That cold feeling

It's cold here in Bangalore. And I simply love the cold. I don't know, it must be due to the fact that my mom grew up in the hills of Coonoor, Tamil Nadu, and some of it got imprinted onto me. Or it maybe because almost every holiday my siblings and I had in our younger days was at our grandmom's place in Coonoor. There, all our cousins on my mom's side, which was quite a large number considering that she has seven brothers and each has 5.5 kids on an average - except for one uncle who has eleven kids who we have never met (I love big families!!!) - would meet every summer and generally have the time of our lives that most kids of our age are deprived of, poor souls. I have so many pleasant memories of those days. But maybe I'll narrate them later - when I'm feeling a bit more nostalgic. Right now, all I'm feeling is cold.

It's fantastic - the cold. Which is why I simply love hill stations. And which is also why my honeymoon (once the girl comes along) will be at a hill station. You see, one thing about the cold is, you feel like curling up under a warm quilt and not stirring for many hours. Kind of like how bears feel when hibernating. No wonder they forget to come out for months. Who would want to! Let the world worry about itself, I've got my blanket and I'm warm - but only because it's cold outside. Anyway, the point is curling up under a blanket suits me just fine. Right now, my dog curls up along with me. He seems to think exactly like me - we both love winter apparently.

Well Bangalore may not be a hill station, but its weather is close enough. Waking up every morning, I sometimes wince very slightly as I recall nostalgically those golden days now far behind us, on the hills. The only time it gets unpleasant in this city is during summer. But thankfully, I have now entered the workplace, which, in a newspaper, is a kind of pseudo-corporate world. They try to give you the AC and plush sofas, but there are still no coffee machines and the pay still sucks. But at least you get to escape the torturous summer months, of which God in His wisdom only made three for Bangalore.

The second pleasure of winter, after the warm blankets, is the hot bath. I only wish taking off your clothes for these cleansing rituals was not mandatory. But it is, which makes the soaping session especially tough, as you shiver in the cold and your clammy fingers send tingles down your spine. You rush through this section and simply grab at the mug as soon as you can, leaving that one spot unsoaped, but not much the worse for it. The water then flows, it gushes over your body. You keep pouring and can never seem to stop. Until finally, the bucket has just run out, and anyway, you're late for work - again.

Tribute to my dad

This post is dedicated to my dad. He is my biggest fan, who reads every single word I publish, good or otherwise, faithfully, whether in the newspaper or in my blog. He has been constantly encouraging me and making me believe that I have some ability in me, however much that may actually be. If I still have any confidence in me, it is only because of him and my mom. I know it may sound sentimental and all, but it is true. I had been thinking I would delay this post till a later date, but today I figured, you should never delay these things. Stuff happens so suddenly these days, and I couldn't bear to regret it then. God forbid though that anything should happen, because I believe, like my pastor says, that my family will all live ripe full lives if you have the faith for it.

Anyway, dad, if you're reading this, as I know you will, this is just to tell you I love you very much. Thanks for making me believe in myself and for teaching me to look at myself the way God does. Thankyou for your practical outlook on life that you so wisely passed on to us. We all may not realise it, but all you have struggled to teach us is ingrained deep in our systems and makes us act the way we do, which would have been much worse otherwise (to put it like how the good optimists like to do). Above all, thankyou for loving me and making me feel it. Your love has made me understand a fraction of what our Heavenly Father above feels for me! And at the end, that's all that matters.

That crazy spark

Sometimes I get this urge to do crazy things. It's not that I'm a crazy guy myself, or at least I don't think so. But there are times when you just get in this whacky mood to do something out of the ordinary. These things are not pre-meditated. Like any work of creativity (however much you agree with this parallel), it all depends on a spark! Before you know it, it has become a forest fire. Or at least a bush fire, which lights up the surroundings for a brief space. Also, like any fire, it has different effects on different people. To one it seems bizarre, to another, it's dangerous, to a third - like those who love to watch a 'good' fight on the streets - it's pure fun, and so on.

Well, the other day I was awoken from a deep slumber at 8.30 am by my folks who advised me to start my day sometime soon. I was too sleepy to resist, so I came downstairs and balanced myself against the wall, my eyes half-closed. When I saw there was no hope of getting back to bed, I decided to start brushing my teeth. This usually takes half-an-hour on a normal peaceful day. Different people have different ways of starting the day. Many like to meditate quietly. This is my way of meditating. Most people who see me think I'm asleep and the toothbrush has taken a life of its own and, knowing its master well enough, is moving in rhythm with his few thoughts. Little do they know, the master is actually meditating. His mind is running through the previous day, looking into the day ahead, and generally just flitting lazily, like its master's disposition, from one subject to another, in no apparent logical order.

I was halfway through my ritual, when my sister's sweet voice requested me to drop her off at school. Now, no one likes to break off one's meditative spells just like that. And I certainly wasn't prepared for it. I'm a patient man, but there are things like meditation and leaving off midway a ritual like I had that cannot be compromised, especially for a man of my 'principles'. It was at such a moment - when caught between these 'principles' and patience that the spark hit. It was simple yet ingenious - I would drop her off at school, yet without leaving my ritual halfway. I would take it with me!

My poor sweet sister was not prepared for a sight such as what met her eyes. What she saw was the main character of a scene she had just witnessed, but in another scene. I was on my bike, strapped up in my jacket because of the cold, with my toothbrush in my mouth like a pipe. She stared. But she was too sweet and too late to raise any protests. So she hopped on my bike.

Until we reached school, everything was fine. Probably at the speed at which I was travelling, on my super bike - the TVS 50 [super] (which is the family bike it seems, because, like us, it is humble and slow in the ways of the world) , people couldn't make out it was a toothbrush. It was on my way back, without my sister (luckily for her), that I had to stop at a junction. For some reason, the cop, on seeing me, started muttering to himself. I figured it might be the toothbrush. Or it might be the fact that I wasn't wearing a helmet, as the new rule on the roads was. But maybe he didn't do anything to pull me up since the following thoughts passed quickly (and admirably so) through his official head: probably it was that carrying a toothbrush in one's mouth while on a bike wasn't an offence (at least not a punishable one, like riding with the mobile phone in hand), and further, such an act also made it difficult to wear a helmet. While he was puzzling all this out, he continued to stare severely in my direction. I stared back indulgently, and, maintaining eye contact throughout (psychologists will always say this is advisable, though a traffic cop might not), I winked at him as I passed.

An imperfect world

I know my posts have been becoming more depressing of late, but I cannot help it. I like to think of myself as a happy person, and I have no real doubt that I am. It would be ideal if I was able to put down only happy instances in my life. But searching through the database of my mind, especially the recent past, I try to find some happy memories but find hardly anything new to talk about. My 'happy' life seemingly goes on with hardly anything happier happening. Now normally, this should not upset anyone, but we writers, or rather, since I consider that to be too pretentious a term, we who make our living through writing start getting restless at such times and turn to our chosen form of expression to let it all out. That is the reason why so many great philosophers were a depressed lot.
Now I may be neither a great philosopher or writer but I am great at being myself and that can be an awesome responsibility! So I ramble, which is what I'm good at, and I finally get to the point, which is about my new job.
It appears that some people in this world just won't like you for inexplicable reasons that can be frustrating if you try to figure them out. You try your best to please everyone, but at the end you realise the truth - the project was doomed from the start. Even the most perfect man in history, the human form of God Himself - Jesus Christ - could not please all people. Not that He couldn't do it if He wanted to but then that is a paradox in itself as He would not have wanted to in the first place. Which is why He is perfect and He is God. If He had tried to please all folk in this world, He would not have landed up at the cross and anyway He just would not have been God. But He was, which is why everything happened as it did. But the difference is, He was able to understand why certain folk didn't like him.
But me, I'm hardly perfect nor do I have anything divine about me except that I'm made in the image of God! So when I find people just don't respond to my gestures of pleasantness, I find it hard to understand. It makes me depressed. I have both one senior and two bosses to whom whatever I do doesn't seem to penetrate their fortress of defences. I have always believed in the principle that you can break down these walls with constant kindness or just general pleasantness but now this belief has been seriously threatened. I find my base shaky. I realise now the truth - as long as you're living in an imperfect human world, such expectations are just too ideal and just as unrealistic.
So I came back yesterday, after another day of trying too hard to please and only getting bitten in the backside, and took my dog out into the garden. While she ran about looking for what she could digest that should not be digested, I looked up at the sky, since that is where I feel God most! I mean, I could just as well have looked at the wall behind me or at the plants both with thorns and without all around me, but though I might have been looking at God, I wouldn't have felt Him so strongly. Perhaps that is because I was trying to look away from the human world around me into the one place that was free of them. Of course there are a few astronauts floating around in their bubbles in the sky, but they are mostly harmless and their constant fear of lightning bolts and their supreme love of gravity keeps the fear of God in them nice and strong. Even as I was looking into the sky, the astronauts of the space shuttle Discovery were soaring into that very space themselves. But I didn't feel them. Perhaps they felt God very strongly themselves. I hope they did. They might just become better people.
Anyway, the sky was starless and dark, and clouds were moving thickly overhead. They were moving slowly but with a certain sureness about them that filled me with awe. I then spoke to God. He knew I hadn't been the best of His children of late, but He's just too loving that He listened anyway. I asked Him, "Lord, why do you allow people to bully people like me? Why don't you remove me from this world? I think I've just about had my fill of human beings." Now this was nothing the Lord hadn't heard before. Many before me, and I myself, have asked Him the same thing many times before. And if God wasn't God He wouldn't have listened. But He did. I don't know if the clouds moved any faster than they were, but I doubt it! God is too dignified, too non-human and basically He keeps His equanimity about Him at all times. So He gave me a silent answer. "Just as these clouds keep moving, you've got to do so too. There's no point standing out here and brooding. It's getting cold and you've got to get on with your life, so do get back into the house, please. I love you. Now go." Well, it was something to that effect anyway. I just felt it. So bringing my eyes back to the earth, and picking up the closest thing to perfect in this world - my dog - I marched back into the house.

TGIF

A lot has happened since my last post. Exactly one week has passed since I joined my new job and I decided to use the off they fixed for me on Fridays, to reflect on the week gone by. Not that I finally did much reflecting. I was more caught up in meeting friends whom I had been cut off from for some time owing to work. But I did do my thinking every now and then, an act which does not actually do me much harm as well-meaning loved ones and I myself might once have feared.

Coming to my new job. It is definitely a much better organisation, and highly professional, which is one of the primary aspects I had looked out for in a new employer. What I had failed to factor in, however, was the fact that in a more professional set-up, I should also expect things to become a lot tougher and challenging. Of course, to be honest, I did think about this in a rather vague sort of way, but never really concretely. The errors of my ways are being borne in on me in a very real, necessary and, importantly, painful way. I have now learnt an important lesson - always be prepared when stepping into something new.

Therefore, where in my previous job I might have acquired something of the glamour of an experienced hand, who was looked up to in some ways merely because I had spent three whole years there, I stepped into the new job and received my first shock. Most of them were my age, a few were older, but most were just too competent for me. Then it hit me and I started getting something of a complex. I was a junior again and all the difficulties that I had experienced when as a fresher in the profession came back to haunt me.

I had a few days of bliss, while I was being introduced around and given the importance experienced by a new face who gets a lot of stares from all the rest, who are used to seeing each other's faces all year long and hence welcome any change. You see, my new office was, as I had expected, the sort of place where satisfied employees, the older ones with potbellies and the younger with a lot of artificial lines of experience on their faces, stay for a long time, sometimes even till retirement.

Soon enough, though, I was pushed with all the harshness and venom of my stressed profession into the grind. Everything was new over here. Even all the editing experience I had gained at the previous office was kicked rather rudely in the butt, and rightly so. I soon realised the harsh and bitter truth. I had learnt but little in my profession - not because of any fault of mine but more because of the vast field that it is - and that the road ahead stretched endlessly into the horizon. With every sarcastic bite that my boss took at me, which I endured as best I could in the manner of my role model Jesus Christ, I determined more and more that I would put my nose to the ground, after the manner of my proud (the opposite of falsely humble, that is) stock, and take the challenges before me head-on.

I recall the situation was similar when I first joined my previous job. Of course, I have a bit of experience behind me now, but any new place, I figure, requires new strategies for dealing with situations. The whole software here is rather complicated, and while I had mastered many of the tricks of the previous one, here I'm having to work the old system out of me and learn the new one. That is to be expected. So now, at the end of my first Friday, I grit my teeth and gear up to face the next challenging week, at the end of which I shall be confident enough to say - TGIF (Thank God it's Friday)!!!

Change - the balm of the confused soul

It's happened at last. I've finally managed to get out of the hole I was building comfortably for myself in my last job and have found another - job that is. For long I had stood like Casabianca on the burning deck and watched the others flee all about me! Foolishly, like the above-named celebrity, I had convinced myself that I was doing something noble. "Stand your ground Prem," I told myself. "You're not like these suckers - you don't bow to pressure." Everyone around me was fast melting into nothing. The halo I created around my head was visible to none - least of all to me.

Then one day, two months ago, the truth struck me. As they say, there is only so much ass you can sit on! For long I had brushed away the well-meaning taunts and unsolicited advice from well-meaning friends about my career - such as there was of it at any rate. I knew what I was doing, I believed. What did people know about my life anyway.

Then one day an elderly colleague gave me the lecture that changed my life - at least for that night! I went home and began applying. Never mind what line I got into, I told myself, I would try getting myself out of the comfortable mess I was in and make some more money in the process. I went all around, like the prodigal son. Two months and many dreamless nights later I find myself back in the same line but in another job. Welcome home, my chosen profession beckons me!

Now, with just another three days left before I make the shift, I find myself experiencing mixed feelings. Where I am was after all my first real job. Then I find it hard to dispel the coincidence that Fate has wrought on me - three years ago when I began working in the present job, the day was the 3rd of November. Through no fault of mine, I find I will be joining the new place on the 2nd of November this time. Actually, now that I've said it, I don't find it all that freakish, but we journalists start seeing a lot of things in a lot of places that do not exist. You must pardon us. Must be the stress of work.

Also, I feel a certain abandon overwhelming me. I feel like doing something outrageous, like leaving a mark that people won't forget in a hurry. I just hope I won't embarrass myself like I have a tendency of doing. There are also certain awkward moments that won't seem so awkward in time. Like, for instance, when I caught my immediate boss looking with a certain indulgent affection in my direction and I wanted to bury myself six feet under the ground. But I won't deny that I did feel good. These, however, are mere passing feelings.

Then again, as my friend told me, I'm in a position in which I could just about show the boss the finger if I wanted to. I shudder at the thought, of course, seeing as my conscience would baulk at such a gesture, but it's the principle of the thing I'm talking about. I feel I could do almost anything and get away with it. But if this is my gut feeling, then it most certainly is nothing to go by. You see, my guts have always lied to me! Or do I have them at all? Anyway, I hate ending a piece with a question mark!

The amateur drummer

As a musician, which I humbly believe I am, of a certain type in any case, I would like to put down a few observations I have made about the amateur drummer, which I also believe I am. Until recently I didn't believe I would actually be able to get my hands on a real drum set and put into practice those drumming skills I believed I possessed in some degree, no matter how small. Then, a few months ago, my elder brother landed up at home back from a visit to the US, carrying a huge box in his hands. It was an electronic drum kit and I had to drum myself deaf for a long time before I convinced myself that it indeed was real. I was in a dream-like state you see. Anyway, I'm rambling again...

Well, amateur drummers can basically be divided into two types. One is the absolutely technical drummer, who is clinically precise in his rhythms and is flawless in keeping a steady timing, never missing a beat. However, he does not excite you much, neither experimenting nor innovating or even trying to with his beats, preferring rather to play an accompanying role and not intrude in any substantial way into the main act. This type of drummer will probably either drum himself to boredom and give up playing altogether, or he might one day decide that it's time to change his ways.

The other type of amateur drummer is the non-technical variety, but one who plays from his heart. He absorbs himself so much into his music that often he gets carried away and loses timing. But while this might nonpluss him a bit, his pure passion for drumming sweeps him along. He is constantly innovating and putting his heart into his playing. The sound he produces has a different effect on its listeners. In this case, he not only enthuses himself to unwieldy heights that leave him dizzy, but also excites his audience to such a degree that they feel thrown up on the crest of a tempestuous wave of drug-like elation, with each violent crashing of the cymbals producing the same effect on them as if the wave they seem to be travelling on were crashing into another equally strong one. The drummer in this case is as much in the foreground as the next musician. I believe, humbly again, that I fit into this second category.

I realised the difference between these two kinds of drummers when I observed them being represented in the two drummers who play at church. While I greatly admire the technical guy, for carrying off the perfect timing like a classical musician, my heart has always gone out to the second guy, the one who bungles along at times, but who plays with his heart and by his ear. If you ask me who I think has a better chance of making the transition into the professional performer, I would definitely say the second type, unless, of course, the first decides to mend his ways.

Going In Blind

A message from the band POD. What Sonny (the vocalist) has to say here really encouraged me, and I wanted to share it with anyone who might be interested:

"Sonny’s message about the Single "Going In Blind":

The lyrical inspiration of "Going In Blind" came late the last night of our studio session in Knoxville. We had finished one song and had a rough music sketch of another. We thought we were finished and would be heading home early in the morning until one of those moments happened. Our inspiration walked through the door. A good friend and neighbor of our producer Travis Wyrick stopped by the studio, for what I have no idea. I was on the phone at the time and she was probably there no more than a minute. I think she said hello to the guys, smiled at me and then left. I walked back into the studio and the guys were continuing a conversation we had a few days earlier. Travis was telling us about his friends who had lost their child to a crime so evil I couldn't even begin to explain. That's how it started; none of us had an "Explanation". All of us in the room were husbands, fathers, men of faith and spiritual guys who overall believe in the "Power of Good". At that moment, not one of us could come up with an explanation. We were speechless and quiet. How do you tell this woman that everything is going to be alright? How do I tell her God has everything in control and truly believe it myself? Telling her I understand would make me a liar! Don't get me wrong, I believe in God. I believe in this faith that has saved my life and I would willingly lay my life down for what I believe is the truth. Just don't ask me to do the same for one of my babies. I don't think I could.

Everything you believe in and everything you know to be true can be tested in one single second, the second your child is taken away from you. What do you say to that person? I wish I could say everything is going to be alright. I want to tell you that God has everything in control. And like you, I want to understand. What an amazing person this woman is to have walked past me and smiled even though I had no idea what she has been through. One smile of love is more encouraging than a million words. I have been encouraged to walk this fine line of life even though at times I might not know exactly where I am going. Even though the road gets rough, if we walk them in LOVE, we might actually get to where we need to be.
- Sonny"

ASAP

If I have a pet peeve, it is that people in Bangalore can't keep themselves from coughing up their phlegm and spitting right in the middle of the road. Actually I have another pet peeve too, which is the way people keep blaring their vehicle horns much to the irritation of all around. Are they just trying to be irritating or am I irritable? I know I have a slight problem of either low or high blood pressure - whichever the right one is - like my dad, and that would probably explain my reaction. But in any case, I feel it is justified.

I mean, I myself am able to go about on the roads without either spitting or blaring my bike horn, so I imagine it's humanly possible to do so. Possibly it's just something ingrained in the thoughtlessness of our general psyche - of total disregard for public property and other people. Anyway, I shall leave my second peeve aside for the moment and concentrate on the first - and more infuriating - one.

I have worked myself to such a state of fury that I nearly gag each time I see spit, usually white but sometimes with all its yellow phlegmy constituents, cast about haphazardly on the roads. Such things are supposed to be confined either to a person's interiors or to the drains (for which a passageway may be sought through the toilet). Since I cannot really gag as this would in no way improve the situation, I restrict myself to cursing the perpetrator silently or sometimes even casting a most disdainful look in his (it's usually a 'his') direction, often adding a severe wagging of the head for effect. When it comes to my second peeve, I sometimes show my irritation by flailing my arms about my head in a most dramatic manner. Naturally, it usually is not lost on the object of my emotions, though I have never really been able to follow up on whether the victim effected a change in his ways after that. But I rest peaceful in my ignorance anyway.

After some time of cursing such people both silently and at times loud enough for my own ears to hear audibly enough, I finally hit upon some form of a scheme to tackle the spitting menace. If not anything else, it at least helps me ease the adverse effect on my high or low blood pressure. I decided to start a one-man crusade against such elements. But I also realised that such a crusade would have to have some precautionary strings attached if I wanted to survive many more anti-spitting years.

The plan I finally decided upon was to carry a small bottle along with me, filled with clean water. The bottle would be no bigger than a normal Pepsi or Coke. Armed with this bottle, I would set out on my mission. Travelling about on my bike, everytime I would see an offender coughing up his disgusting body fluids on the road, I would take out my bottle, go up to him and pour out the water on the mess. This would serve not only to clear it away but also to send the perpetrator a clear and indignant message. Besides, it would also guarantee my safety. The fellow technically would not be justified in inflicting any harm on me as I would not be directly doing anything to him, only showing my righteous fury against his act.

This said, I have not been too effective yet in putting my plan into any real far-reaching effect. Actually, I have only been able to do it twice since I started. The first time was at a traffic signal, which did not change as quickly as it usually did whenever I had felt compelled previously to take out my weapon. I mean, until then and even after, it was like everything was ganging up against me. The traffic signals, which otherwise would not change when I would even be late to work, would then choose to change just as I would take out my bottle. Or the fellow would spit just before the light changed, making me merely curse him as before.

But this time, I had a good 120 seconds before the light changed. And these two young dirty boys were in front of me. One of them coughed up rather heartily and let loose a rather liberal stream on the roadside. I mean, the guy just didn't seem to want to stop. My blood boiled within me and my eyes turned a deep red. I slowly took out my bottle - I was going to give my one chance yet the best dramatic effect I could - and, walking up to their bike, I slowly and deliberately poured the water over the spit, letting it wash the spot rather generously.

Naturally, all eyes were on me, none more so than the offenders beside whose bike I was standing. I frankly don't know what either they or the rest felt, but I would imagine it was a mixture of scorn and embarrassment. I was not perturbed anyway. This was exactly the kind of reaction I had hoped for - what I had been waiting for, for so long. When I had finished emptying the bottle of its contents, I calmly walked back to my bike, with dramatic deliberate slow steps. Back on my bike, I was able to review my actions, without regret, and also observe the lingering reactions of my poor victims. They were talking with embarrassed smiles and indicating my direction in certain subtle ways. The thrill that passed through my frame at that point was unparallelled. I felt remarkably noble, like one of those knights of old who had just thrust his lance through the villain's heart and had his maiden's fair but woeful blue eyes cast grateful beams into his. I felt ecstatic. My smile seemed to challenge all around - "Come on, please spit. I'm ready for you." Luckily though, no one chose to take up my challenge, as my bottle had run out of water!

The second time I got to effect my scheme was on Mahatma Gandhi Road, when another foul-mouthed man strewed the roadside. I had stopped by the side of the road and was waiting for my mom so I took out my bottle. Unfortunately, the guy had rushed away on some other nefarious task of his so I had to confine myself with washing the spot and having some others stare at me. I cursed a bit too.

So I have decided now to expand my campaign. I have called it ASAP - the Anti-Spitting Action Plan. Anyone who shares my peeve could join up free and pass on the good word to likeminded friends too. All you would have to do is carry a small bottle with you. Soon we could have a veritable army of bottle-wielding anti-spitting fanatics. No politics though. We could even become quite famous someday. But that's not the ultimate aim - it is a noble cause we have in mind. So, all who carry the fire that burns within against the unholy roadside phlegm of man, please join ASAP ASAP.

Define the Great Line

For all you Christian metalheads (we are a small community scattered around the world), this is to announce that I just chanced upon a rare Christian metal group, right in middle of a secular store. The band is called Underoath (http://www.underoath777.com/band.php) and is a hardcore metal act from Florida. I came across it during one of my searches at Planet M, Bangalore, for heavy gospel music. The album, 'Define the Great Line', is the band's latest release and is a must buy for any hardcore Christian metal fan. It is complete with screaming vocals, powerful guitaring and high-speed drums.

For long I have been conducting these mostly fruitless searches painstakingly in secular music stores. But if I have learnt one lesson in life it is that perseverance always pays, especially when your heart is set on something that has a personal meaning for you. Our community is a very lonely one and chances are you'd have to seek out the farthest corners to come across such likeminded individuals. But one of my core principles has been to be part of such minority groups, whose principles you feel very powerfully and individually about. Christian metal is something that is very close to my heart because it is hard music with meaning - meaning that relates to your soul.

This immediately puts you in the middle of two worlds. One comprises the majority of metal music-lovers that listen to largely Satanic music, as well as the large majority of those who listen to any kind of secular music that can be picked right off the stands in any music store, and shun any mention of the word 'Christian' like the plague. The other comprises a large community of lovers of Christian music, who, however, either denounce Christian metal as being an oxymoron and therefore not really 'Christian' or as a form of music that does not agree with their tastes. Naturally I disagree with both groups but my reasons are long enough for another post.

Anyway, the search for Christian metal is always going to be tough in such a situation. After realising that Christian music stores do not themselves contain the kind of music I like, I have long been scanning secular music stores for some Christian metal that might be buried among the tonnes of regular metal. For years I have been on this quest. I have been sighting names of bands that I would think could be Christian but before deciding to buy them, I would first research them on the internet. Until now I have been disappointed. Today, however, I stumbled upon this group when my attention was directed to their latest album (2006). I might have walked past but for a sign put up by Planet M stating that the band was a Christian heavy metal act. Imaginably, I could not believe my eyes. I read the vague Gothic script twice or thrice before deciding that it indeed read 'Christian'. Then I picked it up, walked straight over to the counter and paid up. Once out, I ripped open the cover and looked at certain signs on the jacket that confirmed my best hopes. I'm listening to the album right now and it is exactly all that I hoped for. The search will now go on...

It happened one afternoon

The incident I am about to narrate took place earlier this week and could happen only to someone like me. And I say this with just a little pride. But before you misunderstand me to be talking about the vice itself, consider what I am about to say.

I was supposed to appear for an interview at a certain company whose name I shall not divulge simply because it is inconsequential to the narrative. I was to carry with me a copy of my resume for that grand meeting, which was to take place in the afternoon. I did not have a printed copy with me and, as is my style, I intended to get that done before I left. This, I discovered, is always a mistake. But we live and learn.

So, the Karnataka Electricity Board decided to take it in their hands to teach me this small lesson. That day, the papers carried a small horizontal column on page 3, of all the areas where the Board planned to cut the power supply. They call such announcements 'scheduled power cuts'. But what we Bangaloreans have realised with time is that they are actually a lot more unscheduled than the other variety. They always begin on time, but their scheduled conclusion almost inevitably gets prolonged. At times, you sense a certain reluctance on the part of the Board when it's time to switch the power back on. Around the appointed time, there is a flash all round the house, and a whirring as the tubelights struggle with themselves. But then they're out again, only to switch on many hours later.

Imagine my dismay when I got up that morning to discover the power would not be back until 1 pm that afternoon. But I dared to hope. If it did indeed return, I would be able to quickly take a printout, and rush for the interview, which was scheduled for 2.30 pm. I would therefore need to get everything else in order, right down to my underwear. I needed to get a set of black formal pants for that and all such interviews to follow, so I headed to Commercial Street and got what I needed without too much trouble. But then I encountered another distraction, whose details I needn't bore you with. Suffice it for me to say, I got back home by around 12.15 pm. It was then time to get ready.

When I was finally about to get into the bath, it was 5 to 1 pm. So I decided to wait a bit for the hour to strike and the power to return. Precisely on the dot, the hour struck (on our grandfather clock, which is fairly advanced in years, it rang 12 times). Even after the last echoes of the last chime had faded away, the house still remained plunged in darkness. Never mind, I thought, I would head in for a bath anyway, and hope the lights returned by the time I was done. I'm not one to be stingy in the bath department and each such cleansing takes a good half-hour. That would give me enough time.

Around the time I began soaping my last shapely leg, I began to get nervous. The bathroom was still in darkness. I began to pray hard, and opened my eyes each time hoping to see the light. But all that would enter would be the soap.

I was then on the verge of threatening God - not the wisest thing to do. "Lord," I prayed, "my faith is on the verge of total collapse. You are in danger of losing me forever." But I was greeted by silence... and more soap! God was smiling indulgently. "Foolish kid," I think He said. And just when I had begun to stop praying, and soap myself with increased vigour, the lights came back on. Just like that!

We'll skip over the rest of the gory details to the time of my arrival at the interview venue. This was not before I had got my precious printout. In my hurry, however, I had chosen not to look up the exact details of the person I was to meet and her phone number. How hard would it be, I had asked myself very briefly, to go up to the reception and ask for Hemalatha?

When I arrived, however, I realised, to my dismay, how much more challenging the situation actually was. The company I was interviewing for was, no doubt, huge, but this was only a branch office. How was I to know it would take up six whole floors in the building - floors 2 to 7? I walked in anyway and approached the reception.

Could I meet Hemalatha, I asked the man at the desk. Not without giving him a phone extension number, I was told. This I could not produce either, so I decided it would be easier to start at the top floor and work my way down.

This was easier said than done. The guy on floor 7 could not help me either. Could he look up the records at least? The time was already past 2.30 and was ticking away fast. The man accessed the records, only to find there were seven different Hemalathas in the building! And what was the likelihood of that happening, I mused ruefully!

So I sat down on a nearby sofa and filled my face with self-pity, which wasn't very difficult considering I was feeling just that. It was nearing 3.00 and I could pretty soon bid the job farewell. After running a string of hopeless schemes through my mind, I slowly, very slowly, decided to make my one last inevitable stand. I called up my sister and gave her my e-mail password - the only completely private thing, or so I thought, in my life! She was precious, as always, and helped me out by opening my mail and giving me the details I needed. I trusted her to let the secret of the password die with her when the time came - God-willing a thousand years hence! But why couldn't I change the password, you might ask. A matter of sentimentality, I say. I had created this password in my college days, when as a young lad! One day I would have to pass on this sacred knowledge to my wife too, and by then, I would imagine, my sister would have forgotten it. But I think that hardly likely. She is after all my sister!

To end this happy tale, I did manage to write the test and even pass, as I discovered later. My handwriting though, not being too great to start with, took a real beating and relived in its nightmarish scrawl the horrors of that afternoon.

My quotes

Once upon a time, I worked on the editorial page of Deccan Herald, a newspaper in Bangalore. While this is no achievement in itself, it serves as a context for what is to follow.

During this time, I worked on a section wherein you had to select and print a quotation made by someone famous. This was the most fun part of the page and I made sure I selected quotes that had a certain 'quality' about them that would either make you smile, sit up and think, or get provoked. This exercise had a kind of sub-conscious effect on me, as I discovered later.

One day, a good friend of mine - Leslie Vincent I might add, for posterity - found it advisable to counsel me in a most loving, friendly manner on a certain matter. He said, "You know Prem, I learnt things the hard way." In my trademark fashion, I was adopting a certain lightheartedness throughout the conversation, while digesting the salient points. So I replied, "Actually Leslie, the easiest way to learn anything is the hard way," or something to that effect. It suddenly struck me that I had said something quotable. At least I liked it. So from that day on, I began noting down any bit of witticism that crossed through my mind. These quotations, some good, some not equally great, grew into quite a list. So I have decided to put them down here, and update them as time goes on. I will even try putting in a background for each one, wherever possible. So here goes...

The easiest way to learn anything is the hard way.
(The first in the series...)

I don’t like wasting time with people who don’t like to waste it with me.
(When mulling on the problem of fair-weather friends)

Cardiac arrest is the old-age cure for living.
(Written soon after news of former Indian Prime Minister P V Narasimha Rao's death came in)

I have more fashion within me than without.
(My reply when asked by a friend, jokingly, if I could write a report on a fashion event for her)

Some people can’t make up their minds so they make up their faces instead.
(In conversation with a reporter)

Almost everything is good in moderation, except goodness itself.
(One of the many thoughts I have in the bathroom)

Some people are too good for their own good.
(Followed the previous one)

Passion is the root of all irrationality.
(Just like that...)

Anyone can be generous if he has a generous income.
(When pondering on low salaries in the newspaper world)

The less meaning you might make of a saying (unlike this one), the more profound it invariably becomes.
(Just a wise crack)

Not all men are snobs. Some are only shy.
(Written soon after a girl, who became my friend, told me that she hadn't done so previously because she thought I was a snob and had deliberately avoided her. To which I replied the above)

Baby girls
Baby girls are such a treat
With their wavy curls and dimpled cheeks.
But let them grow
And then you’ll know
How baby girls can really be.
(When dropping off my mom at her school once, I saw a small girl on the street, and the innocent sweetness of her face set off a chain of philosophical thoughts in my mind, which I compiled into a limerick, which didn't really rhyme as it turned out later...)

When it comes to using the honeyed word, there’s no better one than ‘honey’ itself.
(Just nonsensical)

Law of the canteen: It takes two upseated butts to move a bench.
(Speaks for itself)

The trouble with cliches is that most of them are actually true.
(No real memorable background)

These days you don’t kiss and make up; you kiss and make out.
(After a friend of mine shared a piece of her love life with some of us)

Calculated risks are fine provided you don’t calculate them too much.
(Bathroom wisdom again)

I’m prepared to form an enduring friendship with anyone, provided that someone is prepared to endure it with me.
(Same as above)

A husband and wife are like the two parts of a bottom: although there are two, it still is one.
(This is private...)

The one generalisation that men love to make is that women love to generalise.

I’m not afraid of dying; I’m only afraid of the way it might happen.
(When contemplating, with some seriousness, on the promised persecution for Christians in the last days)

The reason why many people don’t dream big is that they don’t sleep enough.
(I sleep a lot... apparently)

The only trouble with desk jobs is there’s a greater likelihood of you developing boils on the bottom.
(I developed one myself...)

A corollary is a scientist’s way of saying, “On the other hand.”
(When on a holiday. The exact context I can't remember)

I like winter simply because it is the opposite of summer, and I would’ve liked monsoon too if only it didn’t rain so much.
(I hate summer, and I thought bringing in the monsoon too would make it more humorous)

The reason, I think, the love between man and dogs is truest is that there are no hormones involved.
(When walking my dog recently, I recalled a movie I had watched that talked about hormones and romance)

The only problem with long hair is you cannot scratch the back of your neck too easily.
(A practical problem I discovered recently when at work)

Having a sympathetic friend around is like visiting the loo. There is great relief when you unload.

(Guess where I discovered this one? In the loo of course...)

Nowadays, 'earning your daily bread' literally means being able to afford a pizza every day after work.

(I was nibbling away at a rather large pizza after work when I got 'inspired')

Last night I had a nightmare! While this might sound redundant, I see no other way of saying it. It was most horrific - that was its most salient feature. However, like most other nightmares, once I had been through its throes and emerged from sleep shaken, I still ended up like one of those earthlings in those movies in which the alien, when sending them back to earth, tell them with a snap of the finger, "You will remember nothing."

There are only two points about it that I remember most vividly. One was that the chief villain (maybe the only villain - I can't remember) was a most cruel woman who awakened more than the usual fear of God in me! In fact, I distinctly even remember saying at one point to myself, in one of those weird inexplicable phases in between consciousness and unconsciousness, but closer to the latter, that I never would have imagined a woman could scare me so much (feminists might find fault with even this, but that, sadly - for their sakes - cannot be helped).

It was truly a strange state of consciousness. I distinctly remember it even now, even though I cannot recall any other point about the nightmare (oh yes, to be absolutely honest, I also remember swimming at one point in a really dark pool outside an even darker house - the whole scene having a total sense of dread and grim foreboding about it - and waiting for impending doom). I was quite conscious at this point, from even an external point of view, that it was a nightmare, and a most terrifying one at that, but I was being dragged by a current too powerful to resist, sweeping me along in its deep dark churning. When I awoke, I know not when, I know I was relieved it was over.

Contrast this to another nightmare I had many nights ago, when I actually took the reins in my hands and turned the fast rolling nightmare away from its obvious grim inevitability, towards a safer - and happier - conclusion. I did this consciously, very much in possession of my faculties, yet I was in a state where I could not awake and break the dream abruptly. I will never understand completely how dreams work, but I will never cease to marvel at their mechanisms either.

My own humble explanation is that dreams and nightmares are a result of a heady combination of conscious, sub-conscious and unconscious experiences, and you have only a very minute control over them, through monitoring to a very small extent your conscious experiences. The fact that people generally cannot remember many of their dreams - though there are exceptions - is testimony to this. I have heard of an author who used to keep a pen and notebook by his bedside, and when he would awake, he would immediately note down what he had just dreamt, and use it as a plot for his next book, or maybe for the one after that .

My point though is, if only it was possible for nightmares, such as the one I had last night, to be directly transplanted from the mind onto the reel - just as it is and with no human editing involved. The nightmare I had last night had all the makings of a classic horror movie-cum-thriller, yet it was more classic than any other, and had a quality that cannot be described in human words or imagination. Such a movie would be a raw, unedited, truly surreal mix of the human with the supernatural - of the rational with the irrational - of things that can be explained with things that cannot.

I think illness is sometimes God's way of telling us all to slow down... a bit. Especially for those of us who are fresh into the world of work. That is, after spending all those years educating ourselves with so many things, most of which we tend to forget soon after, keeping only the useful bits for ourselves.

During our student days, most of us look forward to the time when we can start working. When we finally do begin, we cast sympathising glances every now and then at younger (or sometimes even older) relatives or friends or just that general class of studying folk. We then breathe deep sighs of relief, or sometimes pain, when we recall the trauma especially of examinations and other fruitless endeavours that only end up in making your handwriting worse than what it might have been in pre-school.

But at least these student days had that quality that can be described in the words: "after the darkness comes the dawn". Soon, the exams are a thing of the past and students are rewarded by holidays.

You might have fallen ill during the exams, but you generally tend to suppress any feelings of out-of-sortness, with a titanic resolve and an eye on the inevitable vacation to follow, be it winter, which has the promise of the yuletide spirit and the turn of the year, or the summer, which is absolute paradise on earth.

But the working man has no such reprieve. He works on and on, relentlessly, through sun, moon these days, and rain. He can suffer no break, and prays for such occasions as when a kindhearted relative or friend closes his nose and dives into marriage, or, when he just decides to pack up and head away somewhere - anywhere - with his family. But even at these times, he finds his mind almost inevitably heading to matters of work, or sometimes, if he takes his mobile with him, he even receives business calls from bosses or juniors who suddenly feel like eliciting his advice on all matters large and small.

Soon, he's back at work, and feels like he hasn't been away at all. But now, at least he's not torn between pleasing both colleagues and family. Then, when he's least expecting it, he falls ill. At first, he fights the feeling to stay back home, keeping an anxious eye on his leave situation and thinking he could manage to work, despite his body telling him strongly otherwise. But the illness is not going to leave him so easily. Soon, he makes the daring decision to stay back.

He's tentative at first, but slowly, as time passes, he crosses the danger mark, and begins to realise, "It's not all that tough after all." If it's a viral fever, he's even luckier. I say lucky because fever is generally not fatal and anyway I'm not talking about the fatal variety. The fever just brings a man back to his senses.

I mean, all along he's been working, shunning the blessing of leave just because he has been sucked into the vicious stream of the constant grind that offers little relief. It's like a constant twilight zone. Once a week, the moon shines through the clouds in the form of the weekend, and then it soon disappears behind the clouds again. In the case of a profession like mine - the media - where you're given only one day off from work every week, there is only so much moon and a dashed sight more of clouds.

Anyway, as I was saying, if it is viral fever that the worthy working man is experiencing, he'll find it has this peculiar teasing quality about it, whereby, it allows you to think you're improving by night, but the next morning you feel worse than ever before. So you decide to stay back home again. Gradually, it grows on you and you make the decision with a lot less trepidation than at first.

Soon, you don't want to get back to work. And the rest and relaxation you experience is unparallelled. Confined to bed for the most part, the only drawback is when you are forced to eat something gruelling like porridge or cornflakes by a very loving, well-intending mom, aunt or wife.

There is scarcely anything more addictive than playing minesweeper at 2 am, with heavy metal throbbing lightly in the background for the sake of saner people who choose this hour to sleep. Suddenly, you're all alone in the world, only your light is burning, you can scarcely hear your own breathing. For all practical purposes, you might be asleep yourself.

You don't feel like jumping up and doing a waltz with the dog like you might do when the rest of the world is buzzing around you. You don't even feel like head-banging. Your fingers just keep mechanically clicking, the mouse seems to take on a life of its own, the only sounds you can hear are the soft strains of some of the loudest music existing today, with the knocking of the keys faintly reaching your dulled senses in between tracks. But you scarcely notice it.

The mouse keeps sliding, your eyes preserve their glazed expression, the clicks on the minefield keep opening up new boxes. Then there's a deafening blast of silence as the field dots itself with that evil nefarious sign of the civilian's nightmare - the bomb. But the mouse mechanically continues to slide upwards, as your face registers no surprise, or shock, in fact, nothing at all.

The glaze across your eyes is still there. You don't even seem to blink. Your mind is dead, your hands are dead, the only living creature around is the mouse dragging your hand with it towards your next great tragedy that night.

It clicks softly on the face above, that seems to beckon with an innocent smile that beneath lies the most sadistic of lies. Numbers begin to light up the screen again. Then suddenly it strikes you, and you leave the game halfway to write this blog...

Welcome to my dark world, as I plunge into the depths of my own soul and come out trying to force myself to look happier. It's not that dark actually, it's just a darkly sardonic look at stereotypes that people like to force on others, and to prove in the words of Obelix, who had travelled extensively around the world and therefore knew what he was talking about, that people, generally, are crazy. But once we realise we're part of this world, and, as my brother loves to say, we all have our own brand of eccentricities, we will be forced to lighten up and treat the general universe with an abandoned indulgence. We're all crazy after all, so why not make a party of it! Once you start judging others you're doomed. It becomes an addiction. Judging oneself, however, while a most necessary exercise and highly recommended by mental health therapists - a most noble breed - should be done on one's own time. Live and let live! Don't even try getting sane. Such a concept exists only in an ideal world. I guess what I'm coming down to are two words - practical insanity! Get a life!