2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
January 15, 2008 at 3:56 am · Filed under bangalore, terrorism
I’d like to share an incident that happened with me this morning, at about 9.00 AM in Bangalore. To give you a bit of history, I was on the way back to Bangalore, a fourteen-hour bus journey from a little town called Manchakal in Dakshin Karnataka, via Belmannu, Mangalore, Hassan, Kunigal and Nelamangala. To give you a few facts, I was starved, surviving on a lone Mangalore bottle of Thumsup that I picked up in a hurry - not Akshay Kumarlike, but hurry it was - and I had seat number 22W booked for me. ‘W’ stands for Window, and 22 stands for the last-but one seat in a bus that drove through some of the worst roads known to mankind. Needless to say, my body went flying on many occasions - suspended in mid-air for a bit - before it landed back on the seat, almost every time the bus driver gave up on slowing down before potholes. Every time it landed safely, I’d gasp an ‘oh’, say three ‘Hail-Mary’s, and then go back to listening Eminem curse America on the iPod.
So, here I am, back in smokey, chilly Bangalore. Dressed to counter Mangalore’s sizzling heat, so the teeth are chattering in frosty fright. I’m all cranky, I haven’t slept well and my back has been through the mill. I hop out of the bus at Yeshwantpur (The driver told me that he’ll “stop” at Yeshwantpur, but he ended up slowing down just enough for me to jump out of the bus whilst in motion, almost as if I were auditioning for a junior 007’s role in the next Bond flick). I arrive - on my feet, mercifully - and I look around for a rickshaw. Along he comes, greets me with thirty-one teeth and beckons me into his metallic three-wheeled excuse for a ride.
The distance is hardly eight kilometers, and surely it wouldn’t cost more than fifty rupees. Matching the absurdity of rents in Bangalore, dude in rickshaw whispers - and I managed to catch it in spite of my plight - a figure. 100 rupees. What was he driving, a rickshaw or a Concorde? Lucky for him, this year, I don’t curse, although he pushed his luck.
I walked out of the rick, still cranky, half-sleepy. Mumbled some random Kannada words which repeatedly questioned the existence of meters. At the mention of the word ‘meter’ - which, for a rickshaw driver equates to profane verbiage in rickshawtongue - he flinched, did a double-take, and then resorted to negotiation.
‘One and a half, sir’.
‘No.’ I was yawning, because of sleep, but it seemed to him that I was bored from his talk already. Good.
‘Twenty rupees extra sir’.
‘No.’ Threw in another yawn. In his face, and this time I didn’t bother stifling it either. Let Satan enter and exit as He wills.
‘Sir, fuel prices have increased’.
And then I let it all out. Fury that Yeshwantpur might have rarely seen from a normal citizen. Not-so-politely, I did remind him - and a crowd of about twenty rickshawdrivers who easily outnumbered me - that they went on a strike few days ago. That there are better ways of demanding better fares. That I don’t subscribe to their half-baked stupid ideology, that they should’ve protested when fuel rates went up, that they have always managed to survive with the high fuel rates, and that if they want to extract more money from passengers then the strike was meaningless. Because they’re getting overpaid anyway - by demanding such fares. And saying that, I walked away in a hurry. Where to - I didn’t know.
Until another rickshaw guy came running along, asking me where I wanted to be dropped. ‘Chinnappa Gardens’, I replied loudly, in absolute pride, as if it were the Palace and I was King Wodeyar myself. He nodded his head and walked away, beckoning towards his ride.
‘Not a single rupee more!’ I shouted, and he kept nodding. True to his word, the guy dropped me at my doorstep, and I paid him the fare to the exact rupee. I got out, he drove off. Transaction complete and that’s how it ought to be.
I used to have pity at times, but when I see a majority of them drowned in their booze, ruining their families, they don’t deserve it. So, these days, I give some stick back. And I hope the rest of the city does that too.
It’s about time they behave. And it’s no coincidence that I’ve filed this post under ‘terrorism’.
January 8, 2008 at 10:50 pm · Filed under debates
In the midst of this madness, spare a thought for the primates themselves who not just have their very social and biological identity ridiculed on national television, but also threatened by an Australian or two.
But questioning one’s legitimacy - something that flew out of the ever-wobbly tongue of a certain Hog - is apparently all fine.
With all due respect, the Idiotic Cricket Council - for that’s what it is - is making a fool of itself. For sure.
January 7, 2008 at 10:18 am · Filed under fiction
I’m bad at counting people. Either ways, I go by the ear. I could hear them screaming, a crowd of thirty or so, but there’s no way for me to tell. A healthy mix of men and women - it’s not every day that the opposite sex show up for a table tennis competition unless their boyfriends competed - but there were enough feline shrieks around to arrive at that assumption.
The finals. Nine points apiece. I was leading all throughout, but I didn’t middle my last backhand loop. A very light brush in the end, and I could hear the firm contact it made with Karan’s Gergely, decked in a pair of Srivers. I also heard the fatal sound of celluloid striking timber a foot away from me. Too far, and I’d given. We were now equal, and while I knew he was more skilled, it was Karan’s serve, and as a result, his only chance.
I figured I was whispering to myself, more out of comfort than inspiration. ‘Neutralize this serve, and you’re through’
Through the crowd and its hysteria, the commentator - a certain John Cummins whose mouth works overtime like a Korean at an engineering lab - is screaming his head off. Excited, the lad is, and I realized why - the crowd is almost entirely behind the opponent I’m up against. At twenty-four, Karan is halfway there, a nice blend of raw talent, sharpened with maturity and experience from over a decade into the game. He’s one of those frontline attack players that considers a defensive rally to be pure blasphemy. It does seem he’s gifted with a powerful wrist, because he doesn’t really scrape the ball that well on impact, but still manages to get a lot of heavy spin.
The crowd was still screaming, and I thought I’d have trouble taking the next serve until the umpire asked them to maintain silence. Almost as if someone turned the volume knob down, the crowd’s noise slowly faded into silence. Meanwhile, a drop of sweat formed at the side of the forehead, and before I could react, it quietly left me. I needed to keep up my energy, but right now I had only one thing on my mind. The serve.
It wasn’t a killer serve, a little backhand chop just short. I managed to flick it to his weaker backhand, and as a big loop followed I was forced to offer a dead bat to defend. Karan kept looping, but it was neither lethal nor placed well enough to trouble me, until he surprised me with a huge top-spinner to my backhand. I was caught on an awkward position, and in trying to negate the spin, picked a wrong angle to defend. The ball never made it to the other side.
Point nine. The crowd went crazy.
This was it. This was the serve I had to block. It’s nearly impossible to take Karan down in a long rally - he gets his topspins so effortlessly - and I had mentally decided I would attack the service. Premeditated. No merit, no respect. Just understand the trajectory and bang. Very, er, Sehwaglike.
While this raced through my mind, the crowd were all hush again, anticipating a big Karan serve. It came, it was one of those lethally quick ones, the sound of celluloid screaming through the air like a warrior about to plant the finishing blow. I got myself into position and pulled out my best backhand half-jerk. Never made contact, I missed, but during that half-second of half-fatality, I was all ears.
The ball never landed. Karan’s serve was long. A fault. Deuce. I never thought the crowd could go quieter, but it did, save for a few gasps of surprise.
I knew my sister would be there. Shefali was the only one on this planet who insisted that I could be a true champion. If years on the table gave me skill and talent, an hour of pep-talk with Shefali gave me the optimism and courage to go for my shots. And, most important of all, believe that I could really win. And here I was on the threshold. I found I was whispering to myself, yet again.
‘No rally. Third ball attack. Third ball attack. Third ball attack.’
Coach always suggested that, when confronted against a tougher opposition, play to your strengths and his weaknesses. My strength, of course, was the big killer serve I hadn’t yet unleashed. Karan’s weakness was his backhand. Not exactly rocket science, and without thinking twice, I crashed a quick service across the table. It was a lovely angle - Karan might have even stretched a bit to make the return, but it was an easy lob and his forehand was wide open. I waited for the ball to bounce, and when it was chest-high, I put my head down and swung my shoulders all the way.
I didn’t need the officiator’s acknowledgment. That smash went nowhere near Karan, and it pleased me in a sadistic manner. Championship point to me, and John had found his tongue again.
I had to close my eyes then, although that didn’t make any difference, really. Had extended my palm and the ball was already there, waiting to be lobbed for the serve, but I was plotting the next serve. I obviously wouldn’t repeat the killer one, too predictable. I spoke half of the plan to myself, and half in my mind, but it was all clear. A moderate attack. Won’t prolong the rally, but a moderate attack. I had to be careful, but not overcautious. Easy as it seems now, with the adrenaline pumping in the finals I was confused. My mind went blank, and I could only remember what a perfect batsman once famously said.
‘Forget about the match situation. Or the crowd. Or the opponent. Bring your mind to that mental state of purity, and play every ball to its merit. Take it as it comes.’
Quietly mumbling a word of gratitude for the Wall for his timely advice, I served. It wasn’t the best but I couldn’t risk missing a serve at this stage. Karan attacked - he must have had Australian blood in him, only an Aussie would counter-attack in its potential final moments - and I had to push myself back and block. Karan had gone wild - he pulled smash after smash, but focused more on power than placement. I managed to return them with ease, until Karan - driven by either skill of fatigue - dropped one short. I had to lunge forward and managed to tap the ball away to his backhand, barely making it. His backhand counter wasn’t the best and here was an easy volley across the line. I curled the shot so that it spun away from his forehand. It landed on the far end of the table, and I unintentionally struck it with more power than I intended. Turned out to be a smash.
Karan couldn’t reach it. My point. My game. My match. My championship. I won. The King. Emperor.
The runner-up couldn’t believe it, his acknowledgment - a not-so-firm shake - was more out of regret and shock disappointment than sportsmanship. I looked up, as I often do, searching for something or someone I hardly believed in. I ran my fingers through the Mark Vs, they felt smooth, very human. Like flesh. The flesh of a winner.
Shefali came running up and hugged me like only a sister can. I was overwhelmed by her affection, and drowned in my pride. I heard the crowd moving out, slowly but surely, before Shefali broke the silence.
‘I knew you could do it bro’
‘More than I did’
I was smiling now. But it was a bit too silent. Something was missing, rather someone was silent. Ah, the commentator. ‘Where’s John?’
She laughed. ‘He has your ball in his mouth’.
He was coughing and panting, before finally the sound of a bouncing sphere of plastic arrived. John was mouthing all kinds of curses at me.
‘Remind me to ask him how it tastes, will you?’.
She giggled, and though I didn’t want to leave the arena yet, she tugged at me. ‘Come on, let’s go Mr. Champ. You have a trophy to collect’.
True. I smiled, and put the goggles on, picking up the walking stick. With my sister at my side, I slowly felt my way up the stairs. I couldn’t believe it. I had won, the trophy’s mine, I had taken him down with all his five senses intact.
Until this day, I had never forgiven God for denying me the power of sight. But I realized - like He so often does - quietly blesses you with parallel power. I don’t know how or when, but he sharpened my ears to perfection, blessed me with an ability that isn’t entirely normal.
And sometimes, it’s better. Sometimes, Earsight helps you see what the eyes cant.
December 25, 2007 at 12:57 pm · Filed under personal
Had stepped out last evening to indulge in a bit of stargazing. Mars, they said, was right next to the moon. Maybe it was. Not sure, if the bright red star just above the moon was the one. Either ways, I wanted to believe it, and get over with it.
He calls up from somewhere around OMR, asks me his usual, “’sup bro”.
“The sky.”
“Lovely tonight, ain’t it?.”
“Certainly.”
“Went to church? Oh, Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“You too. Yeah, just got back from there. Nothing great happening, not like the good old days.”
“What good old days?”
“Remember St. Mary’s in Dubai?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s funny, I remember asking Father Daniel not to ask the girls to stop wearing deep necks and sleeveless to church.”
“Oh, did you? (laughs) What did he say?”
“Shrugged, and told me it’s church.”
“Lovely human, is Father Dan.”
“Absolutely.”
“Remember the crib we made?”
“Hell, yeah. And I asked Father Dan then too, while spraying those cotton snowflakes, how could Jesus be born in deep winter, because the Bible says that shepherds were outdoors at night with their flocks.”
“Luke?”
“Eeeeeeeeyup.”
“What did Father Dan say?”
“Said he was impressed that a non-Catholic’s knows his Bible.”
“And?”
“And that’s it. Surely, he knows, he’s just a mysterious man. I didn’t want to press it either.”
“True.”
(silence)
“Sup?”
“The sky.”
“It’s lovely, bro.”
“Mars looks like it’ll plant a celestial kiss tonight. On the moon, of course.”
“Hmm, don’t think there’ll be any outer-space collisions. Those Alien STC bastards are nice.”
“STC?”
“Space Traffic Controllers.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You know, like the air-traffic ones in space who - ”
“Dude, I got it.”
“Okay. Sandman, what’s with you bro? Mars kissing the moon? No profanity? You’ve been skygazing? All okay?”
“Yeah, I am. And hey, I love looking at the stars. You know me, I’m a Centaur.”
“As much as I am. Firenze was hotter though.”
“Firenze? Yeah, but he had filthy teeth, probably brushed them every time Halley’s comet went past him.”
“They see Mars better than you do.”
“I see it myself, bro, there she is, a bright shining red.”
“Here we go again. What’s wrong with you man?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“But you’re right, it looks beautiful in red.”
“Well, not as beautiful as someone I know.”
(silence) He wasn’t sure what to say. After about three minutes, “Hey!”
“Yeah.”
“Sands?”
“Yeah?”
“’sup, bro.”
Yeah, what was up after all? Why am I being so stupidly romantic? Poetic? Am I in love? Or is it just an infatuation? Or am I still stuck in the trench of the October sorrow? Will someone tell me what the fuck is happening with me? I didn’t know what to tell the guy on the other side of the phone, so I just looked up at the carpet of blue.
“The sky.”
December 25, 2007 at 11:50 am · Filed under fiction, movies
Statutory warning: If you haven’t seen The Departed and/or The Independence Day, the back button beckons. If you have, this post is strictly for audiences ages 18 and above.
Dean Devlin wrote this brilliant speech from ‘The Independence Day’ - the video is here.
Good morning. In less than an hour, aircrafts from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. “Mankind.” That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can’t be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interest. Perhaps it’s fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom … Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution… but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: “We will not go quietly into the night!” We will not vanish without a fight! We’re going to live on! We’re going to survive! Today we celebrate our Independence Day!
When President Thomas Whitmore is done, I had the hair standing in pride, occidentalism notwithstanding. Forget the oil, this speech touched me, impeach Bush and bring Pullman on. Moved me, it did.
But, just wondering, what if Marty made the flick instead of Roland Emmerich? And what if William Monahan wrote the dialogue? And, what if Mark Wahlberg was President? Here’s a potential Scorsesian touch.
Good morning, ladies. In less than one fucking hour, aircrafts from all around the fucking planet including this shithole will unite like a million dicks up an alienwhore’s ass. We’ll be shoving a few missiles up the bitch mothership. This is gonna be the largest fucking battle in history. No, we ain’t taking any fucking shit from any dipshits no more. It’s about time you guys wake the fuck up and get your asses and acts together. And hey, bitches, today’s the fourth of fucking July, you Irish lace-curtain motherfuckers? We’re fighting for our freedom. It ain’t from fucking tyranny, oppression, or persecution - nope - but from fucking annihilation. For our right to fucking live. To fucking exist. We won’t let aliens fuck us through our own fucking planet. No fucking way. And should we smoke those motherfucking alien bastards today, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as a fucking American holiday, but as the day the fucking world declared in one fucking voice: “We will not let our dicks go limp and pee into the night! We’re going to live on, you alien fucksticks! We’re going to fucking survive! Today we celebrate our fucking Independence Day!
Let’s nuke the bitch. And if you think I’ll screw up like I did in Iraq, blow me.
Yes, dear reader, I just needed an excuse to curse. Merci, really, for bearing with the profanity. I’ll stop fucking with you.
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