Viva Bangalore!

Don’t ask me why, but growing up my blue-collar altar ego always wanted to be a bus driver! That’s right. I said it! Visions of me maneuvering those black-smoke spewing behemoths around crowded streets, hollering at passersby and cyclists made my day. But I’m 31 now (groan!) and I’ve painfully come to realize that for the rest of my doggone existence no one’s ever going to hand me over a bus. Next best thing? A cab driver, of course. Armed with the requisite permits, inside knowledge of the city and a willingness to curse everyone at the drop of a hat, I figure I’ll eventually get to drive one of them “call taxi” or “tourist cab”. But until then I’ll be committing bloopers like,

“I’ll get you to the airport in ½ an hour!”

What baloney! From one end of the city? Seriously man, what do you expect? The 405 freeway to part like the Red Sea for your golden chariot!

I’m not kidding. My friend almost gave it up as a lost cause while his mom freaked out even further. Horrified that she’d be stuck in Los Angeles the rest of her life and will never see India again! That bad time and traffic (mis)management from me.

Like my others such as orbiting around outer space or playing sleek cover drives for India, becoming a “cab driver” is undoubtedly yet another pipe dream. Dreams do get to become reality, or in my case something close to that. I hit the lottery (so to speak) when on vacation in India I got to chauffeur my mom from Chennai to Bangalore (and back) in my dad’s gleaming “Tata Indica GLS 5 speed manual transmission” car…

For the uninitiated, driving on Indian roads isn’t akin to eating a fruitcake. Every imaginable piece of machinery from tricycles to bulldozers is present and rightfully jostles for that available wee bit of space, honking horns like crazy to prove their point. Each driver begins his/her journey with a sense of entitlement which is why he/she drives in the middle of the road at speeds he/she determines appropriate, traffic signs and rules be damned. A point which my dad attempted to drive into me ad nauseam, almost to the extent of driving him (and me) crazy. I of course, would’ve nothing to do with it and kept screaming “If I can drive across the America in the middle of winter, 750 kms is like a walk in the park” Never mind that superior road conditions over there means you can practically coast with half your eyes closed.

D-Day (a.k.a. Saturday) dawned bright and sunny and my mom woke me up with a twinkle and a huge smile. A smile that could only mean “I’m with you on this one son!” My dad who until then had been hovering in the sidelines praying for a volte face from me suddenly announced that his driver would be arriving in 15 minutes to perform some “preliminary checks” on the car. Shrewd she is, my mom understood what that meant and gently nudged me to get my a** off the newspaper and get ready if I wanted to garner solo credits. Yes mom!

Ten minutes later we sprinted off to the car and my dad who had finally resigned to the inevitable went over the checklist he had come up with up.

• Call him and my elder uncle every 1 hour to give note of our progress. What cities had passed, what remained and how traffic was behaving on the highways. Should I also count how many cows and goats passed by?
• Stop after every 1 hour for 15 minutes to “recharge my batteries”
• For the life of me ensure the speedometer wouldn’t nudge past 60kmph.

“Maybe we’re better off dropping Mom at the bus station and let the Volvo driver take care of business!” But… sassing my dad never got me nowhere so I agreed to everything with a straight face. Our driver, my mom figured would be close to within a stone’s throw of home so I quickly slammed the car in reverse announcing my intentions of wanting to get the hell out of there. I looked up to see the watchman and his family and a couple of neighbors intently watching the proceedings and judging by their faces I sensed they weren’t exactly on board with my heroism. Whatever! I smiled weakly, blew a few kisses at the crowd and quickly threw the car into gear.

7.15am and finally our caravan rolled out of the gate. My mom patted me proudly as if I was taking her to the moon. I returned the favor yelling “Whoopdedoo!” May the Forces be with us…

Contrary to common public perception it isn’t exactly a death sentence every time you get on the road. Yes there are stray bums who want to make a statement but by and large if you mind your P’s and Q’s (read pay obeisance to MTC buses and water tankers) you’re guaranteed to reach home in one piece. Unblinking I chose this as my motto. Daddy would be proud!

Twenty minutes later we were off city limits and my mom declared that we should go look at their newest baby. That swank three bedroom house she and Dad bought a few months back. Ideally I would’ve liked the first pit stop after Kanchipuram or even further but then drivers don’t dictate no agenda.

“Are there going to be any roads in the future or should we upgrade to an All Terrain Vehicle?” I loudly wondered as my car creaked through the numerous potholes en route. I stopped in front of a chic cream colored palace and let out a few wolf whistles. Construction complete, she was definitely a beauty. Whatever indecisiveness my dad was (in)famous for they obviously didn’t apply to houses. This was the second one they’d bought in four years and given his recent comments I suspected another apartment or piece of land was in the works. Why buy ‘em if you aren’t going to live in any? Anything more than fifteen minutes of ogling a locked house isn’t healthy, I surmised and agreed with mom to get back on the road.

I’ve driven on my share of excellent roads in the States but NH-4 blew my mind right away. Three lanes on each side paved smooth demarcated by flowers and trees with signs telling you where to go. Was this really India? “This is the case all the way” my mom assured my open jaws that were still soaking up the sight refusing to shut up. I deftly swerved past a three wheeler Tempo blissfully driving at 40kmph in the right lane and discreetly spiked the baby past 100kmph. Maybe she wanted to be pushed, since the car readily agreed without any body tremors. Hop, skip and jump and the three of us were now officially speeding our way to Bangalore…

Whatever stray thoughts I’d about my mom having a stiff upper lip were quickly quashed. For the next few hours she kept me abuzz and alive with every news item worthy of its salt, including her take on it. Politicians (state and central) were thrashed and film stars were thrown down the wayside. Even my erstwhile school wasn’t spared when she recounted their wheelings and dealings that caused so much heartburn in their careers and lives. And I thought I’d be listening to a science lesson!

I did miss my dad in this trip though. Seriously. So many cities Vellore, Ambur, Vaniyambadi, Krishnagiri waved back at us and I’m sure he would’ve had his share of stories to reminisce about each. Considering the man’s travelled all over South India quite a few times in his illustrious career and accumulated a lifetime of experience. I overtook quite a few TNSTC buses whose route numbers and destinations I had no clue about. Daddy would’ve given a sermon on each!

Surprisingly this wasn’t a non-stop journey as many might’ve assumed. We stopped exactly twice. First at a rundown gas station to fill up my close-to-empty tank. My mom whipped out her credit card which was promptly returned back by the confused attendants who probably hadn’t seen one before. I don’t know who was more shocked, them or her. I however had my own stuff to worry about. Like whether they were pumping petrol or kerosene. Given that the entire place was a glorified solitary open air pump.

“Tire pressure check…” I started off.

“Athellam inga illa” (We don’t have that here) shot back the attendants quickly waving us off eager to get back to their gossiping. Right! They’d probably get to the air pump once they put a roof over their heads!

Second was at a much better HP station to check my tire pressure. Normally this would be as interesting as gulping coffee in a Udipi hotel but the reason it struck a chord was because the attendants flatly refused to accept any gratuity from me. Wow! I tried upping my tips to as much as Rs. 20 but was smilingly informed that it was against company policy. I instantly felt even smaller for having attempted to “bribe” him.

In my feeble defense I did want to stop for lunch (or even snacks) but try finding a “High Class Pure Vegetarian” restaurant (mom’s perennial choice) on the highways. Especially after you’ve missed Arusuvai (2a on Dad’s checklist), which was supposedly one-of-a-kind according to him. I was hoping there’d be some Bhavans in Vellore or Krishnagiri but gave up trying when nothing turned up. “We’ll go home and figure something out” I decreed. End of story.

Hosur was the last major city on our way and announced its arrival through a cacophony of buses and vans parked in the middle of the road causing me and a few others to come to a grinding halt and navigate through the mess. “You’ll be entering Karnataka any minute now” my mom informed. I felt an immediate pang leaving Tamil Nadu though I knew I’d be dragging my a** back in less than 24 hours. No “Welcome to Karnataka” signs yet. Maybe I ought to push her back to 100kmph.

“There it is” I yelled shaking my mom off her catnap pointing at those ubiquitous BMTC Pushpak buses serenely parked at a bus stand in Attibele. God! Weren’t they beautiful! In my unbridled enthusiasm I almost veered into two three wheelers in my lane drawing one of my mom’s patented “You’re dead meat now” glares. Relax mom! As much as I wanted to show them Bangalore autorickshaw drivers that I could give back some I bit my lip. No sense getting into any fender benders or scrapes and risk taking the shine of my thus far excellent portrayal. “Thirty minutes more of good behavior and you can go home to a hero’s welcome”, I consoled myself.

Om namo Venkatesaya. Om namo Venkatesaya…

My mom’s cell phone ringtone! As predicted that was my uncle who had now got wind that we were nearing base and promptly shot off instructions to my mom on the quickest route home.

“Take a left at Silk Board, then right, then left….”

What the #$%^ was “Silk Board” and how the hell was I supposed to find it? Every darn building and road looked the same! Quite rightly I missed that and stayed on the highway as if it’d lead me to the Promised Land. Road started getting narrower which meant we were getting into the city.

“Bangalore traffic is the worst!” I heard my friends’ voices echo in my mind. True, since tenfold more drivers were cutting across and honking crazy and almost every vehicle seemed to be a huge deluxe bus. I had to fight to stay on the road and keep looking for directions to Jayanagar. Oh! And also reassure my mom that I’d been down this road a million times and could find my way home with my eyes closed. Bulls**t!

“When in doubt follow a BMTC bus”. Those gargantuans always go to either Majestic or K.R. Market, two places whose whereabouts I knew. I picked a shining red one that seemed to be travelling quite fast and sometime later proudly announced to my passenger “Fifteen more minutes and we’ll be home”. We were at a flyover and even with my limited topography I knew I wasn’t fibbing this time. “Go straight, take a left at Tilaknagar, left at 4th block…”, I ran over the route in mind. Suppress that smile idiot, you aren’t home yet! I tried in vain but that thin one on the edge of my lips just refused to fade away.

We could’ve reached home a good ten minutes earlier if I wasn’t so intent on letting every motorcycle, autorickshaw and car pass by. My adrenaline was now officially through the roof and I was surprised that I could even hold the wheel. Final left turn and it all came back. “#61 11th A Main” waiting in all her splendor to welcome her prodigal son. I honked twice to announce our arrival. My aunt, younger uncle and cousin rushed outside and I high fived with each one wearing an expression of “Oh! No big deal!”, acting as if I’d been doing this trip every weekend.

Whew! I did it! I #$%^in’ did it! 6 hours of close-to-perfect driving and a bagful of memories later, I was finally home.

Thirty minutes later my elder uncle sauntered in. This is a man who had driven through vast stretches of India when the rest of the family was still enamored with bicycles (so to speak). Not to mention the most accomplished driver among all of us. In some ways my victory march was kind of like a coming-of-age party in his eyes. I screamed “Who’s the man? Who’s the man?” and enveloped him in a bear hug that we’d perfected over the years.

“So you finally did it, huh?”

“Yes sir” I beamed, almost ready to burst with joy. Can we hand over the torch to me now, please?

---

 

The hardest part of a road trip ever is the return journey back. Shorn off enthusiasm and effervescence every mile takes longer making you wonder why on earth you couldn’t have stayed a day or two longer. My thoughts exactly as I prepared to leave home for Chennai the next day. 2.00pm chimed my watch. 24 hours had passed in the blink of an eyelid and what was left next was the “boring” drive. Boring? Try same road, same towns, same sights, except now they were on the left side.

I would’ve loved taking the Old Madras Road back but the elder statesmen would’ve nothing of it. “Too much traffic and just one lane” my uncle repeated over coffee shaking his head vigorously. Translation: Don’t stretch your luck and stick to the game plan son. Drive back the same way you came and we’ll give you a plaque. Heck! If I was going to be strong-armed I might as well try to make it interesting. Grim faced, lips pursed, 5 ½ hours and a precision drive that would’ve made F1 drivers proud later I deposited my mom safe and sound in front of my beaming Dad. Whew!

Hindsight’s always 20-20. Maybe I could’ve let my mom visit a couple of temples on the way. Maybe even stopped for tea and snacks considering she’d been dropping hints that grew louder by the hour since we crossed Bangalore city limits. No! Hell hath no fury like a driver’s ego scorned. I had to treat the return journey like a race against time as if going one up over the Volvo bus driver was supposed to mean something. But… you live and learn. Next time I’m driving anyone else besides me I promise to provide spirited conversation, frequent restroom breaks and lunch and dinner at the choicest restaurants. Even if I’ve got to take a detour off the highways…

---

“Who’s the man?” Well… 11 ½ hours 750 kms and two joyrides later I think I can at least throw my hat into the ring. Thank you Dad. Thank you for letting me fly.

Much Ado About Nothing!

Genesis…

“Much ado about nothing”

God’s honest truth, I never really understood these simple yet profound words of Shakespeare until now. Forty eight hours after I emerged unscathed following the definitively singular gut-wrenching nerve wracking experience of my life possessing immense potential to snowball into career threatening, life altering existential crises. Or, as is otherwise called in my playbook, the H1-B Visa Stamping.

“Much ado about nothing?” Most assuredly, yes. Considering it’s the same shebang all over. Same visa. Same consulate. Same paperwork and procedure. Same for the third #$%^in’ time for crying out loud!

Like any red blooded desi on both sides of the Mississippi who hasn’t been awarded the “Green Card” yet, yours truly too survives on that thick green one page document, affectionately called the “H1-B Visa”. Which apart from assuring me of a job (or other way around) and a few basic civil rights does pretty much nothing else. Uncle Sam has decreed “we” pay higher taxes for benefits that mostly aren’t eligible to us and more importantly present our weather-beaten faces to a Visa Officer every so often so he/she can cross examine us (again!) and deem us legitimate through a seal in our passport. A seal more dearly called, the “H1-B Stamping”.

If you’re returning to the “Land of Milk and Honey” after soaking up countries like for example… Costa Rica, Panama, Peru (insert shameless self-promotion) and want to do so by not jumping fences (or crawling through tunnels) but through crowded airports, you need one of these babies for sure.

This year I wanted to go home and figured I needed a new visa.

(Pauses 30 seconds)

I love my dad, all right? His energy, passion among plenty of other things. But I’d rather be hurtling down a ravine with jagged edges in a bundle of porcupine needles than face him when he’s metamorphosized into a full blown CIA-type interrogator armed with his document checklist and all. Two basket cases growling at each other before the interview, my mom would go crazy.

So onto Plan B. For a $475 round trip (including hotel) Vancouver put her hand up, smiled demurely and whispered, “Why… not me?”

“A known devil is always better than an unknown angel” Eyes locked, I smiled back and the date was on…

The Arrival…

My welcome couldn’t have been more brutal. 40 degree weather, incessant drizzle, darker and gloomier than usual skies, that’s not what I cursed myself for. Every living soul except me was walking around wearing a jacket or carrying an umbrella. I didn’t have neither. Not even a plastic sheet. Half drenched and almost slipping on the sidewalk I found an idling Toyota Hybrid and jumped in.

“Can we go to 401 E Hastings St, please?”

No response as car and driver stood still. “Ummm….” He started to say something.

“Oh! Budget Inn Patricia” I loudly remembered the name. That did the trick.

“Oye! Puthreeshia Otel” he repeated with severe emphasis and set off. For the next few minutes I tried to keep pace with his Hindi and Punjabi using my stock “Haan ji… Bahuth sach hai” (Yes sir, most definitely true) but gave up after we got onto the freeway. I either laughed after his every sentence or pretended to have a very spirited conversation with my voicemail.

“Hey! Is the elev…”

“Oh! It’s broken. Don’t know how long it’ll be out” and swiftly went back to his open chat windows. Great!

Cursing the pony tailed clerk, myself and random others that came to mind, I huffed and puffed my way up five floors over steps that each seemed a foot high. With my heart about to give up I managed to land in front of Room 526, my official residence for the next few days in Vancouver.

What the #$%^ What the #$%^ I cursed twice in frustration looking at the room that even a rabbit would’ve termed too small for its liking. The only discernible object was a huge bed forcing me to navigate inside by scraping my behind to the wall. Heater was an assortment of pipes that hissed louder the closer I went. Obviously in a room so steeped back in time, wireless internet is a miracle and fifteen minutes after fiddling with my laptop I realized today wasn’t my day. Frustrated, I turned around and kicked the double door and let out a huge sigh. At least we have a bathroom of our own! I don’t hold a high regard for TVs that are smaller than my monitor so I didn’t even bother switching the micro version on the table.

• 
  
  Elevator doesn’t work. Check
• 
  
  Room’s cold and the size of my closet. Check
• 
  
  Room’s got no wireless internet. Check

Oh well! If ever I had come to Vancouver to kill myself, there couldn’t have been a more perfect setting than this. No one was complementing nobody now. The rest of the Tuesday was spent in catching up on my emails and keeping my manager off my back. Things were uneventful save for those apocalypse thoughts that kept popping in my head reminding me that it was back to the Devil’s Doldrums if my visa was rejected the next day. This might be the last time you send an email to the team! This might be the last time you restart the servers! You’ve already had your last coffee at work! Oh please! At 9.30pm I couldn’t take it no more and finally decided to have that cigarette that I’d been putting off since morning. I scurried across the street to a small convenience store run by a Punjabi woman and her daughter, who immediately figured out that I was here for my H1-B visa. That obvious huh! As I was collecting my change she flippantly remarked, “Hope you get my passport back next day” “Why do you say that?” I innocently asked. “Last week there was a guy who’s been forced to stay one year in Vancouver until his visa is approved” I almost dropped my change and cigarettes. And no, I didn’t want to know who he was. One #$%^in’ year! One day in this city and I was ready to tear my nails out. What the heck was I going to do for a year here? There we go. Out with the demons and devils please… Inside the Lion’s Den… D-Day dawned gloomy and rainy as usual. Given that I was wired more than a semiconductor chip, 20 minutes to get ready seemed too long. I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t stop grinning. Go get ‘em tiger! Never pick a cab where the driver’s arguing with his wife over the phone and listening to talk radio and growing madder by the minute. I counted at least three jumped red lights, two glares from other cabbies and one gloriously raised middle finger from a homeless man. At least he kept to himself and didn’t freak me out with more doomsday stories. Ten minutes and a thrill ride later I was deposited in front of the 1075 W Pender St, the US Consulate. Contrary to what many might think the Consulate isn’t a fortress surrounded by wrought iron gates and an overflowing police presence. Instead it occupies just a few floors of a tall skyscraper and manned by the same three surly security guards I’d seen before. “It’s all coming back together now…” I smiled to myself as I walked up the steps and parked myself in a corner. As is the wont I found at least a few being brusquely turned away by the guards thanks to their mobiles, backpacks, coffee mugs and what not. A couple of them tried to argue/snap back but these had “No #$%^in’ chance” written all over it. Pfft! Some things never change. I mean, the Consulate could take a front page ad in the paper tomorrow listing the things they regarded dangerous in their premises but people still wouldn’t know or bother. Forty minutes of waiting in line with nothing to do can drive a man crazy. Especially when you’ve sworn never to indulge in any conversation with your neighbors (like me), simply because you don’t want to hear any more cockamamie stories of how people were turned away because they didn’t bring a certain scrap of paper. I mean, c’mon on! I’ve heard my share of ridiculous ones each involving a “friend” or “friend’s friend” (who most certainly never exist) and as much as I’d like to call their bluff realized that “mum’s the word”. Finally! The same old guard from before beckoned me inside and I thought I detected a glint of recognition. Christ man! Haven’t you got your Green Card already? The Vietnamese guard next to him ensured no part of my physique was left untouched or unsearched. Thankfully I wasn’t required to drop my pants. Satisfied, both guards stared at me for a few seconds and then waved me off upstairs. Fingerprinting was relatively easy. I hadn’t been busted for carrying marijuana, passing counterfeit checks (or things to that effect) so I was fairly certain my prints wouldn’t cause a nation wide alarm. It didn’t! Oh! The inexorable wait! My number was “A082”, which meant I had the next forty five minutes to twiddle my thumbs and wallow in my maelstrom of emotions. My policy of zero interaction was still in effect and I quickly scanned the huge room to see if I knew anyone from before. Out in the left corner was a pretty young thing who appeared outwardly calm reading a book. Some of us are sitting here shaking like a leaf and you’re reading a book? Wow! “Aishwarya Rai could serenade naked in front of you and kiss you on the lips and you can’t get a boner!” I laughed loudly to myself. Dedicated to my cause, what else can I say? Time to check my documents (again) and I slowly pulled out my impressive array of labeled folders announcing every imaginable piece of paper about me, a. Essential - (I-797, pay slips, tax returns, employment letter) b. Completely Unnecessary - NIIT degree, Xth and XIIth standard mark sheets, ASU course transcripts, conduct certificates… “Paranoia” is my middle name, so excuse me when my mantra is “More is Less” when it comes to visa interviews. I spent a good two minutes glossing over document as if they were going to be snatched from me forever and spent another long time rearranging them back in the same order. #$%^ me. Twenty more minutes to go! “A080, A081, A082, A083, A084, A085 to the 20th floor please” The first really good looking girl I’d seen at the consulate thus far. I would’ve gladly walked the stairs for that smile. Thanks to the second broken elevator I’d seen that day I did just that. We were forced to go up through the outer entrance past a bustling Starbucks. Same guard. Same emotions. For reasons I can’t fathom our searches were more thorough than before with the emphasis this time around centered on food and drink. Oh c’mon! What was I going to do? Sneak a muffin and latte on my way up? Their demolition job took me a good five minutes to try to get things back to order and I finally went in. Ah! The Final Frontier. This was a cramped room with service counters where them visa officers with computers lorded over our careers. My mind was calmer and clearer than it had ever been before. No apocalypse or Devil’s Doldrums, just a strange inner peace as I silently sat there waiting my fate… “Now serving A082 at window no. 3” The voice jerked me back to attention. I stood up, cleared my throat and looked around to see if anyone was wishing me luck. No one gave a #$%^. “This is it” I steeled myself, “Good morning Officer. How are you?” I started off with all the cheer I could muster. “I’m fine. So you’re Kaarrrthik Jayaaraa…?” “Karthik Jayaraman, yes that’s right” I helped him complete it and just like that the inquisition was under way. The first few questions are always easy. More easy when you’ve been working for the same company the past three years and have been trying to be nothing except Mr. Joe Citizen. That we both established and I let out a tiny sigh. “So are you going for an arranged or love marriage?” Honest to God, that’s the first time I’ve heard that question in any interview and I swear it blindsided me, straight out of left field. Well… What should it be if I should get my visa? “Ummm… I’m not sure. The heart wants what the heart wants” I replied laughing weakly afterward. #$%^ me and my stupid one-liners. I’m going home and getting married to the girl of my Dad’s choice. Now can I get my darn visa please? Apparently option (c) – undecided was the right choice since I heard the magic words right away. “Your visa has been approved. Come back on Friday to pick up your passport” I almost let out a “Whopeeeeee” but reminded myself “This is your third time here and this is an extension. No great shakes. Now go away”. I quickly thanked the officer and briskly walked away. Dampener? I had to hang around in the city till Friday. Get the hell back home… Obviously the most easiest part considering you’ve passed the acid test. Watching a basketball game and guzzling beer I texted my dad, “How’s my favorite dad doing today? Your son just got his Visa approved!” My dad, the wily old fox he is, called me back pronto and over international roaming and skyrocketing rates I reassured him that my visa was really approved, yes I was drunk and no I wasn’t going to drive. For reasons best known to him he always assumes that I’m going to navigate a space shuttle or something when I’m off the rocker. My only accomplishment (or lack thereof) on Thursday was that I managed to somehow get through United Airlines customer service and convince them to reschedule my flight to Friday. My elder sister’s having a baby in Los Angeles and I really need to be there Friday night? Can you please waive the service fees? We’ll need to see birth certificate and other family documents first. #$%^ I blamed it on the bad economy since I was pretty confident that I could’ve pulled off that stunt when all was well. $150 be damned, I wanted to get back to Los Angeles before the weekend and that I did after collecting my passport without getting grilled any further. Goodbye… Continuing with the tradition I promptly texted my dad the moment I landed, “Your first born just landed in Los Angeles with his new visa!” “My first born is in Houston (referring to my younger brother). Who the #$%^ are you?” Dad was kidding, of course. I involuntarily laughed out loud startling a few folks around me and wondered where that humor was coming from. Oh my God! Where was my passport? I stopped dead in my tracks bang in the middle of the walkway and frantically patted myself. There she is! Passport and my 1-797 were bundled together squeezed tight in my jeans back pocket. I swiftly took it out and smiled at it, “Baby! You know I just spent $650 to bring you back home, right?” and kept staring at it as if expecting a response. But they why would there be one? “Much ado about nothing?” After all even the visa knows that.

Arranged Marriages 101

There’s something about this whole “Arranged Marriage” I haven’t quite figured out yet. Which is why I’m faced with questions like,

“Why every red blooded conscientious TamBram on both sides of the Mississippi seems to be putting it on a heavenly pedestal and proclaiming this to be the “Holiest Union of them all”?"

“Why every time anyone talks about this “aphrodisiac”, some of my bum buddies go ballistic and start parroting his patented statement “Family’s the fulcrum of this whole thing!”?"

I’m not one of those TamBram’s. Which is why I’m still parked here in Los Angeles with other pressing matters in mind. Such as, worrying whether Kobe Bryant and my Lakers are going to repeat as NBA champions in 2010. That people, is called “Putting the P in Perspective”.

To offer a preamble, your “arranged marriages” are probably the longest surviving legalized hooking-up-a-man-and-woman-for-life service in the world. How long? Well, before this, cavemen with several pounds of body and facial hair just growled at women, peed around them or simply whacked their nearest rival in the fray before beginning to hump her on a regular basis. That long!

On today’s episode of “Thirty Minutes To B***h About This And That!”, we have with us RajMohan Reddy and Sulochana, two twentysomethings, who’ve been courting each other for a month without their parents knowledge. To show them what else is out there, we’ve come up with a one stop Q&A about our latest course offering – “Arranged Marriages 101”. Things like what they are, how they’re played yada yada yada.

Whether this will make them rethink, dump each other and go back to their parents to start swearing by horoscopes and palmistry all over OR exasperate them into saying, “Cut this s**t out! Let’s go to Thiruneermalai and get married by ourselves!”? We hope to find out after the show.

(Gowri Kalyanam music starts playing in the background)

Raj: What gets “arranged”?
(Laughs) Oh no! Its not like we’re arranging flowers around the aisle or chairs around tables. Wish it were that simple. What get arranged though are the “bride” and the “groom”. Thanks to two focus groups of families, friends and relatives who don their conservative hats for a few weeks, poring over horoscopes, astrological charts (and whatever else they can lay their hands on!). Working out permutations and combinations, to determine if Mr.X and Ms.Y will “live happily ever after”.

When all’s deemed well, contact details and photos of the boy and the girl are then exchanged. As always, the girl’s bedecked in traditional attire making her seem as if she’s modeling for a Kumaran Silks ad. The only thing missing is the darn lamp in her hand! Thankfully guys aren’t required to sport a dhoti during the photo shoot. Which is why, you’ll find them smiling awkwardly standing at Niagara Falls/Grand Canyon or next to their car.

And just so you know, during this phase (and even beyond), the groom’s parents amplify his credentials sky-high making it look as if he’s a topnotch scientist at NASA or as if he’s the next Senator in the making. While the girl’s parents swear that her daughter’s favorite hangouts are the prayer room and the kitchen.

Compared to these shenanigans, Indo-Pak border talks would seem like a settlement-over-a-cup-of-coffee affair!

Sulo: What are the rules of engagement?
“You mean interaction?” Well, in the perfect world, both families would like the boy and girl to face each other in flesh and blood only on D-Day. But since we’re in the computer age and all, the rules have been relaxed a wee bit. Which means emails and phone calls is no longer taboo.

But in most cases, the two are separated by atleast half a million miles. That right away rules out catching up after work over coffee (or beer) or hitting that new nightclub across town on Fridays. Even if by some happenstance, both are in the same area code, “Family Values” prevent them from being seen together.

(Laughs) I know what you’re thinking! No getting to any bases before nuptials!

Raj & Sulo (irritated): Who lays down these rules anyways? Do you know when they’ll be upgraded?
Definitely not me, Uncle Sam or the Indian Republic. It’s the %^&*ing elder statesmen of the society. Who else! Men (and women) who seem to control everything from politics, foreign policy, selecting the Indian cricket team. Not to mention, the married lives of Gen Y.

Their family values rulebook was last updated in 2003 to include web meetings as possible methods of communication between the boy and the girl. Truth be told, these wisemen had to be extensively convinced that web meetings were entirely harmless. And that the guy talking to his lady love through a chat session, couldn’t pop out of the monitor and start kissing her!

Considering that satellite communication is still under development and time travel is still a fantasy, these rules figure to be written in stone for a long time to come.

Raj & Sulo (earnestly): Do we get to contribute in this marriage process?
Absolutely not. I mean, don’t even harbor a stray thought! The parents’s 500 page playbook articulates every step in this process according to customs and traditions, atleast 100 years old. The game’s “head coaches” lord over every minute detail leaving no room for negotiation. Which means, like it or not, there’s enough clothes and jewelry exchanged, sufficient to swallow the debt of an African country. And almost half the town gets invited to the wedding, even though more than three-fourths of them wouldn’t care a damn if you broke up the next day.

But even if you’re asked your opinion on trivial things like “What sweets would you like on the menu?” or “What color shirts do you prefer?”, don’t be surprised if they’re overturned at the last minute.

“Namma athu vazhakkam athu illa ma”, they’d cheerfully reply back. Whatever the $%^& that means!

Raj & Sulo (sighing deeply): Hopefully all of this is fun, right?
(Raising eyebrows and smirking) Depends on what you’re idea of fun is. Ladies, if you like draping yourself in yards of cloth and wearing half a pound of flowers and jewelry, go for it. Guys, if sitting around a fire pit half naked, your paunch and body hair in full public display gives you the kicks, snatch this opportunity!

Oh wait! There’s more fun to come. After the nuptials, the elders organize “fun” games like “Grab the ring” (bride and groom search for a gold ring in an empty vessel) and “Swing Sashay” (both sway slowly on a decorated swing and pretend to laugh heartily at jokes told by old women).

But hey! You never know. These elders keep proclaiming how “modern” they’re. So maybe in a few years, instead of empty vessels and swings, they might organize a game of touch football between both sides, with the winner taking it all.

Thiruneermalai doesn’t look that bad at all now, does it?

(Loud crashing noise in the background. People screaming and glass breaking…)

(Unfortunately due to technical equipment breakdown and the host getting thrashed, we’ll never know what happened to Rajmohan Reddy and Sulochana. Meanwhile, the host following his talk show fiasco has blissfully switched back to his bachelorhood existence religiously following the ups-and-downs of his basketball team, the Los Angeles Lakers. Did I also mention his only chance of a status change is probably through TamilMatrimony. “Arranged” with the auspices of his dad, of course.)

So much for spewing venom about arranged marriages! Pfft!

Pasi Vandhal Pathum Parandhu Pogum

“Pasi vandhal pathum parandhu pogum”

An excellent maxim, in my mother tongue (Tamil). Loosely translated it means when hunger (pasi) strikes a man pretty much his everything flies out of the window. Pride, morals and whatever else there is. On that fateful chilly night in Arizona, struck by hunger and the overpowering allure of chocolate and cream, a few things dear to my friend S flew out the window. Irrevocably. Most important of ‘em all? My steadfast impression of him as a righteous Gandhi-in-the-making who would rather wither away head held high than eat from a plate that wasn’t formally offered to him. Oh well!

(Cracking up) Don’t ask me why, but seven years later this s**t still sends me into fits whenever I think of it. And the reason I’m airing it out now is I’m fairly certain any one (or his/her friend) who’s flicked a candy bar or chips on the sly would readily agree this is right up their alley. Right?

(Simulating rewinding of movie reels)

December 2002 wasn’t a good time to be me. Between my thesis which was going nowhere and my penniless quandary (no campus job, no interviews) I was comfortably wafting in the “Devil’s Doldrums”, so to speak. After another futile night at the lab I was dragging myself back home with S, whom I guessed probably had a day that he’d like to conveniently forget. Nothing was said between us and I cursed myself for having forgotten the cigarettes at home.

I’m not sure whether it was my down-and-out demeanor or the fact that I hadn’t eaten in a long time, but my stomach suddenly growled viciously and seemed to scream “For the love of God, send something down my way”. Well, how the #$%^ was I supposed to do that? My wallet had been empty for the past week and didn’t figure to get heavy anytime soon. I quietly spied a look at S whose hangdog expression meant only thing “Don’t even bother”. Great!

This is America, which means there are no free lunches. Or for that matter no free Snickers bar from a Circle K at 3.00am. Damn thing stood right in my line of sight refusing to disappear and no amount of achingly looking at it would ever get us anything. That I managed to convince myself of, which made the remaining half a mile trek to my apartment even harder than climbing Mt. Everest without oxygen. I’m not religious and don’t know nothing about no purgatory or bad karma but I sensed if this was His way of sending me a darn message, I had received it loud and clear. “Guess what? Next time I see a homeless man, I’m definitely buying him a cheeseburger!” I swore to myself.

3.15am we finally staggered home, which seemed unusually hot even by my standards. 75 degrees, that’s why! S wasted no time in declaring that he better be fed something before he slit someone’s throat (or something to that effect). There would’ve been a “something” if I had cooked earlier that night since it was supposed to be my cooking turn. Not the first time (and perhaps not the last) had I forgot. Even the empty vessels on the stove seemed to reaffirm that. Gosh! Something caught my eye and I looked closer at the rice cooker and extracted a note. My roommate coming home to an empty kitchen had wondered in choice expletives why I shouldn’t be mutilated into a thousand parts that moment. “Night’s just getting better” I smiled to myself.

Somehow thinking this was still funny, I showed the note to S.

“I can’t believe you missed your cooking turn”, he glowered ready to pounce at me.
“Well… I’m sorry man. I was busy tonight” Busy playing racquetball and TextTwist afterwards!
“Is there anything in your fridge at least?” Anger had now turned into a plea bargain.
“Oh surely there will be something” I reassured him.

I knew they rang hollow even as the words came out of my mouth. Unlike other astute households that keep their shelves stocked with all kinds of knickknacks and snacks ours was always dried to the bone. Maybe we gobbled up everything the moment we came back from the supermarket or our wallets were always light, but I can’t seem to figure out why. “If it ain’t in the fridge forget it” my roommate would say. Yeah, the same one who wished I was dead.

“We’ll see what we’ve got”
I repeated these words as I slowly opened the door dramatizing my every move for added effect. Holy s**t! It’s been almost three weeks since we shopped for groceries!

Top three empty shelves and a freezer that has nothing but an old frozen spinach bag can confirm that in an instant. Thank God, S wasn’t peering down my shoulder. I noticed a couple of Tupperware boxes and gingerly opened those praying their smell wouldn’t be revolting. Wrong! Even S who was standing a good few feet from me got hit, which only made him even madder.

I was almost ready to slam the door in disgust, when a brown large object caught up attention.

“What the #$^ is that?” I loudly asked, even as my heart started beating wildly.

Food! Food! Like a newly minted dad handling his baby I gently prised it out of the bottom tray. Whoever had set it there had done a terrific camouflage job since it was wedged tight between collared greens, a slowly rotting cauliflower and onions. Onions? Even I know they don’t belong in a fridge!

“Hold on man! I think I’ve found something” Did I just sound like a deep sea explorer who had chanced upon centuries worth of treasure or what? No, it wasn’t chapatti dough or brown rice soaked in water. This was Pure Gold. 20 inches of chocolate cake dripping with fudge. 12 hours of cold temperatures had preserved the frosting well and I could see the writing clearly now.

“Congrats Prakash”

Normally we would’ve high-fived and hugged each other and proceeded to devour our windfall. But the writing was too poignant to ignore.

“Congrats Prakash” S repeated it again for effect.
“What the #$%^ is that supposed to mean?” I echoed.

Did he win the lottery? No. Maybe. But then he’d be buying us each a cake.
Did he get a job? Maybe. But then I would’ve got wind of it and self-invited myself over for the treat. So neither.

“Dude! He must’ve passed the Comprehensive Exam.” S blurted out loud enough to wake up mine and the next two apartments.
“Shhhh! Really? Wow! That’s good” I stammered. But something kept gnawing inside me that something wasn’t right.

“Wait a minute” I snapped back. And that’s when it hit me. This was the same exam he intentionally tanked last May so he could glean one more semester in campus. You don’t get congratulated for this. Certainly not with such a beautiful cake. If anything, I thought a simple cupcake would’ve served just fine.

In retrospect, think that’s what set me off over the edge. Or maybe S even more so. Within 10 seconds he had washed his hands, discovered a knife buried under a week old dirty kitchenware, cleaned it twice and was now ready to carve her open. The psycho in Texas Chainsaw Massacre would’ve surely approved of S’s composure.

Wait a minute! Was it really S lining up to gorge a cake that Prakash’s girlfriend had baked for him (and him only)? Holy Christ! I was getting hit tonight from all sides, weren’t I? And here’s where I need to clarify.

For the uninitiated, S was always this prim and proper guy who never cursed or smoked and drank less than a pregnant woman. He minded his P’s and Q’s at all times, which meant he would never ever waltz into someone’s kitchen, stuff his face with whatever he could lay his hands on, coolly top it off with a “Dude! This is good stuff” and slither away as if nothing happened. I thought that was exclusively my territory. Until S gently nudged me and proved otherwise.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to have something?”
“Oh yeah! Definitely” I replied shaking myself out of my stupor. Perceptions be damned, this was now a call of duty.

“Umm… Shouldn’t we at least say thanks?” I gently volunteered.
“For what? Do you want to wake him up?” he curtly shot back not even bothering to look up from his cake. I thought that was his second helping, even bigger than the first one but didn’t say nothing. Fair enough!

I silently went back to polishing off my portion while simultaneously taking a quick look at the cake hoping nothing was damaged. The letters were not. “Prakash” was still intact though he was hanging ever so slightly on a shaky foundation with the fluffy cake underneath and thick icings around the edges all but disappeared. “How many cakes has he decapitated like this?” I wondered glancing at S, who still wasn’t done making love to his cake.

Three more minutes passed in total silence and S stared at me and declared “I’m done”.

“No s**t! Why don’t you clean up now and leave Prakash and his girlfriend a note?”
Of course, I said none of that. A man who’s missed his cooking turn and left at least two people on the brink of starvation that night deserves no voice, you see.

Instead, I shut up and glumly decided this meant I had the “honor” of putting things back in the way they were. I was still licking my fingers acting as if that was the last cake I’d ever eat in my life. Five more minutes, straining every sinew in my body I managed to set the remaining cake back in place under S’s supervision. Was the cauliflower on top or on the side? Who gives a #$%^ now?

Apparently I wasn’t done taking orders yet. S grabbed me aside and whispered,

“Look. You spend the night on my couch. Stay away from Prakash the next few days. And for Heaven’s sake Deny Deny till you Die!”

Maybe even he realized that when confronted I would sing like a canary and would throw him under the bus at the first given chance. Did he know that I was down to two strikes already? Well… For what it’s worth, the first time I ate their muffin. My bad luck it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill blueberry. It had to be a one-of-the-kind Cinnamon raisin-nut raspberry begging to get noticed. Second time, me and bunch of like-minded drunks (my friends, that is) decided their “home cooked Poori Channa” was way better than tacos from a drive-through. Fallout was terrible, since I had a handwritten letter and an email delivered the next day reminding me of social etiquettes et al. I felt so bad that I almost wanted to puke it out…

“Are you with me?” S, the martinet wasn’t done preaching.
“Yessir! I heard you” I managed in an even voice. Whatever had happened in the past, this time I had a comfortable feeling that I wasn’t going to get nabbed. Third time’s always lucky, I reassured myself. Door was finally shut and the dirty little secret was ours for all eternity…

Whew! More than a thousand words of prose and there’s got to be a moral of the story, right? Well… Cake tastes infinitely better when you’re shoving it down your throat with your honor and dignity on the line. How about that?

And with that thought boys and girls I bid adieu. In fact you know what, all this talk about cake has made me suddenly hungry. Again! I think I’m going to grab a donut. Which I paid for with my own money, of course!

How to buy racquetballs?

There are brave souls who battle severe hardships and inclement weather to climb mountains for a purpose. And then there are other brave souls who run marathon miles for a noble cause like breast cancer. And then… And then there are people like us who walk (not run, mind you) for a cause too. Such as buying racquetballs, eating cookies at a McDonald’s at the other end of the town or simply “I want to see how the Town Center is lit up at night”. Worthy or not, you be the judge of that.

Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado I present to you the latest edition of Weekend Warriors – Team Roadsters. Two eccentric dudes who lived it up every Friday night walking long distances dissecting every topic under the sun – girls, more girls, sports, politics, religion yada yada yada. Heck! One time we even spent an hour down on Hayden Street discussing my thesis topic. Agreed, this isn’t your normal stuff by any means. After all, any red blooded self-respecting graduate student would either be talking to his beer/whiskey or enjoying a movie on a Friday night. Not caught hiking down Rural Road at 3 mph in the middle of a severe summer…

Before you think that there’s more to this nocturnal tryst than meets the eye, STOP. We’re two perfectly straight dudes who’re always batting for the right side. I’m married to this beautiful woman whom I can’t thank enough, while K’s still painting the town red in the hope of finding his Ms. Right. Capisce? Considering the physical activity and conditions involved, our club wasn’t on the “to join list” among our friends.

And that meant to recruit more we could’ve just barged in and announced, “Guys. It’s 85 degrees outside, hot as hell. What the fuck are we doing sitting here drinking? Let’s go walk some miles” and expected something back like, “Oh yeah! Definitely dude. Let’s go”. I would’ve been damned if that took place. I mean, seriously. But even in that happenstance we’d done a block, all 10 of us, before someone would’ve loudly wondered if we weren’t better off at home guzzling beer. So yeah! Team Roadsters was/is/will be destined to be stuck with a membership of two, me and K.

That fateful Friday we decided to crank it all the way up. Enough of these itsy-bitsy 4 mile trips, let’s just do a really long one. Quite conveniently K realized we were out of racquetballs so why not go to Wal-Mart 10 miles away and get some? I nodded yes and we toasted a Gatorade to our unfit comrades smirking that they were certainly missing out on something. Missing out on what? Were we going to the North Pole or something?

No one to wave us off, we crept out of the back door and were on our way. The first hour’s always the easiest. Adrenaline’s pushing you and all you want to do is stick it to your friends (like they could care). At the first pit stop I realized that heat was way worse than I thought and we still hadn’t even come close to half the distance. Fortunately K seemed fresher, sucking on his cigarette, drawing a few gulps of Gatorade and announcing, “Fuck! We’ve got to do this every week” Whatever!

While we weren’t panting for breath, our step had slowed down during the next leg, which lasted almost an inordinate 2 hours. Girls were done with, nothing new in Cricket and religion suddenly seemed boring. I started talking about governance and it was obvious that K didn’t understand the meaning of two/three legal terms I slipped in. “Somebody’s forgotten their junior high civics lessons” I smirked to myself.

(Silence for the next 15 minutes)

Adrenaline had now officially given up and our brains had started screaming loudly for some food. And that’s when both of us saw those flashing neon lights. “Sonic: America’s favorite drive thru”.

Argue or not, there’s something erotic about a picture of a loaded burger, French fries and chocolate shake. I was almost turned on and started planning like it was the last meal of my life. K, I’m sure had similar designs. He was staring at the touch screen menu for 3 minutes and kept muttering something to himself about an ice cream sundae.

“We’re closed”
If two words could hit you like a sledgehammer, break your soul and spirit and make you scream like a madman, that was it. Obviously, the cute girl who had listened to us debate for 10 minutes on what’s tasty to order thought it’d be incredibly funny to let us know they were done for the day right at the crescendo instead of when we walked in. Life (and her) threw a nasty curve ball. Wow! Unfuckingbelievable! If there was a God I hadn’t seen him yet.

Now, two things could’ve happened after that. We could’ve snapped at each other and pretty much imploded on the sidewalk in the middle of the night. Or, we could’ve brushed ourselves and said, “We better get our ass on the road if we want to reach Wal-Mart by the hour”.

Option (b) of course, thanks to Mel Gibson and the visions of BraveHeart that floated before my eyes. I definitely seized the moment and promptly delivered a monologue. Yessir! K probably wanted his 15 minutes of spotlight too but I didn’t bother. I was already a football field away leaving the poor guy no choice but to scamper.

There wasn’t anything left to say. Obviously it was like a “Reality Survivor” now with a bunch of viewers (actually, no one) curious to see who’d drop off first. I mean, we didn’t care about any shit anymore. By now we were walking corpses dragging our severely malnourished body in search of Wal-Mart, which was now looking even more dear than the Promised Land. K by now for no apparent reason had resorted to loudly cursing politicians in India and I couldn’t help smile at some of his choice words. They should go suck their mom’s dicks? Wait… What? After 45 more minutes of eternity I thought I saw a bright white light and immediately screamed “Wal-Mart! That’s Wal-Mart! Yes!!!” K was still dazed and I violently shook him a few times until he too started screaming.

I don’t normally praise Capitalist fat cats (that doesn’t mean I’m a Commie), but that night I deemed that all Wal-Mart executives who decided that some of their stores should be open 24x7 unanimously deserved the Nobel Prize. I mean, I’ve never ever been so fucking grateful to enter a store before in my life. And like kids in a candy store we scurried to the cooler, grabbed ourselves a couple of Gatorade and gulped it down. Whew! I could sense my body coming back to life now. I looked around and found K sitting next to the cooler with a half-empty bottle.

“What the hell man? Are you all right?”
“Yeah dude! I’m just refreshing myself”

Refresh all you want, but we still had to drag our asses back home. It was 2.00am and it’s not like we had a limousine parked outside. Realizing that, K and me walked gingerly to the checkout counter and picked out the one who was most likely to help us and not call the cops. After all, we did look like a couple of bums. Unshaven, buttons out and with a face that screamed “I’ve been to hell and back”. Angela Unprounancable Last Name, a Native American was chosen and K was to throw the first pitch.

“Hi! Can we get a copy of the Valley Metro schedule please?”
“What??? Oh!... Wait! Why do you need one?”
Because, at 2.00 in the night, I’m dying to know what Route 61’s last stop is! That’s why!
I spied a look at K and thought he was about blow a blood vessel. Instead, he steadied himself and in one deep breath poured out our story. Truly impressive.

(Pause for 30 seconds)

The look Angela shot back will stay with me for eternity. Not even a “What side of the bed did I get out of?” or “Why me God?” did justice to that. I instinctively felt for her. I mean, here’s this kid who’s worked her butt off for the week, ready to go home and she runs into two bums who want to explain why they walked for 3 hours in the heat to buy racquetballs. Racquetballs?

But Angela’s got a heart of gold. And a cute smile, nice long hair and Heavens praise them knockers too. Oh yeah! God exists too.

“Where are you guys headed? I can drop you if you’re on the way” I swear to God if she hadn’t said that in the next few seconds, I would’ve fallen at her feet and repeatedly begged her until she said so.

“ASU”, we said in unison.
“Cool! I’m getting off in 15 minutes, so I’ll see you in the parking lot?”
“Thanks a lot”, I gushed, smiling more than was necessary. K looked as if he had won the lottery.

Angels come in all shapes and sizes. This one had no wings but a small old red Chevy truck who’s AC still worked. 20 minutes later we were deposited to our doorstep and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Angela had thought “Gee! No one has ever thanked me so much before”.

The best way to traverse 10 miles in oppressive heat in the middle of the night is by car. That lesson we learnt. K, who had been silent the past 10 minutes, suddenly blurted out,

“Dude! We forgot the racquetballs!”
“What??? I thought you had them” I shot back.
“Nooooooo. I thought you had them”

We could’ve kept pointing fingers at each other all night, but frankly we didn’t care. It was almost 3.00am, our legs were shot and eyes ready to pop out. I called truce and said,

“That’s ok man. We’ll go next week to Walmart”
“By bus, right?”
“Of course.”

Thank God! Because that needed some universal clarification.

As told by S under copious quantities of alcohol to… anyone who cared to listen.

“What the #$%^ do I want?... In a Girl”

On a nippy Friday night with surprisingly no drinking to do I was dozing off to some random made-for-TV movie when out of the blue this voice started shrieking at me “You want to know what I want in a girl?” If it were a friend I would’ve instinctively colorfully abused him and his lineage and went back to the TV. It was my alter ego, so it was more like a call of duty, if you will. Considering He feeds me, clothes me and lets me watch our beloved Lakers in his humongous 50” Plasma TV I thought, “Hmmm… Why the #$%^ not?”

And so for the next 30 minutes, ladies and gentlemen I watched my other self, the freewheeling enigmatic 30 yrd old contraption rattle like a runaway train on what sets him off on a girl, what ticks him and bugs the hell out of him about them. So if any of this is your cup of tea, join me. Else… I don’t know… Go back to doing whatever the $%^& it is you were doing in the first place.

Peace be with y’all!

Driven to excel…
Agreed no one’s splitting the atom at work everyday. But then they’re not twiddling their thumbs and just updating Excel sheets either! Fact is, people do love their work and you’ve got to atleast act like it means something to you. I’m looking for a self-reliant, confident and career oriented woman who can stand up for herself at all times.

(Laughs) All right! I am not looking for Revolver Rita either!

Truth be told, it’s a colossal mistake throwing away years of study and hard work in exchange for becoming a vegetating homemaker in charge of cooking, cleaning etc. That’s a total turnoff man! I would never allow that to happen.

Nobody’s ambition is to just get married and settle down. That’s the stuff you read about only in Mills & Boon novels. Instead, everyone wants to excel in their chosen career paths, which is predominantly what I’m looking for in Ms. Right as well. She can be a florist, dabbling in IT, or even a neurosurgeon, but what’s going to get her ratings up is her passion to succeed.

(Laughs) “You think that’s never going to happen, do you?”

I just smiled wistfully and pretended to take notes…

The core…
Let’s face it man. Life’s not a recurring Sun TV episode. So mom’s don’t have an acerbic tongue, which means wives don’t have to be at their scheming and conniving best. Which really means you don’t have to put on any act 24x7 to get through. Stay true to yourself, put your best straightforward honest foot forward and you’ll find life’s in fact a cakewalk after all. For you and the man walking next to you.

Talk it out whatever it is that’s eating you. I’m not a mind reader by any stretch of imagination and for the life of me cannot fathom what’s running through your mind. No means No and Yes means Yes in my dictionary. And if there’s a book called “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus” I haven’t heard about it!

Say you have a sense of humor and I’ll award you a star right away.

On the Outside…
Let me clarify this. I am not searching for Ms. drop-dead gorgeous. I’m better of googling or Youtubing Victoria Secret models instead. What turns me on instinctively is a cute smile. Nothing brightens up the face (and another man’s spirit) with a smile that says “I’m so ravishing. Want to get to know me?” Have one of that and I’m ready to listen even if she’s just reciting alphabets or singing bhajans.

Contrary to what most guys think, no she doesn’t have to look like the color of milk. Almost every white person I know wants to get a tan to become more brown! I like to think dusky is what’s in these days.

And please tell me she’ll keep her hair long for eternity. There’s nothing sexier than a girl dancing her hair in the breeze or experimenting with myriad styles and colors. I mean, just ask Madhuri Dixit. Seriously, let’s leave them “bob cuts” or “boy cuts” (or whatever it is called) to Demi Moore.

Respect the figure…
I’m a straight jacketed red blooded guy who’s been brought on the notion that “Nacchhu Figure” refers to a woman who has her contours well defined, doesn’t have to shop in the L/XL/XXL section of the store and doesn’t have a heart attack whenever she steps on the scales. Yes, I need a girl who realizes that her body’s her biggest asset and works every day to keep it in shape. I mean, no one’s training for the Iron Man here, but you know, do whatever it is that keeps you slim. Maybe it’s running helter-skelter on the treadmill, aerobics or even pretending to do some yoga on a bed sheet J

Well… I’m not chomping on chips and packing on the pounds when I’m saying these. Thanks to 24Hr Fitness I can stand shirtless in front of my mirror and not have to suck in my paunch all the way. Though the pecs need some work…

30 minutes into this and I had a sinking feeling that it was petering into “Manal Kayiru: Part II”. Finding his philosophy psychobabble too much to handle I decided to take leave. But I couldn’t resist asking one more question,

Hey man! You’ve been yakking away about this Ms. Right all along. If you do find her what would you do to her?

(Pauses for a minute or two)
Well… Nothing much. Just treat her like the queen she is for the rest of her life.

Amen brother!

Atmarajan

Hairdressing!

I’ve got to admit I’m not a square-jawed six-pack-abs hulk who wears his metrosexuality on his sleeve flaunting Prada and Calvin Klein. I’m just your boy next door who loves his sports, beer and his share of action movies and skin flicks. Quite naturally when Average Joes like me need to get their hair cut it’s an half an hour affair at our local barber shop. Not a half a day expensive extravaganza at an unisex beauty parlor-cum-spa in Beverly Hills.

Guess, living in a small beach town like El Segundo means more often than not it’s a “Main Street” that houses everything of note. The cop and fire stations, couple of coffee shops, the pharmacy, pizza place, including the ubiquitous liquor store. Almost straight out of the set of Sweet Home Alabama, if you will. Sometimes making me wonder if these darn shops need them billboards after all. I mean no wife’s going to point to the mom-and-pop vide store and say,

“Sweetie… Wait here a sec. Let me grab some veggies tonight for dinner”. Right? Ummm… Maybe that wasn't funny, but cut me some slack will you? I'm just getting warmed up here! :)

But I digress. Wedged between the fire station and a café that’s whimsically open only till noon everyday, is my pet grooming studio a.k.a the barber shop. Run by a rotund cheerful lady in her 40s along with her band of two assistants. And every time I visit her its business as usual. A few minutes into my first coffee, she starts work on my distorted mop of hair, while I blissfully immerse myself in a “Vogue” or “Glamour”. I know! I know! What am I doing? Honest truth, I’m never going to pick these off the shelves of a bookstore, so what better place to figure out what those glamorous supermodels have to say, huh? Besides, a man’s got no choice you see. No “Time” or “Sports Illustrated”. Not even a small TV for me to say, "Martha, do you mind if I change it to the Santa Ana Derby? I'm hoping PurpleGold wins tonight" :)

"Experimenting with hair styles" and my name cam never be confused together. So it's always the Plain Jane “Short on the sides and back and medium on the front” for me. Two coffees and half a dozen cookies later we’re done. Unflinchingly after every session I’m asked,

“Honey… Would you like to try the new shampoo and hair gel?”
“Ummm… Not now. Maybe next time for sure”.

Same reply every darn time. I wouldn’t blame me. I’ve just convinced myself that Dial’s the answer to both body and hair. So we still have a long way to go! Walking back home and lighting one of 'em bad boys I wondered how impassionate my whole experience had been. I mean I could have just shoved my head under a robot and emerged $20 and half a pound lighter.

I like to keep dishing out life truths at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable. One of the few places where stoic silence is an absolute no-no are bars and barber shops. We aren’t talking heavy-duty stuff like “Daddy was never around when I grew up…” blah blah blah! but light hearted banter like “What the $%^& are the Lakers going to do this year?” or “Why Kobe isn’t a ball hog after all!”.

Seriously, haircuts in India were always an enjoyable experience for me. “Excellent Hair Dressers” ensured it remained so every time. Yessir! The sanctum sanctorum where three distinct species of Jay’s dutifully (and cheerfully) surrendered their hair every month. The setting itself is undeniably picturesque. Nowhere else would you find a bunch of middle aged to old men outside in their lungis squatting and smoking beedis, all the while appearing to solve the world’s problems. Step in, the owner personally greets you escorting you to a bench, where you can either bide the next 15 minutes browsing through local Tamil dailies or ogle at ugly buxom women in them seedy magazines. Depends on what you’re in the mood for that morning.

Wait time over, the fun begins once I am perched on the high throne, ready to be serviced. And for the next ½ hour my barber goes ballistic about the $%^&ups of the ruling party in TamilNadu, what ails the Indian cricket team and of course, juicy Kollywood gossips and tidbits. Punctuating every revelation with,

“K…Itha pathi enna nenakkare?” (What do you think about this?)
“Correct thaan… (That’s right!)

I have a blast with my barber man. Even if it means sometimes listening to lengthy monologues. Which is why whenever I go back home I arrive with atleast three weeks worth of beard and a shaggy mane that would put even a caveman to shame. Next step? Haircut with my barber over a cup of tea and catching up like long lost buddies.

All right! I think I’ll stop here lest I ramble away like a runaway train. I'm sure whoever's reading this (other than me) ought to be thinking "Such a waste of words for something as inane as a haircut. Christ! Why can't you just say 'I got my hair cut today'?" And maybe even ready to tear their hair out. No wait! Go to my barber for that! :)

(Pausing for 30 secs)

Holy Christ! Look at my nails. I type like a madman for all these hours and they seem to have grown an inch already. Now what am I supposed to, huh? Setup an appointment with a nail stylist OR chew them off myself?

Option (b) folks. Attaboy Karthik!

Genesis

Unable to take it no more my friend called me up last night and hollered, “Why don’t you start a #$%^in’ blog?” “But… I don’t know… I’m not sure anyone would care”, I stammered, unsure of where this was coming from (and going). Seemingly not done yet, he shot back “Doesn’t #$%^in’ matter. Atleast I won’t be forced to read your s**t every time I open my inbox” Touche!

A few years ago I had an epiphany, started imagining myself as the second coming of Dave Barry (my humor columnist idol) and've been whipping out “articles” (gulp!) ever since about anything that catches my fancy. Lakers win a playoff series/Bought a new car/Breakup with my girlfriend? No problem. Every damn thing gets it's own 1000 word essay that’s dutifully emailed to friends and family for their immediate consumption. Silver lining? They aren’t like something that a 3rd grade kid would write. Thankfully they’re something that’ll atleast make Dave Barry raise an eyebrow and say, “Hmmm! Not bad at all”

“The proof of a pudding is in its eating”

And thus is born in a moment of vanity, “What the #$%^ is Atmarajan thinking?” Officially open for business to anyone and everyone who cares to trespass.

A blog isn’t a blog unless the outside world critiques it. Bouquets and Brickbats are both welcome from all and sundry. Oh! If by happenstance you’re a pretty damsel who found this funny (and intriguing too) your contact details are most appreciated :)

Be well!