A Tale of Three Individuals ....

The three were burning midnight oil. They were desperately looking for solutions for close to six hours now. None were in sight. Each had a grave problem at hand that the outside world had no inkling of.

Siddu's doctors had advised him to lose weight a couple of years ago. He was so busy in his money making projects and squabbles, he paid no attention to it. But now things were turning sour in his marital life too. His wife refused to go out with him until he shed those extra kilos. His grandsons sometimes teasingly said he closely resembled 'Singh' uncle and 'Mallikh' uncle. Siddu sometimes woke up at night from nightmarish visions of this.

Deshu wanted to impress someone. He jogged every morning, tried coloring his hair, having that retro 70s look and a bunch of other antics. However his heavy panting and collapsing due to cramps had not strengthened his case. He always thought of undertaking an adventure and making a solid impression. Alas, his boss was always in Delhi and the burden of managing the zonal office rested with him. If only he could mix work and his personal agenda ...

Shivu had no particular problem of his own. He was a happy man who often tinkered around with the law just for the kicks. He loved hanging out with Siddu and Deshu. Or at least he liked the free beer and late night movies at Siddu's. Rumor was it that he would do anything for a couple of beers and a briefcase that was not necessarily empty.

As he gulped down his fifth beer, Shivu had a brainwave!! The other two unanimously agreed that it was the panacea to all their problems. Shivu too agreed to join them in exchange for a couple of non empty briefcases or empty cheques.

One week later, all three set out on a padayatra from Bangalore to Bellary. A thousand sheep sheepishly followed!

A Case For And Against Evolution.

Twenty years, 365 days a piece, twenty four hours, every second of it. Information, more information, flying across, back and forth, to every terminal, from every terminal. Digits clicking away left, right and centre, eyes scanning across, hands dancing around, a billion lives, hooked on. Searching, like never before, twittering, louder than the loudest twitters. One last chat before crashing, one last ping before sleep. And you wake up and all that remains is this memory.

Vast deserts of naked warriors, savages killing each other, deranged men and women behaving wildly. Dark walls, zombies all around, searching for that special something, your toenails ripped apart. A catastrophe?? No wait, this is a dream. Confirmed, get back to sleep and wake up. You are in the same lounge you last slept, the computer meekly staring at you. Was there a smirk?? Did you miss it? Was your dream better? Yes, in a probabilistic sense.

Evolution, they say takes its toll on many things. What goes unnoticed is the havoc of evolution on a smaller scale, in a smaller time scale. Making egoists out of intellects, drawing out the beasts out of morons. Evolution towards what? Evolution towards self centerism? No, they say its evolution towards better internet usage, or so we are made to believe. But unbeknownst to us, deep down brews a hint of egoistic tendencies. Scares you when you are pulled in the vortex. Scares you when there isn't an escape pre planned. Scares you when it is all not a dream. Yes, you definitely want to get out it. Or do you?

Evolution teaches you to block people on gtalk. Feign not receiving messages and attribute it to connection problems. Evolution coaxes you to hide people on facebook. It often makes you a hero, That DC motor you connected to that old battery, those repeated trips to the electronic hardware store (just because you didnt know what to get the first time), those animated discussions all made you a 'geek' already. Now live up to it, show a moving toy to your friends in the basic sciences, post pictures of it on facebook,  makes you a certified lifetime geek. 

Deny evolution? Wonderful. No way it can explain the moronic youtube comments, comments that are totally unwarranted and uncorrelated to the video at hand. Comments on the anatomy of the scientist's daughter in an otherwise perfectly historical and scientific documentary of a great legend. Trivialities eulogized, mediocrity worshiped. Old hackneyed jokes, the same that appeared in your email for the 23rd time in the last 6 years, the same crushed hand of the baby girl that you will help get operated, the same kid of the parents victim to international terrorism, the same awesome unbelievable photos, the same clandestine 'private' messages that 'you have not answered to' in the past, the same millionaires of the world who went on to Forbes list by forwarding emails from AOL and Microsoft, bothered enough? Only if there was a internet suicide pill, pop one in, and you can never use the net again. They dont make it, do they? Homicide charges are pretty strict they say. No one escapes the law. But the rule doesn't apply to fishes, farms, friends of the day and of course Mystic Meg is definitely above the law! State vs Mystic Meg? Naah, who made these laws anyway?

There is a Nigerian out there waiting to scam you every ten seconds. The eleven digit figure you won in a draw, the dead rich businessman's naive daughter, that little pill that just has you jumping like a horse, all too well documented by Socrates. Plato even had a revised edition. But no, we are not interested, who listens to the Greeks anyway? They speak Greek. The donation of email passwords to those websites never ceases, just when you thought you blocked the last of those sites, comes another one. Javascripts don't have any mercy either. They do awesome stuff alright, make tomatoes fly, wiggle up your screen as if you had weed, gives you cool themes and can even get you to remember that lady you met last night. But didn't anyone tell you it can also take over your profile? Advertise a one night rendezvous with your sibling? If the English were to go on their conquest again, all they'd have to do is ask us to try out a new Javascript, and we'd be all too happy to do that, wont we? Damn you. No, damn you. Yeah! D-A-M-N you. 

[ Author's note: On a completely unrelated note, voice overs are great!. Totally in awe of this aspect of film making. Have your character talk out, talk to you, subjectively, related or random talk. Then you watch the movie from a first person's point of view, blurring the lines between diegesis and non diegesis. You, are the character, makes you think like one. Scorsese, Coens, Soderbergs and to some extent Wes Anderson and Fincher, experts at it. The art of film making is getting more enticing by the day.]

To SIR, with love ...

[Disclaimer: No SIRs were harmed during the making of this blog]

Definition: South Indian Relative (SIR) is a species native to the southern parts of India. Some westward migratory tendencies have been observed but are mostly confined to the young ones. The usual age of a SIR is in the range of 40 years to 60 years with a high variability. The male of the species are characterized by receding hairlines while the females are characterized by extraneous noble metals on their self. Relatively large swarms of SIRs can often be found in group activities common among the species namely weddings, house warming ceremonies and naming ceremonies providing SIR researchers a wonderful opportunity for their study.

SIRs as usual can either be good or bad - The Noble SIR (N-SIR) and the Pesky SIR (P-SIR). The noble variety usually approach your parents with a broad grin on their faces. Quite predictably, they are the rarer species and so has little or no contact with your parents since when you were 60 cm tall. The opening phrase would be 'Elli, Magu barlilwa?' After scratching their generously grey heads, and racking their brains for an excuse (other than 'He hates people, he wont come'), the poor parents would be at loss of words to explain how the magu has grown up and no longer looks forward to buying balloons off the street vendor.

Another equally awkward situation would be when a group of elderly ladies approach you and ask "Neenu 'ivara' maga alwa?" In such situations, the clever victim usually says 'No' and scoots. However in my case, it has never been so. I unwittingly say yes and then wonder with a strange expression on my face as to who was that 'ivaru' she was referring to. Quite obviously I dont want to be someone else's son and so, I ask her upfront. At this point, there are umpteen possibilities -

• She really doesn't know you. Makes some apologies and grants you freedom.
• She really doesn't know you. But in defense of her, you look exactly like this guy and so she thought you were his son.
• She really doesn't know you, but said so just so that you could be asked to get a glass of water or even better, some kaapi from the kitchen two floors down. (Happens a lot in Hassan and surrounding areas, to the best of my experiences)
• She knows you! She tells a lot about how she met your parents in the morning and how good they are. ('Thumba oLLeyavaru') - Thanks for the affirmation!! 
• She knows you! She knows your father! She knows your father's chaddi friends too! You are treated to a long narrative of your father's childhood with the pride glistening in her eyes that she knows your father since the time he was 'shorter' than you.
• She knows you! You don't know who she is! The long process of making her familiar to you with a dozen other names (which obviously you dont know) thrown in and family tree pulled up - the most torturous of them all!

Let's move on. Then there is this 'uncle' who is not so closely related to be called a family member nor is so remotely connected to be a 'far relative'. He smiles, you smile. You notice his kid who's literally pulling his pants down for he wants that third bar of choclate or some fancy toy. The uncle is trying to divert his mind and lo and behold, you walk past! 'Ivanu yaaru gotteno? You know who this is? Ivanu Karthik Anna' You thank heavens that you aren't an uncle yourself yet and smile sheepishly. Thats when you catch the clearly annoyed kid sticking out his tongue at you.

So what about the pesky SIRs? Well, they are pesky. They take an active interest in all that others do, more than those involved themselves. They are probably more interested in your CET rank than you. (the year of CET = Annus horribilis). They actually count the number of Mysore Paks you had at the lunch. They keep a tab of your life more than your mom probably ever did! They dont believe you, why should they? And so they ask you the same question a dozen times, hoping that one of those times, you will give a different answer. Better still, they'll ask the same question to all people connected to you and try to dig out the 'secrets' ala Mr. Holmes.

God forbid, if a SIR's own progeny is within an acceptable age range as yours, you are doomed D-O-O-M-E-D! Now, my friend, your academic competitors are not the nerds in your class, its a subset of all those who attended the wedding reception last Monday night! And so, every prize from a lemon and spoon competition to a frog race and every achievement from being the class 'leeeeeeeader' to ranking first in the entire 3rd standard A section is celebrated upon. It is these kind of people who literally change the world! University of Timbucktoo becomes better than MIT, coding becomes high precision engineering; every frog race is a rat race, Phew!. One special penchant the pesky SIRs of Bangalore have (which I cant come to terms with for another century) is for a certain college in Bangalore run by Di.Ke.Shi. Anyway, Di.Ke.Shi and that special engineering college discussion for another rainy day.

In between the two extremes are the bunch of other SIRs. SIRs who take credit for anything from the greenness of the plantain leaf to the sweets of the coconuts used. SIRs who knew when you were born, that you are gonna be an 'excellent' engineer! SIRs who lecture you on why Digital Signal Processing is bad and why you must study Mechatronics instead (His wife's brother's father-in-law's sister's grandson is studying that - so it must be good) among a host of uncategorizables. Despite all this, time and again all the SIRs congregate, carry through their personal agendas, and yet mingle around and make the event a success. After all, that's life, full of diversities, full of masala. Cheers to the South Indian Relative!

Banashankari, onduvare ticket!

[My first blog post in ages, its an attempt to try my hand at nostalgic writing. This post is a tribute to all those blogs and stories of nostalgia, which when read truly transports you back in time, most notable among them Bengalooru Banter. Heres another comical take on it.]

For the uninitiated, Route No 14 is one of the very few links between the North and South of our famed Bengalooru. I wont go into all the explanation about how people in the North think South is a residential paradise or how the South thinks North is uncultured among other things. Usually operating between Malleswaram in the North to some random location in the South (which the author doesn't know since he never sat through till the end or had no enthu to google too), it made an extended trip from ITI Layout in the North to again the same random location in the south twice in the morning and once in the evening everyday. This they say was to facilitate the employees of AG's office long ago. Its another matter, that no one knows what exactly is AG's office now or what actually happens within the confines of the office [For general information, it is Accountant General's office situated somewhere on Kasturba Road, the same place where the Museum is situated (and no, its not the museum road)], and as with all great things, conspiracy theories abound like the local milkman bribed the BMTC officials to run this service so his kids could attend some random school in Basavangudi, or the area MLA used this to return from Vidhana Soudha when the MLAAD scheme was under scrutiny - although all charges have been unconditionally refuted and no chargesheet filed.

14 is one of the few buses (let me be frank, the only bus) I know in Bangalore that follows a queue system, yes a QUEUE. The bus leaves at 0840 hrs in the morning and one can see a long serpentine queue beginning to form at 0810 itself. As with most other things, I dont see the logic behind standing in a queue for a good 30 mins so that you dont have to stand in the bus for an equal or lesser time. But nonetheless, I have more often than not, stood in the line. And no, this bus is a true showman. He doesn't believe in exposing his body to all the smoke and paan standing there like a fool and expecting people to arrive. He arrives royally at 0830 or 0835, the conductor still cleaning his mouth of the morning breakfast and sipping water. The conductor for many years was a medium built man with a striking resemblance to Kannada actor Ambarish, was replaced for a few years and then he was back all over again.

The earliest ones are AG's office employees who are near their retirement or for that matter anybody whose retirement life is beckoning but they still got to finish up a few years before collecting their pension. They wake up early, eat early and are at the line early, with a newspaper, which is most cases is the orangish brown Economic times or the Hindu, TOI is blasphemous. Passing by the queue, mostly you would see shining bald heads with a briefcase or a bag in one hand, except if you were a regular, in which case, the shining heads would tilt back and grace you by a elegant curve on the lips. The general rule is no one breaks the line, and if you did, thou shalt be charred to death by the disgusted and angry look on their faces (even if looks could not kill). Then, there would be the old ladies who made a dignified walk to the end of the line occasionally stopping to chat with other ladies in the queue (as expected!!) Amidst all this, there would be a drooping Anglo Indian who seemed to be in a world of his own complete with an old European style cap, flannel clothing and total silence.

Amidst all this sepia tone drama, there would be an occasional 'young blood' in the queue. A young girl in her mid twenties who for some 'strange' reason always sat with another young guy of comparable age, an occasional engineer who lost his way, or some PU student from Shady's who had bunked the morning session and wanted to experience some college torture after the breakfast break (which incidentally is where yours truly fits in - and our college started at 7:30 in the morning and we had a breakfast break at 9 - good old days)

Back to sepia, bus is in place, conductor having finished cleaning his mouth, would start his ritual, and that being his first 'trippu' in the morning, the oft heard growl was 'Change illa kanri, change tharakke agalwa?' This was mostly with the people at the end of the line, the early birds were of course regulars and mostly had the exact change down to the last paisa or had passes! Occasionally, someone in the crowd waiting for other buses about 100 ft away would notice a totally empty bus as against the usual filled to triple capacity buses at that hour and would leap into the bus totally ignoring all protocols only to be abused and sent to the end of the line.

All the groundwork done and the last of the passengers boarded, the bus would leave at 0840 hours or at most 0843 hours - amazing time keeping by any Indian standards - initially slow and then picking up pace - as if it was some princely locomotive. The sepia tone generation would still be in their 'economic' times with an occasional political commentary, the color generation trying to strike up conversations and failing most of the time, a few others looking at their watches and repeatedly cursing the organised boarding for their delay, people alighting, new people boarding, and halfway through the trip, the original passengers would've all alighted to make way for a new set of them, a new crowd behavior, a new set of discussions, a new set of purposes. Of course, Route No 14 didn't mind any of these, it was more than happy looking at the stone buildings of IISc, the hustle bustle of Malleswaram, the stagnant traffic of link road, the terrible stink on link road, the distinctive smell at Shivananda, the powerful Vidhana Soudha, the bustling RC College, the overcrowded City Market, Chamrajpet, Ramakrishna Mission, Shanthi Talkies and disappear into the folds of the South.  It was afterall a daily routine, sometimes in sepia, sometimes in color.

Namma Kaayva Kurubarooo , KURUBARU!!! KURUBARU!!! .....

ThaLavoorida kuruba katukanaadare, avana machchigava enu hoLapu, enu jaadoo, enu moha, kaNNu kukki sokkiruva, katthanadake thikkiruva, hogi hogi nekkiruva, naavu neevu avaru ivaru ......... KurigaLu saar .... KurigaLu

[For the non kannada readers - its futile to translate it]

Kuruba - Shepherd

KurigaLu - Sheep

Father Gowda, one day after his son infamously tried sneaking into 10, Janpath in his Merc (of course with a chauffeur) reiterates that the third front is intact. In what has become a repeated political drama in the family, son goes to another outfit, father disowns him, lots of high voltage action, a heart attack, dizziness thrown in, a trip to the hospital Jayadeva (Jayadeva, not Sagar Appollo mind it), mangalya bala of female members of the family invoked, photo op hugs, a few dives to the feet of the patriach and all is well all over again. Whom are they trying to fool? We, the citizens? No we are never fooled, we are educated, we never vote at all you see. 

Somehow the first thought that came to mind seeing this is the wonderful poem KurigaLu saar naavu KurigaLu by Prof. Nissar Ahmed. Written years ago, the song is true to its word, everywhere, everytime, more so in this age of alliances where every Kuruba is invaluable to the Head Kuruba.

Listen to the song (Requires Real Player): KurigaLu (Nisar Ahmed - Mysore Anantswamy)

Credits: www.churumuri.wordpress.com

The Great Indian Coalition Saga

Title:   Indian Political League

Also Known as:   The Great Indian Coalition Saga (Working title, India)

Director:   Multiple

Genre:   Drama, Action, Politics, Comedy, Fiction

Tagline:   150 is the new 272

CBFC Rating:   [A] ,for scenes containing graphic violence, caste, slander and liquor.

Runtime:   Eternity

Company:   Twentyfirst Century - Trapeze Artists Association

A friend recently put up a status messge declaring "I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question." Although the chicken has been question for eons, it hasn't ceased to make news time and again amazing me with its sustained interest in crossing roads - one wider than the other. So, I set out asking this question to all our future prime ministers (alright! some may realise this posthumously) - A few in candid interviews on record, a few off record in closed rooms and AC cars. Of course, these are not without my personal political leanings as is explicitly evident.

(Content Advisory: The main protagonist of this piece is the chicken. The chicken is an extremely versatile actor donning different roles in different scenes as the story progresses. So if you are averse to chickens or their very intentions of making news, this isn't for you. Additionally, if you are miles away from the happening political scene in India and its associated concern and responsibilities, this might well not be your plate of chicken)

Behen Maya

During Election time: It was carrying a message of equality from the Dalits to the Brahmins!

All other times: It was carrying some donation for my birthday fund.

Kagodu Thimmappa: Oh was it?? Yaava chicken road cross maadtheeni antha heLaththo, antha chickenna thale kattarisi haakbeku. Adu cross maadodanthe.... naavu nododanthe... hmm

Sycophant R V Deshpande: It's a historic event. It was proclaiming to the world that Rahul visited the state during election campaign. This will be written in golden letters.

ChaluvaLi king Vatal: The EC has no better work than watch chickens ... in other areas, there are elephants crossing the road. Jai Karnataka .... (with violent waving of the hands)

Tamil hero MK: The chicken is my friend. And Im not a terrorist. The chicken is a noble chicken, it must be treated like a king.

Father Gowda: We support all secular chickens. Obviously it was trying a lot to escape from the communal forces. Its a 'tall' chicken now. Only the mangalya bala of the chicken's wife saved it from being run over by a tractor. Get me 10 chickens, I'll show how much control I have over all chickens in the country.

Party Hopper Bangarappa: BJP did not have any chickens once upon a time. Now since the CM's son is contesting, they are forcibly paying the chickens to cross the road.

Beta Dutt: The chicken's father died because of pressure from Congress in the previous century. So it is revolting now. The chicken was also actually tortured eons ago. If I see the chicken anywhere, I'll definitely give it a jaadu ki jhappi and pappi. All credit goes to my brother Amarji.

Chief Mischief Maker Chawla: Just a minute, I want to use the restroom ... (makes a call to 10, Janpath) I think it crossed because Gopalswami ordered it. The other ECs have no role in it.

HDK: Father will decide. Father will decide whether the chicken can cross or not. It also depends whether the chicken is a rural chicken or an urban chicken. But father will decide. Father will decide. Even common man is discussing about this chicken. Father will decide....

The not so High Command: The chicken is does not belong to any party. Its a national chicken. Insult to the national chicken is an insult to the country.

The all knowing Vadra: The chicken definitely has the qualities to cross the road. The chicken is a good blend of of its father and grandmother. Who me?? No, I'll never cross the road. But I know all about road crossing and chickens and I can comment on and on about it at any rally.

Baba Rahul: Empower all chickens to cross the road, we can eliminate butcherism (read terrorism) in 15 minutes. (Personal note: 15 minutes, bah! what 50 years of family rule didnt accomplish)

'Secular' newbie Kalyan: My aim is BJP ka barbaadhi, the chicken's aim is BJP ka barbaadhi, we are friends now. Even I know how to cross the road.

Kingmaker Amar: I dont want to reveal who said this to me. I want to do business with them later. But I know the chicken's name is Maya. See what havoc Mayas are causing in this country. One Maya is spoiling UP, another Maya is crossing the roads everywhere. 

Roller Driver Lalloo: Are chodiye, na chicken hamare party mein hain, na hum chicken ke party mein. Phir bhi, agar mein Home Minister hota tho usi waqt uske chathi par roller chala deta .....

Byre Gowda Junior: The chicken has a MS from US, the chicken has a educated wife from another caste. So the chicken can easily cross the road.

A not so 'humble' NCP man: You see anything cant be said. It all depends on where the chciken was. If it was in Vidharba or Marathwada, it was going to Sharadji's rally. Anywhere else it was running away from the Sainiks. Im pretty sure the chicken wants to see Sharadji as the prime minister.

And so, as we speak, the chicken continues to cross many more roads, many  a heads roll, many a rollers crush, many a thieves are let away by 'independent' investigative agencies and many a 'secular' hypocrites beg for votes. Unmindful of all these, a very small number of chickens - say around 400 million, more than three quarters being educated chickens turn the other way or tend to believe that their President is President Obama. Did someone say elections?? Unheard of in these parts of the world .....

Mystery, thy name is Everything!

Mystery, thy name is Nature! The nature of human mind, the nature of deceit, the nature of love, hate, accomplishment, emptiness shrouded in intricately woven layers of mystery. Love, that becomes a passion, passion, that morphs into obsession, obsession, that transcends into compulsion - insurmountable, leading to a bitter destruction with no imminent gain in sight. A no-man's land in that battle between the mind and the body. The fathomable, the unfathomable - both equally misleading yet dear to them. This is your life, this is their life, its my life - all ending - one minute at a time without individual consent. God likes to watch, or that's what he said. An amusement to Him, a wide screen television with Dolby Digital. Someone was indeed right, He sure is a prankster. Mystery, thy name is God!

You perceive, you perceive not. You believe, you believe not. You do it, you do it not. Did you do it? Or did you intend to do it? Deja vu?? What if you indeed did it but didn't realise? What if your actions pushed an entire parallel universe to destruction? Or what if it saved it? Are you a hero? Are you God? If no, why not? If yes, was it your free will? Or libertarian incompatibilism at action? Prathibhaasika? Vishishtadwaitha? Achintya Bheda Abedha?? Any takers? What if your choice made no difference to the universe, what if it was all written down meticulously for ages to come for dumb actors to enact? It pains to know you - the egoistic you - are just a funny puppet providing amusement. Mystery, thy name is Decision!

Free will. A mirage in the unlimited vastness. The real, the surreal all encompassed in this vastness. Any possibility that a vast universe was created and a bunch of lunatics were given free will? What are the odds? Even if it was true, what can you do with it? Kill the world?? Blast the Mars? And how is that going to affect anything in this ever expanding infinity? Isnt futility the most regular of all exercises?

purnam adah purnam idam
purnat purnam udachyate
purnasya purnam adaya
purnam evavashishyate

The rules of the game are not comprehended, the players are upbeat. But the results are predetermined. There isnt any escape even though infinity is before you. Are there any rules at all? What if the rules were antonymous to everything known? What if the bad guys were enjoying themselves before and after? What if all rewards were reserved for them? Good and bad - the most mystic of them all. Wait! Who told you the rules? Did you hear them fine? Are there any rules at all?? Mystery, thy name is Nihilism!

The truth, the lies and everything in between, carefully concealed, underplayed yet continually at work, unbeknownst to the victim, plotting for a larger scheme of things, a finale that may encompass the infinity, a finale that may be so spectacular (Who doesn't like climaxes, including Him), a finale that may reduce infinity to zero or a finale that may give birth to another episode on the Widescreen. Or does it have a finale? Why should it? Isnt change the single most thing loathed all around. Or does anyone who has seen it all and all the repeat telecasts really care? Mystery, thy name is Universe!