists or otherwise... So can't you... Ever!"
    Weakly Agnostic - "I don't know whether God exists or not... But one day [in the future] we will find evidence!"
    Agnostically Atheistic - "I don't claim the existence of God... And [hence] I certainly don't believe in any!"
    Agnostically Theistic - "I don't claim the existence of God... Still, I certainly believe God exists!"
    Apothetically Agnostic - "Only you and I are arguing about God... But God doesn't seem to be concerned about     the fate of the humans! If He really cares, why isn't He proving His existence [to us]?"

    And finally, Apatheists aren't interested in claiming or denying the existence of God.

    (Clearly, Einstein was more of an agnostic deist.)



Look ma! I've a theory too:

    [After my first introspection about God in all my life,] I see the the word 'God' as the letter 'i' used in algebra which denotes the square root of -1. Just like the Italian mathematician Gerolamo Cardano, while trying his hands on solving cubic equations, had helped in the conception of the idea of complex numbers, I believe that the ancient philosophers, while trying to answer fundamental questions like "How life and the worlds originated?", had helped in the conception of the idea of 'God'. Just like the idea of 'i' solved many polynomial equations which were never before 'solvable', the idea of 'God' had helped answer many a question which could never be 'answerable'.

    I also believe that it is very likely that humans may lack the intellectual capability to see / understand the answers which explains their very existence. Just like, say, a canine when crossing the road shall be unable to answer questions like "Why are there alternating white lines in the middle of the road?", "What are these beings [on wheels] moving at insane speeds and where are they heading to?" let alone - "By what degree is a V-twin engine more efficient than a V-3 engine?"

    Although these road-crossing-canines, [possibly] have theories of their own as to what cars and buses are (or even have no theories at all), they don't argue with fellow canines to press their theory - don't form herds based on their theories - don't  indulge in"dog-fights" with other herds having different theories - don't kill each other for the sake of their own theories.

...
...

    "For God's sake Viji, I give a damn about God!" I snapped.

    (Non-empathetic apatheism maybe?)

Happy Pongal Everyone!

The sun is the soul
      Of the planets as a whole
Our Earth is a son
      Of you, the mighty sun.

                                                            Compared to you fire is cool!
                                                                  If I ever dream to touch you, I'm a fool!
                                                            We disregard people as untouchable
                                                                  But for sure, you're the real 'un-touchable".

God is the greatest mathematician,
      Who in a universal campus
Drew the most perfect sphere - The Sun
      Even without a compass.

                                                            Oh sun! You hide yourself between the mountains,
                                                                  Make the rain flow as a fountain.
                                                            You are the real reason of life we maintain,
                                                                  So. we're nothing about you to complaint.

In the sky,
      You are nature's top rank painter!
But in the afternoon,
      You make us feel much fainter!

                                                            In punctuality, you are an excellent teacher,
                                                                  Even to the tiniest of the tiny creature.
                                                            You take bath twice a day in sea
                                                                  And so you are as active as a bee.

In the afternoon you 'fire' a gun
      For nothin but just for fun!
You refresh us with a cool breeze,
      But sometimes with anger blow us with ease.

                                                            You are so powerful to make people blind,
                                                                 But yet good and calm and kind.
                                                            You were the olden clock,
                                                                  But now you are put into a knock.

You appointed a night guard,
      Who keeps guard of the night.
But he takes leave for a day without a word
      And with darkness vanquishing the night!

                                                            We circle around for our well-being the Navagrahas,
                                                                  But the Navagrahas themselves circle around you for Anugraha!
                                                            You make people to mingle,
                                                                  Through a festival named 'Pongal'!

We salute you
      For your majesticity!
And appreciate you
      For your simplicity and generosity!

N.Sivasundar        

IX - std             

Sri Sankara Vidyalaya

I Wish I Had An Erection

It's a beautiful Sunday evening, and I am waiting for a bus (to take me just two stops from the Perambur railway station), standing 'under' a heavy backpack and carrying a package which I am to deliver to my uncle's colleague who in turn is to deliver the same to my sister overseas. The package is a jute bag weighing a little over 10 kilos and I am late by a little more than 2 hours. A bus arrived - reminding me of the overly-stuffed-and-about-to-pop bag I am carrying myself. As I (barely) place one of my feet on the foot-board, the other dangling mere inches above the asphalt - one of my hands tightly clasping a window-sill and also holding the package at the same time, with the other hand free to buy a ticket - I can feel the pride in my own dexterity as the bus picks up momentum.

And then the unthinkable happens...

As I reach for the coins inside my pocket, as though by the Devil's intervention, the only straps that hold my trousers unfasten themselves completely in a snap! All that now prevents them from falling straight down to the moving ground below (leaving me butt-naked in a moving bus) is my hand inside the pocket. I know I am in serious trouble.

As I try to "hold my trousers from inside my pocket" while I pretend to reach for coins (and evade dirty looks from the bus-conductor), I learn that the next stop has already 'arrived' and that I, along with the other fellow dexterous foot-board passengers, ought to first get down from the foot-board, in turn allowing the not-so-dexterous 'inside' passengers to get down. With my hands still "searching for coins", I alight from the bus.

With just seconds to spare before the bus would start off, I now re-position myself on the foot-board, only this time with the package I have been carrying to remain a few inches below my own 'package' with the former now holding the trousers from falling down with the aide of my vice-like legs. Alas! My hand can 'finally' take out the coins and buy myself a ticket. I come to the realization that I am now a human laundry-clip!

 And then more unthinkable things happen in split-second processions (best concieved in slow-mo):

1. The conductor hands over the ticket as I reach my hand towards him.

2. A man who has been witnessing my ordeal decides to 'help' by yanking my jute-bag free from the clutches of my legs to place it in a safer place inside the bus.

3. A stray-dog instantly fallen irresistibly in love with a... well... 'bitch', decides not to waste time but to run towards her, risking being crushed to pulp by a moving 50 tonne bus.

4. My bus-driver slams the brakes forcing people to fall 'gracefully' towards the exit upon the souls standing on the foot-board, forcing me to brace myself with my hand that reached for the ticket or fear falling head-first on the asphalt below. I wisely choose option 'A'!

5. My trousers begin their glorious free-fall.

With both my hands 'occupied' - and being someone who does not give up easily, I decide to use my wiener to brake the fall of my trousers.

I WISH I HAVE AN ERECTION!!!

(Ever heard of Masters and Johnson's Light-bulb and Iron Theory?)

Quickly, I scan for a female who is (anything close to) sexy who I can 'use' to "turn-on my light-bulb". Aha! I spot one... Time to focus hard... hard... hard....

And that was the time I made a shocking discovery.

MEN DON'T FIND WOMEN TO TURN THEM ON WHEN FACING A LIFE-OR-DEATH SITUATION!!!

(...although research has shown that the reverse is true for women!)

...

Saddened by my inability to perform under pressure - Performance Anxiety as experts elegantly call it - I somehow manage to alight from the bus once and for all "in full piece", with my trousers now poised precariously in an ultra-low-waist (or rather low-bottom) fashion. My "trendy outfit" only provokes a contemptuous look by the hot 60 year old 'auntie' who I had previously "laid my eyes on"...

"Kids!!!!", she scoffs, as she adjusts her pink spaghetti-top......