പൂര്‍വീകം

ഒരു വടക്കന്‍ വീര നായര്‍ സ്പ്രിംഗ് (അറബ് സ്പ്രിംഗ് പോലെ)
വി കെ എന്‍ -ന്റെ പ്രതികഥകളില്‍ നിന്നു...

അകായിലെ പിന്മുറക്കാര്‍ ബഹളംകൂട്ടി
കോളേജ് തോറക്ക്ണ് ല്ലാച്ചാ വേറേ തൊറന്ന കോളേജ് ല് ചേര്‍ത്തണം.
അനന്തിരവന്‍ ചെറിയകിട്ടുണ്ണി നായര്‍ ശാസിച്ചു:
ശ്ശി ഒരൂട്ടം ല്ലായ്മണ്ട് സമുദായ സ്നേഹം ല്ലേ ? നൊമ്മടെ നായന്മാരുടെ കോളേജോള് ടും ടും എന്ന് ള്ളപ്പോ ഈഴവന്റെ കുടീല് വിദ്യ അഭ്യസിക്കണം!
ആയായി, സുരേന്ദ്രാ, സുന്തോപസുന്താ, സുമതീ, പ്രേം നവസേ, നാണല്ലല്ലോ, നിങ്ങക്കൊന്നിനും !

നമ്മുടെ കോളേജ് തുറക്കഞ്ഞിട്ടല്ലേ ?
തോറക്കും.
എപ്പോ ?
എപ്പളാച്ചാ അപ്പൊ.
എന്നിട്ട് പഠിച്ചാ മത്യോ ?
മതി.
എന്നാ പോര !

ചെറിയ കിട്ടുണ്ണിനായര്‍ രൗദ്രഭീമനായി എഴുന്നേറ്റു കഴിഞ്ഞു. അവിടെ നിന്നു. അനങ്ങാന്‍ കഴിഞ്ഞില്ല.
അത്ര കേമമായിരുന്നു ഉച്ചഭക്ഷണം.

മരുമക്കളെ വിസ്തരിച്ചൊന്നു താഡിക്കാന്‍ കഴിയാത്ത കുണ്‍ഡിതതോടെ മൂത്താര് പറഞ്ഞു:
ന്നാ വലിയമ്മാമനെ പോയി കണ്ടോളിന്‍,

Generational

Few weeks back my seven year old and I went to a classical tabla performance. Before the concert the artist talked about his late father. He talked about his humble upbringing in a dusty village in Maharashtra. He recalled his father taking him to classical music conerts in Bombay - an overnight trip which they could barely afford. These concerts mostly extended late into the night, and they often missed the last train they needed to catch to get back home. At the train station his father scrambled the last remaining coins from his pocket to buy his son a meal while he remained hungry. Then they would both huddle together and sleep on the railway platform waiting for the train next morning.

While he remembered his late father his eyes welled, his lips quivered, and his voice cracked with emotion. Overwhelmed by memories he paused a moment, held his composure, and started the performance.

On our way back home that day, my son and I were talking about the performance. Sriram liked everything about the concert. He loved the front row seats, enjoyed all the numbers, was happy to see his friends there. But there was one question that still lingered in his mind.
"Why did he weep before the concert when he talked about his dad ?"

A plumbing issue

I visited my cute doctor two weeks ago with a clogged plumbing. He asked me to drink a lot of water, eat fiberous fruits - prunes, papayas, take whole grains, exercise etc. I tried these natural laxatives but that didn't fix my system.

Later that week he prescriebed a medicine, which I took for couple of days. That didn't work either.

So I checked back with him yesterday and he prescribed an industrial strength pill. I took 3 of those babies yesterday and nothing happened. I took one more today morning. No effect what so ever.

Frustrated, I popped a 6 of them around noon. It worked ! My plumbing is no longer clogged. Infact I am looking for a cork now.

On Assignment

A friend asked Swamiji and I if we could take some photographs for a his relative's graduation. We agreed, and he took us to meet with the family.

We reached their home promptly at the agreed upon time. A man answered the door. He was a petite, bald, seemingly dignified gentle man who appeared insecure and vulnerable. He ushered us in and called out for his wife. There emerged, in a flowing red dress, a haughty plump stuck-up women with lovely brown skin and a pair of haunting eyes. Unlike her husband she appeared dominating and needy.

She greeted us warmly and then quickly got down to business.

"I heard good things about you guys". She said.

Swamiji smiled and gave me his dirty looks.

"Well, how much do you charge?" She asked

"We dont need money" Swamiji was eager.

"Free?"

"Yeah. We do it as a hobby"

"No no no. You must be paid" - She said.

That sounded reasonable to me.

She explained at length about her daughter's graduation ceremony, parts of which didnt even register with us because she was wearing a red dress which had a plunging neckline AND the lady was unduly blessed.

Anyways a week later Swamiji and I went to event. The daughter was an absolutely beautiful 20 year old. She was literally breathtaking. She was so stunning that Swamiji told her mother that she is going to have to beat horny boys away with a stick if she is not doing it already.

It was a wonderful event. We stayed around for the party. We had lot of food and tranquilizer. For all the fun and fair we got paid a princely sum of $250 too.

Questions

Last evening Sriram and I went to a store and he took me to the kids section where he showed me a police car that he wanted to buy for his birthday. 

"Can we buy it now?" he asked.

"No", I said. "Your birthday is in June"

"But what if it is all gone by then?"

"Dont worry. They will restock it"

"What is restock" he enquired

I began explaining to him at length about about retail business, how they place order from manufacturers ,how goods are delivered - when he stopped me abruptly and said - "You mean they will put more of it"?

Yes ! I thought to myself. That is what restocking is!

After we got back home, he asked me, "Daddy, where does light come from?". I told him it comes from things like fire, sun etc. 

"How do fire have light?" he asked.

I tried explaining him about the concept of energy, but he did not buy my bullshit. 

"You want something to drink?" I asked. 

"Yes. I'm thirsty!"

I gave him a glass of milk, which he drank and slipped under his blanket on the sofa. Within no time he was deep alseep.

Feels like he was born yesterday. But the kid has grown up. 

SNC Lavlin Scandal

An interesting slide deck covering the inside scoop of the brewing SNC Lavlin controversy

Ref: http://snclavalin.blogspot.com/

I Love this response

I love this guy's response to the Palin interview. Hilarious.

Sarah Palin

Since 2006 I have been a big fan of Joe Biden. Well, He ran and he lost and he is back as Obama's running mate. But in the last few weeks he and even Obama have been completely eclipsed by the media phenomenon called Sarah Palin. In my opinion Sarah Palin is nothing but a street smart politician. Comparing Palin to Biden would be akin to comparing Pinaray Vijayan to Karl Marx. Nonethless I am fascinated by the buzz she has generated and the fan base she now has. I am particularly fascinated by the fact that her fan base continues to grow despite what she really is, or how prepared she is to be a VP.

Following is an OpEd from NYTimes written by the famous conservative (yes! conservative) author David Brooks.

What is prudence? It is the ability to grasp the unique pattern of a specific situation. It is the ability to absorb the vast flow of information and still discern the essential current of events — the things that go together and the things that will never go together. It is the ability to engage in complex deliberations and feel which arguments have the most weight.

How is prudence acquired? Through experience. The prudent leader possesses a repertoire of events, through personal involvement or the study of history, and can apply those models to current circumstances to judge what is important and what is not, who can be persuaded and who can’t, what has worked and what hasn’t.

Experienced leaders can certainly blunder if their minds have rigidified (see: Rumsfeld, Donald), but the records of leaders without long experience and prudence is not good. As George Will pointed out, the founders used the word “experience” 91 times in the Federalist Papers. Democracy is not average people selecting average leaders. It is average people with the wisdom to select the best prepared.

Sarah Palin has many virtues. If you wanted someone to destroy a corrupt establishment, she’d be your woman. But the constructive act of governance is another matter. She has not been engaged in national issues, does not have a repertoire of historic patterns and, like President Bush, she seems to compensate for her lack of experience with brashness and excessive decisiveness.

Here is a clip from her ABC news interview:

Do you still think she is better than Joe Biden ?

Seven Seas Cod Liver Oil

Remember Seven Seas cod liver oil? It was considered a tonic back when I was a child. My mother use to force it on me and my brother when we were young. We were supposed to chew it down and not swallow it. The experience wasn't pleasant. It tasted like unholy shit. Besides it made me belch, and every time I belched it smelled like unholy shit. Looking back, I think what my mother did to us amounted to child abuse.

Something happened two days back that took me back to those days. I visited a friend who just came back from a trip to Moscow. She proudly served me a spoonful of caviar that she had brought back from Russia. I've heard of caviar and seen it on TV as an expensive delicacy. I took the small spoonful into my mouth. It tasted a bit salty at first but as I chewed on it the taste turned woody and then smoky and to something that is beyond description. For it was the most foul tasting thing I have ever put on my palette. Not only did it taste horrible, an hour later the delicacy too me to the bathroom. There I went like a goose for three full minutes. That evening's vodka punctuated with occasional caviar berries.

It is two days since, and I am still goosing uncontrollably. Every time I goose it stinks unholy - And that ladies and gentleman reminds me of Seven Seas oil.

Nekkid Wimmen

I went to Berkeley to meet a friend today. He picked me up at the BART (train) station and drove to the UC Berkley campus. On our way he warned me about a group of nekkid wimmen activists walking picket lines outside the university. I was thrilled, for I have never seen or heard or imagined anything like this.

We parked our car near his dorm and walked up to the area to take a glimpse of the heavenly vision. Being short I had to step up on the side walk and peek through a sizable crowd that had already formed there. There it was! A pack of ugly old fat wimmen with pink hair, sagging udders and pestiferous shapeless bodies walking around in a circle yelling profanity for all I care. It was disgusting. It was the most nauseating thing I have seen in a long time.

Although an ophidiphobic (snakes really creep me out), I can sleep in a box with a dozen snakes if worse comes to worst. But a pack of feral wimmen... that's a different story.

Zimbabwe

Robert Mugabe proclaims that "only God" can remove him from office, as Zimbabwe's opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai pulled out of next week's runoff election and sought refuge in the Dutch embassy. Mugabe declared that "The MDC will never be allowed to rule this country - never ever"

All this while the overwhelming majority of Zimbabwe’s population is starving, and while murder, torture, and rape continue. Farms in this erstwhile bread basket of Africa are gutted. Economy is in shambles with 100000% plus inflation. Unemployment is hovering above 80%. Average lifespan is less than 27 years. There is ban on democratic movements and media. Elections are rigged and people are slaughtered like animals.

Where is the United Nations? Why the government of US or UK along with some regional powers isn’t orchestrating a covert assassination? Why isn't he dragged off and shot. The old man must be put out of his miseries.

Speeding Ticket

My manager bought a new car and decided to take me and another colleague for lunch. The lady likes to talk, and she likes to look at you when she talks. She does that even when she is driving a goddamn car.

On our way to lunch we were on the highway and as usual she was preaching about something pontifical cruising at 80 mph on a 55 mph stretch. A cop who was lurking behind the bush with a radar gun took notice. The officer turned on his boom, roared out from behind the bushes in hot pursuit and pulled us over.

She was served one ticket each for speeding, driving with out a license, taking an automobile on road with an expired sticker, and failure to maintain a single lane.

That was the most I have seen. And that was 20 points well deserved.

Fresh Watermelon

• I met a pretentious yuppy of an Indian guy at Swamiji's place a few days back. The guy demanded bottled water and refused to drink what he called "dirty municipal tap water". Pests like these deserves to be dragged off and shot. Poor Swamiji had to haul the moron to buy bothal water. I still drink water straight from the well or from a garden hose. You don't die from that.

• Last week my doctor showed me photographs of the scars from my surgery. It didn't look bad. Not bad at all. I think my surgeon is a fine cutter. I have to give him credit for a job well done.

• I picked a watermelon from a local farm last week. I handed three one dollar bills to the farmer's soiled hand. He seemed happy and it felt good. The melon was ripe, red and sweet, and to savor it fresh in the farm was heavenly. Life offers some simple pleasures and this was one of those.

Booby Trap

Last night, as usual I woke up to take a leak. I don't need to have the lights on for this ceremony. I could make it from the bed to the bathroom in the dark.I've made this trip hundreds of times. Besides, it is always a good idea to reduce your carbon footprint :)

So I got off my bed, came out the room, through the corridor, past the stairs, past my son's room and DANG!! My feet got into a strange booby trap. Next thing I heard was a loud, I mean LOUD, sound of someone cracking a ripe coconut.

When I got back to my senses, I felt sore in my face and salty in my mouth. My head was spinning and ears ringing. I reached down for the booby trap and felt a bicycle handle. The leg got stuck on my son's cycle, which he left laying outside his room!

Bees were still buzzing inside my head and it was stinging like hell. No one responded to my call for help. Talk about modern day wives! So I crawled to the bathroom myself and turned on the lights. Holy Gavasakar !! I had a giant cricket ball for my lips and had blood all over the mouth. I washed up the mess and examined the damage. It wasn't pretty.Strangely didn't feel the need to take a piss anymore. I think I pissed on that damn cycle.

I don't feel that good today. The bleeding is gone , and so is the pain. But I still have a cricket ball for my lips.

PhD While You Wait

Today is the first warm day of spring, and I am back from hiatus. It's been so long since I logged on to write some thing that I found dust and cobwebs and that musty odor of sentimental affection as soon as I logged in. I had to waste a perfect half hour weeding through the comments and deleting spam-slammers from my blog.

Talking about spammers, if you can manage to turn off that decency-control in your mind, some of 'em are really fun to read.

"Hidden cam video of Barnyard sex"

"Black lesbian sex," - HHWWHAT??? Black lesbian wimmen don't have sex with barnyard animals? What a racist spammer.

"50c Viagra" - If you're an old horny guy like Swamiji, and you hook up with a black lesbian, you better buy this stuff to be competitive against the barnyard animals.

"The Complete King James version" - You ought to buy two of these collectibles, signed by Dr.King himself

"PhD While You Wait" - With $99.99 a piece I bought five of those. I now have PhDs in Catholicism, African-American Studies, Disgruntled home owner Studies, and Basket-Weaving for black teenage lesbians. With these I think I'm bound to go far in this world.

If you notice carefully, what these spam-slammers are saying is nothing less than what some of our politicians say every day. Vote for Hillary! Stop Global Warming. Elect Hillary to turn around the economy! To me the spammers sound less ridiculous

Hillary Clinton

I shamelessly stole this joke from here. This is funny.

Hillary Clinton goes to a primary school in New York to talk about the world. After her talk she offers question time.

One little boy puts up his hand. The Senator asks him what his name is.

"Kenneth."

"And what is your question, Kenneth?"

"I have three questions: First - whatever happened to your medical health care plan? Second - why would you run for President after your husband shamed the office? And, Third - whatever happened to all those things you took when you left the White House?"

Just then the bell rings for recess. Hillary Clinton informs the kiddies that they will continue after recess. When they resume Hillary says, "Okay where were we? Oh, that's right, question time. Who has a question?"

A different little boy puts his hand up; Hillary points him out and asks him what his name is.

"Larry."

"And what is your question, Larry?"

"I have five questions: First - whatever happened to your medical health care plan? Second - why would you run for President after your husband shamed the office? Third - whatever happened to all those things you took when you left the White House? Fourth - why did the recess bell go off 20 minutes early? And, Fifth - what happened to Kenneth?

Edu De Toilette

I had the misfortune today of visiting my friend at his exchange lodge. As soon as he opened the door I was overwhelmed by the putrid smell of decaying socks– A smell that any one who has stood outside the entrance to our computer lab in engineering college back home would be familiar with. It is a stench so impossible that it will make your eyes watery. It is a fragrance so powerful that anyone in its vicinity seven days after the socks has been removed could be knocked unconscious. It reeks of rotten rat diarrhea that was passed through the digestive tract of a water buffalo with irritable bowel syndrome.

Back home in college, shoes were not allowed inside our labs, so students were forced to leave their sweaty, stinky shoes outside at the entrance. These wonderful bouquets open up, permeating the air with one of the most disgusting fumes ever to assault your olfactory organs.

The only reason why I think our computer labs never had an incident of computer virus or worms was because I honestly don’t think those buggers can survive in that environment.

Driving with cell phones

Last week I was almost hit by a woman changing lanes while balancing a cell phone between her ear and shoulder. When I horned at her, she looked at me all flamed up and gave me the finger.

Today I came very close to hitting another woman on a bike. She was going on the bike lane and suddenly swerved in into my lane as if something suddenly darted in front of her. I stepped on my breaks as hard as I could and came to a screeching halt barely a foot from her. Damn! That was very close . I could smell the tires smoking.

This idiot too was talking on a cell phone during the attempted suicide, and she too gave me the finger sign.

I will give these wimmen some more time and they'll probably cause a ten car pile up and give everyone the finger while they send an SMS with the other. Dumb idiots!

Waxing nostalgia

Here is my achamma (grandmother), waxing nostalgic today:

"Those days nobody had jobs. I walked 20 miles everyday to do menial jobs. I weaved baskets, knitted nets, carried fire wood, and came home with rice and tapioca. On good days I could buy fish. It was tough, but we lived through it, we didn't have a radio or news paper or telivision. We grew almost everything we had to have. I had a herd of good laying hens. I collected eggs and traded them for cloths and salt and oil and other stuff that I couldn't grow myself. We didn't have much, but we never went hungry."

I love that woman. They dont make wimmen like that no more.

Major Major

Rated R - Adult content, reader discretion adviced.

Last night, my friend was complaining about his neighbors. He is unable to sleep at night, thanks to the couple who moved in recently to the apartment right next to his. He regularly hear them screaming and groaning and thumping their bed against his wall in the middle of the night.

That reminded me of a camp we attended in Allahabad. We were in an Army base and were housed in barracks along with kids from around the country, around 50 of us. The barrack besides ours was occupied by our commanding officer, a stout, horny, rough looking army Major who might have been in his mid 40s.

After a long hot uneventful summer day, we had just gone to bed. I was so tired that I slept the moment I hit bed. Around midnight, I was awakened by the sounds of screaming ghosts. Alarmed I jumped and sat up right on my bed, so did my friend Satheesh who was sleeping next to me. Next thing we noticed the whole barrack is awake. First we thought somebody was crying and wondered if we needed to run out to help them, but as we listened more carefully we understood that no rescue mission was necessary. We were hearing the sounds of an enthusiastic woman having a wonderful time! “aaah…. aaaah…saaab… dheere se jaaneman …oooooh …Uff!”. This was accompanied by the rhythmic sound of a steel bed squeaking. The sound effects went on for a while before the commanding officer finally groaned “uhhhh mazza aaya ” and fired his ceremonial last shot. Then things became quite for a while.

I looked at Sathish. He looked at me. We smiled. We couldn’t believe what we had just witnessed – Remember we were just 17 years old then! Soon Sathish, being the funny bastard he is, opened the window and started clapping. I couldn't resist and followed suit. Soon the entire dorm was giving a standing ovation. We were applauding and cheering a job well done.

I think I should advice my friend to do the same and acknowledge his neighbors for their next show.

Photos

Posted some photos at Orkut.
Here is the link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/97559381@N00/show/

Been busy

I am here. Been busy busy busy. Work, school, skunk works, family, soccer… tired – but I am here.

A gazillion little rocks are strewn all around my room. I don’t know what is it about my kid. Where ever he goes, he seems to attract rocks destined to be brought back and scattered in my room. They arrive in truck loads in his shoes, socks, in pockets, and some even confined in the inner sanctum of his tiny underwear.

Talking about rocks, I am assaulted by bitter sweet memories of my own school days when my brother and I did the same thing - except that we brought home beach sand instead of rocks. Our school was beside St Andrews beach where we dug holes and buried our bare toes in the soft, damp, loose sand. We escavated ruins of ancient sea life and unearthed seashells and other nautical treasures. My son is doing the same thing. Only thing is he dont have a brother to collect rocks with him. I think I need to fix that.

It is a shame that Cricket fans are burning shops and brushing tar. These lunatics need treatment. Like swamiji said, it is time we treated cricket no better than Kabbadi or Kho Kho.

A colleague of mine came by to invite me for his wedding. He is marrying the daughter of an ex minister in AP. He was happy that he is getting 7 rice mills, one engineering college, one dental college, one mineral water bottling plant, several medical stores in Hyderabad, flats, farm houses, half of west Godavari district, and one butt ugly wife. I did not know what to tell him - whether he had been blessed or extremely unlucky.

When I see “experts” like Ann Coulter serving liturgical sermons on Fox network I can understand why more than 30% of Americans believe that the war in Iraq is going well. Ann Coulter should be led away to somewhere quiet, where uniformed staff make sure that she take her medication every day and change her diapers as needed.

Scents

Yesterday I was video-chatting with my parents. Sriram, my 4 year old, was sitting next to me. I asked my father if he could small Sriram’s hair.

“Yes” – he said.

“No, Achachan!” my boy said “You can’t smell me”

Then he explained to us that Achachan is sitting in India and he can only see and hear ‘mon’ but not smell him.

Later he came up to me and asked if Achachan could INFACT smell his hair. I said ‘may be’.
“Can daddy smell me?”

“Yes” I said

“Can you smell me when I go to school?”

“Yes I could just close my eyes and still smell you as if you were here”

That IS true. I can smell him even when if he is not around. Ramu bears the scent of almond baby oil and pears soap. He smells of dirt and water color, played with enthusiastically. His hair smells like sweat, full of innocence and pure of caffeine or cholesterol. To me he smells of nothing but pure love I have ever known.

Of all the five senses, I think olfactory is the one that is directly wired to the brain. The presence of some scents can snap you right back to a time and place in your life where memories are alive and vivid.

Strong smell of wild trees takes me back to a trip we made to Kudajadri from college. I smell sour curd and my grand father comes to mind. I can SEE him feeding me rice mixed with curd. Thick buttery curd dripped from his hand. There are certain smells that I associate with my Amma. The smell of petrol reminds me of my friends Sujith and Jacob. And so does the smell of beer. Certain cells in my olfactory are plugged directly into my memory.

For me, memories of home is triggered by the smell of cattle and hay and goats and chicken manure. Scent of ripe mangos and guava and tamarind and jackfruit and rotten coconut leafs and the smell of dust that rises when my aunt sweeps the front porch with a broomstick. I can't say all of those were pleasant, but it is firmly lodged in my memory. Once upon a time, that was how my home smelled like, and I can still smell it.

Punjabi Aunty

I work for a technology company. One day, at work, I met this fat Punjabi aunty, like the ones womanning counters in Indian grocery stores. She was decorated with giggly smiles, gaudy salwar kameez, gold jewellery and a pair of white Wal Mart tennis shoes. I wondered what a grocery store clerk was doing in a technology company. Perhaps a caterer? A female security guard? Inter-site shuttle driver? I couldn’t figure out.

I became curiouser and curiouser as I kept seeing her in the office. My curiosity peaked one day when I saw her at a technical review meeting!

Time went by. George Bush was elected President. There was Iraq war. I fell in love with Elizabeth Kuruvilla. My wife found out about my infidelity.

And then one day, I met the above mentioned aunty at Carnegie Mellon. She had come there to attend an MBA info session! She did not look like a college graduate, let alone someone aspiring to do an MBA. I played it cool for a little bit then I went over and casually struck up a conversation with her. Her name was Daljeet kaur , and I was surprised that her English was fluent and impeccable.

We introduced each other and I desperately wanted to impress her with my Carnegie Mellon credentials. I told her I was doing my masters at CMU, and asked where she did her BACHELORS.
“Delhi” – she said
“Delhi Universiy?” I asked
“No, IIT Delhi”
“uh” I almost let out a wild bestial howl. Embarrassed, I excused myself and quickly ran to the bathroom to check if I accidentally shat my pants.

Later at the info session, I came to know that she did her masters in Electrical Engineering from Stanford!

Time went by. George Bush was elected for another team. War continued to be waged in Iraq. Elizabeth Kuruvilla left me for my friend Rassul Pookkutty.

I met Daljeet at our company cafeteria. She smiled and came up to me. I stuttered and asked if she got into CMU.
“Yes, she said. But I chose Sloan instead.”
“MIT Sloan?”
“Yes” she confirmed.

This time I really had to excuse myself.

Love

I wanted to write about love on this Valentines Day.

I remember visiting my friend Sanjay once. As I stepped into his home, his dad was asleep on the floor. He had a news paper spread out on his chest. There was a glistening channel of pan-parag concoction that ran from his mouth. It emptied onto a temporary reservoir on his hairy chest, and then flowed effortlessly through his arm pits to form a swamp of gourmet guacamole on the dusty mosaic floor. He was snoring heavily, which provided the perfect ambiance and drama to the wonderful scene. I first thought that he was drunk. Later I realized that he in fact WAS drunk.

Sanjay was in their kitchen helping his Amma, who was doing Amma-esque things with a pissed-off look on her face. Later as she was serving us lunch Sanjay looked at his sleeping dad and asked:
"Amma, why did you marry him?”
She did not say anything.
“Did you ever want to just leave him?" he asked.
"Yes, I do!" She replied. “He doesn't do anything but drink and sleep. He drives me crazy sometimes. But he is a loving man and I love him too."

A year after we left school, Sanjany’s dad had liver cirrhosis and passed away. His mother could not bear his loss. Three months later she died broken-hearted.

It was a sad story, but they were a lucky couple for what they had between them was pure unadulterated love.

Happy Valentine's Day everybody.

Trees

I am saddened that my good friend at work has decided to leave. I am more saddened that he is taking away his collection of bonsai trees. I am sure they’ll miss me too coz I fed them with out fail for the last three years.

I happen to like trees, especially tropical trees like the ones we have in Kerala. Who can NOT like tamarind trees? Have you ever watched a tamarind tree go to sleep at night, and then awake the next morning? I think that's an amazing sight. All the tiny leaves curl up when the sun goes down; then, they spread out again the next morning when they feel the sunshine. That is one incredible sight.

I like jack fruit trees, too, specially the ones dressed in pepper vines. We had a big jack fruit tree on our front yard complete with pepper drapes, ants, squirrels and countless bird’s nests. It had branches bend all the way to the ground making little leafy tents for us to play under.

As a kid I liked mango trees, for it had green sour mangos, and also because they were fun to climb on. A good mango tree will be ant-free and will have stumps that make it easy to climb. You can walk along those stumps without holding onto anything. Just keep your balance. We had a mango tree that had limbs larger than 2 meter in diameter.

Acacia and Mangium didn't arrive in Kerala until late 1980s when the Bishop of Trivandrum brought them from Australia. Mangium in the late 80s generated more hype than ‘techno city’ does today. Thinking it might make good investment people cut down their coconut trees and planted these exotic flora- those brainless fools. Not only did they turn out to be worthless, they threw out more goddamn pollen than any other tree I've ever seen, and that yellow dust raises hell with my allergies. They didn’t even make good cow fodder. Even goats won’t eat it, and you know goats – they eat ANYTHING.

Cashew was another genuine tree. It is one tree that will grow in any kind of soil. There were some wonderful cashew trees in my school. I think they were special varieties from Africa that produced extraordinarily fleshy fruits. They tasted different, and made better raw material for the underground alcohol breweries we had in school. Except for their nuts and alcohol they aren’t worth diddly-squat.

That brings me to the trivia question. Do you know the connection between home brew and torch battery? Do you know why Eveready battery was considered the best by 'experts'?

Today

• When I stepped out today morning I saw a woman walking a dog that was uglier than me. The woman was okay. She wasn't bad looking. But that was one mean ugly dog.
  
  
• I ate the best lemon pickle I've ever tasted. It burned my stomach for more than an hour. But Damn! That was good. I will have another spoonful for dinner and will cool it down with a glass of fresh curd.
  
  
• A friend has been encouraging me to go for an 'Art of Living' class. I checked with my colleague if he would be interested to go with me to an ‘AOL’ session today. What he told me in response ws the best philosophical sermon I have heard in a long time
  
  He said:
  "Ravi Shankar, Hari Shankar, Baba Shankar.. or any Shankar...
  If you have all your marbles with you, then you DO NOT need any one to tell you how to live! Yes, a good lecture about life can be enlightening, but not for such tickets and definitely not when followers act like ticket scalpers pimping tickets!
  
  Life is pretty simple - You are born, you have some happy moments, you have sad moments, you grow old, you die! End of story."
  
  I guess I will have to go alone.

News read by

Remember Geethanjali Ayer? I interviewed someone last week who reminded me of Geethanjali Ayer. That set off an avalanche of wistful nostalgia.

“This is ole India radio. The news read by Geethanjali Ayer”
“This is ole India radio. The news read by Lotika Ratnam”

Then there was television! Here are some of my favorite news casters from old times.

Rini Simon was one of the best, later changed her name to Rini Khanna. She could have gotten married or the opposite.

Neetu Ravindran had the best accent of all. Free flowing, polished, st xaviers , colonial. She grew a fascinating mole on her nose too. Anyone who listened to her will fall in love with desi accent.

Komal GB Singh My childhood fantasies about older wimmen revolved around the lovely Komal GB Singh. I loved watching her read, but I seldom listened to her.

My brother and I would stay up late to watch the best news program of all “The World this week”. It was 10 years ahead of its times - with its stunning title jingles to the way they presented world stories. Remember Appan Menon reporting from Golan heights? Man that guy was fantastic. Even the international advertisements were refreshing. Cathey Pacific, MasterCard, JCT Fabrics, Gillette.

There were more - Tejeshwar Singh, Minu, Usha Albuquerque, Sunit Tandon, Sukanya and the unknown poor souls who were made to read Parliament news.

Of all of them, Neetu Ravindran was my favorite. Who was yours ?

Good bye Mr.Buchwald

While in school, there were days when the only thing I went to library for was to read ‘The Hindu’. I went to read the last page where Art Buchwald had his regular column. It was a pleasant ritual. It took me some time to get hooked to his style of satire. But once I got the taste, I was an addict. The man was brilliant, and never disappointed me. Mr.Buchwald’s column was the greatest social service N Ram had done to us.

Today I heard on radio that Art Buchwald passed away. I went online and saw this self obituary on New York times “Hi, I am Art Buchwalt and I just died”.

For all those great columns you gave us, Good bye Mr.Buchwald, Good bye.

Despite what you think

Despite what you think you know, I have some news for you:

*Not all Indians in US are gas station owners. Some of them run 7-11 stores too.

*In real life the Hindi actor with a 9mm hand-gun is NOT going to win a shootout against six guys with machine guns, no matter how much muscle he's got. He's gonna look like swiss-cheese in real life.

*Not all school teachers look like Bhanu Priya or Julia Roberts. Lorry drivers dont look like Anil Kapoor either.

*If Larry King is a serious journalist, I'm a jet pilot. The only person I can think of with less talent is my neighbors' wife who still hasn't figured out how to put off her car alarm.

*If you think James Bond is an arrogant bastard and a sexist womanizer who look relaxed in his adventures, wait till you see our poor man's Amitab Bachan - Jitendra.

So what is the moral of the story?