Fever.

Running water, gurgling like a small happy baby. Splish splash of water on the face. The trusted Casio on his hand slowly ticking past 1130 on a Tuesday morning, getting wet. All the dirtied, with slowly deposited dust, men’s beauty cream sachets caught in the splish splash. Wet. Splish splash splish splash. He looks up at the mirror. Not a happy face. Red eyes. Dark over-sleep circles under the eyes. Red eyes. Feverish eyes. Under-eye circles mingling with the childhood scar under the eye. Big under-eye circles, socializing with scars. Illicit. Unacceptable. The high society of the face disapproves. Palm cupped in from of the face, he directs morning breath onto his face. Ugh. Beer and morning smell mingle. Ugh. Nobody approves, not even the scar and circle approvers. He runs his fingers through his hair. Dry. Now wet. Slowly receding hairline. Inching. Slyly plotting, unobserved. dy/dt=m. Bastard. He absentmindedly scratches the two-day beard. Splish splash. Brushes his teeth. Good upper line of teeth. Like his father’s. Crooked lower line. Like his mother’s. Polishes the brushing off with a good swig of mouthwash. Anti plaque it promises. Lies. Hand cup again. Pepperminty breath smell mixing with fever smell now. Pleasant. Lynyrd Skynyrd singing of Alabama on small twin USB speakers connected to a phone. He feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. Goddamn fever he mumbles. He pushes the mirror on top of the stained dish. Click. It swings outwards. Medicine cabinet. He picks and chooses. Paracetamol. Feels temperature. 650 mg. Good. Cetzine. Erythromycin tablet. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Swig and gulp. Him. Me. Bachelor. Engineer. Self-medicator. Work skipper. Feverish. Click. Splish splash splish splash. He turns off the tap. The gurgling baby is asleep. Happy sleep.

Axl Rose wants you to take him to Paradise City. Outside, someone called his friend a sister violator. Sister violator and friend laugh together. Someone is a crazy fucker and a sister violator says sister violator. More laughter. He slumps on his bed. The wobbly fan wobbly-ly rotates. Hot air. The phone buzzes. Axl Rose waits. The buzzing stops and Axl Rose resumes. Well wishers wanting to know how he is. Concerned mom wanting miscalls every hour to ensure that he is not dead. Pretentious people pretending to care. A connected world. Far too connected, far too concerned. He can’t sate everyone. He has his favourites. He calls his mom and replies a few. Axl Rose is done now. His fingers brush the arrow. Grace Slick sings. Seductive.

He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. Someone and his friend are inventing new violations outside. Gross. Fun. Guilty. Gross. Fun. Laughter. Sleep descends. Like curtains in a show. Velvety, with fringes. The characters bow. Only the flashy lightbulbs on the sides flash. The lights come on and everyone leaves. But backstage, the show goes on.

Backstage. He is thin now. Scrawny. Scrawny little boy. Kicking stones. Reined in, because he’s holding her hand. No, holding her finger. With a beautiful gold ring with a black stone. The stone rotated in it’s hold. Reined in like him. But moving. Kicking and punching. His mother and him. Everybody knows them. She nods at people. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she says. Going to the doctor. He has fever. He looks up at them. Normal hairline. Close cropped hair. Little soldier. Red eyes. Fever eyes. He smiles and sniffles. Good front teeth, just like his father’s. They walk past the local grocery store, past the STD booth, past the petrol pump, past the tyre puncture shop, past the cycle repair shop, past the goldsmith’s. “Doctorinte aduthu povuva”, she tells everyone. Smiles and nods and sympathies. The little boy smiles. The black stone in the ring rotates. Reined in, both of them.

She is pretty. Not thin anymore. Motherly hips. Elegant. Head held high. Easy smile. Graceful. Social. Classy. Not concerned about him. Proud and sure of herself and her family. The housewife. Family runner. Has a dressing sense about her. Beautiful. They reach the clinic. He sniffles. She wipes off snot from his nose. Hand kerchief has pink flowers and frills. Girly, like Susan’s from school he thinks. Sniffle, wipe, sniffle, wipe. “Oh stop it, we are here now!” Sniffle, rough wipe, no sniffles.

A blue walled building greets them. Doctor Ramachandran’s Homoeopathic Clinic it announces. Bold red letters on a white board, and the plus sign which is mandatory for anything medical. There is a foldable board announcing the same outside. Dr. Ramachandran and Dr. Vijayan R, the board announces, followed by long acronyms singing of their academic conquers in the field of Homoeopathy. Opera music, to the sound of sad violins, shattering glasses, making people happy, and sad. We were here to meet Vijayan doctor. He was gifted, people said. A healer. People from far far away came for his appointments because of this reputation. He was a tenant at my mother’s sister’s house so we could get appointments any time. So here we were, to meet Dr Vijayan, the healer. Sniffle, wipe.

The doctor comes out of his room to see off his patient. “Ah chechi, vannolu”, he says (Ah elder sister come in). Haha. So we go in. He is short. [5’ 2”-5’ 4”]. Yes, square brackets. He smelt of santoor powder and had the sane, good natured laugh of a sane good natured man. He left his mothers hand. The ring breathed. The stone stopped turning. Abandoned. “Come, sit here”, Dr Vijayan says pointing at the steel chair smiling his sane, good natured smile. It is his favourite part. He runs to the chair, reserved for the patient. High chair. Like a bar stool. But he didn’t know what a bar stool was then. Dr Vijayan feels his forehead. High temperature. Lymph nodes. Swollen. Nasal cavity. Blocked. Breathing. Weary and ragged. His shirt is lifted and the cold stethoscope touches naked skin. Shiver. Dr Vijayan smiles at the boy “Oh it’s nothing chechi, only a small fever. It will be gone in two days. I’ll give some tablets though.” The boy smiles at Dr Vijayan and looks at his mom. She nods, well done son, nod.

Dr. Vijayan goes behind the curtains to prepare the medicines. Sweet little white balls in a transparent bottle to be had thrice a day. Four at a time initially then three then two as the fever recedes. If it doesn’t go away in three days then come back. The brown curtain is dusty, the wind makes it crack like a whip. Dust particles are thrown off. Inertia lost. The cream Ajanta clock on the wall moves slowly. Tick tock tick tock. Samuel Hahnemann’s photo on the wall, sitting comfortably alongside Mahatma Gandhi, Karl Marx and Lord Ayyappa, smiles back at you. The father of homoeopathy, it informs you. Saamuvell Haahenehmahnn, the little boy whispers to himself. His mother smiles. The doctor returns and gives him the bottles. “Sheri Vijayan, nammal poyittu varam”, she tells him. Okay Vijayan we will go and come back. As if we all look forward to coming to homoeopathic clinics. Doctor Vijayan smiles and comes out to wave goodbye. The santoor smell stays with us for a while. Then it is lost in the wind. He is holding her finger again. The black stone twists and turns. Stones are kicked. Nods. Smiles. “Doctorine kandu”. We’ve seen the doctor.

An alarm goes off. The curtains go back up. The show starts. The lights dim. An application made by a Russian is asking him to go attend a Production Meeting. Stupid thing doesn’t know he is a work skipper. He rubs his eyes and looks in his Casio. 1555 it tells him. Grace Slick stopped singing for him a long while ago. Kids are playing outside. The violations have ended. Family time has begun. 12 calls from a concerned mother and a million messages. He sates the people first. He gets up, stretches and walks to the bathroom. Red, fever eyes stare back. The circle and star are still at it. He mumbles a few obscenities. He remembers the homeo tablets and the santoor smell and the pepper water that was waiting at home. He remembers the gold ring and the black stone and the gaudy paint on the clinic walls. He remembers Susan’s handkerchief. Splish splash splish splash. Swig. Gargle. Spit. Click. Swig. Gulp. Check smell. Marilyn Manson is now telling you that some of them want to abuse you. Splish splash splish splash.

Place.

She was nervous as she heard the approaching footsteps. She was awaiting his return, but afraid that it was someone else. Her nervous eyes sought him. And when she saw him her eye lashes battered and she laughed. Nervous laughter. She was happy and relieved that it was him, that he had returned, that he hadn’t given her away to someone else, that it would be his warmth that she would feel tonight. She had been afraid. He hadn’t come for days and many times she wondered if she had lost him forever. But there he was.

His heart jumped when he saw her. He felt special. The knowledge that she wanted him more than anyone else lit up his face. He had gone away and had seen many like her but then she was special, there was no competition. She was the one. The only one. He was tired; twelve hours on the road don’t do good things to your body. He cosied up and smelt her smell, drank it in, it was familiar, God he missed it, it reminded him of all the good times they had had together. It gave him a high. She was cold and soft… satin. He hugged her tight, like he never meant to let go again, and she hugged back, like she understood what he was saying. He nuzzled her, tickling, she laughed and twitched but let him do it. He knew that she liked it. He cuddled her and closed his eyes as she slowly massaged him to sleep, warmth slowly spreading through his body. Winds howled outside and the big bad world awaited him come morning, but as he slowly lost consciousness he thought….

…There is no place like your own bed.

Vacations.

Vacation time, that period of the year when non-travel addict, non-partying, non-sporty, non-‘generally perceived as cool thing’ doing people like me while away time happily chewing up all those movies and books that we could not. When the itinerary of the day usually includes waking up, eating, watching, eating, watching, yawning a lot, maybe bath, watching, eating, watching, sleeping and repeating. Halfway through which boredom and yearning for the college creeps in. But there used to be a time in my life, and yours too I suppose, when vacations were waited for and enjoyed.

Picturize this vacation day. It is early June. The Sun, shielded by clouds, has completed close to 140 of the 180 degree quota. But clearly his domination of the skies is over, at least for a few months. The lovely aroma of mud and rain is brought forth by the slowly moving cold air. Every living being senses the impending rain, except for me that is. I’m on my perch, my favorite spot in the house. Took 10 years too long to discover but I’m glad I finally did. Books and gadgets are strewn haphazardly on the cold white tiled floor, littered with empty and half full snack packs. The hot cup of coffee slowly dissipates heat in spirals, pretty. And there is someone, slouched on one corner, constantly changing positions and lost in some book. The iPod plays Lynyrd Skynyrd and he makes approving, almost inappropriate in public, noises in between. Me.

I’ve apparently succeeded in eliminating nature. The guitar solo easily wipes out the chirping birds, the coffee makes every effort in screening out the smell of rain and I have eyes only for the book. I’ve reached that part of every book where things get mildly boring. When the protagonist and everyone around and all variables involved are defined and the transition from introduction to the main plot is pending and of course, no one is making love. Music switches to The Beatles and the perfect stage for sleep is set. My eyes droop and low metabolic rates set in. Near about this time a clerk at Central Rain HQ, over at Amazon forests, presses the red coloured rain activation button, a massive hydraulic mechanism and invisible sprinkler systems, for rain itself, and digital sound systems and laser systems, for acoustic and visual effects, are activated (I bet you didn’t know that was how rain happened eh!) and SKADOOSH! Rain. Water sprays hit my face and elevate me to a state of partial consciousness.

Brutally beautiful rain lashes, paints and erases masterpieces on the courtyard every second. Everything is in sepia now. I’m in my own memory. Every vacation that I had whizzes by. There is me, much shorter and much shorter bermudas, aiming hard at the haphazardly placed pile of stones. Game of seventees (I don’t even know if that is the name). I nod at the team mates, throw and scram. The ball finds its target and then runs off to the road where it hits the wheel of an onrushing bicycle. I’m at the wheel, bigger, same bermudas. Cycle race. I stumble on a stone and take a tumble. I look up and I’m on a cricket pitch. I only vaguely remember the batsman’s face, but I’m at first slip, much bigger, and wearing makeshift jeans-cut-to-trouser. The ball is slammed to the next street where two distant figures are cycling away. Me and my sister, exploring, waving at known faces. We reach a muddy, land-filled field and there is a makeshift badminton court. I’m playing and there are unknown faces all around. I’m tall now, I take a jump and the racquet reaches over the net. The shuttlecock dangles in the air for a moment after which it is engulfed by shock waves from the impact of the hit. It gracefully etches a parabolic path and lands in my courtyard again. The courtyard is filled with water, at least an inch high. The drainage holes are all stuffed with plastic now and me and the cousin are having a fun time, RoadRash-kicking each other and occasionally falling, and splashing muddy water all over the sit-out. Mom is standing,hands-on-hip, in the sit-out whose walls are marred by soiled tennis ball impact spots. I’m with her and drinking lemonade and getting scolded. And suddenly the background is filled with Stairway to Heaven.

I’m awake now and I’m driveling. Brutally beautiful rain lashes, paints and erases masterpieces on the courtyard every second. The sepia is gone now and the courtyard is empty. I blink a few times, throw off the earphones, remove my shirt and run into the rain. I try and pretend that I’m having fun, that there are friends all around me and that it is like old times again. But it is not. I continue to stay in the rain and pretend.

A Dead One's Tale.

The world around him was a blur as he fled from them, as if he was looking at a canvas splashed with random colors through teary eyes. Their footsteps were nearing and he almost gave up. If he did not get back then he would end up being just another one felled by them, another damned fool who couldn’t survive the onslaught of the self-proclaimed mightiest creatures, a forgotten warrior. He scoffed mentally and powered by adrenalin dashed on. Slowly the noises chasing him faded away into the distance.

They had done everything to defeat and destroy his kind. They had created weapons that glowed bright and made him sick. But his kind had endured and every time they became immune, new devious devices of murder were devised. His enemies were lightning quick and he knew of many warriors, friends, beings he respected who had fallen to their guile. There were tales of the bravest of his kind being tortured and toyed with before being murdered and of a deadly weapon which came with an electric blue buzz and took your soul with it. Where do these tales come from he wondered because as far as he knew no one who had been caught alive had escaped death.

He was safe now and he knew. He was breathing heavily. The magnitude of what he had done struck him now and he smiled as he splashed water on his face. The years of war with them had taken his toll on him. His once handsome face was now marred with bruises. He knew that his time to stop and stay away from all this violence had come, the time to watch the young battle on from the sidelines. But he would do it again, one last time, he promised himself and for the first time in all these years he knew who his victim would be.

His tribe had now scented his arrival and the children were milling about. They looked at him with reverent admiration. He was their hero. The warrior who hadn’t fallen. He took out his weapon and cleaned the blood off. It gleamed as the first light of the day trickled in through the treetops. The crowd cheered and parted as he walked towards the chief’s house. He was sure that the chief would respect his decision to quit. He looked longingly at the blade that had stood by him so long. It would draw blood one last time tonight. He would now catch a few hours of sleep and stealthily shadow his victim.

He watched from the tree cover and saw her. He hated their kind but there was no denying the fact that she was beautiful. Her chiseled face almost perfectly matched her slim physique. Her turquoise-blue eyes twinkled as she smiled. Her dark blonde wavy hair, untied, danced magnificently as she walked gracefully. The walk of a ballerina. She would be any artist’s dream he thought as he stayed close. Her only flaw was that she was the princess of the land of his foes and she would pay for that. An evil smile flickered across his face as he picturized the act he was about to commit. She would pay in blood, no they would pay in blood, he whispered to himself. He found her quarters and walked back. A quick sleep was now in order. He would wait for the light to fade.

As night fell he steeled himself. This would be his best strike, his swansong, his masterpiece. He emptied the glass of Jack Daniels and walked into the night. It was a full moon. The shadows of trees created menacing shadows on the walls as he climbed easily. The guards hadn’t seen him and he would make sure they would not. He entered her room easily through the window. He drew his weapon and walked to her bed. Beads of sweat lined his face as he saw her face. The monster in him was now alive. The monster that had slain so many that he sometimes lost count. He had victimized women, children, even babies without mercy. His face was now close to hers, his ugly breath fondled her hair which flew as if in fear. The misty moonlight trickling in through the window made his weapon gleam and filled the room with a gloomy glow. Nature was silent as if awaiting the death of a beloved creature. The air was electric and made her hair stand on ends. She murmured something as she rolled to a side, half asleep. He took one last longing look at her and breathlessly raised his weapon.

Time stood still, afraid to move. She woke up and rolled as he struck, his eyes were bloodshot, everything had gone wrong. His weapon was awash with blood, his own blood. He was crushed. This was bad and he knew it. There would be no getting out of this alive. He buzzed about and tried to fly away but he couldn’t. He had failed. He had ended up dead. Just another dead mosquito who would be missed for a day or two. His wings could flutter no more and he hit the ground and slowly his grip on his beloved blade loosened. The mosquito coil let off incessant flames that would no longer make him cough.

Purpose...

It was this strange Saturday morning, those kind of mornings when you wake up before anyone expects you to, when an unfamiliar tint of sunlight falls on your face and makes you pull the sheet over your eyes expecting to catch the next reel of that dream you were going through, but sleep simply doesn't oblige. When you close your eyes and make an almighty effort to cajole your brain to go back to sleep. Your brain is all hazy, insanely random, almost as if you caught your haloed agenda-setter up there off guard. Yeah, you get the drift now don't you? This post dwells on the happenings of such a time.

Usually I get over such days by subjecting myself to steaming coffee, the newspaper and sometimes the buzzing sound that emanates from the telly when the channels are switched far too fast. This is to ensure that the angel (who handles my file) , miffed but aware of my early day, gets some time to cram in a few engagements and save her day and mine. But on this particular day, it was not to be. The newspaper was conspicuously absent and the telly signal died inexplicably. Coffee was had on the veranda, precautionary measure just in a case an alien attack occurred, every omen of which was currently prevalent. Even the coffee eddies were casting eerie UFO shadows on the brick wall. Dirty black clouds ambled by and every peep of blue sky promised 'em saucers firing massive missiles and reducing everything to rubbish. However the much anticipated attack did not happen and I, much pissed by the agenda maker's delay and the absence of aliens, decided to take a detour to the loo.

Two kinds of people populate this world of ours, those who read in the loo and those who don't. I belong to the former with a few huge gray areas. But the absence of a good read in the near vicinity and lack of cohesive thinking made me decide that I could make do without one. Habitually I pass time on such non-reading days by thinking of mundane issues like how Carmen Electra and Gemma Atkinson would look without the silicone, who is the inspiration behind Savita Bhabhi, trying to anagram the latest crush's name et al. Logical conclusions from such thoughts had the unerringly same probability of 1/infinity every single time. But then this day we are talking about is different, is it not?

It soon became obvious that I hadn't had enough fibres (Constipated. Yes.), which grant me even more time to think. I began thinking about what I do all day long and the purpose of it all. The lion's share of my day is devoted to movies, music, counter strike,random reads, the internet and college. Movies, music,books and counter strike are mere means of pleasure, things that serve no purpose other than keep me occupied. What do I gain from reading a good book or seeing a good movie? Nothing other than sheer joy and sometimes a confusing-apparently enlightening message. And of course the bragging rights ("God-awesome movie me' brother! You didn't see it yet? The shame!"). Social networking is really "too many people doing things that they don't necessarily love to win the attention and admiration of people they don't really give a shit about." (I have this 'you ripped it off' feeling about that line. So ).

College is an entirely different story altogether. There are friends, there is the meaningless fun, the momentary madness-es, the mindless ogling but at the end of the day its boring, drab, ridiculously overrated and unsatisfactory ('Go get a girlfriend' suggestions are not welcome. Thank you!). And I really don't understand the point of studying a curriculum that is a light year behind what is in vogue. It is akin to tweeting depending on a year-old trending list. Makes you look like the fool that you probably are. And what is after college? I cannot think of one thing that I would enjoy doing for 30,000 hours (Roughly 5 hours a day, 200 days a year, 30 years). Except, maybe if I could land Hugh Hefner's job. That is a ridiculously long shot, almost like Tiger Woods playing with only 18 holes.

While I was thinking all this the angel up there (she is 36-24-36, intelligent, pretty, sensible and has beautiful hair and Katie Melua's eyes) filled my file and hit refresh. The constipated feeling fled and the pleasant feeling of having an intentionally-empty stomach dawned. The much rejuvenated me thereafter logically concluded that everything I thought up was when I was high on shit anyway, flushed (my mind and the toilet) and got the hell out of there. The day was now quite ordinary now. The kind when you let your brain dictate the ways and block out your mind. When you squint at the sunlight and not feel its pleasant warmth on your skin. When you cuss at the tramp for wasting your time and not think about how lucky you are.

I might not have posted this, had it been another day. But it was this strange day....

The Nephew's Name- A Shenoy.

William D Reams was a satisfied man as he sweated out on the Boston marathon course. Life, as they say, had been very kind to him. He was a successful businessman, had a beautiful family he cherished, was healthy and athletic and had more money than he could hope to spend. What more could a recently retired man hope for? And today he was accomplishing a task that he had set for himself 25 years back, to finish the Boston marathon, counted among the toughest in the world.

Will had retired one month ago as one of the most successful CEOs of Specific Lodge publishing house. Will had married his college sweetheart Cheryl and had two kids. His son Joshua ran his own weapons manufacturing company and his daughter Emma was a super model. They were all there cheering and egging him on to finish the grueling run.

As he ran in the sun drenched path, music streaming into his ears, he thought of all the people who had made him what he was, who were inseverable parts of his universe. His dad David, mom Patricia and his brother Kenny. His heart skipped a beat as he thought of Kenny. As children Will and Ken were inseparable. Both were brilliant and extremely popular. Kenny had gone on to become a respected mathematician. Then, tragedy struck.

Ken was accused of murdering his colleague and stealing his work. Will stood by his brother steadfastly and told everyone who cared to listen that his brother was innocent. But Ken was convicted. Three months into his painful incarceration, Ken escaped and disappeared with his wife. He had heard from anonymous sources that Ken was in North Korea but didn’t know what to believe. He missed his brother dearly but believed firmly that one day their paths were destined to cross.

Tears were now streaming down his cheeks but he brushed them aside and jogged on. Running beside him now was a fine young man,barely 20. Will looked at his fellow runner’s face and saw an unmistakable similarity to his brother. Confused, he looked down and glanced his play list and a flicker of joy, of madness, of sheer pleasure crossed his eyes. He ran over and asked “Tell me boy, aren’t you Boole? And isn’t your father Ken D Reams?” The boy was shocked but replied in the affirmative.

Each man’s face was awash with tears of joy as introductions were made, love renewed and stories shared. Will learn that his brother had indeed gone to N. Korea where he was welcomed by the dictator Ping Pong Ill, he now held a high post in dear leader’s office. They completed the marathon together and promised to keep in touch. Soon it was time for Boole to leave. As he waved goodbye he asked Will “Tell me uncle, how did you know that my name was Boole?” Will smiled and replied, “I just knew my boy.”

Will had decided that he would take the secret behind how he found his nephew’s name to his grave. He stepped into his car and played the song that was now his favorite and was washed over by Billy Joe Armstrong’s voice

“Boole-ward of bro-Ken D Reams….”


FAQs

1. Who is Shenoy? Ans. The Master Yoda!
2. What is Shenoy? Ans. This and this.

End of the reel credits.

To Sriram and Van winkle for um telling me what Shenoys are by writing this and this.
To Narendra Shenoy for 'Autobiography of an ordinary man'.
To Dear Leader for er nothing in particular.

P.S. This is a newbie’s first attempt at a Shenoy. Please forgive shortcomings. :)

Excuse Me, I Want to Pee

I’m reading something, checking messages and looking at the TV occasionally when the newsreader (who is really pathetic) mouths something that interests me. Sis is sitting in front of me reading a newspaper (Not sure which day) folded at least 6 times, listening to music (some stupid guy singing in a breathless voice about his girl if you ask me), checking the TV when I point and laughing at the occasional stupid joke I make. And of course we are eating. Typical dinner time at my place. Mom brings in the food and shouts at us for not eating properly (Read respect to food) “You will eat a lizard and would’t notice. Why should I make such good food? You don’t care. It’s been years since I got a compliment“. I signal sis and she mumbles something about great masala. It is near about this point that mom comes and tells us that Uncle X, Aunt Y and Cousin Z are dropping in tomorrow. I nod and murmur “Oh. Good thing it has been really really long since I saw Z. One of my favorite cousins. All those fun times we had during summer holidays.” Then I look at sis to mirror my feelings which she usually does at dinner times and found her looking stunned. She stuttered “Unc...Uncle X. Oh god! “. I said “Whoa. Nice expression” and went back to reading the book, having dinner I mean of course. Mom and Sis went on for sometime about Uncle X. I naturally don’t catch anything from the exchange (Bloody concentration you see) and that my dear readers, is basically what spawned the happenings that this post reveals.

So tomorrow arrived and I was lying on the sofa reading something listening to something (a la Dwayne in Little Miss Sunshine)*Door bell rings* ignore *Rings again* continue ignoring. Mom runs to the door throwing a dirty look at me for not answering the door. I find that sis also has also responded to the sound of the door bell surprisingly fast and is strangely wearing a churidar and shawl. I guffaw when I see that she has applied oil in her hair in large quantities. She scans me (Unkempt hair. Bermuda. Some crappy T-shirt. Smell of dry sweat. Vagabond-ish to be precise) and gives me a sinister grin. Then uncle, aunt and cousin come in. I nod, smile and wink at the cousin who suddenly looks aghast, turns light yellow, gives me a look that clearly says –WTF- and looks at her dad. (Alright the cousin is a girl and she is like one year younger than me and we haven’t seen each other for about 10 years. But for old times sakes c’mon.) I look at my sis with a –wtf- expression and catch her rolling eyes upwards. I jump up immediately (Respect for elders. Sigh!) But alas it is just too late. Uncle has already spotted me and looking at me with utter disdain. It makes me wonder if I just got caught sneaking into the girls room in school.

Anyways they settle down and engage mom in some relatives-gone-bad bashing. I sulk at the corner and vent my frustration by staring at the cousin, who is still not looking at me, for spurning my wink. Then they talk about religion (Basically about our religion being superior and others being stupid) and finally Uncle X turns to me and says “So what do you think of religion son?” I turn to sis for advice and find her busy in a staring contest with the floor. I mumble some pseudo-intelli stuff like “Ah I just believe in a power above us. Don’t believe in the concept of religions and stuff.” Uncle “So you don’t think marrying out of our religion is bad? Will you be as comfortable in a church as in a temple?” Me “Yea. Yea. Oh yea sure!” Mom and Aunt look at each other and nod gravely. The cousin finally looks at me, but like I’m some alien. I look at sis and find her still busy with the competition (I do think that I caught the shadow of a smile). Uncle’s jaw has dropped a good couple of inches. Uncle now turns his attention fully to me and says “Watch your mouth boy. God hears what you say.” And asks me “So what is your greatest ambition?” I scratch my jaws and think of everything I have wanted. A date with Emma Watson, an Audi R8 (Model gets updated every year.), thousand followers on twitter and the blog, a job with no responsibility that pays more than I can manage to spend, a chat with J.K Rowling (where I get the opportunity to tell her where she went wrong) and manage to get confused. So I just settle for the usual “Oh there is nothing like that.” A triumphant grin appears across uncle’s face *As if I had revealed which girl I wanted to spot in the girls room.*and he break into a banter about the ways of ‘this’ generation. That is a somewhat touchy subject as far as I and my sis are concerned and the house has turned into a fiery battlefield many a time about this issue (Okay we lost every time because mom threatened to stop cooking if we don’t stop. Except for this one time when we put our fingers in the ears and shrieked loudly ;)). I was about to reply when I caught my sis’s eye and something about it made me shut up. Somewhere between this my phone rings. James Hetfield shrieked “Gimme fuel. Gimme fire. Gimme that what I desire. Ohh yea yea.” I pick it up wave at them and talk. When I return uncle looks at me and says “Kids of today have no respect for elders. In my time we wouldn’t dare to sit or speak in front of elders.” And since everyone was staring at me I dutifully replied “Oh the elders of today don’t command that kind of respect. Now do they? And personally I feel that I can sit and talk to anyone whom I consider to be in or below my intellectual level.” As the temperature of the room dropped like a stone, I ran up after delivering my parting dialogue which I consider at par with Tarantino’s ones “Excuse me. But I want to pee!”


End of the Reel Credits
Metallica- For satiating our music needs.
Audi-For giving us those beasts.
JKR- For Harry Potter.
Tarantino- For being a smart ass!
Girl’s rooms- Sigh. For nothing particular.


Movie Dialogue I Like
From Reservoir Dogs:
If you shoot me in a dream you better wake up and apologize.