A White Sheet Of Paper

‘Bham... bham, bham, bham’

Four innocent scrawls were etched on the pristinely white paper using an Add Gel pen. John stared at the words for a few minutes, his eyebrows furrowed in deep though. He added one more ‘bham’ at the end of his first line.

John Thomas was starting on his English assignment. He had been sitting on it for a week. And since the teacher had insisted on seeing them on her desk by Monday morning, he had started writing his brilliantly thought out story on that rain drenched Saturday afternoon. But the sudden appearance of the sun and an equally sudden appearance of eight young boys in shorts and shoes with a muddied football between them had weakened his sagging resolve. With the story poised expectantly at four words, he had run off to join in the joyous chorus that greeted the sun. Now it was Sunday evening and his mind was grappling with the plots and sub plots of his very own G.I. Joe story. In the untidy upstairs room of a small suburban house, John looked at the figure of Duke as it stood menacingly on his table with a big gun in its hands and wondered how he could bring G. I. Joe to India.

John loved G. I. Joe. Every day at 5 in the evening, he would plant himself in front of the television for half an hour of guns, explosions and daring missions as Duke and his team of handpicked fighters battled to save the world from evil. His worst nightmares had Cobra Commander, the terrorist commander, coming home and trying to shoot him. He looked at Duke and then at himself in the mirror. How he wished he was not short, thin and small. He wanted to be like Duke, big and strong, carrying big guns and flying fighter planes and helicopters. Shyam wouldn't make fun of him then. He went back to Cobra’s plan of attack. He wondered what Cobra’s target would be. Not Bangalore, he didn't want his mother and father and his friends to die. He thought for some time and continued to scribble.

‘....Cobra commandos suddenly swept down into the city of Mumbai. They started shooting everyone. They had come to steal the top secret plane that India had developed. The Indian Scientists and the Indian Army, loaded the plane on a ship and got ready to evacuate. By then, Cobra Commandos had taken control of the city, Raptor fighter planes and Viper helicopters attacked the city from above. H.I.S.S battle tanks and heavily armed soldiers patrolled the city. The only resistance was around the ship, which was almost sinking after being hit by two missiles.....’

He wondered if he should make Cobra Commander kill the Mayor and the Police Commissioner on live TV. Suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs and the door opened, letting in his mother who came in with a big mug of Boost. He hid the sheet under a stack of Justice League comics. She would see the story only when it was over. He sat drinking Boost and leafing through a Tinkle while she tidied up his room. She placed the action figures and Hotwheels cars lying on the floor back on the shelves. He proudly looked up at the big collection he had. The figures of Scarlet, Shipwreck, Snake Eyes, Bazooka and Cobra Commander looked down at him. Lying next to them was a broken model of the Batmobile and a figure of Robin missing an arm. He smiled expectantly as he pictured a GI Joe Wolfhound there instead of the Batmobile. How he wished his birthday would come sooner.

A siren wailed at a distance and he heard the soft thumps of fireworks. It seemed India had won the game against South Africa in the Chinnaswamy Stadium. If it were not for the assignment he would have been watching that match. He picked up his mug and looked at the chipped face of Sachin Tendulkar smiling at him. Maybe he should kill Sachin. He lived in Mumbai anyway. No, he liked Sachin. It should be Symonds. He didn’t like him at all. There would be an India vs Australia match in Mumbai on that day. A missile strikes the ground and Symonds dies. He smiled and continued the story as the soft whirring of a vacuum cleaner started in the front room below him.

‘... Many of the soldiers protecting the ship were badly wounded and Cobra commandos were going to capture the plane when a sudden hail of missiles and bullets rained down upon the Cobra forces around the ship. Shipwreck, Bazooka and Heavy Duty arrive with a team to help the soldiers at the ship.  Scarlet and Duke went to the headquarters of Cobra while the others fought the enemy soldiers on the streets...’

The story continued - G. I. Joe commandos fought hard to regain control of Mumbai. He described how all the hostages were valiantly rescued in the battle that went on into the night and how Cobra Commander, ran away at the end. He heard an ambulance again, and the fireworks were closer now. Lokesh’s father must have bought the crackers. He wrote faster. He didn't want to miss any of the crackers.

‘..The President of India awarded medals to the brave soldiers of....’

Now they were right in front of his house. That meant even Naren has bought crackers. As he quickly wrote his name and roll number in the right hand bottom corner, he heard a crash and the sound of tinkling glass from the room below. Mum must have broken something; she would be in a bad mood.

‘.....
John Thomas
Std VI ‘A’
Roll No: 17   ’

The sirens kept blaring, now closer home. He grabbed the two sheets of white paper in one hand and the stick figure of Duke in the other and ran down the stairs triumphantly.

His mother lay in the front room, blood pooling around her. A big blotch of red marred the flowery cream of her nightgown. As he ran towards her shouting, he tripped on the wire of the vacuum cleaner that still kept droning on. Duke fell down on its back, its plastic gun pointing at the rotors of a fan lazily going round and round as two white sheets of paper, bruised and tainted, fluttered about in their wake.  

Poking my Wall?

Pictures of dogs and babies

A little tab in the corner selling

Women and perfume. Someone

I don’t know poking me. Liking,

Sharing. Photos of me on someone

Else’s wall. People answering

Questions about me. Trumpeting

Gossip, sleaze and fake causes.

Losing ourselves in our timelines.

Dead gigabytes of pictures

Replacing our memories now defunct.

People we have know all our lives,

Wanting to be friends. And strangers

Commenting on my attire. Suggesting

Names for my new born son.

A clamorous din of half hearted

Birthday wishes and stolen quotes

Symbols on a computer screen that will

Disappear with the dreams. Deleted,

Forgotten.

Names, Faces And Other Odds and Ends

Sixth standard. My sister and I had small chubby holes in the only cupboard at home. Hers was filled with bangles, earrings and necklaces, each in ordered sets that matched the various frocks she owned. Mine was a mess, Hotwheels cars, vying for space with springs, wires, bits of junk and broken down clocks. My favourite car and my fledgling collections of coins occupied pride of place in the farthest corner, away from prying hands that weren't mine.

Nearer to the opening of the hole were the odds and ends and the small box that held my proud collection of knick knacks. Coloured aquarium stones, pieces of glittering, coloured plastic that fell of my sister’s assortment of jewellery and a piece of glass crystal that had once adorned my mother’s necklace, now in my proud collection as the clasp had broken. I showed it off proudly to all who cared, claiming it was my diamond which I would sell once I became big and make lots of money. Lots and lots of money.

I saw her at church when I was in sixth. She was walking with her friends. laughing at something. I was with mine. I had a green grasshopper in my left and in my right I had the dried head of a a thistle that I was getting ready throw at my friend. There were already three sticking out of my t-shirt, stuck were they had landed after being launched by enemy hands. Only two of my thistle heads had managed to stick to Arun's t-shirt. I needed to land this if I had to draw the game. Still laughing she walked into the church. The grass hopper somehow wriggled free at that moment, i don't remember how I let go of it, and jumped onto the neck of one of the girls in front of me. In the ensuing confusion and the screaming (stupid girl), I lost sight of her and lost the game.

I got him the next Sunday, but I didn't see her again for some time until I saw her again at school, again hanging around with a few other girls. I knew the others. They were from the 7th standard. My cousin's friends. Seventh. A chechi. I dont know why it hurt, but it did. A dull ache somewhere in the region of my chest. It went away by the next PT period, when the first football rolled past me into the net I was protecting. I saw her two or three times after that. I never knew her name. But I think of her sometimes when I'm at that church or I see someone that resembles her. Not that I remember how she looked. I barely saw her for more than three minutes, in total. But I have a picture of her face somewhere in my mind. The face of my first crush. Well that’s what everybody says she was anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~

High school was exciting in more ways than one. I wore trousers to school now. Not shorts. And I actually had to tie my tie. It was now a long piece of cloth and no longer the shorter version with clasps that you fastened around your neck. The residential address on my school hand book had changed, so I travelled by school bus. It was the time when I had just gotten over Pokemon tazoos that came free with Cheetos, but was still hooked to Pokemon, Digimon and Beyblade -the one where they battled with tops. Samurai Jack came and went, so did Dragon Ball Z. Batman became my favourite superhero. We get shuffled around after middle school. So I was in a whole new class with a lot of people I was barely acquainted with.

 She was there in class. I really liked the way she read out her 'My Summer Vacation' essay. She had a nice voice, clear and soft, and she read it with enough sing song in it to be cute without becoming irritating. And she was pretty, fair with a really nice smile. Long hair - not straight and sleek, not smooth and curly, but springy and thick. So much so that sometimes it looked like hay. But I liked it and she was pretty and I was not the only boy in class who thought so. There were others.

One of them was so obsessed that he once asked me if he could keep one of my Steadtler pencils as she used the same kind of pencils. Another of them had the audacity to 'propose' to her. In ninth standard. As one of my friends told me "Whaat da?. Loosu wonly. Does not know the difference between filums and real life" Apparently I did. I talked to her, every chance I got. I smiled with her, laughed with her but never in all the time I knew her did I ever give any inkling of how I felt. She is now my friend only on Facebook. Another name on my friends list under the heading School.

~~~~~~~~~~

College was just like school. It was still school technically -  Pre-University College. The only saving grace being that there was no specific uniform. Just a strict dress code. A very strict dress code. And there were more people of my age in one place than I had ever seen before. My tastes for music changed. I started growing out of cartoons and growing into movies. I connected the ganja that I read about in the Crime section in newspapers with weed and pot. I went for tuitions and coaching classes like every other person I knew. I saw friends becoming ' we're together' and then becoming exes. I blew up test tubes in the lab and started checking out to-be juniors who queued up during admissions. I learnt how to headbang and sang Hey There Delilah at the top of my voice in class. I met a lot of people there.

I met her at a Rotary leadership camp. We became friends. She asked for my notepad during the second session. She wrote my name where it should have been, skipped the two pages where I had scribbled notes of the first and in neat, precise blocky handwriting took down notes. I don't remember what we did there at the camp. I remember her though, and the smile when she gave me back my notepad. She was from my college, studying two floors below mine. We hardly met again for the next two years. Every time we did though, she had a bright and bubbly 'Hi Jerin!' She is no longer in Bangalore, just like me.

~~~~~~~~~~

I used to debate in school. And she was my partner for some of them. My opponent in others. My senior. She was pretty. Short frizzy hair and bright sparkling eyes. She always got into fights during debates and with teachers in class. Tough as nails. My senior again in college. She asked me if I wanted a partner for the debates there. I already had one.  By the end of the year though, we had hosted two programmes together. She came to me one day, a month before she passed out , with a thank you card and nice letter. She said I was one the best friends she had and she thanked me for being there.

On their last day, everyone went around taking pictures with everyone else. Towards the end of the lunch break, she came up to my class. She looked resplendent in a creamy white saree. She asked me for a picture with the two of us. My friend had the camera. We stood next to each other. Smiling. I brought my arm up to put it around her. She did the same. We hesitated, looked at each other, laughed and went ahead with it. That evening on the bus back home, I thought about a debate in school when we sat together in the audience, laughing at the different teams that came up on stage. Until it was our turn.

~~~~~~~~~~

College was very different from junior college. Getting used to washing my own clothes and watching three hundred episodes of One Piece. Playing Age of Empires for five hours straight. Getting wet in the rain at one in the morning and watching the sunrise at five, savouring the warmth of the first rays while standing knee deep in frigid, sandy waters.

She was there at college, she smiled, every time. I smiled every time I saw her too until one day I saw her with another guy.
 

~~~~~~~~~~

She was from out of town. We went to get a burger. She asked me if I wanted some ketchup. Before I finished saying 'Yes please', she dumped half a bottle of chilli sauce onto mine and ran away smiling mischievously. She went home that night. It was one thousand eight hundred kilometres away from the place where I stood and said goodbye.

~~~~~~~~~~

We were surprised to see each other during summer. It was at an event at junior college, a year after we had passed out. We had worked together, had known each other for three years. She was tall, willowy, bright and cheerful. We exchanged numbers. She called me the next day. Told me she was angry with her dad and didn't know who to talk to. We talked. She laughed. I laughed along. We texted regularly for three weeks. I told her that I was coming to a book shop near her place. Would she be free the next day? She said she had an exam. Okay. I’ll see you some other time then. Good night. I'll talk to you later. Two hours later, she sends me a message telling me she has to buy a birthday gift for her boyfriend.

~~~~~~~~~~

During my summer vacations I went for yoga classes with my dad. We woke up at quarter to six, reached the place at six thirty and in a room full of middle aged women trying to lose weight, my dad and I learnt yoga. The class would get over by eight and we would stop for breakfast at one of two places. Our usual stop was the Udupi Sagar near the Tanishq at Jayanagar. There I would gorge on idly vada soaked in hot spicy sambar while listening to distinguished old men in shorts and t-shirts debating politics and sipping hot filter coffee after their morning walk. If Udupi was too crowded or we felt like we needed a change, we would go to the Davangere Benne Dose down the same road. It is a small eatery where I would treat myself to the benne dose or the benne masala dose, dripping with butter, with very spicy coconut chutney on the side.

She stood at the bus stop in front of Sanjay Gandhi Hospital. She was thin, with shoulder length hair. Dressed in a salwar kameez, with a bag hanging off her shoulder and earphones plugged into her ears, she would stand there with her arms folded, waiting for the bus. She looked frail, but pretty in an anaemic sort of way. I would slow down and take a little longer to finish my coffee if we were a little early, and renounce coffee altogether if we were late, just to catch a glimpse of her. I would enter the car after draining the coffee, switch on the radio and tune it to Radio Indigo, and wait for the Sanjay Gandhi Hospital to appear on my right.  Sometimes, she would not be there and I would curse the guy who took the last idly, making me wait for the fresh batch. Other times we would reach there as the bus pulled away and I would watch the end of an orange duppatta disappear into the bus before the doors gave a banal hiss and hid her from me.

I wondered one day what it would have been like if we were studying together. Would it have led to something?


Yeah right.

*chechi - elder sister, Malayalam
*those of you who don't know what the rest of the words in italics are - Shame on you. Go Google/Wiki them.


This post is inspired by true events. Any similarity to people dead or alive is probably intended. If anything in this post has offended someone, please let me know. This series of unfortunate events has also spawned another post, Rocket Science. Do read and comment. One last disclaimer. I do not stop and stare. But I do appreciate beauty. And not in any way that offends anyone.

Pain

Growing up is all about getting hurt. And then getting over it. You hurt. You recover. You move on. Odds are pretty good you're just going to get hurt again. But each time, you learn something.

 Each time, you come out of it a little stronger, and at some point you realize that there are more flavors of pain than coffee. There's the little empty pain of leaving something behind—graduating, taking the next step forward, walking out of something familiar and safe into the unknown. There's the big, whirling pain of life upending all of your plans and expectations. There's the sharp little pains of failure, and the more obscure aches of successes that didn't give you what you thought they would. There are the vicious, stabbing pains of hopes being torn up. The sweet little pains of finding others, giving them your love, and taking joy in their life as they grow and learn. There's the steady pain of empathy that you shrug off so you can stand beside a wounded friend and help them bear their burdens.

 And if you're very, very lucky, there are a very few blazing hot little pains you feel when you realize that you are standing in a moment of utter perfection, an instant of triumph, or happiness, or mirth which at the same time cannot possibly last—and yet will remain with you for life.

 Everyone is down on pain, because they forget something important about it: Pain is for the living. Only the dead don't feel it.

 Pain is a part of life. Sometimes it's a big part, and sometimes it isn't, but either way, it's part of the big puzzle, the deep music, the great game. Pain does two things: It teaches you, tells you that you're alive. Then it passes away and leaves you changed. It leaves you wiser, sometimes. Sometimes it leaves you stronger. Either way, pain leaves its mark, and everything important that will ever happen to you in life is going to involve it in one degree or another.


                                                           - Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden,
                                                             Jim Butcher, White Night 
                                                             Book 9 of the Dresden Files

                                                                                                       

The Grandpa Tree

Winter mornings in Bangalore are quite cold. Not cold as in ice-cream freezer cold. But cold enough to make you wish for an extra layer of clothing inspite of wearing a halfsleeve woollen sweater over the white and blue school uniform. At least makes you hope you had a full sleeve sweater instead. But knowing fully well that I looked better in the one I was wearing currently, I would scrunch up my face and brave the chill with a big wide smile. Better to suffer a few hours of feeling a little colder if it avoids having to wear a drab blue monstrosity of a sack with two sleeves.

    But then huddled together with fellow travellers on the road to Christ School, in a bus filled to the brim in white shirts, navy blue ties, navy blue trousers, navy blue sweaters and black shoes with matching navy blue socks is quite warm. Not black socks mind you. Black or white or any other colour (Pink!! God forbid) earns you a telling off from the PT master. So in a bus filled with all assortments of blue and white clothes and people wearing them, I would sit bundled into a seat for two seating five. Around me, as the puttani* girls played some game where they sang some song and flapped their arms about a lot and the peekiri* guys played hand cricket and rolled around in the seat when one of them lost, the older kids learnt poems byheart, filled out handwriting books, read for a class test, or like me, lazy bum that I am, stared out the window.

    I was not ogling at girls. Let me make that clear. Like I said its too cold for anyone to be about unless they are all bundled up. And anyway, I was just a kid of 13 years. Poor innocent me. I was just drinking in the sight of Bangalore waking up. One of the things that I would wait for though, was the sight of the Silk Board flyover bathed in mist. Bangalore does not have fog. It has mist, thick and heavy in winter. Its like the whole world has been painted white with shadows appearing out of nowhere right next to you. The sight of the flyover bathed in mist on a morning like that is quite beautiful.

    To the left is the Central Silk Board with several silver oaks peeping through the mist. To the right though is a tree that has fascinated me since I saw it for the first time. The grandpa tree. There are a lot of trees in the vicinity of the flyover, especially in that big plot in the corner where Sarjapur Road meets Hosur Road. No it’s not on the side which has the huge open drain. Its on the other side. In the days when we used to go to school, that plot had a pond in it and in an outcropping into the pond was this big old dying tree. On eerie winter mornings, it looked like a thin emaciated hand clutching at the veils shrouding it, a dark spectral shadow we saw through the mist. It presented a different story though when we came back home all sweaty and tired after a day at school. A tree with bare, dark and gnarled branches spread out and a bit of foliage at the top. Looking like a comical old umbrella that has seen too many storms; tattered and torn with bits of cloth hanging to the stained frame.

    On clear sunny mornings, the sky over the flyover would be dotted with large numbers of birds, Black kites and eagles gliding along high in the sky or diving down on each other while crows wheeled about cawing their displeasure about the presence of these predators so close to their nests. It was not an uncommon sight to see these majestic birds being chased away by a couple of very agitated crows. The grandpa tree on the pond was one sight I looked forward to seeing on such days because Brahminy Kites usually roost on these trees and It was such a beautiful sight to see them. Brown with a white head and breast, they sat serenely upon the dark boughs of the tree; some preening themselves slowly or others just sitting. I always thought they were enjoying the fresh morning air while it lasted before going out to begin the day’s laborious flight.

Seeing these ‘White Headed Eagles’ as I called them at the time usually made my mornings all the more brighter. I had this theory that if I didn’t get to see them in the morning, then something bad would happen in school. And it inevitably would. I also thought that the more of them I saw, the better the day would be. So when the bus began the slow climb up the flyover, I would football tackle anyone who stood between me and a clear look out the window and when I saw atleast five of them, I knew that the day would be perfect. Of course, it never worked out that way, but seeing them in the morning made me feel so good, that I was ready to take on anything and even if I did forget the Kannada homework that day, it didn’t make me feel all that bad.

    I resolved then that once I became a big man and had lots of money, I would buy that plot from whomsoever it belonged to and ensure that that pond and the tree remained like that without being marred by the next multi-storeyed corporate monstrosity. During my years in Christ Junior College, I could not take the liberty of football tackling random people on the BMTC bus, so I became content with the brief glimpses I got when I managed to get a window seat. Moreover, I was in college now, studying science and going to become a doctor or an engineer, I knew kites could never influence how my day went. But still it was with growing sadness I saw the pond getting choked by weeds. After a year came the lorries with their loads of mud. The pond was covered up with soil and fearing the worst I started forcing myself to stop turning around to look at the tree. By then the only sign of life on the tree were the kites roosting on it. So gradually, like the rest of my school days it got stacked into a shelf in my mind, dusted off and taken out once in a while when I felt like going back to school again.

    Last week, sitting on a near empty Volvo bus on my way to watch Transformers 3, I was as usual staring out the window. I noticed the plot again. It was almost the same. No corporate monstrosity had come up and the red mud that had buried the pond now sprouted a couple of year’s worth of undergrowth. The trees were still there and were all green and fresh after two days of rain. The grandpa tree though was no longer there. I don’t know what happened to it. It was just not there. There was a space there, a patch of blue sky speckled with rainy grey. When I came that way again the next morning, I looked again, just to make sure. The new patch of sky was still there. The eagles and kites were still gliding around the open drainand there was a lot more cawing than I remembered. The Brahminy were also still there roosting on the silver oaks at CSB. My tree wasn't.

*peekiri - tiny in malayalam

*puttani - tiny in kannada
And yes, I love the word monstrosity

(It turns out it was not just me who told fortunes basing on the Brahminy Kite. Google tells me that this kite is the Bird-God of War for the Iban of Malaysia. The Brahminy Kite's presence is an omen to guide them in major decisions such as warfare and house building. For those who want to know more.) 

Tatterdemalion

  I shall be very frank. I wanted to write this post because then, in my list of posts, this post would appear as  'Tatteredemalion by Tatteredemalion.' I like the sound of that. Oh don't worry, I'm not a pretentious, self obsessed wierdo. Well no one has said anything to that effect to me at least. This is not an autobiography. I don't think I'll qualify as autobiographical material. I haven't come on TV. My story is not a particularly inspiring one. Unless this blog inspires someone to invent a virus that hacks into nonsensical blogs and hits delete. Nor do I  have any scandalous insights into the lives of someone famous that I can use to sell my life story. Well, not yet anyway.

This post is about a series of books wrtten by Chris Wooding and titled Broken Sky. The story focuses on twins, Kia and Ryushi, whose idyllic life is shattered when their village is destroyed by the forces of their king. Then it has follows the usual hero and heroine joining the rebels to destroy the evil king. But the twist here is that the king, Macaan rules two worlds and not just their own. And of course, since its fantasy and has to involve special powers, the people in their world have access to spirit stones, which when augmented into a persons body, gives him or her the power to manipulate nature, heal sicknesses, or augment skills - depending on the colour of the stones.

The two worlds, Kirin Taq and the Dominions have only one link bonding them - the Resonants. They are people with the ability to shift across the boundary between the worlds. The name 'Broken Sky' comes from the myth which says that both worlds were once one before the sky was split and they became two. Macaan maintains his iron fisted rule with the help of his army and his secret police, the Jachyra. They are former Resonants who have been forcibly augmented with technology, distorting their power. Though they are now extremely fast and agile killing macines, they cannot travel between worlds anymore; but now have the abilty to travel between mirrors. Yeah, i know, pretty stupid, but its kind of cool too. This allows them to effectively spy for Macaan from any reflective surface.

Tatteredemalion is the head of the Jachyra. His identity before the change is never revealed in the books. What we do know is that the Jachyra hate Macaan for what he did to them, stripping away their humanity and turning them into machines. But to ensure their loyalty and of every other subordinate in his employ, Macaan has implanted a certain type of spirit stone in each of them, that is attuned to a trigger stone set in his forehead. This enables him to kill any one of them or everyone of them with a single thought. Inspite of this, Tatteredemalion joins forces with the rebels in the end, even faking his own death to fool Macaan.

He convinces his fellow Jachyra to join him and aids the rebels in the final battle, only to die. No blaze of glory, no valiant last stand, no fighting off a hundred foes, no taking a bullet for love and honour. One minute he was alive and the other minute dead and noone even notices his death because its so sudden and quiet. One of the bravest people in the entire series and he dies for nothing except a token display of defiance.

I read this series in classes four, five and six. I really enjoyed it, desperately searching through the endless multicolured tomes in the school library trying to find the next book. Small books, the size of your typical Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew, with a lot more to it than many of the modern fantasy, thriller series. My favourite charecter, by the end was Tatteredmallion. Even after he died and the world was saved, I just could not get him out of my mind. He was one of the bad guys till the very end, but I felt he deserved much more. From what is quite obvious in the book, from the way Macaan is killed in the end, it was a hair's breadth of a win for a good guys. The Jachyra being with them didn't help them very much. But their absence from his side definitely hurt Macaan.

And if they had been with him, and he had won, obviously there would have been no fulfilling end to the story and this post would never have happened, but they would have remained as some of the most powerful and feared entities in their worlds. But instead, they renounced it all and turned against their master for nothing to look forward to except death. Nothing else awaited them. How do you take such a decision? How can you give up everything you have for a cause when you know that when you start fighting, all that will happen is that you will keel over and die. And even if by some Jupiter sized quirk of fate they did live through it, what is it they had to look forward to. Reviled and hated by the people, they were the beasts and monsters that haunted tales told by mothers to scare children into obeying them. Less than human and no more than animated machines, they would have been shunned and stoned by the very people who they helped. Is it worth dying for this. To be abandoned on the field of battle, lying in the corner of a room, forgotten by all except a one character - a traitor and a scoundrel - who says "I kinda liked that Tatteredemalion guy."

Tatteredemalion did that. And he was one of my biggest childhood heroes. Everytime I come to a situation where I have to either do something very tough or take the easy way out, I think of Tatteredemalion. I dont always do the right thing. Atleast, when I think of it, I am shamed into accepting that a lesser than human mechanical assasin turned out to be better at this than me. Someday, maybe I will get the courage to become idealistic again. Someday, maybe I can go back to adoring Tatteredemalion and believing I can take decisions like that too. Someday, maybe I can stop stop hiding behind his name and actually do something like he did because I believed in something.

But not today. Today I tell myself I'm a fool to try and emulate a figment of someone's imagination. I tell myself that I'm not acting my age, that I need to grow up and start thinking like the 20 year old I am. Today I tell myself the real world has no place for idealism; that it too lies dead and forgotten in the corner of a room. Today I shall go to bed thinking why I cant go back to being 11 years old.

(Btw a tatterdemalion is a child  or a tramp wearing tattered or ragged clothing. Kind of fitting as all the Jachyra wear rags. And if you are curious, he's the little blue guy with the red eye on the cover of book #2 in the picture above)

Egg and Cheese Sandwich

I have read several blogs where the blogger goes "Its been a long time since I posted...". I've always wondered why. But the answer came to me today in a blaze of self realization. Its been a long time since I posted. Three drafts. Each with a couple of lines. This has been the state of my blog since December of last year.In my defense, I could say that I was part of three plays this year and all of my creative juices were spent on those productions. Or I could just accept the fact that I was plain lazy.

So I opened my blog the other day and checked on the drafts that have been waiting for me for several months. All of them are quite interesting. Brimming with a potential that rivalled all of my other posts. The first brush strokes of a collection of masterpieces. And so I chucked them and sat staring at a fresh page and listening to Unwritten by Natasha Beddingfield.

And I sat and sat. I wanted something special. Something that captured who I really was. Dealing with my identity and conflict. I wanted slices of human life and I wanted to represent them in ways that brought out the different shades in human beings. I discarded the IPL finals where Bangalore put up a miserable effort. I chucked the Lokpal movement because I wanted the identity thingy to be there. I put the fact that i had learnt to make burnt egg and Amul cheese sandwiches in the garbage bin. But reserved a spot for it when I learnt to make chicken biriyani. I stoppered my rising outrage at the fact that PVR charges Rs 90 for tickets in the morning whle its 240 bucks in the night and decided it definitely was not a good topic. Makes me think Chennai is a better city after all with CSK and Sathyam Theatres. Then I struck upon the idea of writing about Chennai and how beautiful it is. But then i decided against it considering the anti-Chennai feel among my friends after the defeat on Saturday. I mean, I'd rather get beaten up because of something more fulfilling than a blog post. An anti-government protest march for my rights or a mass movement against environmental degradation or maybe a mass burning of Twilight books. Yeah blog post on Chennai out.

And so I decided to post about the most excited thing that happened in Bangalore after I came home this month. The election results were very very exciting and was in tough contention with the fact that I had a blast at my cousins wedding. But then the whole hullabolla about the guv's decision to impose pesidents rule made me ponder whether to write about Center - State relations in India, especially after the Indian Constitution course last sem. But then suddenly I remembered that Osama was dead. Of course that was not in Bangalore. But heck its a global village and I am definitely thrilled about the never before seen super stealthy, super secret super helo that the commandos used to sneak in and out of Pakistan. Made me believe in Bollywood movies agian. Wonder whether he  laughed at the US soldiers who trained Pak soldiers outside his house. But then again, I can't claim it changed or challenged my idea of my identity. Just made me question the identity of the people living next door.

And then realisation struck me a second time. Edison's bulb flickered alive after a long period of 5 months with 'An Idea'. I should change it to a Havells bulb. Have you seen the ad where all the bulbs turn on together at the preset time. Really cool. Maybe the one above my head will keep turning on every day at 6 or something.

See three paragraphs into this post, my sister came in and applied Iodex on my shoulder and thats when the idea struck me. What happened to my shoulder? Thats what my post is about silly!

Three weeks into coming home, I had an intense urge to eat egg and cheese sandwich. A quick look around the kitchen revealed the disappointing news that there was no cheese or bread at home. And so I trotted down to the supemarket down the road to buy cheese, sandwich bread and pack of mango flavured Amul icecream (for the heck of it). Its not exactly a Reliance Fresh kind of super market. Just an extra big provision store with a couple of ailes with stuff stuffed into the shelves. No lines and long billing queues. The guy who helped you find where the papad was will bill the entire thing while chatting with you about the weather and what you had for lunch and take the cash and bid you a nice goodbye.

And so I was walking down the main road thinking that the retail scene in India has not entirely gone to the cold freezers of Reliance Fresh and Namdharis when something bowled into me from behind. Well not into me exactly. and no one bowled a motorbike at me. The front wheel of a blue coloured bike crashed into my right leg and spun me around in the air for about 3 seconds (plus or minus a couple of seconds) and sent me crashing to the ground and the next thing I know I'm lying on the ground looking up at the sky. I dont remember whether the sky was light blue or dark blue, or whether the clouds were wispy or looked like the dome of the Sistine chapel. The next to next thing I know, I'm picking up my shopping and dusting off my leg which scraped against the wheel of the bike while the three (THREE!!) guys on the bike kept shouting at me about walking in the middle of the road. I was walking on the side. I swear. That was adding insult to injury wasn't it, so i shouted back in garbled Kannada while he tried to salvage what he could of his rear view mirror. And then random strangers began joining the conversation. Since I was the victime here, they asked me if i was alright and to my great satisfaction berated the motorists. I said I was okay and that my house was right around the corner, picked up the groceries and went home. I washed off the scrapes with Dettol and ate the egg and cheese sandwich that my mom made while watching Karate Kid on Pix. Bill Smith's kid sure can act!

Oh and read the Dresden Files. Makes for better reading than this. Guess its too late now though.

Theory of Relativity

The hands of his watch told him it was a few minutes past two. Isn’t she done with class yet? He looks out the window expectantly. No one. He turned back to his Physics teacher. “Einstein’s Theory of Relativity states....” He liked physics, a lot. But now, he could not concentrate. He was waiting for her. Every Tuesday and Friday during the second slot after lunch, she walked past his classroom on the way to the labs. Her half laugh, her eyes, her hair. That moment defined his entire day. 

Slowly the first of them trooped past, talking and laughing. Uniforms and faces filed past the window. She wasn’t there. He threw caution to the winds and turned around to look. Her friends walked past. She was nowhere to be seen. Did I miss her? He bit the end of his pen as he watched the stragglers hurry to catch up. He looked back at the teacher disappointed.

“...When you sit on a hot stove for two seconds, it feels like an hour. When you sit with a beautiful woman for an hour, it seems like two seconds...” Everyone laughed. He tugged at his tie and added one more doodle to his page. Suddenly his partner nudged him - a blur of white outside the window! He turned around again. False alarm, just the peon. Suddenly something hit him on his head. The duster. The class laughed again, now at him. “Hari, I’m standing here. Not outside the window. Pay attention in class.” 

 He ducked under the table to pick up the duster, dodging sly comments. He came back up to see her standing outside the window, looking at him, giggling. Their eyes met. She smiled and slowly glided away. He looked down at the duster, a smile playing on his lips. Einstein was wrong. That felt like eternity.  

A Certain Picture

In love, in life,
You paint a certain picture
Gilded frames and canvas
And rainbow hued brushstroke

A face, a smile,
You paint a certain picture
Her lips, her hair,
The gems in her eyes

You love, you pray
You worship that picture
You feast on its beauty
It feasts on your time

Incense and myrrh
Fruits and sweetmeats
You spare it no expense
The golden haired picture

And then it is over
The love, infatuation
You rant and you cry
What, when did it go wrong?

It lies in a corner
You kick it, you stab
And then while you cry
 You again ask why

It’s been a month and a half
You’ve almost forgotten
You abuse and stab, only
When drowned in the bottle

And then it’s forgotten
The pain and the hurt
The fury and angst
Lie, worn down by time

Then again it is time
To paint a certain picture
To caress the canvas
With rainbow hued strokes

And so it is taken
Battered and bruised
To the old storeroom
The graveyard of memory

Its canvas is torn,
The paint dulled and peeling.
The frame almost broken
Beset by decay and mould

Flimsy strands of memories
Hold it together
A spiders web of emotion
Fills in the gaps
   
And so it lies forlorn
Lonely, not alone
Amidst broken furniture
Hopes and dreams

Other pictures adorn the walls
Other pictures still to come
No graves, no headstones
In the graveyard of memory

Rocket Science

Discovery Channel once told me that the space vehicles of today are the greatest and most complex of human achievements. The biggest geeks, the best minds and the force of a thousand wills mesh together and the inferno that results is what gives birth to the modern space rocket. I am not a rocket scientist and I really don’t intend to spend my days computing the Orbital Velocity of the next payload. But sometimes, boys and immature young adult males like me are faced with a task more daunting and insurmountable than throwing a man into space. That, my friends and disciples, is the apparently simple task of wooing a girl. Many of us have been so lost in deep space when going through this phase that we have prayed fervently for a guide or a spiritual guru who will hold our hands guide us through the turbulent times. If nothing else, at least a manual or textbook that quenches our thirst for knowledge . Unfortunately the world has ignored this great need and a large amount of the collective knowledge in this field has been lost to the ravages of time. Whatever remains is held as a closely guarded secret by a few secret brotherhoods. There the knowledge is shared and whispered in shadowy gatherings into which entry is forbidden unless the dress code is strictly followed (black hood with matching cape). And so ordinary guys like me do not have the good fortune of walking into the local bookstore and going over to the ‘Lifestyle’ section to pick up ‘Wooing Girls – An Everyday Manual for an Everyday Guy’ or ‘Help Me!! I’m in Love! – 101 Tips to Get That Girl’.

Unfortunately, life is never in bulleted points or flow charts and pivot tables. It’s more akin to a collage comprising of a big stack of doctor’s prescriptions mashed together and then subjected to several trips though a shredder. Deciphering love from that mess is not child’s play. It requires patience and an eye for detail with copious amounts of dedication, expertise and creativity. Innovation can get brownie points too. In short you need to live the life of a rocket scientist, because the task that is to be accomplished is much more complex and intricate than rocket science.


The first stage is quite easy for most people. This is where you lay your foundation. There may be a bit of starting trouble; nothing an enterprising rocket scientist will find difficult though. You need to ensure you build a stable platform from which you can dream of launching the perfect rocket. Launch into the depths of space and explore the intricate secrets of the vast unknown and unexplored expanse of the universe(s?). This stage involves a lot of taking. So you talk and talk... and talk some more; text a little and chat quite a bit and of course, talk a wee bit more and blah and blah. During these conversations you get an idea of the necessary requirements to build the rocket. So try and listen to what is being said.


The first thing you figure out is the design for the rocket’s body. The basic design for every rocket is the same. All rockets have these essential requirements – a cone on top, a cylindrical, or semi cylindrical body and a nozzle at the bottom. The extra features, though essential, depend on each rocket. The secondary rockets that help in guidance, fins that keep you on course, the aerodynamic design and all of the other things that have to be there to keep a rocket in space and not go crashing into the sun and cause a supernova, which in all probability will wipe out all life in the near vicinity (let’s say a few hundred light years in all directions).


The rocket can be made of several materials. The substance that has to be used to make the rocket is also essential – different for different rockets. If you ask me, they have to be custom made for each. The information on the raw materials to be used can be got through those conversations I mentioned earlier. The ratio, in which the compositions are to be mixed, is totally up to you. Keep in mind that the material has to be tough enough to survive the intense stress and strain involved with takeoff and space travel. It has to bear the rigours of outer space – intense heat and cold, ultraviolet and radioactive radiations, meteorite collisions and god knows what else; alien attacks perhaps or even violent moral police fleets.


What is left to procure for building the rocket is the stuff that brings everything together - a huge amount of nuts and bolts and screws. They may come in different shapes and sizes and may seem inconsequential because of their size, but remember, ‘for want of a nail, the war was lost’. The entire superstructure may come crashing down because the nuts and bolts were not screwed in correctly. If you have a long space journey in mind, keep in mind that unless everything is gelling right and is in harmony (yeah, I believe in all of that crap), your rocket will come apart mid flight. There has to be some glue that holds everything together.


Then you figure out which propellants are to be used. Fuel is very important for a rocket launch. Not only does it get you off the ground, it also keeps you in the air (or space if you reach that far). The type of fuel depends on the rocket you are building. Some have solid state propellants, some liquid. Some have a slush of oxygen and hydrogen. It always depends on the make and size of the rocket and the distance you wish to travel. But be very careful. If you use the wrong kind of fuel, you could blow up mid air.


Now that you have everything you need, you start with the process of building your rocket. Please do not outsource it. Then whoever it is that you commission to build it will use your launch pad to launch your rocket and embark on an all expenses paid trip to Andromeda. Work diligently. Put your heart and soul into it. Your rocket and you should be like a samurai and his katana. The swordsman takes part in the forging process, so that when the sword is ready, his soul is intertwined with that of his sword. They go into battle as one entity. Such should be the building process for your rocket.


But it is when your rocket is fully built that you face the hardest part of the mission. The Launch. The day everyone is waiting for. Here, even the bravest and most valiant flounder. But if you are enterprising, determined and a true son of the soil, you will succeed. If all goes well, your rocket will launch without a hitch. There may be some problems with charting out a course in the beginning, but all of that can be sorted out. So, Bon Voyage!! Enjoy the journey! Don’t forget to send me postcards!!!


Not all of us are that lucky though. The production costs may go up suddenly, straining your finances, or you may not find the right components and the rocket will sit there half finished. Or, like it often happens to me, the launch may fail. Many get panicky and take-off too early, before the rocket is totally space worthy. Sometimes, it’s just a simple case of being dumb enough to use a cheap and faulty switch. All that work may go to waste if that all important red button doesn’t work. The fuel may refuse to ignite at that crucial moment or aliens may decide to attack Earth on that day. Then again there are instances where your rocket may end up being commandeered by pirates, or you suddenly find out on the day of the launch that the exact same model has already been launched in Ugandaland and the pilot is currently on a joyride around the Milky Way.
The worst is when you choke at the last moment. (What if this is not the right time? WAIT!!) And you wait for clear skies or the sun to come out or for that divine sign that gives you the all clear to launch. (Is that it? Yes it IS!! No its just Superman). I’m a bloody choker sometimes when it comes to the take-off. At times like that, I really begin to understand what Graeme Smith must feel after every major tournament. All that time and effort, simply gone to waste.


And there they stand, the ghosts of launches past. Some of them lie unfinished and deformed. Others stand proud, pointing skywards, knowing that all they are now is shell of memories filled with smoke, hot air and broken hopes and dreams. They stand in the rain of a million memories as rust and time take their toll. A thousand faces wipe away what’s left until all that remains is the painted picture of a painted face.


Well, kindergarten really got to me and so did that old Scottish king and the spider. Even the Agni failed to launch several times, right? So don’t be surprised if you see a picture of me on Facebook which shows me shaking hands with Orion.



Wait a minute. Damn I forgot to include an engine!!

The Conquest of the Tongue

The taste of the blackish gray barrel was revolting. Metal tastes different, so it must be the taste of gun oil. The black handle gleamed dully in the pale light. It was a newly oiled piece of hardware - that much his tongue told him. The first bead of sweat rolled down his temple and Adams apple convulsed with a vain effort to swallow. The heat was getting to him now. How he wished a few of the windows were open. And that damn piece of chicken. It was stuck between two teeth and stubbornly refused to let go. Why did you have to go to KFC for lunch? His tongue desperately tried to prise it out while his forehead sprouted more beads of sweat. His eyes though remained transfixed on the black gloved hand that held the gun. The fore finger wrapped firmly around the trigger, the thumb resting lightly on the safety.


The chicken resisted valiantly. Pulling back for a moment, his tongue made a cursory exploration of the barrel in his mouth. The hole in the middle reminded him of POLO. Another bead joined the first. The rough floor bit into his skin. His thighs and knees began to ache. A sudden wind came in from a forgotten window and assaulted his wet, naked skin. He shivered in the half dark as the safety turned off with a click. The noise of the street and the horns of the passing cars no longer reach his ears. Only the shadows of the bright headlights filtered in through the curtains. Again the vain attempt to gulp and a small retch of fear as the flickering shafts reflected off the blood red drop of paint that signalled his death. He stared at the drop, fascinated. The safety was off. There was a bullet in the chamber. There were ants on his legs. A finger was curled around the trigger. The safety was off. One bit him on his thigh. The agony! He wanted to itch. His fingered quivered. A drop of sweat dripped off the end of his nose. His tongue gave up on the annoying piece of chicken and went back barrel. Its pull was irresistible yet its presence revolting. Itch! His hand wouldn’t move. Violent tremors racked his body. His legs trembled with the effort, the pain and the bloody bites of the ants. Waves of frustration swept through him. There were more of them now. His hand remained as dead as stone. It refused to come to his succour. His eyes never left the rock hard curve of the gloved finger around the trigger. That hand never moved, never quivered. Waiting. He was waiting for a train. It would take him to a meeting he didn’t want to attend. That irritating girl next to him was chattering on the phone. For a moment he pictured her kneeling naked on the floor while he held a gun in her mouth.


His tongue went back to work. And the ants kept crawling. Suddenly he was overcome by a wave of relief. It was almost out! His tongue dug at it again and again and on the third try it was out! His hands twitched, a horn blared and he sighed. But his dusty walls never heard this cry of satisfaction and triumph. . The finger squeezed and a piece of metal, no bigger than his tooth tore through the back of his head. His story of conquest was lost in the battle cry of death; the whispers torn apart by the echoless bang and the chorus of tinkling glass. His body fell through the silence that followed and dared to interrupt it with a small thud as it hit the floor. He lay on his side, in a mocking imitation of a foetus. The black gloved hand still held the gun close to his mouth. To the dull and dirtied shaft of moonlight that peeked through the shattered window behind him, he looked like a babe that had fallen asleep, suckling on a small black toy.

Move the F*****ck On!!!!

Today is the day i first met my phone. We were introduced by a very good friend of mine. We were a little slow to hit it off in the beginning mainly because I wanted my phone to be a little flashy and trendy. But my phone turned out to be a Samsung Guru. It was plain, black and perfectly at home hidden away in the darkest recesses of my pocket.

We got over these initial hiccoughs soon enough. The more I learnt about Guru, the more I liked it and soon we became great buddies. We were inseparable. Numerous have been the times we have lost each other amidst the thronging crowds of a mall or restaurant. But its always found its way back into my hands. Its been with me through thick and thin and together we've scraped through a lot of tight situations. Its been such a good friend that it has taken the fall for me many times (quite literally).

But lately I've been feeling a little out of touch with it. It seems we have been drifting apart for some time. Without us realising it, our priorities have changed and we are no longer on the same wavelength. I don't think I see a future in this relationship. I really think we need to Move On. This year has been great.. It really has, but I think I deserve something more. I would really like a better looking model - a bigger frontal display maybe and definitely slimmer. (I'm sure the ladies would prefer different features in their dream phones, this is purely from a guy perspective). I really hope this entire thing doesn't become a big drama.. We are sensible adults and I'm sure it will understand. I've moved on and I've already set my eyes on another model... What the f*****ck more does it expect? Does it expect me to f*****cking beg for forgiveness? Did you really expect it to last for more than a year? What era do you live in? Move On!! Damn It! Move the F*****ck On!!!

Damselflies in the wind

My dad grew up in a village called Kainakery in Kerala. Its in the coastal district of Alappuzha and is situated on the banks of the Pamba river. The back waters of Kerala is spoken off as a must see tourist destination. My dad was born there and my grandparents still live there. We used to visit them every year and spend at least a week there before we proceeded east to the hills where my mom had her house.
Its a small house, right on the bank of the river. A small lane separates the river from the mass of branches that serves as a compound wall. What an urban concept - a compound wall. Its just a line of sticks of a certain plant that are thrust into the ground. Give it a few months and you get a sturdy green fence. I forgot the name of the plant though grandpa told us about it. What I do remember is that the fence was the best place to catch damselflies.

Until a few years back, the only way to get there was by boat. We get down at the Alappuzha railway station and take a taxi to the main jetty. Then we take a boat from there to the Kainakary Panchayat jetty. If I remember correctly, the tickets cost Rs 6 each. Its a big boat and the pilot sits in a small cabin on top. I used to love those trips. My sister and I used to sit right in front and pretend we were the pilots. My parents used to have a hard time keeping us in our seats and out of the water while keeping an eye on the luggage at the same time. Grandpa would always be there on the jetty, waiting to welcome us.

More often than not my uncles used to join us and it seemed the tiny house would burst at the seams with the number of people trampling about inside. All of us kids would used to get together and tramp off to the river and grandpa used to accompany us to make sure we never jumped in. Every house situated on the bank has individual access to the river by a set of stone steps that lead down into the river. Since my grandparents never used it.. It lay crumbling and the stones were covered with algae, making them very slippery.

Please appacha, I'm just wetting my legs. I wont jump in.
No! The rocks are slippery and you'll fall in!
Appacha, can I wet my legs too? Appu is doing it. I want to stand in the water too!!!

Boy, did my grandpa have a tough time keeping us out of trouble. We were noisy, mischievous and found the most devious of ways to irritate the adults. But every time it was time to leave, he used to fight hard to keep his tears to himself. Grandma always cried when she kissed us goodbye, but not him. He would stay aloof the whole time we packed and then accompany as to the jetty and wait till we were safely onto the boat and wait there till the boat was out of sight.

Kainakary has changed a lot the last few years. Most of the first families that set up the village by battling the very river that is their life blood have moved on. Most of the houses, like our ancestral home, lie deserted and lifeless. (The ancestral home is where my grandpa grew up) The residents have either died out and their children, like my father, had migrated elsewhere, or they have moved to towns like Changenachery and Alleppuzha. The houses stand like empty shells reluctant to let go of their lost splendour or has been turned into tourist resorts by enterprising locals and large hospitality chains, their walls now adorned with cheap imitations of old artifacts, all to give an 'authentic' feel of course.

My father used to tell me stories of his childhood, of the colourful characters who made up the core of village life. They have all but disappeared now, those that are still alive sit around the small tea stalls recounting stories that no one else wants to know about. (Except people like my dad). My dad told me once that they never used to carry water bottles to school.... who would be stupid enough to do that? The school was right on the bank of the river.. (Right across from our home by the way). Now, the first thing we do when we reach Alleppuzha is buy two crates of Bislery drinking water. Today, you are more likely to see a bakpacker from Europe on the banks of the Pampa than a fisherman readying his nets. Of course, the only people who actually take to fishing in the river are old fishermen who know no other way to make a living or fraud mallus like me and my cousins who play-act with a hook tied to a dried stick.

When dad is feeling nostalgic or right after his best friend Sunny Kappankal or grandpa calls up to tell him about the demise of another one of Kainakary's residents, he tells me about the giant cat that used to live in the loft above the house, about his grandfather and his house, of the intense political debates that took place in the comfy environs of the local tea shop, about the magician priest who blessed my great grandfather's fields to get rid of vermin and of late night fishing trips on a borrowed vallam with his best friends for company. He never misses the Nehru Trophy Boat Race on TV. He sits down in front of the TV on the second Saturday of every August and relives his college days when he himself was the captain of a boat that took part in the minor races (without his parents knowledge of course). His excitement is infectious, like a boy with his favourite toy. He went to Alleppuzha last year to watch the races and for the next two months the music system in our car played a CD of vallam paattukal which he had brought back with him.

Its been a long time
since I've seen a damselfly. Every time I see one though or at least think of one, I remember the times I used to run across the mittam with my sister, chasing damselflies in the wind.

Love at First Sight

She is so beautiful!! Be it sun or rain, she has a beauty of her own. She's always got this alluring mystery about her and I guess that's what attracted me to her first. Our meetings were few and far between - she didn't mind , she's got too many admirers for her to miss me. It was the same place, every year. Whenever I went with my family to the beaches of Alappuzha, she was there, waiting. I don't know how or why, but the sense of mystery was always there.

To get over the painful months of separation, I hooked myself to her shows on TV. Every day I used to get back home and after homework and after my usual dose of Swat Cats and the Centurions, I used to sit down to indulge myself; and boy was she beautiful. I felt very jealous though. she was always off dancing and flirting with those bloody phirangs. I felt like pummeling them. But what could I do; I was sitting in a small house in Bangalore while they, oblivious to the world, were serenading each other in Hawaii and New Zealand.

That didn't stop me. I had this foolish commitment to her and I was determined to hunt her down. What else do you expect, I was a naive 13 year old brought up on a healthy dose of mushy Mallu movies and happily ever afters. I decided to be a Marine Biologist. I searched for courses and universities to study in and even subscribed to the Marine Bio newsletter from Marine Bio. I prepared for a life dedicated to her and our meetings in the sly continued. We spent an extended weekend together at Goa when I went there with family and I must say, I have never seen her more beautiful. My most intimate memory of her is the morning we spent together at Waga beach. The waters were so serene and I can never forget the emotions i felt as i spent 4 hours with her. That is a day I will never forget.

Unfortunately, as with most romantic relationships in India, my family opposed our relationship. It was actually less of an opposition and more of a systematic brainwashing. I dont blame them though, they just did what they felt was best for my future. They never said an outright no. My relatives took turns at pointing out the hardships I would have to face in a life with her. My mom kept hinting at how she would love it if I settled down with someone a little more traditional and conservative. My dad complained about how she seemed to be pulling me away from my other near and dear ones. They didn't actually have to try very hard or for very long. I knew that they were right; she was very reluctant to settle down in India, and life would indeed have been very tough. To my mind, at that age, that was enough. I was just a confused adolescent who had no idea where he wanted to take his life.

I broke up with her soon after. Like I said before, she didn't care at all. She has far too many admirers to miss one scrawny 16 year old. I didn't feel all that bad either. I told myself that it was just an infatuation and I still believe it was one. There were no emotional scars and I still don't feel bad about it. It just faded away, just like my boyhood craze for Hotwheels cars. I do meet her once in a while though. She still welcomes me with open arms whenever I go to her. She stays just 20 minutezs away from college. We go there once in a while and she is always there, just as beautiful as ever.

( This a post about a phase in my life when my ambition was to become a Marine Biologist. I used to love the oceans and I still do, though it has mellowed down a bit. That is one of the reasons why I named my blog Debris in the Sea. Its so vast and inexplored that it strangely reminds me of life. There is a lot of stuff u find in it - driftwood and lots of junk. Once in a while though you come across a shiny shell or a piece of sea glass or if you are really lucky a spanish doubloon!! This blog is a collection of my treasures from the sea. My bits of sea glass.)

Nemo

I wanted to name my blog Nemo.. u know... after the nameless captain of the Nautilus. I thought it added a sense of mystery to it. Or maybe I just liked the guy,or rather the idea that was the man ... Nemo. The fearless wanderer of the seas; captain of a crew of the hardiest seamen in the world - men of different nations, brought together under the banner of the Nautilus. He appealed to me - his sense of loss and his thirst for revenge; his rage, courage, compassion and honour. To me he's still the perfect anti-hero. I loved him when I first read the book and I still do.

The romantic in me just cant let of him. I used to dream of a life like his or like Tarzan's (one of my other childhood heroes). They are out of societies grasp yet capture its imagination. They manifest its deepest fears and yet are its greatest heroes.

Of course these aren't the main reasons why I like Nemo. I like Nemo because, when i was a kid he helped me dream and now, when I have forgotten how to do that, he reminds me of those days when I believed that even I could one day be a Nemo myself. Well who says I can't?... I may very well be the next Tarzan..... no..... Batman seems cooler. I think I'll be Batman!