The Walk - Part 4

The shrill bell broke my reverie and I glanced at the clock on the plastered wall. The nurse had been late for the third time this week. “Not much work today anyway”, I thought to myself inching towards the door on my crutches. The everyday ten-minute walk in the park had become the most dreaded part of life for the past few months. The most irritating part of the task not being the physical exhaustion or the constant drone of encouragement from the nurse, but the ignominy of having to bear the stares of all the other people. Making quick progress I reached and opened the door readying myself to lash out at the undependability of nurses and I caught myself staring open-mouthed at Goyal and Sudhakar.

The banner saying “Happy Birthday, Mr. Yugendran” stood staring contemptuously at me. I started inching towards the front, one-legged, and on my crutches which would never be stolen from me. Kids started clapping, and elders followed suit. With tears streaming down my face, I started moving faster and faster towards my goal – the front row. With every passing second, the rhythmic beating seemed to get louder and the pain in my leg started to ease until finally, I felt nothing, save the hot tears on my eyes.

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1) I had written this way back and not done a preliminary research either I guess ( I mentioned I am a lazy bum somewhere). So you have to forgive the technical error with gangrene etc. Have not edited from the basic draft I made in 2004.

2) Formatting is screwed in my blog. I guess I will have to learn quickly to enhance readability :(

3) Thanks for the patient read ;)

4) I might be accused of being maudlin etc with this. I promise a raunchy sex thriller sometime later. Keep visiting.

The Walk - Part 3

Water tastes sour with coagulated blood mixed in it. I had opened my eyes to a few bare-chested villages towering over me. Never before had I seen such genuinely emotive eyes. I looked around and saw the Nayak family lying a few feet away seemingly unhurt. Sudhakar and his wife had cuts on their faces and what looked like glass jutting out of their legs. The Goyals were being pulled out of a window, unconsciously. Meanwhile, the Nayaks were now being lifted and put into a waiting auto. I closed my eyes and felt a strong pair of hands sliding beneath me. I woke up with a jerk to see a smiling fifty year old man close to my face. I turned my head around and saw people, the Vasans and the Chaturvedis being pulled out of different windows, their bodies a bloody mess. I never know what overcame me at that moment - whether it was pent up fury at the sight of so much suffering around me or a love for mankind that I had possibly inherited in my genes. I motioned to the people lying around and those neighbors still stuck inside the ill-fated bus. The village initially confused, understood my request. Setting me back on the ground, he moved towards the Goyals.

The auto-driver drove eleven full trips to the Hospital, 5 kilometers away, with tears in his eyes and pain in his heart. When the last trip with my mutilated body was done, he had made his last trip on that eventful night. The two night-duty Doctors, completely exhausted, had decided to take a short nap and had to be shaken awake after my arrival.

The Ambulance driver had been on a holiday and the fifteen year old vehicle had refused to start.

My left leg had to be amputated as gangrene had set in. "Maybe a couple of hours earlier", mused the Doctors.

The Walk - Part 2

The coughing and spluttering of an auto well on its painful last days stole the dull monotonous quiet prevailing in the area around the shamiana. Men from the group moved towards the auto and greeted the emerging occupants – an ominous Mr. Goyal and a white cloth rolled on short and stout wooden pole. Ramu started carrying the pole towards the tent followed by the elders and a few kids who had now materialized, with a seriousness that was not uncharacteristic of him, nevertheless melodramatic. Held high over his head and with people looking solemnly and respectfully, it resembled the journey of the Olympic torch.

I grew up this in a picturesque town with colorful people during my first fifteen years. Padma, the Hospital Sweeper who took the motherless infant as a godsend to relieve her of the drudgery in her life was the diametric opposite of the Gurkha. Somewhere in between lay Mr Patil, the Headmaster of the Corporation School who thought I was the brightest boy in class; Lingam, the sweetmeat seller who gave me a free Burphi everyday and Shyamala, mother's colleague whose dosas I could never forget. Years flew by and when I was fifteen came familial discord with the arrival of a long -lost drunk husband. Why the rightful head of the house had turned back to re-establish marital accord was not a question asked. How a fifteen year old who had been longer with Padma than he could have no ownership was esoteric. Mother cried when I left.

Ramu was now indisputably the center of attraction. He had dug two holes with an iron crowbar and started unfurling the cloth banner with the flourish of a Houdini in the making. "Maybe it is some anniversary celebration", I thought to myself. Bored with the proceedings of which I was no part, I moved away from the window.

Promising Mr Patil solemnly that I would come back within a few years and return his three hundred rupees with 5% interest, I set off. Along with the money, I had one set of clothes, three dosas packed by Shyamala and a locket around my neck bequeathed by Padma on my eight birthday. "To protect you from evil and envy", she said mystically. I wondered who would be envious of me.

I reached Coimbatore within an hour, minus two hundred and eighty rupees (as the kind soul had in a fit of righteousness left me with the ticket and change), dosas and clothes. Left with the locket and a used ticket, I got down at the Central Bus Stand with two dozen people who hurried about with some goal in sight. I wandered about the place for around 5 hours begging for work. While the tea-stall owners shooed me off, the well-dressed tried to conspicuously ignore me which was more infuriating. All I earned for the five minutes of pleading was a casual slow-motioned shifting of feet. Few men relented after sometime and glanced at me shaking their head in mock misery while the others moved away as if chased by an evil leper.

Growing up in a village with a roof over my head, under the caring eyes of Padma was different from the city as one had to be on one's toes always for fear of losing the sleeping space and the locket. Months passed and I was lucky enough to be adopted (unofficially again) by a restaurant owner who was impressed by my village-like diligence to work as he called it. The sharp brain in my precocious head was duly discovered and I was sent to school. Years passed and I never failed the old man. Relocating after his death to a new place was both painful and necessary.



No one knew exactly how we hit the oncoming truck. I woke up to a dull ringing in the ears and a numb sensation in my limbs. I stretched in a bid to wake my jaded self and get the circulation going, but felt a searing pain in my left leg. I let out a groan of agony and tasted blood in my mouth. The scene in front of me when I wiped the blood from my face was revolting - the entire bus lay at 45 degrees to the road and bodies lay twisted and gnarled in between iron bars and mangled seats. I glanced to see what was left of my half-torn leg and howled in distress. The metal support bar below my seat had cut through my left leg. Clasping what was left of the seat in front, I tried to get up gritting my teeth. The mild exertion sent fresh waves of pain and I fell back unconscious.


Suman Goyal, the President and Sudhakar were now walking towards the apartment.

The Walk - Part 1

Having lived up to my promise in my first post about being a slow writer, I am back..

This is something I had written in November 2004. Found it in some remote corner of my hard disk and decided what the hell :)

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The eighty- by eighty room with uncared for a bit of a not-so-old rosewood furniture set strewn around was in stark contrast to the street outside the apartment. The rug on the floor flaunted tea stains and patchwork. Dirty towels and underwear hung proudly on a nylon wire connecting two adjacent walls asymmetrically. As far as the animate occupants of the room were considered; spiders, moths, cockroaches and lizards had a field day in establishing base. There seemed to be no territorial dispute. Food and water were available in plenty, thanks to a leaky washbasin. The animal kingdom was in flourish.

Less than thirty steps away, the entire street had been cleanly swept for the first time in many years by Ramu, the community appointed sweeper (that, being debatable because he had started to accompany his dad, one of the Corporation sweepers since he was a kid). The years of hands-on experience wielding the broomstick was not in any way an indication of his talents, as, for most part of the Sunday afternoon, he just stood gazing at a single speck of dust, the rhythmic to and fro motion of his broomstick being the only indication of his conscious state.

Mr. Vasan often joked that Ramu had worked too long with dirt and dust to develop an unconscious liking and feeling of pity to unseat it from its place of rest. The kinship developed was mutual as the dust refused to leave its chosen place of rest in spite of repeated entreaties by Ramu’s broom.

“O Podu” blared the speakers as the adrenaline-charged teenagers at the front danced to the asinine tune with indefatigable vigor and ferocity; each kid hopelessly trying to imitate the neighbor and only succeeding in confusing the one next to him by paralytic twists. Mothers meanwhile tried to encourage their wards vociferously; only succeeding in irking other mothers who felt it was their parental responsibility to encourage raw dancing talent. “O Podu” soon faded into the cacophony of hysterical mothers and confused fourteen year olds who were left to dance to the tunes of the women.

A big shamiana had been erected the day before in the park on Ramaswamy Road. Balloons and colored paper was littered about and the whole place bore a festive look. Kids were having a field day running around the support-poles of the shamiana. Not far away, half a dozen adolescent girls stood watching in eagerness, undecided about whether they were too old for the kids’ antics, as they were supposed to act as young graceful women. A few of the elders, Sudhakar, the Secretary, Jayanth, the Treasurer and a few other men from the Colony leaning on the wall appeared to be in serious discussion.

“Nothing like carefree childhood life”, I thought watching the fun and frolic in front of the bus bringing me quaint memories of my own childhood. Born in a 3-bed Corporation Hospital in Kannur, a village 50 kms from Coimbatore city to Kanaga who passed away within few minutes after releasing me into this world, life was far from being a bed of roses. Hurdles and subsequent desperation drove me to become an acknowledged cynic, a non-believer. There were never taunts. People were much too busy to bother about the un-threatening urchin. The “Who are you? Where are your relatives?” looks I got in plenty. How my mother landed in the Hospital while in labor, no one could explain. To the Gurkha, the pregnant lady in labor who was nowhere around one minute earlier, was lying outside the gate the next. The poor illiterate soul suspected the hand of the supernatural. Unfortunately he could never confidently pinpoint to whom - God or the Devil had conspired to torture his soul. I was thus never picked up and cuddled by the Gurkha, a small man with a big and luxuriant mustache. He always seemed to maintain a safe distance with me, sequestering me as an indelible stamp asserting the supernatural's late night foray into Kannur village.

My interview experience at FMS, Delhi

So one fine morning in February of this year, I took a flight down to the Capital to meet up with the folks at FMS :)

Came out of the Airport and being the smart and lazy bum that I was, ignored the advice of friends on Pagalguy and walked confidently out into the road, only to realize that this was quite different from namma Singara Chennai - No autos on sight. After few minutes of cribbing on my lack of foresight and unwillingness to accept the fact that Prepaid is the way to go at Delhi, I started walking purposefully towards a non-existent vehicle in the Car Park. Few strides later, I managed to secure the services of an Autowallah who pulled me into his 3 wheeler which had already been inhabited by 2 aunties and 1 kid. After some intelligent maneuvering (and hard braking at Traffic Signals causing momentary dislocation), I managed to wiggle my bottom and secured a rightful space for the Rs 100 that I had agreed to.

After roaming around the shady Paharganj area near the Railway Station for some time and haggling with some hotels and disregarding others which had names like Hotel Mount (All amenities offered, I believe) I bargained myself a "Super Deluxe" Room at a place. Small nap and I was all set to leave. Followed the orders of my friend again and chose the Delhi Metro, which was very nice, and landed at DU.

Few hours later, some 10 of us were called in...

GD Topic - No one studies for an MBA, everyone studies for a job..

Started off the discussion. Came in twice later. Pretty decent discussion although we ran out of steam after 7 mins. Would rate myself as average here. Could you have made some better points.

Panel - Dean, Male prof and Female prof

Extempore - Tall men make better husbands - im around 6.2"

Had starting trouble. Started after few seconds..Spoke about some genetic differences among indians and westerners, diet etc resulting in low heights..Din make much sense really...Thought of a superb point at the end but they were done listening to my crap..so had to stop...Would rate myself below average..

MP: So tell me Anand, what do you really think ? Do tall men make better husbands...
P: Not really yaar. That movie of that tall husband bacchan...
MP: Yeah Laawaris and smiles :)
Me: Smiling..I really don't know sir.Probably they can have an eye on their wives always
P: Can you name some ads in which there cast tall men usually..
Me: Nothing comes to my mind sir..
P: Tell me what you are wearing now and their brands..
Me: My trousers are from peter england..shirt is from venfield..
P: Who owns peter england ?
Me: (thinking) Mayura Garments (it was Madura Garments..just couldn't think straight)
MP: Mayura ? Answer is close..but not Mayura..think again
Me: i don remember sir...i think its owned by the Birla group ultimately
P: Which birla ?
Me: Im not sure sir..
P: Ok what else..Watch ?
Me: I don wear one sir
P: Boots..Belt..Pen..Tie
Me: Boots by bata..Belt and tie by globus
P: Tell me about globus
Me: Its a chain..owned by Raheja group..I don know how popular in the north...but stores in chennai, blore etc (Wrong - they do have stores in the north too )
P: Raheja is actually based out of Mumbai..Tell me more about it
Me: Ok...Spoke about the store - doing good..multiple brands different price categories etc
FP: How many calls do you have
Me: B and I
FP: what %
Me: 99.37
P: If in college, someone dint like you..what aspect would they be bothered about
Me: Are you asking me about my weakness ?
P: Not necessarily..What would they think..
Me: Probably they would say im a little aggressive
P: And what positives?
Me: It also happens to be my strength. I do work well in a team..Listen to people..Have demonstrated this quality in college etc..
MP: There is a group of people in your office and they don't want to talk to you at all about some problem. What would you do?
Me: The first thing to do is to sit back and analyze the root cause of the problem. What exactly is the problem. It cannot simply be a personal prejudice against someone as it would not be in this case of a labor issue which involves many people. After finding that out, see what can be done in terms of giving possible concessions etc ..No one would refuse to talk flatly.
MP: When you stepped into FMS and in this room, what was the first impression.
Me: FMS - the red building caught my eye. This room - 3 panelists with the Dean..Could have been more creative..Silly me!

MP: Thank you..Thats it

Me: Thank you sir...

And the results a week later - I was through, but on the Wait List...

Haven't gone about checking the Wait List status as I wouldn't be taking it up now..

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The profession that stands out..

IT, what else?

Was engaged in one of these very interesting conversations with a colleague I do know well (So it was rest assured that he would'nt embarrass me by talking JSP, MQ and Perl Scripting. In fact, this is one of the criteria on which potential kinship is evaluated by both involved parties when one of the parties in question happens to be me). He had just been on a short vacation down south to potential Tier 4 IT destinations which happen to be villages and was amused, flabbergasted and humbled (in no particular order) when he met up with this modern farmer (MF)

MF: Hey there dude!
He: Whassup buddy
MF: Oh gawd!!..Dont even friggin ask..The last production drop from heaven has been screwed to the core. We may have to decrease our reliance on the team up there and start considering
other vendors..
He: Tough luck mate! If you dont mind me asking (And before you raise your eyebrow in displeasure) how are you able to make ends meet
MF: (Letting loose a philosophical rant) Life has no boundaries..Ends are but illusionary..What are the means..
He: What do you mean?

Phone buzzes..

MF: Holy shit! Have you really moved me from the Bench to a Project? Thank heavens. I will be at office at 7 am tomorrow..

Some talk on the other end..

MF: Absolutely..I have spent the last 2 years waiting for exactly this opportunity. This project is best suited to tap my core competencies. In fact, I have spent every single day working out theoretical solutions for this product at home..

Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply.

The birth of this blogger

This has long been coming. In fact to be precise, it has taken 5 years.

I claim to love books, proclaim proudly that I have been reading for quite long and have tried to bring in as much variety as possible in my reading.

Make no mistake, it was not for any hidden wish to emerge one fine day as a literary genius par extreme, hitertho undiscovered, that I resisted so long in penning down my thoughts on a regular basis.

I am a slow writer. Period.

Some Facts:

1) I have been ruminating on possible names for a blog, a theme and other accouterments for close to 4 hours now.

2) I have spent 10 minutes after writing the last line thinking about what to write next

3) Now I wonder if I am suffering from an acute case of Writer's Block. The only thing that confounds me is that to claim thus, I have to first prove myself to be a writer.

4) I wonder how people blog on their GPRS.

5) The only consolation after careful consideration that I gleefully will accept is that I probably suffer from Blogger's Block (If at all there is something thus) - Hell, I have written short stories and love letters right from school. You have to blame the latter for not giving me the confidence to pursue publishing the former.

Now that I have breached the 18 line barrier, I shall refrain from pushing myself any further. As they say in Tamil,

Alavu minjinal amuthamum visham - In excess, even the life-perpetuating Nector is poisonous