Mulla

What it means is an Islamic cleric. It was also the name of a feared childhood friend. Trust me, for what he was; even clerics would have been afraid of him.

I saw him for the first time in the 6^th grade. He was already a legend, and he was repeating his term for a second time with us. Rumours about his evil had done their countless rounds, even before he made his first appearance in class. They were nerve-tingling scary; he had slapped an Indian kid for not showing him the answers in an exam – some claimed the kid’s left cheek turned blue. Stories like that helped in concocting a fierce image, perhaps a fiercer image than he actually was – a burly 6 foot 2 inch dark monster bearing flaming eyes, fire-breathing nostrils,  and walking with footsteps that liberated a gut-wrenching noise.

Except that when we saw him, he was exactly what we had envisioned. Minus the fire from the nostrils, of course. Our disbelief caused his movement to appear in slow-motion, accompanied by some crappy death-metal music playing in the back of my head.  

He was from a troubled family, and this reflected in his attitude and in his studies. Our school tried numerous methods to mend him; extra attention from teachers, photocopies of their notes, appointing him as a house prefect (in the hope that a little responsibility would change him for the better), etc. But he was as stubborn as a dog’s curly tail could be, and his character improvement plot made little or no progress.

Until one day my class teacher came up with an ingenious plan – “to make Mulla sit with the topper of the class, so that he may watch and learn from his traits, which will be of utmost benefit to him.” Okay, it may seem like I’m gloating here, but being the one bestowed with this coveted opportunity wasn’t exactly the reward I was looking for. How did I feel when I first heard it? Similar to what Frodo Baggins would have felt if Gandalf asked him to go for a picnic with the Witch-king of Angmar.

I was infuriated at leaving my friends to sit with this illiterate and immoral creature. The very thought of sharing my notes with him disgusted me. I felt he just wasn’t worth all the effort - a person not up to the standards of begetting my friendship.

First few days went without any incident. I would stare longingly at my previous place, and my neighbours having a good time. Then there was the occasional bullying – he would simply push my chair forward in order to make himself space to move out (C’mon, he was 4 years older and had the strength of a horse – If I was of his size I would have moved the chair myself).

I would be blamed for his disappearances between classes; so at this one time I showed the futile courage of not budging when he tried to escape. When you know you are going to get hit, your eyes attain a supreme ability to multi-function. I was looking at his eyes, yet I could notice the micro-movements of both his hands. Surprisingly he grinned – this was the ice-breaker.

We got along pretty quickly after that. People were now cautious with me –I had the dubious privilege of anyone getting beaten up if they messed with me. I too thought the same, until one day I was given a task to prevent students from buying from the old canteen (as their tender had gotten over). There was this Arab dude, similar in stature to Mulla, who was a regular buyer. One day I asked Mulla to have my back when I confronted him. I blocked that dude from reaching out to his food. “No it’s against the rules, you can’t have from here.”  

FWWATISH!!!

(Yes, I it was this very filmy sound. I remember clearly ‘cos it echoed a good number of times in my ears after the impact)

I was slapped to the ground. You know how cartoons depict birds hovering around a head after a bad bump? Well the experience was almost similar; except in reality it were the floaters in my eyes that were twirling.

I shook my head and opened my eyes hoping to see Mulla have already beaten down that hooligan to a measly pulp. Sadly I was mistaken…they were chuckling together! I got enraged, unmindful of the slap I had just received and the harder ones that could follow, I stood up to Mulla and yelled,” You should learn to stick to your word, Mulla! I thought you had my back!”

To which he replied,” Yes if you hurt, I call nurse.”

“You could have told me that before I stopped him na?!!”

“We fight own battle, we win, we feel like strong man…”

I didn’t have a reply; on the contrary I mellowed down (like I had a choice!) and had a good laugh with both of them. It wasn’t only my sensory nerves, but also my ego that had taken a resound beating. Looking back at those six months which were meant to improve him, it had in fact improved me to an elevated level of maturity. Everyone now was an equal to me.

Teaching him was a jolly good exercise. Once he had gotten on my nerves for some reason and kept on provoking me. He asked, “How you study like this? How you remember all these big-big answers?”, to which I retorted this nonsense, “Stare at the book for 5 minutes and then look up.” The entire class, including the teacher, heard this dialogue, and watched him in silence as he did exactly what I told. He looked up and exclaimed “Oh I see the answers! There on the ceiling! Now I know your secret, hah!” This got everyone into splits.

He passed that year, but unfortunately he dropped out of 7^th grade, and he was never heard of since. I sincerely hope he’s doing well out there somewhere (not as a henchman or a drug-lord!), ‘cos he was the one that led me to believe that whatever element, good or bad (however you perceive it), if experienced in the right way, invariably lends us a lesson to be learnt.

Unearthing (another) meaning of Apocalypse

(This is probably the most meaningless post I’ve ever written, and I mean it. ‘Cos I’m just trying to do a Harold Camping here, making nonsense out of well… nonsense. I know the frenzy he created has fizzled out, but we should remember him for convincing people to do some literally crazy sh*t. Who else today can make people waste their life savings in the name of a ridiculously hypothetical disaster? Well if people are so jobless, they might as well spread the truth through the ‘conspiracy’ I’m bound to create.)

Disclaimer: I’m tired of doing this again and again, but if I don’t, them Christians might actually start their own version of Fatwa…perhaps calling it the Holy Assail. I wish I could do a Dan Brown, you know, do an extensive research and write an actual book on my findings someday. But just so it becomes a national bestseller, I don’t want it to be adopted by Bollywood….Hic! I think I did so much of soul-sucking that I actually choked myself.

[Inspired by Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal on Conspiracy theorist, DO CHECK THIS OUT! http://www.smbc-comics.com/index.php?db=comics&id=2240#comic]

Well…here goes.

There are advices or statements that need to come with exceptions. (http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/2Exa5M/www.cracked.com/blog/the-6-most-quoted-pieces-advice-that-are-usually-wrong/)

For example, never lie.
Exception? When you say “I do” as the groom.

Here’s another one.

Always stand up for yourself. Never back down, or take sh*t from others. If they screw with you, show them the finger.
Exception? In an encounter with a hijra.

I was travelling in an auto(rickshaw) watching a random audition of Roadies. They were bullying this guy for being a coward. I got that temporary feeling of buffing up your chest and saying to yourself,” No one’s eva gonna f*ck with me. Eva!” till when the auto halted all of a sudden. It was a long traffic jam. I put my mobile back into the bag and dozed for a while.

Snap!

I was woken by a slap on my thigh by a couple of hijras.

The usual “Give 10 rupees!” followed. Very, very and very unfortunately I only had a 100 with me. I asked the auto-driver to donate now and that I would include that in the payment later. To which he said “No change” (Really??? The whole I’m-not-so- cheap-to-have-change-although-I-drive-an-auto act? In these dire moments of distress?)

They continued harassing. I was getting angry and nervy at the same time, and that too not in a metastable state. I was behaving like Vikram in the climax of ‘Anniyan’, yelling at them to go away while also pleading for mercy when they made their ‘advancements’. The signal changed colour, and the auto chugged into motion. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. But during that process, one of the hijras’ heads received a slight bump. He/she yelled something out of rage at the driver, to which he too got really furious (Notice how usage of pronouns become easier when different, err mixed genders are involved).

He chose to retaliate, and stopped the auto near the pavement; a heated conversation in Kannada commenced. I could make out “You deserved this for harassing my valuable passenger!” Then the worst that one could ever imagine, happened. No, I take back what I just said; NO ONE’s insane enough to imagine that. Not ready to lose, the hijra proceeded to his/her ‘Fatality’ move (Mortal Kombat fans, anyone?). I moved my head away and asked the driver to leave the whole damn thing. To which the auto driver too started unzipping! I shut my eyes and covered myself with my bag. Ever had those moments when you wanted to prevent your mind from forming horrifying mental images but you became tragically late in doing so? This was one of them. It was also one of those rare moments in life when you are better off checking out Medusa and turning into a statue. It was like Judgment Day; I was ready to come clean and ask God for forgiveness from all the sins I’ve done, anything to save myself from the ongoing atrocity.

Wait a minute!

There were striking inferences to be made from the whole situation. For once, I finally realized why the Book of apocalypse itself was called ‘Revelations’. Camping hated all people who weren’t straight, as he felt they were morally responsible for Judgment Day. The world isn’t new to nude LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) parades. The day when such a worldwide parade happens, involving every non-straight gender alive… that would be the true Apocalypse - (insert Mallu accent) the real hell!

Word of advice - Don’t form mental images of the incident.

Oh yea, I did leave unscathed. Loud honking forced the driver to come back to his auto. This would be the one and only time when I appreciated Bangalore traffic; well God does take different forms, doesn’t He?

Here's an idea...

Bahrain and 2012

Didn’t it feel so good to be back? Duh!

It felt so darn good to be back that I stepped outside my new place at Budaiya, stretch out my arms, look up in the sky and say “It feels so good!” Bahrain was moved, and it answered my display of immense ecstasy with a couple of tear gas shells. I guess Bahrain wanted me to cry along.

Well, mom had other plans. She yelled at me to come back and help her tape the edges of windows and doors. I gasped at the amount of masking tape we had in stock, much like how they stack up toilet rolls in hotels. I looked out and saw kids and adults rushing to their homes; shouts of “INCOMING!” (Call of Duty, Unreal tournament, and the likes) flashed across my mind.

In case you are rejoicing with the fact that I’m living dangerously and my days are numbered, nyaa…I stay in a secure compound with a huge fencing and two guards. But being a demonstration-prone area, tear gas shells are as regular as the movies on Set Max.

I looked at the thick wads of smoke entering the compound walls. A year ago the same wad of smoke would have had me screaming, “Yea baebay! Hookah round the corner!”

This is an entirely new experience in my surrogate motherland. Gone are those days when the only thing you had to fear while venturing out was stumbling across Mr. Vinod* Sir. And those crazy Saudis driving drunk through the streets on the weekends. (*FYI He’s a person who plays with your sense of touch.) Being in Bahrain now is like sitting in a boat with no oars. Already there’s nothing to do here…just plain nostalgia. Even that’s off boundary now.

Hey but don’t mistake Bahrain to be in as much chaos as in that Linkin Park’s From the Inside video. Just that I happen to stay right in the middle of where they love to riot. My folks moved here right in the nick of time.

But no worries, I’m having my sort of weird fun anyways. Yesterday I did my age-old ritual of sneaking out two pegs of dad’s scotch (Nine years, I kid you not!). As soon as I downed it, there was a Boom! sound and the vapours of tear gas started filling up my bedroom. Now you might have heard that Kathakali dancers can laugh and cry at the same time. Trust me, that sh*t ain’t easy. This could be the hard yet short-cut technique of learning it though.

I’m slightly perturbed by the fact that this is a memory of Bahrain I’ll have to etch in my mind, but hey, at least the tear gas helped me get back at writing (I don’t even want to think what would jump-start the next writing spree, tomahawk?!)  ‘Cos I’m an optimist, I always see the glass half-full, especially when it’s filled with scotch.

So here’s wishing you all a Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year! (Sincerely hoping that the Boom! I hear on New Year’s is of fireworks :P)

Bah...needed an update!

Another bus story

(P.S.: The following note may contain explicit comments that are used in day-to-day life. Uncorrupted minds, please don't report this!)

I was travelling once in a double-decker bus in China. It was a long ride; I fished out a novel to kill time. A few stops later, four kids rushed above and took seats behind me. I smiled at them and they snickered back.

“Ni Hao” I meowed to them (That’s hello in Chinese).

“Hello” they replied back. First setback to the first impression.

They: “You from Indu?”

Me: “Yea, I am Indu. You in school?” (Indu is what they call Indians there)

They: “Ya, ya…”

Me: “Which class?”

Silence.

Me: “Level? Standard?”

Still no answer.

The conductor approached them. They told her the destination and she said the price; that being less I decided to pay for them, just for kicks (please don’t make conclusions!). They were all the more cheerful; one kid sat on my lap and asked “Why you black?”

Aah you racist sonuvabitch! “Why you no eyes?”

Not good enough, but if I said anything else they wouldn’t understand. They continued chuckling.

“Why you fat?”

Shux, two of my shortcomings and they had to catch upon that. “You know kung-fu?”

“Meiyo, meiyo!” (No, no!)

“I know Kalari. I kill you with my two fingers!” To which they roared laughing. Money and respect, both gone. I had to get back at ‘em by all means.

“OK, I meiyo Chinese. You teach me Chinese numbers.”

“1 is ee, 2 is ueh, 3 is aa…” Sounds like when I gag myself during tongue-cleaning.

“Ok ok you want to learn Indu?”

“Ya, ya…”

“To say hello…say maa chudha.”

“MAA CHOODA!!!” All of them resounded in unison. Their noise attracted other Chinese, who now took a keen interest in learning my Indu language. These kids spread my teachings within minutes; imagine around 10 - 12 people in the backseats yelling out how to say hello! Evil or not, this is fun! I wanted more of it.

“You like Indu girls?”

“Ya, ya…”

“Tell me how to say you are beautiful in Chinese.”

“Ni hen mei li!” (Guys, especially Bangaloreans, I’m doing you a great favour, so next time, when you hit on one of those Chinkis in Forum Mall, thank me!)

“OK, when you see Indu girl, to tell her I like you because you are very beautiful, you should say Mai(they repeated)…tumhaare….bachche…ka…baap…banne…waala…hoon!” (courtesy Satish)

They, alongwith a few others, practised for a while. Amidst giggles, I was speculating the fact that I was only adding fuel to trigger the otherwise inevitable Indo-Chinese war! When they repeated“baeche ka baep”  I couldn’t control and burst out laughing. They understood it was all a prank and pounced on me, taking my book and wallet in the process. They fiddled around with it for a while; I didn’t mind ‘cos the wallet was empty.

The bus halted at their stop. They gave me back my belongings and said “Xhi Xhi (Thank you), babye…” I too bid goodbye and checked my wallet for my PAN card and driving license. Surprisingly, there was money in it. I had a rush of thoughts. I became confused; was it civility for them not to accept money from others, or was it because they took pity thinking I was actually penniless?  Did my ‘good’ deed get rewarded; hmmm...it’s only a reward if they had put extra money…lemme check, nopes, exact as the bus fare!

The protagonists!

I didn’t arrive at any conclusion, so I plugged my earphones and coincidentally…I was listening to Metallica’s ‘The Unnamed Feeling’. 

When my eyes bled red

This was prompted by my epic 30-hour long workathon. In office terms, workathon (¯ wûrk-úr-thöng) relates to a lesson in “How to stay up seamlessly doing stuff you would never give a crap about”.

Apart from drinking truckloads of coffee/Red Bull, one way is by playing some game like YooNinja on your Android or IPhone (You recently bought a costly Nokia? Do you use feathers for writing?) This game involves a fast ninja running through obstacles with two blades behind that kill him if he stops at any moment. It basically reminds me of myself on the treadmill with the trainer behind – but yea, good focus and sharp reflexes pump energy into your eye muscles.

Another is by taking power naps.

Three power-naps of 15 minutes spiked my state of consciousness. That experience is trippy-like. The moment you shut your weary eyes (which thank your brain for doing so), the dreams switch on like a movie resuming after a pause button. As you haven’t exactly arrived at slumber, power-nap-dreams seem more surreal, and the memory spookily remains after you wake up. Moreover, these are the best times to verify the concepts of Inception.

During one of my trysts with phantasmagoria, the past haunted me. It was a lecture by my Math teacher in Bahrain, Dr. Paul Williams Ambrose - on how he managed time between teaching at school and tuitions, tuition-book corrections, school-book corrections, coordinator-work, church and playing drums in Pakistan Club (Yea, they never found a Pakistani drummer) – “Such naps are applicable to two situations; one of course when you can’t afford to sleep and two, at a time when you just want to doze for a bit and restart afresh, like in the afternoons.”  

He was used to taking 5-minute power-naps; considering the energy he had, it was equivalent to taking steroids recommended by Marion Jones. As kids, most of us took it as some sort of old Tamil-folk wizardry, given his white hair and beard, (no, don’t picture Gandalf, more like Narendra Modi) and the poor placard outside his flat having to bear the sheer weight of all his 11 inscribed degrees, let alone his name of 21 letters.

I had a Chinese dude for assisting me – he was in charge of helping me out. When my eye-shutters got heavy, I looked at his face. I wanted to discern whether he was sleeping or not – so that in the meantime I could rest my sorry eyes and share the blame in case anything went wrong – but in vain. It was the one moment I seriously hated their race whose blinking made no sense since their eye-lids were just millimeters apart.  I had a throbbing urge to blurt out wang-ba-dan (a**hole) or tu-ne-lo-mo (mofo) just to test his drowsiness – but the underlying fear in every non-Chinese when they see a Chinese arose in me – that inevitable moment when he would jump, make that “Huaaa!” shriek and do some supersonic karate-chops on me. I also could have instilled fear through my Kalaripayutu heritage, but I am too physically inept to generate any sort of uneasiness, though there is a ‘slight’ chance I might have also forgotten to inherit it.

And it was a small issue. We could just simply change some scripts, rename the file and paste it back. But the Chinese dude was relentless – for the dear of his life he wouldn’t let me do it without the permission of higher Chinese authorities. I chuckled for a while, “You are joking right?”
“Naw…v needo perrrrrmishun!”
“For this baby stuff, c’mon why notify them the problem?”
“Naw perrrrmishun, naw do anything!”
“Are you crazy? It’s 5 in the morning, our deadline is 6 and all you care about is to get permission from Mainland China?”
“Yes yes!”
(Raising my hands in the air)”AAAARGHHH!”
“Waat haapen?”
“OH…THIS??? THIS IS HOW WE YAWN IN INDIA!!!”

The yawn went something like this...he might have missed the point, right?

For a while I thought he was one of those rare less-educated Chinese retards (you seem to suck in superiority complex when there’s dearth of sleep) who was afraid I was going to mess the whole system up. Just out of feeble curiosity or more of a want to mock, I asked him till what he had studied. He said he was preparing for CCIE. I gaped at him; it was the hardest certification for a network engineer and nay, this guy wasn’t stupid. It was the strictness they maintained in following orders, the Chinese dictatorial way. Chaainees law mus follo ALL TAIMS…oh my, I failed to see the deeper meaning.

The torture was relentless, not only due to the prolongation, but also for doing something  entirely-so-worthless, like preventing TATA from losing out lakhs from a corrupted billing server (the thing responsible for billing your calls). On the contrary, if it hadn’t worked, the bills wouldn’t have been generated, and I would have been actually promoting ‘free’-dom of speech for my countrymen (at least for 5 million of those using TATA SIMs).

We should certainly be given capers as uniforms, reasons being;

1)     We are supposed to work like supermen and for mind-numbing long hours to save the asses of corporate honchos (Superman, saviour, caper – kapeesh?)

2)     The work timings are when the sun hates to wake up; even the snoring security won’t take notice.

No, I didn’t get this idea because I haven’t been cured from the wardrobe-malfunction disease. It’s because I’m trying hard to think of a second time I could wear the crappy Kochi Tuskers tee other than a Netherlands World Cup match (be it football or cricket) or the next IPL season. Who am I kidding…I lost my money.