My cup of joy

Today I was reminded in a rather strange way of the first trophy/cup I won, which happened also to be the last, at least to date. My cousin in Australia had mailed me asking if I knew a certain girl she had met there who said she had studied at my old school. The name was familiar at the first mention itself. This girl had studied in my cousin's class, one year senior to me, and while I had no romantic feelings of any kind toward her, we had once shared a very momentous relationship; a, what-do-they-call-it, co-curricular association. What I mean to say is, it got me that trophy I just mentioned.

With that piece of delicacy behind me, here's how the story goes. I think I was in the eighth standard at the time. I was, and still am, one of those average fellows you see about. We revel in our average status, merely because it gets us from day to day. No sweat or tension, no high blood pressure that comes with achievement or over-achievement, just that forever peaceful expression that helps us sink our teeth gracefully into life with a contented, satisfied smile playing lazily on our lips. You get what I mean. I guess you wouldn't call us the go-getters of life. Of course, if we really want something, there's usually no stopping us - not from any fist or fury on earth or the hell beneath it. We are a determined lot. But for the rest of it, while we do go and we do get, we do so at our own time and pace. You cannot rush us. Why, heck, we cannot rush ourselves for that matter. That's just how we are.

The point I'm trying to make is, while my illustrious siblings were making marks for themselves in our school and in other schools, I pitched in my bit from time to time, but disturbed no lives in the process, least of all my own. And so life passed peacefully on. Then it happened.

As I mentioned, I certainly didn't sit on my ass the whole time. I did try my hand at different amusements, studies included, apart from music, public speaking, quizzes and all the other fun stuff we try to invent for our little minds in school. Man, I feel old. I got a few certificates and they felt good to my touch, but that's about it.

Then one day, they were selecting people to be sent out to another school, a girls' school if I remember right, for one of those inter-school competitions. There was this girl I mentioned who did not have a partner for the crossword competition. So the teachers cast their eyes far, they cast them wide, and that's how they fell on my lazy form moving about somewhere minding its own business.

"Prem," they called me. I ran up. I am capable of a lot of forward movement when it comes to two types of beckoning voices - that of authority and that of the opposite sex.

They asked me if I would accompany the girl as her partner for the competition.

"But I'm not really good at crossword," I protested weakly.

"That's okay," they shut me up immediately. "You only need to go along with her. She'll do the rest."

"Yes, don't worry about it," the girl said, only too pleased to finally be qualified to enter the competition. So I agreed, jumped onto the bus with the rest, and, my mind is a blur about the exact details, reached the other school.

Soon the competition was on in right earnest. I sat along with the girl while she attacked some of the most cryptic clues I had seen at the time. I hadn't actually seen much either before that time or after. But the girl amazed me. She was a real whizz. Stuff I would hardly even imagine, she had unravelled, not without some difficulty of course. But I remember this, to my credit. There were these two clues she just could not figure out. Perhaps it was that my untrained mind was fairly unscarred by previous battles of the kind, but after working the mental machinery just a bit, I had figured the clues out. The girl was grateful. We did get two more points after all. I felt a bit useful too.

We finished and went to kill the rest of the day in the main hall where the other competitions were being held. They were all great fun, and we passed a most relaxing time, at least I did, for I was not thinking overly much about the results. Probably that's why, when it did come, it caught me by surprise. We won the blessed competition. I was thrilled. My companion more so. I was not much the hugging type at the time, nor was she, but we beamed a good deal at one and all. On the whole, a most satisfying experience. I think my hands shook a bit when I went up to collect that famous trophy.

When we returned to school, we went on another congraulatory round with the teachers, who were just as thrilled. "I didn't do much," I said modestly, and honestly too. "She did most of it."

I returned home proudly with the bronze trophy. When I placed it in the family showcase, I noticed with some relish that it was the largest one around at the time.

I had forgotten of course that my younger brother was yet to grow up. Well, he soon did and his trophies soon pretty much filled up all the space in that showcase. They were all larger than mine anyway. All the smaller trophies soon got shifted to some inside cupboard. Mine is probably now lying on its side somewhere sorrowfully nursing its wounds. I must check up on it sometime. Its owner, however, has picked himself up and moved on.

Daily bread

My latest quote:

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

N.B.: Refer to a post in September 2006 called "My quotes".

The folly of procrastination

Two days ago I learnt an important lesson in life from what might seem the most insignificant of incidents. But then I guess that's what greatness is all about - gleaning the most not-so-obvious truths from the almost absolutely mundane.

Well the story goes like this. About fifteen days ago, I got hauled up by a traffic cop trying to make his end-of-the-month earnings in the way only cops know how - pull up someone for not carrying on his person his vehicle papers, or not wearing his helmet, and make him pay a heavy fine. I say 'him' or 'his' because you don't generally see cops stopping women, either because they don't have the heart to do so, or because they don't have the guts to do so, or they take it for granted that women always obey the law. Don't get me wrong - no hard feelings here. Just a small observation and totally inconsequential to my story.

Anyway the cop asked me for my papers. I was totally bored and just wanted to get home without too much delay. This man in front of me seemed like a pesky interference in my plans to retire peacefully to the comfort of my bed for the day, and I threw at him all the boredom and nonchalance that I possessed. I lazily and deliberately brought out my licence and he scanned it closely under the streetlight. That done he asked for my vehicle's emission test certificate. I pulled that out even slower. None of this escaped his keen official eye. But correcting my manner of expression lay quite out of his penal powers. So he did what only he knew best - scanned this document too under the streetlight.

Next he asked me for my vehicle's insurance papers. I produced this too. He scanned them as well. Ah. His eye lit up. At last he had got me. Very casually he pointed a scrubby forefinger at a spot on the papers and told me in Kannada that my vehicle's annual insurance cover had expired. He was triumphant, but professionally casual about it. To me I couldn't care less. My bed still beckoned me. I didn't feel like arguing with him. Besides I couldn't even if I had wanted to, considering that I can hardly put two words of Kannada together. And anyway I was feeling too lazy to part my lips. So I looked at him through half-closed eyes and nodded. He asked me for 500 bucks. 500? - I uttered a mild exclamation of surprise. He nodded indulgently. I shut up and pulled out a note. This was all too boring and I wanted to be on my way again... Soon. He took the note. I asked him for a receipt. I wasn't going to pay a bribe after all. He pulled out the book.

"Name?" he asked.

"Prem," I replied. That was easy.

"Profession?"

"Press (the colloquial equivalent for journalist)."

He stopped and stared like he had bitten into something really hard. I was like, next question please, or so I said with my eyes.

So he continued. "Organisation?"

"The Hindu," I replied. He stopped and stared again, this time like he had bitten into something both hard and bitter.

Then before I knew it he had launched into a barrage of Kannada that absolutely escaped me. Nor was I even bothering to try to understand. But he wasn't angry. In fact, if possible, he seemed even mildly apologetic. This was a strange turn of events. Maybe all my lazy arrogance had suddenly struck him in a new light. I realised, cops are for some reason shit scared of us journalists. Anyway, all of a sudden, amidst this barrage of verbal crap he was throwing at me, he returned me this 500-buck note I had given him, showed me the list of traffic offences that informed me that he was indeed justified in charging me the amount he had asked for, and then waved me on. So I beat it, amused, but thinking, my profession does have its merits. That was something comforting to chew on.

The next day I went over to the bike store to renew my insurance policy. The man went through with all the formalities and told me to return after 10 days or so. When the time came, I went and collected the papers, photocopied them and stored them away in my bike locker.

Now here's where the lesson comes in. One year ago, when I had got the last policy, I had promised myself that I would photocopy it immediately and lock it up in my bike. But, true to my nature, I procrastinated and kept putting it off, thus forcing me to carry it around in my bag everywhere I went. All I had to do was hop across the road from my house and get the thing done. It was a matter of two minutes, approximately. But I kept delaying it and a whole year passed.

It struck me suddenly even as I made a deliberate decision to photocopy the new policy immediately. If I had allowed myself to procrastinate something so small, for a whole year, how much more would I procrastinate bigger decisions in life? Possibly I have been doing so for a long time too. The thought struck me to my bone and it wouldn't be going too far to say I quivered at this point. Procrastination was Hamlet's tragic flaw that actually did him in. There are many things in life I don't want to be, and one of them is a dead Shakespearean hero.

The urge to unload

My latest quote:

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

(For those who came in late, I have a section in this blog that I posted in September, 2006. It's labelled 'My quotes' and I had promised to update it as I go along. Do check it out, if you haven't had the misery of doing so till now...

A tale of two tales

There are these two incidents that affected me in totally different ways and are absolutely unrelated, but I shall club them together in one post for two reasons - for one, they both brought an amused smile to my face as I mused on how queer and interesting human beings and human relations are; secondly, I'm a lazy fellow and can't be bothered to write separate posts. I'm sorry, it's as simple as that.

The first incident occurred when I was walking my dogs. It was a hot day and the sun bore right into my scalp, leaving me feeling quite weary. But I had to keep a watchful eye on my two pets waddling at my feet. It calls for an almost militant watchfulness as these animals can test every sixth sense that you've ever wanted to have. They are desperate for anything they can snatch up off the road and the least likely of things you would expect them to want to ingest they will surprise you by going for. It may be a small piece of plastic, a bone of some creature that decomposed days ago, or something equally micro and dangerous. You'll be careful to keep them off the fresh cow dung, for which I've noticed dogs have a peculiar fascination (they eye it like any of us would eye a particularly large piece of black forest cake). But you can hardly be careful enough to keep them off the small stuff for which they have the advantage of being able to sniff out and you have the disadvantage of being separated by about 5 feet nine inches of height. Anyway, all this has little to do with the incident I am about to narrate, which actually is quite short in the telling. All I am trying to do is set the background.

So I was walking my dogs and generally feeling hot under the collar when two local men of the streets approached me. One of them asked me in Tamil what breed of dogs they were. I was at a point when I would welcome just about any conversation with a human being, to cool my parched throat. So I replied they were called 'dachshunds'. The guy tried rolling his tongue, missed the pronunciation altogether and then quickly moved on to the next question. How much were they worth? I gave him my regular answer - the right one actually, but it always serves to discourage people from asking me any more embarassing questions as to whether I could supply them with dogs, like I have some breeding machine with me at home. It's about 4,000 bucks, I said, vaguely remembering somebody who had knowledge on the subject telling me some such thing.

Well it worked. But then the guy surprised me by asking me - in Tamil again - if I could give him the pup? I stared at him, not knowing what to say. What? Give her to you? - My bewildered eyes seemed to ask. Why? "Friendship, sir," he replied in English, touching his hand dramatically to a place somewhere in the region of his heart. Wow. This guy couldn't be serious. I slowly walked away. He did look like he wasn't joking, though his crooked smile made it difficult to tell for sure. But would he do something to me? I am, after all, fairly lacking in the biceps on which men usually depend to attempt to defend themselves with. But we kept looking at each other as I retreated, me with that amused expression on my face that I told you about. As I walked away, his friend, who was looking slightly embarrassed, pulled him by the hand and slapped him right across the back of his head.

The second incident happened yesterday when I went out with my good friends for a concert at St. Joseph's Commerce College. In the first place, they took so dashed long to let us in the gate. We stood mulling around outside like a bunch of lost sheep. When they finally let us in, it was in single file, actually two single files - one for the guys and one for the girls - because there were these student marshalls waiting there to frisk us. I was impressed. This was high security indeed. Once they had frisked us, this guy asked to examine my bag. I gave it up willingly. I have always said my life is an open secret - I have almost nothing to hide (except my e-mail password). He peered right in while muttering that he wanted to examine my wallet too. This only increased the smile on my face. "Is it okay," I asked. "You've got a Bible," he said impressed, or at least he sounded so. Well, so I did, and I was proud of it too. I take this bag with me everywhere, to church as well, so my holy book comes along. With the smile only growing on my face I asked him, "Do you want to look through my wallet now?" "No, you've got a Bible," he repeated.

I walked away, feeling a mixture of amusement and delight. It was a strange feeling. Living at a time - what we Christians will call the 'last days' - when almost anything said with regard to Jesus is scoffed at, when being anti-Christ, though maybe not always ostensibly so, is a popular sentiment, it was a pleasant surprise to witness something of the subtle, almost grudging respect that people still harbour for the name they otherwise so deliberately and disdainfully cast aside.

Hanging by a thread

It's amazing how sometimes a single aspect of your life can decide how your day will be. To get more specific, I finished work real early today. It wasn't really because I performed exceptionally well or anything. It was merely because the ad department saved the day, bless their hearts. I was going at a pleasant rate anyway. The correspondents seemed not to be in a real mood to file stories, so for once I was actually able to stop typing at times and look around at the world, such as it existed within the newsroom. Usually you are so hard-pressed for time and the work keeps piling on that towards the end you even seem to almost stop breathing. It's amazing - that's the only way I can describe the nature of my work at this point.

But today everything seemed to be going right. In fact, it has been going this way for some time now. But today was like almost unreal. As I mentioned, not only was I keeping pace with the stories that were coming in, but the ad department too decided to pitch in and send me cruising. My news editor told me I had about half a page of ads but even he was surprised when I took him the page at 10 pm, an unusual time for the particular page I was doing. The tone of the exclamation he made when he saw the amount of ads seemed to indicate that if only he had realised it a bit earlier he might have made some move to get some ads cancelled. I shuddered within me and almost grabbed the page away from him, but held back. When I took it back, I did it almost unnaturally slow and deliberate, he must have surely noticed. I walked away too with slow deliberate steps and once out of his sight didn't look back.

It was on the way back that I realised, beaming to myself, how much my life had begun to hang on my daily grapple with work. It had become literally that - a grapple. I have actually begun counting the number of days I have until my next day off. And I used to be a work horse of sorts. At least at the workplace. But this new job, it had become a bit of a strain, and still is. The last few days have been pretty good, all because things are fine on the job front. It's sad but true. Hey but I started off this piece in a positive mood so I'm not going to ruin it in this depressive philophical strain. So like the positive guy that I am, or am constantly aspiring to be, let me hope this roll I'm on at the moment does not hit any of those huge rude speedbreakers. I could do without the rollercoaster - for now.

Awakening of the sleepy city

As I sped through the empty roads today homeward, I couldn't help feeling this strange feeling. This was the second time in the recent past that Bangalore - a usually peaceful city - was being threatened by trouble on the streets. Only a few weeks ago, I had left office in a hurry in order to beat the curfew and reach the safe and sane confines of my home outside of the mad world that was getting madder all around me. My boss's angry words rang faintly in my ears and I felt a mild irritation at his seemingly unfeeling attitude towards my plight. True he had let me go, but not without spewing a bit of venom that I felt was uncalled for. I knew he was just generally hassled, but I'm only human too and his irritation grated upon my finer feelings.

But compared to that night, tonight was just a mere shadow. True I had not encountered anything untoward that time either, by God's grace, but there was a palpable difference in the atmosphere all around me. Then the roads had been absolutely empty with only a few crime cops hanging around - none of those painful traffic cops who insist on stopping people returning after a hard day's work just to check their licences or smell their breath. That night they were conspicuously absent. But there was a general uneasiness in the air. The air hung thickly all around dangerously low like the drooping wet of a bat's wings. There was a nameless fear and dread, such as can be induced by communal feelings.

Tonight, however, I had to consciously bring my attention to the fact that the roads were empty and the shutters down on shops - all except one medical shop on the way. Only then did I remind myself that there was supposed to be trouble brewing silently somewhere waiting for a chance to erupt. Only it wouldn't be as bad as what it was a few weeks ago when two communities decided to go at each other. This time it would be because of the court's ruling seemingly against Karnataka on the release of Cauvery water. While it would incite many of the baser passions of some of the baser elements of society, the communal feelings would after all be of a different kind, not the sort that would really have people killing each other believing that their respective gods would then accept them into heaven and cast aside the man or woman they had just killed.

It's strange for a person who's spent all his life in this peaceful city to suddenly ride through streets that seem somehow half awakened. True, they would fall asleep very shortly after, but for a city that had hardly ever opened its eyes before, sleep-walking through most of its days, this sudden excitement on its part seemed almost unnatural. Anyone who knows and loves Bangalore as much as I do would feel some pangs at this subtle change that some outside elements have been subtly and insiduously wheedling into the very midst of our society. To be sure, if Mysore is called the sleepy little town, then Bangalore is definitely its older brother - a city that sleeps, but only at the right times.

But this sudden madness that has gripped the city - I wish it would go away and leave us all alone.

So when I remembered that the reason the roads were empty was because there was likely to be trouble (notice I had to remind myself about this), I snapped out of my general dreaminess in which I usually move about and paid a little more heed to the world about me. I couldn't help thinking to myself that at one time, I used to be afraid of dogs chasing me on the road while I rode back home from work. It used to be a regular affair three years ago. But now, I was more afraid of my own fellow human beings, lowering themselves much below the level of street dogs. Fortunately, nothing happened to me along the way until the last stretch. Breezing along, I suddenly saw this dog waiting in anticipation for me to pass, and as I did, he charged.

Advice for the singles

I wish to offer a word of unsolicited advice to all my single friends or even those caught between relationships out there, who at least some times listen to what I have to say. There are some of us on who, after some time of having remained single for one reason or another, the pressure finally begins to tell. We begin to misconstrue our singleness for unloveability and seek refuge in farfetched strategems that merely do little to convince us of the opposite. By this I mean, we start telling our happily 'coupled' counterparts things like, "My dad/mom/kid neighbour/dog is my boyfriend/girlfriend". At the time, we might think it sounds either clever, sweet or, by some strange stretch of the imagination, even humorous. But I must advise against this, out of pure concern for your self-respect (I speak for myself too). Such statements only reek of absolute desperation, nothing else. And 'coupled' people can see through such things faster than you can even begin to shape your mouth to utter some syllable.

I know it's nothing really profound I have revealed, but it's worth a thought anyway. For your own good!

The boss is always right

It is generally an accepted fact today among employees, that the boss is always right. The old rule says that if you have any doubts about it, well, just don't, if you know what's good for you. It doesn't mean you have to suck up to the boss. That is a totally different category, and the people in it generally lead miserable lives, discontent in the knowledge that the boss can see right through their little game, but they are compelled by their very nature not to act otherwise.

In my case, however, it seems I actually do have a boss who is almost always right. And there is no more comforting feeling for your ideal employee, which I may not be but always strive towards. When you come from an office where you basically had a lot of seniors pottering about, each one more confused than the other, a boss like the one I have at present can hit you like a shock that takes getting used to. Your normal employee can be nonplussed at first, but I always endeavour to be as plussed as possible in any situation. Anyone who saw me walking in the first day would have seen a confident young man speaking in confident level tones and with a very slight saunter - the saunter of three years of experience in a newspaper. Even my boss's voice was softer than mine. I thought to myself, "This is one soft-spoken pleasant dude." And I'm usually the one called "soft-spoken".

The situation has changed now, as you can imagine. It is my boss, and a few others, who tell me they can't hear what I say. I move around blithely like a quiet mouse, slipping in and out of the shadows. My boss settled all my ill-conceived pretensions about my ability with the English language. I mean, heavens, I thought I was at least justified in thinking I had some degree of comfortability with the language. It is, after all, the only language I know and I believe I dream in it, so it would be wrong for me to think I was bad in it. Or so I thought. But only a few days into my job did I realise how wrong I was.

The first 'copy' I edited was done with a flourish and I walked in with a slight swagger induced by my new-found confidence and laid the print-out on his desk. He frowned at it and began the massacre. I got it back with pen marks all over - which re-awoke in my mind nightmares of my school days. And I thought I had got past them. Anyway, I continued my work, the clicking of the keyboard keys getting slower and quieter. Very naturally, my speed - never one of my greatest fortes - got even slower as I struggled to make fewer mistakes with my grammar.

But they continued. Each time I told myself to remember not to repeat a certain grammar mistake, I would make a new one. I began to realise my mistakes were from an indefatigable source that was self-generating. And the despair began to set in.

It was tough for the first few weeks. But now the good news. My mistakes are reducing. I am beginning to learn English all over again. Maybe it was that my boss had been an English teacher previously. But I found a profound respect for him taking birth in my breast, which grew - the respect I mean - with each new mistake I made. I began to realise the truth - my boss is actually always right - well almost always!

The realisation that he was still but human came to me one day when he emerged from his cabin brandishing my copy in his hand. "This is not English," he said, indicating a portion he had circled with his pen. I saw the sentence - "The Minister said his hands were tied." I blinked. I was confused. He went on, "What do you mean, 'Hands are tied'? Do you mean with a rope? (okay not a very good joke, but let it pass) Maybe you could say it in Kannada (and he launched into a string of Kannada that I understood the gist of but cannot repeat, simply because I don't know the language). But not in English." I don't know what it was then that made me squeak, "But sir, I thought it was an expression." I suddenly realised I had dared to question the boss and I waited for the blow to fall - "Do you even know English? You call yourself a sub editor?" But no. It seemed to strike him that what I said made some sense. So he quickly corrected himself, "Yes, but they don't use it in England... (eh?) It's avoidable. You could do without it." That's when the old wise saying first flashed through my mind - "The boss is always right! Quickly, nod your head." So I did. And he was happy. Incident over.

But I was glad it happened to me, so I can choose to remind myself of it whenever I get too overawed by his preciseness and Oxfordianness, which restores the balance in my work and increases my efficiency. But the respect has only grown stronger. The man is a genius. I know that 96.747 times he is right, which does unimaginable good to an employee's confidence. There is nothing like knowing that almost every time he points out your mistakes, he is right. It makes you careful like never before. And you learn along the way. I have suddenly felt in me a deep yearning to go back to the basics of English grammar, something that our education system seems to barely skim - as it now strikes me - and learn it proper. He has taught me to treat English like a science. All my dreams of learning Kannada in 30 days (yeah right) and Spanish in 90, and maybe French in 112, have suddenly found themselves being rudely pushed aside. He has stirred up my respect for English like never before. I mean, there is no language like it. The French may have tried to come close, but while trying to reach God on their babelic tower of tenses, they somehow got lost and have become a frustrated lot. But back to my boss!

I still remember one of the first lessons he taught me in grammar - "Even though there's a conjunction separating the two clauses, the subject in the second clause has changed, so you've got to put a comma before the 'and'." Immortal words. I have never made the mistake again.

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.