every calculatingly avoided puddle must come right under the wheel in a loud thump-splash. The predictability of it is almost wonderful...
Friday, August 20, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
railway trackback
One-stop station of moments waiting to happen....
Mission: Get to Counter-9 and book train tickets
Obstacle in path: Rickety ladder with bamboo extensions, from which hang paint buckets. Painters already on top of the ladder, so moving ladder out of the way is, well, out of question.
Gnawing thought (as a result of repeatedly justified fears about cosmic conspiracies regarding ticket availability): Dammit! Does walking under a ladder HAVE to bring bad luck? And is bad luck = not getting tickets? Is just forgetting about the tickets and going back to work an option?
Steely resolve: Will get tickets. Will walk under ladder.
Just then, I see an old man in a navy blue safari suit clutching a fat bunch of ticket forms. His hand is placed strategically on pant pocket, where (hopefully) an unstolen, but well-noticed-by-all wallet sits. He mutters a silent prayer, sighs deeply, and zips to Counter-9 under the ladder. On the way, he dramatically ducks, as if all the buckets of paint are standing poised to splash and thud right on his head. But he gets tickets!!
Emboldened, I too travel under cursed ladder. Waiting list 260. "No chance, madam." Proof 57 of cosmic conspiracy.
….
What’s with the urge to always drink coffee at the railway station and mix the sugar with the clever straw+stirrer? Everyone who passes by the coffee vendor visibly debates the purchase of a beverage. A lot of feet shuffling, hand crossing & uncrossing later, 9 out of 10 people eventually buy the coffee/tea/instant soup. It's wonderful to lose to your mind (as opposed to losing your mind, of course)
….
Madness at the railway ticket reservation counter. A distinct smell of limestone. Grey figures bustle about in paint-splashed shorts, their dull brown skin hidden under layers of whitewash. For me, they smell of the nostril-tickling freshness of walking into a newly painted house, of glistening things, clean things, of moving in.
But when they breathe in their own enamel smell, it must be no more than a reminder of another patch to be painted over.
....
Autorickshaw-wallahs and policemen sharing a lewd joke outside the station. Damsel in distress (read non-kannada speaking girl alighted from First Class Two tier AC compartment of train, who can’t find an auto to take her home) arrives at the scene. Cop's face hardens, he straightens up and orders the auto-guy to take her home. The girl is all gratitude.
The cop winks at auto-man in the brief moment before the auto takes off. Knowing nods exchanged. Ah, jobs well carried out.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Guilt fangs
The rock band had to be photographed. They held their guitars and grimaced in mock passion, the music supposedly too high-pitched and satanic to be humanly audible. This is ridiculous, I said. You’re not actually playing, and you’re standing next to some stunted shrubs and faking musical ecstasy for the photograph. ANYBODY can see that you are not plugged in! But yes, you... mr.drummer, you’re quite the man. Holding up the sticks, your face registering eye-popping, jaw-dropping shock that your drum kit suddenly vanished into thin air, and looking thrilled that now you have only your god-given instrument to play with, is totally rib-tickling. Ha ha. I could laugh till all my teeth fall out.
"Oh alright," band leader said, bizarrely under the impression that I was being sarcastic. "We’ll move elsewhere."
So scene 2: near next bunch of shrubs. The photographer asks them to seem friendly, and pretend to be normal. It has to be explained that accosting the keyboardist is not normal, and that a college rock band doesn't need to look like they have rocks in their heads.
As voice levels go up, the watchman (let’s call him W) walks up to us (I cringe to say "us") and points to a signboard on the grass. In tamil, he says, "Can’t you read the board? It’s written that you can’t take photo! Hut! Hut! Shoo, go away…"
We all look the board: "No smoking. Please don’t sit on grass." The idiot band members laugh that W is pretending to be literate.
I tell W that we’re from the press, but he doesn’t care. "You can ask permission from manager," he says and starts walking towards a door. I ask the photographer and the screw-loose bunch to hold on till I go do some begging in the manager’s office.
The manager doesn’t let me say a word, but shows me every surveillance camera that’s installed in the building. "Boss has told us not to let photos be taken. If you still do it, this man will lose his job," the manager says, pointing to W. Maybe he’s exaggerating, I think. But what if he isn’t?
I go back to the scene of crime. I report my findings and suggest that we take snaps in a place where we won’t end up getting somebody fired. The band vocalist grinningly says, "Too late. W has already lost his job, then."
Huh?
"We took the photos when you took W inside," the drummer says, proud about his new-found defiant streak. High-fives are all over the place. W doesn’t understand what’s happening. As we all leave, he tells me, "Thanks ma, you understand no?"
I look at the drummer and vocalist now lifting their collars and doing the school-boy "yesss!!". I wonder where I can find a loaded gun.
"Oh alright," band leader said, bizarrely under the impression that I was being sarcastic. "We’ll move elsewhere."
So scene 2: near next bunch of shrubs. The photographer asks them to seem friendly, and pretend to be normal. It has to be explained that accosting the keyboardist is not normal, and that a college rock band doesn't need to look like they have rocks in their heads.
As voice levels go up, the watchman (let’s call him W) walks up to us (I cringe to say "us") and points to a signboard on the grass. In tamil, he says, "Can’t you read the board? It’s written that you can’t take photo! Hut! Hut! Shoo, go away…"
We all look the board: "No smoking. Please don’t sit on grass." The idiot band members laugh that W is pretending to be literate.
I tell W that we’re from the press, but he doesn’t care. "You can ask permission from manager," he says and starts walking towards a door. I ask the photographer and the screw-loose bunch to hold on till I go do some begging in the manager’s office.
The manager doesn’t let me say a word, but shows me every surveillance camera that’s installed in the building. "Boss has told us not to let photos be taken. If you still do it, this man will lose his job," the manager says, pointing to W. Maybe he’s exaggerating, I think. But what if he isn’t?
I go back to the scene of crime. I report my findings and suggest that we take snaps in a place where we won’t end up getting somebody fired. The band vocalist grinningly says, "Too late. W has already lost his job, then."
Huh?
"We took the photos when you took W inside," the drummer says, proud about his new-found defiant streak. High-fives are all over the place. W doesn’t understand what’s happening. As we all leave, he tells me, "Thanks ma, you understand no?"
I look at the drummer and vocalist now lifting their collars and doing the school-boy "yesss!!". I wonder where I can find a loaded gun.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
Game theory yet again
Parking-lot guy Anand was staring at the number plates of all the two-wheelers lined up.
I have been told never to trust the intentions of someone who dares to charge 50 paise extra from poverty-stricken earning professionals (who are most probably parking there to make their way to buy the latest cell phone with a cannot-do-without camera). Plus, hindi movies have taught me that plucking off a number plate from an innocent bike and planting it on a hit-and-run vehicle driven by a criminal (who will also disguise himself astonishingly well with a paste-on moustache) was as easy as turning a roti on the pan.
So I squinted suspiciously at Anand, as if by letting less light-play in my vision, Anand's evil ploy will suddenly be apparent to me. Hmm… our prime suspect is mumbling something.
I know I'm onto something. I decide to move in. To buy time, I pretend I can't find my key. Anand is used to such carelessness. He probably thinks I don't deserve a bike. I have him fooled THIS time… haha!
Ok I am now close enough to hear him softly chanting something. Every 3 seconds, he rolls his eyes upwards, and his fingers wiggle a little. I move closer, acting like I'm tightening the screws on my helmet vizer. Anand's right thumb is moving quickly, placing a light touch on each section of his fingers. His lips are only slightly apart, still mumbling.
My eagle-eyes zoom in to his fingers again. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. Uniform. School. Homework. Number blocks. Fingers. Counting. Add. Subtract. Maths.
Anand spends his workday turning boring vehicle registration numbers into complex maths puzzles. "Timepass, may-dam (madam)" he tells me. So do numbers with more than 4 digits freak him out? After letting out a shockingly shrill ultrasonic laugh, he says the only thing that confuses him is the TN (Tamil Nadu) registration.
The tamilian in me reacts with an indignant "OYE!!" together with imagined angry lungi lifting action (sure to scare people shitless), while Bangalorean in me grins conspiringly at Anand. I don't think Anand cares how I react. He's more interested in (6623*3475) + KA03.
I have been told never to trust the intentions of someone who dares to charge 50 paise extra from poverty-stricken earning professionals (who are most probably parking there to make their way to buy the latest cell phone with a cannot-do-without camera). Plus, hindi movies have taught me that plucking off a number plate from an innocent bike and planting it on a hit-and-run vehicle driven by a criminal (who will also disguise himself astonishingly well with a paste-on moustache) was as easy as turning a roti on the pan.
So I squinted suspiciously at Anand, as if by letting less light-play in my vision, Anand's evil ploy will suddenly be apparent to me. Hmm… our prime suspect is mumbling something.
I know I'm onto something. I decide to move in. To buy time, I pretend I can't find my key. Anand is used to such carelessness. He probably thinks I don't deserve a bike. I have him fooled THIS time… haha!
Ok I am now close enough to hear him softly chanting something. Every 3 seconds, he rolls his eyes upwards, and his fingers wiggle a little. I move closer, acting like I'm tightening the screws on my helmet vizer. Anand's right thumb is moving quickly, placing a light touch on each section of his fingers. His lips are only slightly apart, still mumbling.
My eagle-eyes zoom in to his fingers again. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. Uniform. School. Homework. Number blocks. Fingers. Counting. Add. Subtract. Maths.
Anand spends his workday turning boring vehicle registration numbers into complex maths puzzles. "Timepass, may-dam (madam)" he tells me. So do numbers with more than 4 digits freak him out? After letting out a shockingly shrill ultrasonic laugh, he says the only thing that confuses him is the TN (Tamil Nadu) registration.
The tamilian in me reacts with an indignant "OYE!!" together with imagined angry lungi lifting action (sure to scare people shitless), while Bangalorean in me grins conspiringly at Anand. I don't think Anand cares how I react. He's more interested in (6623*3475) + KA03.
Friday, August 06, 2004
the decisive moment
kkk 
"To take photographs means to recognize - simultaneously and within a fraction of a second - both the fact itself and the rigorous organization of visually perceived forms that give it meaning. It is putting one's head, one's eye and one's heart on the same axis.....
"The photograph itself doesn't interest me. I want only to capture a minute part of reality....
-Henri Cartier-Bresson (1908-2004)
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Push & pull
Every time I’m asked to write about celebrity suicides, one-day makeovers,
talent hunts that will further breed more TV soap kings and queens who go to sleep dressed in wedding clothes & makeup,
campus lingo (I challenge the world to write 800 sensible words on the cultural milieu that spawned "wassup?!"),
a party that must be talk-of-town because a model did an unfortunate Janet Jackson,
what people wear this monsoon (oh who CARES!! just remember to take the jerkin/ raincoat/ umbrella) or other such events that must be chronicled for our grandchildren, I make an explosive mental speech about trashy articles in papers. But bravado takes new meanings as I very articulately stick my lower lip out at my boss, and say the words that reflect the makings of a great revolutionary: "But… but whyyyyy?"
I cannot tell a lie- the pink slip stalks me even in my sleep (well-dressed women walk up to me in busy dream streets and hand me pink files)! So I decide to be a con-artist. Tongue firmly in cheek, I sprinkle synthetic saccharine on every word I write, squeeze every bit of sarcasm into the article and pride myself on not having sold my soul. Then the fashion designer I poked fun at calls me up to say: "Thanks a lot, my girl. We need more write-ups like the one you did. We should lunch sometime…" Oh no! How did I get on HIS side?!! (And how do these people manage to make meals into verbs? "We must tea after we lunch" Ha! English pundits will cringe. I merely grin)
Food too, I hear, has gotten fashionable. As I sit at a 5-star dinner table pretending to be interested in how the miniscule one-spoonful portion of chocolate mousse must be plonked in the centre of a laaarge plate, with a "whiff of" this and a "sprinkling of" that, my fork is ready to take off. (Food Inspector’s orders: Spoons to be prohibited in restaurants where la-di-da is served in greater proportions than yummm…). All the while, my tummy holds a rumbling monologue...
Yet I keep my job. Well, there are perks. Like the occasional interview with madcaps whose endearingly irrational & less talked of lives make more sense than the many gold-plated (or platinum-plated, as trends would have us believe) worlds of the poised. Ok maybe I do love my job...
talent hunts that will further breed more TV soap kings and queens who go to sleep dressed in wedding clothes & makeup,
campus lingo (I challenge the world to write 800 sensible words on the cultural milieu that spawned "wassup?!"),
a party that must be talk-of-town because a model did an unfortunate Janet Jackson,
what people wear this monsoon (oh who CARES!! just remember to take the jerkin/ raincoat/ umbrella) or other such events that must be chronicled for our grandchildren, I make an explosive mental speech about trashy articles in papers. But bravado takes new meanings as I very articulately stick my lower lip out at my boss, and say the words that reflect the makings of a great revolutionary: "But… but whyyyyy?"
I cannot tell a lie- the pink slip stalks me even in my sleep (well-dressed women walk up to me in busy dream streets and hand me pink files)! So I decide to be a con-artist. Tongue firmly in cheek, I sprinkle synthetic saccharine on every word I write, squeeze every bit of sarcasm into the article and pride myself on not having sold my soul. Then the fashion designer I poked fun at calls me up to say: "Thanks a lot, my girl. We need more write-ups like the one you did. We should lunch sometime…" Oh no! How did I get on HIS side?!! (And how do these people manage to make meals into verbs? "We must tea after we lunch" Ha! English pundits will cringe. I merely grin)
Food too, I hear, has gotten fashionable. As I sit at a 5-star dinner table pretending to be interested in how the miniscule one-spoonful portion of chocolate mousse must be plonked in the centre of a laaarge plate, with a "whiff of" this and a "sprinkling of" that, my fork is ready to take off. (Food Inspector’s orders: Spoons to be prohibited in restaurants where la-di-da is served in greater proportions than yummm…). All the while, my tummy holds a rumbling monologue...
Yet I keep my job. Well, there are perks. Like the occasional interview with madcaps whose endearingly irrational & less talked of lives make more sense than the many gold-plated (or platinum-plated, as trends would have us believe) worlds of the poised. Ok maybe I do love my job...
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