Saunter Into Singledom

There are few events that can be described as transformational, metamorphosizing, or any of those damn superlatives you can find in the good old copy of the Merriam Webster’s dictionary. Only time will tell whether I lived up to the worth of the adjectives mentioned above, but one thing is certain, I am on the cusp of a major change in my life. Thanks my dear friends for triggering the second chapter of my stint in Hyderabad, and in all likelihood the last few months of my bachelor life. 

It would have been a rather easy choice to skim the multitude of mails I get daily on the hyd-spam mail list and as I scan the roster, I would find scores of young Amazonians looking for roommates to share the burden of their expenses borne by living in a metropolitan city. But instead I chose to ignore each one of the mails and decided to saunter into singledom. It are new experiences that shape one’s life and I hope this experience of living all by myself for the 1^st time in my life at the age of 27, will truly be a remarkable and soul searching one.

I am not the kind of person who going by appearances makes X say to Y “There goes Nikhil – pretty tough egg. There are no limits to his go-getter spirit. He will dig up the sun from the east if it refuses to rise”. But my dear friends the day 3 months back exactly to this day when you decided to severe off our relationship permanently will always be etched on my memory. For a second the world lost all its light. But as the days wore on, my final appeal climbing down the throne of ego, to you to reconsider our good old days, let bygones be bygones and start life afresh, and even apologizing for the communication gap which had arisen for whatever reasons, bore no fruit, and you unceremoniously hammered the final nail into our ties of friendship. 

Your words caused me immense pain as they went down like a dagger right thru my heart. But my friends, today 3 months exactly later as I sit typing this on my laptop on the 1^st night in my new house, with New York Nagaram song fittingly playing on the background, I thank you from the bottom of my heart because but for what you have done to me, my blood would not have became thicker and skin more tougher in each of the last 90 days leading up to the final seperation. Today however Sisyphean the endeavour may seem, I know I will have the capacity to summon up the blood, stiffen the sinews and prepare myself to face the ordeal.

You may wonder why I keep saying friends, when you severed off everything and ensured that right now to forever for the rest of our lives the equation between us has in reality gone from friends to mere acquaintances. That is because I choose to sieve out the events that transpired in the last 90 days and pick the great memories we have from our 2 year MBA stint in IIFT where my mind keeps dwelling on constantly. From now even if you regret and wish to turn back the clock, the wounds to the heart you have caused can never be completely ameliorated for enough damage has been done and there is no further repair work that can be done to heal them. With this I conclude and hope to start my second stint in Hyderabad, alone and I love it.

The Small Screen Phenomenon

Disclaimer: This piece is written in an overtly casual and light hearted fashion. Not meant to disrespect hundreds of lesser known artistes who make their living by plying their trade on the small screen. The only other section of the populace who may get offended, I feel, are housewives/homemakers whom I hold in the highest regard. I apologize beforehand, just in case they start resorting to pelting stones and hurling brickbats (Including esteemed and loved members of my own family). Again I reiterate this is written with the intent of being absorbed in the right spirit of good humour.
 

A lady in a bright red Saree seated in an Audi car reaches her destination’s end, a magnificent bungalow that is built on a foundation of tons of black money, near the beach around 30 miles from Chennai on the East Coast Road.  The living image of the watchman of the guesthouse even as he sights the rounding up of the car round the corner, metamorphosizes from an object of stupor into a gymnast who has just taken a strong dosage of performance enhancing drug prior to an Olympic event. As the car screeches to a halt, the watchman jerks into a fit of spasm and makes a near leap towards the car and opens the door and the lady in red alights. What follows is a picture of bourgeois servility that is not uncommon to be taken to the lowest common denominator in Tamilnadu. What I mean is a salute. The hand movement that has become almost a voluntary limb action, commanded by the grey cells of his Medulla Oblongata to move to the forehead to execute a salute followed by the words ‘Vanakkam Madam’.

Coming to the lady herself, the mere sight of her is calculated to send shivers down the spine of the average human being. She sports a dangerously long bright red Bindi and is adorned with jewels from top to bottom as we see models in jewellery ads. She whips up her phone and calls a local politician and delivers the execution order – ‘Avana mudichurunga’ (Translated as Finish him off) to which he replies ‘Ok madam. Namma pasangala vittu avana potu thalitu ungalukku phone panren’ (Ill tell my lads to do it and confirm you).

Hmm a common scene from a Tamil serial.

Now take a look at this. 

A tear jerking music plays in the background, a lower middle class old widowed lady is lying on a bed in hospital and is surrounded by her 2 daughters – A 24 year old married to a wicked treacherous guy and a 19-year old daughter who goes to college, and a couple of neighbours. The reason the setting of this scene is in the premises of a hospital is because, the old lady passed out after an ugly scene at her home. To further give a birds eye view to this rather unfortunate set of circumstances is the promise made by the old lady to pay Rs 10 Lac dowry to her first daughter’s husband at the time of her marriage within 2 years. What has happened in the interim I am unable to fathom and say.

Let’s say the events that are happening as I narrate was screened in Episode # 456 on 10^th of August, 2016 and the terrible oath taken by the old lady was in Episode # 221 on 29^th of November, 2015, the author is at a loss himself unfortunately not in a position to discern with certitude the exact nature of events that transpired in the massive expanse of time that has lapsed that led to the position where the lady is unable to pay off the dowry as promised. But thankfully we have the tool at disposal to retrieve the lost information, the walking encyclopedia of the small screens, the living Google of Tamil sitcoms – Grandmothers! All I need to say is ‘Patti, the last I saw the family was in a well of position, why is that they have landed up in abject poverty’. It takes 5 mins of innocent explanation from my granny to get the crux of whatever has lapsed in the interim 230 episodes, and I realize there has not been any palpable difference to the entire storyline at all!

Anyway back to the hospital, the scene is one of over drama and over acting, where the old lady who is back to her senses, laments there is no hope in life, God loves to see good people suffer and cries how she is going to get her younger daughter married. A couple of sympathetic neighbours donning the garb of living incarnations of Dale Carnegie start reeling out motivational dialogues to ease the apprehension, while cautioning if the brake on self applied stress is not applied, health issues will worsen leading to every penny being squeezed out of the doctor's stethoscope. Meanwhile the tone of the background score becomes even more melodramatic and the hues of melancholy pick up briskly trying its level best to infuse pathos in its audience. And it doesn’t fail. As I catch my grandmother sniffing despondently into her Saree and a tear pearl falls of her eye, I have no option to rebuke her to stop crying for God’s sake as its reel and not happening in real life! It is at times like my father who has been anti-serials all his life further rubs salt into the wounds of my grandmother by saying – ‘Amma! This is an insult to the intelligence. How many times have I told you to stop watching these pathetic serials? You are incorrigible’

Then there are happier moments. This is when you catch the feminine piece of the audience at its best. A girl who has been getting the bird from multiple prospective grooms finally breaking the shackles set by fate and ends up getting married, a long standing dispute between a mother and daughter in law getting finally resolved, or a son from a respectable family who fell into bad company after learning life lessons the hard way curls up like a lost lamb back into its herd and is welcomed back into the fold by a forgiving father. 

These are moments where the infectiousness of joy is palpable and what happens inside the TV screen catalyzes the environs of the home. I call them 'Capsules of Joy'. Typical housewives who spend a lifetime cursing their fate are temporarily given a new lease of life – their mood dramatically changes and dinner time arguments with spouses are turned into an affair of lovebirds, men on their part shocked by the sudden change resolve to make hay while the sun shines, unwilling to deep dive into the root cause for the inexplicable behavioural change in their better halves. Personally for me these are the ideal moments as an observing bystander, as I catch MOM-IN-LAW – DAUGHTER-IN-LAW interactions at their effervescent best. Conversations on the storyline suddenly change track and move as follows, translated from Tamil.

Grandmother: Such a beautiful saree Ramya (The female protagonist on the screen) is wearing. A deep turquoise blue saree with shades of maroon and magenta.

Mother: Exactly Amma, and look at that bright pink border! I’d die to get one such saree.

Grandmother (with yearning look in her eyes): Please buy me one Kanamma, will you?

Mother: Why not mother? Let us go for shopping this Saturday and buy sarees from Nalli, I heard there is a festive sale going on.

Meanwhile, the scene on the TV shifts to the main hall where Ramya being a dutiful daughter makes a cup of strong coffee for her father, who has just finished forgiving his son Saravanan after the latter apologized (as mentioned above) for going astray the last few weeks.

Mother: I wonder how their house is maintained so clean, all the time the women are either fighting or chatting

Grandmother: Yes Amma, I have always been wondering the same all the time!

To the neutral bystander ‘Love Feast’ is the word that springs to the mind.

But taking a backseat and trying to understand this further I dont really get to the bottom of why Indian sitcoms have ruled small television like the way they have. I need deeper contemplation to get to the root cause of it which i will unravel in due course of time. But it is a safe bet to say sitcoms have become inexplicably intertwined with the lives of Indian people. Good or bad they continue to exist with us and will continue to rule Indian middle class households for aeons to come.

For Men May come and Men may go, Tamil sitcoms, nay, Indian Sitcoms go on forever.

 - - To be continued - -

Waiting for the next episode of Thendral or Alaigal or whatever be the damn serial, I am going to get to see with grandma, when I go home next, and hopefully I can add a funny tale to these memoirs :)

Kabali – A Review Shooting Straight from the Heart

I enjoyed two viewings of the latest Kollywood Blockbuster ‘Kabali’ - FDFS and SDSS (acronyms for "First Day First Show" and "Second Day Second Show"). FDFS is understandable for having been a hardcore Die-hard Rajini fan all my life, I caught a late night flight from Hyderabad to see it with friends in a theater of absolutely electrifying and festival-like atmosphere in Chennai which stands unparalleled in this aspect to anywhere else in the world! But you may wonder why the second viewing? And my answer is - it was absolutely "sine qua non" to drown out the noise and hoopla that messes with your judgment on the first viewing, esp. for a Rajini (or Thalaivar as he is referred to by the Tamil masses) movie of this "hype magnitude"!

Now coming to the review itself. Being a Thalaivar film watcher from the 1990’s which became an obsession from the 2000’s became, I have been fortunate to see the progression of a Superstar into a Godlike persona of gargantuan magnitude. I have seen Thalaivar movies of different genres and classifications. From a broad-brush split of mass and class (mass being Baatcha, Padayappa, Sivaji and the likes) and class being Johnny, Mullum Malarum, Thillu Mullu, etc.) Kabali falls exactly in the middle! This should be deemed a directorial triumph on the part of rookie-director Pa. Ranjith to create a movie that while being classy for the most part also superbly caters to the mass instinct, appeal and larger-than-life persona of Thalaivar to his billion fans. The movie seems to have been staged with calibrated precision to extract the best out of the Super Star! I find that many critics have rushed into critiquing this movie after one viewing. I urge them to view it again because the second viewing will help, as it helped me unravel the following. 

1. That Pa. Ranjith is an extremely shrewd young story-teller who actually stages his major scenes especially the songs and action sequences with unbelievable visual precision. Each of the action sequences starting from the fiery Kabali just out of Jail pulverizing the Tony Lee underling to the climax action sequence when Thalaivar walks away with a Kalashnikov on his shoulder on top of the Roof-top restaurant with Petronas Towers and a sea of sky-scrapers providing a stunning background have been staged in precision - with a clear beginning, middle and end. Not a minute more, not a minute less! These action sequences are just precisely controlled. This is as it should be in a classy gangster action movie. So the complaint has been what about the intervening drama build-up that seems to lag? Don't they create a ‘start, stop and start again’ feeling one maybe disposed to ask? Well, to me, it appears that Ranjith wanted it exactly that way! He has carefully infused those drama moments to show the softer, humane side of Thalaivar and the winner in each of these scenes if of course the Superstar himself. When is the last time we saw Thalaivar emoting with his eyes as much as he did in Kabali? The longing, the yearning, the love, the angst, and many of the softer emotions have come flowing thru his eyes and the little inflections have a tremor like impact! The net effect of such softer sequences is the enhanced and brutal impact of the brilliantly choreographed action sequences that come and go in staccato bursts! 

2. The surge of characters and their exact contributions to the movie - I can assure that my second viewing greatly helped in this respect - I realized that each of these characters, while seemingly plentiful, has been brilliantly thought-out and well fleshed-out as well. Take for example, the guy who receives Thalaivar and his daughter from Chennai airport - here is a guy who actually gets involved in the Kabali drama to the extent that he almost loses his life in that hair-rising action sequence in the Pondy guesthouse! The actor who did it is simply brilliant! 

3. The third and most important revelation is that Kabali is after all, an out and out, director's movie! What a refreshing change from the last few outings of the Superstar, where the stories were woven to accommodate the Superstardom of Thalaivar! In Kabali, it is clear, that Ranjith was the orchestrator and the Superstar himself beautifully coalesced into the role of the Malaysian Gangster Kabali! Ranjith hasn't compromised at all. In fact he even got away with a climax which is suggestive of the end of Kabali, or is it? I've been a movie-buff as long as I can remember... Tamil movies, Hindi movies, Bengali Movies, Hollywood movies, World Cinema. It really didn't matter as long as I was watching the moving celluloid images. And I can say with some confidence that the technical aspects of this film were absolutely brilliant. The music and background score of Santosh Narayanan should rank as one of the best in Thalaivar movies for nearly two decades. The last time I was made to notice the BGM in a Thalaivar movie was in Dhalapathi which was released a quarter century ago, when I was still a toddler in nappies! SaNa (as he seems to be known) has come up with stunning BGM and completely off-beat numbers that are already topping the charts. My personal favorite is "Veera Thuranthara" - an eclectic mix of neo-funk/rap that has been brilliantly used by Ranjith to show Thalaivar in his 80’s look, the ride behind his friend Amir (with that nostalgic "step-cut" hair) in that vintage bike was captivating! The camera work was consistently brilliant with a bias towards the grandeur - the cinematographer has used stunning pan-shots capturing the KL skyline and nightlights as well as the verdant Malaysian estate grandeur with equal ease. 

4. And finally, this review would be completely remiss not to mention the towering screen presence, panache, and style quotient of Thalaivar. Kudos to the costume designer and hair-dresser for such amazing work that shows the Superstar in stunningly handsome looks scene after scene.

To sum it up, this movie is a downright winner and it is a shame that many reviewers have put on needlessly punctilious lenses for an out-and-out commercial entertainer. More shameful is the stream of social media messages that aim to portray the movie in poor light. Many of such reviews, memes and caricatures happen to be in Tamil this makes me recall the Superstar dialogue in the movie about the "Crab-story". Here is a Tamil movie that has soared to dizzy heights nationally and globally and there are people right here amongst our very own Tamilians, trying to bring it down with uncharitable and downright envious postings in the social media, many of them being grotesquely indecent.

But the wider national and global audience is wiser and I'm hearing that Kabali is doing earth-shattering business around the world. That's the way it should be. This is by far the best Thalaivar movie in a long long time!!!! Period.

The Eternal Choke Artists

It’s that time of the year, when Arsenal fans find themselves embroiled in a familiar frustrating situation. It’s that time of the year when they wish they could go into hibernation like some of the more fortunate species of fauna and wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the rest of the world. They utter a silent prayer that they could remain incommunicado for an indefinite period of time till things get better. The external ignominy faced by the Gunners faithful are inclusive of the usual mocks, jeers and a wide variety of taunts ranging from sarcastic commiserations to group humiliations replete with abuses bordering on the lines of All India Bakchod’s roast from rival fans. I, being one myself, unabashedly admit that I almost enter into a fit of murderous rage whenever a friend or relative who is a hardcore Chelsea or a Manchester United supporter confronts me after a horrid Arsenal loss with that whacky sardonic smile which speaks a million words. But internally upon honest retrospection, every Arsenal fan kicks himself and what lends an extra vigour to the kick is the knowledge that these are well deserved brickbats hurled at him, but sadly he remains in a position unable to do anything other than abjectly surrender to the throes of hope. Oh the audacity of hope!

Arsenal’s abysmal capitulation in the last couple of games at Old Trafford on Sunday and at home to Swansea yesterday have again set the bloody alarm bells ringing again. Alarm bells not warning of losing ground in the title race, but rather the conventional and more familiar refrain that unless Arsenal buckle up, a 4^th place finish is in dire danger. And what beats me is how do Arsenal play to this predicament year after year for nearly a decade with unfailing precision? I just fail to understand.

I mean just imagine this. Arsenal start every season strongly, breeze through the first 3 months with aplomb essaying a virtuoso exhibition of champagne football, which is a treat to every football connoisseur. Then as the festive season wears on, spanners are thrown into the works and the traction is disturbed. The wobble begins almost immediately after Christmas, and by the middle and the end of February, they inevitably press the self-destruction button and implode. Its like a sports car, starting with a bang, and very soon hitting cruise control at 200 MPH, squeezing every penny out of the odometer before it inexplicably veers out of control and within seconds comes a pathetic smeller in the ditch.

I attribute this annual phenomenon to a phrase I coined in the wee hours of today morning, called ‘Programmed to Implode’ after enduring 90 minutes of agony last night against the Swans. It’s almost as if this is destined to happen at the start of every season. The tagline of my former employer TCS is ‘Experience Certainty’ which perfectly fits the bill for Arsenal. It’s truly disheartening to see Arsenal’s implosion, towards the fag end of the premier league season, becoming almost as certain as the sun rising in the east.

On deep contemplation and unbiased analysis, one can attribute this phenomenon to a multitude of factors. I’ll save the best for the last. Firstly, the manager Arsene Wenger’s stubbornness when it comes to purchase decisions. I don’t understand how can a team aim to compete for top honours in a league which assumes, as it progresses, menacing proportions of a dog-eat-dog slugfest, without having a crop of world class players who have had the experience of winning trophies. Why is it that Arsene refuses to splurge money, and instead relies on his tried, tested and yet miserably failed formulaic pattern of playing teenagers on the big stage. I am second to none in my admiration for the well-structured Arsenal Youth Academy which nurtures and grooms young talent to rise up through the ranks from the reserves to the main team. I also admire Arsene and his scouts for their uncanny ability of spotting young footballing blood from the remote corners of the planet and putting them on the next plane to London. But seriously is this going to get us trophies? Absolutely not. What else can explain Manchester City’s meteoric rise over the decade from mid table and relegation battling positions to being considered as one of the most deadly footballing teams, and a potential lure for the world’s best player Messi. Similarly what Arsenal need is experienced and well-oiled machinery who know what to do and how to do on the big stage. And that is why arsenal fans are beseeching ‘Splurge! Splurge! Splurge!’

Is too much of emphasis being laid on Arsenal's youngsters?

So this eventually leads to the second factor which is the undeniable manifestation of a major mental block and a fear psychosis that begins to set in when pressure starts reigning towards the more crucial part of the season. We need a squad which can, if necessary, park the bus and grind a slew of lacklustre 1-0 victories, rather than a set of players who simply ride on a momentum wave to conjure meaningless 4-0, 5-0 victories against amateur teams. The current crop of players such as Sanchez, Giroud, Ozil, Walcott have consistently shown dazzling football skills, but eventually when the push comes to shove, they fail to perform and crumble. The age old adage in sport ‘Mind over Matter’ has never before assumed more relevance in the context of the Gunners than the present.

Thirdly and lastly as promised I propose to bring on board the controversial topic of Arsene Wenger’s credentials and his ability to sustain on this unmerciful stage of English football. I am very aware of the fact that I am about to stir up a hornet’s nest. Whenever I broach this topic among fellow gunners, typically passions and emotions take centre stage and almost immediately start clouding rational thinking. A good deal of my brethren, start vociferously arguing that it was Arsene who brought fame and name to this club. It was Arsene who was instrumental in Arsenal winning 2 league titles and 6 FA Cups. It was under Arsene that the mighty ‘Invincibles’ flourished. It was Arsene at the helm of affairs of when, Arsenal symbolized footballing excellence at its apotheosis in all those glorious yesteryears at Highbury. True, Arsenal’s history can certainly be bifurcated into Pre-Arsene and Post-Arsene eras. True, the brand of football played then by the same club peaked Empyrean heights, which in all likelihood may never be replicated on the English stage. But dear friends kindly introspect! Is this a time to gloat over past successes? Kindly remember that the then crop of players included the inspirational captain Patrick Vieira, the legendary Thierry Henry, the Dutch wizard Dennis Bergkamp, the French Maestro Robert Pires, the mercurial Swede Freddie Ljungberg to name just a few. There was another array of players who could produce many a piece de resistance whenever circumstances demanded them, thus bringing home the bacon. Do we have even a tenth of that squad in terms of quality?

The Arsenal Invincibles winning the 2003-04 EPL Title

Another inane argument that springs forth is the continuing legacy of Arsene Wenger. To me the word legacy is of no importance, if it fails to fulfill the raison d’etre of a club’s sheer existence and that is to bring itself and its fans glory through trophies. And in this department Wenger has almost miserably failed in the past decade except for a couple of odd ball FA Cup trophies which came after a painful wait of nearly 9 years.

I, once used to look at Roman Abrahamovich, the owner of Chelsea F.C with considerable disdain and derision. At Chelsea, the Sword of Damocles perpetually hangs over any manager at any given point of time. Abrahamovich has mercilessly wielded the executioner’s axe resulting in a change of 8 managers over a period of 10 years. Even the inimitable and effervescent Mourinho with the reputation of heralding a new era at Chelsea has not been spared not once but twice. But now I realize, it is this butchering practice has enabled Chelsea to consistently win silverware over the years. This is cruel but sadly the bitter truth in football management for football is a highly capricious sport.

Chelsea managers over the last decade

Carlo Ancelotti guided the Blues to a premier league and FA cup title in the 2009-2010 season. The next year, a trophy-less season resulted in his sacking. Avram Grant, was a kick away from winning Chelsea’s first ever European Champions League title in 2008, before being shown the door. Not an iota of mercy was shown on Roberto Di Matteo either, who despite engineering Chelsea to its first ever UEFA Champions League title, was axed ruthlessly. This only goes to show that past successes need to be flung into oblivion if they needs to be tasted in the present.

A section of the Arsenal faithful calling for Wenger's exit

However disconcerting it may be to Wenger loyalists, the truth lies that, had we changed our managers from time to time on account of non-performance (perhaps not with the damning pace of Abrahamovich), Highbury’s legacy might have seamlessly segued into the trophy cabinets of the Emirates by now.

For now, the tunnel is dark with no end in sight and every toothless attempt to scratch at the prized league title is only throwing us back into an abyss of nothingness. E.M Forster the iconic English Novelist once wrote that Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony was the most sublime noise that ever penetrated the human ear. Likewise I would say for an Arsenal fan, the sight of the Arsenal Squad, bathed in confetti and holding aloft the premier league title would be the most sublime sight that ever met the eye. But that for now seems to be only assuming bigger proportions of Don Quixote tilting at the windmills. It simply remains to be seen how much more we as Arsenal fans can endure.

Again remember brothers what we need is ‘The Audacity of Hope’!

The Mid-School Anathema

The first 5 years of the new millennia saw me don the Blue and Whites for P.S. Senior Secondary School, a well-known and respected educational institution in the heart of Mylapore - One of Chennai’s oldest localities with a proud history dating back to well over a millennium. I spent the major chunk of my Mid Schooling (Grades 6 to 10 to be precise) in this period, an age of adolescence, prelapsarian simplicities and happy childhood memories. I recently passed by my alma mater and old memories came gushing back. Then I started wondering, as I started reminiscing, what was the single ever thing that was dreaded the most by every student who studied here. Would it be the ‘Pei’ (a supposed ghost that was believed to haunt the school precincts) that resided near the watchman’s hut in the school backyard? Or was it our Mathematics teacher’s process of public shaming by correcting exam answer papers in class and rending those of the underperformers to pieces in front of all the students? Or was it the Physics Madam whose society no sane pupil would contemplate treading upon? Or would it be our P.T.Master who was infamous for administering innovative methods of corporal punishment in the name of disciplinarian action for erring students?

Hmm, no doubt these would certainly classify under the heading of ‘List of Repugnant School Horrors’ but was there something else which stood above all? Nothing I thought would fit the bill till it all came back to me. The ultimate anathema or Bete Noire (for want of a more accurate word) – The Omission Chart or more popularly known as the ‘Black Mark Chart’!

Before thoughts likening Black Marks to Black Death or Black Plague even begin to surface, I can assure you that this was no way close to the aforesaid latter examples. Indeed it was much worse! Or atleast that was the general perception among students. In short, the Black Mark Chart was in fact in pure terms a piece of chart paper pasted on the wall juxtaposing the board. But the contents smeared all over the paper were viewed with a jaundiced eye by every single pupil who wished for a time to time adventurous deviation from the blueprint laid out for the ‘Code of Conduct’. This chart was nothing of the sort you might find a bunch of NASA astronauts working on before a rocket launch nor is it as complex as the one scientists are peering at the CERN’s headquarters. It merely contained 1500 small evil treacherous boxes of pure destruction (1500 is just an approximate guess (50x30) 50 assuming to be the number of students in the class and 30 was the upper limit on the permissible number of black marks a student could afford getting). A black mark in short was a signature the teacher would place upon in a cell when she caught an errant student in his act. The student might have dozed off, or talked in class, or not finished his homework, punched a rival in the stomach, pulled the hair of a bystanding girl or anything for that matter.

The rules of the game were as follows. You were in safe zone as long as your count remained in single digits. The instant you got your tenth blackmark, you were almost immediately pulled by the collar and hauled up before the principal for a day long punishment, that involved vitriolic outbursts, written apologies, summoning up of parents and shaming in front of them and not to forget being subjected to the ignominy of the spectacle being witnessed with Schadenfreudian joy by hundreds of students who would think of a hundred reasons to pay visits for this very purpose, to the admin office that was right next to the principal’s den. The next day you were back to class but certainly a laughing stock for the next few days. Then you get another leeway to conduct your boisterous activities. If you managed to touch 20, you’ll pay another visit to the gallows. If at all the Mt. 30 was peaked before the culmination of the academic year, your name would supposedly be struck off the rolls and you are free to search for another educational institution.

The journey of the chart began at the start of the academic year, roundabout June, freshly pasted, milk white coloured, containing the names of all the students on rollcall. By the end of first week, the mischievous and unruly elements would have already started incurring wrath from the teachers and a few signatures would be typically visible. Within a month, a common scene in the lunch break would typically entail feisty debates on who the top contenders would be for the first day long at the principal’s office. Very soon, the rowdier specimens true to their form would start doing day long trips and once they returned, condescending looks would be exchanged among the brighter minds and the more well-disciplined birds. Within 2-3 days all becomes normal and soon the rowdier elements would start displaying their incorrigible character again and by the turn of the New Year, a few cap a score of blackmarks. Another day long follows. By this time, they would already be branded as dregs of humanity and very nearly ostracized by the majority of class pupils. Their general standing among their peers would have been relegated to that of sharks at a bathing resort.  So these specimens now having nothing to lose unleash themselves without any restraint and start becoming a menace to the society at large.

Anyway, now that you have gotten a gist of what this entire rigmarole is about, I’ll get to the more juicier and entertaining part – the various situations and transpiration of events that could lead to obtaining blackmarks. There were certain teachers who took out all their pent up frustration in life in the form of doling out blackmarks. The most prominent person that springs to the mind was a Mathematics teacher, who simply loved autographing the chart for every conceivable reason. I can fondly recall a classic example. In my 8^th grade, on one particular afternoon period post lunch, he was involved in a conversation with his favourite student – a studious girl who had recently joined the school from the National Capital. His typical flirtatious gag ‘Dilliwali Kya Baat Hai’ was met with a well-planned counter in the form of ‘Sir, Bisi Bela Bath’ by one of the tough eggs in the back bench. Where the tough egg might have gone wrong was in the supposition that this gag might be viewed as hilarious. The motive was partly met for the class broke into peals of laughter, but sadly not by the person to whom the humour was intended. With flames shooting out of his eyes, the teacher executed a perfect pirouette act on his feet, marched upto the chart and nonchalantly signed his name 3 times against the tough egg’s name. Then there was this crafts teacher who never failed to enter the class armed without a pen. And she would straightaway proceed to the chart with the ink resting on the paper warning the class to maintain an air of respectable reticence. Her overall attitude was one of a medieval executioner wielding his axe at some unfortunate woman with her head on the chopping block condemned to death on account of witchcraft. Another example was our Sanskrit Teacher, a religious man who wore Dhotis to school with his forehead adorned with 3 broad lines of white ash. This man was a rather simple guy. He didn’t put on airs, went about his job of teaching Verb conjugations, Shlokas and often regaled us with stories from the Holy Scriptures. But one thing that was capable of turning him into a bloke with an almost murderous zeal was the sight of pupils playing ‘Pen Fight’ or ‘Pen Game’ one of the most popular games played on school benches across the length and breadth of the country. To a man who considered every single piece of stationery item as a sacred relic and a reincarnation of the Goddess Saraswathi herself, indulging in this favourite pastime was almost tantamount to committing sacrilege! An otherwise passive person, at the sight of this game, he jerked into a fit of violent spasm and almost immediately galloped towards the chart, like a war horse at the sound of the bugle, to do the honours.

Towards the end of the academic year, say about March, a few pupils would have perilously lurked close to double digits (Including yours truly many times). Whenever they sensed that they were on the brink of the ultimate reprimand, heart rending scenes would ensue. Students literally jumped in a rather simian fashion and held tightly onto the teacher’s foot pleading for mercy. Some would go and place their finger thus covering the 10^th cell against their name while the teacher would almost start signing on the finger! A few times the beseeching would not go in vain. The English teacher was once on the verge of condemning a tough egg to his doom, but so strong was the latter’s cri de couer, that she eventually gave in and granted him presidential pardon. I strongly feel, having taught Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant of Venice’ to the class a few days back, she might have felt of what use is teaching pupils that the ‘The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven’ if she could not practice what she preached!

On the last day of the academic year, a few days before the commencement of the final exams, around the end of March, the class would break into raptures of joy after the final bell. The rowdier elements would charge like a group of thirsty buffaloes on sighting a watering hole and tear apart the chart to shreds and start bellowing profanities. The overall feeling for them, rather us, I'd say for I was part of this party several times, was nearly comparable to winning the cricket world cup. In a word ‘Utopian’!

That was the end of the Black Mark chart for the nonce, but it would be back stronger than ever in its rebirth at the start of the next academic year !

The Group Chat Exodus Syndrome

Arjun left

Vijay left

Shwetha left

Bablu left            

Harish left

Ramesh left

Tom left

Dick left

Harry left

The above few words of unintelligible gobbledegook may initially give my readership an impression that I am either high on narcotic substances or that I have gone bonkers atleast for the nonce. But wait. Hold on! Aren’t they smacking of a rather familiar refrain that we have got accustomed to in the past couple of years?

Ah! Now you may say “Oh yeah! Now I get it. These fellows have just had it enough and thereby called it quits from some WhatsApp group”

Yup, you are absolutely spot on. I have just quoted verbatim the text impression you might have seen or envision on your mobile screen when a group of buddies create a sort of digital exodus once the purpose for the WhatsApp group has been exhausted.

But, I for one, find the above phenomenon very amusing and sometimes even a bit annoying. No, I am not questioning the rationale behind quitting. No man with a shred of sanity prevailing within will ever do so once the raison d’etre for the group’s existence ceases to exist, unless he finds it a rather convenient platform to practice soliloquy. It is the blistering speed at which the mass migration occurs, as if propelled by some high octane fuel that really peeves me!

It seems as if quitting the group first is considered a matter of prestige and honour. In the race to exit, the winner isn’t going to be awarded a medal nor or his competitors behind at close quarters going to be showered with encomiums by the press. Then why the bloody hurry??

Recently, whilst attending a pair of successive classes of some drab subject, lasting more than 3 hours at a stretch, I endured a period of unbearable ennui sitting in the first row. Finally unable to stomach it no longer, I logged onto YouTube on my mobile. Desiring some real carnivore action atleast in the virtual world, to neutralize the effects of unmitigable boredom in the real world, I watched a video titled ‘Slaughter in the Water’, where a mighty pack of ravenous crocodiles effects a gruesome carnage on scores of hapless godforsaken wildebeests when they cross the River Mara in Central Africa during the Great Migration. As the horrific bloodbath ensues, a stampede of gargantuan proportions begins midway through the crossing, where the wildebeests literally fight it out in a dog-eat-dog slugfest in an attempt to outpace each other, overcoming croc after croc till they cross the river of blood and finally climb ashore to safety. All in all, a 6 minute viewing of sheer macabre which no man with finer sensibilities would want to watch. A more-or-less similar emotion engulfs me when I see my buddies enter into a rat race to quit the WhatsApp group as if a crocodile had entered into it!

Atleast in the case of the video you get a sensation of solace and some consolatory peace to see that, though a few wildebeests met their miserable ends in the crocs bellies, most of them survived the gory ordeal. But here the very group of buddies, after going about their divergent ways enter other WhatsApp groups and start chatting away to glory. Then once the group throws in the towel, the exodus begins again and the vicious cycle continues. In other words it isn’t as if the very reason of quitting a group symbolizes the reticent persona of its members!

Recently, yours truly and a group of friends decided to dine outside in some fancy restaurant. Since many of them were supposed to join in from different destinations, I instituted a WhatsApp group to facilitate the process of coordination. The group saw a lot of activity initially with minute details such as venue, address, whereabouts of those in the intention of not replying, etc. being disseminated. In due course the 12 of us, like a jury, were seated around a huge round table licking our lips and waiting to devour the contents of our plates. But even before the order could be placed with the waiter, I chanced a look at my mobile to see 5 of the blokes already relinquish the group! Halfway through the gastronomical affair another couple had evacuated. By the time we finished and left the restaurant, another trio had called it quits, leaving me and one friend languishing rather pitifully!

I am the sort of person who typically delivers the valedictory speech in the group such as “Thanks a lot guys! Had a great time” or “Nice dinner folks. See you soon”. I perilously lurked close to being labelled as crazy when I started typing something on those lines, when my guardian angel, in the brink of time, prevented me from pressing the send button reminding me that a personal chat message to my solitary friend would suffice. I can be pushed about to some extent but certainly no further. I certainly don’t possess the wherewithal to sustain a 2 member group chat!

On several occasions, it so occurs, as in the case above that, all of us go Dutch with the result that monetary transactions, a barter of a few tenners here and there, have to be settled. This is when, those blokes who deserted the group a tad too early realize their folly, but their ego prevents them from requesting to be re-added to the group. The result - A new group that answers to the name of ‘XYZ Hotel Night Out – Expenses’ is created. After the usual rigmarole in which friendly jousts for currency exchanges are witnessed and once the accounts have been sorted out with everyone filled to the brim with absolute satisfaction like the chief exchequer which has completed a perfect clean audit of the Governments voluminous spends, another mass exodus begins and the same ruddy circle continues.

I reach home and just as I tuck into the bed, with no hurry whatsoever, I enter the various transient WhatsApp group chats I had been a part of during the day for one last time and lug myself out of solitary confinement. Before closing my eyes, my poetic mood now buzzing on all cylinders, I mentally weave out a quatrain and it goes:-

With technology in the age of millennial

Our behavioural changes have become perennial

With the spawn of the digital era

We have truly entered a world of Ephemera

The Solar Connection

Disclaimer: This piece should have ideally been written last year. This year, quite contrary to horrific expectations on my part, has been the best and warmest winter I could have hoped for. A heartfelt thanks to El Nino and the other weather gods who have heard my prayersJ

I turn to my watch and to my horror I see that it’s just a quarter to five. I hastily finish the cup of Garam Chai, the quintessential elixir of life, which Bablu Dhaba supplies year around to keep its IIFT faithful going and moodily retreat back to my hostel room. It seemed like an eon had passed but it had only been a couple of hours since I had last consulted my watch. What with a class to attend, a quiz to give and a couple of submissions to make, these being only a prototype of variety that the vicissitudes of MBA life had to offer, it seemed as if time flew like the dickens.

A reader of the more shrewder type would here stop me abruptly in my tracks and demand, what is it that could have contributed to the aforesaid horror that I am experiencing. He would argue and rightly so that fate may bestow different boons and curses among the various species, nature nurtures in it's bossom, but its impartiality with regards to time is unquestionable. Nature has provided the same 60 minutes in an hour, he would say, the same 24 hours in a day, so on and so forth regardless of man or beast. ‘Time hath waiteth for none’ seems about to be the mot juste. So what on earth has caused me to wear this gloomy disposition one is inclined to ask. To the above, I will readily attribute my morose countenance to the fact that, the sun which had atleast been peeping through the clouds just a while back had vanished into oblivion, as a result leaving the scene like one of those maudlin black and white Bengali plays from the 1950’s where the hero hums a mournful dirge, giving the general feel that the world as a place was up to no good and its denizens had no other option but to bear the burden of sorrows.

This, I quite unabashedly admit, is more or less the feeling that I have experienced during the wretchedly cold winter days in Delhi. And I strongly hope to be pardoned for it. I mean, look at it this way. A bloke having, for a couple of dozens of years, lived in a city such as Chennai smashed by the sun for a good 10 months of the year, his climatic acumen never swell for he has never experienced much of other vagaries of the weather except sweat, heat, and an occasional spell of showers. Take this bloke out of his natural habitat and throw him in a place thousands of miles away where the mercury rises not more than 17-18 degrees during the winter months, the minimum plummeting to the depths, and the sun more often than not makes a consolatory guest visit, you can excuse him if he throws his head between his hands writhing in agony. The change in temperature I believe so has similar effects in the case of fauna as well. You don’t expect to suddenly fly in a polar bear which is happily fooling about in the arctic and expect it to start becoming the life and soul of a beach party near Pondicherry!

At this juncture, any befuddled neutral observer would question me, is there any worthwhile reason that makes me practically look upon sun as the tree on which the fruit of my life hangs upon. While I am no practiser of heliolatry, it is true that anything that disconnects my prolonged contact from sunshine, puts me nearly on the verge of despair. To this I can only think of a possible answer. Those who have had the opportunity of being closeted with Sherlock Holmes nerve-wrackers or Agatha Christie’s goosefleshers would be pretty familiar with a psychological phenomenon called the Stockholm Syndrome or capture bonding, used in the context of situations of hostage crises, wherein hostages begin to empathize and even passionately side with their captors (Svengalified?) to such an extent that members of the gendarmerie actually begin to scratch their heads and wonder whether it is worthwhile to be a part of the rescue party! An almost analogous relationship, I feel, started between me and the sun ever since I stepped into my teens. The sun might have beaten down upon me black and blue, lent more hues of black colour to my skin tone over the years, made me fall of bicycles and resulted in me reaching destinations bathed in sweat. My shirts were made typically incapable of being worn for more than a few hours at stretch, school bags made heavier by 3 monster sized water bottles to keep quenching my incessant thirst and I once even nearly made it to the obituary column thanks to sun stroke. But this undoubtedly resulted in one thing. I got acclimatized to the sun and heat so much that, I eventually started loving it.

Friends often feel I ought to be certified in a mental institution when I say that, I feel like a beast of burden having to bear the weight of several layers of clothing till the winter gives out. I loathe being jailed inside a couple of rounds each of woollen clothing and thick bedsheeting when I call it a day. I detest with considerable vehemence that I am forced to spend more time in bed, quite contrary to the normal view in these parts where a perfect winter day typically amounts to being one where maximum hours have been clocked between the sheets. One of the few magical attributes I share with Napolean Bonaparte is the ability to fall asleep the instant my head touches the pillow. But during winters, even this inexplicably eludes me, with the result that I have ended up becoming a somnambulist not just once and often hit the mess at 8:15 AM sharp with alarming regularity, much to the exasperation of the chaps when I announce ‘Bhaiya, Chai please’!

Nothing much to do I guess, than wait for a few months till the sun rides back majestically on top of the sky and is back to what it is doing best. At 45 degrees, I feel compelled to borrow a delectable piece of Browning's poetry and it goes - "The lark's on the wing, The snail's on the thorn, God's in His heaven". Life is much better and that is when you catch me in mid-season form J