Laptop Buddha

The day was hard. Hardly enough time to breathe. Files piling up on the desk. For the first time in my life, I accepted coffee at my desk, instead of performing the usual routine of brewing it myself. Deadlines. People were like wolves, attacking me from all around, biting at whatever they got. They were hungry. For answers, for results.

A few men wilted. They went outside to catch the Delhi's wintry breeze, some men with Marlboro packets in their hands even before they left the building. Even the coffee machine seemed to be running out of energy. People were pacing, trudging, jogging... Beads of sweat on a cold winter day. The pressure was on.

I looked at the files and folders on my desktop, each was a solution. Each was an opportunity. Where would I be without all this data! Where would we be without all its computational power!

The more you give, the more they ask. The job is demanding, and fulfilling. There is happiness in the knowledge that you're an integral part of a system, which together realizes such powerful change. People press you for results; you push others. The computers are running wildly, pulling out figures and simulations. It's magical and devastatingly ugly.

Everything in its place, people dovetailing each other... Cogs. Clocks. Structures and targets. Everyone driving to a common goal at a relentless pace.

That was when my laptop fell down. It fell with a thud, halfway through a simulation, with twenty tabs open on my Chrome browser and half a dozen mail items open. I picked it up in a hurry, hoping not to waste time. Strangely, I wasn't greeted by the cluttered desktop. As I picked up the fallen computer, there was nothing there. Black screen.

Reboot.

Windows never turned on. "Your hard-disk has not been detected". Hyperventilation. More coffee. Sweat. People surrounded me. "IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT?" It will be, I assured them. Work must not stop.

But what of all the data? How could all this continue if the chain broke down in the middle? People continued asking me questions, but suddenly there were no more answers. I thought the world would implode.

Strangely however, the questions stopped. All of a sudden, what I was doing wasn't important any more. The cogs went on, the clock ticked, the machine ran smoothly. And I continued trying to reboot the stubborn machine. Nothing. I called the IT Help Desk. They couldn't help immediately either.

I apologized to people, afraid I was letting them down. "It's okay," they said happily. "It happens to everyone." And work continued uninterrupted.

The irrelevance of the individual is deeply disturbing. Nothing you do really matters. Nothing in the world matters at all. In the morning, I was worried about all the files, emails, photographs and manuals which I would lose if my hard-disk wasn't revived. Even those things don't matter.

Nothing really does.

Why Entrepreneurs are better than Everybody Else. Not.

"You need to endure, take risks, give up something to attain the vast glories of this world which are yet hidden to you," a friend told me. "What is life without hardwork, courage and risk?" an huge roadside hoarding asked me a few hours later. And in the evening, just before I fell asleep, I read a much hyped article -"If you don't build your dream, someone will hire you to build theirs."

Yes, dreams are important. There's no denying it. And noble, world-changing dreams are even better. There are so many problems seemingly impossible to solve, so many nearly impassable hurdles, and so many unfathomable heights waiting to be conquered. People are often defined by their dreams. Chasing them is a noble pursuit; conquering them is an almighty high.

Sadly though, most people seem to be defining dreams very differently. From what I understand from so many folks I talk to, a man who is a dreamer needs to be an entrepreneur. "What's the point of having dreams if you don't realize them?" I'm asked. Valid question, no? "If you believe in something strongly enough, you won't think twice about quitting your job. Entrepreneurs know sacrifice and they know hard-work. Do you?" Good punchline and another valid question. Through this post, I hope to compensate for all those tongue-tied moments.

Let's start with the definition of dreams: 'dreams' in this context usually identify a void and visualize a world in which such a void is filled. An entrepreneur might see this as a business opportunity, an artist might see it as an existential dilemma and an scientist, simply as an intellectual pursuit. In all these cases, these 'dreams' can be realized, but in very different ways. But self-help books and supposedly inspirational posts usually use a very narrow dream-achievement definition, declaring by fiat that one of these pursuits is nobler. No, realizing a dream needn't mean monetising it.

Let's now move on to the second favourite bastion of our inspirational entrepreneurs: the strength of belief. Frankly, I cannot imagine anyone can strongly believe in setting up retail stores or restaurants. In the good old days, they used to say, "Unkalji has his own business." I don't think unkalji believed too much in his saree shop. In the same way, I don't believe that everyone who proudly boasts his self-employment is a visionary. (But unkaljiis very rich.)

But let us, for a moment, suppose that they are visionaries, who believe strongly in the power of their dreams. If that is too hard, let us consider a subset of these people who pen these inspirational articles. (Surely, they believe in what they're saying? - Or they'd hardly be able to say it this well.)

And now, I'd like to ask them, "What makes you think you are alone in this?" Are the billions of employees around the world people without dreams or people who are unwilling to act upon them? Is there not a possibility that their jobs (oh, such a derogatory word nowadays) allow them to do precisely that? Commonality of dreams and interests - isn't this what all our great organizations (including yours, dear inspirational entrepreneur) thrive upon?

As for the issue of sacrifice, I think it is a deeply human quality, not reserved for a select few. People sacrifice different things: some sacrifice their careers for their family and others, vice-versa. Which sacrifice is greater; which is nobler? Are we even in a position to make this judgement?

Lastly, I'd like to refute two common notions which are making rounds on the internet: (1) entrepreneurs are the sole authorities on creativity, and (2) risk is a measure of how 'big' you have lived. Human beings value creativity greatly and yearn to express themselves through whichever opportunities are available to them. Yes, even those people doing boring, structured day-jobs. It certainly seems more challenging to walk an untrodden path, but creativity is really a choice. You choose how creative you want to be.

As for risk, it's hard to think of reasons that make safety a shameful thing. It is not a potent drug like risk is, but each man chooses his own poison. There are certainly other drugs out there. If risk is the reason someone chooses to start-up an enterprise, he is not too different from a gambler in a casino. There are many reasons to start-up a company; this, sadly, isn't the soundest one.

To conclude, I'd like people to reconsider their "if you don't build your dream, someone will hire you to build theirs" statements, because frankly, it's a nonsensical argument. We are all here to build dreams. That's the purpose of life.

Flashing Lights and Ladies - The Story of Vegas

It isn't every day that you get to live in a pyramid. And not all pyramids fire photon canons into the black sky. A month ago, I stayed on the twenty-seventh floor of the Luxor - with a view of both the magnificent phenomenon that is Vegas and the serene Nevada mountains in the distance, which seemed to be embroiled in a "I'm greater than you" debate with one another.

The World's Best
Everything in Las Vegas is the world's best - the cigars, the women, the music, the spirits, the shameless neon brilliance, the towering replicas of everything Americans consider grand. In fact, in Las Vegas, they will make you believe that their New York is better than the one on the East Coast, and that there is more love in 'Paris' than in the French capital. There is Venice and Rome and Burma and China... Everything is the World's best. The world's best music shows, the world's best strip clubs, the world's best limos - God knows what else.

Vegas is bright
In the night, planes get confused. As soon as they cross the dull Rockies and the canyons nearby, they are mesmerized by a city that dances in front of their eyes, in colours and in song. And to make matters worse, there is a hotel (my own) smashing light into the sky.

During the first night, our wanderings took us to the end of the strip, and therefore we were subjected to the immense Fremont Street Experience. The sky isn't real any more. It is fabricated by men, and it does what it is commanded to do. It can burst into flames and calm into the gentlest piano music at the clap of a hand. And all around us, women and alcohol and casinos and movie-star lookalikes.

Our fine Chevy looked hopelessly out of place in a city where people firmly believe that 'bigger is better'. Newer is also better, except when it comes to casinos: because there's not much that can compare with the Caesar's Palace (where a friend lost $300 in half an hour), the Bellagio or the MGM Grand.

The most unchanging city in the world
Vegas is a religion and it is a God. There are conjurers here, unlike anything history has ever produced. I still wonder about certain things I saw during my 'Cirque du Soleil' experience. They cannot be explained except by magic. But I won't question them, because such things happen in Vegas.

There are limousines longer than roads in this city, and planes which fly in at 8pm and out at 4am to entertain their masters. Vegas, which can easily be considered the work of the devil, leaving Dubai far behind, stands unashamed in all its glory as the world looks on. So often, in its dazzling brilliance, it shows the world its shame and asks people to embrace it. Las Vegas might be the future.

In Vegas, they will sink ships, recreate Hawaii, build Rome and make water sing just to entertain you. It's a magical place, soulless as it is. It is full of emptiness, and it proudly stands as a symbol of what might come.

Vegas is so far ahead of everything else that it doesn't change.

Meaning

She glided down the steps which had been cut into the face of the teal mountain, dancing in and out of the mist rhythmically. On her shapely hips, she carried a basket made of the finest cane money could buy. The delicate sound of thunder rung through the clouds, as globulets of rain did form. But they did not fall. They were held in the sky, magically suspended, refracting the beams of light until they formed colours humans could no longer decipher. A melancholy song pervaded the bloody sky, giving meaning to the mountains - speaking of their forgotten past. Boisterous children seemed to be running down the hill, but they were frozen - like a still picture captured from a motion film. And in the distance, a poet cried.

You don't need to understand the paragraph in its entirety to experience the story which is being told to you. In fact, the moment you start asking for explanation, you dilute the overall effect - you trivialize several immortal moments by bringing it down to your level of understanding. You cannot accept the fact that rain can be held in the air, or that children can run and laugh while still stationary. You want everything to conform to rules, and that is the problem. Everything cannot be explained. Well, perhaps it can be, but it's better that it isn't.

Art in its purest form is completely indistinguishable from music. Music in its purest form needs no lyrics. Meaning is something we create to explain experiences. Sometimes, there are just experiences, and no meaning.

Freedom of Drowning

The Skiatook Lake is a short drive away from where I stay, and it was upon a friend's advice that we rented a car and headed over for what promised to be an adrenaline-filled afternoon. Soon, keeping with the American themes of total freedom and "only you are responsible for yourself", four novices were in possession of a powerboat, fully fueled and ready-to-go.

"How does it work?" I asked the sleepy looking moustached man.

He promptly showed me the controls - forward, neutral, reverse and steering. There was an array of other buttons which he didn't care to talk about.

"What about life-jackets?" I queried.

"Ya want 'em, eh?" he asked nonchalantly.

I nodded vigorously. I'm not proud of my swimming prowess, and I certainly didn't want to test them in the unfathomable depths of America's deep blue lakes.

"Alright," he said, checking a box on a sheet he held in his hand. "They're under tha seat rai' here. Please sign this paper sir."

And then he read out an entire list of instructions at breakneck pace. There was something about getting into the water, something about wakes, smoking on the boat, drinking while driving, so on and so forth. These were all instructions, probably critical, which people routinely overlooked.

Fast forward half an hour: one of my friends was in the water. He certainly didn't know how to swim. Another fellow jumped in. This guy was a better swimmer, but clearly pulling someone out of the water was beyond him. We threw ropes into the water, and inflated rubbers, tubes and anything else we could find that floats. There was much splashing and shouting. In the distance, motorboats cut through the water with fluid ease. No one knew or cared about what was happening with us.

We turned the boat around. Herculean efforts and more hyperventilation: finally they were back on board. As they coughed-up all the water they had swallowed, there were only two things on my mind: how deep the lake was, and how stupid the laws were.

I understand the importance of freedom, and the fact that people must be allowed to do what they want to as long as they don't infringe upon the rights of others. But we must remember that such absolute freedom can be realized successfully only in an ideal society where everyone is fully aware of their abilities, strengths and limitations; where they are fully aware of the worst consequences their action or inaction might elicit. Not to have boards warning you about how deep the water is, not to have a coastguard in sight, and handing out speedboats without proper instructions is hardly a very smart thing to do.

All this only brings me to a much bigger debate - one which I'm currently not fully equipped to debate: To what extent, if at all, is the State responsible for its citizens' safety? Should people be allowed to do dangerous, and often stupid, things just because they signed a piece of paper, which exonerates one particular party from all blame?

I think not. People can be allowed to have fun. But sometimes, they die.

New York City

It's late in the night and I'm walking down 6th Avenue towards the Empire State Building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tricolour lighting up the top of one of America's most recognizable monuments. I'm walking through the chilly air that seems to hang at every turning. A pretty woman, smoking a cigarette, sporting a Gucci bag and wearing a figure-kissing dress walks briskly across the road; the road is a still picture as she walks. Her skirt, split down the side, catches the breeze. These things don't bother New Yorkers. I turn into a Starbucks, as she walks away. "That's three dollars and seventy-five."

Macy's is closed now. That doesn't stop the bustle at its door. Some distance away, an old homeless man sleeps. People walk past him, laughing, singing, and sometimes on the phone. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, he sleeps comfortably on a wooden stool. Mornings are chilly in New York. That's why people wear suits.

I decide to return home after being trapped in Times Square like a deer in headlights. I'm spinning, turning, seeing so many things. Finally I'm asleep.

The next day begins on the same note. Everyday here begins on the same note. I take the tube from Grand Central Station. I'm going to Brooklyn. I want to see what the buzz about the bridge is all about. There's a buzz about everything here. I make a fool of myself trying to buy tickets. How am I to know the machine is smart enough to return change? I'm trying to fish for the exact coins and notes, looking at George Washington's picture, when a beefy guy pushes me out of his way impatiently. Things are fast here, faster perhaps than in Bombay. But everything is structured. There's no uncertainty about anything.

I reach Brooklyn and naturally, I'm engrossed in the Manhattan skyline. I miss out on what is happening directly in front of me. A newly married couple heads for the Pier straight from the church. They're surrounded by bridesmaids, best-men - the whole entourage. They kiss for a long time. Camera-shutters sound. It doesn't matter. Smart-ass Mexican guy standing next to me shouts, "Game over, man!", which the groom smilingly acknowledges. "Keep the bridesmaids too," yells another voice.

Before heading back to 42nd Street, I stop at Wall Street. All the big banks are here, and all the fancy TV channels which tell you 'Mutual Funds are subject to market risks'. I see a man outside The Trump Building, dressed impeccably in a costly suit. But he's sitting on the sidewalk and smoking a cigarette. Not exactly what you'd expect. Then again, people here hardly do things which are commonly expected.

Midtown again. There are photographers everywhere. It's pretty mad. On top of towers and in the subway. I'm one of them. I don't think people in New York City go to work without their fancy cameras. I need coffee again. Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

As I exit the shop, the same things greet me. Everything greets me. In fact, in all its overbearing diversity, New York looks mundane. The whole world is here, dressed in suits, vests, baggy caps and panama hats, shorts with ties, shirtless with trousers on, dresses that end over the navel, dresses that start over the neckline... Everything.

And then, I see a woman - Caucasian, fairly large-boned, and completely naked. She's standing in the middle of Times Square, outside a Broadway Theatre. She's campaigning for something, covered only in paint. And nothing else. She doesn't seem to mind, but no one else does either. People are walking past her casually. People don't have the time for naked women on Times Square.

I take another picture of Adriana Lima, who is smiling from a huge billboard far above our heads. She's looking rather stunning in her single piece swimsuit, but then there are women prettier than her on the NYC roads perhaps. They all mostly end up heading into one of those stores with large hoardings on top of them.

I think I need coffee. The usual: $3.75.

I walk out and sit down on a park-bench, to drink my coffee and read 'Kafka on the Shore'. I turning to page two-hundred-and-forty when I realize I'm sitting next to a couple who are visiting New York just like me. But they're smiling, talking and laughing. Their faces are very close, like in the moments just before you kiss someone. But they don't. I get up and walk.

I have not even finished the coffee yet when the antithesis of romance sets itself upon me. "Throw the ring away, Jane, and walk out of the house!" yells a man on top of his voice. "I don't care." I throw my coffee cup away and watch the man disappear around the bend. According to the movies, he ought to be heading to a Gentlemen's Club now, no? Anyway, I'm at Madisson Square Garden. I take out my camera.

I try to enter a busy souvenir shop. It's run by a large African-American lady. She treats me like some autistic child who is incapable of normal understanding. I feel a little discriminated against. I look up at the board which says 'NY Penn Station' and smile at America's history. Oh, the irony of it all!

I think I've had enough for the day. I've seen more, heard more, felt more and eaten more than I ought to have. I feel like the New York Times already, with omniscient eyes and all. The NY Times covers theatre just the way they cover the world, they claim. I have to see that for myself. I'll go watch  'Phantom of the Opera' tomorrow, I think.

But now, I need some coffee.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (2)

Part 2 of 4: The boy still endures. After Part 1, that is. Read on, folks. And do share if you like what you read. Hope you enjoy the beginning of "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", which will be out in the online market soon. Cheers!

A summer coming to an end leaves you with a lot of unpleasant feelings, even if it will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. That inevitable dread and those all-but-continuous Monday-morning blues… But however boring the holidays may have been, the new term is always unwelcome; this time all the more so. Albeit the recent happenings (or must I say mis-happenings) would suggest the contrary, let me assure you that the new term was as unwelcome as ever. A broken right forearm, for a right-hander, is quite unasked for and I definitely didn't summon the chickenpox home; but when both arrive with such unsolicited punctuality just a week after your 10^th standard boards, it’s definitely not your day! A dangerous beginning? – Wait till you hear the rest.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience most of the maladies known to mankind at present, as well as a couple the docs are not yet familiar with. Malaria, dengue, jaundice, flu, measles… the list goes on. I will not burden you here by completing the list as that will take a few pages at least – which the publisher is unwilling to give me. But the point remains that – even though I’m a veteran, an old war-horse when it comes to facing these minor setbacks to the immune system, this was definitely something else. A potent combo.

With one arm jabbed with a Butterfly needle and the other still suffering the after-effects of a previous jab (I had, by now, named them ‘Batterfly needles’), all I could do is pray and hope that things get better… and soon. You see needles and nurses have a way. Your vein is apparently good for only that much time and then it begins to swell up and do funny things of that sort. It no longer takes in the IV fluid and you are in great trouble. That’s when the nurse apparates to the spot looking like one of those creatures with a halo on their heads… It’s definitely not that they look terrific; just that their white overalls and your dreary state combine to make you think along such lines – such is the phantasmagoria. Definitely, they don’t look great. I might have enjoyed my time in the hospital a lot more had they made nurses the way they appear in movies. So these people appear and then begins the story of ‘Clamp down his hand and search for the vein’ – the more attempts, the more your agony. Such things happen when you are at the docs’.

Ten days into my misery, the docs relieved me and I was free to go home. Too bad mom didn't as she grounded me for another fortnight; ergo I lay there in my bedroom, staring at the bare ceiling, studying the various patterns in the new cracks that were developing in the plaster. This went on day after day (or was that a month) occasionally with friends coming over trying to look as sympathetic as they could, and those ‘not-so-good-pals’ not trying too hard to suppress their glee. Why they went through all the trouble to visit someone they didn't want to see, I will probably never understand but they all did come. And they all looked smug. A few, I must mention however, did look pretty sad – but this was because they thought I was recovering too fast. But all this didn't really hurt. It was those questions which inflicted the greatest pain…

Monday, 15^th May – 1500 hrs: Ramesh entered the scene. Attached to his behind was this gargantuan creature, reminding me very much of the Cyclops of the Hellenic Republic, much less due to his size than his stupid looks. In fact, had someone stuck a club into one of his hands, I’d have believed that the one-eyed monster was right there! I’ll just refer to him here as the unknown stupid looking guy (USLG); I know I mustn't be prejudiced, but if that protruding lower lip and dazed smile weren't enough, with the ‘My name is… du..uh…,’ he was taking the meaning of the word ‘stupid’ to a whole new dimension.

I continued to study the strange species in my bedroom and it was Ramesh who broke the silence; “So dude, how are you? It has been over two weeks now… And by the way, this – my cuz,” he pointed. I assumed ‘cuz’ stood for ‘cousin.’

So that’s what it is!

“So you broke your hand…” the USLG observed. He seemed compelled to make a statement – that statement – at that point.

No I just fancy having my hand in a cast and getting people to sign it.

“Yeah! How did you know about that?” I asked, not really trying to hide the sarcasm.

“I noticed your hand, you know… And the cast told me everything,” he said looking smug. Elementary, my dear Watson.

“Oh, I never really thought it would be so obvious!”

Ramesh cut in, perhaps sensing that his cousin’s deducing capabilities didn’t really appeal to me. “So how did that happen?” he asked pointing at the bandaged forearm.

“Oh you don’t know!” Now came the hard part – the well thought up lie.

“It was in that football match we played in the beach,” I said, “It ended in a two each impasse. And we had the penalty shootout. I, as usual, was their shot-stopper…” I gloated.

I had a gulp of the tender-coconut water kept beside me. The mouth always goes dry when I try to pass off lies, making me the most unconvincing liar in the history of the art.

“That first shot curling into the top right… I didn't let it past… though I did land on my hand a bit later. And the rest is history.”

“Just as I thought it would be: Football. You know Arvind,” said Ramesh, turning to face the thing which now had a name. “He’s the school’s goalkeeper… And a bloody good one too!”

I smiled back sheepishly. Normally, it would have been a well accepted complement but not when I was trying to conceal the truth. Who would believe that I would slip over a stationary football and end up like this?! Stumble over an innocuous football and fracture an arm! I’d be the laughing stock of the society. “Our regular goalkeeper, Ashwin Ramachandran, succumbs to the stationary football” – Never.

The story of the chickenpox was a more interesting one.

Two days into my gloom, Anuj, a close bud, came home to pay homage to the felled veteran. The conversation went on for an hour, give or take a half, with me doing most of the talking (as I realized that bed-ridden people are more the ‘talkers’ than the ‘talkees’). It ended pretty abruptly when Anuj, with whom my conversations usually never cease, said that he felt a bit sick and wanted to go home and hit the sack. He left and I resumed watching TV and on it, the story of the Tamil hero who fired 30 rounds from a six-shooter pistol while he stopped a few super-fast trains with his other hand.

Later that evening, the phone buzzed and Anuj’s voice emanated from it.

“Dude, I’m sick… The doctors have diagnosed me with chickenpox…”

Yes. It was too late.

Many visitors-who-kept-their-distances later, the arm did heal. So did the pox. But the experience had left behind some deeply etched scars though, not as much on the face as on the mind. Nevertheless, I had managed to rid myself of all the ailments which had plagued me! Here I must mention that it wasn't long before the local elderly diagnosed that I was finally at large, free from house-arrest, especially when my fluid cover drive – off Anuj’s left-arm fast-medium crashed into Mr Shaanthram’s window. Not very surprisingly, ‘A NO BALL GAMES PLEASE’ was found on the compound walls of my apartment complex the very next morning, inked in brilliant red.

Chennai’s never really short of playgrounds, or maybe the boys are incredibly innovative. Soon, our next Chepauk Stadium was the neighbouring block car park with the pacers running in from the side lane. And the game went on. Even Brother was back, but only for a week! He had some sort of working experience to go to – it was called an ‘intern’ or something like that. Abhinav studies in the Indian Institute of Technology – only crème-de-la-crème get into IITs, people say. But bro says that IITs have their share of dullards too. Wonder how they get in? Anyway, bro’s a decent leg–spinner, so that added to the excitement. Brother-versus-brother is always a nice sight and it was an even better sight when I hit his googly clean and straight for a six when it was 5 to win off one ball! Who would realize that the mirth would die so young?

The next chapter, called 'Normandy', will be up on this blog in a week's time. Stay tuned, by subscribing to this blog or by following me on Facebook here.

Do visit Leadstart Publishing's website, where you should soon be able to find my book listed. The book will be available on major online portals such as Flipkart & Amazon in 7-10 days, and in bookstores, a little while after that.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (2)

Part 2 of 4: The boy still endures. After Part 1, that is. Read on, folks. And do share if you like what you read. Hope you enjoy the beginning of "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", which will be out in the online market soon. Cheers!

A summer coming to an end leaves you with a lot of unpleasant feelings, even if it will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. That inevitable dread and those all-but-continuous Monday-morning blues… But however boring the holidays may have been, the new term is always unwelcome; this time all the more so. Albeit the recent happenings (or must I say mis-happenings) would suggest the contrary, let me assure you that the new term was as unwelcome as ever. A broken right forearm, for a right-hander, is quite unasked for and I definitely didn't summon the chickenpox home; but when both arrive with such unsolicited punctuality just a week after your 10^th standard boards, it’s definitely not your day! A dangerous beginning? – Wait till you hear the rest.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience most of the maladies known to mankind at present, as well as a couple the docs are not yet familiar with. Malaria, dengue, jaundice, flu, measles… the list goes on. I will not burden you here by completing the list as that will take a few pages at least – which the publisher is unwilling to give me. But the point remains that – even though I’m a veteran, an old war-horse when it comes to facing these minor setbacks to the immune system, this was definitely something else. A potent combo.

With one arm jabbed with a Butterfly needle and the other still suffering the after-effects of a previous jab (I had, by now, named them ‘Batterfly needles’), all I could do is pray and hope that things get better… and soon. You see needles and nurses have a way. Your vein is apparently good for only that much time and then it begins to swell up and do funny things of that sort. It no longer takes in the IV fluid and you are in great trouble. That’s when the nurse apparates to the spot looking like one of those creatures with a halo on their heads… It’s definitely not that they look terrific; just that their white overalls and your dreary state combine to make you think along such lines – such is the phantasmagoria. Definitely, they don’t look great. I might have enjoyed my time in the hospital a lot more had they made nurses the way they appear in movies. So these people appear and then begins the story of ‘Clamp down his hand and search for the vein’ – the more attempts, the more your agony. Such things happen when you are at the docs’.

Ten days into my misery, the docs relieved me and I was free to go home. Too bad mom didn't as she grounded me for another fortnight; ergo I lay there in my bedroom, staring at the bare ceiling, studying the various patterns in the new cracks that were developing in the plaster. This went on day after day (or was that a month) occasionally with friends coming over trying to look as sympathetic as they could, and those ‘not-so-good-pals’ not trying too hard to suppress their glee. Why they went through all the trouble to visit someone they didn't want to see, I will probably never understand but they all did come. And they all looked smug. A few, I must mention however, did look pretty sad – but this was because they thought I was recovering too fast. But all this didn't really hurt. It was those questions which inflicted the greatest pain…

Monday, 15^th May – 1500 hrs: Ramesh entered the scene. Attached to his behind was this gargantuan creature, reminding me very much of the Cyclops of the Hellenic Republic, much less due to his size than his stupid looks. In fact, had someone stuck a club into one of his hands, I’d have believed that the one-eyed monster was right there! I’ll just refer to him here as the unknown stupid looking guy (USLG); I know I mustn't be prejudiced, but if that protruding lower lip and dazed smile weren't enough, with the ‘My name is… du..uh…,’ he was taking the meaning of the word ‘stupid’ to a whole new dimension.

I continued to study the strange species in my bedroom and it was Ramesh who broke the silence; “So dude, how are you? It has been over two weeks now… And by the way, this – my cuz,” he pointed. I assumed ‘cuz’ stood for ‘cousin.’

So that’s what it is!

“So you broke your hand…” the USLG observed. He seemed compelled to make a statement – that statement – at that point.

No I just fancy having my hand in a cast and getting people to sign it.

“Yeah! How did you know about that?” I asked, not really trying to hide the sarcasm.

“I noticed your hand, you know… And the cast told me everything,” he said looking smug. Elementary, my dear Watson.

“Oh, I never really thought it would be so obvious!”

Ramesh cut in, perhaps sensing that his cousin’s deducing capabilities didn’t really appeal to me. “So how did that happen?” he asked pointing at the bandaged forearm.

“Oh you don’t know!” Now came the hard part – the well thought up lie.

“It was in that football match we played in the beach,” I said, “It ended in a two each impasse. And we had the penalty shootout. I, as usual, was their shot-stopper…” I gloated.

I had a gulp of the tender-coconut water kept beside me. The mouth always goes dry when I try to pass off lies, making me the most unconvincing liar in the history of the art.

“That first shot curling into the top right… I didn't let it past… though I did land on my hand a bit later. And the rest is history.”

“Just as I thought it would be: Football. You know Arvind,” said Ramesh, turning to face the thing which now had a name. “He’s the school’s goalkeeper… And a bloody good one too!”

I smiled back sheepishly. Normally, it would have been a well accepted complement but not when I was trying to conceal the truth. Who would believe that I would slip over a stationary football and end up like this?! Stumble over an innocuous football and fracture an arm! I’d be the laughing stock of the society. “Our regular goalkeeper, Ashwin Ramachandran, succumbs to the stationary football” – Never.

The story of the chickenpox was a more interesting one.

Two days into my gloom, Anuj, a close bud, came home to pay homage to the felled veteran. The conversation went on for an hour, give or take a half, with me doing most of the talking (as I realized that bed-ridden people are more the ‘talkers’ than the ‘talkees’). It ended pretty abruptly when Anuj, with whom my conversations usually never cease, said that he felt a bit sick and wanted to go home and hit the sack. He left and I resumed watching TV and on it, the story of the Tamil hero who fired 30 rounds from a six-shooter pistol while he stopped a few super-fast trains with his other hand.

Later that evening, the phone buzzed and Anuj’s voice emanated from it.

“Dude, I’m sick… The doctors have diagnosed me with chickenpox…”

Yes. It was too late.

Many visitors-who-kept-their-distances later, the arm did heal. So did the pox. But the experience had left behind some deeply etched scars though, not as much on the face as on the mind. Nevertheless, I had managed to rid myself of all the ailments which had plagued me! Here I must mention that it wasn't long before the local elderly diagnosed that I was finally at large, free from house-arrest, especially when my fluid cover drive – off Anuj’s left-arm fast-medium crashed into Mr Shaanthram’s window. Not very surprisingly, ‘A NO BALL GAMES PLEASE’ was found on the compound walls of my apartment complex the very next morning, inked in brilliant red.

Chennai’s never really short of playgrounds, or maybe the boys are incredibly innovative. Soon, our next Chepauk Stadium was the neighbouring block car park with the pacers running in from the side lane. And the game went on. Even Brother was back, but only for a week! He had some sort of working experience to go to – it was called an ‘intern’ or something like that. Abhinav studies in the Indian Institute of Technology – only crème-de-la-crème get into IITs, people say. But bro says that IITs have their share of dullards too. Wonder how they get in? Anyway, bro’s a decent leg–spinner, so that added to the excitement. Brother-versus-brother is always a nice sight and it was an even better sight when I hit his googly clean and straight for a six when it was 5 to win off one ball! Who would realize that the mirth would die so young?

The next chapter, called 'Normandy', will be up on this blog in a week's time. Stay tuned, by subscribing to this blog or by following me on Facebook here.

Do visit Leadstart Publishing's website, where you should soon be able to find my book listed. The book will be available on major online portals such as Flipkart & Amazon in 7-10 days, and in bookstores, a little while after that.

The Collector Of Broken Things

I remember my days as a child - a time of brightly coloured walls - through fading memories in sepia.

I'm a collector. It's not a hobby as much as a neurotic disorder. Throughout life, I've been a victim of overflowing cupboards and jam-packed drawers, simply because I cannot throw stuff away. I think it's because I cannot completely dissociate an object from the memory it is linked to. If I throw something away, it feels like I'm throwing away an event of my past; like I'm allowing it to be forgotten. And that is very depressing indeed.

Today I was rummaging through my almirah grimly, preparing to, in the worst case, empty it out, having submitted to the latest ultimatum that mom issued. A bittersweet search ensued, as I tried salvaging memories which were so desperately trying to run away from me forever.

I performed my usual trick of shifting stuff from one drawer to the next, from one unreachable crevice of the shelf to another spot where it would stay hidden for a few more months. The reasoning behind my absurd actions is something which eludes me - as the need to look at these objects and reminisce about the past never arises, unless I'm told to throw them away.

But every time I look at lucky pencils from historical examinations, torn-up tickets and broken relics of first-dates, certificates which will never be useful to me anymore, drawings and sketches from kindergarten, nearly-unidentifiable faded photographs, and birthday presents from the last decade, I am filled with a sadness - a sadness which tells me that these times will never come again; that these useless objects are the only things which preserve these spectacular memories.

And when I look at the wall, just behind the fridge, I notice the spot where I once used to stand-up upright as my brother measured my height with his Nataraj HB pencil. This was done ceremoniously week-after-week until I finally stopped growing, or perhaps until that one-week when we forgot. And then, I remember that corner of the wall where he squirted pomegranate juice, because the fruit amused him.

Even the thought of leaving this home alarms me, for it is not just a home, but a cauldron of memories.

Because without these objects, I will only be left with brightly coloured memories of fading walls in sepia.

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (1)

Part 1 of 4: Because long blog-posts are not my thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first in a series of four blog-posts which will cover the first two chapters of my debut novel "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", published by Leadstart Publishing and releasing in July 2013. Once you reach the end, do let me know what you think in the comments section. And if you enjoy what you read or if you just want to do your good-deed for the day, don't forget to share the post!

Underlining the most important points in my essay, I glanced up at the clock only to realize that there were only two more minutes left to tick away. After the fiasco that was the Mathematics exam, I knew it couldn’t get worse. But this was better than what I had bargained for! CBSE’s English board exam was proving to be a stroll in the park. A blind cat could top this exam, I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, one must never be overconfident, and I rechecked some answers in the Literature section. Soon, the only loose string left to tie up was the one which would ensure that my answer booklet didn’t fall apart. So, with great composure, I did precisely that. Then I deposited my booklet in the invigilator’s arms and walked out in gladiatorial fashion.

This great big flourish was precisely the boost I needed before my last board exam, Science, which was the only thing which now stood between me and a wonderfully languid vacation. I walked out of the examination centre with my chest puffed out and my head held high. There was a spring in my stride, a smile on my lips and a song in the air. I laughed at stupid things all the way home and as soon as I stepped through the doorway, I threw my bag to one corner of the room and stripped myself off my shirt. Throwing it lazily into the washing machine, I proceeded to turn on my computer and play round after round of ‘Counter-Strike’- a much needed post-exam stress buster.

The next day, my preparations for the last exam of the summer commenced. Everything went as planned and I familiarized myself with all aspects of the sciences. If I wasn’t this modest, I’d say that I was bloody good at it. So, as expected, I was in high spirits on examination day.

Whistling a tune I know not from where, I pranced about the house slipping into my uniform. Mom stared at me as if I was a strange species from the Pacific depths and Dad gave me one of those looks which he normally reserves for the mentally unfortunate. None of this deterred me as I picked off my Idlis one after the other.

Checking my pockets for appropriate stationery – pen, pencil, eraser and all – I smiled a contented smile. A few more hours and I’d be free – as free as a frikkin’ bird!

I finished the routine check by opening the compartment of my bag where I normally kept the hall ticket. Not finding it there, I sedately walked up to my drawer and rummaged through its contents, careful not to hurt sheets of white which bore resemblance to the ticket. It wasn’t there either. Sensing a slight jolt in my diaphragm, I jogged to my bedroom and checked the study table. No hall ticket. Feeling faint, nauseated and numb, I collapsed on my bed. And then I ran around the house, tossing aside cushions and ransacking desks and tables. Still ‘no’… Bloody hell, I thought, this is the end.

I did what any normal fellow would do under such dire circumstances – I told my parents. And then I did what routine guys did, again – I regretted telling them. It was quite apparent that they couldn’t help me in any way whatsoever, apart from rummaging spaces I had already rummaged and running about flustered as I was myself. But the worst part: the questions – “WHERE DID YOU KEEP IT?” they asked, as though I had hidden it somewhere and had challenged them to a scavenger hunt.

My head was swimming the way unfortunate ants swim in your tea as I sat beside dad while he negotiated the Chennai roads. We said nothing to each other and I was choking on the silence. At every traffic signal, he’d look at his cell-phone one more time as if it would tell him something. My head was entirely blank. Even if I wrote the exam, I wondered if much good would come off it!

As I alighted from the car, I told dad that he needn’t join me on my way to the exam-hall. Nothing good can come off it, I thought. But parents seldom listen to logic, do they? So, ignoring my rationale, Dad got out of the car and walked me towards the open ground where we were supposed to gather. The closer we moved to the crowd, the more wary I became – I didn’t want dad having to explain how and why I lost my hall-ticket! So, begging him to stay where he was, I proceeded to attempt solving the problem myself.

He wished me luck as I walked away and told me to do well in the exam, even though I knew he was actually hoping that I get to write it in the first place!

The crowd was getting itself into order, in the form of sections and lines, as I approached them trying to look as unfazed as possible. “Breathe deeply,” I said to myself. I joined the assembly of students in the ground; friends waved and I waved back as if nothing was wrong. I decided to confront my teachers at the first opportunity possible and tell them the entire story.

Having said the prayer and sung the National Anthem- as was the routine before every exam -- I walked up to my Principal. I had an elaborate speech prepared, but watching my classmates disappear into the exam halls, all I could manage was – “Help.”

They made me relate the story to them, again and again – first to my principal, then to my teachers, then to the principal of the school where the examination was being held and then to some CBSE authority who couldn’t care less. Feeling like a convict whose story wasn’t being believed, I heard them discuss the various nuances of educational laws and ethics – the CBSE is apparently very thorough.

“How can we be sure he’s the boy he claims he is?” asked one elderly man.

“It’s not ethical to allow him write an exam like this… It will set a precedent,” said a rather fat lady with a mole on her nose.

More people joined the discussion, even as the preliminary bell rang, which meant the exam would commence in less than five minutes. And here I was, in the school ground, staring at a group of teachers who seemed to be in a team-huddle. All the time, I saw dad standing a fair distance away nibbling away at his nails.

A few long minutes (and what seemed like two-thirds majority) later, a teacher walked towards me and threw me a smile of pity. “It’s all right,” she said. “We will permit it this one time, if you promise not to do it again.”

“I promise,” I said, feeling rather foolish.

“What we’re doing today might well be against the law,” she said conspiratorially. “But anyway, we have decided to allow you this time. Off you go!”

I didn’t understand why someone would want to impersonate me during something as trivial as a board exam, but there’s no point pondering about these things. I waved at dad and ran like hell.

The exam was relatively easy; the most difficult question I faced was when I was asked my hall-ticket number. I managed to pull out the digits from the crevasses of my memory. Throughout the exam, I prayed the exam would never get over, as I didn’t want to face the firing squad once this was over. I didn’t want the holidays to begin. What an anticlimax, I thought.

Alas, the exam did end. And I was left to face the music. Dad blasted me for an hour-and-a-half and said that he hadn’t seen a lad as irresponsible as I in his entire life! Mom didn’t talk to me properly for a day; when she did, she blamed herself for bringing me up the way she did. If that wasn’t all, my grandparents forced me to go to the temple and wash away some evil-eyes. If my brother, Abhinav, was at home I’d have got a few mouthfuls from him as well.

I tried defending myself, of course: I told them that someone ought to have flicked it from my bag on my way home in a crowded bus. Unfortunately, since nothing else was missing- What kind thief opens your bag, flicks your hall-ticket and leaves everything else, they asked me.

And then it got worse, thanks to grandma. While folding my shirt, she discovered a rather fibrous lump in my pocket – one which broke even as she tried unrolling it. The fragments would have been dismissed as unimportant scrap had it not been for a portion of a very familiar seal which was still visible. And only then did it strike me.

I hoped no one else identified the seal, but alas, more evidence came into existence. A rather soiled passport-sized photograph of mine was discovered, and with it was signed my death warrant. Nothing can be more blasphemous than tossing your hall-ticket into the washing machine.

As the book is finally running its final lap on its own in the offices of my publisher in Bandra, I am unable to provide you the links to the book immediately. It shall be put up as soon as it is made available to me, as a late edit (in this space) and in subsequent posts. Stay tuned!

Chapter I: The Boy Who Endured (1)

Part 1 of 4: Because long blog-posts are not my thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first in a series of four blog-posts which will cover the first two chapters of my debut novel "The Steadfast Tin Soldier?", published by Leadstart Publishing and releasing in July 2013. Once you reach the end, do let me know what you think in the comments section. And if you enjoy what you read or if you just want to do your good-deed for the day, don't forget to share the post!

Underlining the most important points in my essay, I glanced up at the clock only to realize that there were only two more minutes left to tick away. After the fiasco that was the Mathematics exam, I knew it couldn’t get worse. But this was better than what I had bargained for! CBSE’s English board exam was proving to be a stroll in the park. A blind cat could top this exam, I thought to myself.

Nevertheless, one must never be overconfident, and I rechecked some answers in the Literature section. Soon, the only loose string left to tie up was the one which would ensure that my answer booklet didn’t fall apart. So, with great composure, I did precisely that. Then I deposited my booklet in the invigilator’s arms and walked out in gladiatorial fashion.

This great big flourish was precisely the boost I needed before my last board exam, Science, which was the only thing which now stood between me and a wonderfully languid vacation. I walked out of the examination centre with my chest puffed out and my head held high. There was a spring in my stride, a smile on my lips and a song in the air. I laughed at stupid things all the way home and as soon as I stepped through the doorway, I threw my bag to one corner of the room and stripped myself off my shirt. Throwing it lazily into the washing machine, I proceeded to turn on my computer and play round after round of ‘Counter-Strike’- a much needed post-exam stress buster.

The next day, my preparations for the last exam of the summer commenced. Everything went as planned and I familiarized myself with all aspects of the sciences. If I wasn’t this modest, I’d say that I was bloody good at it. So, as expected, I was in high spirits on examination day.

Whistling a tune I know not from where, I pranced about the house slipping into my uniform. Mom stared at me as if I was a strange species from the Pacific depths and Dad gave me one of those looks which he normally reserves for the mentally unfortunate. None of this deterred me as I picked off my Idlis one after the other.

Checking my pockets for appropriate stationery – pen, pencil, eraser and all – I smiled a contented smile. A few more hours and I’d be free – as free as a frikkin’ bird!

I finished the routine check by opening the compartment of my bag where I normally kept the hall ticket. Not finding it there, I sedately walked up to my drawer and rummaged through its contents, careful not to hurt sheets of white which bore resemblance to the ticket. It wasn’t there either. Sensing a slight jolt in my diaphragm, I jogged to my bedroom and checked the study table. No hall ticket. Feeling faint, nauseated and numb, I collapsed on my bed. And then I ran around the house, tossing aside cushions and ransacking desks and tables. Still ‘no’… Bloody hell, I thought, this is the end.

I did what any normal fellow would do under such dire circumstances – I told my parents. And then I did what routine guys did, again – I regretted telling them. It was quite apparent that they couldn’t help me in any way whatsoever, apart from rummaging spaces I had already rummaged and running about flustered as I was myself. But the worst part: the questions – “WHERE DID YOU KEEP IT?” they asked, as though I had hidden it somewhere and had challenged them to a scavenger hunt.

My head was swimming the way unfortunate ants swim in your tea as I sat beside dad while he negotiated the Chennai roads. We said nothing to each other and I was choking on the silence. At every traffic signal, he’d look at his cell-phone one more time as if it would tell him something. My head was entirely blank. Even if I wrote the exam, I wondered if much good would come off it!

As I alighted from the car, I told dad that he needn’t join me on my way to the exam-hall. Nothing good can come off it, I thought. But parents seldom listen to logic, do they? So, ignoring my rationale, Dad got out of the car and walked me towards the open ground where we were supposed to gather. The closer we moved to the crowd, the more wary I became – I didn’t want dad having to explain how and why I lost my hall-ticket! So, begging him to stay where he was, I proceeded to attempt solving the problem myself.

He wished me luck as I walked away and told me to do well in the exam, even though I knew he was actually hoping that I get to write it in the first place!

The crowd was getting itself into order, in the form of sections and lines, as I approached them trying to look as unfazed as possible. “Breathe deeply,” I said to myself. I joined the assembly of students in the ground; friends waved and I waved back as if nothing was wrong. I decided to confront my teachers at the first opportunity possible and tell them the entire story.

Having said the prayer and sung the National Anthem- as was the routine before every exam -- I walked up to my Principal. I had an elaborate speech prepared, but watching my classmates disappear into the exam halls, all I could manage was – “Help.”

They made me relate the story to them, again and again – first to my principal, then to my teachers, then to the principal of the school where the examination was being held and then to some CBSE authority who couldn’t care less. Feeling like a convict whose story wasn’t being believed, I heard them discuss the various nuances of educational laws and ethics – the CBSE is apparently very thorough.

“How can we be sure he’s the boy he claims he is?” asked one elderly man.

“It’s not ethical to allow him write an exam like this… It will set a precedent,” said a rather fat lady with a mole on her nose.

More people joined the discussion, even as the preliminary bell rang, which meant the exam would commence in less than five minutes. And here I was, in the school ground, staring at a group of teachers who seemed to be in a team-huddle. All the time, I saw dad standing a fair distance away nibbling away at his nails.

A few long minutes (and what seemed like two-thirds majority) later, a teacher walked towards me and threw me a smile of pity. “It’s all right,” she said. “We will permit it this one time, if you promise not to do it again.”

“I promise,” I said, feeling rather foolish.

“What we’re doing today might well be against the law,” she said conspiratorially. “But anyway, we have decided to allow you this time. Off you go!”

I didn’t understand why someone would want to impersonate me during something as trivial as a board exam, but there’s no point pondering about these things. I waved at dad and ran like hell.

The exam was relatively easy; the most difficult question I faced was when I was asked my hall-ticket number. I managed to pull out the digits from the crevasses of my memory. Throughout the exam, I prayed the exam would never get over, as I didn’t want to face the firing squad once this was over. I didn’t want the holidays to begin. What an anticlimax, I thought.

Alas, the exam did end. And I was left to face the music. Dad blasted me for an hour-and-a-half and said that he hadn’t seen a lad as irresponsible as I in his entire life! Mom didn’t talk to me properly for a day; when she did, she blamed herself for bringing me up the way she did. If that wasn’t all, my grandparents forced me to go to the temple and wash away some evil-eyes. If my brother, Abhinav, was at home I’d have got a few mouthfuls from him as well.

I tried defending myself, of course: I told them that someone ought to have flicked it from my bag on my way home in a crowded bus. Unfortunately, since nothing else was missing- What kind thief opens your bag, flicks your hall-ticket and leaves everything else, they asked me.

And then it got worse, thanks to grandma. While folding my shirt, she discovered a rather fibrous lump in my pocket – one which broke even as she tried unrolling it. The fragments would have been dismissed as unimportant scrap had it not been for a portion of a very familiar seal which was still visible. And only then did it strike me.

I hoped no one else identified the seal, but alas, more evidence came into existence. A rather soiled passport-sized photograph of mine was discovered, and with it was signed my death warrant. Nothing can be more blasphemous than tossing your hall-ticket into the washing machine.

As the book is finally running its final lap on its own in the offices of my publisher in Bandra, I am unable to provide you the links to the book immediately. It shall be put up as soon as it is made available to me, as a late edit (in this space) and in subsequent posts. Stay tuned!