Au revoir, 2011

The stone Pensieve lay in the cabinet where it had always been. Harry heaved it onto the desk and poured Snape’s memories into the wide basin with its runic markings around the edge. To escape into someone else’s head would be a blessed relief..

This post is more of a pensive reflections sitting in the banyan tree breeze looking at the temple pond type.

Time, I have come to believe after reading stuff like The Egg, is something we have created, something that exists within our frame, realm or any other spatialistic references we use. However, another year has just slipped by and one can't help sitting up to think. Almost everyone, from real life to twitterfolk whom I havent met, have been bitching about how bad the year was. I would say this has been one of the most profound times of my life.

The year has been bittersweet. 'Twas the best of times, 'twas the worst of times.

People.. from your best friends to someone as relatively obscure as the gate keeper at a railway level-crossing.

Boring topics to excited texting. Quite a bit of fights. Sweet smalltalk.
Conversations. Nods, smiles. Straight faced talks about god knows what.

Movies, concerts, alcohol.

Lewd comments to spontaneous poetry.

Disillusionment, disappointment, listlessness. Rage. Fury. Uncontrollable laughter, aching cheeks.
Possessiveness. Chumminess.
Hugs, Pecks.

Travelling long distances, walking around a new place all alone with your hands in your pockets, taking in all the sights and smells and sounds.

Being off twitter for a very long time, logging back in and finding out that things havent changed much.

Catching trains right on time. Sitting at the door and watching the sun set while the world goes by in a blur of green and gold.

Staying up all night doing absolutely nothing except watch random crap on the comp. Staggering into class the next day and falling asleep on the desk. Waking up because your buddy just spotted a cute chick walk by outside and thought your sleep could wait.

Strange detours to satisfy stranger hunger cravings.

Falling asleep texting. Face. Palm. Facepalm.

A cold run through Cubbon Park followed by strong hot coffee.

Watching the shunter go about his daily business and clicking tongues in pity.

Sleeping..a lot of it. Losing sleep, a lot of it.

Knowing friendship and how much it means.

Giving someone a gift and watching their face break into a smile.

Here's to a new year of hope and fun and good stuff. And happiness :)

And the promise that I will blog, regularly.


Poda, my-rage

I've expressed my love for driving on more than one occasion up here. The following incident is true word for word. Read and let read.

The car had been deposited in the service centre for its periodic overhaul and i was entrusted with the job of driving it back home while dad made the necessary financial exchanges and rode home in his bike. So with the vehicle out from the service station, we did a few quick checks (signs of uncleaned niches, the customary oops-sorry-sir-the-wiper-blades-must-have-been-overlooked excuse, to name a few) and the baby was ready to roll. The smell of cleaning fluid filled the cab as I got it out onto the road, and the car felt as sprightly as a newly serviced vehicle feels.

All was well on a cloudy November evening until I got to this junction near the posterior end of Chalai. There dwells quite a busy intersection there, guarded by a traffic policeman ever ready to pounce on you if you aren't wearing your seat belts. I did have the necessary strap embracing my torso, so he merely glanced in my direction. The road has signals guarding the left, forward and right. As I approached the lights, they turned to red and I stopped in the lane which was supposed to proceed left.

There is this convention regarding the left lane in this place, which tends to approximate on the fact that the left lane signal is an appendix. Basically, every Thomman, Dinkan and Hariharan ignores the signal and pass right through. It was under these circumstances that I committed the grievous error of having stopped at a red light. A Maruti 800 drove up behind me and started honking its guts out. A glance at the rear view mirror showed a kinda middle aged guy driving, with presumably his wife inhabiting the other seat up front.
I remained still. The reason? Firstly, the light was red. And secondly (before you call me a sissy), there were some people crossing the road to my left (which the gentleman still leaning on his horn behind me couldn't see). Hence, like I said, I stayed put.

But not without doing something I love. I imitated his honking, tone for tone and rhythm for rhythm. It went on for a couple of stanzas, before he vented his ire and shouted at me from the back. At this point I had had enough of it and took off across the road, ignoring the stop sign. This happened in something like fifteen seconds or so. Now, the chap ended up tailing me and honking as if asking for way. I was belting out a steady forty kmph but he wasn't satisfied. There were a couple of trucks to my left, in plain view from his car as well, so I guessed the guy was just trying to take out his irritation. I went back to imitating the honking. At this point something clearly happened to him and he started honking continuously, doing a peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. I answered with an equally long peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep (I had my blood rushing at this point), and finding the left side clear, let the goddamn chap overtake.

As he drew up to my right, I knew what was about to happen.

"Odikkan arinjoodeda mairey!", he spat forth. (Dontcha know how to drive, you #&*^#)

And then, came out my first ever reply to road rage. I was beside myself, and shouted out in full volume:

"Athu nintachann, po mairey!" (That's your dad, go to hell you #&*^#)

My face flushed when I shouted it out (it was quite loud) and I realised what I did. Of course it was good while it lasted, in case you're wondering.
The bloke had overtaken me, and had heard it. I noticed his brake lights come on, as he attempted to slow me down. I daresay I did feel a bit scared at this. I hadn't given a thought to how hulking a chap was sitting inside, or considered the fact that I hardly presented a formidable image myself.

But no, he merely slowed down and said a few words which weren't reaching my ears in the din, and all I saw were his hands which were pointed at me as if threatening me (with no doubt, dire consequences). I honked another pattern (yes, that is fun!) and left him to drive away.

I spotted the unfortunate fucker held up at the next junction where I took a different turn and reached home safe and sound. And fast.

Now, I might have been wrong in some matters -
1. Not having followed the so-called convention while the red light was ablaze. (and not having chosen to mow down the people in that lane)
2. Committing a fallacy in deducing that his dad was the one who should be addressed 'mairey'.
3. Generally leading to flaring of tempers by irritating people.

However, if this is the case with middle aged motherfuckers who accuse the younger generation being irresponsible and flouting rules, this is a fuckin bat to their faces. There are just as many hopeless cases in their generation as there seems to be in mine. If haughtiness rules here, hypocrisy reigns supreme there.
Alright, he might have been in an emergency, you might click your tongue. I have one word - HEADLAMPS. Put the fuckin headlamps on, and drive with a pair of fully functional balls.

This goes equally well for those who cry their hearts out regularly on The HIndu Open Page, saying the world is going to end because of the younger generation. You say rash driving? Please drive well yourself. We listen to crap music is it? Recognise Kambhoji played on an electric guitar with distortion before I do and I will admit that.

You feel we have no respect for elders?

Then mairey, Y U CALL ME MAIREY?


Rain is..

Lying curled up in the mornings, snoozing the alarm one more time.

The lone crow lamenting atop the slippery coconut leaf while the morning express to Hyderabad sounds its melancholy horn.

Listening to Stairway to heaven while walking with your buddy late at night in a thunderstorm.

Rushing to the door, looking up at the sky and savouring the drops of the fourth monsoon shower that day.

Sitting legs drawn up, looking at the rain and texting your best friend.

The innumerable innuendoes that make their way into conversations just because the weather feels good.

Standing at the door of a train and savouring a hot cuppa watching the world go by in a blur of green.

Walking in the drizzle to enjoy a spicy molaku bajji from the tiffin centre.

Clamouring that the teacher leave because it was too dark in the class.

Wishing it was colder and that I was at Hogwarts.

A pillow and a Wodehouse.

And above all, rain is - the gentle pizzicato, the haunting notes of the wailing violin, the warmth of the heavily bowed cello, the playful prance on the piano, the flirtatious nuances of the flute, the musings evoked by a clarinet concerto.

Rain is Desh on the sarod, and Yamuna Kalyani over the temple speakers with earthen lamps illuminating a beautiful face.

Rain is music, happiness and love.


First love, and two timing.

I fell in love many years back. It was beautiful, being given that feeling when one was young. And the lady was just perfect. Everything I'd dreamed of.. My friends who were also into the phase, (there were just a few of them, mind) endearingly welcomed me into the world that was to rule over our lives for the next many years, as we'd thought then.

I was barely a teenager. And when things happen in these years, they strike it big. So there I was, hopelessly in love. I spent a little amount of time with the love each day. Playing, sometimes working together. To my folks it seemed like a normal, childhood fancy. After all, this was the new generation, and this was how things worked for them. Little did they know that it was to become an obsession, a fatal charm that would carve its own huge share of my mind in the years to come.

The minutes I spent each day turned to hours. Sometimes entire days spent dwelling in each other's thoughts. Nights. In school it became widely known in its due course, and by the time I'd reached my last two years in that hallowed institution, it got to such an extent that to talk of one was to talk of the other. I was proud. And God knows I did it solely driven by passion, and not with any intention of pride. Pride came as a consequence, but it was merely a passionate pride, a sort of obsessive possessiveness that one may be excused of.

It was, thus, many years into this relationship that I was confronted with the decision. The legalisation. Or to pronounce the relation in a solemn manner. Of course, they said, the time to play around was over, and it was no secret to anyone. Little surprise, then, that a majority of my friends and people-who-knew expected the natural course - marriage.

However, my mind had taken a disturbing turn. Of course, first love, when it happens is blind. And so I was, I gathered. Even pleasure, after a long period of it, forces one to crave for change. I presume my mind must've succumbed to this inherent desire for a change of things, just like one craves for a change of fashion - a new hairstyle, a different beard - though I know I was to blame, atleast partly. For it had been under no low opinion, that I was introduced to the new girl. A rather close friend of my mother she was, and mom just vouched for her in all ways. I had also learnt that my cousin (who has a rather keen eye for these things) had had the pleasure of working together for four years. I was no stranger too, for many a times when we'd met had I eyed her with a new interest. She seemed elusive, enigmatic and full with physical vitality that I immediately found myself attracted to. The physical nature of the new love would be what I held the biggest reason for my separation from my first love.. the reason I cited to old friends who seemed surprised at my change of tidings. Also, the reason I used to repeatedly console myself with, whenever I was at the brink of regret.

I married the new girl months later. I was convinced I was doing the right thing. Change was wonderful. This was something solid, something physical, something to be content with, while my first love was just a crush. Or so my mind was thinking. And boy I loved my new life. Everything seemed awesome, and brag-worthy. Just talking about her made my friends interested. And narrating stories of the times we had together was enough to stir envy.

Gradually, a thought that had seeded itself in my mind began growing on its own. I loved my wife, but only those characteristics in which she resembled my first love. For instance, there were definitely a lot of traits about her that I detested, traits that I knew I was incapable of handling, hence I ignored. It took me some time to come to terms with the truth. The marriage was holding together in some strange way, but I could just not forget my first.

And we met, again. In a passionate embrace of body, soul and minds. For this was the oft-spoken chemistry at its best, and it had happened without my knowing it. And she became my mistress, my enchantress, my seductive lover. By day it was up to me to spend my time with my lawfully wedded (a very good time - that I wouldn't deny), and by night, after a hard days work, I would succumb to the charms of the mistress. It made me distraught, this two-timing, but of course it was the only way things had to work. For I had read in some novel, "Great men have great desires". Perhaps it was so in my case. I did not regret it, though it made me uneasy, and prone to failures on both sides occasionally. It was no secret to some, and those who knew even appreciated it for some strange reason.
Maybe it reminded them of the fact that Life, with its conventional and rigid framework that is but a work of human minds, can be beaten down to its bare essentials; and that to live without any obligation to mere societal ideals, to live just true to oneself and one's happiness, was a beautiful thing. I still am striving to make it beautiful.
To satisfy oneself.. and not just One other, but Two.

I fell in love with computers in sixth standard. I major in Electronics, and not a day passes by without my detesting the overdose of equations, to long to get home and immerse myself in pure and simpler computing delight. But I love both of them for different reasons. This is my story.


Maruti, moms and meandering roads

A road trip, however short, is by all means awesome. Mention that it is a family trip, with folks of all kinds cramped into the Maruti and still one shrugs but beams at the thought.

So it was that just under two years ago, yours truly was given the chance to pilot the vehicle on his very first proper road trip. Now let me for a moment, elucidate on the word 'proper' spoken there. There are, you might be aware, phenomena such as born-twice, etc during the course of a boy's lifetime (three, if the chap in question is a tambrahm). One being the all important biological birth. The next important one is the instant the boy gets his driver's license. (In the middle of this, tambrahm boys have the upanayanam - a second birth as it is called). For until that birth happens, it doesnt matter how many times you've driven the car perfectly in your dreams or in real life, you know for sure that once a traffic cop catches you there's no use even if you happen to have won the F1 Grand Prix many times in a row - you simply dont have that important card with your photo on it! It was, therefore, with no slight elation that I enthusiastically cleaned up (I dont usually do this even if I'm paid handsomely) the white and spotlessly-maintained M800 sleeping in the shed. Following which, I opened the bonnet and checked the status of things under the hood (yes I do this even if I'm paid to stay away from it). Brake oil, coolant, battery acid-level, even the windscreen washer-liquid level. All was fine.

So there it was. Up and ready at six in the morning to go. Contrary to what readers might have assumed, we werent really going as far as Goa, Chennai or something. Tirunelveli, to do shopping for uncle's wedding. Yes, I was gonna be stuck within the reach of vast legions of bales of fine cloth - RMKV, Pothys and the like.

The operative word being - But still.

Now when it comes to getting ready within a specific time, nothing beats my family. In terms of the hilarity that ensues, I mean. Amma would be the planner, setting limits for 'getting out on the road' as ambitious as five thirty. But everyone, including the lady herself, knows it is similar to the opening quote for an auction, and consequently everyone agrees to try to kick off at six twenty (the amazing precision in setting ten-minute-intervals as least count being merely a by-product of compromises and averaging that happens with multiple opinions). As always, I'm the one who wakes up last thanks to the exhaustion of having gone through the ordeal of having had to snooze my alarm five times. As it always turns out, I'm the first one who is out in the drivers seat and honking to elicit angry shouts from everyone else too. A bit of a childish obsession you may put that down to. Also to partial joblessness as all I have to do is take a quick shower, put on some stuff that resembles tees and jeans, and stuff my phone and camera into my pocket.

So once the water bottles, breakfast (piping hot dosas or idlis neatly folded and submitted to the embrace of plantain leaves lovingly wrapped under old newspapers under the strict grip of a few green and yellow rubber bands), and sundry items which family members carry about whenever they go out somewhere (never bothered to ask), not to forget the sibling, were nicely crammed inside the vaahanam, we set off, with all the dignity that happens with a modern family of homo sapiens living in the 21st century.

(Pic shot on the Madurai-Tenkasi section many years back)

Not so soon. The sibling shrieked that she had left something behind (some trifle that little girls usually forget.. some blue comb or better bit off a broken belt or something). We made a stop akin to how a prestigious express train stops much to its chagrin when someone pulls the chain moments after it has started pulling out of the stating station. A quick run back to the house, and a quicker run back again. Honk, chug out slowly.

Just like the express train, we cleared the points slowly (wallowed in traffic until we got to a wider portion of the road) and then prepared to notch up. Uncle was driving while I was fidgeting, clearly not concurring with his view that i should wait till we reached a better part of the route before taking the wheel.

The route from Trivandrum to Tirunelveli is dismal and irritating until one clears Nagercoil. The road till Nagercoil was apparently built for a maximum of a truck and a car to pass side by side without tempers flaring up on either side. And the road builder seems to have assiduously stuck to that motto throughout the stretch of gravel. To make things worse, the scenery one gets to dedicate the corner of ones eyes to, comprises mainly single-storeyed shops with hackneyed names or houses which you could've sworn you'd just passed a few minutes ago. After half an hour of meandering between trucks, cars and smoky two strokes, uncle had enough and we had a crew change.

It was like playing Roadrash all over agan. Peninsula.

It tires you out. The 40 odd horses under the hood (however meagre compared to SUVs and the like) struggle to be let free while all you can do is keep letting them go and suddenly pulling on the reins to avoid killing someone on a blind curve. On one hand it feels awesome and God-like to be at the controls of and be one with something weighing so much more than all the people inside it, making it dance and charge at your very whim and fancy; but on the other hand it pains you that it is being so under-utilised.

And then there is the phenomenon of mom-in-the-back seat.

Moms are, to the highest possible degree, discouraged from sitting nothing other than blindfolded in the back seat. For if given anything more than a crack to peer out of, they will have eyes on everything from the road ahead, all four corners of the car, the speedometer, to what gesture your left hand is making while you're overtaking a particularly annoying biker. It is not the omnipresence of their vision that bothers, though. Mom has this particularly blood-curdling way of calling your attention to probably significant things when they are nothing more than a speck in the horizon (in any direction). And this results in involuntarily swerving to avoid what was actually a few hundred metres away and travelling at a safely slow pace. You get the gist, I presume. You would, for I'm told moms are universally like that.

Speeds hardly stayed above 70 for more than half a minute each time.

The section was, like you must've figured by now, largely uneventful. Until we cleared that busy town called Nagercoil. From there I was in for a very satisfying ride. The road suddenly became much more than benign. It became the truly luxuriant gun-the-throttle-feeling-inducing carpet of asphalty awesomeness in six lanes. (Or was it eight? I dont remember exactly). It was at this juncture my rightful stomp on the accelerator pedal ordered the ECU to feed the horses their rightful amount of petrol-and-air (much like whiskey and soda to the parched), which got them singing. For at this moment they purred like satisfied tabbies, and the engine sound changed from the quiet whines the tiny little 800 (the MPFI version) is famous for, to a much more masculine growl befitting any well bred IC engine. "Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, we're in for a ride!", I said, mostly to myself. And how. There comes the first time a legal driver in the country stops hedging around bumpers of cars in city traffic and sips the true taste of taking the car out on the fertile highway at a speed only limited by his guts or that of the engine. I steadily took the old horse to eighty, and followed by a brief nod from dad (and words of caution from good old mommy dear) the orange needle snogged 100. Followed by rather train-like braking to enter a toll booth and some mandatory monetary offering made to encourage infrastructure growth of this type.

Which reminds me, my driving instructor's first question (while manoeuvring an old diesel Ambassador through a particularly bad road) to me was "Hey have you driven a car before?". I assume it was in a positive sense.

In a serious vein, the whole NH from Chennai to Tirunelveli and beyond is pretty awesome. Yessir, treat to drive. And for train freaks, the best place to pretend you're driving one. Oh yeah, I'll make it bold, my confession. I sometimes pretend to be piloting a train when I'm on highways. The method varies with which loco I've decided to take out for the day though :P If you're lucky it might be the WAP5/7 - which guarantees near-normal driving you'd expect with a car. If for some reason I imagine a lower class one, or worse, a freighter with a particularly tiring load, prepare to endure it. But the long honking and graceful brakes stay.

Oh yes, I'm pretty insane at times.

The pit-stop to have breakfast is a story in itself. When the hunger call happens, and majority of the passengers approve of it, we start hunting for a pit to pull over at. After we find a courteous shelter under some tree, out come the hampers. A smell of fermented curd fills the car on my request for the anesthetic (un-aesthetic to some) liquid goodness. A bit of bickering for this and that, mostly by sis. After a set of happy tummies are filled, the earth around is made damp by many sets of hands being washed (and the crew answering nature's call in a well hidden part of the road.. HEY we're the crew, we do anything we want! Anyone with a problem may please alight and walk back home, thank you!). The car purrs happily in response to a satisfied crew member at its reins. Even the traffic becomes more benign. The sound of human voices in the vehicle slowly dies down, most of the passengers having resigned themselves to a happy stupor, while the crew members lower themselves to conversing in hushed voices, discussing cricket or music or philosophy. The wind and the monotonous rant of the engine keep us company. The travel continues in a subdued manner :)

Into the horizon, destroying the miles. Till the journey ends, or till a road-side molaku-bajji vendor's ware is so attractive that one whiff awakens everyone and we simply have to make a pit-stop.

Dedicated to the faithful automobile, the hardworking road-layers who work at night to fabricate stretches of national highways to enable people like us to travel in comfort, and to anything you wish to attribute this to. Cheerio!


Oh ye Googligans!

Alright, I just had my much-justified Sunday afternoon nap. Wait, it's not Sunday yet? Alright, who cares. It's a bloody sunny day anyway.

Let's come to the point (and forget about the fact that I'm blogging after a pretty long time now).. Google. Yup we know that's the reason one third the internet lives wherever it lives (it lives on the internet, in case you were wondering) and that for millions of years it [ie, G. Inc] has been helping people find the answers to questions. (There are also pretty scathing rumours that the '42' answer was actually the computer passing on an error code [Error 404 was Error 42 in those days, the proponents of the theory claim] that popped up when it did a google search - {reverse BODMAS bracketing, I like!} ).

The point. Yeah, I'll be right there. We veteran bloggers (as a nice young lady referred to me yesterday) are not the ones who regularly play around hedges, bushes or similar dark, stubby vegetation. And no sir, I do not know what you just thought when you read the previous sentence.

Google, like I was saying. It's a matter of great pride for the company that their name became a widely used verb and that the word earned its place as a widely known name, but few know it's also a place to spend a lazy afternoon trying to earn a few chuckles.

So here's what I did: Fired up the browser (I still use Opera, if you must know), opened two tabs - google.com and google.in, and typed in some profound questions. The little screenshots down there speak for themselves:

Search query: What is
Both the International community as well as the Indian community seem to be curious about a lot of things, with the latter being slightly more technologically curious. Swell.

Here's the Indian version:

The google.com version:

Feeling rather curious now, I put forth the better question: How to. And the results were not surprising (to an Indian, that is).

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what the Indian crowd wonders about. (Lemme tell you, the list was far worse, some months back when my buddy and I tried this out for fun). Around the globe, our homo-sapien counterparts were mainly concerned about trivial stuff like How to tie a tie, write cover letters, write a resume, to knit, draw etc. Boy we're one horny crowd.

Slightly more hilarious was the profundity people displayed when it came to the question "Why"

Take a look at the International version:

And coming to desi wonly - here's the Indian version:

Now this pissed me off for many reasons: One, I dont know the answers to most of the questions posed in the international version. Two, WHY the fuck are we being so narrowed-down, dumb and job-oriented? I mean, those are probably interview questions - the one about hiring, career etc and if it comes up on google suggest, it means a majority of our fellow men dont know what the friggin hell google is for. And I felt warm at heart when the "what is" of google.co.in revealed a lot of tech. They're probably interview questions too.

Alright, moving on to something more interesting.. Search query being:
"Why guys "

Global googling:

One can guess that the driving chromosomes behind these searches were primarily female. And largely pissed-off ones, that. Now, our country is more concerned about:

Hmm well. No prizes for guessing the gender in this case. This is the dwindling sex-ratio evidence right in your face here.

I have this obsession with a certain OS here. Undoubtedly, the search queries also included something about linux. And I was happy. The international crowd is a bitch. Fuck you, global homo sapiens! I hope you bluescreen to death!

Query: "Linux is "

On the other hand, look how the penguin fares in India. Much obliged!

It's been a rather rough ride so far. To leave you with a nice aftermint-ish taste in your mouth, here are three wildcard entries, like they're called in some pretentious quiz events.
Google.in knows I'm somewhere near Ernakulam, so it very generously offers localised search suggestions: *shudder* That's the mind of my mallu populace laid bare right there. Very very interesting:

And here, we have "How to", courtesy Google Pakistan. Not really surprising.. or is it?

I promised you I'd not leave you with a bad taste in mouth. Back to google.in here, and thankfully, we know some things are true :) Jaya He!

PS: I know precisely 10% of you bothered to read what was between the images. No, there's nothing very interesting in there. #justsaying, it's not gonna tell you why you should go for an MBA either.

PPS: [Update] Karan just brought me back to my senses as to where this was inspired from. Now I remember. Here's his post, way back in Dec 09, and it's strikingly familiar. However much I feel like taking this post of mine down, I hate undo on blogs, so here it is.


Figments: Coffee, chyech and sandai

Sunday mornings are the most happily laid-back. I killed the alarm, laid on my back (I assume a helpless foetal position right about the time I'm supposed to wake up) and muttered "Another ten mins".

A couple of ten more minutes later, coffee, Sunday mag. Front page - a pic of some kids being scantily dressed up for a so called fashion show. The phone had been unusually quiet and I did the morning H-breaking (an old term, shall discuss origins later) by tapping out an outraged tweet or two. And then, the phone beeped nonchalantly, signalling the morning byte from R. Over to text..

R: He stinketh like an adder and biteth like a serpent
Me: [moves the paper aside, yawns] Rings a bell.. but adders stink? never smelt one.. Btw whom were those charges directed against?
R: [the curtness oozed thru her brevity. The dame was obviously in a dark mood] You.
Me: [thinks quickly] Hmmm.. Sunday-la Sandai-aa?

R: [flourish. she'd probably grown two feet taller and assumed a Gandalf-in-anger voice] Your one and only sister. Oh okay, one among the one and only sisters, twin soul, wired other-piece, a lovely young lady, miles away is confined to bed to the matresses, with a bump on her head and a rather twisted little cute ankle. [I suppressed an 'awww' here] Any loving caring brother, would've flown to his sister's side with mutton soup, and morning paper, a hug, a kiss and promises of a dairy milk. Any normal brother that is. Online brothers are subjected to certain restrictions.. shortcomings resulting from being on different sides of the Arabian sea. But a text enquiring about the wellbeing of the sweet sensitive sister was expected.

Me: [tosses the paper away, determined to see this thing out] The good ol' chyech has been subjecting herself to the ever good old PGW snack in bed, I see.. Certainly, an increased verbosity doesnt necessarily mean an increase in intensity of the scolding. Anyway, let me, on this occasion, put my why-disturb-her-while-she-might-be-asleep thought to bed, for subjects who're under the forty winks certainly do not exhibit texting capabilities..and hence, it is with deep regret and a quivering upper lip that I gently touch her forehead and ask her with concern, how are u feeling today, my dear chyech?

R: Paying a tribute to the title of the book she was perusing and also to enlighten the little, very small, insignificant bro about who the boss is.. She replied with a 'stiff upper lip' that she was indeed fine, but irritated at lil brothers in general, as is the case with big sisters all over the world who were cursed with insensitive indifferent idiots as brothers. Stiff upper lip jeeves, stiff upper lip chyech.

Me: *Now feeling like a 20 year old with the zero on the wrong side* The lil brother gently pointed it out to her that she should indeed be fortunate the ankle is on the healthy road to recovery, as opposed to, say, an unknown stranger stamping on it while she was asleep, or some heavy object mysteriously succumbing to gravity from right above it, as is what (purely coincidentally) happens in houses that house li'l brothers in them.

R: *enlightened* it is a rather queer feeling of relief one experiences when mere njanjools, eyesores, point out to you that life, with all its twisting ankle comedies can indeed be worse that it already is. happiness is rather a result of objective relativity and a matter of perspective [I start rubbing my eyes at this point] suddenly the world seems bright.

Me: Always glad to help ppl look at things in the right perspective. I feel like an enthusiastic telescope, which, after a hard day at the office, gets recognition for its farsightedness.

R: Life, eventhough beautiful, is inevitable jotted with such minor tragedies which we call brothers, as the rule goes, you cant have everything. Meh.

Me: And with that meh-ieval sigh of hers, she indicated that she had, as always, gottent he last word in it. Tch. Brothers worldwide have this responsibilty of letting their sisters FEEL they've won. For the love of things that can be gotten only when the subject is in a good mood, that is.

R: [continues, mindless] .. brothers who can crack PJs. Ah my fluttering heart stay still, be deaf and dumb to those cruel shots at humour. You are safe, think of bright yellow fields, Abhay Deol, Hugh Jackman - shirtless, and the world will seem okay, bearable, even with the tuxermans.

At this point, (after I stopped chuckling over the shirtless thingy, that is), I was overwhelmed with an extremely selfish thought. The blawg's been rusting for over a month. Time for another figment.

And so the fingers moved from the cramped keypad of my glorious text-phone (Nokia 1209, if you're wondering) to the evanescent lettering on my older PC-keyboard.

And one wonders why my handwriting sucks.