A play here and a concert there
Time away,a real nightmare
Breakfast with chutney in the morning fog
Compromised work and a forgotten blog
Watching the sun go down from the lake
Sharing a ride, binge eating, carrot cake
Planning for tomorrow, for the week ahead
A laundry list of things, it's lost in my head
Code words that just don't stick
A dialect that could make me sick
Raising a puppy, not ready yet, I guess
Shopping to reduce my ramshackleness
The time since my last writing was long
since then life has been one happy song
Hear,oh men, far and near, my tale
The last 2 months, that passed like a gale
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Jugalbandhi: Ramulu and Julu-yettu
She wanted no traces of their meeting,
And, she was an expert at that,
Like the many times they were together,
He stared into the open; helpless, smitten
It wasn't him, but it was him, afterall,
And it was his head on the chopping block,
He knew he had no way out; She was mean,
And had her gadgets drawn out for the kill, gingerly
She had him by his white starched shirt,
Between the first and second button, precisely,
With one swish had him fade to history,
Had him slump to the ground, lifeless
She picked him up nonchalantly, and trashed him,
And examined what was left; pleased, satisfied,
A beautiful silver framed photo of her sitting,
Her head against the end of a white starched curtain
And, she was an expert at that,
Like the many times they were together,
He stared into the open; helpless, smitten
It wasn't him, but it was him, afterall,
And it was his head on the chopping block,
He knew he had no way out; She was mean,
And had her gadgets drawn out for the kill, gingerly
She had him by his white starched shirt,
Between the first and second button, precisely,
With one swish had him fade to history,
Had him slump to the ground, lifeless
She picked him up nonchalantly, and trashed him,
And examined what was left; pleased, satisfied,
A beautiful silver framed photo of her sitting,
Her head against the end of a white starched curtain
Friday, October 9, 2009
The times they are a-changin'
When the local chronicle replaces the one since 1878,
so much that you wonder where it was all this while,
but still go back for them crosswords,
When irani cafes are in and posh eateries are passe,
so much that you stop asking for what you need,
but have it served by raising a hand, a nod of the head,
When your mother-tongue pips the world's Lingua franca,
so much that you switch to frustrate those non-speakers,
but still inject a few words to rile them purists,
When old habits fall to the ground like winnowed rice paddy,
When new habits emerge like sprouts left overnight,
When old friends hug you like you've just won the derby,
When new friends feel like you've known them for ages,
And in the process you find yourself, again, and yet again,
and see that you are very much at peace, piece by piece,
When you love where you are going,
Just as much as where you came from,
You have to wonder,
You have to think aloud,
You have to ask yourself ,
If this ain't life ... what is ?
so much that you wonder where it was all this while,
but still go back for them crosswords,
When irani cafes are in and posh eateries are passe,
so much that you stop asking for what you need,
but have it served by raising a hand, a nod of the head,
When your mother-tongue pips the world's Lingua franca,
so much that you switch to frustrate those non-speakers,
but still inject a few words to rile them purists,
When old habits fall to the ground like winnowed rice paddy,
When new habits emerge like sprouts left overnight,
When old friends hug you like you've just won the derby,
When new friends feel like you've known them for ages,
And in the process you find yourself, again, and yet again,
and see that you are very much at peace, piece by piece,
When you love where you are going,
Just as much as where you came from,
You have to wonder,
You have to think aloud,
You have to ask yourself ,
If this ain't life ... what is ?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Night-In-Gale
It started with James Gregory's memoirs
Of Robben Island's most famous prisoner
Followed by a Liam Neeson double bill
Biopics about a biologist turned sexologist
And Sinn Fein's most famous Irishman
It didn't stop there as we found them inspired
By Lynard Skynard, no, not the "define irony" one
But the other one with the title itself
And finally prison walls that were adorned by
Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe and Raquel Welch
It was morning by then and the Best Cafe it was
Did they ever freeze over in hell and rename it from the Sad
The morning news was nowhere to be seen
So with Passion and a Ten-ner he roamed the concrete
Met one barely 20 metres from where he revved up
No exact change with either got him one free
And Ogilvy smiled from wherever he was
Customers are wife material indeed
The coffee took longer obviously
See, the benefits, of being an insomniac !!!
Of Robben Island's most famous prisoner
Followed by a Liam Neeson double bill
Biopics about a biologist turned sexologist
And Sinn Fein's most famous Irishman
It didn't stop there as we found them inspired
By Lynard Skynard, no, not the "define irony" one
But the other one with the title itself
And finally prison walls that were adorned by
Rita Hayworth, Marilyn Monroe and Raquel Welch
It was morning by then and the Best Cafe it was
Did they ever freeze over in hell and rename it from the Sad
The morning news was nowhere to be seen
So with Passion and a Ten-ner he roamed the concrete
Met one barely 20 metres from where he revved up
No exact change with either got him one free
And Ogilvy smiled from wherever he was
Customers are wife material indeed
The coffee took longer obviously
See, the benefits, of being an insomniac !!!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Oona baby ...
"Eat me", she seemed to cry as she lay there rather stiff
She wriggled to a corner, like she were shy, like her first
He knew she'd never been "done" before
She wouldn't have been in front of him in that case
Understandably, she was fairly hot
It had taken her quite a while to get there
His mouth watered at the sight in front of him
He was starving, he wanted her badly,
He took her gently, and squeezed her midriff
Taken aback at the way things flowed he quickly bit into her
She tasted just like he knew she would, magical, virginal
He seemed to have heard the rest of her cry out again,
"Eat me", a little more desperate, hoarser, more guttural
It seemed to come from the bottom of her stomach
He couldn't wait anylonger, he needed the whole of her inside him
With a scoop he took in the whole of what was left
It was the best fish and caviare he had in a long time
Amma makes it beautifully, Sigh what an anti-climax
P.S: Shouldn't the title have been Tuna Baby !!!
She wriggled to a corner, like she were shy, like her first
He knew she'd never been "done" before
She wouldn't have been in front of him in that case
Understandably, she was fairly hot
It had taken her quite a while to get there
His mouth watered at the sight in front of him
He was starving, he wanted her badly,
He took her gently, and squeezed her midriff
Taken aback at the way things flowed he quickly bit into her
She tasted just like he knew she would, magical, virginal
He seemed to have heard the rest of her cry out again,
"Eat me", a little more desperate, hoarser, more guttural
It seemed to come from the bottom of her stomach
He couldn't wait anylonger, he needed the whole of her inside him
With a scoop he took in the whole of what was left
It was the best fish and caviare he had in a long time
Amma makes it beautifully, Sigh what an anti-climax
P.S: Shouldn't the title have been Tuna Baby !!!
Monday, July 20, 2009
drove a chevy to the levee ..
And I stood arrow straight
Unencumbered by the weight
Of all these hustlers and their schemes
I stood proud, I stood tall
High above it all
I still believed in my dreams
Twenty years now
Where'd they go?
Twenty years I don't know
Sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they've gone
And sometimes late at night
When I'm bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin' a ghostly white
And I recall
I Recall
Like a rock.
standin' arrow straight
Like a rock,
chargin' from the gate
Like a rock,
carryin' the weight
Like a rock
Like a rock,
the sun upon my skin
Like a rock,
hard against the wind
Like a rock,
I see myself again
Like a rock
~ Bob Seger, Like a Rock
Unencumbered by the weight
Of all these hustlers and their schemes
I stood proud, I stood tall
High above it all
I still believed in my dreams
Twenty years now
Where'd they go?
Twenty years I don't know
Sit and I wonder sometimes
Where they've gone
And sometimes late at night
When I'm bathed in the firelight
The moon comes callin' a ghostly white
And I recall
I Recall
Like a rock.
standin' arrow straight
Like a rock,
chargin' from the gate
Like a rock,
carryin' the weight
Like a rock
Like a rock,
the sun upon my skin
Like a rock,
hard against the wind
Like a rock,
I see myself again
Like a rock
~ Bob Seger, Like a Rock
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Der Sohn Spricht
In the years that have passed since
I've thought of you every single day
The pain has numbed
But hope hasn’t yet betrayed
I thought there’d be anger
But that’s never been my forte
I respect the choice to be far away, but
Love her much to stop the search halfway
If you do choose to return, maybe, we’ll have a smoke man to man
Exchange tales that only grown men would understand
Dread the moment when you shall not be missed
Can’t see it in the horizon even if the sun were kissed
In the years that have passed since
I've thought of you every single day
The pain has numbed
But hope just hasn’t betrayed
I've thought of you every single day
The pain has numbed
But hope hasn’t yet betrayed
I thought there’d be anger
But that’s never been my forte
I respect the choice to be far away, but
Love her much to stop the search halfway
If you do choose to return, maybe, we’ll have a smoke man to man
Exchange tales that only grown men would understand
Dread the moment when you shall not be missed
Can’t see it in the horizon even if the sun were kissed
In the years that have passed since
I've thought of you every single day
The pain has numbed
But hope just hasn’t betrayed
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Crazy Diamonds ...
Him: Okay, first things first. He is now the Greatest. Now, even greater than that stupid, tongue-drooping-out like a greyhound, drooling-in-spittle like a baby, Pistol Pee (for his name I shall not utter), that you so adored. With 15 slams and a French Open, the only thing that could have helped the Pistol remain the greatest was to have shot "The Greatest" with that rusted Pistol of his before this year's Roland Garros, or even better at Roland Garros. Alas, all Pistol could manage was to come dapperly dressed to Center court and wear dark shades to camouflage his weepy blood-shot eyes.
Her: Can you imagine my dilemma? I badly wanted Fed-ex to win, but if he does, Pistol's record would be broken and then I felt even worse when A-Rod broke down into tears. Do you even realise how difficult it was rooting for Fed-ex, feeling bad for Pistol and then feeling guilty about rooting for Fed-Ex when A-Rod cried. Gosh how could you not empathise and understand the pain.
She was never able to watch a Pistol-Pee match without having her face buried in her palms. Even when the Pistol was 40-0 up and serving for the match at 6-0, 6-0, 5-0. When he was younger he didn’t even try watching the greatest Germans ever to grace a Tennis court, Fraulein-Forehand and Boom-Boom-Bee, play. He loved them too much to want to watch them lose. In 1989, when he saw them on the cover of The Sportstar, posing at the Winners’ ball in SW19 he predicted marriage. He was even willing to play cupid. Nobody ever asked him to. The Fraulein went on to marry another of his favourites, The-Rebel-turned-comeback-kid-turned-elder-statesman. Incidentally, it was the 1999 Winners’ ball at Roland Garros that kicked off their romance, and of course, the Boom-Boom went on to screw a waitress in a broom cupboard at Cafe Nobu, Soho, London.
He didn’t like Pistol-Pee. He found him too drab. Uninteresting. She was the indulging elder sister. She cheered for all the ones he wanted to win. In the end she was the only one cheering as he wasn’t watching. And his "not watching bouts" extended to the Fed-Ex who would eventually become the greatest. The Spaniards’ turn will come too.
This is not about those hallowed gladiators who fight within the confines of the 78 feet X 27 feet battlefield. This is about us. Who could be the crazier of the two?
P.S: Will somebody put an end to his “him-her”/ “he-she” nonsense? He’s been on it for the last 3 posts now
Her: Can you imagine my dilemma? I badly wanted Fed-ex to win, but if he does, Pistol's record would be broken and then I felt even worse when A-Rod broke down into tears. Do you even realise how difficult it was rooting for Fed-ex, feeling bad for Pistol and then feeling guilty about rooting for Fed-Ex when A-Rod cried. Gosh how could you not empathise and understand the pain.
She was never able to watch a Pistol-Pee match without having her face buried in her palms. Even when the Pistol was 40-0 up and serving for the match at 6-0, 6-0, 5-0. When he was younger he didn’t even try watching the greatest Germans ever to grace a Tennis court, Fraulein-Forehand and Boom-Boom-Bee, play. He loved them too much to want to watch them lose. In 1989, when he saw them on the cover of The Sportstar, posing at the Winners’ ball in SW19 he predicted marriage. He was even willing to play cupid. Nobody ever asked him to. The Fraulein went on to marry another of his favourites, The-Rebel-turned-comeback-kid-turned-elder-statesman. Incidentally, it was the 1999 Winners’ ball at Roland Garros that kicked off their romance, and of course, the Boom-Boom went on to screw a waitress in a broom cupboard at Cafe Nobu, Soho, London.
He didn’t like Pistol-Pee. He found him too drab. Uninteresting. She was the indulging elder sister. She cheered for all the ones he wanted to win. In the end she was the only one cheering as he wasn’t watching. And his "not watching bouts" extended to the Fed-Ex who would eventually become the greatest. The Spaniards’ turn will come too.
This is not about those hallowed gladiators who fight within the confines of the 78 feet X 27 feet battlefield. This is about us. Who could be the crazier of the two?
P.S: Will somebody put an end to his “him-her”/ “he-she” nonsense? He’s been on it for the last 3 posts now
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
but how ...?
00:54 A.M, Bangalore, 2nd July 2009
Exactly a score and nine years ago to the date, she was born to a militant Tam-bram family in a Chennai hospital. But, of course, it was Madras then. Her parents named her after a famous symmetric raaga in Carnatic music. For all practical purposes, she was called Ammu at home. After toying with various names he had settled on Ammu as well. He was too lazy to think of something that sounded cool, imaginative and Tam-bram. Now, thinking back he knew it wasn’t the laziness. Cool, imaginative and Tam-bram was actually impossible. She had settled down in London. Like most years when he wasn’t around, he called to wish her. Like most of the time when her phone wasn’t around, he hit her voice mail. He decided to send her a text message. Inspired by friends who had brainwashed him on the virtues of predictive texting he decided to try it. He had just started to get the hang of it after an intensive one-on-one session with the guru of predictive texting. In his eyes there was no bigger guru. No better guru. He typed “Ammu” frantically. It came on as something else in English. He wanted to spell the word to add it to the predictive texting list. He hit the send button.
20:24 P.M, London, 1st July 2009 (Daylight Savings Time)
She had just done her groceries at a nearby Tesco’s. She was at home sorting the stuff when she heard a beep on her phone. He was an old friend. As old as the hills. She opened the text message. It was a very short message. In fact, it had just one single word. “Boot”.
Exactly a score and nine years ago to the date, she was born to a militant Tam-bram family in a Chennai hospital. But, of course, it was Madras then. Her parents named her after a famous symmetric raaga in Carnatic music. For all practical purposes, she was called Ammu at home. After toying with various names he had settled on Ammu as well. He was too lazy to think of something that sounded cool, imaginative and Tam-bram. Now, thinking back he knew it wasn’t the laziness. Cool, imaginative and Tam-bram was actually impossible. She had settled down in London. Like most years when he wasn’t around, he called to wish her. Like most of the time when her phone wasn’t around, he hit her voice mail. He decided to send her a text message. Inspired by friends who had brainwashed him on the virtues of predictive texting he decided to try it. He had just started to get the hang of it after an intensive one-on-one session with the guru of predictive texting. In his eyes there was no bigger guru. No better guru. He typed “Ammu” frantically. It came on as something else in English. He wanted to spell the word to add it to the predictive texting list. He hit the send button.
20:24 P.M, London, 1st July 2009 (Daylight Savings Time)
She had just done her groceries at a nearby Tesco’s. She was at home sorting the stuff when she heard a beep on her phone. He was an old friend. As old as the hills. She opened the text message. It was a very short message. In fact, it had just one single word. “Boot”.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Us and Them ...
24th June 2009 16:02 P.M
Me: hey girl! are you on Facebook?
Her: uhum … yes why?
Me: wanted to add you. I talk to you pretty much every day so it doesn't really matter ... but...
Her: added you
Me: how you doing?
Her: well … my brains being fried since the weekend
Me: but why?
Her: Have you ever had Brain Fry before? Like fried goat’s brain?
Me: I think I did ... found it rather rich and complex
Her: It’s like... mushy cheesy globules. I'm trying to get things organised and set up for incorporating soon
...
24th June 16:19 P.M
Me: hey R
Him: hey! Where are you now? Are you in Bangalore?
Me: Hyderabad
Him: okay. I got your card
Me: have you ever had brain fry?
Him: bheja fry?
Me: yes?
Him: what is this?
Me: Bheja fry? Have u ever eaten bheja fry?
Him: ille pa (No dude). Why? What happened? May be I have had it when I was really small, but I can hardly recollect. Not sure. What is this about?
Me: How do you think it tastes? Or how do you think it should taste?
Him: Maybe like molten meat. Slimy. But should taste pretty much the same.
Me: Same as what?
Him: Meat ... Mutton …
...
June 24th 2009 16:28 P.M
Me: Saala. kahaan hai tu aaj kal ? (dude … where’ve you been of late ?)
Him: Same ol' place bhaai
Me: London ya Delhi?
Him: Delhi. How is it going with u boss? Making loads of money I assume?
Me: not loads ... but profitable...
Him: Where these days?
Me: Hyderabad. Was in your Office in Bangalore the day before
Him: Political consulting or more services?
Me: I had come to Bangalore on some work. Political consulting and Govt. consulting only
Me: Ever had bheja fry ?
Him: Why don't you sell some services of the old company as well? Yes I have ... a few times
Me: How does it taste?
Him: Pretty awesome!!!
Me: Can be sold, but aap log ka cost bahut hai (you guys cost too much). Abbe saale, bolo ki kaise taste karta hai, describe it.
Him: value derived is worth the cost
Me: Hello! Not in this field. Here, value derived is not value till it is derived at 1/10th the cost
Him: Quite like Keema but with a very specific aroma and flavour
…
June 24th 16:45 PM
Me: Boy. I was in Bangalore but couldn't meet you. Maybe the next time, which is, on Friday
Him: Bad dosth. Alright come home. You know my place anyways. How are things otherwise?
Me: Going good... You ever had brain fry?
Him: illa (No) … Where did you have that?
Me: Why not?
Him: Never got a chance
Me: 'coz u a sissy who wants to have Chicken Biryani wherever you go...
Him: Where did you stay when you came to Bangalore?
Me: How do you think brain fry tastes? Or how do you think it should taste?
Him: Why are you behind the brain fry...depends on whose brain it is…
Me: I mean the ones in restaurants. How do you think it will taste?
Him: Hopefully good
Me: Arrey dosth!
Him: never tasted dude
Me: Thoda imagination lagaaa ... (use your imagination...). How do you think it will taste?
Him: You are not leaving this topic is it? It will taste yuck (disgusting)
Me: Okie. Married life is good?
…
25th June 2009 00:19 A.M
Me: Hi ra...
Him: Hi don
Me: Have you ever eaten brain fry?
Him: ya
Me: Yeppudu? (When?)
Him: Nuthan's brain is tasty. Suri doesn’t have a brain at all
Me: Serious ga cheppu …(Tell me seriously)
Him: Nope. Nenu NV neee tinanu (I don't eat meat)
Me: I know you are a veggie ra. How do you think brain fry should taste?
Him: How do I know?
Me: that's why I am asking how you think it should taste
Him: Nee yenkamma (No translation exists)
Me: Cheppu ra (Come on tell me dude)
Him: hmmm… Something like Vankay Koora (Brinjal Curry) … Kammaga koddiga kaaram ga (Buttery …. A little spicy)
Afterword: This is for her. We've known each other for 12 years after meeting in a sleepy, dusty, university desert town. We've "known" each other ever since we met at one of my Best Friend's wedding
Me: hey girl! are you on Facebook?
Her: uhum … yes why?
Me: wanted to add you. I talk to you pretty much every day so it doesn't really matter ... but...
Her: added you
Me: how you doing?
Her: well … my brains being fried since the weekend
Me: but why?
Her: Have you ever had Brain Fry before? Like fried goat’s brain?
Me: I think I did ... found it rather rich and complex
Her: It’s like... mushy cheesy globules. I'm trying to get things organised and set up for incorporating soon
...
24th June 16:19 P.M
Me: hey R
Him: hey! Where are you now? Are you in Bangalore?
Me: Hyderabad
Him: okay. I got your card
Me: have you ever had brain fry?
Him: bheja fry?
Me: yes?
Him: what is this?
Me: Bheja fry? Have u ever eaten bheja fry?
Him: ille pa (No dude). Why? What happened? May be I have had it when I was really small, but I can hardly recollect. Not sure. What is this about?
Me: How do you think it tastes? Or how do you think it should taste?
Him: Maybe like molten meat. Slimy. But should taste pretty much the same.
Me: Same as what?
Him: Meat ... Mutton …
...
June 24th 2009 16:28 P.M
Me: Saala. kahaan hai tu aaj kal ? (dude … where’ve you been of late ?)
Him: Same ol' place bhaai
Me: London ya Delhi?
Him: Delhi. How is it going with u boss? Making loads of money I assume?
Me: not loads ... but profitable...
Him: Where these days?
Me: Hyderabad. Was in your Office in Bangalore the day before
Him: Political consulting or more services?
Me: I had come to Bangalore on some work. Political consulting and Govt. consulting only
Me: Ever had bheja fry ?
Him: Why don't you sell some services of the old company as well? Yes I have ... a few times
Me: How does it taste?
Him: Pretty awesome!!!
Me: Can be sold, but aap log ka cost bahut hai (you guys cost too much). Abbe saale, bolo ki kaise taste karta hai, describe it.
Him: value derived is worth the cost
Me: Hello! Not in this field. Here, value derived is not value till it is derived at 1/10th the cost
Him: Quite like Keema but with a very specific aroma and flavour
…
June 24th 16:45 PM
Me: Boy. I was in Bangalore but couldn't meet you. Maybe the next time, which is, on Friday
Him: Bad dosth. Alright come home. You know my place anyways. How are things otherwise?
Me: Going good... You ever had brain fry?
Him: illa (No) … Where did you have that?
Me: Why not?
Him: Never got a chance
Me: 'coz u a sissy who wants to have Chicken Biryani wherever you go...
Him: Where did you stay when you came to Bangalore?
Me: How do you think brain fry tastes? Or how do you think it should taste?
Him: Why are you behind the brain fry...depends on whose brain it is…
Me: I mean the ones in restaurants. How do you think it will taste?
Him: Hopefully good
Me: Arrey dosth!
Him: never tasted dude
Me: Thoda imagination lagaaa ... (use your imagination...). How do you think it will taste?
Him: You are not leaving this topic is it? It will taste yuck (disgusting)
Me: Okie. Married life is good?
…
25th June 2009 00:19 A.M
Me: Hi ra...
Him: Hi don
Me: Have you ever eaten brain fry?
Him: ya
Me: Yeppudu? (When?)
Him: Nuthan's brain is tasty. Suri doesn’t have a brain at all
Me: Serious ga cheppu …(Tell me seriously)
Him: Nope. Nenu NV neee tinanu (I don't eat meat)
Me: I know you are a veggie ra. How do you think brain fry should taste?
Him: How do I know?
Me: that's why I am asking how you think it should taste
Him: Nee yenkamma (No translation exists)
Me: Cheppu ra (Come on tell me dude)
Him: hmmm… Something like Vankay Koora (Brinjal Curry) … Kammaga koddiga kaaram ga (Buttery …. A little spicy)
Afterword: This is for her. We've known each other for 12 years after meeting in a sleepy, dusty, university desert town. We've "known" each other ever since we met at one of my Best Friend's wedding
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The Wonder Years
It was the summer of 1999. He was returning to university to start his third year. As he got onto the train and said goodbye to his folks he realized the enormity of the task that lay ahead. The 3rd year was a make-or-break year. One delved into course work that one would end up majoring in. His mind, however, was occupied with something of far greater import. He was running to become the University President. He had to win. Having alternated between being a complete a$$h0!e and a total recluse for the better part of the first 2 years, he had his task cut out. But, he was a fighter and he fancied his chances. It didn’t matter that most people thought he was a headstrong moron. He trusted his team. He had a great team of friends and they were a great team of strategists. His head was racing. Manifesto. Votes. Campaign debates. Speeches. Waking up in the wee hours of the morning as he reached Hazrat Nizamuddin Station, he realized that the luggage which had his best clothes was stolen. Things could have been worse. His other bag with his semester pocket money, his footwear and innerwear was still there. It wasn’t chained to the lower seat like the stolen piece had been. There must be a silver lining to this he reasoned. Maybe it was divine intervention. The Gods had decided he needed a new wardrobe. He had to look Presidential. An FIR later, he was shopping at Karol Bagh and he bought his first branded Khaki trousers. It was Olive Green. Spiritus from Louise Philippe read the label just above the right butt pocket.
It was 2009. It was not yet summer. It felt like summer though. He was returning home from Visakhapatnam. His state was going to the assembly polls in a few months time. His country was going into a General Election simultaneously. He wasn’t a candidate and it wasn’t University. It was better this time. He knew he was a great strategist and his client was going to win. His client had been building a solid foundation for the past 2 years. Medical Camps. Drinking water projects. Cricket Tournaments for the youth. His client was in this even before he chose to become a strategist. How unlike him in University, he thought. He got off at Annavaram, to get a pulse from the locals. It was one of his client’s weakest spots. He needed to eat first and still needed to figure out a way to get back home. Amma must be waiting he thought. He ate at the dhaba where the bus had stopped and tossed a coin in his head. He turned right at the main road. His search for an auto-rickshaw had begun. He loved auto-drivers in smaller towns. The driver’s name was Sreenu. Sreenu advised him against going to the Bus Station. There should be a train to home in 30 minutes. The Train station is farther but you’ll reach home faster, Sreenu reasoned. He instinctively trusted Sreenu. He also trusted his instincts. They discussed about the Assembly elections. It wasn’t good for his candidate he thought. They need to limit the damage here. Sreenu dropped him at the station. He took a photo of Sreenu and his auto and promised to give him a copy should he return.
They hugged. They shook hands. They parted. He went to buy a ticket at the counter. The counter wasn’t even open. The train was to arrive in another 45 minutes. There was another auto-rickshaw at the entrance and he decided to sit in it for a while. As he sat in the back-seat he heard something ripping apart. He didn’t bother. These seats he thought. He hung around till the counter opened. He bought his ticket. Unreserved. It was just a 30 minute journey and he could easily manage. The train’s arrival had been announced in the Public Announcement System. They said it in 3 languages. Telugu, English, Hindi. Even in Annavaram? Maybe yes, he reasoned. It was a temple town and a famous one. He looked down to pick up his luggage. His luggage was intact. Nothing had been stolen. Something caught his eye on his trousers. Just below his zipper, on the right side of his trousers there was a long tear. It was more than 6 inches long. Maybe more. That was the ripping sound he had heard earlier he thought. He didn’t care to change. He had enough time but he didn’t want to change. He got onto the train. It was overcrowded. There was no place to sit. Hardly any place to stand. He perched himself near the wash basin and strained himself to look at the label just above his right butt pocket. Spiritus from Louise Philippe read the label on the Olive Green Khaki Trousers.
It was 2009. It was not yet summer. It felt like summer though. He was returning home from Visakhapatnam. His state was going to the assembly polls in a few months time. His country was going into a General Election simultaneously. He wasn’t a candidate and it wasn’t University. It was better this time. He knew he was a great strategist and his client was going to win. His client had been building a solid foundation for the past 2 years. Medical Camps. Drinking water projects. Cricket Tournaments for the youth. His client was in this even before he chose to become a strategist. How unlike him in University, he thought. He got off at Annavaram, to get a pulse from the locals. It was one of his client’s weakest spots. He needed to eat first and still needed to figure out a way to get back home. Amma must be waiting he thought. He ate at the dhaba where the bus had stopped and tossed a coin in his head. He turned right at the main road. His search for an auto-rickshaw had begun. He loved auto-drivers in smaller towns. The driver’s name was Sreenu. Sreenu advised him against going to the Bus Station. There should be a train to home in 30 minutes. The Train station is farther but you’ll reach home faster, Sreenu reasoned. He instinctively trusted Sreenu. He also trusted his instincts. They discussed about the Assembly elections. It wasn’t good for his candidate he thought. They need to limit the damage here. Sreenu dropped him at the station. He took a photo of Sreenu and his auto and promised to give him a copy should he return.
They hugged. They shook hands. They parted. He went to buy a ticket at the counter. The counter wasn’t even open. The train was to arrive in another 45 minutes. There was another auto-rickshaw at the entrance and he decided to sit in it for a while. As he sat in the back-seat he heard something ripping apart. He didn’t bother. These seats he thought. He hung around till the counter opened. He bought his ticket. Unreserved. It was just a 30 minute journey and he could easily manage. The train’s arrival had been announced in the Public Announcement System. They said it in 3 languages. Telugu, English, Hindi. Even in Annavaram? Maybe yes, he reasoned. It was a temple town and a famous one. He looked down to pick up his luggage. His luggage was intact. Nothing had been stolen. Something caught his eye on his trousers. Just below his zipper, on the right side of his trousers there was a long tear. It was more than 6 inches long. Maybe more. That was the ripping sound he had heard earlier he thought. He didn’t care to change. He had enough time but he didn’t want to change. He got onto the train. It was overcrowded. There was no place to sit. Hardly any place to stand. He perched himself near the wash basin and strained himself to look at the label just above his right butt pocket. Spiritus from Louise Philippe read the label on the Olive Green Khaki Trousers.
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