The Russians? Are you serious? Russia? The home of the Sukhoi and the Siberian tiger? Some of the prettiest women in the world are Russians. They have one of world’s best gymnastic teams, athletic teams that have won plenty of Olympic gold medals, scientists, engineers, submarines, missiles, and oil wells.
They may have miserable winters where temperatures touch 20degrees below zero only to dip even further. It must be awful living in a freezer, but ice looks good on tv. So, I choose to ignore the cold.
But then they are also home to some of the worst cars made in human history, Communism, Marxism and the Russian mafia. The Russian mafia is something even the Sicilians are scared of.
But then, why would I be bothered about Russian subs and AK47s?
Well, for Two years in a row, I have been exploring the true potential of the second gear in my car. I had to drive close of ten kilometers in second gear, not shifting to third for the fear of running over someone, or worse still, killing myself. Not shifting to third for the fear of running over someone?
Why?
Well, that’s what happens when you drink that colourless, odourless, tasteless, industrial piss called Vodka.
Vodka…….. all the bad words put together and raised to the power of ten can’t describe my feelings for vodka.
You mix that stupid thing with any fruit juice, and you think you are drinking fruit juice. Mix it with Sprite and you are drinking Sprite. Mix it carbonated/aerated water and it’ll taste just like aerated water.
It’s appears to be a harmless colourless liquid that has neither taste nor flavour. Spineless. So you end up drinking it like you are drinking fruit juice, or soda, with vodka in it, sipping it like what you think it really is, which is fruit juice or soda. Its only a matter of time till your brain decides to jump into what feels like a washing machine, spinning in power-wash mode.
Two years in a row, at my school alumni meet, for the sheer laziness of standing in line to buy the beers, my friends and I opted to buy a bottle of vodka instead.
And on both ocassions, I went home high as a kite.
And the Russians drink it like water. They drink it with milk, and call it a White Russian. I am not making this up, you can trust me on this.
Only a Russian can drink Vodka and milk. I never liked milk as a child and I still don’t. And with vodka in it, I think I’ll throw up for a week.
Come to think of it, I think that's why some people in this world prefer to drink “country liquor” brewed out of battery acid, hallucinogenic drugs and sleeping pills.
The lucky ones die, while the others get to go blind.
But I’ll bet you whatever you want, given a choice, they would prefer to drink that instead of vodka.
Bloody Russians.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Labour is such a Pain
The world of politics lost even the litte dignity it had. If you thought only Indian politicians are slimy scum bags, take a look at the polished Labour party of the UK. Our man Tony went all out in kicking Brown in the nuts. Makes me wonder if the Brits are suddenly going native.
But honestly, Tony or Brown, I couldn’t care less.
All I know is that I got promoted.
Below is my oath before taking office:
- From today day, I shall try to be politically correct.
- From this day forward, I shall to set a good example.
- Learn to cook more specialty dishes.
- Buy that fast car, bicycle and motorcycle.
- Point 4 can wait a little longer. Austerity measures are still in place.
Now to the more difficult sections:
- I shall be a more responsible individual.
- As much as I hate it, I shall drag myself against my wishes, to that stupid store called GK Vale and get a couple of “Marriage photos” clicked. I am going to live to hate that day.
- I shall spend more on cosmetics and “beauty products”. Fear not, I am not turning gay.
- I shall work harder on finding a cool chick…. I take that back. I shall work harder on finding a Soul mate.
- Cut down on the swearing….
This list can go on and on.
I know what you are thinking, but read Point #4, of the “Difficult section”. That should lay some of those fears to rest.
But yeah, the old Pulickal is out and the new and improved version is in. And along with all those little degrees running alongside his name, he now has one more.
Its called Uncle!
Gear up folks, a new Pulickal is born.
Boy, this will be fun.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Man from Kaiwara Cross
I met an interesting chap yesterday.
Chap. Considering he was more than 60 years old, I think I should change “chap” to “man”. Chap, man, elderly gentleman, senior citizen… what’s the difference. So chap it remains.
He asked me if I was from around here, Bangalore, and I proudly say yes. I take great pride in being a Bangalorean.
I asked him if he was from around here, and he says he was born in Kaiwara Cross.
Kaiwara Cross?
He says its in Chintamani. I have heard that name before, and well, may be someone had told me where it was, but I couldn’t picture it, so I asked him where is Chintamani.
For some stupid reason, there’s an ICICI insurance ad that’s playing in my head where they were selling Income Tax saving bonds where Mr Chintamani, says “no Chinta, only money”.
Strayed a little off course there, but that’s how it was when this chap mentioned Chintamani and that tune kept playing in my head for a good hour or so. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money, you know the jingle. I hope it rings in your head for a while too. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money.
He’s not a very talkative man. He had uttered only three words in the hour before I met him. But I'm different.
He mumbled they have a big market there in Chintamani. They stack groundnuts in huge heaps that tower into the sky. As big as mountains. Big market Sir. They also trade oxen and cows and bullocks and buffaloes there. Big market.
Impressive. May be I should go there sometime,Chintamani. Never really been to a cattle fair, although some of the job expos in Bangalore I am told come very close. The only difference is that in Chintamani, they trade in real cattle and not corporate slaves.
He’s been stuck in the same profession for over twenty years. He spent four or six, I think four….. whatever. He spent fours years, before he started work as a professional, as a trainee without salary.
Who the hell spends four years in learning a craft? And what he does, is not something you really need four years to master. Its not like you spent four years in improving your handwriting and you can now do calligraphy or like in my case learn to draw. I can spend a lifetime trying to draw and paint without making any progress. Thus I don’t even try. But I can learn to do what he does in about a month.
He did a lot of other stupid things for long periods of time. I guess career growth wasn’t much of an option for him.
He tells me that his brother left for his heavenly abode twenty days ago. He asks me if I knew his brother. I shake my head. What was he thinking?
I try to change topics as I couldn’t get much of his mumblings.
It’s the day after Ugadi, the second leg where it’s a meat extravaganza. He tells me that his nephew has gone home to gorge on mutton, chicken and fish. He hopes they will leave him some but he’s not really bothered. He's lost all his teeth I guess.
He goes on to tell me that his brother had nine children and all the boys have taken in to the family profession, carefully handed down one generation to another. Believe me, they are not into making jewellery or sophisticated watches.
Do you know my nephew? I shake my head again. How am I supposed to know his nephew?
He grows quiet.
Then I ask him more questions on his own life and he starts all over again.
The man from Kaiwar cross, after his four years as a trainee and some years of practice, then moves into Bangalore. He finds a place to stay in a little Muslim neighbourhood, near Fun World, Palace grounds. Its an old neighbourhood but a well known one. That sounds fine.
But not to his prospective father-in-law.
Back then, Hindus and Muslims were at each others throats in some distant part of the country. That is sufficient reason for him to refuse the then young man his bride. Considering not much has changed, I don't know whose side to be on.
The man-from-Kaiwar-cross is unmarried till this date. He’s old and he’s feeble, has a dry cough, but his hands, thankfully, are still steady.
He then asks me if I know Yesvanthpur. Of course I know Yesvanthpur! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli. Of course I know Jalahalli! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli East. What? He tells me that Jalahalli and Jalahalli East are not the same. I am given directions on a road I am sure he last traveled by bullock cart in the late seventies. I pretend to be paying attention.
Hmmm, yeah, hmmmm yeah, oh ok. Hmmmm.
Stupid old chap.
Man, it is a hot day today. The ceiling fan is blowing hot air from one corner of the room to the other. I glance towards my bicycle enjoying the beams of light from vehicles passing by dancing on the rims, little pieces of chrome and the shiny red paint. I had spent half an hour cleaning her that evening. Job well done.
The Man-from-Kaiwar-Cross then switches off the fan. Punishment for not paying attention?
No.
He pulls out the powder tin, shakes some onto my neck, and brushes it off with his thick, fat brush.
The haircut’s over. The fan’s switched on again.
The hot air blows from one corner of the room to another.
I dig into my wallet and settle his dues wondering, who on earth would spend four years learning to cut hair?
Why would anyone stay bachelor just because one man refused him his daughter, irrespective of where he stayed. Why couldn't he just move?
He spent two years of his life just drawing water from a well and filling pots and a tank with water.
May be he’s just a nitwit.
The End.
Chap. Considering he was more than 60 years old, I think I should change “chap” to “man”. Chap, man, elderly gentleman, senior citizen… what’s the difference. So chap it remains.
He asked me if I was from around here, Bangalore, and I proudly say yes. I take great pride in being a Bangalorean.
I asked him if he was from around here, and he says he was born in Kaiwara Cross.
Kaiwara Cross?
He says its in Chintamani. I have heard that name before, and well, may be someone had told me where it was, but I couldn’t picture it, so I asked him where is Chintamani.
For some stupid reason, there’s an ICICI insurance ad that’s playing in my head where they were selling Income Tax saving bonds where Mr Chintamani, says “no Chinta, only money”.
Strayed a little off course there, but that’s how it was when this chap mentioned Chintamani and that tune kept playing in my head for a good hour or so. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money, you know the jingle. I hope it rings in your head for a while too. Chintamani, chintamani, chin ta money.
He’s not a very talkative man. He had uttered only three words in the hour before I met him. But I'm different.
He mumbled they have a big market there in Chintamani. They stack groundnuts in huge heaps that tower into the sky. As big as mountains. Big market Sir. They also trade oxen and cows and bullocks and buffaloes there. Big market.
Impressive. May be I should go there sometime,Chintamani. Never really been to a cattle fair, although some of the job expos in Bangalore I am told come very close. The only difference is that in Chintamani, they trade in real cattle and not corporate slaves.
He’s been stuck in the same profession for over twenty years. He spent four or six, I think four….. whatever. He spent fours years, before he started work as a professional, as a trainee without salary.
Who the hell spends four years in learning a craft? And what he does, is not something you really need four years to master. Its not like you spent four years in improving your handwriting and you can now do calligraphy or like in my case learn to draw. I can spend a lifetime trying to draw and paint without making any progress. Thus I don’t even try. But I can learn to do what he does in about a month.
He did a lot of other stupid things for long periods of time. I guess career growth wasn’t much of an option for him.
He tells me that his brother left for his heavenly abode twenty days ago. He asks me if I knew his brother. I shake my head. What was he thinking?
I try to change topics as I couldn’t get much of his mumblings.
It’s the day after Ugadi, the second leg where it’s a meat extravaganza. He tells me that his nephew has gone home to gorge on mutton, chicken and fish. He hopes they will leave him some but he’s not really bothered. He's lost all his teeth I guess.
He goes on to tell me that his brother had nine children and all the boys have taken in to the family profession, carefully handed down one generation to another. Believe me, they are not into making jewellery or sophisticated watches.
Do you know my nephew? I shake my head again. How am I supposed to know his nephew?
He grows quiet.
Then I ask him more questions on his own life and he starts all over again.
The man from Kaiwar cross, after his four years as a trainee and some years of practice, then moves into Bangalore. He finds a place to stay in a little Muslim neighbourhood, near Fun World, Palace grounds. Its an old neighbourhood but a well known one. That sounds fine.
But not to his prospective father-in-law.
Back then, Hindus and Muslims were at each others throats in some distant part of the country. That is sufficient reason for him to refuse the then young man his bride. Considering not much has changed, I don't know whose side to be on.
The man-from-Kaiwar-cross is unmarried till this date. He’s old and he’s feeble, has a dry cough, but his hands, thankfully, are still steady.
He then asks me if I know Yesvanthpur. Of course I know Yesvanthpur! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli. Of course I know Jalahalli! Then he asks if I know Jalahalli East. What? He tells me that Jalahalli and Jalahalli East are not the same. I am given directions on a road I am sure he last traveled by bullock cart in the late seventies. I pretend to be paying attention.
Hmmm, yeah, hmmmm yeah, oh ok. Hmmmm.
Stupid old chap.
Man, it is a hot day today. The ceiling fan is blowing hot air from one corner of the room to the other. I glance towards my bicycle enjoying the beams of light from vehicles passing by dancing on the rims, little pieces of chrome and the shiny red paint. I had spent half an hour cleaning her that evening. Job well done.
The Man-from-Kaiwar-Cross then switches off the fan. Punishment for not paying attention?
No.
He pulls out the powder tin, shakes some onto my neck, and brushes it off with his thick, fat brush.
The haircut’s over. The fan’s switched on again.
The hot air blows from one corner of the room to another.
I dig into my wallet and settle his dues wondering, who on earth would spend four years learning to cut hair?
Why would anyone stay bachelor just because one man refused him his daughter, irrespective of where he stayed. Why couldn't he just move?
He spent two years of his life just drawing water from a well and filling pots and a tank with water.
May be he’s just a nitwit.
The End.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Clockwork Orange
One of my earliest memories as a child is getting ready for school. My first school, Sophia’s, where I studied until I was in class four, used to start quite early in the morning for Bangalore standards. It used to start at a freezing 8:05am. On misty Bangalore mornings, as my brother and I stood at the veranda, with our lunch boxes and school bags, we filled our lungs with air, and blew it out into the morning mist to see who “smoked” more as we waited for dad to pull out the car or the scooter from the garage. The old days……
We were healthy kids. And we stayed healthy for a reason. Everyday, if there’s one thing we did without fail, it had to be take tablespoon fulls of Waterbury’s Compound. We always took one for good luck. We loved our Waterbury’s. I still swear by it. For those of you who don’t what it is, it’s a general tonic that builds body resistance against colds, cough, bronchitis, and the lot. We took our shot of Waterbury’s and we wrestled in the dust, played with water, did all the stupid things we could think of, and we didn’t fall sick. That was our magic potion. In the old days it came in a black square glass bottle. I will not be surprised if our love for Old Monk stems from our love for Waterbury’s.
Nostalgia. Nice.
I just ran down to the store and bought myself a bottle of Waterbury’s for old time sake. With the caramel flavour still lingering in my mouth, I am now ready to take life by the horns, do a back flip and kick it in the balls. Its about time.
Those of you who know me, for the last three-four weeks, there has been only one thing on my mind. The most dreaded word in all of mankind. The mere mention of the word is enough to send shivers down the spine. In dark rooms where they don’t want to be seen, men and women discuss the horrors and the unseen tragedies they had to suffer when the beast sprang into the air and attacked them. It bit them and mauled them, leaving them bleeding and traumatized. Some even dead.
A few manage to scamper away to safety, ran into the jungles. They lived off wild berries, fruits whatever the jungle had to offer. Occasionally, they would bump into hikers who would part with a few tea bags and chocolate chip cookies. Not all are that lucky. The jungles are not always littered with hikers carrying chocolate chip cookies in their backpacks. Some went hungry. As long as they were in the jungles, they thought the beast wouldn't bother them. They wished!
Now they all speak in whispers, fearing the horrors, what if the beast returns?
If you are lucky someone will whisper a few words into your ears. Its usually a very scared, “Run, and keep running”. (It’s a whisper, thus can’t be in normal font size.)
The more I researched, the more I wanted to buy a fast car. I wanted a turbo charged version. Planned to install performance exhausts and stiff suspension. Big fat tyres for extra grip. I wanted Nitrous Oxide in the boot. I needed ceramic brakes. I filled my fuel tank to the brim. I even contemplated signing up for a “midway refuelling” service, only to find out there is not such thing.
I was petrified, still am. May be I should get a dog for added security, one of those fierce, mean, ugly bastards with teeth that can bite through steel. I’ll even buy it a collar with shiny steel spikes to give it an even meaner look. I’ll call it “Hippo – the crocodile slayer”. But I am told even that may not help. The beast apparently has no sense of humour and working under cover for the Japs, it aims to wipe out the Green Peace activists.
As I was just about losing all hope, Inspiration knocks on the door.
He’s not Tamil Christian, don’t worry. Inspiration as in “to be inspired”.
Knock knock. I let him in. He had a message. It’s cryptic. But it’s a brilliant plan. You watch it for yourself and let me know what you think of it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zorjieypbjo
I have nice big smile on my face. Thank god for Waterbury’s Compound. Surprising isn’t it? You used to drink it as a child to protect you from Mother Nature. You are no longer a child and while it still protects you from the elements, it gives you that psychological edge to fight against Mothers’ nature.
It’s a mind game.
They’ll ask me questions, a lot of questions and I’ll tell them….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONERYZ0R19E
The End
We were healthy kids. And we stayed healthy for a reason. Everyday, if there’s one thing we did without fail, it had to be take tablespoon fulls of Waterbury’s Compound. We always took one for good luck. We loved our Waterbury’s. I still swear by it. For those of you who don’t what it is, it’s a general tonic that builds body resistance against colds, cough, bronchitis, and the lot. We took our shot of Waterbury’s and we wrestled in the dust, played with water, did all the stupid things we could think of, and we didn’t fall sick. That was our magic potion. In the old days it came in a black square glass bottle. I will not be surprised if our love for Old Monk stems from our love for Waterbury’s.
Nostalgia. Nice.
I just ran down to the store and bought myself a bottle of Waterbury’s for old time sake. With the caramel flavour still lingering in my mouth, I am now ready to take life by the horns, do a back flip and kick it in the balls. Its about time.
Those of you who know me, for the last three-four weeks, there has been only one thing on my mind. The most dreaded word in all of mankind. The mere mention of the word is enough to send shivers down the spine. In dark rooms where they don’t want to be seen, men and women discuss the horrors and the unseen tragedies they had to suffer when the beast sprang into the air and attacked them. It bit them and mauled them, leaving them bleeding and traumatized. Some even dead.
A few manage to scamper away to safety, ran into the jungles. They lived off wild berries, fruits whatever the jungle had to offer. Occasionally, they would bump into hikers who would part with a few tea bags and chocolate chip cookies. Not all are that lucky. The jungles are not always littered with hikers carrying chocolate chip cookies in their backpacks. Some went hungry. As long as they were in the jungles, they thought the beast wouldn't bother them. They wished!
Now they all speak in whispers, fearing the horrors, what if the beast returns?
If you are lucky someone will whisper a few words into your ears. Its usually a very scared, “Run, and keep running”. (It’s a whisper, thus can’t be in normal font size.)
The more I researched, the more I wanted to buy a fast car. I wanted a turbo charged version. Planned to install performance exhausts and stiff suspension. Big fat tyres for extra grip. I wanted Nitrous Oxide in the boot. I needed ceramic brakes. I filled my fuel tank to the brim. I even contemplated signing up for a “midway refuelling” service, only to find out there is not such thing.
I was petrified, still am. May be I should get a dog for added security, one of those fierce, mean, ugly bastards with teeth that can bite through steel. I’ll even buy it a collar with shiny steel spikes to give it an even meaner look. I’ll call it “Hippo – the crocodile slayer”. But I am told even that may not help. The beast apparently has no sense of humour and working under cover for the Japs, it aims to wipe out the Green Peace activists.
As I was just about losing all hope, Inspiration knocks on the door.
He’s not Tamil Christian, don’t worry. Inspiration as in “to be inspired”.
Knock knock. I let him in. He had a message. It’s cryptic. But it’s a brilliant plan. You watch it for yourself and let me know what you think of it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zorjieypbjo
I have nice big smile on my face. Thank god for Waterbury’s Compound. Surprising isn’t it? You used to drink it as a child to protect you from Mother Nature. You are no longer a child and while it still protects you from the elements, it gives you that psychological edge to fight against Mothers’ nature.
It’s a mind game.
They’ll ask me questions, a lot of questions and I’ll tell them….
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONERYZ0R19E
We have a game on our hands.
Oh! Nearly forgot. That dreaded word…….Shhhhhhhh. Remember, you must never say it out loud or the beast will hear you and hunt you down.
That dreaded word is Marriage.
That dreaded word is Marriage.
Have I gone Clockwork Orange?
Well, I don't know. But think about it, isn't that what marriage is all about? About going Clockwork Orange?
Think about it and let me know.
While you ponder over that, I'll leave you in the company of the master genius.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mvutiDRvQ
Well, I don't know. But think about it, isn't that what marriage is all about? About going Clockwork Orange?
Think about it and let me know.
While you ponder over that, I'll leave you in the company of the master genius.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-mvutiDRvQ
The End
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My Carbon Footprint.
Copenhagen. My foot.
You really think I give as much as a mouse fart for Copenhagen? I don’t think I spent three months of hibernation, thinking about what to write to settle for Copenhagen.
Copenhagen.......
The last few months have been peaceful. So peaceful, that’s its bored the living daylights out of me. I started doing all crazy things. I started listening to people, following traffic rules, supported the government, became forgiving, charitable, went on an austerity drive and generous too. I feel like Rusty (Brad Pitt) in Ocean’s Twelve. Notice I didn’t say Ocean’s Eleven. I said Ocean’s Twelve. Ocean’s Eleven was about money….. Ocean’s Twelve was a cure for boredom.
Let’s not get into movies. We are talking business here.
As I was saying, “The last few months have been peaceful”, peaceful until last weekend. Then the ceasefire ended.
Last Weekend I attended a friend’s wedding at RSI, Bangalore. I have been attending weddings all month long, one more shouldn’t have been any different. As a good guest, I ate well and was dropping a friend home when I run into a police barricade. They are frisking guys for drunken driving… usual Saturday night checking. Nothing to be alarmed about, especially when all you had is one drink followed by a nice meal. Confidently I pull over and the cops asks me to blow into his alcohol meter.
"Sir, please blow into the meter".
Bloody thing turns red and there’s “ALCOHOL” displayed on the screen. I tell the cop, “Officer, I haven’t been drinking”. Mind you I actually said “Officer”.
“Ok Sir, let’s try that again”.
Beep. ALCOHOL.
“Officer, I told you, I haven’t been drinking. I don’t know why your machine says so.”
“Ok Sir, let’s try that again. I’ll give you the best of three tries”.
Beep. ALCOHOL.
“Sorry Sir, pull over, you failed the test thrice. I’ll have to book you”.
You see, there’s no point arguing it, and telling him that you had only one shot and you are well within the legal limit. That’s suicide. No point arguing over the accuracy of that alcohol gun, for he won’t show you the reading. Moreover it’ll only complicate life. Ever tried explaining to your high school teacher you were not looking into your friend's answer sheet, but you just peeped over to borrow the eraser? I am a veteran at this.
See, the legal limit in Bangalore is an insane one mug/pint of beer or I think one shot of whisky, one 30ml shot, not even a large. If I am not mistaken the 30ml just about scrapes through. If the bar tender had been a little generous and poured 2ml more, you’ll be over the legal limit. Even if it is in decimals that go to one/one thousandth of a percent, you know cops. “It’s the Letter of the Law”.The law says 2% and you are 2.0001% , that’s over 2%. Guilty. Now cough up”.
So, like I said, it was pointless.
I stuck to my story that I hadn’t been drinking, just returning home after a long day at work.
"Look at me Sir. Do I look like I just returned from a party?" .
Then I cooked up a story that I had eaten a “foreign” chocolate which had some “liquid” inside, for “I have not had a single drop”. (Try explaining liqueur chocolate to cops). And that must be reason why the meter is beeping.
The Cop buys it, only after I give him some pocket money. Paid him Rs200. Its pocket change really, you would normally shell out close to twenty times that for the real charge.
You see, he let me off that cheap because he knew I was well within limit. In short, I was not on the wrong side of the law. But since I didn’t challenge his meter and we spoke the friendly local language, we settled it amicably; a little pocket money for standing out there in the freezing cold and keeping the city’s road safe. Like I said, I have been very generous too in these times of austerity.
That was forgiven. I didn’t hold any grudges towards him.
A week later, another cop pulled my over for jumping a light. That’s two traffic violations in a span of two weeks. This time I was pissed off. Of course there’s no need to bribe a cop over a signal jump as the fine is only Rs 100. I didn’t even argue. Gave him my driving license, and watched as he typed in my license number and car’s regn number into his Blackberry. A wireless printer on the cop's bike spat out the receipt. Bangalore cops, putting the fruits of the Silicon valley to good use.
Impressed? Far from it. I was pissed. I was fucking livid. I had had enough.
So long Mister-Nice-Guy.
I’ll give you peace, Green Peace.
Puli was on a mission.
The Mission: To break as many traffic rules humanly possible. Do it in the face of the traffic cops. Do it and not get booked.
There was only one way to do that.
I pulled out my bicycle.
I jumped signal lights all evening. I cycled down No Entries. I cycled on the Cubbon Road pavement, right in front of the cops. I was talking on my mobile. I was weaving though traffic like it was no one’s business.
I was a free bird. Then I decided to take it literally. I cycled to Shantinagar, "as-the-crow-flies". My friends on their scooters couldn't keep up with me for those 6kms from where I met them (Cox town) to Shantinagar.
Freedom at last.
I cycled all the way to Shantinagar, a good 13-14 kms away to meet some friends at a Tibetian joint that serves apparently good Momos. The Momos were shit, but it didn’t matter.
The place was full of posters. Posters telling you about the Chinese oppression, about how millions were living in refuge in India and how many more were braving the brutal Chinese back home in Tibet. A candle light vigil. Another had a picture of a white dove.
I sit there eating the crappy momos/ steamed dumplings and wonder, may be that’s how Naxalites are born. The Naxalites, my foreign friends, are Indian terrorists who go around setting fire to police stations and police jeeps and they hide in the hills and forests; India’s indigenous Merry Men sans Robin Hood.
You see it makes sense. There comes a point when the common man, honest, tax paying, law abiding, just loses it. The politicians, the cops, the government officers, the tax authorities, office politics, apartment rules, church rules, temple rules, bar rules, dress code, traffic rules, basically everything. He’s so pissed with society, he wants to shoot all of them. A Naxalite is born, just to let him do what is basically fine, but society with its protectionist rules, denies him. Eg. Bangalore has banned dancing in its nightclubs. Can you beat that? Banned dancing? The reason - girl tend to get molested in nightclubs, so let's ban dancing. Case closed.
So there, that’s my Naxal theory. Its not negotiable. It’ll hold as much water as I want it to hold.
Coming back to my story.
Now I am too lazy to become a Naxal. Becoming a Naxalite involves a lot of running, and I don’t want to be that fit. And moreover while John Rambo gets to blow up trucks and spray people with a machine gun, but do you see him eating chicken kababs and drinking beer? Little wonder that he had six pack abs and bulging forearms.
I am pretty fit, I only need a weekly workout. So, I can't become a Naxalite.
Finally, I had almost reached home, feeling pretty good with the day’s exploits. Keyword, almost.
You see, society, school, mum, everyone have always told me that when you do something, you might as well do it well. Go that extra mile.
I was turning obedient again.
I chained my bicycle to a No-Parking sign and walked into the neighborhood watering hole! The King of Good Times accompanied me on my way home.
Peace at last.
That’s my Christmas message to all my readers. The next time you get pissed off in life, work on reducing that carbon footprint. Leave that car at home, get a bicycle. Do your bit for the environment. Give them all the clean energy they need. They have earned it.
Green peace and Merry Christmas.
You really think I give as much as a mouse fart for Copenhagen? I don’t think I spent three months of hibernation, thinking about what to write to settle for Copenhagen.
Copenhagen.......
The last few months have been peaceful. So peaceful, that’s its bored the living daylights out of me. I started doing all crazy things. I started listening to people, following traffic rules, supported the government, became forgiving, charitable, went on an austerity drive and generous too. I feel like Rusty (Brad Pitt) in Ocean’s Twelve. Notice I didn’t say Ocean’s Eleven. I said Ocean’s Twelve. Ocean’s Eleven was about money….. Ocean’s Twelve was a cure for boredom.
Let’s not get into movies. We are talking business here.
As I was saying, “The last few months have been peaceful”, peaceful until last weekend. Then the ceasefire ended.
Last Weekend I attended a friend’s wedding at RSI, Bangalore. I have been attending weddings all month long, one more shouldn’t have been any different. As a good guest, I ate well and was dropping a friend home when I run into a police barricade. They are frisking guys for drunken driving… usual Saturday night checking. Nothing to be alarmed about, especially when all you had is one drink followed by a nice meal. Confidently I pull over and the cops asks me to blow into his alcohol meter.
"Sir, please blow into the meter".
Bloody thing turns red and there’s “ALCOHOL” displayed on the screen. I tell the cop, “Officer, I haven’t been drinking”. Mind you I actually said “Officer”.
“Ok Sir, let’s try that again”.
Beep. ALCOHOL.
“Officer, I told you, I haven’t been drinking. I don’t know why your machine says so.”
“Ok Sir, let’s try that again. I’ll give you the best of three tries”.
Beep. ALCOHOL.
“Sorry Sir, pull over, you failed the test thrice. I’ll have to book you”.
You see, there’s no point arguing it, and telling him that you had only one shot and you are well within the legal limit. That’s suicide. No point arguing over the accuracy of that alcohol gun, for he won’t show you the reading. Moreover it’ll only complicate life. Ever tried explaining to your high school teacher you were not looking into your friend's answer sheet, but you just peeped over to borrow the eraser? I am a veteran at this.
See, the legal limit in Bangalore is an insane one mug/pint of beer or I think one shot of whisky, one 30ml shot, not even a large. If I am not mistaken the 30ml just about scrapes through. If the bar tender had been a little generous and poured 2ml more, you’ll be over the legal limit. Even if it is in decimals that go to one/one thousandth of a percent, you know cops. “It’s the Letter of the Law”.The law says 2% and you are 2.0001% , that’s over 2%. Guilty. Now cough up”.
So, like I said, it was pointless.
I stuck to my story that I hadn’t been drinking, just returning home after a long day at work.
"Look at me Sir. Do I look like I just returned from a party?" .
Then I cooked up a story that I had eaten a “foreign” chocolate which had some “liquid” inside, for “I have not had a single drop”. (Try explaining liqueur chocolate to cops). And that must be reason why the meter is beeping.
The Cop buys it, only after I give him some pocket money. Paid him Rs200. Its pocket change really, you would normally shell out close to twenty times that for the real charge.
You see, he let me off that cheap because he knew I was well within limit. In short, I was not on the wrong side of the law. But since I didn’t challenge his meter and we spoke the friendly local language, we settled it amicably; a little pocket money for standing out there in the freezing cold and keeping the city’s road safe. Like I said, I have been very generous too in these times of austerity.
That was forgiven. I didn’t hold any grudges towards him.
A week later, another cop pulled my over for jumping a light. That’s two traffic violations in a span of two weeks. This time I was pissed off. Of course there’s no need to bribe a cop over a signal jump as the fine is only Rs 100. I didn’t even argue. Gave him my driving license, and watched as he typed in my license number and car’s regn number into his Blackberry. A wireless printer on the cop's bike spat out the receipt. Bangalore cops, putting the fruits of the Silicon valley to good use.
Impressed? Far from it. I was pissed. I was fucking livid. I had had enough.
So long Mister-Nice-Guy.
I’ll give you peace, Green Peace.
Puli was on a mission.
The Mission: To break as many traffic rules humanly possible. Do it in the face of the traffic cops. Do it and not get booked.
There was only one way to do that.
I pulled out my bicycle.
I jumped signal lights all evening. I cycled down No Entries. I cycled on the Cubbon Road pavement, right in front of the cops. I was talking on my mobile. I was weaving though traffic like it was no one’s business.
I was a free bird. Then I decided to take it literally. I cycled to Shantinagar, "as-the-crow-flies". My friends on their scooters couldn't keep up with me for those 6kms from where I met them (Cox town) to Shantinagar.
Freedom at last.
I cycled all the way to Shantinagar, a good 13-14 kms away to meet some friends at a Tibetian joint that serves apparently good Momos. The Momos were shit, but it didn’t matter.
The place was full of posters. Posters telling you about the Chinese oppression, about how millions were living in refuge in India and how many more were braving the brutal Chinese back home in Tibet. A candle light vigil. Another had a picture of a white dove.
I sit there eating the crappy momos/ steamed dumplings and wonder, may be that’s how Naxalites are born. The Naxalites, my foreign friends, are Indian terrorists who go around setting fire to police stations and police jeeps and they hide in the hills and forests; India’s indigenous Merry Men sans Robin Hood.
You see it makes sense. There comes a point when the common man, honest, tax paying, law abiding, just loses it. The politicians, the cops, the government officers, the tax authorities, office politics, apartment rules, church rules, temple rules, bar rules, dress code, traffic rules, basically everything. He’s so pissed with society, he wants to shoot all of them. A Naxalite is born, just to let him do what is basically fine, but society with its protectionist rules, denies him. Eg. Bangalore has banned dancing in its nightclubs. Can you beat that? Banned dancing? The reason - girl tend to get molested in nightclubs, so let's ban dancing. Case closed.
So there, that’s my Naxal theory. Its not negotiable. It’ll hold as much water as I want it to hold.
Coming back to my story.
Now I am too lazy to become a Naxal. Becoming a Naxalite involves a lot of running, and I don’t want to be that fit. And moreover while John Rambo gets to blow up trucks and spray people with a machine gun, but do you see him eating chicken kababs and drinking beer? Little wonder that he had six pack abs and bulging forearms.
I am pretty fit, I only need a weekly workout. So, I can't become a Naxalite.
Finally, I had almost reached home, feeling pretty good with the day’s exploits. Keyword, almost.
You see, society, school, mum, everyone have always told me that when you do something, you might as well do it well. Go that extra mile.
I was turning obedient again.
I chained my bicycle to a No-Parking sign and walked into the neighborhood watering hole! The King of Good Times accompanied me on my way home.
Peace at last.
That’s my Christmas message to all my readers. The next time you get pissed off in life, work on reducing that carbon footprint. Leave that car at home, get a bicycle. Do your bit for the environment. Give them all the clean energy they need. They have earned it.
Green peace and Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Even sinners pray
Independence Day.
If you think I am going to take a bath and head out to school and watch the flag hoisting filled with national pride, forget it. It’s not my scene, and I hate politicians and crappy speeches.
If I stay in Bangalore this Independence Day weekend, this is what is going to happen. Radiocity will play Rehman tracks twenty times in three hours. I am sure this year’s favourite track will be “Jai Ho” from the Slumdog Millionaire. There will be an interview with Abhinav Bhindra, the only Indian who won an Olympic gold. Facebook will be full of “I love India” videolinks and photos and fan clubs and people taking the “How Indian are you test?” and the “Which freedom fighter are you?” tests. I am not even going to log into facebook. Then, I’ll have to read about what Independence day means to Prasad Bidappa and his gay pals in Times of India. Read about what our freedom fighters, ok, that sounds too Taliban, I take it back, read what the fathers’ of our nation had envisaged when they sought deliverance from the British. All that juxtaposed with Mayawati’s and Deve Gowda’s contributions to the nation.
I feel so shitty thinking about it, I need a drink.
Drink? I am suddenly reminded of the bloody BJP. They have the national flower, the lotus as their party symbol and all they go about doing is deflowering the state. Perfect.
The BJP spent a lot of money, mostly illegal mining money, to fund their election campaign in Karnataka. Now that they are in power, it’s time to fill up their coffers again. They are going about it sledgehammer in hand. First they cleaned up all the important portfolios. Then the Forest Department to pave the way for some more illegal mining, never bite the hand that feeds, loyal dogs. They are out there to milk every sucker dry. Then they took it literally. Recently they went after the Karnataka Milk Federation (KMF), Karnataka’s answer to Amul. Well, considering they ousted Deve Gowda’s son, I think that was a good thing. So, let’s strike that off the record.
To fund their “budgetary deficit”, you know, money the government spends in the name of infrastructure on contractors who helped them win the elections, they decided to hit the moral high ground. Alcohol. They increased the excise duties on alcohol by a whopping 65%. Sixty five percent. And to make matters worse, local liquor stores demand a 10% premium over and above that because the government has increased the cost of bar licenses.
Fuck.
So, this August 15, I planned to head out to the one place I know where people don’t give a fuck. Pondicherry. It should be, for it was never under British rule. It was ruled by their arch enemy, the French. And the French did the exact opposite of the British. How can they go wrong? I am beginning to like the French. Queen? What queen? They used the guillotine on the last one they had. So, now they have Nicolas Sarkozy. Respect.
I am off to Pondicherry. Liberty Equality and Fraternity. So what if it was the pillars of the French revolution? Its Independence Day and I am in Pondy.
Problem strikes.
This year, Independence day falls on a Saturday. And since, we already have a million holidays in India, we don’t get a compensatory holiday, like the rest of the civilized world. I am pissed off. So, no three day weekend. I can take Friday off but some of my buddies can’t. Crap.
To make matters worse, I am told it could be a “dry day”. A dry-day, my western audience, is a day when all the liquor stores are shut and not allowed to sell booze. Even the restaurants aren’t allowed to sell liquor. It’s a Dry day.
Independence day better not be a dry-day. And there better be nice clean rooms in Pondy. Else the world will witness another freedom struggle.
Please god please, let this Saturday not be a dry day.
Even sinners pray.
If you think I am going to take a bath and head out to school and watch the flag hoisting filled with national pride, forget it. It’s not my scene, and I hate politicians and crappy speeches.
If I stay in Bangalore this Independence Day weekend, this is what is going to happen. Radiocity will play Rehman tracks twenty times in three hours. I am sure this year’s favourite track will be “Jai Ho” from the Slumdog Millionaire. There will be an interview with Abhinav Bhindra, the only Indian who won an Olympic gold. Facebook will be full of “I love India” videolinks and photos and fan clubs and people taking the “How Indian are you test?” and the “Which freedom fighter are you?” tests. I am not even going to log into facebook. Then, I’ll have to read about what Independence day means to Prasad Bidappa and his gay pals in Times of India. Read about what our freedom fighters, ok, that sounds too Taliban, I take it back, read what the fathers’ of our nation had envisaged when they sought deliverance from the British. All that juxtaposed with Mayawati’s and Deve Gowda’s contributions to the nation.
I feel so shitty thinking about it, I need a drink.
Drink? I am suddenly reminded of the bloody BJP. They have the national flower, the lotus as their party symbol and all they go about doing is deflowering the state. Perfect.
The BJP spent a lot of money, mostly illegal mining money, to fund their election campaign in Karnataka. Now that they are in power, it’s time to fill up their coffers again. They are going about it sledgehammer in hand. First they cleaned up all the important portfolios. Then the Forest Department to pave the way for some more illegal mining, never bite the hand that feeds, loyal dogs. They are out there to milk every sucker dry. Then they took it literally. Recently they went after the Karnataka Milk Federation (KMF), Karnataka’s answer to Amul. Well, considering they ousted Deve Gowda’s son, I think that was a good thing. So, let’s strike that off the record.
To fund their “budgetary deficit”, you know, money the government spends in the name of infrastructure on contractors who helped them win the elections, they decided to hit the moral high ground. Alcohol. They increased the excise duties on alcohol by a whopping 65%. Sixty five percent. And to make matters worse, local liquor stores demand a 10% premium over and above that because the government has increased the cost of bar licenses.
Fuck.
So, this August 15, I planned to head out to the one place I know where people don’t give a fuck. Pondicherry. It should be, for it was never under British rule. It was ruled by their arch enemy, the French. And the French did the exact opposite of the British. How can they go wrong? I am beginning to like the French. Queen? What queen? They used the guillotine on the last one they had. So, now they have Nicolas Sarkozy. Respect.
I am off to Pondicherry. Liberty Equality and Fraternity. So what if it was the pillars of the French revolution? Its Independence Day and I am in Pondy.
Problem strikes.
This year, Independence day falls on a Saturday. And since, we already have a million holidays in India, we don’t get a compensatory holiday, like the rest of the civilized world. I am pissed off. So, no three day weekend. I can take Friday off but some of my buddies can’t. Crap.
To make matters worse, I am told it could be a “dry day”. A dry-day, my western audience, is a day when all the liquor stores are shut and not allowed to sell booze. Even the restaurants aren’t allowed to sell liquor. It’s a Dry day.
Independence day better not be a dry-day. And there better be nice clean rooms in Pondy. Else the world will witness another freedom struggle.
Please god please, let this Saturday not be a dry day.
Even sinners pray.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Pickled. Dazed and Confused.
Chaat and Paani Puri will also make good metaphors. I can’t think of anything else that combines sweet with sour, hot with tangy, yummy with I-think-I am-going-to-throw-up.
That best describes the last two weeks of my life. Just for the record, I am not referring to anything I ate.
Now here goes. Two weeks ago I headed to Kerala to particpate in a friend’s wedding. They decided to tie the knot on a Sunday at Kochi(Cochin). I decided that considering I was going to be sitting in a rotten bus for an entire night, I might as well try to make the most of the trip. The plan was simple. Go to kerala a few days in advance, spend a couple of days with Grandma, and then leisurely head to Kochi, catch up cousins, attend the wedding and get back to Bangalore. How can such a simple plan go wrong? As I soon found out, it can. Apparently anything can happen in Kerala, which just reinforces my belief, that Kerala is literally Gods-Own-Country.
Let’s take one thing at a time. The first two days were bang on, right on target. Peaceful two days on my uncle’s plantation, listening to songs of the birds, the chirping of crickets, watching it rain, living amidst a sea of green, fresh fish, beer, it was heavenly. Welcome respite from the hot Bangalore summer, the traffic, the dust, the pollution, the powercuts, the overcrowded pubs filled with fools yacking about IPL, overpriced restaurants and crappy food, the list is endless.
So there I was, Saturday afternoon, sitting on my backside, after two spending two days in quite slumber, making plans for Sunday, the big day, the very reason that brought me to Kerala, my friend’s wedding. I phoned my cousin in Cochin, and he said, “Super!”. Two minutes later he said, “You know what, there’s a also a Pulickal wedding on Sunday. But that’s in the morning and we’ll get back in time for your friend’s wedding reception in the evening”. I said “Super”! That was a terrific plan. Two birds with one stone. Attend a family wedding, everyone’s happy to see you, you represent the family, and you get to meet several of your uncles and cousins, just super. I couldn’t have planned it better, even more because I hadn’t planned for it.
To be honest I really wasn’t surprised that there was a family function /ceremony on the same day. You see Keralites, don’t really have a social life.
Well, who can blame them when all your weekends are already blocked with family obligations and events? In Christian circles, in Kerala, life revolves as follows. To start with, if you add the number of immediate uncles and aunts, you’ll easily hit double digits. Large families were quite common with the previous generation. A dozen immediate uncles/aunts, including both maternal and paternal, means on an average, if you take 3 children per family, three dozen cousins. Let’s be a little conservative and hope that in the land of rubber, some people actually used them, it still leaves you with thirty cousins. All first generation cousins.
Considering that you are among the youngest in the list of cousins, your life goes thus:
Thirty cousins means thirty weddings.
Thirty weddings means there will have to be thirty engagement ceremonies, and these are like mini weddings, you would still call around two hundred people, so this has to be attended. Another reason why one should attend Engagements is because only immediate families and very close friends are called for it, so you can’t decline.
So, you already have 60!
Thirty weddings mean, on an average, and being conservative, 60 child births – 60 baptisms.
That’s soon followed by 60 “First-Holy-Communions”.
Then, how can we forget the house warming ceremonies when your cousins move into a house of their own? Another thirty.
Then, sooner or later someone’s going to kick the bucket, so you have funerals to attend.
So that’s 210 immediate family social events, excluding the funerals. Then just add friend’s weddings, friend’s house warmings, celebrations in the neighbourhood, church feasts, and miscellaneous parties, and you soon realise that your life is screwed.
Ever wondered why Mallus’ can’t dance or sing or play the guitar? Mystery solved.
Coming back to my story……
I was pretty kicked until this point. Two weddings on Sunday. Two parties. Whoppee.
Ten minutes later, the mobile rings. I just hate this device……..
This time it’s not so good news. A voice on the phone, don’t recall who, I think it was my mum, but whoever it was, tells me that my uncle, my father’s cousin to be exact, just expired. There could be a funeral, a Pulickal funeral, the following day, Sunday.
Screwed.
Now, what do you do in a situation like this? The easiest thing to do is skip all the family engagements, stick to original plan, attend your friend’s wedding and head back.
I couldn’t do this. I had already announced my presence in Kerala to my relatives. There’s no escaping this. You are simply screwed.
The Pulickals being a practical and intelligent lot, pushed the funeral by a day, to accommodate the wedding. Super!
So, we are back to the original plan. I set out to the church. It was a fabulous wedding. The best Pulickal wedding I ever attended. I can go and on about how wonderful it was, but that’s not necessary.
After a sumptous meal, and plenty of socialising, we headed for kochi.
As we were driving, my uncle decides to make a quick stop at his cousin’s place to pay his respects! Well, it was on the way. But we are not dressed to go to a house where someone just expired. My aunt is wearing silk, you don’t go to pay respects to the dead dressed in silk. She might as well carry a bottle of champagne and a party hat. That’s how it’s viewed in Kerala.
But then, being cousins they would understand that we were at the wedding, and we are merely trying to honour all our family obligations.
Little did I realise that the two, the girl who just tied the knot, and the man who just kicked the bucket were neighbours. Immediate neighbours! They share the same boundary wall !
This is getting awkward.
Then, it gets worse. You prepare yourself mentally to enter the house of the deceased. There’s a solemn funeral hymn, the Malayalam equivalent of Abide-With-Me, that’s playing melancholically out of a speaker that’s placed in the courtyard. It’s a very sad, depressing song and tune. It helps.
I step inside the house.
In the middle of the drawing room, I see my uncle, my dad’s cousin, placed in a air-conditioned icebox with a glass top, a mobile mortuary as it’s commonly called, family and mourners seated around it, grieving and reciting the rosary. I meet his son, my second cousin, offer my condolences.
I step out of the house, into the courtyard. The sad music is still playing in the background. Then, “Hi Sachu”! This is a Pleasant Surprise!”.
I bump into some of my uncles, my dad’s brothers. They didn’t expect to see me here. We are all smiles. They ask about my parents, brother…. My life, my job… and I ask about them and my cousins, work, business…. It’s life as usual, as if we met at a wedding.
What happened after that was like being on an acid trip.
I meet people I met at the wedding. The dress code is no longer an issue. Everybody understands. So that’s forgiven. We form a little circle, and we talk. For about five minutes we talk about the deceased. After that, it gets weird.
I am told that my cousin, technically my second cousin, (does it bloody matter?) the one who’s marriage I just attended, had her grandfather pass away the day she was supposed to get engaged. The engagement was postponed of course. We are not freaking animals you know. This uncle, the deceased, attended her grandfather’s funeral the next day. Soon after the funeral he went to inspect a house that was under construction, climbed a 15ft ladder, to instruct or help a labourer, lost his balance, fell off the ladder, hit his head, slipped into a coma. Don’t ask me questions like what possessed a seventy five year old man to climb a ladder. The man was fit, he was Pulickal, We don’t throw in the towel that early. There are centenareans in my family. One went on to see 108.
Anyways, he came out of the coma, but still had breathing difficulties. Was on the respirator for many days, and finally left for his heavenly abode a day before the girl’s wedding.
How fucking weird is that? You sit there, listening to all this, a worker in the courtyard is busy putting a temporary roof over our heads. There’s a possibility of rain. Then someone cracks. He says it’s funny, that he heard of a story where a proud father was once looking at people put up the decorations, arranging the chairs in the courtyard, a shade to protect you from the afternnon sun on the occasion of his son’s wedding, he jokingly muttered to someone standing close by, “ I wonder what it would feel like to die under something so beautiful.” No prizes for guessing what happened next. The man suffered a massive heart attack that night. Wish granted, god must have chuckled. Everyone’s all smiles.
It gets worse. One of my uncle’s realises it’s me, Sachin! All this while he had mistaken me for an elder cousin, because I came with his younger brother! Some more laughs. We are still at the house of the deceased mind you. This is turning into one crazy trip. They went on for another ten minutes, the stories getting more and more bizarre with every passing minute. Finally, we come back on track. That’s when I am told about the party last night in the house next door, the cousin who just tied the knot. Well, the story goes thus. The Engagement was a very solemn affair as it was barely week or so after her grandfather’s funeral. The memories were still very fresh. To make up for that, they decided to have a lavish party a day before the wedding. Everybody expected this uncle to pull out of his illness. At least no one expected him to kick the bucket on the eve of the wedding.
Deliverance. My cousin decides its time to head back to Kochi. It was about time, couldn’t go on that trip any more.
An hour later, we are in Kochi. I rush to shower and I am now all dressed, for a wedding party! It’s a great party. They are serving JW Black Label. Its being served in the parking lot, kebabs and all. Surprised? It’s counting day after the recent elections, and there’s a nation wide ban on serving alcohol. So, no liqour was served officially. I couldn’t care less, I can do with some alcohol at this point. I need some, actually a lot, of alcohol at this point.
The next day.
My dad’s elder brother was in the hospital. An allergic reaction to an angiogram they did on him a few weeks ago. The ink they inject into your blooodstream , tends to have side effects and the doctors are clueless as to what exactly is wrong with him. Its not a very pleasant sight to see one of your favourite uncles in a hospital bed, doctors experimenting on him, like he’s a laboratory rat. I was pissed. I was livid. They shift him to Intensive Care and visitors are not allowed in there. We leave.
On the way back we have to participate in another wedding! I really wish I had drugs on me, I could actually use some. Thankfully this time it’s no one related, just my aunt’s gym instructor’s.
We eat lunch and we are off, back to base location, to attend the funeral. This time, no one is wearing silk. Almost everyone’s in tears or trying hard to hold back the tears. He was endeared by everyone, a nice man, an educated man, played an instrumental role in keeping the family closely knit. By family, I mean the whole Pulickal clan if I may call it that..
It’s over. Two crazy days, an emotional rollercoaster.
I have a bus to catch in a couple of hours. Followed by an overnight journey back home to Bangalore. We are just about to leave the graveyard and head back to Kochi from where I board my bus. Just saying my final goodbyes to all my uncles and promising to convey their regards to my parents when I am told that there’s another cousin’s wedding in a day’s time.
I smile. I shake hands. I rush to the car and ask my cousin to “Step on it. Get me out of here double quick”.
Crazy isn’t it, had I stuck on for another day, it would have been Four weddings and a Funeral.
My cousin’s speechless. He has to go for that wedding. It literally is Four Weddings and a Funeral for him!
Kerala, no wonder they call it Gods-Own-Country.
That best describes the last two weeks of my life. Just for the record, I am not referring to anything I ate.
Now here goes. Two weeks ago I headed to Kerala to particpate in a friend’s wedding. They decided to tie the knot on a Sunday at Kochi(Cochin). I decided that considering I was going to be sitting in a rotten bus for an entire night, I might as well try to make the most of the trip. The plan was simple. Go to kerala a few days in advance, spend a couple of days with Grandma, and then leisurely head to Kochi, catch up cousins, attend the wedding and get back to Bangalore. How can such a simple plan go wrong? As I soon found out, it can. Apparently anything can happen in Kerala, which just reinforces my belief, that Kerala is literally Gods-Own-Country.
Let’s take one thing at a time. The first two days were bang on, right on target. Peaceful two days on my uncle’s plantation, listening to songs of the birds, the chirping of crickets, watching it rain, living amidst a sea of green, fresh fish, beer, it was heavenly. Welcome respite from the hot Bangalore summer, the traffic, the dust, the pollution, the powercuts, the overcrowded pubs filled with fools yacking about IPL, overpriced restaurants and crappy food, the list is endless.
So there I was, Saturday afternoon, sitting on my backside, after two spending two days in quite slumber, making plans for Sunday, the big day, the very reason that brought me to Kerala, my friend’s wedding. I phoned my cousin in Cochin, and he said, “Super!”. Two minutes later he said, “You know what, there’s a also a Pulickal wedding on Sunday. But that’s in the morning and we’ll get back in time for your friend’s wedding reception in the evening”. I said “Super”! That was a terrific plan. Two birds with one stone. Attend a family wedding, everyone’s happy to see you, you represent the family, and you get to meet several of your uncles and cousins, just super. I couldn’t have planned it better, even more because I hadn’t planned for it.
To be honest I really wasn’t surprised that there was a family function /ceremony on the same day. You see Keralites, don’t really have a social life.
Well, who can blame them when all your weekends are already blocked with family obligations and events? In Christian circles, in Kerala, life revolves as follows. To start with, if you add the number of immediate uncles and aunts, you’ll easily hit double digits. Large families were quite common with the previous generation. A dozen immediate uncles/aunts, including both maternal and paternal, means on an average, if you take 3 children per family, three dozen cousins. Let’s be a little conservative and hope that in the land of rubber, some people actually used them, it still leaves you with thirty cousins. All first generation cousins.
Considering that you are among the youngest in the list of cousins, your life goes thus:
Thirty cousins means thirty weddings.
Thirty weddings means there will have to be thirty engagement ceremonies, and these are like mini weddings, you would still call around two hundred people, so this has to be attended. Another reason why one should attend Engagements is because only immediate families and very close friends are called for it, so you can’t decline.
So, you already have 60!
Thirty weddings mean, on an average, and being conservative, 60 child births – 60 baptisms.
That’s soon followed by 60 “First-Holy-Communions”.
Then, how can we forget the house warming ceremonies when your cousins move into a house of their own? Another thirty.
Then, sooner or later someone’s going to kick the bucket, so you have funerals to attend.
So that’s 210 immediate family social events, excluding the funerals. Then just add friend’s weddings, friend’s house warmings, celebrations in the neighbourhood, church feasts, and miscellaneous parties, and you soon realise that your life is screwed.
Ever wondered why Mallus’ can’t dance or sing or play the guitar? Mystery solved.
Coming back to my story……
I was pretty kicked until this point. Two weddings on Sunday. Two parties. Whoppee.
Ten minutes later, the mobile rings. I just hate this device……..
This time it’s not so good news. A voice on the phone, don’t recall who, I think it was my mum, but whoever it was, tells me that my uncle, my father’s cousin to be exact, just expired. There could be a funeral, a Pulickal funeral, the following day, Sunday.
Screwed.
Now, what do you do in a situation like this? The easiest thing to do is skip all the family engagements, stick to original plan, attend your friend’s wedding and head back.
I couldn’t do this. I had already announced my presence in Kerala to my relatives. There’s no escaping this. You are simply screwed.
The Pulickals being a practical and intelligent lot, pushed the funeral by a day, to accommodate the wedding. Super!
So, we are back to the original plan. I set out to the church. It was a fabulous wedding. The best Pulickal wedding I ever attended. I can go and on about how wonderful it was, but that’s not necessary.
After a sumptous meal, and plenty of socialising, we headed for kochi.
As we were driving, my uncle decides to make a quick stop at his cousin’s place to pay his respects! Well, it was on the way. But we are not dressed to go to a house where someone just expired. My aunt is wearing silk, you don’t go to pay respects to the dead dressed in silk. She might as well carry a bottle of champagne and a party hat. That’s how it’s viewed in Kerala.
But then, being cousins they would understand that we were at the wedding, and we are merely trying to honour all our family obligations.
Little did I realise that the two, the girl who just tied the knot, and the man who just kicked the bucket were neighbours. Immediate neighbours! They share the same boundary wall !
This is getting awkward.
Then, it gets worse. You prepare yourself mentally to enter the house of the deceased. There’s a solemn funeral hymn, the Malayalam equivalent of Abide-With-Me, that’s playing melancholically out of a speaker that’s placed in the courtyard. It’s a very sad, depressing song and tune. It helps.
I step inside the house.
In the middle of the drawing room, I see my uncle, my dad’s cousin, placed in a air-conditioned icebox with a glass top, a mobile mortuary as it’s commonly called, family and mourners seated around it, grieving and reciting the rosary. I meet his son, my second cousin, offer my condolences.
I step out of the house, into the courtyard. The sad music is still playing in the background. Then, “Hi Sachu”! This is a Pleasant Surprise!”.
I bump into some of my uncles, my dad’s brothers. They didn’t expect to see me here. We are all smiles. They ask about my parents, brother…. My life, my job… and I ask about them and my cousins, work, business…. It’s life as usual, as if we met at a wedding.
What happened after that was like being on an acid trip.
I meet people I met at the wedding. The dress code is no longer an issue. Everybody understands. So that’s forgiven. We form a little circle, and we talk. For about five minutes we talk about the deceased. After that, it gets weird.
I am told that my cousin, technically my second cousin, (does it bloody matter?) the one who’s marriage I just attended, had her grandfather pass away the day she was supposed to get engaged. The engagement was postponed of course. We are not freaking animals you know. This uncle, the deceased, attended her grandfather’s funeral the next day. Soon after the funeral he went to inspect a house that was under construction, climbed a 15ft ladder, to instruct or help a labourer, lost his balance, fell off the ladder, hit his head, slipped into a coma. Don’t ask me questions like what possessed a seventy five year old man to climb a ladder. The man was fit, he was Pulickal, We don’t throw in the towel that early. There are centenareans in my family. One went on to see 108.
Anyways, he came out of the coma, but still had breathing difficulties. Was on the respirator for many days, and finally left for his heavenly abode a day before the girl’s wedding.
How fucking weird is that? You sit there, listening to all this, a worker in the courtyard is busy putting a temporary roof over our heads. There’s a possibility of rain. Then someone cracks. He says it’s funny, that he heard of a story where a proud father was once looking at people put up the decorations, arranging the chairs in the courtyard, a shade to protect you from the afternnon sun on the occasion of his son’s wedding, he jokingly muttered to someone standing close by, “ I wonder what it would feel like to die under something so beautiful.” No prizes for guessing what happened next. The man suffered a massive heart attack that night. Wish granted, god must have chuckled. Everyone’s all smiles.
It gets worse. One of my uncle’s realises it’s me, Sachin! All this while he had mistaken me for an elder cousin, because I came with his younger brother! Some more laughs. We are still at the house of the deceased mind you. This is turning into one crazy trip. They went on for another ten minutes, the stories getting more and more bizarre with every passing minute. Finally, we come back on track. That’s when I am told about the party last night in the house next door, the cousin who just tied the knot. Well, the story goes thus. The Engagement was a very solemn affair as it was barely week or so after her grandfather’s funeral. The memories were still very fresh. To make up for that, they decided to have a lavish party a day before the wedding. Everybody expected this uncle to pull out of his illness. At least no one expected him to kick the bucket on the eve of the wedding.
Deliverance. My cousin decides its time to head back to Kochi. It was about time, couldn’t go on that trip any more.
An hour later, we are in Kochi. I rush to shower and I am now all dressed, for a wedding party! It’s a great party. They are serving JW Black Label. Its being served in the parking lot, kebabs and all. Surprised? It’s counting day after the recent elections, and there’s a nation wide ban on serving alcohol. So, no liqour was served officially. I couldn’t care less, I can do with some alcohol at this point. I need some, actually a lot, of alcohol at this point.
The next day.
My dad’s elder brother was in the hospital. An allergic reaction to an angiogram they did on him a few weeks ago. The ink they inject into your blooodstream , tends to have side effects and the doctors are clueless as to what exactly is wrong with him. Its not a very pleasant sight to see one of your favourite uncles in a hospital bed, doctors experimenting on him, like he’s a laboratory rat. I was pissed. I was livid. They shift him to Intensive Care and visitors are not allowed in there. We leave.
On the way back we have to participate in another wedding! I really wish I had drugs on me, I could actually use some. Thankfully this time it’s no one related, just my aunt’s gym instructor’s.
We eat lunch and we are off, back to base location, to attend the funeral. This time, no one is wearing silk. Almost everyone’s in tears or trying hard to hold back the tears. He was endeared by everyone, a nice man, an educated man, played an instrumental role in keeping the family closely knit. By family, I mean the whole Pulickal clan if I may call it that..
It’s over. Two crazy days, an emotional rollercoaster.
I have a bus to catch in a couple of hours. Followed by an overnight journey back home to Bangalore. We are just about to leave the graveyard and head back to Kochi from where I board my bus. Just saying my final goodbyes to all my uncles and promising to convey their regards to my parents when I am told that there’s another cousin’s wedding in a day’s time.
I smile. I shake hands. I rush to the car and ask my cousin to “Step on it. Get me out of here double quick”.
Crazy isn’t it, had I stuck on for another day, it would have been Four weddings and a Funeral.
My cousin’s speechless. He has to go for that wedding. It literally is Four Weddings and a Funeral for him!
Kerala, no wonder they call it Gods-Own-Country.
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