The Unraveling

Don't you just hate tags?

No?

i do.

i am supposedly a vegan. Yep that's supposedly what i am due to my diet. i am no vegan. i stopped eating meat because i didn't want to participate in taking life to feed myself. i was eating meat all my life until 2 years back , so calling it an ethical choice would be hypocritical. Right now i don't like to eat meat. That's basically it. i also feel that milk of an animal is meant for its young. If nature intended me to be drink cows milk, i would have been born a calf. Though i bullshit most of the time, i am certainly not a bovine. My balls are too small.

And lactose makes me fart.

So, vegan, i am not.

Recently someone said i am a feminist. Hell no!

i just don't like unfairness. And if you are a woman and get on the bad side of me by being a mean , unfair , rude , opinionated bore, i would kick your arse, even if you have boobs. i am pretty unbiased in my dislike for people.

misanthrope.

Nope, i avoid people as much as possible because others are my hell. Crowd energy hits from all sides. It tires me out. i get drained. So i avoid. Nothing against people, the problem is not them, its me. i try and occupy a small space in the society as inconspicuous as possible . Until and unless trouble finds me, i try and stay out of it. i like people from far.

bipolar.

Actually 20 years back it was called Psychotic maniac depression. i liked that better. It sounded like a condition. Bipolar sounds like a polar bear that swings both ways. i feel i am just moody. i have my highs and lows just like everyone. Its not a big deal.

Wife thinks i am delusional. i feel i am a dreamer.

My mother thinks i am impractical. i call it risk taking.

Actually i have no idea what i am . Like all, i am perceived. Perceived by other , perceived by myself. Funny thing is if i come across me i may not recognize myself. i dont seem to look at the whole me . i only look at parts. When i brush i look at my mouth. My relationship with mirror is very fragmentary. i guess that's probably why my selfies looks so fascinating to me. i am nothing like how i picture myself to be. i am way good looking in my head. Out there i look like a hairy scrotum.

i feel i have no real personality. i become the books i read, the movies i see, the music i hear, the people i meet. This is perhaps why i avoid interactions, as i can easily tune into the other and become a reflection. i become whatever the other wants me to be. Off late, i stopped that. i just didnt see the need. Now i am that guy in the balcony. I am that guy on the coach fixated on that painting on the wall. Until someone engages me, i am on standby mode. Nothing.

i am grateful to those who remained. i know that i am incapable of investing into a relation...everyone i know has come ... some stayed...some moved on....

Sometimes i feel it is fear that puts myself in my own shell. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of being hurt. Probably. I would be a great nut case study for a jobless shrink.

The last one i had was in Nimhans, who kept asking me questions. i recall only couple of questions he had asked. Most of the time, all i recall is this close up of his mouth , surrounded by thick pubic hair like beard, moving. i recall being fascinated. Couldnt take my eyes off. It was like watching a talking vagina.

i have come to a conclusion that any expression is a validation of the mind. Even these words are just that. i guess in some ways, since i have no one to actually talk to , i have no venue for bouncing ideas except with myself. Perhaps that could explain why my mind got fragmented some years back. Moreover, the quest i seem to be on is more internal than external hence, it is not easy to find a like minded person.

anyhow....

We will wade into more light hearted banter next time. Forgive me my indulgence which to most may seem narcissistic . Another tag .

In life i have noticed, we are often guilty of the traits that we despise in another. The emotions that we feel, especially the so called negative kind, is rather a useful indication where you mind is identifying with something that it does not want to acknowledge. Funny , no?


Truth is we are more connected than we are different. i know when i write this, i am writing it for some one of you.

Age aint no number..

Wife turned 42 today.

She seems ok with it. But you should have seen her when she was hitting 40!

She made the day look as if they had declared Trump as the American President.

At that time, I was making all the right noises and pouring forth all the required affirmation, but in my head I was wondering - what's wrong with this chick?'

I was 45 then, 5 years shy of 50. I didn't feel shit. In fact I felt great. Except when some girls called me uncle. I never understood the fuss. Age is just a number.

But today I get it.

I was sitting with my nephews friends and we had this conversation and it hit me like a ton of brick.

Okie it didnt hit me like that, it was more like a realization. Like the lifting off of a veil.

Of course age is an important factor for a woman.

Being born a woman means that you have fixed phases in life that will completely change everything about you. Age affects a woman.

First you have puberty, where you are introduced to your first period , which now defines 4 days of your life every fucking month. That must suck.

I once , rather foolishly, claimed that if you know that you are going to bleed for 4 days every month , then you will just learn to deal with it.

Yep.

I said that.

My experience with a bleeding of any kind was hemorrhoids upon which my wonderful theory was based. It mattered not that it was a completely different exit path.

I slept on the couch for a whole month and my computer was taken away from me by my wife.


Then comes pregnancy.

Notice how I don't consider marriage as a defining phase in a woman's life.

That's because it isn't.

Pregnancy is. Childbirth is. Motherhood is.

It defines her life. It changes her life.

Then comes menopause.

So, you bet age is a fucking big thing for a woman.

For us? Until we keel over with the after effect of a bad life style, the maximum excitement is when we find a stray gray pubic hair.

Macha! I got white hair down there, da.
Fucker, you are getting old man
Yah, man.
Fuck, I need a drink yaar.
Fuck man, I haven't made my million yet.
What million da? I havent got a tattoo yet.
Lets get a tattoo.
Yeah macha, age is just a number da.

That's being men. We have no phases. Its great being men. That's why we have gays. Some of us just love ourselves a little more.

Getting hair on your penis is not a phase.

It doesn't change your life.

Nope. Shaving cannot be considered a life changing event.

I am sorry.

Fatherhood is an option if the woman lets you stay around. Trust me, we are on shaky grounds there.

The day they learn to change the tyre and get rid of the spider from the tub, we are going to be rather expendable.

So, like I was saying... age is not a number for a woman.

In between all those phases, they have to find their bearing in a man's world.

Every single minute of her life is defined by her gender or rather our versions of what a gender should be like.

Her dress , her work, her thoughts, her expressions, her priorities, her dreams, her ambitions everything is tainted first with her gender.

Its kind of stupid . No one should have to live like that.

My mother once said while I restrained my daughter from doing something. She said, ' Let her do what she wants now. As , a woman's freedom is inversely proportional to her age. '

You bet age is of concern to a woman.

So, happy birthday , my dearest friend. May you always have the freedom to be what and do what you desire.

May you never be limited, defined or put on a pedestal. May you be allowed to thrive on equal footing.

Keep shining as always.

You are loved. The lack of ties and expectations are the only proofs I can give.

Sheila Ka Jawani

Being stupid has its merits.

Knowing that you are stupid and yet doing what you do fully realizing its consequences is the epitome of stupidity. I stand completely guilty of it.

In my defense, I can only state that the choices I have had did not make it easy. It meant to chose me over others. The choice hence was in some ways, I guess, pretty predictable. It helps that my nature prevents me from dwelling on things or worry about consequences. Whatever time throws at us, we tend to have to deal with it. Not in a fatalistic , depressing kind of way, though that too is ok I guess, if that works for you.

It doesnt work for me.

You see, I have given a lot of attention to this nature of mine. I am beginning to realize that its a result, not something inherent. The distance that I carry is perhaps due to my vulnerability. Perhaps that is why I don't get too close. I allow space. For me, having no expectation from people I care about is the best I can do for them. But I must affect, nevertheless, despite my best intention.

Such is life. A intricate complex connections each affecting the other and setting off a chain of reactions, causes and such. Everything is connected. Like the matrix.

Anyhow

Was talking to wife yesterday. She is doer unlike me who is all fart and no shit.

She is an active catalyst for movements that has seen the initiative of random required acts of compassion for those in need. It is something she feels strongly about and actively immerses herself into. What can I say? She's pretty fantastic.

Of course there are days, I can almost strangle her but I do have to admit that shes pretty neat.

Currently I am in the dog house, since I am in exile in the Sand City while shes stuck with the brats in India. She feels I did this on purpose, leaving her alone to fend for herself. I guess more than anything, she feels the helplessness, since this is not what she signed up for. In the midst of looking after the kids, taking them, even during her weekends, for the various classes like gymnastic, drama , dance etc , she has no one to look after her. That was my job. She, I know, is not happy.

And, there is nothing I can do about it.

Maybe there is . But that is a choice I cannot make. So I guess she is right. I didn't choose her. I chose what I felt was the right thing to do. I chose me.

So I am kinda fucked.

When all this is over and I go home, I hope I have a home left.

Life is funny in the way that everything gets repeated. I too, like my parents, will miss my children's child hood. I will probably win the battle but lose the war.

Anyhow.

Back to our conversation. She mentioned that she had met with this guy who is running a clothing store, hiring and rehabilitating abused women. She was speaking to me about the objectification of women that is the root of all the violence, abuses, molestation, segregation, exploitation of women.

She is kinda right.

The objectification of women. Seeing a woman as as sum of her body parts. This tendency, this conditioned response, fertilized and given acceptance through media, songs, movies, books , in fact every visible expression, reduces a gender to an object. The solution is to be able to see a woman as she really is. A person beyond the roles that is assigned or nature has bestowed upon her.

Question is how do you do that?

Empathy is a misunderstood word. You cannot truly empathize with anyone. You just cannot get into the shoe of another. You can , based on your own experience, imagine the other's condition but it still will not evoke the profoundness of another's experiences as your own. You can imagine it but you will never know it. We are built that way.

Even when we say that her touch is soft , the touch you felt as hers is the response of your skin to nerves to brain stimuli. It is still you interpreting pressure. Every perception is internal. In reality we do not even know what a rose actually looks like, since if we could see it without the limitation of the spectrum of visible light we can see, I wonder what the rose would look like. Even the psychedelic aura like spectrum that we see as ultraviolet rays or spectrum beyond our visibility are again just interpretation of it to our visible spectrum. We really cant see it.

Hearing, Taste, Smell every senses that assists in experiencing and perceiving the world around us, is limited to a fixed position. We function within that limitation. Considering that genetically our DNA is the same with all living beings on this planet, only sequentially different, the potential or the possibilities are probably within us.

Where am I going with this?

You see, objectification is a human interpretation.It started with language.If you look out of the window, you will probably see the sky, the trees, the birds, the buildings , the people etc. All those are words, sounds, to identify something, so that it can be communicated. It has a purpose but the word does not define the object. The word in fact by defining it also limits it.

For example, the word infinity defines something our perception cannot comprehend. By naming it, we believe we understand it. Conceptually we do, but perceptionally ? Zilch. Nada.

If we could actually 'see' a tree. Really see it . Without conditioning or defining or the limitation of our spectrum of visibility or anything...

everything drops...

In order to see, we become it.

Not in some spiritual , psychobabble way, but that is logically the only way you can see anything.

Back to objectification of women.

It will continue. Reality is that, we are guilty of objectifying both the genders. It is not in the mindset this problem arose, but in the social order of things we created. We assigned roles. We pegged people. We subjugated,exploited, twisted truths to justify our ends. We made something as natural as birth into a privilege or a curse based on its gender, due to the society its going to be born into.

The solution is to even the odds.

Technology has ensured that today, man and woman can play equal roles in the society. No longer is strength a deal breaker. No longer is women confined to the role of a wife and a mother. You take away technology and the so called progressive mindset that we think we have will drop. The natural way of being is functional. Its purpose was survival and procreation.

Everything that we demand now is new ground.

Sexuality is part of our being. We are programmed to be attracted to each other. Denying that will only lead to another form of repression. Censuring, oppressing, banning , acceptance of only politically correct opinions...all will just drive it under but never address the issue. Let objectification remain or not remain . It was never the problem.

The society that prevented equality for all beings that represented it is the problem.

Equal rights. Equal status. Equal representation.

None above, none below.

The thinking fool

A famous man once said that Thoughts makes a man.

I know it sounds great but he apparently had no idea what he was talking about. Its so amazing what sounds so right can be so wrong.

Thoughts do not make a man more than ripples on the water is the water or the stone that got thrown in. Thoughts does not require your participation. It just keep on generating , processing everything that we experience like a mad man murmuring to himself. If you can observe something, then it cant be you, can it? I guess even the term 'my thought' , 'my mind' and 'my body' should have given the clue. Who is this elusive 'my'? If it is a possession, then that cant be you, can it?

My bike will always remain separate from me. No matter how much I identify with it, it will always remain separate from me. Thoughts therefore cannot be you. Body cannot be you. Mind cannot be you.

But your action is you.

So, why on earth am i giving you this gyan? Well I thought about thought. Try that. It is like reflecting a mirror with another mirror. Suddenly you cant get the analogy of the mirror out of your head and thought will go chasing after that like a dog after the stick you threw. The moment you become aware of that nature of thought, thought stands still , or at least becomes like an observed child in a play ground who knows that she is being watched.

Its amazing how much time i have in my hand.

Yesterday I was thinking how it must seem to be in my head. I sometimes feel, these posts are more now to myself. Like some sort of organizing . Like laying things out with no real attachment or fixation on it. I have realized earlier own that fixed opinions are just being stubborn. Perception changes depending on the angle. In the midst of that truth, a silent observance is all that can be really done. Everything else is just fleeting and transient.

But you know i am wrong..

Thoughts with intention is creative. I guess thats what is called a will.

Directed thoughts. That is almost like an action. It has the power to be turned or discarded as an action.

Sort of like words.

Thinking something and saying it out loud has got different repercussions.

A thought that is cultivated, fed, believed in...has a power to manifest.

We know this

In which case a person is what it thinks

Because it can define her/him.

Seeing thoughts for what it is without identifying in it or investing in it, is what is considered as detachment. It is not that you don't care. It is because you seek its cause. You care enough to end it. For which you are willing to go to the source. The distancing is not running away. It is to find a final solution. In doing so, you are willing to give yourself away... all that you know...all that is comfortable...all that defines you.... because once you see yourself as separate from your mind and your body, you are on a shaky ground.

you are no longer you.

awareness is your only rope.

everything..every action..every intention...every word that is uttered... because you know its significance on an other... you see it with clarity..sort of like seeing its past, present and future at the same instant.

and most of the time, silence is the best resort...inaction becomes the best action.

because you care.

because its all pretty perfect.

Fuck it. This is bound to be misread. Perhaps. But it had to be written.

Did I tell you that it also exposes you completely? That every justification, every defense you had built, every repressed memory starts glaring back with total clarity. You see. There is no hiding anymore.

And you become the lowest of the lowest. You are humbled. Stripped and kicked out. Everything will shed. You see your total insignificance. In a strange way you also see a beauty in that state. You are nothing.

The nothing pulsating with possibilities.

But even in that awareness , you realize, that you are still there. That you are still limited and its that limitation that gives you that perception.

Then everything comes rushing back.

You realize that there is only one way out.

There ...

There you have a thought that was followed to a conclusion.



Sound track for this one :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1wg1DNHbNU

Rambles of a Flotsam

I recall long ago spending a vacation in my boarding school. My brother and I had the whole school to ourselves. The normally strict priests who ran the schools became very attentive. There were other boys too. Not too many. Maybe about six. I am not sure. Maybe I imagined them. I don't know.

This was the time when the Grammy awards hit India for the first time. Madonna, Micheal Jackson, David Bowie, Lionel Richie , Wham and a few others became household names to many of us. We had a walk man and the Grammy tape. My younger brother and I used to sit on the slope of the eucalyptus forest and listen to music sharing the headphones.

Not sure why I remembered that.

Looking back, it may appear to many that we lead some sort of empty lonely existence. But in my head , I recall that my childhood was filled with cousins , laughter , books and games. Almost all vacations were spend at some relatives house. We were taken in and treated with perhaps more affection than was given to their own children. It was a great childhood.

It also makes you an expert in fitting in. Makes you occupy a very small place , have very few demands.

You become good at goodbyes. You do not take anything for granted. You learn to deal with things. You learn how it is to miss someone so much that, back in the school, you bury your head into the pillow and cry silently. You learn to let go. You learn to move on. You learn very early that you are always alone. Even when others have the best intentions , you are somehow never capable of becoming emotionally close to another.

Perhaps it must be the vulnerability. I have pondered over that. Why I have the emotional IQ of a snail.

I feel I have a great emotional IQ . Whatever that means. Its just that I feel emotions are an indulgence. It has no permanence. Like clouds in the sky. It can be swept away by the wind or evaporated by the suns heat. Emotions when observed, ceases to have its pull. It loses its intensity. You cannot observe anger and be angry.

I guess there is also a trait which makes me very transient. I find myself comfortable in my solitude. Even in a group I seek to be alone. Not in a lonely way. I find myself very fortunate and grateful to be loved. I sometimes feel as if I do not really deserve it. I hardly invest myself into any relationship. Not due to some emotional deficiency . I have been accused of that. But its not that I do not care or I do not love. It is not coming from a selfish place. I know this. I am fortunate that I am surrounded by people who have chose to be with me. For them I have only me to offer.

I care. I really care.

There was a time when I was scared for myself. I felt that if I didnt anchor myself. Tether myself to someone, I will float away. I did what I could to tie myself down. Looking back , it seems so manipulative. My motives negated the other. Thankfully it fell apart on its own. I had lost interest in my fear.

Its strange that when I look back, how if it was not for the other's efforts, I would have just been. Like some flotsam, I appear to have just been. I must be really dull. But I am sure it was not so. I did stand up. I did shine. I did love. I lived.

Not that it matters.

Maybe all this is just reassurance to myself. Maybe , as always, I am becoming the bullshit that I am weaving. Maybe , like some suggests, I could be wired differently, which is a polite way of saying that I could be mad.

who knows?

i just want to keep it real this time.

I am very grateful. Its been a great life. Thank you.

I am going to have a sound track for my postings ; what can i say? I love drama..

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0rxydSolwU

Just asking....

I have no idea what is going on around the world.

I hardly watch news. I once came across one Indian channel which proclaims itself as a news channel and all I heard was people screaming at each other. The news anchor was the loudest of them all.

I hate loud sounds.

Hate it when people screams. Hate it when people shouts. It totally disturbs my whole being. Its like throwing a huge rock into the water. It just takes a lot of time for the ripples to settle.

Heard that India is intolerant.

This is kind of news to me. Must be a new thing. Normal people in India gives two fucks what religion anyone belongs to. India will probably become intolerant because all it takes is enough of people to feed into that myth and lo! behold, we become that. That is the beauty of an idea.

Take a bow , God.

I feel the biggest worry that India should be concerned about is giving up , willingly , your rights. And for heaven sake, stop calling your government, the rulers!!!

When the fuck are you going to get over your subjective thought process. You are not ruled. You are governed. There is a fucking huge difference.

What worries me is when the government starts to take on the role of a mother. When they tell you what you have to do and cant do. That's when it gets worrying. Heard that we are now telling people what they can eat and what they cant. Who they can fuck and who they cant.

You see the pattern?

I am not a moralistic person. Never was. I have absolutely no morals. For that matter, I don't care what other people's morals are either. As long as your deeds are not stepping on another's right to exist in their own expression, then see if I give a damn, if you are a beef eating, heavy smoking, middle aged lesbian who wants to worship at Sabrimala.

Personally I don't care. What does bother me is when you say that the beef eating lesbian lady cannot have that view.

I feel we have forgotten the art of debate.

It is through debate that Shankaracharya rejuvenated the temple culture from the widely popular Buddhism. It was through talking , hearing , understanding.

Having an opinion and insisting that that opinion is the only right opinion and to give it authenticity or some sort of validity, dragging in dead people's wisdom which forgets that every thought , every words, every action has a relevance only at a particular time, is akin to verbal terrorism.

I find Ayyappan cool.

He can only have been conceived by a mallu mind.

He is conceived by the union of Shiva and Vishnu ( are the anti gay Hindu community listening?) . thereby bringing together the Vishnavites and Shivates. To take it one step higher, traditionally you were required to first pay your respect at a mosque before you walk towards the Sanidhanam. There is a ritualistic tantric reason why menstruating women were not allowed into a temple .There are temples where a menstruating woman can go to worship. There are also temples where men cannot enter. It was never about exclusion. The ancient way of life, or what I would rather term as a sanskriti , which is now tagged as Hinduism, was never about exclusion. It was always about inclusion. It incorporates everything , everyone, every idea, every concepts. If you can think it, we can find a way of fitting it in.

'How can you say that?'

To me there is nothing more stupid than that question but it still deserves an answer.

I was questioned sometime back on my view on Hitler. Truth is , I have no view on him. But a question was asked about this admiration about him in my part of land, which I had to admit , is there. I have my theories about it. Suddenly the whole conversation went south. It was amusing but at the same time, a bit painful. You see, I was not allowed to admire any qualities of his. How is a man to be judged by time? It is an interesting thought. Ponder over it. What you see will at first scare you, but then you will experience a liberation from fixed perceptions.

Question for the day.

The Nirbhaya Rapists. Is it the act that you condone or is it the person who did the act? I agree that you cannot separate the person from the act , so for a criminal act, logically, the person who committed the act is to be held responsible. My question is this: Can you see them as someone's son, capable of love or loved by someone? Were they kind to someone?

You see where I am going with this?

Are they just rapists?

Judge the deed, not the doer.

Sucking it up.

So, I am on the Vamamarga path.

That's my new thing.

Those not in the know, google it.

No . Wait.

I will explain. It is the Aghora path, which basically along with a few other things also expects the practitioner to be celibate.

Considering that my wife is not living with me and that I am too ugly to have a girlfriend and too poor to afford to buys sex, this seemed to be a logical step to live my pathetic life with some dignity. At least here I can claim that my non existent sex life is a choice.

So now I spend a better part of morning, doing all sort of bandhas which forces the retained sexual energy from my mooladhara to my crown chakra. This would also perhaps mean that I can probably get someone pregnant by kissing her.

Anyhow

Another year has gone by. For the new year, I had gone to Goa with wife and kids.

Actually we drove from Bangalore to Goa and back

Did I ever mention how much I love the road?

I love driving. I love being on the road. I care little for the destination. But the journey.... man, that's the best thing about any journey.

One day, I will take off and just keep going .

So I was in Bangalore. Its a great place. I love it.

Have you taken a look at yourself as seen through a security camera? Every one looks like a criminal. We are all grainy ,weirdly shaped and we move suspiciously.

It doesn't help that with all the terrorists planting bombs around the town, the Bangalore town has been a wee bit paranoid.

(Totally off the mark, why do they say 'plant a bomb'? What grows from that seed? Does planting bombs, make these bastards agriculturists? Anyhow, back to my spiel.)

I walk around with a knapsack. In it you will find my purse, my phone , my Swiss army knife, a duct tape, a garbage bag, a compass, lighter and a book. Its my Bug Out Bag. I never leave home without it. It also makes me look very suspicious.

Did I tell you that I wear black all the time? That doesn't help.

Each time I go to a mall here, after the customary walking through those portals which looks like a door frame someone has forgotten to build a house around, I get to have my bags checked. I just stand back and watch the security rummage through it. I would love to ask him what is it that they are looking for? But I am too scared that they will book me under TADA which will mean TATA for me.

What I find remarkable is how seemingly terrorist free my Sand City looks. I mean it. Its like the whole world is burning around them and you would expect to see at least some sort of security there. But no, you actually don't see them.

But they are there.

Apparently the Sand City has a huge number of undercover cops. It must be easy for them because they all wear the same clothes there. Like how the guy who threw a petrol bomb onto the humongous Christmas tree in a mall found out. He didn't make three paces before he was tackled down, slapped , handcuffed and whisked away by about ten locals who seems to have appeared out of thin air.

I know this, because a friend of mine actually saw it. These guys are there. You just don't see them.

India cannot do that. Sometimes I feel its enemies are within itself. Like a house divided within due to ignorance, intolerance,suspicions and of course its self centered politicians who seems to use instability as a weapon to assure his/her stay in power. India does not have the liberty of being a country with a transient population of migrants who will obey the laws or else pays the consequences. We are too ancient and too varied for such simple methods. Our ways and nature seems to be too deeply ingrained within us that even 2 generations away from their homeland cannot wash it away. We retain our Indianess.

It still puzzles me when I see the diversity around me. I do not know if anyone really comprehends the uniqueness of a culture that has managed over 60 years of solidarity among st such diverseness in clothing, to religions, to food, to language , to climate , to lifestyles, to laws , to likes and dislikes. Its nothing short of an inexplicable mystery.

I have my own theory.

I think its due to our inherent nature of selfcenteredness. As long as we are not individually effected , we don't really care. The nationalistic pride of each state is probably the reason why 29 states and 7 union territories can co exist together as one. Its the clearly marked division that creates the illusion of unity.

I actually like it this way. No where else can it be said with all due honesty that variety is the spice of life.

Even if you have ulcer.

A Dry Kerala? What the Fuck!

I don't know how this happened and when it happened. I guess, it kind of caught us unaware. There was always these ominous signs, which on hindsight, we should have paid attention to. But like the frog in a pot of water that is being brought to a boil, we did not realize it until we lost everything.

We surrendered without a fight. Somehow even the thought of a resistance was sabotaged by the media and the oppressors , by making us into the enemy. We were the disease. This was being done to cure us. Our rights were stripped away over night.

This was a black day and we could not even drink to that.

To think this could happen in my own , nay, God's own country!

True, a mallu like his peg. Okay we like it a lot.

It offers him the necessary numbness to actually live with being a mallu. Its hard being a mallu. Its like being a black Jew.

I for one, thinks this is a bad idea. You are dealing with a bunch of people who are some of the smartest in the Indian Nation. We even have one of our boys going on that one way trip to Mars. Okie, we are not that smart. But we are devious. You can never tell a mallu to do something or not do something. Terms cannot be dictated to a Keralite. It doesnt go down well with us.

"We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in our toddy shops
we shall fight on the seas and oceans,
we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Bars, whatever the cost may be,
we shall fight on the beaches,
we shall fight in the Parliament,
we shall fight in the paddy fields and in the streets,
we shall fight in the hills;
we shall never surrender,
and even if we do, which I do not for a moment believe; and this prawn state or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our NRIs beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the Foreign exchange, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the Bars, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the drunks.”

I have kept quite when the prawn state declared the law against smoking in public places. I felt that it was a justified law. After all those who disagree must consider that smoking in a public place is like peeing in the pool, its gets around.

But closing the bars and declaring a prohibition is stepping on my constitutional right. Its my fucking money, my fucking liver, my fucking life and if I want to drink , I should be allowed to. The day I want the government to become my wife, I will ask them to get into the ring and go a round with my wife.

Look, I get the whole problem with alcoholism. I have seen, as many of us, people who have died of it, the domestic violence due to it, the accidents that are caused by it ( Salman Bhai, take a bow), the late night texting to the exes and the regrettable status updates on facebook. Alcoholism is a serious problem. I get it.

But like a wise monk once said, if the thorns hurt your feet, the solution is not in covering the whole world in leather but rather your soles in it.

The cure for alcoholism is not in prohibition. That will drive the problem underground. You really think you can keep a mallu away from his alcohol? These are the guys who runs lucrative bootlegging trade in moonshine, in Saudi Arabia, which has the strictest penalty against alcohol and its use. My friends are already surfing the net to study making home made mead.

Our Kerala politicians are the most entertaining folks there is. They are the ones who keep the whole of Kerala glued to the TV ,watching Asianet, ignoring the fact that a whole world exists beyond Kerala, Nammade nadu. If they did, they would learn some amount of history which will show what happened when this stunt was pulled in other countries.

This is the same stunt, which costed a horse its head and enabled Italian men in great suits to make offers that no one could refuse.

I don't do politics. I don't understand it and I don't follow it. But every once in a while, one of them goes and does something so stupid that, I will have to switch the channel to Asianet, where I get to to see fat men in white, indistinguishable from each other, talking in a Malayalam which is never really in common conversation. This Malayalam is pompous, incomprehensible and reeks of insincerity. The plan now I hear is to encourage all persons who partakes to rehabilitation. The help of the police is being sought to enforce this. But first they will ensure that the tipplers among the police are rehabilitated and made into teetotalers.

By this time I got off from the floor , where I was rolling around trying hard to control my laughter.

Now I understood why my fellow mallus were glued to this channel to see the antics of these walruses all dressed in white. They are fucking hilarious.

So the plan, in short, is a police state, with moral policing.

Having spend a life time battling addictions, allow me to give you a realistic insight into the dark recesses of a person who take solace in substance abuse. Though this prohibition move effects even the sensible drinkers among us, it is being touted as the concerned step taken by the government to help stem alcoholism.

We need help.

But not this kind of help. You take away an addicts source, he will replace it with another addiction. Once that void has been experienced , you will tend to try and fill it. Every time. We are like zombies. We keep going. The only way, we can climb out of this hole , we have helped dig, is a want to quit. The change , the need for it, has to come from within.

What needed to have been done was an awareness drive. More rehabilitation centers. More AA meetings. Support groups for those who needed help. Counselling.

In the meantime, come down hard on domestic violence. Enforce those laws on drunken driving, mercilessly. Drunken public nuisance should not be tolerated. Enforce and implement the laws that are already in place.

So while the politicians berate about the loss of revenue in excise taxes and the bar owners make noises about their licenses and the bar employees mourn about their jobs, the real problem, is going to find ways to sustain itself.

And Kerala has all the resources necessary to find a way around this.

My suggestion is to have a breath analyzer test for all those politicians when they enter the parliament. I feel that will give an idea how sincere anyone of these guys are about the welfare of their people.

Be the change that you want to see around you.

This is not a good trend. Allow this and tomorrow the government will dictate your life. Remember these are the same clowns who think that rape is caused due to what women wear.

Just a thought.

Buns of a man.

Ahh... my baby... come here ... commeeee here.... kissy kissy... hugs... i missed you... there...there... down boy... down boy!!


Due to my long absence from blogging, I had forgotten my password. Anything that is not used for long tends to fall away. Much like my penis.

In my absence, so many things seems to have happened. Things are a lot more clearer now. I guess with age does come a sense of self assurance. Your age group are the ones currently running the show , so you can actually give a fuck to what they think of you.

I guess that's why this is here -

Man Buns

Nope . Not those.

To be fair, even I thought along the same line when I first heard it. The latest trend - Man Buns! And I am going like, fuck me blue, I have no buns to talk about.

But the plan to shove pillows down my pants was stalled when I found out that the new fad was this :

Its apparently a new fad which originated in New York.

Er, I hate to break the bubble but that is the oldest hairstyle in the world. Buddha sported the same thing and no one calls him a hipster. Go down to India and every self respecting ascetic looks like a Jamaican. Remove the turban of a Sikh and lo, a man bun. Go to a temple pond in Kerala and wait at the exit of the women bathe area and if you dont get beaten by them, you will see a man bun on a woman.

If your hair is long , then this is the most practical way to keep it in one place.

I would have certainly gone for this, except that the area where that bun is supposed to be tied is devoid of any follicles. It is like a nuclear test area. Nothing grows there. I have a place on my head like the Tunguska event.

That's where this little fucker comes to use.

The clip on man bun !

I think I will just stick to shoving pillows down the back of my pants.

Drunken Donuts.

We love our drinks, don't we?

But in India , we seem to take it to the next level.

I love my alcohol. I guess being a mallu , I am wired to be an alcoholic. My earliest memory is of a much older cousin, who in an inebriated state, walked over the Tambanoor bridge in Trivandrum ( which is now named Thiruvananthapuram, and is also used by the cops to see if you are drunk by asking the suspects to spell it), naked.

In the later years he went on to become a Sanyasi. The step between chemical imbalance and spirituality seems to be a subtle one. Of course, he was the family legend. He was everything I wanted to be. Naturist and a monk. Who could ask for more?

In the Sand City, I have a ritual for my drinking. Something as sacred as Jack Daniel, in my book, required that sort of devotion. I used to drink only in the night when I was alone. It had to be just right. Absolute silence and solitude was a requirement. I was not meant to be a social drinker much to the dismay of my parents. I am probably the only person in this planet who had his mother screaming at me at a party to get drunk like normal people.

Now that is how it is for a mallu.

But even I was not prepared for the things we do back home in India to have our bottle and drink it too.

Bangalore .

A city who is a lot like the fun loving young girl who has Bal Thackery as her father. The city goes to sleep at 11 pm for heaven's sake! The place probably has the maximum number of watering holes in the country and the biggest revenue the traffic police makes is from those poor souls who return home after downing a few.

The whole thing is like a well organized production. The cops will place metal barrier gates strategically on the road like a maze and then direct suspiciously weaving vehicles to the side of the road and make the drivers/riders do the dreaded blow job.

If your alcohol level is below 40mg per 100ml of blood, you are pretty much ok. You are free to go home. So that one for the road is fine as long as it stays just one. Unlike the Sand City which has zero tolerance.

Anything above that can get you either fined, vehicle confisticated, licence revoked or jailed , depending on severity and repeat offending. Its all great. They have a detailed website ( http://www.bangaloretrafficpolice.gov.in ) which ensures everyone here knows the law. So its all good.

But lets be honest. When was a law made that was not meant to be broken? Especially when it involves alcohol? Personally I think drunken driving is the most stupidest thing a person can do apart from telling your wife that her butt looks big in that dress. Its suicidal. Not that I have anything against people wanting to kill themselves. Hell, its your life pal, see if I care. But drunken driving puts others at risk. Ask our Salman Bhai.

Since common sense was never the forte of our species, there are many tricks that is being employed to beat the breath analyzer. Whether it works, is anybody's guess. I certainly will not vouch for the effectiveness of any of it. Since I drink myself to a stupor in the confines of my house, this does not apply to me and like politics, government and social issues that does not effect me directly has no relevance or interest to me.

Forget mints and paan.

Apparently guava works. After a night of revelry, eat a guava fruit and you are all set to face Inspector Ramayiah and his breathing tube. Someone said its not the fruit that you have to eat but its leaves. Play it safe. Eat both.

Recently a friend of my wife told her that the most effective method to beat the test is to drink Parachute Coconut Oil.

Yep. I bet the guy was a mallu. The coconut oil as the solution to all of the world's problem can only come from a malayali head.

We believe in our coconut oil. In right doses we know that coconut oil can cure AIDS , baldness and neutralize alcohol from your blood stream.In fact if studied in depth we are positive that it hold the key to the unified theory. In the beginning, before the word, god created coconut oil.

So if you are in Bangalore partying with your local friends , don't be surprised to see a big bottle of Parachute Coconut Oil being part of the celebration.

If the drive home doesn't kill you,hopefully, the cholesterol will.

Still Clueless

I am not much on comparing. Each to its own, that's what I say.

Wife blames it on low empathy but I don't agree, it's more or less because I don't care. Different definition , same meaning...but I really don't care. You live your life and let me live mine.

But it doesn't work that way does it?

The beauty of the sand city is in its way of letting its ugliness be hidden...like its laborers who built it but remains the unseen, unsung heroes. It's easier that way for people like me, who by some unforeseen accident or birth defect cannot relate unless it comes from a source of experience. Even then it's from a source that's self serving. You tend to view from your own perspective and in that lies the virtue or curse, as you might deem it, this ability to be unaffected .

I don't care.

I see yet I don't feel. Thing is I don't think I am alone in this. The more I watch the game of life around me, the more I feel I belong. The only difference being that I say it and most don't. It doesn't make me elate since the easiest path is to admit to your follies and be unconcerned , than to recognize your follies and make a change. But hey, what's the hurry? We are comfortable in our little bubbles of make believe empathy and sympathy, that the need for acting upon it is never called upon us.

Life is good.

We can put a 'Like' on the Tibetan who burns himself to ashes for his freedom on the social media network, or run amok with our verbal diarrhea on female infanticide , rape, genocide, or any other cruelties that we deem deserves our opinion and we can make ourselves believe that we have played our part in changing the world .

Things are good for people like me. The arm chair problem solvers, who with the tip of their fingers can alert the world and make changes.

I blog.

I rest my case.

But then I am the lowest rung in human evolution. I am the bottom feeder. I don't even believe in my own species. If it was up to me , we would have ended on December 21st 2012.

I was that guy who was rooting for the Mayans.

I don't understand.

I don't understand why in India we have those guys standing at the enterance of a mall, going through my bill of purchase and punching it before letting me out. What are they doing? What is the purpose? What do they hope to find.??

I don't understand. I have even asked that uniformed, security guy who gets to wear a uniform and pretend to be a cop what he is doing. He had no answer. He was required to look at the bill and punch it. I asked him if it is to deter shop lifting. He said maybe. So I asked him how will looking at a bill and punching it deter shop lifting, since you are not comparing my purchase with my bill. He nodded thoughtfully and looked at me sheepishly. I realized that I was questioning his purpose. That was not my intention but he emitted the vibes of an animal who is trapped , scared and ashamed. It changes the frequency of my energy and hits me at the base of my solar. It charges the emotion of guilt. I felt bad. I backed away. Thanked him for taking the time to explain it to me. I felt the vibes change.

I still didn't understand. Perhaps its to keep the guy busy. Give him something to do. To keep him engaged. Like that guy you find in the lift. You don't really need someone in the lift to press the buttons for you but yet, there he is.

Its like in India we create jobs so that people can earn; have a purpose. I am okay with that. Like those shadow people in stores whose only job is to follow you around. I get fazed by them. They make me very nervous.

What's their function?

I don't understand.

Death becomes us

Meat gave up on me.

For a hardcore carnivorous, who believed that to save animals bordering on extinction, we need develop a taste for them, this new development is somewhat weird.

As a misanthrope with a death wish, this is not part of any diet. I have never had a physical done because I am of the old school who believes that what you don't know cannot kill you.

When I look back on that fateful day, I developed a repulsion for all animal based food product , I seem to see a pattern. A coming together of specific events to finally kick me where it made perfect sense.

I was reading K Pax. It's a three part book based on a person in a mental institution who claims to be an alien from the planet K Pax. A movie was made on the first part in which Kevin Spacey played the role of prot , the alien. What struck me about the book was his eating habit. He eats only planet produce. His reasoning is that life should not be sustained by another life but rather from its living energy. I found that fascinating. I have always felt hypocritical about my stand about life , humanity and all such crap while stuffing myself with flesh that came from dead animals. But truth be told, the book did not bring about the change. It was just fodder for my thoughts.

Then one day, someone posted a YouTube video about a cow being taken in for slaughtering. The whole video, which lasted about 4 minutes was this cow standing in a narrow corridor that leads to an entrance that is opened and shut with an automatic gate. The cow cannot see what is happening to the cow which went in before her. But she knows that something is wrong. She moves back. She tries to turn and escape but the corridor is too narrow. I saw the panic. The fear. The desperation to live. The resistance to an impending death.

I think I cried.

And that was the end of meat. Every living creature deserves to live. To feel for the murder of a human child but feel nothing for a fish, seems so fundamentally flawed. It seems like a convenient conscience.

Now my wife is convinced that I am going to set off in search of a boodhi tree.

I doubt it.

There is nothing remotely moral or some higher path shit that I connect to. I am way too much of an asshole for that. My actions are purely selfish and self centered. There is definitely something going on with me, but I attribute that to decades on alcoholism and possible mental damage.

But I do have a possible solution for world hunger and population.

Cannibalism.

Propagate that, get that thought process a little momentum and we will solve two of the biggest problems that seems to plaque humankind.

Two birds with one stone.

The Man From UNCLE

Last week I went to my son's school to witness 200 kids make asses out of themselves in the name of Republic Day Celebration. I have nothing against today’s schools and their evolved form of education but I don’t understand and don’t appreciate being made a part of my children's educational progress or lack of it.

Let us get this straight.

I sell my organs and pay for their education. This means that the school takes the onus for my child's education. Then why the fucks do you need my participation? Do you pay me back?

Here, Mr. Tyson, please find attached in your child's diary a cheque of Rs. 20, 000, in lieu of your part in ensuring that your ward was assisted this year in his science projects, art projects, various other projects that we invented to show you that we are taking your money and making you work for it all over again.

I pay so don't bother me.

I am okay with the whole PTA thing. It’s like those feedbacks thingy. Like a shareholders meeting. You get them to report on your investment.

It should end there.

Anyhow.

While sitting on the steps of the school, far away from those enthusiastic parents who traumatize their children by actually taking part in those ridiculous events the school devise to further humiliate the very people who are working for what they are paying for, it dawned to me that these people are the reflections of me.

I mean, they are probably as old as me. I saw the men with the ear rings, goatees and the constant effort of sucking in a gut that retained its hemisphere even after the lungs was as devoid of air as our neighboring moon and saw in those minds the perpetual stage of youthfulness that never outgrows late twenties until an illness catches us off guard and reminds us of our impending mortality and the lack of time to actually screw every women in the world.

Mid life crisis is so heartbreakingly predictable and uniform.

Personally I could never understand this thing about wanting to hold on to our youth by having young girls are girl friends. You have reached a point in your life where, sex, if at all you are having it, is a weekend thing. Like your laundry day or worse your day of the 2 pegs. Sex is there to remind you that you are not yet dead, and that the thing you are married to is, for all sundry purpose, still a woman. Gone are those days when you could do it 5 times in a night and still have enough battery left in you to have a wet dream. Now if you do it once, you feel as if you ran the London Marathon.

Dating a young girl would be like putting the last bit of your remaining self esteem into a blender and whipping it to smitreens. And worse, they talk. Give me a woman who has a couple of miles under her belt. I prefer a real woman. A complete woman. The one who after sex returns to her side of the bed and goes to sleep. The ones who have seen the world well enough to know that conversations are over rated and that men don't complete them, sleep does.

A middle aged woman is beautiful. They have gone beyond the body obsession that seemed to have plagued them earlier on. Now they have attained enough wisdom to know that the man in their life is no pick of the litter either.

Thing about middle age is that it sneaks up on you.

Recently I was in India and in the Casualty Room of a renowned hospital. It was like Grey's Anatomy in there. All were beautiful. I kid thee not. If it wasn’t for the seriousness of my injury and illness, I would have been tempted to turn on my Tys charm, which involves mumbling when spoken to. It’s the carryover of having studied in an all boy’s boarding school.

The whole allure of beautiful doctors and nurses vanished when they started addressing me as Uncle.

When the fuck did I become Uncle?

Middle age creeps up on you.

Dear Aarya (2)

Dear Aarya,

I know its been a long time. Lots have happened. Most you know but some you dont. I have finally taken that first step.

Leaving is never easy. The first step is the hardest.

What crap! Once my mind was made, leaving Sand City was easy as apple pie. That is if I knew how the hell an apple pie is made.

Make no mistake, I am still an NRI. Which means that once in every six months, I will have to enter the Sand City and make my presence felt so that my Visa will be still valid. It also helped that I was working for the last 13 years in our family business which gave me such flexibility. So like most Indian sons, who has the longest weaning period among any animals, I passed off all my liabilities to my parents and left the country.

There comes a time in every true blooded mallu heart, where , like a salmon, he must seek the source of his birth. I wish I could say the same was true of me.

It wasnt.

I was bored. Unexcited. Mostly drunk and with absolutely no purpose. It didnt help that I am blessed with no ambition. Contentment is complacency in designer clothes. Restlessness was my motivation.

I longed to travel. I longed to get on a bike and ride. I longed to set in motion an idea which I felt had a chance, because it would be done by me. My wife believed in it. Once I made the business plan and showed it to my family, they too accepted that it had some merits, despite it being done by me. A prophet is never recognized in his home. Or like we mallus say, the jasmine on your own porch doesnt smell as good as the one on another mans porch...

India.

Reached the Bangaluru airport early morning one day, with my knapsack stuffed with tents, hiking stick,2 jeans, 2 gaberdine pants, 10 black t shirts, 10 cotton boxers, one pair of trekking shoes, 3 pairs of socks and 1 leather jacket donated graciously to me by my elder brother . My earthly possessions of 13 years in the gulf was packed into 2 airbags ( actually one would have been enough, but the sleeping bags , archery equipments , knives and other dooms day appliances took one entire bag) and had been stowed away in the hold.

Standing at the luggage conveyor belt, after getting one bag, waiting for the second one, I fell into a hypnotic lull, watching a similar looking bag as mine going round the snaking belt , out through a heavy plastic strip curtained opening, only to reenter again through another opening, much like the recycling of our sustainable souls. Woken up from my reverie by a gentle tap on my shoulder, I realized that I was the only one standing there.

The lone bag continued its unclaimed sojourn.

The finger giving me the gentle tap was attached to a tall young man in a uniform , who had a name badge identifying him as Bhoopathi.

It was quickly deduced that someone else had claimed my bag, while his own bag was now doing the circuit like a kid lost in the mall. I couldnt help noticing that though similar looking, his bag looked nothing like mine.

Bhoopathi now jumped into action. Literally. He actually jumped onto the conveyor belt, removed the errant bag , read the luggage tag, spoke into his walkie talkie and then sprinted away.

I felt like being in Bourne Identity.

Airports , like any travel center is a strange place once all the planes had taken off and all the hustle and bustle ceased into a temporary lull. You can all most hear a collective sigh. That customs officer with a handle bar mustache, turns from a ferocious gate keeper to a gentle giant with a penchant for puns.

Being an NRI, gives some an ability to see things from a different perspective. I am never one for a comparison. I believe and love the differences. Iam not one for a uniformed conformity and a global culture. I like the surprises that some may label as imperfections.

As a traveler, it helps to move without expectations. In fact, its almost liberating to just accept without expecting. In that regards, India doesnt disappoint.

After about 1 and a half hours, Bhoopathi, had tracked down the kidnapper of my bags and had him drive back to the airport. After retrieving my bag filled with stuff which has no value to anyone but me, from a man, who was now having his ear filled with words of wisdom from the handle bar mustached customs officer, I left, after shaking Bhoopati's hand, who had unintentionally given me the best welcome to a land I hold dear.

I walked out into the early morning lights of a Banglore dawn. Walked past the unauthorized taxi guys who were half heartedly bidding my attention, into the metered airport taxi.

In the taxi, I asked my driver , Sayeed, whether the unauthorized taxis ever get a ride in the face of the highly efficient and accountable airport taxi services.

We had stopped at a tea stall, where we were served delicious masala tea in still tumblers which was as big as shot glasses. After taking a sip, Sayeed, explained that they actually do.

The airport does not prohibit outside taxis. It is still the travelers choice as to which mode he/she chooses. There are still some who believes that unauthorized taxis are cheaper. This need not necessarily be true. I had traveled in one when I had come for a visit long time ago. It costed me INR 900. The airport taxi , which is metered had come to INR 800. I prefer the metered ones because it gives me a sense of actually believing I have some sort of control.

Then there is the safety aspect to the whole thing. When my wife travels alone, I insist that she takes the airport taxis. The car number along with the travelers names and destination is noted prior to the journey. So there is an amount of accountability which can deter potential hassles. And if that had not deterred the said driver, atleast you will know who you will have to hunt down and hang to dry.

I like accountability. It helps me sleep at night.

Sayeed and I traveled the remaining stretch to my house in silence. I looked out of the window, watching Bangalore walking up to a weekend. Lone joggers, meandering milk men, brown colored stray dogs sniffing around near the cart that was serving breakfast of idli and chutney to a small crowd of workers. A couple of techies, with the prerequisite laptop slung over their shoulders, ate among them. Ladies in nondescript colored saris, swept the streets - moving dirt and debris from one place to another.

Watched with amusement at the billboard advertising a leather sofa with a lady clad in tight leather with both her hands on her lower back , sticking her ample butt out , as if she had just gotten up from the sofa with a bad lower back pain.

The taxi sped on. Towards on coming traffic. Some say that Indian traffic is like organized chaos , that there is some sort of purpose behind all the chaos. I dont think so. I think its just sheer luck. You walk out of the house with the firm belief in an after life.

Its difficult to be an atheist in India. India requires hope. It requires you to have faith in that auto guy ,who is hell bent on killing you, to get you to your destination in one piece. You need to have some sort of a belief structure to ensure that you still believe that all those documents and money and time you had given at the RTO will eventually produce some tangible results. India will make you light those candles or break those coconuts or look up to the sky and murmur inshallah. Indian spirituality is a necessary part of negotiating your way through India.

I reached home. Sayeed helped me take my bags upto my flat. He declined my offer of tea. He had been called for another run.

Hugged my wife. Kissed the kids.

I am home.

I stood at the balcony holding the hot cup of tea which my wife had given to me. I stood among the potted organic farm she had managed to create in that small space. I watched the Bangalore sky line with her.

We stood in silence. It was a comfortable silence, the kind which envelopes you a second before you step into the ring.

I stepped into the ring.

I am home, Aarya. Finally. I feel a calmness.

Heard about your break up. Hold no animosity. Blame games are such emotional drainers. Get up and continue to be open. I am bad with advice and probably lame in my supposed sympathy ( I feel none). You must be laughing.

Love Tys

Dear Aarya ( 3 )

Dear Aarya,

Sorry that I havent been able to write to you sooner. I have no excuses. I was busy just imprinting everything. Seeing.

Indian Roads.


I had forgotten how mad the driving scene is in India. Having been spoiled rotten in the Sand City with its 6 lane roads , one way traffic and those voyeuristic cameras that flashes when you least expect it, I was not prepared for the utter chaos that goes down here as traffic.


I love it.


Last week , I stood by the corner of Madiwala, watching the road, while a bicycle repair guy brought to life my cycle that had been lying neglected in the building parking area. The seat had been stolen, and in the process, the perpetuater, possibly one of the kids in the building, had managed to break the back brake. I figured that I will repair the bike and give it to my son, who was celebrating his 9th birthday.


What can I say? I am a cheap father.


The shack that advertised its service as 'Bycycle Repare and Spair Parts', was a neat , clean, wooden cabin, the size of a porta toilet. Inside it hung various cycle parts like meat in a butchery.In the corner was a neat stack of tyres of various sizes. The mechanic worked outside, with his tools that were kept in an evidently organized mess, within a tin box. His other implements was a large plastic bowl with water in it, to check for punctures and a air filling set up.


I had explained to him , largely in mime, what I wanted done, since my language skills does not exceed beyond Malayalam and English; and that too is claiming too much. Since it doesnt take a high IQ to figure out what was wrong with the bike, the man set to his task with a focused intensity.


So while he worked , I watched the traffic.


India is a celebration of contrasts. It also exhibits a patience and tolerance on the roads that one finds rarely in the Sand City. There was a family of bulls in the intersection where 4 roads meet and is kept in control by a traffic light and a traffic cop, who was now more interested in how my cycle was coming along. Ramiyah, the traffic cop, in his white starched shirt and the customary walkie talkie was busy fining vehicles on a random basis, when he could tear himself away from the gripping scene of my cycle getting a seat.


The bulls lazed in the middle of the intersection, while the vehicles swerved around them to their destinations. There were buses filled with beautiful people, autorikshas carrying people and in some cases , things one normally does not see being carried in an auto. The one I saw had a man with building scaffolding in it. Obviously a painter, with his washed to oblivion shirt which in some past life had a color that was now a greyish shade. He was getting down with the tools of his trade, when the large metal scaffolding hit against a parked scooter , causing it to fall down.


Ramiyah, was not amused. He said something in Kannada, which must have been directed at the painter's eyesight. The scooter owner, who was sitting at another shack,which seemed to be an eating joint, near the Cycle Repair shop, casually got up and righted his scooter with one hand, while holding onto his piece of dosa in the other. He then moved the scooter away from the parked auto so that the painter had enough space to unload. After which he went back to his seat by the shack and resumed his breakfast.


Ramiyah, by now had realized that the battery of his walkie talkie needed to be recharged and handed it to the cycle repair guy, who took it and plugged it into a socket somewhere inside that small cabin.


Horn seems to be the most integral part of a vehicle on the Indian roads. I probably must have heard more horns in the 1.5 hours of drive from the airport to my apartment, than the 15 years I had spend in the Sand City. In India, the vehicles talk.


There seems to be a language of horns here. As I stood there and watched, I realized that it was not just a cacophony of noise, but a pattern of established sounds , much like the singing of the blue whales. They were communicating!


There are the short blasts which stood for , I am here.
There are the long ones, which stood for, I am behind you and I am in a hurry.
There are those medium blasts, which says, what the fuck!
Then there are those, continuous beep beep beep, while the vehicle weaves its way through traffic, much like the 'make way, make way' chants of the Tamil pilgrims to Sabrimala.


To integrate myself back to the Indian scene, I realized that, I needed to relearn the language of the Indian roads. I decided to join a driving school and get myself an Indian licence . Mainly I wanted to get over my fear of the perceived aggression of the Indian roads. This was brought home to me while I walked back to my apartment pushing my repaired cycle. I saw in front of me a gang of children, dressed in red checked shirts and kakhi shorts, with knapsacks on their backs, weaving their way through the onslaught of Indian traffic. They were all around 9 years old. I do not know if the traffic made way for them or they found a way through it. Either way, there is only one way to learn how to swim:


Be ready to get wet.

I will update you how that went. How are you? Enjoy the solitude that has fallen on your lap so unexpectedly. Seperations need not be lonely. You take care.

Love

Tys.

Dear Aarya *

Dear Aarya,

This is going to be a very random letter. It hopes to meander along like the long winding roads I have spend the last few days in. Don't hope to see any points . These are just observations. Mine. Observed within the limited space of my head , processed and filtered by the colors of my past and expressed , with full awareness of the futile attempt, in a language that doesn't speak you.

So, shall we begin?

I was in India last week. I love going there. Its the surrealism of being in the desert one second and then driving through the winding roads of Uttranchal hours later, that gets me. Its like time travel. Two days back , I was freezing my butt out, warming my internals with several shots of tequilla, with the Himalayas laid out in front of me. I am not capable of defining what is sensed. I am okay with that since it seems to limit the sensed into the paradigm of words. Insulting it.

You can watch the Himalayas. You can watch it for hours and the eyes drinks it in, like the dry ground that meets the rain.

The distance that separates me with the land that effects me, probably taints my feeling for it. I heard a man who lives there mention something about 'ghar ki murgi' . I realized I was hungry.

Food.

India is an assault on the senses. After the relative routine filled life in the Sand City, just stepping out into the Indian roadside is akin to exposing all your sense organs to an orgasmic high.

The smell, the colors, the pace, the noise, the silence,the tastes, the people....the people...

The food.

Dhabas.

Eating fried pakodas, steaming rice ladled on with hot lentil, topped off with tea.And that was just breakfast. Far cry from the customary dosas and idlies. Assault but so tasty.

Peeing on the road side, seeing a pile of shit, covered with flies. Watching the flies flicker for a while when the splash from my piss disturbs their delight. So natural. Things are where they are supposed to be.

Industries. Radisson Hotel. Ginger Hotel. Co existing with the two children who , dressed in tattered clothes play with the sand that clothes the earth.

Life goes on. Undefined. Until pointed out.

My land. My people.

I watch TV. Every Indian news channel talking about pornography. Something about ministers watching porn during a parliament session on their mobiles. I see the fuss, the debates, the outcry .

India. Ever questioning. Seeking , yet refusing to see the cause. To see that porn is a creation of our own rules we have established upon ourselves. To hide, to cover, is to make something natural into something stronger. When denied, it becomes desire. Something to covet. Porn gives us the illusion of fucking another without the complications that comes with a relationship.

We are a horny species with self imposed restrictions, creatures led by our libidos, tied to a single partner for the assurance of our continuity. So we find ways. To indulge, yet, conform.To fuck several without moving an inch. Every one is happy. Porn is a necessity. It has to be , otherwise it would not be there.

We care not for the industry that has arisen due to this want. The innocents that parade before us for a fleeting wank.

India is sex. It is sensual. It flaunts itself in every nook and cranny. It is beautiful but not respected. We unload ourselves , then hide behind our morals and the convinient culture, pointing our fingers which was holding something else a second ago.

I guess that's how it goes.

Painting something black to make ourselves look fairer. Or the other way around.

We are all guilty of it, so I guess that makes it okay. Guilt is easier when it is shared by everyone. Theres comfort in the falsehood of righteousness.

I trekked a lot. Walked up through the forest of deodar trees to stand in front of an ancient Shiva temple. Next to it stood a structure made of stone which was the rest place for the priests or worshippers who had to spend a night there.

Have I told you, Arya, how one day I lost the ability to pray? I do not know when it happened but it did. I could no longer seek for anything outside myself. My wife worried about the days I spend in the mire of hopelessness , like a child who had lost both his parents. I felt alone. Then one day , I learned to walk alone. No. Not learned. I think I started walking only from that day.

I sat outside the temple for a while and then I walked back down to the house where my lunch was being prepared. I smoked the marijuana that seem to grow here like the weed it is. I ate freshly plucked oranges , sliced and sprinkled with rock salt. I shared one with the 2 children, who watched me from afar, with no trace of emotions. I was thankful when they accepted and silently ate the same.

I took pictures. Soon got bored of it and stopped.

I stuck to looking.

Back at the Delhi airport, the gigantic hands in mudras that served as the interior decoration betrayed the generic similarness of all international airports world wide and proclaimed 'This is India'.

I walked upto the immigration desk to face a man with a poker face. He looked at my passport. Scrutunized it. 'From Kerala?' he asked. I nodded.

' Ninte perentha?' he asked , with an accent that clearly stated his northern roots. I gave him my name and said I am impressed. He said he has a lot of mallu friends. Don't they all? I replied. He smiled.

I like India. Its my kind of place. Its not everyday we get to visit and select the place we hope to die in one day.

So how you been, my friend? I am dying to know.

Love Tys



* This was written long ago after my last visit to Uttranchal. I wanted to do a travelogue written like series of letters. This was the first attempt. Then, I guess, I lost interest.But upon seeing this in my draft, I thought I will share it.

Once were warriors

I have no idea why everyone I know thinks that I am going through a midlife crisis.

Getting a full back tattoo, buying a Royal Enfield bike and taking up archery does not amount to a crisis, it is what I would call, finally getting to do what I want.

Let me tell you about getting a tattoo. I insist.

I always wanted to get a tattoo. It was one of those things. For a guy who had a penchant for dressing goth during teenage with sharpened canines, getting a tattoo seemed, well, like a natural progression.

I can hear my wife saying that one should investigate into your would be spouse's back ground before tying the knot. I digress.

Why back?

Its actually quite simple. Back is one part of your body that does not alter that much as you age. A wolf on your belly will end up looking like Garfield after sometime. That is one reason. Second is that I get bored easily. Its something to do with people like me. We need constant stimulation and excitement. Routines, comfort zones etc are all great for a respite but beyond a certain period it becomes like a death sentence. This phase can be recognized by suicide attempts,reckless behavior, affairs, getting in touch with your ex ( that comes under reckless behavior) or in my case , getting a tattoo. Good thing about having the damn thing on your back means that you dont get to see it unless you do that exorcist thingy of turning your head all the way around or having someone take a picture of it or standing in that dressing room with mirrors all around which reflects you to infinity. This means that you will never be bored of it. Its becomes like the Gulf Malayalee Marriages. Where the love and anticipation is kept alive by the distance of 3000 kms between the spouses.

There is the added attraction that unlike some long distance relationships, the tattoo will still be there when you want to see it.

The tattoo.

I had selected this Maori tribal design for the upper back. Why tribal? Well, I will let you in on a secret. I know its kinda silly and all but I sometimes feel as if I am born in the wrong era. By my caste, I am born a warrior. I know it means nothing now but I used to day dream about sword fights and full contact combat. As a child, I was running around in the woods near my house with a bow and arrow, shooting at banana plants. Maoris also were once warriors. So a tribal tattoo appealed to me.

I carried that design around with me for close to three years , before finding someone to do it here in Dubai. Tattooing is banned here. So there's this underground tattoo artists who operate out of their houses. Being underground, they use the best of equipment and are fanatical about hygiene, since one incident can land the whole bunch into a lot of trouble. I approached them through a series of unconnected contacts. The cost was reasonable and it took 4 hours to complete it.

The end result was , if I may say so, pretty darn fantastic.

Now I had the whole lower back to cover. I had my eye on this tribal design of a wolf . I like wolf. As a familiar , I have always identified with a wolf as my wife would confirm. This obsession was not recent. It is a more than 12 years madness.

Back tattooing is painful. Trust me. I have a pretty decent pain threshold. I did not want to break the session into two, so had decided to do the full hog at one shot. The artist estimated 8 hours of work. Somewhere in the middle I was mentally kicking myself for thinking I could sit through the torture. But sit through I did. Not much of choice, once started it had to finish. The tattoo guy took 6 hours to finish it. He wants to come back for touch up.

Now the question which all of us are asked; Why?

I have no idea.

The most nearest to honest answer I can give is, because I can.

For me , my tattoos are personal. Its not even visible unless I go swimming. There is definitely an element of vanity , knowing that my body has become a little bit more interesting to the viewer. But truth be told, I am pretty oblivious to that. I just like that I have my wolf on my back.

Wolf in Maori stands for Family, Loyalty and Courage.

To me that is worth being written in blood.

The glory of me.

I don't like changes.

You move my cheese and you will have a rabid , balding, 5 foot 5 inches of pure fury coming at you with a bat. Its not a pretty sight.

There are those wise among you who will give me the spiel about the only constant thing in the world is change. It may be true. But that doesn't mean I will have to like it.

I don't like changes.

But it happens all around me nevertheless and I am forced to deal with it. It sucks.

Take for example this new format the blogger. com has bestowed upon me. I hate it. I might get used to it like a bad marriage and that will take effort.

I don't like to make effort.

I come from the school of thought that believes that the world owes me. For existing.

Go on. Call me megalomaniac. I don't care. I have been called worse.

I believe that things should happen to me without any effort from my side. This includes friendship, love, foreplay. Not necessarily in that order. I am not fussy. But given a choice, I would prefer foreplay first.

Wife says I am not romantic. I am not. I think romance is for fools. I would kill for her and if situation arises might even die for her ( since I don't do rhetoric, I cannot vouch for this) but I don't do romance. The maximum she can expect is an embarrassed apologetic mumbling of the words I love you, when I feel she could leave me.

Make no mistake. Love is a selfish, self centered emotion that serves mostly you. And that's the beauty of it. I don't know why people find it difficult to admit that they are selfish. In my 42 years of existence, I haven't seen a single act that didn't reek of selfishness. Nothing.

I am not a cynic. I don't live in a self exiled bubble of a world of bitterness and expectations. In fact I think I am a pretty content , happy guy. I look at myself in the mirror and see the insignificant magnificence of me and I am truly glad to be alive.

Its good to be me.

Wouldn't have it any other way.

In these last few months, I have one too many deaths.

Though not directly affected, its painful to see parents mourning their child's death. It makes you question everything. I have sat and watched ,bravely , a wake that was held for a young man who has done more in his short life than most have done by living a life to a ripe old age. The beauty of it was the number of friends he had.

So many friends. Youngsters. Lots of them. They spoke of him, showed pictures of him, showed clips of him. Shared him. With us. The mute spectators of a tragedy that has been happening since life began.

A wise young boy , who took off in pursuit of happiness and died alone in the Alaskan wilderness had stated that happiness needs to be shared. I loved that boy. I wish I could have held him and make him see himself in me. I wish I could have told him he did share it.

Later on I went to pay my condolence to his parents. His mother had taken tuition for me when I was in school. Her eldest son was a toddler then. She used to give me tests which I completed. She knew I had no need for the tuition and that the whole charade was for the benefit of my mother who felt that she needed to see me make an effort of studying. After the test, we used to spend the reminder of the time in the park with her child. I think I might have had a crush on her.

I fall in love all the time.

I went up to his father and hugged him. He looked at me stricken, uncomprehending. He turned his attention to the screen which was showing his son singing a song, rather badly on web cam which would have been funny in another life.

I don't do grief. I cant. I can cry in movies but I cant do grief in real life.

I went to his mother. She sat on the front row of the audience, watching her son , by now belting out and totally torturing the song with no self consciousness. I went up behind her and patted her shoulder. She looked up at me. I asked her, rather stupidly, how she was doing. She smiled , her eyes welled up, shrugged her shoulder and pointed at the screen.

I hugged her.

That could be my mother. That could be any mother.

Later that month another son died.A family friend. Killed in forest by a leopard. Only in India. His life too was celebrated on the youtube and facebook.

Then another. A cousin. Went to sleep and never woke up.

But I don't do grief. I cant. Cant pretend to feel something that is not in the realm of my experience. What I did feel was fear. For my children. I wanted to hold them a little longer.

Told you. All acts and thoughts are selfish.

I don't like changes.

5 feet 5 Inches of Pure Perfection

Its been a month and I come back to see that blogspot has moved my cheese , by changing the whole look.

Dont you just hate changes?

Why do we seek to improve on things that needs no improvement. We invented it for godsake and since we did, i think , we can at any point of time, lay it on the table , look at it and then say with a deep exhalation of breath:

There. Perfect. Its finished.

But nooo. Continous improvement. Seeking prefection. Its a never ending moving of cheese for people like me who likes to stand still and wait for the inevitable ceasing to be. Its annoying. Just when you start to get the hang of it, I bet they will change it again.

Isnt it strange that when we seek perfection, we are rather admiting that there is no perfect things that does not require further perfecting?

Like the perfect man.

Now. I consider myself a perfect man.

Really.

My wife begs to differ.

But there are other women, who are not married to me, who thinks that I am the perfect husband, mothers who have not borne me, declare what a perfect son I would make, girl friends who have not fucked me, saying that I would be the perfect boyfriend.

Conclusion?

Iam perfect. By default.

My wife seems to be oblivious to being in close proximity to such perfection.

One of my friends send me this joke :

FIVE RULES FOR WOMEN TO FOLLOW TO A HAPPY LIFE:

1.. It's important to have a man who helps at home, cooks from time to time, cleans up, and has a job.

2. It's important to have a man who can make you laugh.

3. It's important to have a man who you can trust, and doesn't lie to you.

4. It's important to have a man who is good in bed, and likes to be with you.

5. It's very, very important that these four men do not know each other.


There you go.

Women.

For men this is a no brainer. We just want to sleep with five women if we had the opportunity and pray that they never meet each other. For all the rest of that stuff, we prefer one woman.Seriously.Name me one man who says that we needs 4 women to fulfill his emotional needs, and I will show you a predator. He's hunting.He baiting. Hes preying on the fact that most woman will not find complete fulfillment in one man, especially after marrying one.

I dont get women.

You can get a clue to their genetical makeup by observing the fact they need more than 5 pairs of shoes and a handbag for each day of the week.

And they say we need variety.

Draupadi must be the ideal marraige for a woman. Five men to fawn over her and shes pining for someone else.

Women.

Truth be told, I dont make any attempt in understanding them as women. I see them as persons. With boobs.

Remove all the garb that has been piled upon our species in the name of society, cultual, moral what nots, and you will find underneath all that self proclaimed garbage an animal who is pretty much doing what they have been doing for the last 10,000 years.

Iam personally suspicious of this propoganda by the women in the name of equality, trying to make men into women.

What the fuck is a metrosexual male?

Do women actually like men with hairless chest? Or do they stand together in the bathroom and snigger at the poor bloke who in his insecure , delusional , vulnerable phase has been convinced that sporting a hairless torso is the latest way to get into a woman's pants?

We all know that we will do anything for love but we wont do that. Now they got us doing just that.

Men dont have emotional IQ. They dont need it.In the larger scheme of things, its an unnecessity. The only good it seems to do is to enable us to try make some sense of a gender that does not want to make sense.

Try making sense of that.

They call it being mysterious. I call it fucking irritating.

Iam a man.

How we guage our need for a woman is by asking ourselves if we have to take a long trip,a really long trip into an unknown part of the world alone, who would we have by our side?

It would probably be someone who will help us with the cooking,clean up etc, someone whose company we enjoy,someone whom we can trust , who will not betray or hurt us , someone who finds us the sexiest man alive and for whom we mean the world.

It will be just one woman.

It will always be just one woman.

It just isnt practical to go on a road trip with more than one. The conversation alone will kill you.

Fazed Book

I should write a book on how to lose and repel people.

Just write about sex, masturbation and insanity.

I can almost see the tumble weed rolling across the ghost town this place has become.

You are so fortunate that I do this for the sake of it; otherwise I would have felt ignored and hurt. Imagine that!

I have been doing Facebook.

It’s a strange place.

People say the weirdest things.

They call it status update.

How many statuses does a person have?

Apparently a lot.

It’s like that river and you never step into it twice kinda thingy. Our status is constantly changing and the world now gets to hear of it.

Yippee.

I didn’t realize that status in Facebook means the state of your mind at any particular time. So in the beginning, I kept writing things like:

Married.
Not sure if I am still married.
Definitely married. I think
Not sure.
Yep. It’s confirmed. Married.
No longer.
Make up your mind woman!!!

Then I was told very gently that this is not what that space is meant for.

These things are difficult for me.

I look at it and I wonder, what do I say?

State of my mind?

I leave that blank.

Question.

When someone posts something about a child that is hooked up into various tubes? Isn’t pressing Like a little distasteful?

Yesterday, I saw this link someone had send about the funeral of that Tibetan kid who burned himself to death for his countries freedom. It had 39 likes!

These are nice people. Really. I checked. They care. Then what is that they liked about something as morbid as that? It’s a bit confusing.

Commenting.

My wife is worried about me ever since I signed up for this. There are these key words, if I see, that tends to make me go into frenzy. It’s like waving a bed sheet at a bull.

God, religion, soul.

I dont know why but I am then compelled to put in my 2 bit. And that will be the end of a beautiful friendship that has lasted more than two decades.

That’s the thing about Facebook.

These are people you know or who knows you or who know someone who knows you. These are the walking proof of the six degree of separation. These guys know you, they know where you live, and they know your wife, your kids.

It’s probably best you deal with them nicely.

But commonsense has never been one of my stronger suits.

Face book scares me.

But there is comfort in knowing the even the most stupid thought in your head, if put into words, in that little cyber space, will have at least one like.

There’s always someone who agrees with you in Facebook.

It’s a beautiful, polite, considerate world.

People are so politically correct there. I guess you will think twice before saying: Fuck you niggers!!! , when with a click of a button, someone can find out where you live.

It’s wiser to be nice and neutral.

Me? I can’t resist.

I find it hard to control myself, when that 43 year old cousin of mine repeatedly posts pictures of her posing like an 18 year old. I mean it’s her life but doesn’t it require an honest opinion? I mean isn’t it why she is putting it out there?

So who gets to say the emperor is naked?

That’s where I come in.

Oh, my cousin has officially unfriended me.

Fuck. That’s not even a word.