Friday, April 29, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Real Life Story
I was enjoying the smooth surface and ran my hands down few more times appreciating the divine feel taking enough time before allowing the panic attack to set in. It was not smooth the day before, It meant the life has changed once and for all.
I always wanted to learn my guitar and play it in front of a huge audience, with a bandana branded with swastika in the centre around my hairs, falling freely on my shoulders. My rock star dream was totally shattered and the God had different plans, he gave me a one way ticket to BALDland. I was hoping like my couple of other blogs this would be a dream and I would wake up to find that I was still not bald was just balding, but I realised the game was over and I lost it fair and square.
When I was in my cricketing days, my sister used to tell me I would become like Sehwag and Gibbs. I used to wonder why she told that to me since I was a bowler and she knew it very well. Choices evolve and I chose to play tennis when I joined my current organisation and she was very prompt to call me up and tell that I would become like Agassi. Now I get a feeling that she always new what I would become perhaps she never meant me getting better in cricket or tennis and she was always having my receding hairline in her mind. Arrgghhhh...
It is a general practice to do some “course” during the summer vacation. I remember trying out my hand in Hindi one summer and for a series of summers I was busy cricketing and then I got busy with main stream education. After a very long time my Mom again asked me if I were interested to join a course and I was in my graduation second year and was little confused what course she was asking me to take, may be some computer course for my career. I said yes and she passed me the news paper where there was an ad from NIIT, she was confidently saying “this one might help” and was pointing her finger on to the paper. I thought when did my Mom know so much about what is hot and what is not in the software industry. Then I followed her hand to see what she was pointing to, right next to NIIT there was an ad from Dr. Bakras with the legendary before and after pictures of some bald model and not so bald model. “I will fix the appointment”, she said and left the room.
I had one of the most scrutinising interview sessions with one of their senior doctors and after a thorough session she was happy to take me in to the course. Then I was called in by another doctor or more like a photographer who always took some before and during snaps throughout the course which went on for two years, I completed my engineering and the course with Dr Bakras at the same time and thanks to my engineering course I was recruited in one of the top notch IT company but there was not much happening as a result of the other course. After completing four semesters in my hair treatment and spending some big bucks I was once again called in for the photography session and after a couple of sessions the senior doctor met me again after two years, “we are completing the course today, would you like to take up the next course?”, what the hell was she thinking? Was she thinking she was offering me a seat in IIM A? “I am sorry I have not seen any positive results out of this, I do not want to go for the next course”, I said. She was prompt to reply “I can certainly cut a decent deal for the next course, but if you are still not convinced, Please collect your course completion certificate from the reception”. Two years was just a wasted endeavour. On the flipside I did have a good time in college because of this. I was an instant hit alongside another girl. I was the boy who went to Dr. Bakras and she was the girl who did a course with SLC for loosing you know what.
One day my dad came running in to my room with so much energy that I almost thought that India had won a match under the captaincy of Jammy. What he said next would remain in my mind for rest of my life. “I was speaking to a guy in the train from tambaram to kodambakkam, he shared a natural therapy for hair fall control. If a virgin cow that has given birth to a calf licks your head you would start seeing some progress.” my dad said. “What? I can not allow a cow to lick my head, btw how can a cow be virgin if it has already given birth to a calf?” I asked. “That's what would make the magic, it should be a surrogate cow”, he said, just when my servant maid said “Adhellam venam thambi, indha vengayam irukku illa, adha nadumana vetti, nadu mandaila theyi, apparam mudi eppdi valardhu nu paaru”. I had to run from the room to avoid any further suggestions.
Things went even bad in my sister's wedding, couple of guys perhaps in their late teens called me uncle. I couldn't do anything since they were from her in law's side. When I was deeply depressed about those guys calling me uncle I heard someone calling me brother which instantly cheered me only to be doused off immediately when I looked back there was a 60 year old grandpa struggling to find a place to sit and he called me brother. Only way out now is becoming a Sardarji.
It does not really hurt to be bald, what really hurts is when some one calls you “Sottai”.
One word of caution for all you fellas who are looking forward for every single opportunity to call us sottai, “Naan thani aalu illa”, we automatically become part of the United States of Baldland and we have the highest population than any other logical organisation and you people by default become an enemy of the state. We will hunt each and every one of you down and kick your @$$ a la Ross Geller.
Now where the hell did Harsha Bhogle go?
I always wanted to learn my guitar and play it in front of a huge audience, with a bandana branded with swastika in the centre around my hairs, falling freely on my shoulders. My rock star dream was totally shattered and the God had different plans, he gave me a one way ticket to BALDland. I was hoping like my couple of other blogs this would be a dream and I would wake up to find that I was still not bald was just balding, but I realised the game was over and I lost it fair and square.
When I was in my cricketing days, my sister used to tell me I would become like Sehwag and Gibbs. I used to wonder why she told that to me since I was a bowler and she knew it very well. Choices evolve and I chose to play tennis when I joined my current organisation and she was very prompt to call me up and tell that I would become like Agassi. Now I get a feeling that she always new what I would become perhaps she never meant me getting better in cricket or tennis and she was always having my receding hairline in her mind. Arrgghhhh...
It is a general practice to do some “course” during the summer vacation. I remember trying out my hand in Hindi one summer and for a series of summers I was busy cricketing and then I got busy with main stream education. After a very long time my Mom again asked me if I were interested to join a course and I was in my graduation second year and was little confused what course she was asking me to take, may be some computer course for my career. I said yes and she passed me the news paper where there was an ad from NIIT, she was confidently saying “this one might help” and was pointing her finger on to the paper. I thought when did my Mom know so much about what is hot and what is not in the software industry. Then I followed her hand to see what she was pointing to, right next to NIIT there was an ad from Dr. Bakras with the legendary before and after pictures of some bald model and not so bald model. “I will fix the appointment”, she said and left the room.
I had one of the most scrutinising interview sessions with one of their senior doctors and after a thorough session she was happy to take me in to the course. Then I was called in by another doctor or more like a photographer who always took some before and during snaps throughout the course which went on for two years, I completed my engineering and the course with Dr Bakras at the same time and thanks to my engineering course I was recruited in one of the top notch IT company but there was not much happening as a result of the other course. After completing four semesters in my hair treatment and spending some big bucks I was once again called in for the photography session and after a couple of sessions the senior doctor met me again after two years, “we are completing the course today, would you like to take up the next course?”, what the hell was she thinking? Was she thinking she was offering me a seat in IIM A? “I am sorry I have not seen any positive results out of this, I do not want to go for the next course”, I said. She was prompt to reply “I can certainly cut a decent deal for the next course, but if you are still not convinced, Please collect your course completion certificate from the reception”. Two years was just a wasted endeavour. On the flipside I did have a good time in college because of this. I was an instant hit alongside another girl. I was the boy who went to Dr. Bakras and she was the girl who did a course with SLC for loosing you know what.
One day my dad came running in to my room with so much energy that I almost thought that India had won a match under the captaincy of Jammy. What he said next would remain in my mind for rest of my life. “I was speaking to a guy in the train from tambaram to kodambakkam, he shared a natural therapy for hair fall control. If a virgin cow that has given birth to a calf licks your head you would start seeing some progress.” my dad said. “What? I can not allow a cow to lick my head, btw how can a cow be virgin if it has already given birth to a calf?” I asked. “That's what would make the magic, it should be a surrogate cow”, he said, just when my servant maid said “Adhellam venam thambi, indha vengayam irukku illa, adha nadumana vetti, nadu mandaila theyi, apparam mudi eppdi valardhu nu paaru”. I had to run from the room to avoid any further suggestions.
Things went even bad in my sister's wedding, couple of guys perhaps in their late teens called me uncle. I couldn't do anything since they were from her in law's side. When I was deeply depressed about those guys calling me uncle I heard someone calling me brother which instantly cheered me only to be doused off immediately when I looked back there was a 60 year old grandpa struggling to find a place to sit and he called me brother. Only way out now is becoming a Sardarji.
It does not really hurt to be bald, what really hurts is when some one calls you “Sottai”.
One word of caution for all you fellas who are looking forward for every single opportunity to call us sottai, “Naan thani aalu illa”, we automatically become part of the United States of Baldland and we have the highest population than any other logical organisation and you people by default become an enemy of the state. We will hunt each and every one of you down and kick your @$$ a la Ross Geller.
Now where the hell did Harsha Bhogle go?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Live Dosa Corner!!
"Don't start to drool already”, I almost said aloud on my flight back to India after a short stopover at DXB when itemising on my iTouch just when the pilot put the flight on cruise and announced that it was legitimately safe to switch on the electronic gadgets as per the ATC regulations. I had listed down the TO DO things once reaching India and Dosa found its righteous place on the list and I must confess it appeared more than once on the list in varying formats ranging from Ghee to Ghee Podi with a few more variants in between. Well I couldn't really complain since I was not having nothing more than curd rice with or without pickle for a period of almost 8 months.
After a very short pit stop in my home sweet home I was again on board my flight from Chennai to Hyderabad. In no time the aircraft was on its final approach to Rajiv Gandhi International Airport and I was in the office campus trying to wade my way through a bunch of Urudu speaking Telugu people with an almost expired sodexho pass in one hand and I do not recall what I was carrying on the other hand. “One Podi hmm, nehi nehi aek butter masala dena”, the girl in front of me on the queue handed a 20 rupee note and took her coupon from the guy who was manning the counter. With the typical British accent thanks to my eight months of king's English in Britain I said “Haya, how are you today? Can I have one plain dosa please?” and placed the expiring sodexho on the counter. “Dosa kavala odha ra bhai” came the reply from the counter guy who obviously was not in a mood to appreciate my English or simply he did not understand what I said and my immediate response was “anna, oka plain dosa ivava” and the guy took just the enough time for the two girls behind me in the queue to giggle at me before giving me an yellow coupon that said Live Dosa and 15 underneath.
I walked the distance with unmistakable elegance of a best man, clasping the coupon with all five fingers and waving at people I never met like the seasoned fashion designer walking the runway with an anorexic super model. The queue stopped a couple of yards away from the counter where two guys were exhibiting nothing less than fine art in spreading fermented batter on hot plates which instantly transformed itself in to a golden jewel edible with or without a side dish. I was just praying to god that there should be enough batter in the vessel and just the enough LPG in the cylinder at least to cater the people in the queue and the engineer in me started to impact analyse the situation on how it would be if the queue algorithm changed from FIFO to LIFO since I was the last addition to the queue.
When the wait on the queue looked eternal a ray of hope just peaked for an instance when the guy standing in front of me left the queue only to join back with two more coupons. My mind volunteered to do a small bit of math with the available data – 1 dosa took around 45 seconds, 6 people ahead of me, two guys to prepare the dosa and the guy in front of me had three coupons assuming all others ordered just one it would be a total of 8 dosas meaning I had to wait for three minutes for my turn and three minutes and forty five seconds to taste the million dollar baby and it also meant the guy behind me had to wait the same time as me and that was redonkulously unfair.
As the clock ticked and the queue ahead diminished the noise from the general audience was overtaken by the sweet music of simmering dosas and exactly after three minutes of wait me and the guy behind me handed our coupons with the other guy adding an extra requirement “tel bina” and my mind wasted no time and blurted out “What a chick, dosa without oil?”
The guys at the counter wasted no time as if they had a 45s SLA and went back to the task.
With the nuance of an artiste the guys painted the batter on the tawa and the guy who took my order splashed a generous quantity of oil on my dosa and exactly after 45 seconds a crisp piece of art work as good as Prasoon Joshi's lyrics was transferred to a plate and the at next instance I was owning the masterpiece. I was holding the plate of dosa on my hand and I heard a girl calling out “Sir, sir” and I felt a hand on my shoulder “Sir”, I opened my eyes and the air hostess from some Eastern European country with a name plate 'Sophie' was pointing to the sticker in front of my seat that read 'Wake me up for food', “Break fast sir, fried tomatoes and baked beans”.She moved the trolley to the next row, perhaps she was offended when I asked “Dosa irukka?”.I was still on board flight from DXB to MAA.
After a very short pit stop in my home sweet home I was again on board my flight from Chennai to Hyderabad. In no time the aircraft was on its final approach to Rajiv Gandhi International Airport and I was in the office campus trying to wade my way through a bunch of Urudu speaking Telugu people with an almost expired sodexho pass in one hand and I do not recall what I was carrying on the other hand. “One Podi hmm, nehi nehi aek butter masala dena”, the girl in front of me on the queue handed a 20 rupee note and took her coupon from the guy who was manning the counter. With the typical British accent thanks to my eight months of king's English in Britain I said “Haya, how are you today? Can I have one plain dosa please?” and placed the expiring sodexho on the counter. “Dosa kavala odha ra bhai” came the reply from the counter guy who obviously was not in a mood to appreciate my English or simply he did not understand what I said and my immediate response was “anna, oka plain dosa ivava” and the guy took just the enough time for the two girls behind me in the queue to giggle at me before giving me an yellow coupon that said Live Dosa and 15 underneath.
I walked the distance with unmistakable elegance of a best man, clasping the coupon with all five fingers and waving at people I never met like the seasoned fashion designer walking the runway with an anorexic super model. The queue stopped a couple of yards away from the counter where two guys were exhibiting nothing less than fine art in spreading fermented batter on hot plates which instantly transformed itself in to a golden jewel edible with or without a side dish. I was just praying to god that there should be enough batter in the vessel and just the enough LPG in the cylinder at least to cater the people in the queue and the engineer in me started to impact analyse the situation on how it would be if the queue algorithm changed from FIFO to LIFO since I was the last addition to the queue.
When the wait on the queue looked eternal a ray of hope just peaked for an instance when the guy standing in front of me left the queue only to join back with two more coupons. My mind volunteered to do a small bit of math with the available data – 1 dosa took around 45 seconds, 6 people ahead of me, two guys to prepare the dosa and the guy in front of me had three coupons assuming all others ordered just one it would be a total of 8 dosas meaning I had to wait for three minutes for my turn and three minutes and forty five seconds to taste the million dollar baby and it also meant the guy behind me had to wait the same time as me and that was redonkulously unfair.
As the clock ticked and the queue ahead diminished the noise from the general audience was overtaken by the sweet music of simmering dosas and exactly after three minutes of wait me and the guy behind me handed our coupons with the other guy adding an extra requirement “tel bina” and my mind wasted no time and blurted out “What a chick, dosa without oil?”
The guys at the counter wasted no time as if they had a 45s SLA and went back to the task.
With the nuance of an artiste the guys painted the batter on the tawa and the guy who took my order splashed a generous quantity of oil on my dosa and exactly after 45 seconds a crisp piece of art work as good as Prasoon Joshi's lyrics was transferred to a plate and the at next instance I was owning the masterpiece. I was holding the plate of dosa on my hand and I heard a girl calling out “Sir, sir” and I felt a hand on my shoulder “Sir”, I opened my eyes and the air hostess from some Eastern European country with a name plate 'Sophie' was pointing to the sticker in front of my seat that read 'Wake me up for food', “Break fast sir, fried tomatoes and baked beans”.She moved the trolley to the next row, perhaps she was offended when I asked “Dosa irukka?”.I was still on board flight from DXB to MAA.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Morning Raaga!!
Not long before I became someone who lost all the enthusiasm of life and started to live the so called 'hermetic' life, there was in me the element that I failed not to fall in love each and every moment. These days though I keep thinking of so many things, things which I have no control on, things that really drive me to a state of absolute breakdown which takes me weeks together to pull myself back in to single package and get my feet back on ground and before I gain any momentum I encounter one more blow on my mental state. A state of life without any drive whatsoever, experiencing weeks of insomnial nights, still hating to hear the morning alarm fearing the encounter of even friendly people, snoozing the alarm a million times before cursing the dawn of the new day not wanting to rise and shine like a normal person.
The only way as I figured to counter this emotional trauma is to systematically inject the lost enthusiasm in to my life. This blog is one such endeavor. Writing perhaps is a component of my blood. During the last couple of months when I have lovingly embraced the 'introversion' sort of life as noted by C.G.Jung I could not do anything than to helplessly see myself loose the battle against – well no one. I realized I had stopped doing so many things that I would have loved to do including writing. Well I am hoping to get myself out of the shackles of this 'something' that is sucking every atom of happiness into an eternally deep hollowness.
Looking forward for some serious blogging....Catch you soon!
Kiran Manyam
The only way as I figured to counter this emotional trauma is to systematically inject the lost enthusiasm in to my life. This blog is one such endeavor. Writing perhaps is a component of my blood. During the last couple of months when I have lovingly embraced the 'introversion' sort of life as noted by C.G.Jung I could not do anything than to helplessly see myself loose the battle against – well no one. I realized I had stopped doing so many things that I would have loved to do including writing. Well I am hoping to get myself out of the shackles of this 'something' that is sucking every atom of happiness into an eternally deep hollowness.
Looking forward for some serious blogging....Catch you soon!
Kiran Manyam
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