Conscience ***

Ben stared pensively out of the window at the overcast sky. He was lying in his comfortable bed. He looked around at the well furnished condominium. He had come a long way. His parents had been rubber tappers, who slaved all day long to make ends meet. They had struggled to give him an education. And Ben had done well. He too had done odd jobs part time to support the family. Through sheer hard work he had worked his way through school and university. And out in the cruel world, his grit and determination had pushed him into the top echelons of the corporate world. He was a somebody now. He had a nice bungalow in KL, and this condominium here in Manila, where he stayed whenever he visited on business, which was often. A few years ago, he had found his wife, Jude, a beautiful former model.

Ben sensed a movement beside him. She rolled over, stretched and yawned.
“I got to leave in a few minutes.” Ben looked at her.
“Ok, let me get you a coffee.” She started to get up.
“No, no. I had my coffee. You rest. I’ll get going now.”
“When will you be back ?” She always made him feel wanted. Ben enjoyed being with her. She was so considerate. And yet undemanding. He smiled at her, and patted her cheeks.

***

Jude was waiting for him as he came back from work. It was late, but she looked so fresh and pretty. Ben was mildly surprised that she had stayed up.
“Ben, come on, get into some comfortable clothes and join me.” She held out her hand. Ben looked at her. This was unusual.

As he sank into the soft sofa beside her, she moved over and leaned on him.
“What’s up? You are so cheerful and glowing!”
“Ben. I have some good news.” She paused. “Ben - you’re going to be a father.” She took his hand and put it on her belly.

The emotions washed over Ben in waves. “My God. That’s astounding. I'm lost for words. Thank you. I love you Jude.” They hugged each other in joy.

***
Ben lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His conscience was shaken badly. He had been frolicking with Marie in Manila while his wife was here, carrying his child. He had to break off with Marie. He had to find a way. And he must come clean. He came to a conclusion. He would confess to Jude in the morning. He would beg her forgiveness.

***
Jude lay on her side. She could sense Ben still awake. She couldn’t bring herself to face him now. Somehow she had managed to break the news of the baby to him. But now, she trembled as she thought about it. Should she confront him now ? How would he react ? How will he take it ? A tear formed and rolled down her cheeks. Then, suddenly, she knew the answer. She had to do it. She would talk to him in the morning. She had to tell Ben. That the child was not his.

Dear Abby 2 ***

Dear Abby,

I have never written to you before, but I really need your advice. I have suspected for some time now that my wife has been cheating on me. The usual signs; phone rings but if I answer, the caller hangs up. My wife has been going out with 'the girls' a lot recently although when I ask their names she always says, just some friends from work, you don't know them. I try to stay awake and look out for her when she comes home, but I usually fall asleep. Anyway, I have never broached the subject with my wife. I think deep down I just did not want to know the truth, but last night she went out again and I decided to finally check on her.

Around midnight, I hid in the garage behind my golf clubs so I could get a good view of the whole street when she arrived home from a night out with 'the girls’.

It was at that moment, crouching behind my golf clubs, that I noticed a hairline crack where the grip meets the graphite shaft on my 3-wood. Is this something I can fix myself or should I take it back to the pro-shop where I bought it?

Jack

------------------------------


Jack,
You have great eyesight, great agility and good health. Hairline cracks are normal, going to pro shops is not recommended.

However, you could sell her car and get a new set.

Abby program.

Computer-generated letter requires no signature

(plagiarised)

Keb and Jan ***

Keb loved Jan. She was not his daughter. He did not have any daughters. But he felt an inexplicable bond with her. He wished her well. From his soul. He knew her strengths. He marvelled seeing Jan's talents and achievements. He was proud of her. He often felt he knew her strengths even better than she herself did. Jan was delicate and fragile. Keb felt deeply for Jan, especially when she went through her occasional stormy periods. But Jan was often distant and remote. She was fond of Keb and sometimes showed it. These were high points in Keb's otherwise drab life. And occasionally Jan would go through particularly rough patches. And when this happened, she would seek out Keb for comfort and solace. Keb could share her agony and despair and would offer soothing words in his clumsy way. And then - the storm would blow over. And Keb would be left alone once again - without his daughter. Keb's heart would rejoice that Jan was happy once again. He just wanted his daughter to be happy.

***

The man approached Keb in purposeful strides. "Look. You don't know me. But I know you very well. I have been observing you".

Keb was stunned. He looked at the man blankly. The man looked around furtively. Then he grabbed Keb's elbow and looked into his eyes. "I want you to stay away from Jan. You are disturbing her peace. I won't repeat this. Just go away".

Keb stood silently, looking at the receding image of the man. He felt a strange emptiness. Slowly his shoulders drooped. He looked down at the grey floor. It looked greyer than the last time he had seen it. He blinked, suddenly realising the glaze over his eyes.

The Ostrich Strategy **

Aiyer: This is the oligarchs' solution for American Education System: Bang for the Buck in Schools. It's not the perceived anti-American stance, or the accusation of being anti-Indian that's the problem; it is the deference to ideology that recasts all facts to support presupposed truths, that rankles. To paraphrase what you said before, the avoidance of fundas turns us into goondas (inasmuch as I know that the original references were different, some truths are apparently universal.

Karnam: You are absolutely right. I don't see why people here are so anti-USA, anti-India, anti-this, anti-that. Universal love, brother...that always works. USA is fantastic, India is fantastic. Dollar was good. Rupee sucked. Now both suck. Just ignore the complainers. If you from India (which you are), you got be able to turn-off the background noise, which is always there in various amplitudes and frequencies. Just listen to the music, nullify the cacophony. Yehi tho hai jidagi...(I know you complained when I wrote to you Hindi, but come on yaar, if one Injun cant talk to another in Hindustani, what the heck are we doing?)

Lakshman: Give the guy a break - he has just quoted others. Of course, you can give him grief for not expressing an opinion.

Aiyer: That would be like giving Goebbels a break because he was just quoting Hitler. If one purposefully cites quotes in support of an agenda, culpability is clear. As to legitimacy of giving grief for not expressing an opinion ... the opinion has been expressed and is clear, though unstated in this missive, past record of malignment of American way of life stands. It is not the malignment of America(ns) that is offensive (though one wonders as to the motivations), everyone has likes and dislikes and their private reasons for the same ... The misrepresentations being used as a tool to whitewash Indian issues is what gives offense. It is in the interest of India to transparently recognize deficiencies so they may be resolved. Demagogues posturing to minimize them is what piques.

Karnam: There is plenty wrong with the American public school system, (also plenty right in many districts), however "The oligarchy making decisions for public-school kids" and "the schools they impose their policies on" is grossly and outrageously false. As usual, more crap from Mr. Aiyer.... this is "class-warfare" propaganda of the worst kind, in that it is so blatantly presented on an outrageously false premise. The "oligarchy" cannot impose anything, nada, zilch, zero, on any public school system. Public school administration is locally managed and administered by locally elected school boards. Oligarch's may have opinions, right or wrong, but have absolutely no say, they don't even have a mechanism to try and have a say.

Lakshman: Why not solve before acknowledging publicly (kind of like not flaunting your dirty wear), then you wont be put on a huge guilt trip? Form a task force-brainstorm and acknowledge privately, then clean up, then acknowledge publicly, whats wrong with this ? I was asked in a public forum this question "Shouldn't corruption in India be cleaned up before we seek foreign investment" This was in 1990. My answer then as it is now, is that what if we are never able to clean up the endemic corruption in India, then should it become a pariah state, kind of become impoverished like some African states? I don't think so. The answer then and now, is to tactfully, get rid of corrupters, while still pretending everything is hunky-dory. Acknowledge all you want, but don't acknowledge your weakness to a stranger... Otherwise the truth may be hard to bear. what if everyone issues sanctions against India for being "corrupt", and everyone starves?

Aiyer: Then we all agree. The mantra is to bury our heads in the sand. Be happy. Everything will go away.

(distorted from real conversation)

Visa ***

Seeni Uncle. Everyone called him that. In fact, he was Sreenivasan, the manager of the office. But he was disarmingly friendly. He would never raise his voice. He would never dictate work to anyone. He never had to. Everyone in the office, the peon, the dozen or so girls who worked as clerks and the lady accountants did their best for him, without being told. Other than Seeni Uncle and the peon, Marimuthu, everyone else in the office were females. It was like a family. There was chatter and laughter in the office all the time. And often, Seeni would be in the midst of it. Although he had his own room, the door was always open. And as soon as he had finished off the urgent business, he would saunter out of the office. He would mingle among the staff.

Seeni not only knew every single staff by name, but he knew about their families, their aspirations, their current trials and tribulations- in short – he knew them as if they were his kin. As he spoke to each one, his care and empathy endeared them to him. They loved Seeni Uncle.

Seeni Uncle had one peculiar trait. No matter what subject he started off with, the conversation would soon steer towards one topic. Seeni’s wife Visa. He would paint a beautiful picture of her. The woman of his life. The woman who made him what he was. The woman who made his life worth living. A model wife. Everyone would listen in rapt attention. They marvelled at this divine love they could sense, between Seeni Uncle and his wife Visa. And they would wish one day to meet this extraordinary woman. But none of them had met her.

Soon Seeni Uncle would fall silent, as though immersed in sweet thoughts of his wife.

***

The office staff were leaving. It was after six in the evening. Seeni was always the last to leave. “Must finish my work. And then rush to my lovely Visa!” he would tell them, with a beatific smile.

***

“Late again? I suppose you were gallivanting with the loose girls in your office? When will you ever change ? You are 60! Almost as old as their grandfathers. And yet you flirt with them. Its all my fate.” Visalakshi started as soon as she saw him enter the front door.

“It runs in your family, I suppose. After all, didn’t your sister run off with that salesman ? And your brother? He married that low caste woman. Hmph. கர்மம் … கர்மம் .. என்னோட தலைவிதி … இப்பிடி ஒரு குடும்பத்துல வந்து மாட்டிண்டேன் . (What a shame. Its my fate that I ended up marrying into such a family)”

“வாங்கோ , வந்து தின்னுங்கோ (Come, come and eat).” She threw the plate of rice on the table, scattering some of the cold rice.

Sreenivasan sat down silently, and began eating the rice. He could hear Visalakshi grumbling loudly in the kitchen. He closed his eyes and chewed laboriously. Soon there was silence. He longed to be back in his office. With memories of his beloved Visa.

The Day Ranjan Stole the Cummerbund **

The scene was surreal. The old man sat hunched. One could see the flesh sagging on his face. The clothes were over sized, and inside, he was probably just a skeleton. He stared fixedly at a point in the medium distance. Beside him, the stunning beauty. She was too beautiful for words. Flowing raven black hair, billowing lightly in the wind. A few strands would occasionally blow over her face, and she would delicately push them back with a delicate finger. He upturned nose was small but had a magnetic appeal far in excess of the rest of her face. He full lips, light pink in colour, and the majestic high cheekbones, accentuating her wheat complexioned face. She sat close to the old man, hugging him close. Every once in a while she would touch his face, or hair. Always with loving care.

The old man mumbled something. The girl strained to catch what he was saying. “What pa?”

“The cummerbund. I must have it.” The old man spoke in a steady and loud voice.

The girl looked at him helplessly. “But I don’t even know what that is. Much less where to get it. Why don’t I get you candy floss? Ha? That’s your favourite right pa? Come on, let go get candy floss..” she coaxed.

“The cummerbund. I must have it.” The old man repeated adamantly.

***

Ranjan recalled the store selling quaint gifts on Stonehenge Street. Surely they would have a cummerbund. He looked at his watch. Almost 9 pm. They would be closing anytime. He quickened his pace. It was cold. He put his hands into his pockets. And that was when he realised he had only small change. He took out all the coins. The grand total was £ 1.28. Surely a cummerbund wouldn’t cost more than that ?

***

Ranjan looked at the label. £ 25.99. HE rubbed it and looked again. But the figure was the same. £ 25.99. He was in the only shop in town selling cummerbunds. And he was holding the only cummerbund in the shop. And the label said £ 25.99. And he had just £ 1.28 in his pockets. Ranjan looked around. The coast was clear. He furtively stuffed the cummerbund into his coat pocket. Then hunched, he casually strolled out of the shop.

As he left the front door, a thick set man stepped forward. He flashed an ID Card.
“Just a mom’nt guv. Have you forgotten to pay for anything? May I ask you to step this way? And empty your pockets?”

Ranjan thought of the old man. And the beautiful girl. He looked crestfallen as the man caught him firmly by the elbow.

Hewertam **

It was nearly dawn. The rain beat down relentlessly. Baskar took a swig from the flask and looked over the horizon. No sign of the bus. He huddled in the shelter. A cold wind swept up, sending a shudder down his body. The street lamp sent a sickly yellow glow around the shelter. As he stood in the cold, a figure ambled into view. Baskar watched in trepidation as the figure approached. As he came closer, Baskar could make out his face. The man was heavyset. He was bald, but had a hat pulled down over his head. Soon the man was at the shelter.
"रीटर क्या होता है ?"
"No, I dont know Hindi." Baskar was apologetic.
"क्या करना हेह हिंदी मालूम नहीं - यह हिंदुस्तान है । यह मद्रासी क्या बोलता किता ?"
"Sorry , Hindi nahi. Don't know Hindi. Sorry. "
"हेह सुनो। हिंदी मालूम नहीं क्या करना है हिंदुस्तान ? वापस मद्रासी । साला " The man sounded angry.
Baskar was getting irritated. "I said no Hindi. Now leave me alone." He snapped.
The man pulled out a long knife and stabbed Baskar. Then he fell back astounded. Baskar had transformed into a vapour.
"What the hell?" the man exclaimed in English.

Advice ***

Her husband had come back a few hours earlier, in a drunken stupor. He barged in, making a row and waking the kids. As the children cowered in fear he had proceeded to thrash Prema, slapping and kicking her frail body, cursing her all the time. Exhausted, he then lay down on the sofa. Soon, everyone fell into a fitful sleep. Then he sat up. Cursing under his breath he stumbled over to Suguna, their 12 year old daughter. As he shook her, trying to wake her, Prema leapt at him, screaming. There was an ugly struggle, and much screaming and cursing. Finally he relented. Then he pushed Prema down and forced himself on her. Sated, he rolled over and was soon snoring.

Prema opened her eyes. It was gloomy in the room. She looked around at the sleeping children – eight of them. One more was in the hospital. And her eldest boy, Murugan – in jail. She felt drained. Soon they will all awaken. Hungry. And there was no food in the house. Her husband would beat her up again. Prema searched under her pillow for the betel leaves she had stashed. As she chewed on it, the pungent juice burned her mouth. She closed her eyes as the juice took effect. For a few moments, she forgot her miseries.

***

Sarojini amma sat on the only chair in the house. Sridhar and Bala stood, leaning against the wall. They had brought food and provisions for Prema’s family.
“உங்க பிள்ளைங்கள school க்கு அனுப்புங்கம்மா . அவங்க எதிர்காலம் ஆவது நல்லா இருக்கட்டும் . (You must send your children to school. At least make sure their future is bright),” Sarojini amma advised lovingly.
Sridhar looked annoyed. “இன்னமும் வெத்தல போடறீங்களா ? வாய் எல்லாம் புண்ணா இருக்கு , அப்பிடியும் இன்னும் போடறீங்க ? (Are you still chewing betel leaves ? Your mouth is all sores, yet you are still doing it?)”
Prema looked down, silently.
“உன் புருஷன் வந்தானா ? மூஞ்சி எல்லாம் வீங்கி இருக்கு ? (Did your husband come? Your face is all swollen?),” Sarojini amma wanted to know.
“இல்லம்மா . எப்பயாச்சும் வருவாரு. (No amma. He only comes occassionally.)” Prema didn’t want to talk about it.
“பிள்ளைங்கள school க்கு அனுப்புங்கம்மா . (Send your children to school),” Bala sounded angry.
Prema nodded silently.
***
The children squabbled over the biscuits. Prema tried to get some for the little ones, but the older boys elbowed in and snatched everything. Prema mixed some of the fruit drinks for the younger children. As she looked up, her heart sank as she saw her husband standing at the door. As she watched, cowering in dismay, he walked in, grabbed the bag of rice and cooing oil and walked out. Prema sank to the floor and sat in the corner, staring blankly into the far distance.

Kat ***

“Hahaha… that’s awesome lar Kat.”
“Rinny, do you remember BJ? What a woman! Hahaha.”
“Hahaha… she was a real nutcase. I loved her pranks lar. And Chegu Nina got the brunt of it!”
“Kat, it was hilarious lar. Hey woman, we gotta do a movie real soon lar, the whole gang.”
“Hey how about right now?” Kat giggled.
“And after that let’s do something really crazy. Hahaaha. Hey woman, call Bina and Liz. And BJ too – how can we go without BJ? Hahaha.”
“Hahaha…”
“You know, Rinny, we gotta be like this all the time. Together, laughing. Having fun.”
“Yeah, who wants marriage and children- a nuisance lar. Hahaha. ”

The garbage truck out front blared the horn suddenly. Kat sat up, startled. She looked around her. Everything was perfect. She had all the luxuries. She looked out the window. The neighbours, Valli and Siva were sitting in their swing in the garden, lost in idle chatter. Their grandchildren ran around squealing. Kat looked at her hands. They were wrinkled and shook a little. She looked around the house. It was quiet. Too quiet. And then, the telephoned rang, its jarring tone shattering the silence and giving Kat a mild start. Someone was calling ! A smile lit up Kat’s face. She shuffled over quickly, lifted the phone and spoke anxiously.
“Yes, Kat here. Who is calling?”
“Ohh.” Kat put down the phone slowly. It was a wrong number.

She knew then. She was no longer Kat, the effervescent, ever laughing teenager. She was Kathyayini, the aging spinster, alone in her home, among her material riches, with no one to share her joys and sorrows.

Anne or Anna ***

A matter of grave importance, which has been troubling me no end. People being addressed as "Anne" and "Anna". The intention is noble. They mean “elder male sibling”. But from the way it is spelt, they could very well be addressing the English Princess. Or the tennis great? Tolstoy’s character? They could even be calling my best half (superlative intentional), by a shortened version of her rather lengthy name (the remaining parts meaning flower-queen!)

"Anna" is frequently heard in mushy dialogues in Tamil movies, portraying the cloying affection of elder brothers for their kid brothers and sisters. This term is common too among the Iyers of Forest Bridge (Forest Bridge being a rustic hollow in Kerala). The term Iyer often is taken to mean the bare-chested folks who mumble on our behalf to the Gods. But we are talking about the once illustrious and learned class of people, who are now sadly diluted and corrupted. Except for a few remaining ones, yours truly included.

But in the general scheme of things, locally we address elder males as "அண்ணே" which is written "Anneh". Not "Anne" or "Anna". Let us stop the corruption of our native terms. Lets call a spade a spayed.

Therefore, we resolve to henceforth use the term "Anneh" when written, and with a suitable affectionate drawl when spoken.

If we try hard enough, we can even justify this to be in line with the spirit of 1 Malaysia.

sमूठ ***

और यहाँ हम एक भारतीय ने एक और उपलब्धि है. हम अपने कॉलर एक बार फिर बदल सकते हैं.

भारतीय बिजनेस टाइकून मुकेश अंबानी दुनिया का पहला अरब डॉलर होम बनाया गया है. घर, Antilia निक के नाम है, मुंबई में बनाया गया है. यह 37,000 वर्ग फुट, पार्क से 160 वाहनों के लिए तीन छत और स्थान पर हेलिपैड के साथ 570 फुट ऊंची है. चार अंबानी परिवार वहाँ रह जाएगा. परिवार के घर भी एक हेल्थ क्लब है, एक व्यायामशाला और नृत्य स्टूडियो के साथ एक बल्ल्रूम , स्विमिंग पूल, एक चार मंजिला फांसी बगीचा और एक 50 सीटों वाले फिल्म थियेटर के साथ.

श्री अंबानी ने कथित तौर पर अमेरिका के बारे में 100 मिलियन डॉलर खर्च करने के लिए इसे बनाने, लेकिन मुंबई में संपत्ति मूल्यों के कारण, यह अब अमेरिका मूल्य 1 अरब डॉलर.

600 स्टाफ घर पर परिवार के शीर्ष फर्श पर ज्यादातर जगह से नीचे रहने वाले मेहमानों के लिए साथ काम करेंगे.

जय हिन्द!

Relief ***

Vasan had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. All of a sudden, his son had asked for the full fees to be paid up front. And Vasan had just bought the car for cash. Momentarily he was cash strapped. But his pay would come in soon. In a few days time. And everything will be ok.

And then the call came. “Anne, oru avasara othavi Anne.” Muthu was short of money to get the medication. For his epileptic son.

Vasan was troubled. Muthu had never asked for help before this. And here he was, with empty bank balances. What a situation to be in.

***
Soon, he had borrowed the $1000, which he gave to Muthu. “Ayya, God will surely bless you. I will repay my next Monday.”

***
It was 3 weeks since then. Muthu was not answering the calls. Vasan was troubled. But in his heart he knew Muthu would never cheat him. And then the excuses started coming.

“Saar, I had a bout of dizziness. I had to get admitted to the hospital. As soon as I get out, I will repay.”

“Saar, One of the cheques I was expecting did not come through. By next Monday surely I will repay.”

“I am sorry, I was so busy. Tomorrow surely I will bank in.”

Vasan couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about his hard earned money which this Muthu seemed to have cheated him of. He tried not to think bad thoughts of Muthu. But they kept coming back. Was he a con man? Did he really have an epileptic son? Was it all a scam?

Vasan kept thinking about how easily he had been conned. Every morning he would call Muthu. Often the call would go unanswered. If Muthu answered, he would give some excuse.

And then finally. A call from Muthu! “Saar, I already deposited saar. Romba sorry saar. Late ayiruchu.”

Vasan was relieved. He had got back his money. And Muthu was not a conman after all.

Indians Chining – 2 ***

And here we have another achievement by an Indian. We can turn up our collar once more.

Indian Business Tycoon Mukesh Ambani has built the World's First Billion Dollar Home. The house, nick-named Antilia, has been built in Mumbai. It is 37,000 sq feet, 570 feet high, with three helipads on the roof and space for 160 vehicles to park. Ambani’s family of four will live there. The family home also has a health club, with a gym and dance studio, along with a ballroom, swimming pool, a four-storey hanging garden and a 50 seater movie theater.

Mr. Ambani reportedly spent about US $100 million to build it, but due to the property values in Mumbai, it is now worth US $1 billion.

600 staff will work at the home with the family living mostly on the top floors with space for guests underneath.

JAI HIND!

Enthiran ***

Watching a preview clip of Enthiran during its audio launch some months ago I vowed this was one movie I was going to give a miss.

But the hype was too strong. And the nagging too intense.

There was a glimmer of hope - the theatre was dark as we went in. A power failure! But the theatre management fired up the standby generator – to keep the air conditioning going. The hall was almost full. There was a half hour delay. But everyone sat quietly. Most were frozen in the sub-zero temperatures.

We sat quite near the screen. So the frantic action and the huge images cowed us. We felt like Lilliputians.

The ridiculous antics of the “Superstar” was taken to new heights. Everyone is caught up in the mob frenzy. Even a New York film critic was not spared. He described Rajinikanth as a cross between a tiger , a tornado and an earthquake. Go figure.

Of course the mystery is how a balding, 61 year old man with a paunch, sporting styles from the eighties is able to capture people’s imagination. Many people have trouble separating his movie roles from his real life existence – Rajini is an exemplary human being. If only he will stop acting in movies.

Then there are Rajini jokes: "Rajinikanth was bitten by a cobra. After four days of intense suffering, the snake died."

And his famous quotes, which coming from anyone else would be laughable: "When I will arrive, or how I will arrive, nobody will know, but I will arrive when I ought to," he snarls, confusingly. Or, "I will do what I say. I will also do what I don't say." Many of his movies are named after his character, and every single one of them starts with a musical number in which he introduces himself in the most insane way possible.

Enthiran is the most expensive Indian movie of all time. A massive investment the producers fully expect to recoup. So the hype. I contributed RM 28.

And Aishwarya – of course she is beautiful. But she’s so overbearing and disconcerting. Unsuitable for a Tamil film. And her unnatural coloured eyes makes her look so alien.

And towards the end, the screen teemed with so many clones of Rajini – I could hardly breathe.

The high point of the evening was the unexpected appearance of the dragon, with bandaged feet. Bitten by rabid shoes.

One liners ***

• Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
• If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.
• War does not determine who is right - only who is left.
• Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening' and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.
• To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
• A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station.
• A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.
• You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
• Always borrow money from a pessimist. He won't expect it back.
• A diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you will look forward to the trip.
• Hospitality: making your guests feel like they're at home, even if you wish they were.
• Some cause happiness wherever they go. Others whenever they go.
• I used to be indecisive. Now I'm not sure.
• When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember that the Fire Department usually uses water.
• Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.
• Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.
• I say no to alcohol, it just doesn't listen.
• A friend in need is a pest indeed.
• Marriage is one of the chief causes of divorce.
• Work is fine if it doesn't take too much of your time.
• When everything comes your way, you're probably in the wrong lane.
• The light at the end of the tunnel may be an incoming train..
• Everyone has a photographic memory, some just don't have film.
• Life is unsure; always eat your dessert first.
• Smile, it makes people wonder what you are thinking.
• If you keep your feet firmly on the ground, you'll have trouble putting on your pants.
• The trouble with being punctual is that no one is there to appreciate it.
• It's not the fall that kills you. It's the sudden stop at the end.
• The cigarette does the smoking, you are just the sucker.
• Whenever I find the key to success, someone changes the lock.

Indians Chining ***

India- the next superpower. Booming economy. Skyrocketing incomes and dizzying real estate prices. Everyone is singing praises of India. And Indians. Suddenly it feels good to be Indian. We can walk around with our heads up. We can turn up our collars. But wait.

All is not well. The Delhi Commonwealth games , supposed to showcase the New India – is promising to be a collosal disaster. Corruption. Incompetence. Structures collapsing in the full glare of world media. Unsafe venues. Faeces in the residences. Muddy doggy footprints on the beds. You name it.

Media is having a field day. One picture is of a huge billboard of the Games Mascot, dwarfing a tiny barefoot urchin, dressed in rags, and crouching on a dusty pavement. A handcart loaded with games signages and other articles pushed by a half dozen sweating emaciated laborers, against the backdrop of a spanking new stadium. A collapsed footbridge, and hundreds of police, officials and other on-lookers. All standing around, many pointing in different directions. No one seems to be doing anything. And appalling conditions in the facilities – as witnessed by contingent members from different countries. And the most damning quote: “The Indians may have unwittingly brought about the demise of the Commonwealth Games. For good.”

And closer to home, the Indians are not getting any good press either. Two Indian lawyers (popular perception being : this is arguably the worst combination of race and profession) are suspected of having carried out cold blooded murders of several people. And one of the victims is believed to be a millionaire from India. The story henceforth loses all pretense of reality and is unfolding like a Tamil mega-serial. There is the wife, who turns out to be not the wife. The real wife suddenly appears. Everyone is talking about he dead man’s money and what they are entitled to. Now, the story heats up. An alleged million ringgit ransom demand by two police officers from Bukit Aman. And of course: the officers were Indian.

And another story on todays's front pages: an Indian man and his wife abused an Indon maid, triggering riots in Indonesia against Malaysia.

And deeper in today's paper, news from a Jail in South America. The inmates are having some dance program, and the inmate featured prominently is: a Malaysian Indian.

Indians everywhere are really chining.

News Story ***

“61 year old M. Bulwari fell into the sea after opening the exit door on a Chennai bound train, mistaking it to be the door to the toilet. Her husband P.Meharchand later went to sea in a fishing boat in search on his missing wife who was later found sitting on a huge rock at sea.”

Can you picture this story actually happening ?

Home ***

Durappa lay at an awkward angle, mouth wide open. He slept blissfully, snoring sporadically, oblivious to the swarm of mosquitoes hovering all around him. The noise was earsplitting, even at that late hour. Air horns blared, and trucks revved loudly. The drivers and assistants yelled to make themselves heard over the din. But Durappa slept through it all, lying on the hard seat of his truck. He was exhausted after the long drive from Chandigarh to Bhopal. In the morning he would continue, driving his truck to Hyderabad.

***
Durappa had mixed feelings about his new life. The money was good. The work was easy. He was a gardener in the big hospital. Everyone back home in his village was envious. “Durappa has got a job in Malaysia”. But he missed home. He missed the familiar long drives, along the hot and dusty highways. He missed the simple but delicious meals at the dhabas. He missed his wife and children. And most of all, he missed the noise and bustle. Durappa was unable to sleep in his new quarters. It was too quiet.

He walked along the car park driveway slowly, carrying the shears. He was tired and sleep deprived.

***
Ranjan was fuming. His boss was so unreasonable. But Ranjan knew he had to keep his cool. Of late, his blood pressure had been erratic. He took deep breaths. He tried to think of the upcoming weekend.

As he turned the bend, he had to slow down. The man was walking along the middle of the driveway. Ranjan’s anger rose. He wanted to blast the horn. But he calmed himself down. Patience. Patience. Ranjan slowed to a crawl. The car rolled quietly behind the man. But the man was lost in thought, oblivious to his surroundings. Ranjan was reaching the end of his tether. Just as he was about to tap the horn, the man spotted the car. It startled him. He jumped to the side, instinctively.

***
Durappa let loose a string of choice curses. “Are you blind? Can’t you see a man walking? Why couldn’t you sound your horn? Sneaking up like that! You almost gave me a heart attack.” He brandished the shears.

Ranjan stood transfixed for a minute. This imbecile had been walking in the middle of the driveway blocking his path, and now he was screaming at him. Ranjan jumped forward, trying to grab Durappa. Durappa fended him off with the shears. The heavy metal shears hit the bonnet of the car, scraping the paint. Ranjan was infuriated. He grabbed Durappa and shook him. It was too much for Durappa. He went berserk. He landed repeated blows on Ranjan with the shears. Blood spurted everywhere. Ranjan grabbed the shears and stabbed Durappa.

Soon they both lay lifeless, in a pool of blood. For a moment, it was quiet. Then, suddenly all hell broke loose. People screaming. Alarms sounding. Sirens wailing. A cacophony of sounds. Durappa would have felt at home. If he had been alive.

What will you do ? ***

What will your reaction be if you encounter this on reaching home after a hard days' work?

Kopachchan ***

A vehement objection. Now he knew what it meant. Always the altruist, he stooped to pick it up. Under the sole, the insect struggled to break free. It was alive and kicking. They always are. Especially in the autumn – the falling leaves have something to do with it. But what a spectacle? One could watch the scene for hours. And be fascinated by the intrigue. Drop by drop, inch by inch. It was relentless.

Kopachchan adjusted the goggles. It was almost dusk. But he could not chance it. He had to take the decision mow. An inexplicable tap on his shoulder startled him. Who could it be? At this hour? And at this God forsaken place? He dared not turn. So he let out the blood curdling scream. At the end of it he felt better. His hair stood on end. But he felt better. Eyes closed, he sat in the lotus position.

The insect struggled to break free. It was much more alive now. But the objection was even more vehement. Suddenly he went blank. Nothing. Just a blank whiteness. An endless beep. Was he dead? He could see vivid shapes. The light appeared blinding. The insect was miniscule, yet its every feature was clearly silhouetted. Kopachchan knew it. It was over. He sighed. And relaxed his grip. As he fell, time stood still. And at that very moment, the insect broke free. It fell too. Kopachchan could see the insect falling. It was just above him. Almost within reach. But he just watched. They fell in slow motion. It was a graceful dance. Almost gravity defying. And as the light dimmed, the water fell away. Clouds of cool moisture enveloped them. They were suspended in mid-air. Time and space stood still. Kopachchan's mind was a blank. He had no thought. He had ceased to exist.

The Abode of Peace ****

Purushotaman entered the bus terminus. The chaos he encountered was overwhelming. He placed his trust in a tout, and was pleased to secure a seat on a Super Deluxe Airbus. As he waited, he watched the dust and pandemonium in the bus terminus. Everyone went about their business. The vendors, beggars, touts and assorted travelers. Soon, a run down bus backed into the bay in front, rattling loudly, and emitting sporadic bursts of black smoke. It was the Super Deluxe Airbus. The words were emblazoned in bold letters on its side. Purushotaman got in. Inside it was an oven. A dank smell of sweat and damp cloth and unwashed bodies hung in the air. People carried their large suitcases, baskets of farm produce and all manner of goods on-board, filling the aisle, the overhead compartments and even the roof racks.

Soon the bus moved. This brought relief from the still and humid air. Now there was a constant blast of dusty hot air coming through the windows. Purushotaman sat - uncomfortable in his threadbare seat. The arm rests were missing, and the screws which had once held them poked his forearms. And then the passenger in front decided to recline his chair. This brought his head on Purushotaman’s lap. The journey lasted 3 hours.

Prashanti Nilayam. The name conjured magic. The Avatar Himself is here. As he neared the place, Swami’s photos were everywhere. His projects were everywhere too. Sathya Sai Water Project, Super Speciality Hospital, schools, colleges.

Purushotaman was excited as he made his way into the ashram. He dragged his suitcase and enquired about accommodation.

“Block N-8 saar. Faraners accommodation.”

It was a good distance. Purushotaman was sweating and tired as he reached Block N-8.

“Sairam. Please sit down saar.”

“Sairam. I come from Malaysia. I need a room for 2 days.”

“Sary saar. No accommodation available.”

This was unexpected. Purushotaman sat and stared at the man.

“All rooms full,” the man added, to drive home the point.

“You can try hotels outside.”

Purushotaman collected his things and began the long trek back outside. After several inquiries, he managed to get a decent room. The rental was steep, and the facility bare. But he was contented. He thanked Swami for the room.

***

Purushotaman decided to have lunch at the Ashram Canteen. He was in a long slow moving line. He was hungry and tired, and the shoving and pushing and queue jumpers added to his misery. At last he was at the front of the line.

“Sairam. 2 chapattis please.”

“No money. Only token.” The man waved him on.

Purushotaman asked around and was pointed to another long slow-moving line outside.
Finally he got his chapatti. He said his prayer and took his first mouthful.

***

It was Dharshan time. As Purushotaman tried to walk in, the seva dal stopped him. “Saar, no bag, no book. Purushotaman looked at the articles in his hands. Someone pointed out the cloak room. He queued up. As he reached the front, the man was brusque. “You read sign. Only cell-phone.” And he started dealing with the next person in the line. Looked like he had no choice except to go back to the hotel room to leave the things. Suddenly it started drizzling heavily.

Purushotaman sat in the Dharshan hall. He was wet. The floor was cold and hard. The crowd was jabbering away in a cacophony of languages, drowning out the sweet melodies of the Vedic chanting. Then, a sudden calm. Heads were bobbing up. Swami was here ! Purushotaman strained to catch a glimpse. Suddenly, a spot of orange in the sea of white. Tears flowed. He was no longer wet. The floor was no longer cold. Nothing else existed except him and Swami. He was in bliss.

***

Purushotaman was due to leave after this Dharshan. He watched the slight figure in orange wheeled out of the hall. He continued to watch until the very last moment. As he left the hall, he was already planning his next trip. To the Abode of Peace.

A stroke of genius ***

Vengaiah squatted in front of his shack in Doddapatti. The heat shimmered off the rocky ground. His few goats rummaged among the rocks for grass. The wells had no water, and the villagers had to haul water from nearly a mile away. It had not always been like this. He recalled that even a few years ago the wells had water all year round. Crops grew and there were grazing grounds all around the village for the cattle and goats. The Ranch had changed their lives. Although some of the villagers worked there or sold their produce to the Ranch for paltry sums, they now lived in abject poverty. On top of that their access to Uravakonda town had been cut off by the Ranch fence. Now the villagers had to take a more circuitous route to town.
***
Ramarajulu Reddy alighted from his Mercedes Benz stretched limousine. As he entered his mansion, the manager of the Ranch followed. He had urgent papers to be signed. They were buying up another 1000 hectares to the north. “Our Ranch must be the biggest in the country. Do whatever it takes.” This was Reddy’s clear order. Over a short span of just 8 years, they had amassed a vast area in Kedahalli, stretching all the way from Uravakonda to Doddapatti. Through innovative and often questionable methods, they had tapped surface and ground water and transformed the Ranch into a green showcase. All types of crops grew there. Vast gardens bloomed. Many VVIPS visited the Ranch. It was a model and a showcase. The brochures handed out to visitors did not fail to mention that the per capita income of the Kedahalli taluk had increased a thousand fold since the Ranch had been established. But it did not say that 98% of the income was Reddy’s. It did not mention the exploitation of the poor ignorant villagers. Or that the massive extraction of water had depleted the water in all the surrounding areas, causing desert-like conditions in many of the areas around the Ranch. In short the Ranch served to enrich one man while impoverishing the community as a whole.
***
Minister Venkataraman was bored. The taluk officer was going on and on in a monotonous drone. “The Union Government has identified this as a problem. The development goal set was for the income disparity between taluks to be less than 25%. But here are two taluks next to each other with vast difference in income level. Kedahalli is extremely prosperous. The per capita income is among the highest in the State. But right next to it is Doddapatti. Per capita income less that Rs 400 per annum. Far below hardcore poverty levels.” He went on to show pie charts and more data. Then he showed a map of the area. Suddenly Venkataraman sat up. He had a brainwave.

“Hold on. Can we table a proposal to the State Assembly to merge these two taluks?”

Wash your hands **

I nervously looked up at the small fading sign “Cellphoon reapars”. On my way to buy a new Blackberry, my innate sense of foolhardy adventure made me stop my car and investigate. A shop not more than 6 feet by 6 feet in the backstreets of Chennai. Grimy and uncleaned.
“Can you fix a blackberry ?”
“Of course.”
The boy was no more than 10. I certainly wasn’t handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and khaki shorts.
“What’s wrong with it ?” “Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it”
He grabs it from my hand and looks at it.
“You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working.”
Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10 days, I leaned out to snatch my useless blackberry back.

“You come back in one hour and I fix it.”
I was not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.

Then suddenly big brother walks in. He is no more than 19.
“What problem ?” He says grabbing the phone from the boy’s greasy hand into his greasier hand.
“Normal blackberry problem. I replace with original part now. You must wash your hand before you use this.”
I look sheepishly at my hands.
He rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. There is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screwdrivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.
“How long will this take ?” “Six minutes ”
This I have to see. After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space. At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space. People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am getting a trapped feeling. I am breathing heavily. I have a desperate urge to grab my precious blackberry back and make a quick escape.
But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together. As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.
“You have more than thousand phone numbers ?”
I nodded.
“Backed up ?”
I shook my head sadly, ready for more admonishments.
“Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up.”

“You tell me that now ?”
But then the phone came on and my data was still there. Everyone watching laughed and clapped. This was becoming a show. A six minute show.
I asked him how much.
“500 rupees saar.” He ventured uncertainly . People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation. That’s $ 10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000 ($ 600) I was a about to spend on a new blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his high price. But calmly paid him. Much to the disappointment of the expectant crowd.
“Do you have an Iphone ?”
“No, why?”
“I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or film you want. I give you 10 film on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee.” He offered.
I went home having discovered the true entrepreneurship that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them.
I smiled at the future of this country. If only we could learn to harness this potential.
“Please wash your hands before use phone.” were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean.
(adapted from original by Unknown Author)

Short***

It was a short distance to the nearest available table. A shortish man approached. He stopped us short. A short pause. Shortly the short man spoke. “No shorts allowed sar.” This caught us short. “You see sar, we have a dress code, and shorts are not allowed but if you wish we can give you a dhoti for you to wear…”

I cut him short. Short–shrift treatment. A general feeling of being short-changed. A short interlude. Shortly, we left.

Thank you ***

The tree branch lay on the road, making half the road impassable. As I walked around the branch, I noticed that the morning traffic was a little inconvenienced, trying to manoeuvre through the bottleneck created by the fallen branch. As I came around the corner, on my second round of my morning walk, I saw two old ladies standing near the fallen branch. As I came closer, it became apparent that they were trying to move the branch to the side, with little success.

I felt a wave of shame.

“Aunty, let me do it.”

I dragged the branch to the side. The ladies stood watching.

“Thank you so much.” The ladies smiled at me.

“Thank you aunty.”

Thank you indeed. For that lesson.

Inception **

Made the mistake of reading a couple of glowing reviews for this movie, thus cranking up the expectations. A bit overated. In fact very overated. Halfway through, I wanted to stand up and declare that the emperor is wearing no clothes.

The people in the movie use gadgets that allow them to invade the dreams of others and extract secrets from the subject's subconscious. Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio), is in this business, which he does not so much as a hobby but more for espionage. Then one guy, Saito, comes along, and instead of asking for an extraction, he demands an inception - the implantation of an idea deep in the subconscious.

The laughable plot is to use this method to get Robert Fischer Jr., who has just inherited the corporate empire built by his father to deliberately break it up. This is to help Saito’s business empire to dominate.

There are architects in the cast who design the "sets" for the dreams, and one guy who provides drugs to keep sleepers sedated or bring them back to wakefulness. They all travel into a dream-within-a-dream-within-a dream until no one knows what’s going on. I am sure the story won’t hold up to close scrutiny.

But the movie was action packed, so there was no danger of the viewers dozing off into their own dream world.

Having said that, I can think of several useful applications for that gadget. Starting with its use to implant some good ideas in the heads of some of our leaders.

The Killer ****

Visalachi had told Kesavan about the old lady she was taking care of. She had been sick for a while, and now, the doctors said she was dying of Cancer. Kesavan looked perplexed. He did not understand what she meant but sensed the seriousness of the matter.

“Mama, what is cancer?” Kesavan put this question to Sabapathy mama, his neighbour the next morning, as they sat together on the verandah.
“It’s a terrible disease. No cure. People just wait to die when they get Cancer. It’s a killer.” Sabapathy settled back into his dreamy state in the cloth hammock he was reclining in. Kesavan sat staring blankly at the wall. As he shifted, the chair creaked under the weight of his immense frame. Kesavan knitted his brow as he tried to concentrate. The thoughts overwhelmed him. He sensed a throbbing headache coming on. Kesavan shook his head, as if to rid himself of all the thoughts coursing through his head. His mind cleared. But the depression persisted.

Then, all of a sudden, things became clear. He got up abruptly, startling Sabapathy. In quick strides, Kesavan made his way purposefully to Temple Street. Soon he stood panting and sweating profusely, at the front gate of Narayana Reddy’s house.
“Amma… amma,” Kesavan called out to his mother.
“What are you doing here? Go back home. Amma is busy. I will come back in the evening and make thosai for you.” Visalachi stood there, wiping her brow.
“Amma, that lady has Cancer. I don’t want you to be near her. Come home. You don’t have to work anymore. I will work. I will earn money and support you. Come home amma. I don’t want you to die.” Kesavan was almost in tears.

Visalachi hugged him. “Ayyo, asadu asadu. I have asked everyone. Cancer cannot be passed from one person to another. Nothing will happen to me. You go home now.” She patted his head. Kesavan stood there for a while. His head throbbed. Then he walked home slowly. As he passed Sabapathy’s house, Kesavan paused. Sabapathy was dozing in the hammock, his head lolling from side to side.

***

Visalachi had been sick for more than a week now. Kesavan sat and watched her all day. He was helpless. He was confused and angry because his mother was suffering.
“Its nothing. Just a cough. I have taken the saffron water. I will be alright in the morning. You go sleep.” But Kesavan could not sleep. He lay tossing and turning.

Kesavan awoke with a start. His mother was coughing and moaning. Kesavan hurriedly scrambled up and switched on the light. He was horrified at the sight. There was blood everywhere. His mother was lying on the floor. As he watched she spat out more blood. Kesavan ran out screaming. “Mama ! Sabapathy mama! Amma is very ill. Come now. Mama ! “

***
Kesavan’s head throbbed. The pain was unbearable. Events had moved at lightning pace. The hospital. The doctor telling him that his amma had Cancer. The worsening cough. The terrible suffering his mother went through. And finally, amma was dead. Gone for good. If only she had listened to him….

Kesavan’s head stopped throbbing. Suddenly everything was clear. Kesavan remembered the Ayya shrine at the corner of Mudaliar Street. He walked there now. At the shrine, he stopped. For a moment he gazed at the small statue, standing fiercely, dagger raised as if to strike. Slowly he grabbed the dagger.

The gate and front door was open. Entering, he moved swiftly to the side room. Pausing for a moment in front of the bed, he brought the dagger down in a massive blow. Blood splattered everywhere. The old lady died without a whimper. She was out of her misery. Kesavan watched her lifeless body. He felt a strange calm. The dagger dropped from his hand.

The Black Mark ****

Prasad sat with head bowed. “I just couldn’t help myself, dad.” He stammered. “It just snowballed before I realized what was happening….”

“Shut up.” His father cut him off. “You are totally useless. Do you know the value of money ? Do you know how much I slog to earn my money? All these things I do for you and this is what you do in return.” He was livid.

“I’m sorry dad. I will never…”

“If you ever do it again I will disown you. You lost $20,000 betting on football ! I cannot believe you could be so stupid. And to top it, now you tell me you borrowed from the loan shark. His interest is $5,000. Unbelievable ! Now he is threatening to beat you up. I should just let him.”

Prasad’s father stomped away to his study. He was fuming inside. He had the money. But it was hard earned money. Not to be given to slimy bookies and loan sharks. Suddenly he had an idea. He would mark all the notes. He would trap the bookies and the Ah Long. The thought somewhat mollified him. He sat down and painstakingly placed tiny black dots on the corner of every note. Then he carefully counted the notes again, and put them into the envelope.

*******

Kamesh sat with Vatsala, facing Dr Purandhar. The doctor was pointing out the fuzzy images on his large monitor. “Can you see this ? The cyst is pushing against these nerve nodes. The reddish colour indicates it is well supplied with blood. It is still growing.”

Vatsala sat impassive, eyes downcast. She had been through a lot lately. She just wanted to get it over with. Kamesh wondered why the doctor was telling them all these. They already knew that the growth had to be operated.

“It is very complicated because of the proximity of the nerves. A more sophisticated procedure is called for.” Kamesh’s heart sank. He had balked at the initial cost of $20,000 which the doctor had mentioned. Now it looked like he was going to ask for more. “Tell us what needs to be doctor. I want my wife to be healthy again. Whatever it takes.” He put his arm around Vatsala, and squeezed her shoulders.

“We would need spinal laparoscope assisted microsurgery. That would minimize the risks of collateral damage to the occipital and auditory nerves. I estimate $25,000.” Dr Purandhar glanced at them shiftily. He felt a sharp pang of guilt. He lowered his eyes uncomfortably.

*******



Daniel sat leaning back on his swivel chair. He had been taken aback at the sudden request. But Kamesh was a dear old friend. And Daniel was deeply indebted to him. In fact he owed his life to Kamesh. He had promised to help Kamesh.

“Kali. Oru mukkiamana vela irukku. Meet me at Devi’s Corner, 7 am tomorrow.” Daniel put down the phone.

*******

Leo Zachcharias Chung was a thug. He ran betting syndicates, and the complementary business of loan sharking. But now, Zachcharias sat trembling. It was a comical sight. The burly tough Lion of the underworld was behaving like a frightened kitten. The tattoo of the dragon on his arm quivered like a frightened mouse. They had struck him at his weakest point. They had kidnapped his only son Michael.

*******

Dr Purandhar was surprised. Kamesh had paid by cash. He glanced at the brown envelope, mildly surprised. He slid the money out, and flipped through the stack. Suddenly he stopped and dropped the notes on the table. Stunned, he stared at the notes. He frantically shuffled them clumsily, spreading them all over the table. Every one of them had a black dot at the corner.

Braking it ***

He just could not bare it. It had been like that since he had been borne. And it always put him in a fowl mood. Control control and control. He had no freedom. And on top of it, the whether had been bad since yesterday. He was board. He wasn’t aloud to go out in the rain. As he watched the rain patter down on the window pain, he saw a movement in the street. It was the none. She looked quite pail. She turned, sensing him watching her. He waived. She smiled and waived back. Then she began the slow accent up the steep steppes.

The none reached the alter, and bowed to the attendance. He watched silently as she knelt at the bass of the statue, silently preying for a minute. The she blue out the candles. Just then, the bolder came crashing down from the sealing. It crushed the none, and fell through the flour, into the seller.

The cereal killer stood above, watching the seen below.

The Conversation ***

I was nearly bursting. The first cubicle was taken, so I went into the second one. Slammed the bolt and sat down when I hear a voice from the next cubicle...........

“Hi there, how is it going?”

A bit taken aback, I stayed quiet for a while. I am not the type to strike up conversations with strangers. Especially strangers I cannot see. Strangers talking through toilet cubicle partitions. In any case, I didn't know what to say.

Then, the voice again, “Are you there ? Can you hear me?”

So finally I say: “Yes. I’m ok ............”

Then the voice says: “So, what are you doing?”

I am starting to find this a bit weird. What did he think I was doing? But I say: “Well, I'm going back to KL ...............”

Then I hear the person, all flustered, say: “Look, I'll call you back … every time I ask you a question this idiot in the next cubicle keeps answering me.”

(adapted from unknown author)

Father and Son ***

“My father is a popular man. Every day, dozens of people come to see him. His phone is ringing all the time. He has hardly any time for anything.”

“My father travels round the world for his business. He employs more than 2000 people. He is on the move all the time.”

And it went on and on. Rajan squirmed in his seat. His son had insisted that he come for the Fathers' Day event at his school. And here he was, listening to the children, each singing praises of their fathers. But Rajan was just a humble clerk. He struggled to cater to his small family’s needs. To make ends meet, he had to drive a taxi part time. And his wife had to baby sit a few children to earn a few extra dollars. In the company of all these distinguished fathers, Rajan felt small and out of place. He gazed at his son, standing at the side of the stage. Soon, it would be Pushpa’s turn. Rajan was overcome with guilt. What could Pushpa possibly say about his father ? Sitting by his side, Leela glanced at him. She instinctively knew what was going through Rajan’s head. She touched his hand, and gave him a squeeze.

Then, Pushpa was at the centre of the stage. He hardly reached up to the microphone. But he stood tall. Rajan was overcome with a mix of emotions. Pride, but at the same time guilt, shame and a feeling of inadequacy.

Pushpa was speaking. Rajan strained to hear every word. “My father is not rich with money. He is not famous. But he is the best. He has unlimited love. His sacrifices cannot be measured. He is here for me. I love him. And he loves me.”

Rajan sat up proudly. His eyes were moist. He wanted to stand up there and then, right in the middle of the hall, and declare “That is my son! He is the best.”

The Encounter ****

The three dark blue uniformed men stepped forward, startling me out of my reverie. I tried to surreptitiously switch off my cell-phone and pocket it, while groping for the seat belt. But there was no belt. Because I was walking ! It was ok to use the phone! Relief. I looked at the policemen sheepishly, a little emboldened. I was quite certain I had not done anything against the law.

“Selamat petang encik.”

So what did they want from me? One of the policemen pressed a few brochures and stickers into my hand.

“Ini maklumat Rakan Kop. Kalau ada masalah boleh SMS. Ini nombor dia. Selamat petang encik.” And they were off.

I stood for a while looking at their backs as they merged into the crowds at the pasar malam. I felt a little awkward. I think they felt the same way too. We were unaccustomed to such friendly encounters.

High and low ****

Bhaskar hurried home. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife and son what had happened at the office that day. Pushing the door open, he stumbled in, sinking into the sofa. Seeing him, his wife got up, “You know the gas....”

“Sit down. You would never guess what happened today.” He cut her off, and sat her down. Bhanu sat next to him, looking at him. Kiran put down the remote and watched his father.

Bhaskar caught his breath and started relating the amazing incident. “I had just finished tallying the morning collection. There was a shortfall of Rs 320. And I rechecked all the invoices twice before I found the error. And just as I sat back, relieved at having reconciled everything perfectly, I sensed some people entering the room. And guess who it was? Our GM. He headed straight for my desk. He smiled and asked me about my job, what I did. And he listened and nodded as I explained everything. I even explained how I had managed to tally the accounts to the paisa that day. He patted me on the back – imagine, the GM himself patted me on the back, and said, ‘Very good. Keep it up.’”

Bhaskar paused to catch his breath. “It was astounding. My boss stood behind, and even he looked pleased.”

Bhaskar was beaming with pride. He was excited like a small child.

Bhanu sat silently for a few seconds. Then she said, “You know the gas cylinder is giving problems again….”

Kiran took up the remote and resumed changing channels.

The Attraction ***

He was up early. It was a weekend, and he knew the crowds would be extra large. They would start arriving soon. Within minutes he had arrived at the square. He sat, at his usual place. It was a vantage spot. He could see the whole square. He could even see beyond, as the tourist coaches arrived and parked, disgorging the hordes of oversized men and women, all with cameras dangling around their necks. They came from all over the world. To see him. They gathered just beyond the metal barricades, and stood in awe. Gazing at him. Often snapping photographs. Some had photos taken of themselves, with him in the background.

He sat obligingly. Occasionally he descended to the square. But mostly he sat high up at his place.

As the crowd thinned, he decided to call it a day. He flew off his perch on top of the huge bronze statue, and headed for his nest.

In the square, the few remaining tourists continued to snap pictures of the massive statue in the failing light.

The mathematics of the law

There is an interesting problem appearing in the recent news. The gist of the matter is that an MP has been sentenced to a fine of RM2,000. The Constitution provides that “a person fined not less than RM2,000 shall be disqualified” as an MP.

The lawyers are befuddled. Is RM 2,000 “not less than RM2,000” ?

For the laymen (and lawyers are laymen for this purpose), the argument goes like this:
1. The man has been fined RM 2,000.
2. If RM 2,000 is considered “less than RM 2,000” then he is not disqualified
3. If RM 2,000 is considered “not less than RM 2,000” then he is disqualified

It’s quite obvious, but we cannot blame the lawyers.

In mathematical parlance, the problem can be analysed thus:

Is 2000 < 2000 : not true

Is 2000 > 2000 : not true

Is 2000 not< 2000 : true


Of course for the mathematical aficionados there are methods of proving that RM 2,000is not less than RM 2,000. One way is to use Fourier series & Euler's constant.

The bottom line is that there is no point in disqualifying Tian Chua. Batu is confirmed PKR.

The Psycho ***

The waiting room was crowded. It was silent except for the hum of the air-conditioner, and the occasional beeping of the phone, followed by the hushed conversation of the nurses.

Then, a tremor. It was hardly perceptible. Only the alert few sensed it, but soon they let it pass. One or two looked around, and pondered a while on what they had felt, but they too dismissed it as another effect of the long and mindless wait.

Then it came. The whole row of seats shook, causing mild panic to those seated. And then it became clear. The middle aged chap sitting at the centre of the row. He was the cause. He sat with his head bowed, chin touching his chest. His body was in convulsions. Those seated nearby watched in horror. Then he looked up. The man was trying to suppress his mirth. Seeing that he had attracted so much attention, he somewhat sobered up. He looked around furtively. Looking a little sheepish, he bowed his head. Everything was tranquil once again.

Those seated near to him sensed the imminent danger from this obviously deranged person. He looked harmless enough, but who could tell what was going on in his mind? A few moved away, surreptitiously. A boy who had curiously moved closer to observe the man up close was jerked violently away by his mother.

The man sat silently. Several pairs of eyes watched him keenly, looking out for tell-tale signs of lunatic behaviour. And then he looked up, smiling and chuckling to himself.

Then he rose, abruptly, startling several of those seated nearby. He strode purposefully towards a woman, who had just emerged from one of the doctors’ rooms. Together, they walked out of the waiting room. And as they went, everyone could see the cover of the book the man held in his hand. “The lost continent: travels in small-town America”, by Bill Bryson.

A Proposal for Mr O ****

Dear Mr O:

Shalom. Whatever be the merits contained in your recent spate of emails, it goes without saying that you have stirred much interest among the populace. Indirectly you have spawned a host of others who mimic, imitate and mock you, thereby adding to the excitement. All this is good. Because we here at MA Associates are concerned more with the commercial possibilities that have opened up. It would be a criminal waste if these are not exploited to the fullest, and recognising you as the pioneer and prime mover in this case, we offer you the right of first refusal.

Our proposal involves advertisements and merchandising options.

Merchandising: The possibilities are endless. Here are some samples.

Advertisements:

Running adverts, spots and side-bars in your future emails. We could also franchise similar arrangements to other Mr O mimics. We foresee several potential clients:

• Vegetable wholesalers
• Centres promoting Study Circles
• Other organisations, hoping to fish in the troubled waters
• English language coaching centres
• Convention Organisers (if agreeable to you, although we do see the irony)

We envision much potential in the future, and we are not ruling out movie rights.



We appreciate that you have a penchant for anonymity, and we therefore offer to be your commercial agents, guaranteeing complete confidentiality.

MA Associates
Public Relations, Advertising and Merchandising Consultants (PRAMCON)

The Golden Age of Venga ***

The erstwhile leaders had not imagined that this would happen. Not in their dreams. Their foolhardy challenge to the writer of the anonymous letters to reveal himself and walk the talk had backfired. Venga had not only called their bluff, but had turned the organization around. Everyone now basked in the golden sunshine of spectacular success. Except the ex-leaders, who were full of envy, jealousy and hatred.

Venga had strong faith. He also believed in himself. He worked hard, and had faith. This was the secret of his success. He did not tolerate 'cliqueism’. His clarion call for Reformation struck a chord with the young and restless. “We are no longer common man's organization. No more mundane activities. Everything must be on a grand scale. Everything we do will be an astounding mega spectacle.” Venga declared.

And it happened. The Values Drama competition was held Nationwide, attended by all (yes, ALL) colleges, universities and polytechnics. Everyone walked the Values path.

Single handedly, Venga showed the Government the way to eradicate social ills afflicting our Nation, through the inclusion of value components in the school syllabus. All 8,000 primary schools in the country implemented this. Venga was celebrated as the saviour of the Nation.
Every Centre of the organization was multiracial and multireligious. Venga ordained that every centre must have at least one person from each race and religion. Otherwise the Centre will be downgraded or even closed down. Another decree was that no centre must be dominated by one denomination. All must be equally represented. Centres were reformed, and now functioned as Community Centers which provided skills training, hobby classes, single mothers meeting center, etc

Strict rules required all members, including youths and children to follow the Code of Conduct. Voluntary vigilantes would monitor this diligently.

Venga also cracked his whip to bring the leaders in line. KPI’s were introduced to monitor their performance, and anyone not up to the mark will be sacked. Members also had recourse to introduce a Vote of no confidence against any leader not performing to expectations.

The Golden Age of Venga had arrived.

The mood change ***

Madhavan sat fuming. He had returned in a foul mood. And the mess he encountered as he entered the house did nothing to improve his mood. And then Viji had come, with her own pent up gripes, going on and on until he snapped at her.

As he sat, Madhavan became aware of the incessant sloshing noise from the back of the house. Soon it became unbearable. It was his son, Vinit, in the bathroom. Madhavan soon reached a boiling point; he dashed to the kitchen, bellowing , “Stop it and come out.”

But the sloshing continued, even more intensified. Vinit had not heard his father and was happily thrashing about in the bathtub.

“Daaai.” Madhavan blew his top.

For a few moments there was silence. Then at the slit opening on the wall of the bathroom, a little face appeared. Vinit peered out of the slit, his wet hair plastered down, his goggles still in place. Madhavan looked at his son for a moment. Then he burst into uncontrollable laughter. Viji stared incredulously, not sure what to make of this sudden turn of mood. And then she too broke into chuckles. Vinit smiled. Everything was okay.

Why the chicken crossed the road… or “It’s an onion… it’s a turkey… no it’s a chicken!” ****

He stood in contemplation. Something disturbed him. Something was not right. He stood still while everyone else whizzed by. And to him, in his own stationary state, everything else appeared to be unchanging, if not deteriorating, in spite of the apparent activity. After a while, he had convinced himself. He had found the outward path. He had to do it. Now. And impulsively, he dashed across the chaotic road, narrowly missing the thundering juggernauts of monster trucks and the speeding cars. And soon, he was on the other side. Safe. And exhilarated. He had made it.

But as he looked back, he saw that several others, caught up in the euphoria, had followed him. And these poor souls had been pitifully crushed by the unyielding onslaught on the road. And then it dawned on him. Nothing had really changed. Except for the hapless victims, who had come to a violent end. But in the larger scheme of things, the monster trucks still whizzed by, in their fervent zeal to get to where they wanted to go. And the hangers on, they still hung on. The ardent followers raced behind, caught up in the excitement, but often falling by the wayside exhausted. The lookers-on stood impassively, watching the scene disinterestedly. The toilers toiled in steadfast resolve, oblivious to everything . And others, elsewhere, carried on in ignorant bliss. Life went on as ordained by Him. And everyone played their part. Even the chicken who crossed the road. And even those who, in a brief respite, debated on Why the chicken crossed the road.

Reality ***

Pathy sat up with a start. He sat dazed in the darkened bedroom, drenched in sweat. It had been a nightmare ! A terrifying one. But he was alright now. His house was intact. Here he was in the comfort of his bed. His wife lay beside him, breathing softly. She looked like an angel in her sleep. And his baby stirred and stretched in her cot, just beside their bed. Everything was fine. He gently touched his wife’s cheeks. She moved and sighed. Pathy’s eyes moistened. What a terrible nightmare that had been. His house had burnt down in front of his eyes. And as he stood helpless and impotent, Amy and the baby had perished in a horrible fiery death.

Pathy recalled the last part of the nasty dream. He had gone crazy, lashing out at everyone. He cursed the Gods. He smashed the idols in shrines near his home, slashing anyone who tried to stop him. And then he was restrained. And locked up in the home for the insane.

Pathy smiled to himself as he recalled how angry he had been at God. He had wanted to destroy the Gods who had destroyed his home and family !

******
The rays of sunshine shone through the slats of the high window, falling on Pathy’s face. He opened his eyes slowly. He turned. His hands were secured to the metal bedframe with nylon rope chain. He looked around in a daze. The place had a strong odour of disinfectant. The rows of metal framed beds were neatly arranged, with many of them occupied by inmates in white coveralls. Then it dawned on Pathy. He was still in the asylum.

******

Pathy lay in deep contemplation. He knew now that the terrible thing that had happened was real. But only as real as he wanted it to be. Only as real as the timeless drama of maya, in which his own life was but a fleeting moment.

Caution in Free India ***

India got its freedom in 1947. And since then, its arguably the free-est place on the globe. You can do anything there - from peeing or crapping by the roadside to honking all the way on the roads. But there is this rare establishment, somewhere in Mother India which is an oasis of no-no's. And while you are there, do control your laughter.

“The scoop on poop” or “Are cows better alive or dead?” ***

To produce one kg of meat takes the same resources as is required for about seven kg of beans.

Cows belch a lot of GHG (greenhouse gases), besides embedding a bunch of these gases in their gaseous and solid excretions. But we can anaerobically digest poop, to capture methane.

So overall- the Kamadenu - a cow that gives milk that can be used for making butter, ghee, cheese etc. and whose poop is a good source of fuel (whether solid or digested anaerobically to produce fuel gas) - is worth more alive than dead, assuming you can live on one pound of beans after feeding the cow five pounds of fodder, now you even have one extra pound of fodder and a slightly emaciated cow.

If you just slaughter it, you are wasting all the food you gave it, getting nothing out - even range cows that do not do much help a lot by landscape management- calculations of methane release from grasslands show that cattle grazing helps.

And the bulls, I guess our good cows, need to have some fun once in a while, so spare the bulls also, so once in a while they can hit the stock markets...

Holy cows are good alive...the ancient Indian practice of using cow poop as fuel was a sustainable practice.

(plagiarised from my old friend "Shagaraj")

Women Only MENotinvited ***

It was a moment of idle insanity. No other explanation as to why I would read this article entitled “Ladies at women-only gathering have a blast talking about shoes”.

It talked about WEVents, a social women-only gathering with the tagline Women Only MENotinvited.

During the event, there was a talk about shoes by a Ms Koh, who had thoughtfully brought along several samples. And picture this: “As she passed the shoes around, the 70-odd guests started trying out the shoes and getting their girlfriends to take pictures of them. The level of chatter increased as people started sharing stories about shoes and accessories.”

Koh said that if ladies want shoes bad enough, then they should just go for it. (Koh just happens to be in the shoe business). Koh admitted to owning more than 100 pairs of shoes and had to eventually give some away. How magnanimously philanthropic of her.

And she gave the girls some useful hints: “The best way to organise shoes is to put them in boxes with a picture of the shoe on the box. That way you don’t have to open each box too look for a pair of shoes. You can also categorise it according to the type of shoes like heels, flats or wedges,” she said.

The ladies plan on having a gathering once every three months and maybe move on to monthly events in time to come. Well, you cant have too much of intellectual discourse. But please exclude us men.

Winning ****

“Winning is everything”. The words rang in Hu Yin’s ears. His coach Yang Ping had drilled it into him. “You must have the killer instinct. The end justifies the means. Go all out. Remember - its either destroy or be destroyed.”

Hu Yin stared at his nervous opponent. Radin stood, looking hesitantly, eyes downcast, completely awed by the supremely confident world class player on the other side of the net. Hu Yin felt a twinge of pity, but he quickly shook it off. “The opponent is the enemy. Your only aim is to destroy him.” He remembered his coach saying.

Radin readied to serve. And just as he did, Hu Yin held up his hand, signaling that he was not ready. But Radin had served. Unsettled, Radin readied to serve again. Hu Yin’s mouth curled in an imperceptible smirk. Radin served. Into the net. Hu Yin looked at him pityingly. And just as Radin stooped to pick the shuttlecock, Hu Yin let out a whoop, hands upraised, startling Radin.

In a matter of minutes Hu Yin had reduced the young man to a wreck. He had Radin frantically running all over the court. A shot just over the net had Radin scrambling to the forecourt, falling headlong at the net. Looking up, he saw Hu Yin, his shoes almost touching Radin’s forehead. Hu Yin towered above him to an impossible height.

Game over. Hu Yin had his shirt off, and did a jig on the court, to the screaming cheers of his fans. As he stopped, he saw Radin. He stood, spent and crushed. Hu Yin turned around, and jiggled his backside at Radin to the deafening howls from the fans. Soon his team-mates and his coach were on him, hugging and kissing him, and congratulating him. “You destroyed him. You proved you are the master.”

Hu Yin lay on his bed. He had been lying there for hours, unable to sleep in spite of being tired out from the punishing exertion over the past few days. The sight of the defeated and humiliated Radin standing with stooped shoulders haunted him. And as he pictured the scene in his mind’s eye, all of a sudden, the scene changed. It was Hu Yin standing there, crushed in defeat, shoulders slouched, spirit drained. Hu Yin knew it then. One day, it would be his turn.

It was morning. As Hu Yin walked out of the games village, he saw the opposing team members. Readying to leave. Radin stood at the back. Hu Yin paused for a moment. Then, in purposeful strides, he walked over to Radin. Hu Yin caught Radin’s shoulders, and embraced him. Radin turned to him, surprised at first, but as their eyes met, he brightened and smiled. No words were spoken, but the two men held each other for a long moment. And as they shook hands in farewell, applause broke out, among all of the team-members and spectators standing around.

And Hu Yin knew it then. He had won. Finally.

Driving in India ***

For the benefit of every Tom, Dick, and Harry visiting India and daring to drive on Indian roads, I am offering a few hints for survival: They are applicable to every place in India, except the state of Bihar, where life outside a vehicle is only marginally safer.

Indian road rules broadly operate within the domain of 'karma' where you do your best, and leave the results to your insurance company.

The hints are as follows:

Do we drive on the left or right of the road? The answer is both! Basically you start on the left of the road, unless it is occupied. In that case, go to the right, unless that is also occupied. Then proceed by occupying the next available gap, as in chess. Just trust your instincts, ascertain the direction, and proceed.
Adherence to road rules leads to much misery and occasional fatality! Most drivers don't drive, but just aim their vehicles in the intended direction. Don't you get discouraged, or underestimate yourself. Except for a belief in reincarnation, the other drivers are not in any better position.
Don't stop at pedestrian crossings just because some fool wants to cross the road. You may do so only if you enjoy being bumped in the back. Pedestrians have been strictly instructed to cross only when traffic is moving slowly, or had come to a dead stop because some minister is in town.
Still some idiot may try to wade across, but then, let us not talk ill of the dead! Blowing your horn is not a sign of protest as in some countries. We horn to express joy, resentment, frustration, romance, and bare lust (two brisk blasts), or, just to mobilize a dozing cows in the middle of the bazaar.

Keep informative books in the glove compartment. You may read them during traffic jams, while awaiting the chief minister's motorcade, or waiting or the rainwater's to recede when overground traffic meets underground drainage.
Night driving on Indian roads can be an exhilarating experience (for those with the mental makeup of Genghis Khan). In a way, it is like playing Russian roulette, because you do not know who amongst the drivers is loaded.
What looks like the premature dawn on the horizon turns out to be a truck, attempting a land speed record. On encountering it, just pull partly into the field adjoining the road until the phenomenon passes. Our roads do not have shoulders, but occasional boulders. Do not blink your lights expecting reciprocation. The only dim thing in the truck is the driver, and the peg of illicit arrack he had at the last stop, his total cerebral functions add up to little more than a naught.
Truck drivers are the James Bonds of India, and are licensed to kill!
Often you may encounter a single powerful beam of light about six feet above the ground. This is not a super motorbike, but a truck approaching you with a single light on, usually the left one. It could be the right one, but never get too close to investigate.
You may prove your point posthumously. Of course, all this occurs at night, on trunk roads. During the daytime, trucks are more visible, except that drivers will never show any signal. (And you must watch for the absent signals; they are a greater threat.)
Only, you will often observe that the cleaner that sits next to the driver, will project his hand andwave hysterically. This is definitely not to be construed as a signal for a left turn. The waving isjust an expression of physical relief on a hot day, or a gesture to a fellow trucker. Occasionally you might see what looks like a UFO with blinking colored lights and sounds emanating from within. This is an illuminated bus, full of happy pilgrims singing bhajans. These pilgrims go at breakneck speed, seeking contact with the Almighty, often meeting with success. One-way Street-These boards are put up by traffic people to add jest in their otherwise drab lives. Don't stick to the literal meaning and proceed in one direction. In metaphysical terms, it means that you cannot proceed in two directions at once. So drive as you like, in reverse throughout, if you are the fussy type.
Lest I sound hypercritical, I must add a positive point also. Rash and fast driving in residential areas has been prevented by providing a "speed breaker"; two for each house. This mound, incidentally, covers the water and drainage pipes for that residence and is left untarred.
(plagiarised - source unknown)

Animal Care ***

Windfall ***

For years I have often received emails from sundry Africans, telling me that someone has passed on, and left a huge fortune, which needs to be moved out of Burkina Faso or Burundi or some other God-forsaken African country, and my help is indispensable in this noble effort. After several such emails, my excitement waned. It dawned on me that it was too good to be true. These were fraudsters.

But now, my luck is turning. I have received an email from a Dr. Charles Nkrumah, the Safety & Security Minister in charge of the African Union Anti-Fraud Unit. He has mentioned a team from the African Union Anti-Fraud Unit had been working in collaboration with the United Nations (UN) in stemming these evil fraudsters. The team swung into action on the high rate of complaints they had been receiving from United Nations (UN) on the level of scam artists/fraudsters with African nationalities. All the Internet Service Providers had noticed the increased email traffic originating from Africa to other continents.

It warmed my heart to hear that the team had arrested three hundred and six (306) scammers so far and the raid is still on. They have recovered a total sum of US$3.2 Billion from the fraudsters, both cash and assets confirmed to have come from their victims. And as they carried out the raids, they found hundreds of thousands of email addresses of victims from the fraudsters’ address books. This is how they found me.

Now comes the best part. The African Union (AU) with the United Nations (UN) are making refunds of US$750,000.00 each to victims whose email addresses were listed in the scammer's address books. And this includes yours truly.

I have been asked to contact Rev. Alan Fryer( who by the way is from USA, and who was appointed by United Nations). I was also kindly advised not to contact those scammers again.

Watch this space. I will be back once I get the money.