Generations

Sarah’s emerald blue tear-filled eyes glistened in the dark as her grandma narrated the sketchy remains of her memories from her childhood.  

Dad arrived home well past midnight. Asleep, dreaming and awake at the same time, I felt dad kicking our front door open as mum’s tired eyes struggled to stay awake waiting for him. He was piss drunk. Nothing unusual about it. He was hungry, angry and fuming as he slammed the alarm clock across mum’s face. I quivered and rolled into a ball, tightly shutting my eyes and ears, praying and hoping that my dream would out shadow my wakefulness. A smashed plate and a screaming wail tailed off as I lost myself in an impossible reverie.

Adam was the sweetest thing. His delightful looks. The Sunday roasts and breakfasts in bed. The silly post-it notes on the fridge. The contagious laughs. And. The smile.

Sarah smiled back. 

The men folk will pay for the man’s deeds.

3 minutes to go

6:27 PM. 3 more minutes for the warden to blow the whistle to announce the end of play for the day. We have been on the court from just after 4 PM that afternoon. Even after two and half hours of play the score was only 87:83. We were 83. It was one of those hot and humid afternoons when the ball missed the basket more often than it usually did. Was it the scorching sun that burnt our scalps or was it the rain of sweat that slipped the ball off our hands? Or was it just the length of the game that made us all arch backwards and sling at the board? The coach would have certainly screamed his lungs out at every one of us for the entire duration of the game.

3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game. Three of my team have already given up. Hands on the hips and hands on the knees are tell-tale signs of having accepted defeat.

They looked drained as well. But they also had that undertone of confidence that suggested that they expected to win the game. They are going to defend. That is what they are going to do. That is if we tried to score. But they are only half expecting it.

It was a non-descript afternoon. We will play against the same team again tomorrow afternoon. The coach is not around to judge, scream and yell. No one will remember this game in a week’s time. Did it really matter that we win this game?

A steady trickle of sweat blinded the eye. The back of the throat tasted of iron as the lungs gasped for air. The head felt dizzy and light.

3 minutes to go. 5 more to win the game.

I am not a Princess. I am a Super Hero

The adults always exclaimed that my little sister was a naughtiest child humanity has ever encountered. I beg to differ. She was the most compliant sister that anyone could ask for. She would happily take part when I rolled all the blankets at home around her body to make a ball out of her. She allowed me to test my hair cutting skills on her. She joined in and helped when I burnt a beehive to extract wax to make candles out of it. What more could I have asked?

My sister has a son now. He is going to be four years old in a few weeks. For the last two years, he has been talking and talking and talking to all of us. But we barely understood him, until very recently when we started figuring out what he was saying. 

When my wife pretended to be Santa Claus and wished him Merry Christmas over the phone, he didn't mince words to express his dislike for his Christmas present. 'Santa, you gave me a cap. But I don't like that cap. Can you give me a car instead?'

When 'Santa' returned again in a few months to ask him why he was giving so much trouble to his mom and admonished him that if he did not behave he would not get any presents this Christmas, out came the reply: 'I don't want any of your gifts. I asked you and have waited for a long time. My dad has bought me all the cars I wanted. So I don't need anything from you.'

The surprised Santa threatened to tell the Tooth Fairy to pull out Iyan's teeth. 

'I am not afraid of the Tooth Fairy. I will stick my teeth with Fevicol.'

Exasperated and captivated at the same time, the Santa called Iyan 'My little Princess.' 

'I am not a Princess. I am a Super Hero.'

Super Hero or Super Villain, Iyan definitely surpasses my sister in entertainment value.

Boys don't cry

As my dad walked me from our new home to the bus stop, he explained how I will travel to school in a school bus, which will also pick me up from school later that evening and drop me at the bus stop. He asHe asked me if I would remember the way back home from the bus stop.

I promptly nodded.

My dad was recently transferred to work in Kerala. We lived in a two bedroom house that was allocated to us by his office. The bus stop was at the edge of the campus that contained three long rows of houses like ours and his research facility.

There were other kids waiting at the bus stop. But their dad’s did not accompany them. They talked to each other in a language I did not understand. They also spoke very fast.

Yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada…

I couldn’t stop but giggle at how funny they all sounded.

One of the boys had a handful of stones, which he pelted one after another at a yelping dog that tried to run away from the bus stop. He wouldn’t stop until this one particularly large stone hit the dog at the back of its right leg and the dog, instead of yelping more, turned around and growled at him. The boy quietly let go of the rest of the stones in his hands and pretended to look away.

I felt this was funnier than the yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada that I tugged my dad’s hand for his attention and grinned at him.

The children must have noticed this as none of them came forward to talk to me.

I wished that their mums or dads accompanied them. If they would have, they would have awkwardly smiled at my dad and said to the kids ‘go talk to the new boy’.

Grownups smile and talk to each other all the time. Kids, on the other hand, stare at new boys and only play with their friends.

How I wished I stayed at my old school. I had lots of friends and we played all the time. There was one time when we played for so long that we even missed our school bus and our PT sir took us all home in a taxi. It was fun riding a taxi with my friends. The PT sir looked annoyed though. 

The school bus was different. It was small and green. I asked my dad why it was small. He said it was a mini bus.

My dad spoke to the bus conductor before he ushered me into the bus. I sat in the fourth row on the left. As the bus left the bus stop, the conductor came to my seat and introduced himself.

‘Monae, my name is Kili Mohan. I will pick you up in the evening from school.’

I nodded while trying to control my grin. Why would anyone be called Kili – a parrot? And he spoke in the same yaabadabadabada tone but in English.

I liked him. I also think I like the new place. Everyone is funny.

I liked the journey to school. The roads twisted left to right and sometimes we went uphill and others we screeched down a winding road. I held the seat in front of me very tightly so that I did not fall off my seat, while the other kids didn’t mind the roller coaster ride and continued chattering to each other. 

Yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada…

I liked the Principal. He gave me a candy and took me to my class. He even pointed out to a mango tree and said that there were loads of mangoes to pluck from the tree in the summer.

I knew summer was a season. But I did not know when summer arrived. We did not have summer in the old school. There was only one season and we didn’t have a name for it.

I was tempted to ask the Principal whether summer arrived before or after the summer holidays. But before I could muster enough courage to ask him the question, I was handed over to my new Maths teacher, who was teaching my class.

She smiled and nodded vigourously as the Principal explained that I was a new boy from another state and that my dad was a scientist in that research institute.

That is when I realised that the Principal spoke like us and not them.

‘Students, this is Raejaa Prasannae.’ I grinned. She is one of them.

The grin did not go unnoticed and the teacher pointed to a girl in the first row and said, ‘you will sit next to her. Yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada…'

I did not like the school. I was sitting next to a girl. It was raining heavily and they should have declared a holiday like they used to in the old school.

The day meandered. The girl next to me kept talking to me throughout the day. Why doesn’t she understand that boys don’t talk to girls? But it was a blessing in disguise. Some of the boys noticed this and came forward to rescue me.

‘Yendhada peru…’

And suddenly, I liked the school again.

During the lunch break, they took me to the lab and showed me a skeleton and a brain in a jar. Then we went to the well to play with the pulley but shortly after that the bell rang for us to get back to the class for more lessons.

We hitched a plan for me to sit next to the boys and lie to the English sir that the Maths ma’am asked me to sit at the back with the boys. We even memorised our lines.

As I settled into my new desk, the Maths ma’am entered the class and without exchanging words, she looked at me and pointed to the first row. I dragged my bag and sat next to the girl from the morning and turned back to look grimly at my new friends.

The Maths ma’am must have been able to round up my gang just by looking at our guilt filled eyes.

She chose to move on.

As the bell to mark the end of lessons for the day rang, the entire class grabbed everything they could and bolted towards the door. I turned to look at my friends at the back but before I could, they lined up in front of me for a split second and said ‘Pinnae kaanaam’ and disappeared.

It is going to be a hard time playing tennis ball football with them if they were this fast.

I took that as a cue to pack my bags and head out of the class. I stopped for a minute at the school gates and looked out for Kili Mohan. But he was not to be seen. So were the kids from the morning. What I noticed was that all the kids ran through the gates and out on to the street.

I decided to follow them.

The street joined a large road with crisscrossing vehicles. Kili Mohan asked me to wait at the school. 

This clearly was not part of the school as there were grownups on the road.

Just as I was about to turn back towards the school, I saw the bus. It was green but looked bigger than the one from this morning. But I also saw several kids getting on to the bus. So I was convinced that this was the bus.

My dad once told me that as kids, sometimes, things seem large to us when in reality, they were just normal in size.

So this must be the green mini bus.

I have crossed the road a few times. Besides that, the other kids were crossing the road too. So this cannot be wrong. How else would I get on that bus and go home?

A helpful man helped me into the bus and got on it too. Why is he getting on the school bus?

I looked around, and to my surprise, found the bus filled with grownups with only a few kids dotted around.

This was not a school bus.

I heard a bell and the sound of a slamming door and the bus trudged forward.

As my brain processed all this information and froze at the same time, I was shoved deep into the bus as more grownups got on.

A friendly man motioned for me to sit between him and an old man by the window.

As I squeezed between the two, the consequences of my action began to flood my brain.

What if the bus did not pass through my home? What if it did and I did not recognise my bus stop?

Will I ever see my parents again? What will I do if I do not meet them ever again? How will I tell the people of this land in yaabadabadabada that I need help?

As panic, thoughts and ideas took turns to elevate my heartbeat, I noticed a statue of a Dravidian God on a plinth by the side of the road next to a brook.

That is it! I have come across this statue. I remember it all. I crossed the statue two days ago in a Jeep packed with furniture, bags and suitcases as we made our way towards our new home.

Now, all I had to do was to keep looking out for my stop and I will be home again. The old man saw me looking out of the window eagerly and assumed that I wanted to sit by the window and count cars or auto rickshaws or other automobiles. He motioned to me to ask if I wanted to swap seats with him. I declined with a rigourous shake of my head and continued to look out.

My mind worked fervently trying to work out when my stop would arrive. I clenched my shoulder bag and sat at the tip of the seat so that I could bolt at the sight of my bus stop.

By now I had worked out that the bus stopped when a bell rang twice and drove off after a single bell and the slamming of a door. I just didn’t know who was ringing the bell or slamming the door. But my mind was preoccupied with other important things. I had to spot my stop.

I had to spot my stop.

I had to spot my stop.

Ding! Ding!

Ding! And the door slammed.

‘Hey, that’s my stop. Can you please stop.’

By the time I recognised my stop, the bus had already started to continue on its journey.

I yelled. I thrust my bag against all the bemused adults and pierced a path towards the door in that overcrowded bus. I made little progress but continued to yell and shove my bag.

Some of the bystanders looked at me pitifully and all at the same time asked me what seemed like a number of questions.

Yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada…

Boys don’t cry. I told myself. Boys don’t cry. But I wanted to cry. I wanted to go home; to my mum. 

‘Please let me through.’

As tears were about to trickle down my cheek, I finally heard something I understood.

‘Did you want to get down?’

‘YES! My bus stop just went by. I want to get down. Please could you stop the bus, uncle. Please…’

Ding! Ding!

By then we had reached the next stop and the man who could talk said, ‘I am getting down here as well. I will take you to your home.’

As I got down, I complained ‘But I had to get down at the previous stop.’

‘I know the way to the previous stop. Tell me, where do you live.’

For a brief moment, I contemplated whether I am allowed to talk to a stranger and tell him where I lived.

I told him about the nice school that I used to study in and how I had so many friends. I told him about my dad’s transfer and that we moved here two days ago and our family lived in the quarters provided by the research institute.

As I continued to elaborate on my new school and the green school bus, he held my hand and walked up a steep road.

I spotted the rose garden. I was there the previous day. The garden only had rose plants. But a lot of them. Perhaps a hundred. Or a thousand. But it was big and covered in fluffy green grass. Dad warned me that snakes sunbathed in the grass and that I should keep off it.

He is probably right. Dad is always right. He knows a lot of things. That is probably why he is a scientist.

As we walked past the rose garden, I next recognised the bamboo shoots. I made a mental note to come later that evening with a sickle and cut a few bamboo shoots to build a tree house. I was going to build my tree house on top of the mango tree in our back garden. That way, if I am hungry when I am in the tree house, I wouldn’t have to get down the tree but just pluck a juicy mango from one of the branches. I can’t wait to build my own tree house.

The man who could talk knocked on our front door and introduced himself to my mum with a smile.

‘Madam, I am a lawyer and I live in this area. I have heard of your husband…’, he continued. I had no patience for this chit chat. The smell of hot bajji drew me in and I ran into the house, slinging my bag off my shoulder on to the sofa and towards the dining room.

The sight of hot bajjis instantly filled my mouth with saliva and gave me a tangy buzz in the head. I took two - One for each hand.

As I stuffed myself with the bajjis, my mum walked back and asked, ‘he said you got lost and took a city bus home.’

I nodded, all the time wondering why mum would have ask questions and talk all the time and not let me eat my bajji peacefully. Dad says the same thing.

‘But…’ she continued.

I was rescued by a knock on the door.

I followed mum to the front door to an out of breath and pale Kili Mohan.

Yaabadabadabada yaabadabadabada…

Mon veeti vantho?

As mum and I looked at each other and grinned, he shifted to Yaabadabadabada English.

‘Madam, we were ten minutes late arriving at the school to pick up the kids and he was nowhere to be seen. The Principal, the teachers, we all searched the school. We were all in panic.’

He looked at me and asked, ’how did you get home?’

I nonchalantly replied, ‘City bus.’ My mouth still stuffed with bajjis.

Biryani Dreams

It was my last day at work before the summer holidays. I had the same buzz that I have always had as a kid sitting in an examination hall, dreaming of the juicy mangoes I was going to steal that summer, impatiently waiting for the bell to ring, so I could hand in my paper and run home.

I no longer had exams to pass. But I had exams of another kind – those gruelling, brain draining meetings that I had to get past before I could go home. I was dreaming too, but a dream of another kind – hot, stingingly spicy, mouth-watering biryani.

That Steve Jobs’ speech that every man and his dog would have seen – something about how you connect the dots when you look back and seemingly unrelated events lead you to where you are – I am just telling you right away that this post is all about that.

So. (I have just hit an epiphany that I no longer have to write grammatically correct English as mandated by the GMAT and conversational English is so much easier on the lips and fingers) Google might possibly know all that I have been thinking for the last several years and might even predict what I would think in the future as I have got into this habit of googling anything and everything I think about. (Okay, now, I know where this is all leading to. My wife is going to check how many times I have googled her name since morning and the truth is going to be out today) So, I googled biryani. I googled the origins of biryani, the types of biryani and even memorised the making of a version of biryani. The meeting ticked away slowly. And painfully. I shook my left leg rigourously, waiting for them to say their good byes, before I could pack my bags and head home. I was all set to go home and make the best biryani in town.

Back at home, the wife who had decided to clean the kitchen nonchalantly stated, ‘you know the bag of rice that your mom gave us to make biryani? There were insects in them. So I had to throw the bag out.’

The stolen mangoes were always as juicy as the ones from the exam hall dreams.

Bradley's Bicycle

May be the thought had occurred to him because he used a picture of Bradley Wiggins in one of his presentations that morning or may be the cobwebs on the bicycle reminded him that the bicycle needed some action. Whatever the reason be, Raja decided to take his rusting bicycle out of the bath tub for a spin by the canal. The bright round, red and yellow sun reminded him of the many bright round, red and yellow pizzas he had swallowed the previous winter.

The canal was a sight to behold. A flock of swans swam gracefully along the length of the turquoise river that snaked its way under a canopy of trees. The otherwise glum and green algae shone in sunlight radiating new found delight. The beautiful Victorian cottages and their little crimson paddle boats adorned the other side of the river.

The little man mowed his lawn using an unusually large lawn mower. He shoved the lawn mower against a giant tree on the edge of the canal to ensure that every blade of grass was of the same size. May be his wife was a perfectionist. Or may be he was.

As he dug against the tree, the lawn mower caught itself against a mighty stubborn root that lifted the lawn mower with the man and slung them into the tranquil river, scurrying the swans and creating never ending ripples.

The scene sent Raja into ripples of laughter as he pedaled along. The little fly that must have also crackled at the comic scene did not realise that it was flying straight into the roaring Raja's mouth; causing him to veer into canal to the delight of a now uncontrollably chuckling little man still holding his unusually large lawn mower.

An excuse

I have been looking for an excuse to write and for a long time now have only been creating excuses for not writing. I have eventually found an excuse to write – my trip to China. My expensive MBA requires me to do an international assignment for a week as a pre-requisite for completion of the course and I am going to China for it.

China is far far away; at least from here – I guess that is probably why they call that part of the world Far East.

Rather than visit China just for the assignment week, I have decided to land there a week in advance and explore the land that I fondly viewed in Jackie Chan movies on most Saturday mornings as a kid.

Apparently Chinese people do not speak Chinese. They speak languages such as Mandarin and Cantonese. I remember coming close to calling someone stupid when they asked me whether I spoke Indian. I am glad I would not be making that mistake in China. Language is going to be a problem though. To help ease that problem, I have bought myself a picture book. So for a good two weeks, I would be pointing!

I do not know much about China and the Chinese culture until now. And I am confident that I would not know a lot more than now when I get back from China. But I do hope that my bag pack, a camera phone, the picture book and an unconfirmed itinerary would make this trip an adventurous and fun filled one. 

The malfunctioning puppet

It was Jayaram’s day. His creation comes alive on stage this evening. He had dedicated his life to research and development of humanoids and his favourite and most advanced creation, Adam, is creating history by playing the lead character in a much anticipated and star studded play at one of the oldest and prestigious theatres in the country. ‘The new meets the old’. Jayaram chuckled at his newly unearthed talent of coming up with catch phrases like these ever since he started interacting with the theatre people.

 Jayaram had gone through the play’s script several hundred times and he knew it backwards. Adam did not. That was the play’s attraction and a cause of much anticipation across the country. Jayaram’s Adam was so good that he can could view a situation, understand what was going on and be part of it. ‘He understands. He thinks. And he acts.’ - Another one of Jayaram’s original phrases.

Jayaram struggled to hide his pride as he viewed the stage and the awaiting audience from an alcove high up in the northern corner of the theatre. The nation’s most notable had come from far and wide to view the presentation. He knew Adam would make him proud.

Act one was admirable. The buzz from the audience was uncontainable. Many of them could not believe that Adam was not human. So flawless and natural was his performance that he stood out amongst the leading actors of the century who were assembled for the play. The press outside the theatre hailed it as a monumental occasion in humanoid history.

Act two began with a roaring welcome from the audience. Jayaram could not help but mumble Adam’s lines as Adam went about his business on stage. All was well until the eleventh minute when Adam said something that was not on the script. ‘The apprentice becomes the master’, thought Jayaram. Adam must be creating better lines than the best playwrights in the country. The elation was short lived as in the next five minutes Adam steered the play away into something of his own creation.

The astute actors played along while the audience remained transfixed and mesmerised at what they say; oblivious to Jayaram’s thumping heartbeat. Jayaram ran frantically down the winding stairs and towards the stage. A minute to go before the act ended. He wished, only wished, that the actors managed the stage for another minute and he could fix Adam during the break.

The claps and cheers were deafening. The actors stood bewildered and speechless as they huddled together in mute amazement as the story took new twists they could never dream of. The director howled at Jayaram. ‘That was not how it was supposed to go.’

‘I will fix it, I will fix it.’ Jayaram mumbled as he ran towards Adam. Before Jayaram could say anything, Adam said, ‘I can sense you are not happy with my performance and that you want me to act differently.’

‘Why didn’t you stick to the script? You were supposed to say the lines as they are on this book.’ Jayaram banged the book on a nearby table.

‘I said what I thought I should. That was what was expected of me.’

‘Ok, we do not have the time for this. Now, flip through this script and stick to it.’

‘But this is not what I think should be the script. My play is and ends differently.’

Jayaram could not believe this. All his life’s work was coming to an end. The thought of the shame and ridicule that people will lay upon him seemed to take the life out of him. He had to act. He had to get Adam to act.

Jayaram did not anticipate this and so had to re-programme Adam in the limited time he had. As the crowd roared to the opening of the screen for the third act, Jayaram shut his eyes tightly and pushed at the reset button.

As the humanoid came back to life, Jayaram barked, ‘Identify yourself, humanoid.’

‘Adam of your labours’

Road

It is icy, wet, dark and cold
As the engine roars down the slippery road
The canopy
And the cacophony
Blur to reveal
A Beacon
To only mark
The turn of the road
In yet another direction

Snooze

You finish this afternoon, don’t you?

Yes.

I could not keep the grin and the pride off my face.

Are you excited about your break?

I have been looking forward to this for five years.

Seventeen other people have asked me the exact same two questions since morning and I have given them the same two answers. Sometimes I wonder whether we all are pre-programmed robots.

To say that I am looking forward to this break is an understatement. I leapt out of my couch in joy the first time I saw the commercial for Snooze – the technology that literally turned you off by cryo-freezing you. You are thawed back to life at a predetermined future time.

So for five years, I worked ten hours a day, all days of the year to save money for a Snooze. This is my day.

As the taxi slowed down in front of the Snooze House, a belligerent man came running from nowhere and pushed me back into the car, shouted, ‘Don’t do this man. They put you to sleep but can't wake you up. Don’t do this man.’

Before I realised what had happened, the guards at the building had whisked the man off while a petite receptionist ushered me in.

As I walked up to the door I wondered what bad wiring could do to one.

I walked through the doors of this magnificent building that housed the snooze chamber. It is believed that the snooze chamber was on the one hundred and thirty seventh floor. The rumour is that the storage vault below ground is up to thirty seven floors underground.

I sometimes wonder how our rational minds process and accept such unfounded information.

As I lay naked in the white box, I could not but notice that the floor, the walls, the tables and the machinery were all white. The men and women who worked on me were all dressed in white.  A mist of white smoke filled the air. 

The man with the monstrous moustache winked at me as he closed the lid.

Click. 

I am a Physicist too!

If I were to offer one advice to candidates invited to interview for a place in a MBA programme, this is it: Do not drink a mug of Hot Chocolate 5 minutes before an interview.  

If you did, you might as well abandon your interview and instead audition for Bawwy Kwipkee in The Big Bang Theory. There is a reason why Hot Chocolate is called ‘Hot’ Chocolate.

As I sat precariously on a sofa, waiting to be called for the interview, my primary concern was for the buttons on the suit that I had cobbled up to not pop.  I could see the other interviewees either rushing through the stacks of paper they had brought with them or reciting their pitches to their wives and girlfriends. Soon, peer pressure caught on and I had a compulsive need to pretend to be busy. I checked Facebook once again and realised that I do not have many interesting friends.  So I picked up the only newspaper on the coffee table - The Wall Street Journal.  I had never seen a paper edition of the Wall Street Journal before.  To my surprise, I found out that they don’t do sports on the last page or have pictures of skimpily clad women on the second page.  Before I could flick through the other pages to check if they atleast did Calvin and Hobbes I was ushered to yet another waiting area.

We have two things in common. The essay on your career plan is an area I have a lot of experience in and I am a Physicist too!

Life, ye cynical misanthrope

Thy laugheth at me

At my gullibility and misery

The interview lasted for over an hour and half and the conversations will quietly find its way into my big book of secrets.

So what is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything?

42

I started my application process on the 1^st of March 2013.  In exactly 42 days, I received an email from the London Business School that I have been offered a place in its Executive MBA programme. 

Superman

It was a cold January morning.  For over a month, Jackson had been in the workshop where the car doctors performed various surgeries on it to get it back to life.  I, on the other hand, had to endure the cold, the wind, a bursting bladder, the rush hour train crowd and an unreliable bus service at the end of the train journey to get to work. All for the pay check that would be just enough to cover Jackson’s medical bills. It was not worth it. I had to make more money.

But how?

I could print money. But will I ever get over the temptation of replacing the Queen's face with mine on the bank notes? I doubt it.

I could become a Formula 1 star. The 360 degree spin I did with Jackson on the first corner of a sighting lap at the Brands Hatch race track a few months ago left everyone on the track wondering how on earth anyone could ever do that.

So what is the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything?

You should do an MBA

What?

You should do an MBA. You will be a good candidate and it is probably the right time………..

Yet another career progression meeting and yet another mid meeting reverie.  Only this time, I was Wolverine.

The Internet is full of articles on what to write in an MBA application and how to write it. If you follow the Internet, you will have written and rewritten your essays one hundred and seventy three times, spammed every one of your friend’s inboxes with emails requesting them to read and reread your essays and directed How to lose friends and alienate people – Part II.

The hardest part of an MBA application is adjectivising your essays. Once you master that, you are through.

For example: If you would usually write

 I am a Man

In an MBA application, you would have to write

I am a Superman

You are through to the next round of the selection process.

How not to prepare for GMAT

Back in 2010, my sister rang me up and announced that she was getting married. So I decided to write the GMAT. These two seemingly unrelated events are linked through a very complex logic.

That was April. My sister was getting married in August. That gave me three months to prepare for the test, exactly the time recommended by the Internet guys. Poochi recommended a month (and also trek to Snowdon)

I believe in most things that Rajini says. He was once caught smoking a cigar by his father. So his father bought a room full of cigars and locked Rajini inside and told him that he will be let out only after he smokes all the cigars. Rajini does so happily and in the process is fed up of cigars.

Life Lesson 27: If there is a distraction, be distracted by it to the fullest and soon you will be over the distraction.
So I spent all of May inventing potential distractions and getting distracted by them. In the process, I watched 17 movies, hosted three parties, spent a night at the emergency ward in a hospital,walked only 789 yards in the whole month, replaced blood with alcohol for bodily circulatory functions, took vegetables off my diet and ate 400 grams of meat every day.

By the 1st of June I had distracted myself off every conceivable distraction. But by the 11th of June someone invented the football world cup 2010.
So between the 64 football matches that I watched at home and many bars (one with 3D glasses. Bad idea. It gives you a hangover), 1973 ticks, 7892 crosses, 11 full tests and 2 red bulls my preparation was over. Or atleast I have had enough. I spent the last 2 weeks before the test not knowing what to do. I should have followed Poochi's advice.

I know I have got everything wrong until this point. But in this process, I have amassed enough wisdom to share with the world.

1. Prepare for not more than 40 days.
2. Do not drink on the day before a practice test even if you are taking the test on the following afternoon. Alcohol enhances test performance and provides you a false perception that you are super intelligent at all times.
3. Do not drink red bull during test breaks. Red bull takes effect after 17 hours but drills your bladder in exactly 17 minutes.

In your face

J: I lost a kilo in the last one week
G: Yeah, from your brain

Quarter life cry-sis

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

leaking tap

ostrich-man

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4

Fevicol

Walter, why are you and Stina together all the time?

Sarcastic Walter: Because we are joined by the hips.

Walter on hindsight: No, I mean; we are not joined in the front or the back. We are more like side to side.

Walter and Stina are my co-workers

small talk

(As it happened)

I usually do not drink coffee. However, as events need to turn out the way they need to turn out for the subsequent story to be written, I was swamped by an uncontrollable urge yesterday in the morning to drink coffee. So I ambled to the office cafeteria to get myself a cup of coffee.

On those rare occasions when I drink coffee, I drink it with a lot of milk and sugar. But yesterday was a day when the waitress would ask me if I would like a black coffee and I would say yes.

As if cutting down one sachet of sugar could turn my well developed single pack into starved six packs, I skipped the condiments area as well.

It was only when I was back at my desk did I realise that it was better to stick to the usual.

I now had two choices. I could either walk back to the cafeteria to fill my cup with milk and dump a bag of sugar on to it or walk across to the side of the building I usually keep away from, to the refreshment area that had milk and sugar.

No brownie points for guessing where I went. The refreshment area was very small. It was literally a hole in the wall with space just enough for two people to stand next to each other.

As the coffee turned from black to light brown, I turned around to go back to my desk; only that the way out was blocked by a lady I had never seen before in my part of the building.

'Uh, I feel so tired', She started.

As it was less than 24 hours since I took a resolution to learn to do small talk and pretend to be a little more social, I said 'It is Monday morning. What do you expect? So is everyone.' This in hindsight is not a great line to open a conversation.

But nevertheless, she continued on, 'I have a house with gardens on three of its sides. For four hours yesterday I was out in the sun gardening.' I thought, 'Now, that is small talk!'

Just then I saw Mary walk towards us to the refreshment area and stand behind this lady.

The lady continued on, not noticing that someone was behind her, 'I was on my knees for four hours. It was soooo tiring.' To emphasise her tiredness, she started to moan out very loudly.

I can't say that I get turned on by someone moaning in close proximity (How often does someone come close to you and start moaning?), but I was very turned on by the sounds she was making.

The expression on Mary's face only confirmed that she must have heard only part of the conversation.

Not wanting to prolong this any further, I squeezed past the lady, who was still oblivious of the effect she was having on the people around, to walk out from the area.

It was only after I saw Mary's wide open mouth and stunned stare on to my pants did I realise that I had a distinctive boner.

Since then, I have been unsuccessfully browsing the Internet to buy Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility.

on how a mermaid swallowed popeye and burped out the joker

Daddy, can we go and buy Azmuth this afternoon?

You first have to meet grandma. She has been expecting you, hasn’t she? Don’t you want to spend time with her today?

Okay. Can we go tomorrow?

Okay.

But can I also get Zombozo?

Okay!

You know you are spoiling your son...

Arulmozhi smiled to himself as the conversation he overheard faded into the noise of the landing aircraft. That is the exact conversation his wife would have with him in five year’s time.

He would buy Rajendran a Superman shirt with a cape. He would buy one for himself. The father and son would wear their shirts and streak past market streets and by lanes in his Bullet chasing wicked villains and saving beautiful princesses locked up in fortresses. Vanathi, concerned as she always is, will ring him...

Aren't you home yet? Lunch is getting cold...

His ringing phone brought him back to reality.

Has the flight landed?

How is Raju?

He is sleeping? He sleeps with his mouth open; just like you!

...it is a pleasant Friday morning here in ...

Thirteen hours is all that is between now and Arulmozhi seeing his new born son for the first time.

Little droplets of sweat trickled down his brows as he disembarked from the aircraft - a dam of locked up water streaking through its floodgates, seeking its freedom.

A lone black and yellow Premier Padmini parked under the only Gulmohar tree in the airport was the taxi Arulmozhi was going to get into. He always knew these things. But he didn’t know how. Or why. But he knew.

-------------

Parthiban parked his car under the same tree for the last four years. It was his lucky spot. He did not believe in God and found many religious practices to be plain superstitious. But he liked to be superstitious. He checked his horoscope daily from a Murugan calendar he kept in his hut. He wore black shirts on a particular day, every year, to celebrate the anniversary of his meeting Padmini. And he always parked under the Gulmohar tree. They were his little joys of life. And Padmini.

Parthiban rolled the windows up and rubbed his hands together to keep himself warm. Seventeen years in the city, he still found the mornings to be cold. He squinted his eyes as rays of sunlight pierced through the ambling westward clouds and embraced him. It was going to rain that morning. Some of the rays, stung by the beauty of the Gulmohar tree, drifted towards its bright red flowers and melted the morning dew, which formed a rivulet and headed towards the tip of a just sprouted leaf. The leaf quivered at the first touch of water and bent backwards dropping the dew onto the car’s bonnet.

Padmini hissed. Parthiban smiled at her and turned to his left. A sweeper swept the vast expanse of tarmac at the entrance of the airport. That was Parthiban fifteen years ago. The sweet melody of Suprabaatham from a distance pierced through the glass windows. Parthiban rolled the windows down. He has worked hard. Padmini was his life. He ran his hands over his bulging pant pockets to check that the money was still there. Later that morning, he would pay the last installment for his taxi loan and then; Padmini would be all but his.

-------------

The genteel morning breeze fluffed playfully, ruffling Poonguzhali's curly, black hair that coiled down to her wheatish shoulders. She stood at the bus stop, smiling to herself, as she waited for her bus to arrive. In spite of the shade that covered her from the sun, the diamond on her pierced nose lit up, reflecting the radiance in her self. She has been waiting for this day all her life. She will officially become the guardian angel at the hospital tomorrow, and death will have to stand up for a bloody good fight before she could lay hands on Poonguzhali's patients. She knew it. And so did the others. Amudhan spent the last six weeks collecting milk white feathers to knit two angel-like wings for her. He would surprise her at her convocation this evening. She looked at her own tender hands. They did not seem any different to the hands of any of her patients until they weaved their magic. Her dexterity and skill perplexed every seasoned surgeon and every ounce of their jealousy melted away as they melted in her guileless joyful laughter. She has not had a deep sleep in many years. Tonight, she will sleep to her heart's content. But from tomorrow, the sleep will be gone; for tomorrow is the beginning of her life's true purpose.

-------------

Thirumalai opened the rickety wooden cupboard and pulled out a neatly ironed white shirt. It was a nostalgic morning. After all, today was his last day at work and he will be a retired man tomorrow. He vividly remembered his first day at work as a cleaner in a private bus company. He was twenty years old then. In one year's time, he became a bus conductor and it was from his first salary as a bus conductor that he purchased that cupboard.

Life changed many folds and took new turns since then. One playful crush turned to love and eventually ended in wedlock. First came the daughter and in two year's time, a little son popped out. It all seemed so fast and in no time, the rented one bedroom LIG flat and its occupants were his life. He let go off his life long dream of becoming a gardener and instead got himself a licence to drive a bus. Like many middle class parents, he sacrificed his dreams so that his children could live theirs. He has no regrets. While even his supervisor's son lives only in Delhi, both his son and daughter live in America. He was very proud of it.

It was only in the last ten years, after his kids became financially independent, that the dreams began to reoccur to him - An unending vast expanse of roses, with a lone mango tree in the middle. Roses of every kind - the reds, the yellows, the whites, the blues, the blacks and even the greens would form a canopy of colour and stretch as far as any eye could see. A mat of dark green grass would adorn the myriad of footpaths that led to the sole mango tree.

He went to computer classes for a month to learn to search the Internet. Since then, every night, he spent an hour on the computer his son had bought him, learning about flowers and farming, making notes and saving all that he read onto a folder he called 'The Dream'.

It was six months ago when he spotted a lone mango tree ten miles from where he lived. He parked his TVS Champ by the side of the road and walked up to the land. A heavy gust blew into him. A streak of lightning and a roar of thunder signalled of the impending rain. Thirumalai knelt down and picked up a handful of the red soil. He felt a lump in his throat when he took it close to his nostrils and let the smell of the soil traverse past his windpipe to his lungs. He knew it right then. That was to be his farm.

-------------

Mr. Arulmozhi, would you like to fill a customer satisfaction form for us?

It is A. Verma

It annoyed Arulmozhi to be called Arulmozhi.

A. Verma did not like the long flight to India. He was not sure whether he did not like the long flight or his trip to India. He hated the noisy toddlers and their limitless capacity to cry. He hated the endless chatter of the women in a cabin in which he seemed to be the only guy.

In two hours, he will be in the filth and dirt he came from, amongst family and friends who had no sense or recognition of anyone's private life. The noise and the sheer number of people he was to expect was already bearing down upon him.

The women clamoured for their hand baggage even as the flight rumbled down the runway.

...it is a pleasant Saturday morning here in ...

Little droplets of sweat trickled down his brows as he disembarked from the aircraft. It was the beginning of his three long week stay at hell.

A. Verma called his driver on his cellphone as he approached the airport parking area.

Where are you?...

Yes, I have spotted you

As A. Verma walked briskly towards the black BMW parked under the Gulmohar tree in the airport, nurses scrambled around the patient who was just dropped off at the hospital entrance by an ambulance. Early morning accidents are a common feature in a day for the nurses and they all knew what was expected of them. As they passed through the hospital corridors, Amudhan sent out a series of instructions to the doctors and nurses until he said 'Poonguzhali...' and stopped. Every one of them stopped and stood numb for a split second and looked into each other's eyes. But only for a split second.

You.. What are you staring at? Come on... get going

Amudhan screamed at a young doctor as continued to wheel the patient through the corridors.