A French Production

Many thanks to Amy, Alice and Amelie!

Wedding Bells & Death Knells

...still, there is some part of us which refuses to let go in the face of impossibility and all the reason the world could throw at us. It’s usually insignificant and over-ridden by the power of everything else that’s seeped into the head. But now, we’re approaching a moment of truth.

It’s like watching your old man grow older and die. We know that he’s going to die. We know that Death is the best example of certainty. Yet, we still cry when he dies. We know it’s coming, we think about it, tell ourselves that it’s normal and natural and that so many others have gone through it. In fact, it’s imperative that he dies. New life has to replace old life and death is important in helping life progress. But try holding back the tears.

Fickle are our thoughts and the promises we made. We knew it then, we know it now.

Kutta

It's not that we didn't know what's happening. When the first nails were drilled into the coffin, I knew it was coming. There is a certain beauty in inevitability. Someone felt that I had to learn a little about helplessness. And so I fell freely, torn in a thousand directions by things that I could neither sense nor perceive. There is no face to hate, no act to blame and no where to hide. You run you're fucked, you stay put and you're fucked anyway. And so I had to choose between the two fucked up choices and I chose to stay back and stare into the devil I couldn't see, mostly because I tried running and got fucked miserably.

We all have demons in our heads. My own took the form of some pictures I'm very fond of, a few beautiful notes from a pair of violins and writings which took strangely standardized forms (Trebuchet size 12 perhaps) for something so romantic.

Once when Joy, Gopal and I were riding from Pathankhot to Jalandar, Joy had a fucked up bike and no money, while we rode ahead, not in bliss but ignorant nevertheless. We had to ride back 70 kms in the rain, burning scarce petrol and time, soaked to our balls and frustrated beyond words, only to discover that Joy's fucked up bike required a fix worth one twenty ruppee note. During that ride it pained us to see the same scenery we'd seen earlier, and it pained us even more to know that we'll see it again on the way back.

Apologies for digressing and repeating my stories (this one is a standard disclaimer that holds for all my stories)... I hope you get the link as I rant on. Back to my demons... the progress was slow and painful. Two steps forward and one step back... 4 steps forward and 3 steps back... let's say that one day I reached 10 steps forward, with a big grin on my face and a heart that swelled with pride... only to slide 9 steps down on a laddered snake (after some time you begin to think someone's playing a game and enjoying it), to where I once was many months back. That's the very worst - to know that you have to slog through the muck again. It's easier to take shit if you didn't know what was coming. If I were dragged back to high school with all the hindsight I have now, I'd check if man can fly and jump off a cliff.

Help comes in strange forms, like in this case, other wounds and other people's wounds.

Contrary to what this post may suggest thus far, I'm at peace - even happy - with the old wounds. I can look at it without my throat getting stuck, playfully push and pat and not feel the sting, and involuntarily smile at the beauty instead of wincing. The pictures, writings and violin notes become more beautiful and distant everyday, as The Little Boy grows out of the stories he narrates.

So much cheer, so much hope... it's all too beautiful to be written down here.

The Shorts Were Always Short

The others are my brother and my favourite of dad’s 6 brothers. That was some 20 years ago… back when we ate mints for fun. Back when my hair was oiled and combed in all the wrong ways known only to Tam Brahms in Madras who sent their kids to schools with names like PS Senior. In case you’re wondering, PS expands to Pennathur Subramaniam. Wow… I just remembered that my school was (at least partly) named after me. Anyway, you know the effects of studying in such a school with hair oiled and combed like that… I used to be convinced that kids going to schools with names like Boston Matriculation were smarter, stronger, faster, funnier, cooler, bigger…

So Everyone (read Women In My Life) says something nice when they see that picture… like “ohhh! You were succchhha cute boy!” and to my eyes the cute is massacred by the past tense. Ok, please don’t post comments trying to cheer me up. I’m thinking why no one told me anything nice back then. I’m also thinking that 20 years from now, when Everyone is flirting with menopause, they’ll say all nice things and remember which tense to use.

The Story Of Pradyum

Pradyum is the most faltoo, unmotivated freak of nature ever to have fallen thru the cracks in the education system. His life in Madras was modeled on the Mughal Emperors, minus the liquor, women and other intoxicants. He woke up past noon, and watched TV while being served bed-tea. Then he’d slumber through his bodily functions and have unlimited tam meals at home before effortlessly slipping into his afternoon nap. He’d wake up to snacks and head to the tiny ground nearby to play cricket with familiar faces. After the game, they’d stay back and discuss the cricket game and what they watched on TV during the period of separation. After dinner, Pradyum watched more TV - Telegu and Kannada music channels. He’d tip his friends if there was a particularly interesting song… and thus time passed till it was past midnight and time to crash.

Pradyum gave up on CAT after a week’s effort. He randomly ticked all 123 questions and returned home a content man. Later that afternoon, he was told by the pretty news reader he liked on Headlines Today that there was negative marking in the exam. Pradyum had a good laugh. He laughed even more when the results were announced… he managed to beat sincere Sandoze by a good 20 percentile!

I don't remember the last time I saw him... he only said "Subu... take care, goodbye and all that... now I have to rush!" and left for Oz land and replaced machis with mates.

Detox & Vathakozhambu

Feels good to be clean... the days seem longer... before you get all worked up, i must urge you, at the risk of flirting with hypocrisy, to not judge if you don't understand.

Madras is pleasant. Ratna Cafe meals is so delicious that I can't describe... pardon the mcp quotient, but I wish every woman could make vathakozhambu, and if possible, like Ratna Cafe's.

Parents see horoscopes... Dada would look at resumes, Rajesh would hope to hear movies, and if possible Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind... I've joined DC's mum in the vathakozhambu camp.

Disobedience

It’s hard to be a nice kid when the father of your nation is perhaps the most disobedient man to have ever walked the earth.

All The Little Things

The scab hasn’t healed yet. K shall borrow The Most Beautiful Analogy from P. The wounds are still fresh and ghastly, like the dagger sank in last night. The clamor of hope drowns out the prudence, or whatever of it remains. K digs his nails into the thick brown scab and peels it off gently. The wound is frighteningly ugly. Hope kills. K’s tear glands are eager to jerk off. K watches the blood drip down and spatter. You’d expect the blood to be blood red, but K’s blood is darker, thanks to H and all the sins.

K hung his head in shame, for his lack of heart and guts to speak the truth. He only hoped that, someday, he would be forgiven. “For all the pain that I'm causing, I'm sorry,” said K.

K would like to think that it happened one warm summer night, on a dramatic trip outside an old church in Colaba… or standing in the Andheri station, bathed in sweat and feeling alone in the crowd … alternatively, it could’ve been the first time K stepped into The Loo With Green Tiles, hand in hand and Torch in hand... it could also be the silly telephone bill under a starlit sky in The Land Of Dangerous Snakes, Frog Tikka and Worm Fry, leading to the first flare of orange. It could also be The Scribbling On The Sand during The Beginning, or the fire-lit drunken death dance with random people on the shores of the Arabian Sea.

K likes his instincts… perhaps a little too much. Regret is smoother than having to deal with the perpetual haggle of hope.

It could be the night K met 4 strangers from another school on the train… or the cold night in the mountains when he fought with The Mad Georgian. Maybe their paths were destined to clash. K beat out 99 others to get out of the black hole which was so rotten that even creativity couldn’t escape. K was Darwin’s pick. However, like in a poem, Darwin’s pick got fucked by Darwin.

It could be traced back to the time when flocking to the dirty beach was cool and K knew every other guy worth knowing at the beach, including guys from other schools. The seeds were sown stealthily, as the bunch of kids grew up on their own precious La Poderosas.

Some hormone tells K that boys don’t cry. Almost all of K’s happiness and pain could be traced to a bunch of innocuous hormones. The fundamentals are gorgeously simple, like kicking the ball into the goal.

It could be traced to a million silly decisions made, words said and unsaid and some inconspicuous muscles, all of which dissolve away like the dreams from last night.

The pain is unbearable. No, not the blood or the wound, but the torturously morbid muck-path back. K listens to a trippy old song and slithers into a dream.

The Curious Child Turns 23

Growing up as a curious child, I always wanted to become a porn star. I didn’t feel such envy towards cricketers or pilots or canonized nuns. Physics entered later on; but like most things, a few years down, it didn’t matter.

I turned 23 last week. 23 on 23 July. My dad called me on June 23, and I had to convince him that my birthday was a month later. Anyway, he still insists that it’s June 23.

The Story Of Amaresh’s Birthday

My parents (and everybody else) wanted me to go to the most academically inclined tambrahm school in the vicinity, so they took me to this school in Mylapore, Madras called P.S. Senior. The Principal was named Alamelu. She was a bitch (I give people the chance of change). She used to remind me of the pumpkins with paintings of demonic faces hanging outside new homes, to ward off evil spirits and jealousy, and to welcome goodness and blah blah… well, I guess it worked in 1987.

Anyway, somebody took me to the school for admission, and they said that I had to be born in June to be eligible to join the school. So they dragged me out a month earlier than reality and went back to Alamelu with a June 23 fudged somewhere. Then Alamelu’s peanut brain worked out that I had to be born in the first week of June 1984 for my brain to be sufficiently larger than her’s to take on the rigor and torture that lay ahead in that school. So they went back to the fudging board and back to Alamelu with June 3. Thus began school. That’s the end of that story. Unless you want to know the story of how I overcame my 7 week handicap and scored 95 in the math exam.

Back to the other story… well, it’s over really… my dad simply has the dates mixed up and insists that I was out by June 23 1984.

Oh, and while we’re still on education, I’m into my final year of formal education. It’s apt that after 20 years of relentless torment, the education system finally decided to give me a year off. [The Wasted Year]

On my birthday, I counted 3 people who live in my institute who wished me the most beautiful birthday of my life on orkut, and then walked past me outside the mess like I didn’t exist.

So yeah, it’s been 23 years.

Harijan

|June 15 2007 | Kalka Village, Parvati Valley, Himachal|

Everyone’s in fits of laughter when Jeevan’s around. He’s from the Thakur caste. This funny chap wearing jeans which was torn everywhere and without a zip, from the Harijan caste, visited us while we were having brunch. Jeevan explained that local people won’t visit their restaurant if they see Harijans entering the kitchen. The other restaurants don’t let them inside. Jeevan said he needs to do the same. Jeevan pulled down Leemu’s loosely worn tracks. Everyone laughs. Jeevan, Leemu, Sonu and me.

Jeevan says the government gives 50,000 to every upper caste guy (like Jeevan, Leemu & Sonu) who marries a lower caste woman (like guy-with-jeans-torn-everywhere-and-no-zip’s sister). Of course, he would then become a Harijan and would be outcast by the upper caste, including his close friends, whose loosely worn pants he once pulled down.