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.

OPERATION 'GO PINK'!

(This is a comic take on a rather worrying topic; the dip in the female child according to the 2011 census. It’s also a trial at a different writing form; this time, a puerile play.

P.S: Do pardon the prison language; couldn’t put scholars as protagonists. And why lose the f*ckin’ liberty? Oops!)

SCENE 1
(It is a murky setting of a prison premise. Two convicts, one numbered A11 and the other B22, are seated on the floor, one facing the audience and the other sideways, to their left. Multiple footsteps are heard, followed by the sound of unlocking a key and a creaky door opening to the full. Enter a new convict, numbered C33. He sits next to the one facing the audience. The door creaks similarly shut.)

B22: What are you in for?
C33: Rape…of my maid. You?
B22: (Sarcastically) Rape. Of a minor.
C33: Yowza! My sins are less grave bro…at least I ain’t a pedophile.
B22: You might wanna rethink that, considering she was the only ripe one in my village.
C33: Dang! That sucks dude…what aboutcha? (Looking at A11)
A11: (After a brief silence) Murder…of both the unfaithful wife and her faithful boyfriend.
C33: Double-yowza! Caught 'em in action eh?
A11: Yeha…(with a slight smirk) got them fairly inactive in two neat blows.
C33: Brrrr (No he didn’t have a Coke, you corny jerks!)…how many years are we talkin’ about?
A11: Life.
C33: Oh ok…uh wait, WHAT??!! That’s text-book injustice yo!
B22: No douche-bag, he didn’t mention it was HIS wife. He himself was being two-timed. Or three-timed?
C33: Oh I get it, you mean including that poor sucker right, the husband?
A11: I just chose the wrong day to surprise her.
B22: And the other prick chose the wrong day to score with her.
C33: You did give ‘em one hell of a surprise bro…her buggy hubby shuda bailed you out man. (Pointing at B22) How many have you got remaining?
B22: Me? Two left outta five.
C33: Haha, you do realize she’s legitimate now right? Shucks, you cuda avoided the ‘pedo’ tag!
(B22 returns a grimace)
C33: So I guess we are all un-guilty eh? Now coming to think of it yo…we all have the same god-damn problem man, except you man (pointing at A11), yours is some classic f*cked-up sh*t, but more or less, the issue is the same…that is the opposite sex. We are all deprived of that resource man…think about it, if there were more girls out there, would any of these happen? We are forced into doing all this sh*t man!
B22: So watcha saying? Start a family and reproduce only girls, and make that a role model?
C33: Naw…I mean yaa..somewhere around that line…except we convince every family in those backward settlements to keep that girl child man, she’s gonna save someone from becoming a rapist or a pedophile…more girls tomorrow, lesser crimes yo! We jus’ need to balance out the fish in the pool!
B22: Crazy as it may sound…I think you got a point.
C33: Wicked! I say we plan this thang, and once we get out of dis place in 3 years, we gonna start a revolution man…
B22: Yea let’s start by giving it a name. Something like Go Green…Go girlie colour, Go Pink!
C33: Awesome yo!
A11: Errr…that’s already taken, it’s something related to breast cancer…
C33: Who’s talking to you, Mr. Life-Sentence? We dig this sh*t, we come after 30 years to show ya what we accomplish!
(Act drop)

SCENE 2
(It is a newsroom. Several look busy; the news-lady adjusting her hair and reapplying her lipstick, the cameraman adjusting his equipment, couple of people browsing through the cues and cross-checking with the prompter, peons clearing the area, and the make-up men applying their final touches on the very two convicts belonging to the first scene, but looking very aged)

News-lady: Today we have for our viewers something very special; an interview with the very two activists who pioneered OPERATION ‘GO PINK’ and made India a better place for women….we are very proud of you sirs! What do you have to say about your achievements?
B22: Well it has been a slow process… (blabber…too lazy to type)
C33: Yea ‘twas my idea basically… (chatter… running outta ideas)
News-lady: The next bulletin is an exclusive feature of the paradigm-shifts that the revolution has brought about. Let’s have a look at the most important of them all.

(Gallant music starts playing)
Reservations have been banished! Women constitute a significant number of parliament seats and government positions! Sex-related crimes are at all-time low! Female trafficking though continues on a larger scale… (bluh blah bleh)
Thus we bring our special bulletin to an end. Thank you sirs!
(End of music)

In other news…the headlines are as follows;

Wikileaks lost whatever significance it had in India. It simply couldn’t withstand the competition from gossip.

BBC India buys rights to use Bollywood music in their pursuit to adapt the news-telling of ‘Star News’ and ‘Aaj Tak’ after declining TRPs.

M.S. Dhoni bares it all in this month’s issue of Maxim: Women's edition!

 Shiv Sena protests against the calamitous increase in the number of male strip bars in the country.
(Act drop)

SCENE 3
(It’s the same setting as the first scene. This time, only an old and heavily-bearded A11 is present. After a brief moment, enter B22 and C33, but not as visitors as promised, but again as convicts!)

A11: Aah, look who’s here! The revolutionaries are back in their den!
B22: Mock all you want, ‘cos even if you do a Shawshank, you will swim back through all that slush rather than facing the world out there!
A11: You guys screwed that much?
C33: We neva foresaw this yo...eva since they passed the ‘Unforgivable’ act, guys have bin pourin’ into the cells.
A11: WTF is that?
B22: Any man who once confesses to a mistake is liable to be punished under any circumstance irrespective of when the mistake occurred.
A11: You saying there’s no time-line?  You have been convicted again on counts of your earlier crimes?
C33: Yea bro, as the saying goes, women never forgive.
A11: That isn’t a saying.
C33: Says the guy who’s bin isolated for a generation.
A11: It’s you two who should isolate your sorry asses…o villains of manhood! The new inmates will so wanna barbeque ‘em! Hell even I might get a quotation!
(Both B22 and C33 stare at him)
C33: Don’t gimme any more cold vibes yo, we have already bin skinned mentally.
A11: When, the interrogation? (B22 nods) By whom, female officers?
C33: Yeha, they unleashed their fatal tool...nagging! I wuda rather got beaten up or faced the ice-torture man...I can even count my remaining brain cells!
A11: Gosh! You actually had brain cells?
(C33 frowns)
C33: So we have learnt an important lesson right? Any gender bettering the other is a problem for the latter?
A11: Pshaw yehaa….it just shaved 30 years off your worthless lives to savour it!
(C33 turns more indignant)
B22: At least you were right about one thing. This whole fiasco seemed cancer-like…the hens overwhelmed us like treacherous cancer cells.
A11: No…it’s a campaign for breast cancer awareness and is held every…
C33: SHUTCHA PIE-HOLE, MORON!

(Tableau)

[In order to allay my fears of feminist-attacks, this is a tongue-in-cheek post. Not convinced? ;P !]

The Patriarch

(Err..I agree I've been employing the melancholy theme for quite a few posts, but this one's lyka food-for-thought, specially for those affected by the urban modus vivendi)

“Hello, son…”

“What happened, Maa? Tell me quickly. I am busy.”

“How come you are so busy all the time? Why can’t you…”

“Stop ranting, Maa…I am driving, seriously…what’s the matter? Now don’t tell me you called to ‘hear my voice’ and things like that…”

“I called to tell you that your dad's depressed as of late.”

“What? Come on, Maa…I know this is one of your ploys to make me come meet you…”

“I am done arguing with you, come if you care. Otherwise, carry on with whatever nonsense you are doing!” CLICK!!! She shut the phone rather hard. He was unsure if he heard a sob in that process.

“Yeah right…Dad and depression…pshaw…like that’s possible.”

He was stuck in traffic. He was on his way to the dentist for a check on a fiddling toothache. His car stereo was down, and he didn’t have enough credit on his smartphone to surf the net. With nothing else to do, he thought on.

“Hmmm…Mom was kinda over-dramatic. More than her usual tantrums. Is there really something to worry about? I know Dad’s way past his prime, hoary and feeble, and so are his friends. All he gets to do is sit comfily all day watching television. With the kind of shows being aired and Mom’s dominance over the remote, anyone would undergo brain-damage!”

Earsplitting horns compelled him to budge his car a few metres.

“Battling the blues…that’s one extremely tough exercise. The few months without a job; those were terrible times for me. I kept pondering about the future and the choices at my disposal. I consistently reviewed myself to figure out where I had gone wrong. I isolated myself from the rest of the world, literally! I had yearned for someone to share my woes with, but due to some preconceived egotism, I never did. I mean, we wouldn’t want anyone to portray us as weak, right? But what’s Dad got to be so gloomy about?”

He stopped reflecting for a moment. Voices from the past, mentioning that he was similar to his Dad in aspects of habit and attitude, resounded in his head.

“Dad must be encountering the same sorta situation…he’s bored out of his wits, no longer a person of importance, and has been dethroned as the patriarch. Hence he’s showcasing his ire on Mom, taking cue from the gobs of fights he’s been having with her. He’s being punished for prolonging cordial terms with his friends, not making a sincere attempt with his own wife or children. A trait I have inherited, and which I should soon cease.”

His last tooth knocked him a reminding pain, and he stuck his finger into his mouth to press it down.

“Maybe that’s why they call it the wisdom tooth.”

He looked at his watch. Only ten minutes had passed since the call. He reprimanded himself for not spending time this trivial, let alone think about his parents.

“We tend to bullshit that we don’t have time…this ’lack-of-time’ is a self-evocative white lie with dreadful implications. The truth is we try to keep ourselves unnecessarily occupied, and the alternatives for that have only increased over the years; be it the television, endless parties with friends, reckless gaming, oodles of hours over Facebook… we coerce ourselves to seek for entertainment forever. In order to kill time, I was, and I am, killing my relationships akin. Why blame it only on Dad, as a son there was round zero effort from my part.”

He was now in fact thankful that the stereo was damaged, that he was unable to use the net, and that he was caught in traffic. All that basically took for him to be with himself. Along with the newly-sprout wisdom, a blanket of guilt smothered him.

He dialed his wife and told her to pack the bags. “We are going home tonight, dear…” Before she could ask anything, he cut the line.

He was unsure if his wife heard his sob in the process. 

Part 3: My China Diary

“I AM SORRY ‘COS WHAT I MEANT WAS I AM SORRY!”

I undertook the bravest (considering how brave ‘I’ could possibly get!) and unforgivably the stupidest of my adventures in China. Few friends from my high school are learning medicine in Wuhan University; the place Wuhan being 1200 km away from where I was residing, Shenzhen. My training period was supposed to be till December-January, but due to a financial crunch we had to continue training in India. So the news had come as a shocker; we were informed just one week before departure. Much like the no.1 postulate in securing a B-Tech (Thou shall leave everything to the last moment), we had a lot of unaccomplished ‘must-do/must-visit’ things in China. Eventually I was left with this drastic decision to make; a solitary trip to Wuhan. I was guilty conscious, and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the fact that I had come all the way to China, and if I still didn’t manage to meet them, it would sting me later. But hell, I hadn’t even seen the Great Wall ‘cos of the remoteness! (Now now, before you gasp, let me ask you, have you ever seen the Taj Mahal? Well knock knock, China is a whole lot bigger!) Many conflicting arguments rose in my head…”You have been in bare touch with them!” “But that’s ‘cos they were in China!” “Is it necessary to risk it all?” Bah. All crap. I was going.

When I reached the station, I thought again, what’s the worst that could happen to me? Stripped off my passport, wallet and mobile? Lost in a place where none knew English? Hmm…oh no, oh drat. I wanna go back! But I was already right in front of the counter. The ticket lady looked on.

“One ticket – Wuhan”

“只有无座票可用。你要吗?”

“Oh…heh…err…yes yes, that one only!”

“154元。出发时间下午5:45。”

Now 5:45 is a time description and 154 had to be the price. I flashed the currencies and she paid the remaining amount. Hey, this ain’t so hard after all. I proceeded to search for the train. There were digital clocks that also mentioned the train standing at the platform. I was critically on time and as soon as the clock struck 5:45 p.m., one of the trains started moving; I took a wild hit and jumped into my bogey. It was the general compartment, and I noticed most seats were occupied, and many were standing. In panic I probed my ticket for the seat number, and didn’t find one. Realization hit me brutally; what the chinki meant was there were only standing tickets available! I looked again at arrival time; 7:00 am…hmm…over 12 hours standing?!?! The longest I stood was 4 hours for a Malayalam movie (Kangaroo) ticket! And that ended in disaster!

Two night-outs of shopping and clubbing, and I was onto the third one. My eyes were crying for some shut-time. The very thought of 12 hours ached my legs. Many looked at me as an alien who left his spaceship and chose to travel by their train. I remained silent and braced myself for the agony ahead. After a while, many fond memories started appearing out of nowhere; college, school, family…it was like death was fast approaching!

There was this comic salesman who kept walking up and down the bogey corridor. And he was beginning to piss me off. ‘Cos everyone were amused by him while I couldn’t understand, and I had to adjust every time he made a move. Besides I was wearing these huge-ass Woodland shoes; the soles kept stomping others’ feet. Now there was something like ‘ke-bu-chi’ or ‘bu-ke-chi’ (I wasn’t sure which) that meant ‘I am sorry’. I chose ‘bu-ke-chi’ and kept on saying that when the trudging occurred. But that was received only by colder snares and occasional swears. I wondered what was wrong with these people! It was only after reaching the destination my friend made me realize that the innocent exchange of ‘ke’ and ‘bu’ had an immense change in their respective meanings; I was saying “You are welcome!” all the time their poor feet underwent torture!

Hours later I could feel my knees dismantling by themselves. With an overly helpless look I asked one of the Chinese if he could give me a little space. As expected, he didn’t understand. I didn’t have the energy to do Dumb-Charades. But he all of a sudden got excited that I didn’t know Chinese, and passed this message to his neighbours. After a while it became the talk of the bogey. He offered me some place and a couple of Chinese moms even gave me fruits (My mom had said Never take stuff offered by a stranger, but here there were just too many strangers!) Couple of gals* who knew English came forward and chit-chatted with me; they gave me their QQ** and their mobile no.s (that was to date the easiest yet most excruciating way to get a gal’s no.!) They asked my age and I took a second useless dig at Chinese; I ended up saying I’m 11 years old. Point is: I was struck by their hospitality; maybe I had gotten myself into the luckiest of bogies…but would a foreigner in an Indian train be treated with so much of kindness? Only if he were to be robbed after that. What more, a cold storm hit that area and the temperatures fell below 12^oC. Perfect timing, oh weather gods! Draped with only a shirt, I shivered my teeth out. The Chinese had seen this coming…maybe their meteorological department employed the Oracle; anyways most of them had spare sweaters. Looking at my misery, one elderly dude gave me his jacket. I was dazed by the generosity; I would have changed my nationality then and there if an embassy existed on the train!

*Chinese gals define the way God meant to make a woman; so friendly, so forward and reservation-less (well, that depends upon how you define reservation). Though they may not be visually extravagant, they sure do know how to look cute. It’s high time the Chinese’s outlook altered the Indian male’s mind-frame that goes something like: “Oh she’s so beautiful, I can never have her, but hey, I sure could stalk her!” (No? Do pay a visit to Brigade Road, Bangalore next New Year’s eve!) And the Indian female’s attitude: “Damn I look better than half of the girls out there, now I have to have an ego!” (Please, no male Vs female chauvinistic arguments here…the above-said traits do exist, let’s hope not in abundance) Perhaps it’s ‘cos they possess matching degree of beauty, ergo the chinkis lack ego!

**QQ is the Chinese duplicate of Facebook; but it’s fully equipped with a messenger plus video-chatting module. It’s also used for high-profile business video conferencing, but mostly for hitting on girls! On registering you will get a unique QQ no.; so if you want to add a friend, you will need his/her QQ no. So if you are able to interest a chinki, she will certainly give you her QQ no.; you have to be a storm to get her mobile no.! In the clubs, we would chant “I QQ? You QQ? We QQ!” for hours to get one…guess travelling by their trains is a slightly better option! 

FAQ: Can I try and use it from India? Yes amigo, go getcha QQ today and charm those chinkis! Oh also one more piece of advice, don’t try to be too conspicuous or to-the-fore with them, or else you will be walking with a 2 metre radius Laxman-rekha!

Part 2: My China Diary

Reading prequel is mandatory before the sequel ;) !

“WHERE'S THE FLIGHT?” DEBACLE
This is bound to happen in any humongous airport, and might have happened afore. 

Location: The never- terminating Indira Gandhi terminal
Air India, as is regulatory for them, was 5 hours late. In the wee hours of dawn, we slept on the waiting couches. An hour and a half before boarding time, couple of us woke up and proceeded to the gate. When our ever-caring friends woke up later, they found us missing. Satish (one of ‘em) advanced to the ‘Announcements’ receptionist and convinced her the boarding time had started. I was hopelessly taking photos, when the speakers echoed, “This is the last and final boarding call for K.Aditya Das for the flight AI 349. Please proceed to Gate 3 immediately.” Stunned as I obviously was, I checked the gate and the time and the flight label. All were correct! How come they didn’t tell me to get in earlier? As I kept wondering, rest of the fifty odd passengers waiting at the gate, who were already infuriated with the delay, started yelling, “Where’s the damn flight? Why dint they inform us? How come we dint get in? WHO’S DIS ADITYA AND DAS?!!” I receded from the mob, at times I too repeated, “Who the HELL is this guy?” The AI officials arrived and were at a loss in trying to calm them down.  I took pity and raised my hand. The relief on their faces when the blame shifted to my friends…man, don’t Indians love the blame game!

“Bhai, aap ladka hai na?”
Tired and sleep-deprived, Satish walked in vain in search of a toilet in the Indira Gandhi Terminal. I found one of those he/she signboards and pointed it out to him. He strode forth and then turned around to ask me if it was a male toilet. Before I could say ‘yes’, he looked inside and saw a guy doing his business. He asked him, “Bhai, yeh guys toilet hai na?” (Bro, is this the guys' toilet?")

Yashpal Singh- The Negotiator
We had this grand individual among us; he was several years elder to us but never expressed his seniority – but such people I strongly advise to demand the required respect – ‘cos sooner or later, we, the younger twerps, are gonna treat you like sh*t! He had several names – the priest, the cook, angry young man, photo-man etc. But his ultimate trait that we came across was during shopping, or precisely, price-negotiating. On a usual weekend we were at the hub of electronics duplication, Hua Qiang Bey (in Shenzhen) - Thousands of stall-like shops in over ten buildings, possibly  hundreds in a single building itself, sprawling to at least 6 floors, strewn in a single shopping street of not more than 300m.

The intention was to buy a fake iPod Nano. We were 10 in number. More the amount, better the discount. Negotiating is a skill possessed by few. When they say 1000 (yuan), we start at 100. Presto comes the exchange of tempers. They tell us to go away. We begin the slow motion walk backwards. They might swear at us but that’s the one time you are happy to not know the language. Then they call us back. To stay, prolong the process and eat their head till they stumble to our final price; THAT’s where the skill lies.

We were in for a treat; we were to hear some of the most ridiculous comments ever.

 “You, mai goood fraaaannd” (Some of us do this; speak English alien-ly thinking they would understand it better!)

“We buy 10 now, 100 tomaaaro.”

“Prraaaij bery haai…Make low, make low!”

“I am from ZTE, look theeeessh. ZTE baaay mooore.” (shows off our tag, in what weirdest of dimensions would a telecom company want fake IPod Nanos?!)

Finally the vendor pulled his hair and a couple of strands came out. I thought Yashpal had sealed the deal. No nonsense, 100 minutes had passed. When he gruffly packed them, Yashpal blurted…

“I WANT THREE YEARS INTERNATIONAL WARRANTY!!!” (Heh, not one, but three and that too an international one, for a fake! Wonder if they duplicate warranties also…)

Very few giveaways!

“Can I have your…WAIT A MIN!!!”

We went to this highly Indian-recommended club; most clubs we had visited till then had girls in their late teens – most of them either college students or party freaks. We witnessed a scene beyond the wildest of nightmares; 40-year old ultra-despo  white-bearded Indian buddas on the dancefloor with plump stationary bellies covered by extremely-stretched shirts, unbuttoned at the top where their overgrown chest hair danced alongwith the flabby arms like flapping chickens, tight jeans with heavily-buckled belts and to top it all, leather boots. It was one of the times I would have preferred watching the worm-eating in AXN Fear Factor. We belched and looked around for female company. There were Russians, Americans and Chinkis; all slightly aged but gorgeous and sexy. Weren't they getting bored not dancing? Anyways some of us proceeded to try our luck. Ashwin spotted one and got cosy with her after exchanging few words. Rest of ours eyes on Russian belly-dancers, a sight we knew we might not relish again. Ashwin on the other hand came back after a while.
“Kyun, kya hua? Jaake chance maarna?” (Why, what happened? Not flirting?)
“I thought I was charming. Kuch der baad woh mere ko boli – 100 USD for one hour!!”

My China Diary

Confucius had gotten tired of making the Chinese over and over (raise to 10⁹) again. He knew xerox was the solution, so He went to a vendor and asked (Remember Russell Peters’ tone):

“Aai van foutocaupy musheen.” (I want photocopy machine)
Vendor: “Haav vil dei divren-shi-ayte?” (How will they differentiate?)
“Dei oupan baba shp evelyver. Dei maik weed hailstaal.” (They open barber shop everywhere. They make weird hairstyle!)

Similar hairstyle is injurious to their identification (Wonder what would be the difficulty level of the Chinese version of 'Where's Waldo'?)

I ain’t joking. Barber shops are in plenty; moreover they have their own unique zebra billboard. Other peculiarities?

No birds, even to freaking chirp here. Maneka Gandhi should have been born here. Heck, they would have eaten her as well.

I thought Lady Gaga was odd. I saw the Chinese and realized her looks were the fashion statement.

Everyone looks like they are body-waxed and hair-straightened by birth. Vatika or Head & Shoulders won’t have to pay for those shiny, ultra-straight, pitch-black wigs for an ad with a Chinese actress.

Every mammal, reptile or insect here believes that breathing is the greatest punishment given to them by God. ‘Cos that’s the only prerequisite to land into the Chinese cooking pot.

Aah…I feel liberated, just like Chandler who blurts out sarcasms at the end of the episode in which he fails the bet not to criticize anyone for a week. (I’m making it clear that above comments are strictly humour-based and not meant to hurt feelings of any kind. ‘Cos you know, I don’t wanna serve time in a Chinese labour camp!)

Lemme start afresh.

China. An awesome place with great people, as well as a terribly-must-visit for people of all ages and genres – whether he/she loves partying, shopping, sight-seeing, trekking, etc. Other than the umpteen tourist locations in China, if you love casinos, you should head to Macau , or if you want the whole entertainment package of doing anything and everything in a short time, head to Hong Kong.

I have a lot of anecdotes to share, and since I have been bitten by the ‘Ramgopal Varma ki Sequels’ bug, and to save your precious time, I’m splitting this otherwise too-long-that-you-will-chuck-it blog. Without further ado, here I go.

1. “I WANT MY COIN BACK!!!”

This happened during the first days. A neatly clad Chinese woman in her forties came up to me and bowed her head. Thinking it was a customary courtesy, I too bowed back. She showed me a small utensil. I needed one badly, because we were cooking and let’s say I didn’t have the necessities. So I checked it, tapped it, weighed it, and I was content with it. I asked her how much, and she pointed one finger to me. I was surprised, “Wow, a yuan for this, totally worth it!” I gave her the coin, only to be snatched away from me, alongwith the utensil. I stood bewildered, “What the heck, daylight robbery!” Few seconds later I saw her offering the same thing to a passerby. Realization struck late, embarrassment later. Like Mohanlal’s classic dialogue in Kilukkam, “Ithu nalla STAAILAN PICHCHAKAARI!!” (This is one stylish beggar!!!)

2. MR. INTERNATIONAL
Many of us were on an international platform for the first time; we were training with myriad nationalities – Indonesians, Malaysians, Colombians, Mexicans, Turkish folks, etc. Oops, I forgot the Chinese. And the Russians (;D…\m/…). So it was upto everyone to make their own mark, and it wasn’t easy as there was 'competition'; we Indians were 25 in number, and there were max four from each other nation. Some of us were too forward, others ancient, in their ‘approach’ methods.  An example for the former; one of us bought a necklace for a Colombian gal on her birthday, that too on the second day of meeting her! There was this Russian who many tried talking to, but she being kinda a late ice-breaker got irritated. Then one of us, her biggest fan, tried to rise up to the occasion. He coughed, straightened up, walked slowly upto her and said the best that could come to his mind,” Excuse me, if my countrymen have in any way committed any action that might have caused any sort of disturbance, I apologize on behalf of India!!” Guess patriotism and gentlemanliness together played a far hand.

3. MISADVENTURES OF DASANOVA
(The above name was coined by one of my very desperate friends, when he wanted ‘tips’ for feminine friendship (that too, from me?!?!) as he grossly mistook me as a ‘Casanova’…)

I too had a few stumbling moments before success in befriending the international gals. One of them was when I tried notching a conversation with this hot Russian who was fond of literature. I got a golden chance to sit alongside her in a bus trip. She was reading Dostoyevsky (I was steamrolled by Pulimon when I posted this in Buzz) and by courtesy of our ever-idealistic Ullas, I had a faint memory of reading his famous ‘Crime & Punishment’.

Me: “You reading Dostoyevsky?”
She: “Yes yes, how do you know him?”

Me : “Oh who doesn’t! He’s a fantastic story-teller. In India most know him (:D). I am in love with his book, ‘Crime & Punishment', I regard it as his greatest work." (At this moment I chided myself for saying the last part, and prayed she would never ask the hardest question to answer, “What else have you read?”; a guy’s mind must be capable of thinking ahead and delivering clever comebacks in these situations, but unfortunately the best I could come up for cover was, “I was so much in love with ‘Crime…’ that I forgot about the others…”)

She: “Oh yes, that’s the most popular of his works. He has written a lot of other thought-provoking short stories.”

Me : “Okay, that’s nice…perhaps I should take to him since you said so…” she grins, and my inside told me, “For the first time in your boring life, Das, I'm proud of ya! Her name’s Smirnova, ooh, you could be rechristen yourself as Dasanova!” The mind, and time, were flying. I had to prolong the conversation.
“Who else do you read?”

She : “Fyodor on the most part. There are many other good Russian authors too. I haven’t read many English works though. You could recommend me some. Fyodor’s ‘White Nights’…that’s the one I love the most. It’s about…" (she talks on) In the meantime…Fyodor? Who’s this dude? Good going Das boy…next tactic? Now since she loves his work, I could fake reading his work also and praise him and we would be sharing the same taste, voila!

Me: “Now this Fyodor, what is he famous for?”
She: “Eh…what?!”
Oops, what did I say wrong? Quick, quick, troubleshoot you moron!
My eyes fell graciously on the first page of her book…it read FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY…

Me: “Oh …ahem…what ELSE is he famous for?”
She: “Oh there’s his another…”
Phew, close shave! Your processor is improving, now you actually have a shot at J.A.M!

Sometimes, all it takes is a word to save a lie.

Hang around, there’s more to come...

A bus story

It was 6:30 pm. A rain-drenched Aravind waited expectantly at the bus stand for the penultimate bus to the stop closest to his home. He had shifted schools from the Middle East to Chennai a week back in order to pursue good entrance coaching. And he was starting to get used to what was going to be his routine for the next two years; school till 4 o’clock and tuitions till 6.

The bus arrived. It hadn’t pulled to a complete stop yet but the ‘getting down-getting in’ war ensued; a swarm of people undoing their umbrellas and trying to find ground leg-attacked by another swarm enfolding their umbrellas and trying to find the lowest step. Even if ample seats are available or the crowd is less, adults can’t resist the infantile or rather pirate-like temptation to get in by the roughest of means and grab on to a seat so dear like treasure, thought Aravind (who was swallowed by the mob).

He got one eventually. The bus was waiting its quota of ten minutes before the next bus arrived; the conductor shouted out the parrot-phrase route and gestured at every passer-by to get in, as if his was the only bus to utopia. The bus had gradually become full when a drunken man in his sixties wobbled into it. He didn’t have to create a scene; if you are drunk, you are the scene. Aravind looked on like everyone else as the weak hands desperately found the climbing bar and heaved the body up like a saggy sack of bones. The gossipers had already begun maundering his past; soon Aravind learnt that his only son and daughter-in-law passed away in a landslide not long ago, and he spent most of his pension money quaffing alcohol at the bar while his wife mourned at home. Creating a scene is like hitting a Google/Wiki search button; one click and instant information, simpered Aravind.

He was in, finally. He paused for breath and balance; his sight glided through every occupied seat as his eyelids trembled to stay up. Aravind remembered he was in the ‘Senior Citizen’ seat; a streak of courtesy flashed through him. Though no one cared about the label of one’s seat, at least my stop isn’t far off, Aravind reasoned to himself. He got up and motioned the old drunk to sit; he didn’t comprehend at first, but Aravind nudged him into doing it. His cheeks widened and the wet lips slightly opened to expose the few remaining teeth he had; Aravind acknowledged it as a smile.

The whistle blew. The bus chugged into gear; the conductor jumped in the last after being sworn at by the driver of the recent bus for not taking off earlier. His process of collecting tickets reached the old man; when he understood he was drunk, in an instant his composure changed, and he asked gruffly, “To where?!” He knew where the old fellow was headed to; he popped the question to test his state of intoxication. He was sober enough to answer and take out the ten rupee note out of his shirt pocket. The conductor did the act of rummaging his bag for change and squeezed ahead.

Minutes later, a small scuffle commenced. Aravind looked back only to see the drunk elbowing people trying to get into his seat. His eyes fell on the boy; his bony fingers then wrapped themselves around the fleshy muscle of Aravind’s arm, and pulled him to the seat with quite some force. “My stop is only a little away, grandpa” stated Aravind. “Till then you sit, son…” piffled the old man, “my stop is next…very few kids have courtesy nowadays…they must be encouraged to continue their deed…and pass it in future…I want to die a good man…and good men must return gratitude…I don’t have much time left in this world…and so I help you now itself…I don’t have any means of repaying otherwise…” The bus screeched to a halt; the old drunk got down and was on his way, still walking clumsily but briskly. Aravind had registered the unordered flow of sentences; he thought about it for a moment. Experience and wisdom grew with age, but maybe it takes an eccentric to actually impart them, he said to himself. With an added sense of pride, he got up to offer his seat to the standing disgruntled elders.