The Urinators

This post contains matter pertaining to men. Although women are welcome to read it, they may not be able to connect to it.

Urination of men in toilets is fascinating to observe. Well, let me start by assuring you that I observe only the men and not their urination and I have roughly categorised them into three.

First are the ashamed urinators, those whose behaviour would suggest they have something to hide about their urination. Of course, they have lots to hide while peeing but nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone pees.They want to get done with this unpleasant job as quickly as possible and probably fear they might get caught in the act by someone, though on what grounds, I have scarcely a clue. Perhaps they're smuggling drugs in their underwear :P

Second, the diligent urinators. They come like men possessed, their target firmly in their sight and perform their task with absolute sincerity. Their eyes disclose a certain passion for this natural process of waste removal. Fixed on the job, they will never slip up. They make sure there's not a stray drop. Make sure they hit their target, no missing it as kids do.

The third are the dreamy urinators, the ones who enjoy life and see emptying their tanks as just a mild break in their fun and games and joyously welcome these breaks. Not a fibre of their brain is thinking of the task on hand. The outflow has become natural and doesn't require any concentration. Their heads oscillate as they muse on all topics under the sun. They look all around, occasionally peep downwards, just to make sure the jet is on target. When they're done, the zip shuts with an extravagant, flamboyant motion and they wet the whole toilet while attempting to wash their hands. Very little of their time is spent dwelling on the urination, unlike the other two.

I would say I belong to the last category, made obvious by the fact that I actually observe the people around me and enough to waste my time typing out a post on the way people pee.

Monotony

The sun rose, ever so faithful. I rose as well, not in the same faith. Seven "Get-up"s, each louder than the previous from my father sufficed to wake me up, not full though. I walk sleepily to the bathroom, wake-up, have a bath, wake-up, wear my uniform, wake-up, eat breakfast and hop onto the bus when I finally wake-up and gather a measure of control over my actions.

The bus goes on the usual round, reach school, the same kid kicks me and bites but gives me a tearful farewell when we have to part ways and reach respective classes. The old friends greet me, the same people harp on the victories of the team they support, same this, same that.

Same Class teacher walks in, teaches biology to a mildly-interested and highly restless class. Same this, same that.

Well you may think it's all boring and you are right in thinking so inspite of being mistaken. The fun element is there, normal high school jokes, a sudden spurt in the funniness of a certain maths teacher's accent and lots of laughter. But the fun isn't enough. The monotony of the fun is there.

Life isn't too monotonous if there is the same thing which you don't like. Sameness creates monotony, negative sameness or positive sameness. Nothing to get the adrenaline pumping through the veins. No stealthily stealing down a corridor hiding from the teacher. It's all fun, fun and fun, which it may sound fun, isn't so much fun. The source of the fun is the same, and the sameness of the fun destroys the fun.

The laughter, the happiness and the joy ring out every period as jokes degrade reality further and further, innovative and intellectual jokes to the immature, silly ones, all are laughed at. But the laughter is too constant. Laughter becomes the monotony and life isn't all roses though it is all laughter. The monotony gets to you.

The Palace in the clouds

If by any chance your "JQ" or "Joblessness Quotient" is high, like mine, then you may have noticed that this blog on which I am right now writing has a blog called "Concern for Bangalore" attached. The sad demise of this blog can be traced to March 2009, few days after it started.

The story-line is one that someone like a Julius Caesar or an Alexander the Great would look upon with utmost contempt. Four of us, supplied with all the necessities in life, had a dream.

Read the blog. Guess the dream. No, your wrong. We didn't want a clean Bangalore. Money was our only motive. A price money of 10000 bucks for a bloody environmental contest. Four of the brightest brains of the country (Pardon?) working on it, each with the desire, vociferously reacting to those who had the impunity to say it was all bullshit, we would be back to earth in a few days and the like, determined to make a difference. We worked in all seriousness, with the grit to make take it to the last mile. It was going fine, when one of our own, our very own team-member, dared to say, or rather was honest enough to say, that he knew (and so did all of us), that it was destined for failure.

The topic has arisen in conversations only for amusement, to remind ourselves that we too were foolish, but no.

How is it that the dream, the vision of five people (Did I just say four at the start, my bad. Shows how much I've lost touch ) came crashing down to earth at the touch of a feather. Beats me. Still trying to figure out.

The First Chapter

While musing randomly at that time when your eyes are shut but your mind is active yet, I got an idea for the opening chapter for a book which I would write if I ever did.

A melancholy gloom descended on the platform as I went into into retrospect. The last eight years of my life had been tumultuous, three of them in the village and five in the city.

I had arrived in the city five years back on this very night, fresh from striking a fortune on the farm, full of ambition and youth, determined to make the world mine. The city was magnificent, but cruel, a land of opportunity, but an unforgiving land as well.

When I arrived, my pockets were full. I invested heavily, with the false hope from a friend that it would pay one day, the day it all materialised into the massive profits that he foresaw. He even had the cheek to pinch a slight commission for himself, inspite of calling himself a friend. He was nowhere withing the horizon now, having deserted me when I most needed him. The profits never came, I got desperate, changed my lodgings to a more modest one. The profits still didn't come. As the years passed, the lodgings got more and more moderate, so did the bank balance.

My last landlord was merciful, but when I failed to pay his rent, a meagre sum of eight hundred rupees, for the fourth consecutive month, he gently took me aside and told me it couldn't continue, that he would have to turn me out. I had cried, for the first time in the city, not because I was happy till then but because no one had lent a shoulder for me to cry. He lent me his, and I thoroughly wet it with litres of tears, which he bore with a compassionate smile and a sorry face, wishing me luck.

All my pocket contained was a wallet which had a piece of paper that said "Indian Railways", containing several meaningless numbers and abbreviations but most importantly, a line that said "Bangalore Central to Kootahalli", the place I was born.

Every now and then, I took out this ticket and saw it with love, love that was non-existent in the city. A love for the humble village, my old wizened mother, my ever faithful wife and those stars on earth called my children. In the five years of my city existence, I had forgotten them in all my worries. The city had everything I needed, except the tenderness, the love, the compassion. Perhaps I shouldn't have trusted my "friend", maybe I shouldn't even have contemplated moving to the city when I had everything in the village. Maybe it was the lazy bit of me that coaxed me into believing that city life would be less strenuous, needing less effort.

But it was all past. Optimism,was the one emotion my fellow villagers did not share with me. They feared the future,while I always pre-determined it to my liking and this city adventure did nothing to take this feeling from me. I was still young, strong and now even had a little experience from which I could learn. I still had the brains I possessed earlier, I still had the desire, the green thumb which helped me make the fortune was still in my hand. I just had to rake in the moolah.

The task was simple. I had to turn my unparalleled potential into capital and all it needed was a bit of sweat. A head on the shoulders and two feet on the earth would suffice.

The train thudded onto the platform. I confidently stepped into the compartment. The lack of any luggage made it easier. I could sell my wallet, use the money to buy some form of sustenance, and keep the left-over at the feet of the deity in the village temple.

The train would take me to the village, my wife would forgive my neglect, my mother would bless me and my neighbourhood would accept me again. The zamindar would grant me an advance, I would make enough money to buy a land, cultivate it and within two years, my pockets would be full again. The world would be all smiles again, atleast my world.

The powerful engine pulled the train away from the platform, the wind was in my face and my hand was in my pocket. I could already feel the cash filling it, already see the world five years hence.

But I would never conquer the city, perhaps I could teach my children the lessons I had learnt and perhaps they would one day win over the city as well. I felt a pinge of remorse as the city skyline was visible on the horizon. It had been my home for the past half-decade, But I truly belonged in the village. My eyes shut and after a long break, real sleep came to me.

A trip to Mysore

I start of this blog, racking my brains for a fancy title but none presented itself so I was content with this modest introduction to a rather modest, ordinary day out around 120 kilometres from home. Now once you've decided to make it a day trip and you will back crossing the thresh-hold of your house before the calender calls it a day, the elementary part is getting of to an early start, which is why at 7:30 am, I found myself zooming towards the "Heritage City" of Mysore at 55 miles an hour rather than drooling my eyes over my pillow. Experience had taught me that I cannot sleep on a journey while further experiences had taught me to follow the teachings of experience. Yet, the comfort of the back-seat got to me and my eyes shut while my brain worked ever harder.

At long last, I gave up, slowly opening my eyes and finding a few edibles close at hand, decided to give it a go. Our stomachs and sleep had been sacrificed for time, and as I soon realised, so had my dad's leisure. Instead of enjoying the beautiful scenery (read dirt of Bangalore), he was working hard on a powerpoint presentation which was the agenda of this whole journey. And he was the man who had taught me all I knew in life about planning ahead, time-management and the defects of procrastination and last minute work, phew!

The road journey was decent, a single halt for a small drink (MILK) and a good rate of knots kept us, or rather my dad on schedule (just). After a little preaching on the geography of Mysore, we arrived at our destination, rushed through breakfast and formulated our plans.

My dad was to address some auditorium and I was to be escorted by my driver to the Mysore Zoo, World famous across Karnataka.

After a slight amusement in the form of losing our bearings in the heart of unknown land, my driver and I headed to the zoo entrance, paid the amount required and headed into the zoo.

The zoo was good, decent I should say. Nothing to boast of (except India's only gorilla) but not just another road side zoo. It had good standards, but nothing out of the ordinary as they say. A few rare birds, poisonous snakes, ugly reptiles, a tiger here, a lion there, some animals which had transversed continents for us to see, a few members of the dog family and we were done. The details of the lengthy discussions between me and my driver, two people who knew nothing but pretended we knew a lot, more than the other atleast, would have proven to be quite instructive though I would claim that my facts were based on science and his were based on village folk-lore.

In twenty minutes, we were back at the audi, my dad had finished speaking but the program was still on but it was worth the wait for the sumptuous meal waiting for us at the end of it, a whole and full-fledged plantain leaf meal.Need I elaborate further? Of course not. These avatars of meals are just out of this world, something you can expect in heaven, an inspiration for me not to commit sins. Wonder what they serve in hell!!

The lunch left our stomachs full and we enjoyed the luxury of our car till we reached an age old house (estd. 1934), belonging to our relatives, built by my great-grandfather and it had a billion odd connections with several members of our family. Legend also has it that my grandmother first met my grandfather in the bosom of that very house and there I was, that classic feeling in me, something I don't know why but I always associate with the British. The railway track across the road further enhanced the colonial connection, something which was more starkly visible in Mysore than in Bangalore.

Having visited the place many times, I felt at home and took the liberty of snatching a quick nap and watching the last part of the fourth day's play of a cricket match, stood outside in the slight drizzle, said good-byes after seeking blessings and headed back into the car just as the drizzle turned to heavy rain.

The rest is obvious, got lost in the city for a bit, cursed the rain, flew down the Mysore road, or rather the Bangalore road, a few philosophical notes exchanged between my dad and me with my driver listening as keen as ever, got caught in a traffic jam in Bangalore, reached home, a few smiles, storied for the day exchanged and a dreamless sleep.

It's over

My first blog in a long time, around four months to be precise, four months of entertainment, fun and of course studies. But today it all paid, to know that I could rise after the sun did the same, to know that the Damocle's sword, although very much present, was hanging by a material stronger than just a hair. The rays of the sun which roused me were warm, and satisfying in the damp Bangalore air, so cool you could drink it.

Hard to imagine just 24 hrs back I was standing in the assembly, feeling like a Jew on the way to Auschwitz. A mathematical exam of my battle-hardiness had been prepared and I wasn't feeling so upto to it. It started of well and was a close run thing though I could claim to having the better of the exchanges. While I started strongly, my finish was meek not helped by the fact that I was feeling a little heavy in the stomach having failed maintain equilibrium between input and output. The extra weight was more than I could take and my body reacted by shivering and my memory crashed.

Of course, I had experienced the like of this devil several times and more often than not, come out on top. Not to be this time. The piece of paper with squiggly, black text over it proved to be my nemesis in an otherwise successful campaign. Termed question-paper, these pieces of paper came in large varieties such as lengthy, tough, easy, cheap and the most notorious being "screwing." Common terms associated with these serial-killers are "I messed up" and "I'm gonna flunk" while more explicit varieties were reserved for the extreme cases.

But today, it was all past. Whether it went well or not, we'll know later but for now, I' done with it and that's all I care.

Now I'm looking forward to enjoying the holidays for the first few days before the yearning to meet friends becomes too hard to bear and time, the great adversary begins to move in slow-motion.

A Close Shave

Owing to the lack of any real cooking material in the house and the noble soul that I am, I took up the task of legging it to the hotel, picking some edibles and coming back the same way, all this inspite of an injured left hand.

I set off at once, the green stuff safely in my pocket and my spirits soaring. The lovely Bangalore monsoon weather had breathed life into me and I gliding rather than walking, inspiring cool, wet air. My adrenaline was pumping and blood was rushing all over my body with vigour when my hands went cold and my feet felt like lead. The change was sudden and unbelievable. In less than a second, I had changed from the guy who can challenge and conquer the world to a sitting duck who can take no more in life. What caused this change?

I saw a man, some man mind you, making straight for me with his mighty sword (read umbrella) pointing at my chest where my beauty had stopped her hard pumping, and something schizophrenic about his face. The weather now turned tyrant, freezing me to the very bone when, as fast as it had left, reason came back to me. I decided to put the intentions of this old mad-man to a slight test and made a quick step laterally when my worst fevers were realised. The sword changed position too, moving laterally to continue pointing straight at my heart. I almost sank but again my brain saw reason.

I planned a one-handed defense of my life, hoping I was up against nothing supernatural. My defense was well-planned though it was done in a flash. A slight push would unbalance an aged adversary while a quick tread would complete the job like clockwork. The adrenaline rushed back and the baby was pumping again when again, my brain came to the rescue.

At closer inspection, I found that the man was indeed known to me. He was one among the million odd slight acquaintances of my father of whose face was the only part of their personality I could recognise.

He hailed me, and to my surprise he was actually a well-wisher, inquiring the wherabouts of my injury and actually going to the extent of wishing me a speedy recovery.

I heaved a sigh, not only of relief but also one of amazement (I never sighed in amazement before) at the sheer magnitude of my imagination while hailing my quick thinking. I won the battle, the umbrella was not a fake, the man was not mad and I had a hearty meal accompanied by a hearty mental laugh at myself and my imagination.

All's well that ends well. :)

The choice

It was my pride's last chance at survival. The Indian cricket team were to take on their neighbours across the sea in a do-or-die battle. Many scenarios were possible and the most likely that India would qualify in what was a mid-night match by Indian Standard Time. I had to watch it, I just had to.

But the next morning's happenings were decided already, by fate or by my father, I still wonder. Tradition went too far on some occasions and this time, it did. Some pooja at home because some relative had died 300 kilometres away, ten days back. I don't wish to dwell on the bitterness it caused but I couldn't help it. I had to get up at six and yet had to sleep at one.

I decided to go for it, decided to do both things. It's not a decision I regret. I had two choices. Pooja or match. My heart cried out "match" while my father wouldn't let that happen. I created the third choice, "both of the above" and it came off.

I got what I wanted, I watched the match and I gave my respect to the man who had passed away. I did what I wanted to do, but the things didn't happen as I wanted them. My India lost the match and I hardly slept owing to my brooding over the failure and I hardly got up for the ceremony. And after all this, I went to my friends house, came back more dead than alive.

Knocked out for fifteen hours, I was.