Vishnu Sahasra Namam

As blasphemous as it may sound, truth is I am never good with the Almighty. I love and respect Him, but all on my own terms. That means no standing in lines for hours in a temple waiting to see Him decked in all His finest jewelry or giving up things I love (chocolate donuts, beer) for weeks in a row to gain some leverage on Judgment Day. On any given day my conversation with God would be thus, with me (putting on a fake Australian accent) kicking it off,

“Hi mate! How’re things up there?”

(Nothing)

“So… are the Lakers going to win tonight?”

(Nothing)

“Well… About my promotion and bonus at work…”

(Nothing)

“Am I going to get married to a beautiful woman?”

Buzz off! Go fight your own battles. God helps those who help themselves.

What the ….? But… Ah! Never mind! Precisely at this moment is when I stop staring at the sky, heave a long sigh and start fiddling with the remote. As is with any other soul on this planet, God don’t answer none’s prayers or questions. Obviously He’s got bigger fish to fry, like taking care of the universe among other things. And I’m cool with that. Throw a few freebies my way once in a while and I’m content living my doggone existence nary a murmur.

Shockingly such altruistic outlook wasn’t a part of my psyche growing up, especially during the “Dark Ages” a.k.a graduate school. “No money. No job. No girlfriend. No nothing” I’d continually scream peppering it with a few choice expletives in my mother tongue, wondering at the end if there was a God and if so what was He doing tuning me out. Screaming sessions that only pumped up in volume when we were drinking, which happened faithfully every weekend, hell or high water.

On one such Saturday night my comrade-in-arms Siva was present helping my drunken kinsmen puke their guts out in the bathroom, clear the pile of pizza boxes etc.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I slurred, having switched to beer after God-knows-how-many rounds of whisky.

“I need to talk to you”

“Why? What did I do?” amazed at having been singled out among ten other not-so-sober oafs.

“Follow me” Yessir!

We found ourselves in the parking lot where without warning Siva launched into a three minute infomercial on the VishnuSahasraNamam prayer group, which gathered every Sunday morning at 7.00am, chanted holy hymns for an hour and then dug into delicious food (which he stressed twice). Not to mention that it’d changed his life and made him look at beer like it were boiling water.

“Wait! Wait! You want me to wake up at 7 and join some old guys mumbling words that I don’t understand?” I started laughing uncontrollably. Almost a minute later I realized I was the one who looked like a darn fool. Siva was staring at me stone cold as if I’d insulted his mother. “You better be there” he left leaving me scratching my head thinking what the #$%^ just went down.

7.00, bhajans, food… Yeah! Like that’s going to happen…

The Lord works in mysterious ways. In my case it was snapping me to attention at 6.15am on Sunday. All the more mysterious since my previous best were nothing later than 1.00pm. You know those mornings when you peek from deep inside the blanket, look at your watch and almost leap in delight because its still wee hours. And that means it gives you a license to waft in your dreams for quite a few more hours before your roommates start to think you’re dead? Yeah well… that wasn’t meant to be. The moment I’d opened that eyelid I knew I was awake like a cricket and alert than a night owl. More tossing and turning would just make me feel more miserable.

“Well… What the #$%^ am I supposed to do now?” I loudly wondered as my gaze shifted to a midsize photo of Lord Balaji (one of our Hindus’ premier Gods) smiling on the wall.

“Surely you’re not…”

“Well… What are you waiting for? A glazed invitation?”

Balaji had answered and now Balaji was dragging me to the bathroom. Thirty minutes later I emerged showered, shorn off my three week scraggy beard and smelling like a bellflower. Looking at me bedecked in a neatly pressed full hand shirt, nice dress pants and gelled hair, any of my roommates would’ve thought whether I’d a hot date. At 6.45am? Speaking of which, my last was three months back with a coed at the university Pizza Hut with yours truly nattily attired in a MasterCard T-shirt, worn out cargo shorts and flip flops. Pursuit of bhakti and Brahmin food can make a man do cartwheels too, I mused to myself.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one making a fashion statement. Siva, the chief instigator looked like my photocopy, except in different colors.

“I thought you weren’t coming” he smirked.

“Keep dreaming! For all of this the food better be good” I shot back, looking down to adjust the folds of my pants. Six months of not wearing proper clothes I felt stiff like a #$%^in’ mannequin!

“Is that Aravind?” Siva suddenly screamed into the silence.

Indeed it was. I couldn’t think of no one else who’d amble down the pavement like a pregnant woman totally lost in thought. Judging by his clothes I concluded that we were now officially “The Three Musketeers” on the quest for some soul stirring Brahmin food. To recite some hymns, of course. God! Let’s not forget that!

Our ride it seemed was someone named Sriram, whom Siva for some inexplicable reason gushed about for the next few minutes. “He’s smart, intelligent, recently graduated, holds a good job, drives a nice car…” Even his dad couldn’t have given him such a glowing character reference. Ten minutes later the object of his affection pulled up in a swank Lexus that made Siva smile even bigger. Now, I’d thought I’d seen my share of weirdoes but this fellow certainly took the cake. No sooner had he stepped out of the car, did he brush past our outstretched hands, point at Aravind’s muffin and shout,

“No eating in my car. Throw that now!”

Poor Aravind looked like he was about to cry. Well… How else were we supposed to get there? We didn’t even own a bicycle between the three of us! With a heavy heart I watched the delectable muffin go down the trash can as we settled tightly in the back seat. Front seat was out of bounds because Sriram felt the tear on the side would only get bigger if someone sat on it. I craned my neck as he spoke and found nothing but a gleaming leather seat with all fibers intact. #$%^in’ liar!

Our destination was someplace in Chandler, a good 30 miles away. Slipping into my Mr. MapQuest modes I started reeling off unsolicited directions to no one in particular. “Go east on Rural Rd. get onto I-10E South on 101…” until Sriram rudely cut me off. “We’ll take Rural Road all the way. We can enjoy the drive better”. Without coffee and muffin? What a first class bitch! Siva was the only one who seemed to hit it off with him. Pretty soon they were singing along to some carnatic music and discussing stocks. Aravind was pretending to fall asleep at right angles, while I, stuck in the middle like a kidnapped teenager bit my nails and wondered how the next three hours were going to pan out…

Chandler’s a classy suburb of Phoenix, but Fair Oaks, our final destination was the crème de la crème. Lush greenery on both sides, million dollar homes lined by trees other than the drab cactus for a change, it looked like we’d driven into a set inside Universal Studios. Finally after what seemed an eternity of driving at 30mph we pulled into a cul-de-sac. Aravind was now wide awake and blurted that he’d never seen so many Hondas and Toyotas in one place. Rightfully so, since there was certainly no showroom in Arizona that could beat this sea of cars.

Now, technically, I’m still a Brahmin, right? And I even have the “poonal” (holy thread) across my torso to back it up. But that’s where the buck stops. Because being a Brahmin in large parts entails the man surrendering himself to God at least once a day reciting holy verses and hymns by rote. As easy as if he were brushing his teeth. Me? Pfft! Somewhere along the way I’d deemed that this were unworthy of my time and stayed away from such congregations too.

“A nervous mind digs itself into deeper s**t”, which only made me recollect in graphic detail that scene from the Tamil movie “Idhu Namma Aalu” I’d watched a few weeks ago, where the hero gets caught in a similar predicament and is exposed in front of some 50 odd people because he couldn’t pronounce a goddamn word. I pulled Aravind aside and confessed,

“Dude! I feel like Bhagyaraj. Help me!” expecting some reassurance that everything would be ok.

“Hahaha! I feel the same too. We’re screwed”

That’s it! My insides were now a colony of butterflies as we were led into the palatial mansion that was Mr. Srinivasan’s. Aravind and I stuck together like Siamese twins determined that if either were kicked out it’d be as a pair.

“Would you like a tour of the house?” he volunteered.

“Yeah! Sure” realizing that refusal wasn’t an option.

We were then introduced to an enormous living room where the Brahmin humanity had gathered, a scrumptious kitchen overflowing with stocked vessels which only confirmed the feast that lay waiting, three huge bedrooms, an exercise room and an assortment of items that until then I never realized existed in a household. I mean, at some point I stopped saying “Wow!” since such a setup I knew I’d never get myself even in my wildest dreams. A few minutes later we were back to where we started and Mr. Srinivasan had discreetly moved onto another group to boast about his baby. Almost immediately we were poached upon by a Mr. Ramanujan, a portly bespectacled man wearing traditional attire including a thick long red tilak on his forehead. An Iyengar, implies a more orthodox Brahmin. Perhaps obnoxious would’ve been a more appropriate adjective. Uncalled for, he launched into a tirade on the US foreign policy, recession, the inevitable malaises troubling India and what we ought to be doing to fix them. Emphasizing (twice) at last that his son Arun was a process design engineer at Intel and that we should get to know him better. Why? Because I was looking for someone to date? Thanks to Ramanujan’s bad oration he’d made Sriram (our driver) look like a saint.

Unable to take it any longer, we excused ourselves to look for Siva who seemed to have conveniently forgotten us the moment we’d reached there. Aravind spotted him amidst a crowd of 40somethings laughing and backslapping.

“He’s been here for just a month and already he’s acting like a Senator hobnobbing for votes!” he hissed.

I couldn’t agree more. For what it was worth, this meet-and-greet before the main event had actually served to calm my nerves. I wasn’t under the spotlight; no one was here to judge me. Just a bunch of folks who’d gathered to pray to God and fill their stomachs afterwards. Too bad most of them were characters way out of my wavelength. Half expectantly I scanned the room again hoping to see a cute Brahmin chick trapped by a garrulous old crank,

Excuse me sir. Can I borrow her for a moment?

Hey! I figured you needed to be rescued before he swallowed you…

but found none. Save for a fair aunty who showed more skin than was necessary this place was drier than the rocks. Oh well!

Clock struck 8 pulling me out of my reverie. The crowd shifted to the center of the living room where a huge cloth mat was spread out. Someone handed out prayer books. Me and Aravind grabbed one each and slyly made our way to the last row. Backbenchers in class. Backbenchers in VishnuSahasraNamam.

“This is in English. It’s so easy!” we exclaimed as we flipped through the pages and high-fived each other gleefully. It’s just like one of the prayer sessions we had in school, except this time we really have to say something, clarified Aravind. Right on the money again. The Grand Master stood up, chanted “Om” three times in a booming voice and the train had now left the station…

What followed for the next 60 minutes was purely transcendental. Say what you want, but VishnuSahasraNamam has that effect on people. Atheists, agnostics and believers alike. Every verse talked about Lord Vishnu and/or his army, espoused his powers and qualities and I had to agree that as the moments passed I was intrigued even more. Of course, the English prose made it almost child’s play. I couldn’t decipher Sanskrit or read Tamil fast too for that matter. So instead of fumbling the ball like a sacked quarterback I was soaking up every bit of along with my brethren.

This wasn’t like taking in a music lesson. No alternating low and high pitches; no octaves to be concerned about. Just a single monotonous tone ideally suited to bring out the profound meaning of those words and engulf you in warmth and goodwill. Why am I still gushing about this? Well… Let’s see… Not even a single second did I think about food, girls, cricket, glance at my watch to see when it would end or peep across the room to see who was faking it. Stuff I’d gladly done in my teens with no guilt whatsoever.

Overall I’d give myself a 7/10. For sincerity, effort and commitment. It was the execution that left a little to be desired. Like when a verse had to be repeated twice or thrice and I blissfully skipped to the next one sticking out like a sore thumb. Next time I’ll be better, I promised myself.

This entire exercise ran like clockwork, I understood. Right on the hour, the Grand Master rose, recited a prayer by himself and then thanked everyone for a fulfilling session. Myself and Aravind were still caught up in the trance and we readily agreed that we could’ve endured another of Mr. Ramanujan’s rehearsed speeches without feeling the need to stick a knife through him. VishnuSahasraNamam imparted patience too.

And now to the next and most important order of business. Food! And copious quantities of it. Laying hands on it required a certain amount of skill since you didn’t want to look like famine stricken famished blokes who were there just for that sake. Which is where, I thought the wily fox Siva earned his paycheck. Swiftly emerging from the huddle he deftly made his way to the tables and began by distributing plates and spoons to the queue. In a few minutes he was the “good cop” mingling with the aunties, serving multiple dishes at the same time and enquiring everyone how they were doing and if they’d prayed well. Oh please! An old lady walked by us with her plate stuffed with friend potato curry and avial and I wanted to abandon all decency, jump the line and make a beeline to the tables. Actually, that was Aravind. I stopped him at the last minute in a rare moment of reasoning. VishnuSahasraNamam imparted restraint too. Perhaps in an answer to our prayers, Siva flashed a huge grin at us with a twinkle in his eyes. Guy code for “Don’t worry. You’re taken care of”. Next thing we know we were ushered into the kitchen where we were handed metal plates and cutlery and staring at the delicious buffet…

(Morgan Freeman voiceover)

The three of us stood there serenely admiring the spread before we dug into it like kings after a conquest. I don’t know if it was the aroma, spices or whatever but food tasted pretty darn good that day. Maybe because we’d fought for and won every morsel of it. There comes a moment in a man’s life that enriches and uplifts him in every sense of the word. If ever there was one in mine, this was it. For all you heathens that think this is the same as gathering some families for an afternoon potluck, here’s some unsolicited advice. No. Not in a million lifetimes. I have a better idea. Go find yourself a VeesshnuSahaa….Namaam prayer group nearby. Nothing like God to crank the taste up a notch. May the forces be with you…

All right! That was no Morgan Freeman à la Shawshank Redemption. But you catch my drift, right?

Atmarajan A.

Orchids Gone Wild!

Let me confess something. 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. And yes, there are places guys like me dread to tread. Cinema halls to watch a Karan Johar movie or art galleries to admire French impressionist paintings, for instance. Flower show was on that list too, but got scratched that fateful Saturday when I attended my first (and pray last!) orchid show. Here’s how it went down…

Last week while chatting with my friend's wife, she casually mentioned that they both were contemplating growing plants and flowers at home. Of course this was the same friend, who after marriage decided to turn over a new leaf and dedicate entire Sundays to mastering the nuances of chicken and shrimp cooking. So I didn’t exactly fall off the chair in shock imagining my friend tending to roses in the garden.

“What kind of flowers? Like roses and lilies?” I typed.
“No. Actually Orchids.”
“Orchids? Aren’t they like endangered or something?” I asked, still amused and puzzled at my friend’s sudden interest in flora.
“No. They are exotic and extremely beautiful” she clarified.

Now I am no plants-and-flowers guy but roses were the closest I could get to. Orchids? Never would have thought of that in a million years. I agreed to checkout the orchids fair in Santa Barbara, provided she draw up a detailed list of what orchids to buy and how many of those she wanted. My plan? Produce the list to some vendor and smooth talk him/her into filling my bag. If all went well Operation Orchids would be over hassle-free in less than fifteen minutes. As is the wont I was to be proved wrong. Again!

Finding the campgrounds after driving around 100 miles from Los Angeles wasn’t difficult, since Highway 101 was clogged with SUVs, campers and BMW convertibles atleast a mile before the exit. Snaking through traffic I parked my car almost a mile away and lumbered to the entrance to be greeted by a “Orchids Gone Wild!” banner. Not exactly an A for originality, but it did raise my hopes a wee bit of having some fun inside. A cacophony of voices hit me as I stepped in. Boisterous kids, disinterested husbands with a I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing-here look on their faces, and seventy-somethings intently checking out every single orchid on display. People representing every possible demographic seemed to have a date with the orchids that day. And enjoying it too! I realized much to my dismay that I was probably the only unsupervised soul present.

One of my tried and tested theories is that any such congregation entails free food of some sort. Could be oatmeal raisin cookies, apple cider, pizza or even home brewed beer for that matter. My ultra sensitive food locating antenna launched itself into high gear and sure enough picked up a sizeable crowd thronging around a booth. Making a beeline for the center of the table and without looking down I said,

“Yeah… I’ll have a spoon of that.”, trying to sound casual.
“But.. this is orchid food”, a cute Asian girl stammered.
“Oh! I know that. Just joking.” I replied with an embarrassingly hollow laugh and did a quick about turn. Good Lord! I could feel atleast five pairs of eyes staring strangely at me.

Minor setback notwithstanding I decided to give my theory one more shot. I spotted another crowd at the end of the aisle. This time around it was mostly middle-aged couples, which perked me up a little bit. I mean guys don’t mill around orchid food or fertilizers unless there’s some freebies or some hottie lecturing. Right? With a little bit of shoving and some “excuse-me’s” I peered down slowly.

I just couldn’t believe my eyes! There were atleast ten people around me transfixed to an orchid barely a fist high and held spellbound by a heavy-set man who looked like a washed-up Indiana Jones. Popping out cameras, taking notes, posing for pictures alongside it, everyone except me were going gaga over it. All this for a prima donna that wasn’t expected to blossom for the next one and half years. Oh wait! She comes home for a whopping $250! Holy Mother! That’s two Lakers games nipped in the bud!

I’m never short of life truths and here’s one more. Second to grapes (and that includes wine) orchids are probably the next biggest thing to have hoodwinked humanity. Call me crazy or whatever, but forking up a fortune for a plant that wasn’t going to blossom until end of Fall 2010 is downright ridiculous. Me? I’d rather buy an inexpensive plant from Walmart and pawn it off as an “exotic orchid” on my unsuspecting friends.

Whew! Fifteen minutes gone by. No free food. No love for orchids either. Gathering myself I proceeded to a less active booth manned by a old man with a I’ve-seen-it-all-for-the-orchids look on his face. I sincerely started my monologue explaining my illiteracy, why I was here and what I wanted. He took all of two minutes to process that, which made me wonder if I should have spoken slowly instead of rattling off like a shotgun. He calmly picked up a plant (thankfully bigger than my earlier object of hatred), explained that’s what I was looking for, also caring to throw some light on its maintenance. And redirecting me too for the next item on my list. Cattleyas.

I liked these Cattleyas immediately. For starters, they looked like real plants, had more attractive flowers and showed less attitude than their much shorter cousins. Plus, the over eager salesgirl helped me pick one in a jiffy. With a happy sigh I ticked off the items in my list. Dendrobiums and Cattleyas were now in the bag.

Orders executed to a T, a thought suddenly struck me. Why don’t I call up Miss M (my girlfriend-turned-ex, in case anyone's curious) and ask her if she wanted one of those? Judging by what I had seen it looked as if orchids were on women’s top ten list after all. I left her a message and she called back in a few minutes.

“Oh my God! What on earth are you doing at a orchid show? That’s the last place I imagined you to be.” she said, laughing hard.
“I know! I am doing it for my friend and for the record am sleepwalking through this.” I replied, trying hard to maintain a straight face.

Turned out M was fascinated by orchids. “Surprise me”, was all she said when I asked her what she wanted. Groan! Another of those grocery lists would have made my life easier. “Once bitten twice shy”, they say. This time around I decided to dispense with all tomfoolery, went back and straight away picked one which promised to blossom into vivid colored flowers in less than three weeks. “That’s one less thing for her to stress about” I mused.

Operation Orchids was finally over and I couldn’t help but pat myself on my back for a job well done. Admittedly it wasn’t as bad as I feared, though with a better knowledge of biology and an infinitely higher aesthetic sense and patience I could have gushed afterwards that I was in paradise.

Lakersobium Champsanum ‘Kobe’ 2010

In case you’re still wondering, that’s an orchid that’ll bloom in June 2010 when God a.k.a Kobe Bryant wins another NBA championship for the Lakers.

Peace out y'all!

(MIS)STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

It was one of those lazy Friday nights. Sprawled across the couch, nursing a beer I was watching yet another rerun of the ‘98 Bulls-Jazz Championship game. Past 2.30am already and my brain had already begun to shutdown when suddenly my phone shrieked loudly. Getting me and possibly my neighbors too to rapt attention. “What the #$%^” I hissed and kept staring at it for a few minutes hoping my phone would get the point. No! Whoever was calling was determined to reach me at all costs. “I’m coming!” I yelled and with superhuman effort made the few step trek to my jeans that’d been flung all the way across the living room.

“I need you to edit my SOP”

“Well… Hello to you too…” I started off to my girlfriend thinking that even a credit card representative would’ve got better treatment. Apparently she wanted me to edit her Statement of Purpose (SOP) document at this unearthly hour. The one with which she was planning to apply to schools for her PhD.

“Who’s going to be admitting you?” I chuckled.

“Quite a few actually. I sent it to you now. Check your mail” she curtly replied. Seemed to me that my humor was way off like Jordan’s jumper than just clanged off the rim. Now, the girlfriend and I were in a nebulous phase, where it’d been decried that I still had to do a lot of “things” to make us more forward. Which meant statements like “I’d rather be doodling with watercolors than editing this s**t” were out of the window. And so I put on my “brave warrior” face, worked on her document, trimming down the fat (which was in quite a few places, like a 30 something Bollywood actress) and came up with the gold standard. All in less than 3 hours and getting back a “Thank you! I’m tired and I’m going to bed now” in return. That was supposed to be my reward for resuscitating my brain cells in the middle of the night and missing Jordan’s miracle last second shot. Again! “Some #$%^in’ night” I cursed myself as I rolled off to sleep…

A few days back I chanced upon this *cough* masterpiece *cough* when it struck me “Why can’t I spoof this up?” That set me on an ego trip for the next 3 hours at the end of which I felt I’d sufficiently (dis)established her credentials. Maybe because the both of us aren’t an item no more OR I was plainly bored and thought her SOP had serious comedic potential. Whatever! And maybe any fans (Ok! people) reading this could use it to perk up their day…

P.S.: Since my ex sometimes envisions her as a supermodel whose privacy is sacrosanct I’ve been forced to delete all references to anything living or standing. Not that should matter, right?

(MIS)STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

“All of life is a journey - which paths we take, what we look back on, and what we look forward to is up to us. We determine our destination, what kind of road we will take to get there, and how happy we are when we get there.”

Excuse me if I just sounded like a bus driver, but for some inexplicable reason this long drawn quotation (probably from the Department of Transportation!) fits me like the perfect hubcap. Winding through graduate school into my first job I thought I’d found my destination only to be hit smack dab across the face (by life, that is) and said these were in fact life experiences! I was cool, except that my dad almost passed out realizing that he’d paid a busload of money just to get me a “life experience” in college. If I may, I’d certainly like Take Two on “The One at Graduate School”. Mid-afternoon breakfasts, midnight pillow fights with roommates in our underwear (Kidding! Never happened. Seriously!), walking around with a devil-may-care demeanor among other things. Who wouldn’t want that? But I’m 28 now and feel if I want to continue my “Chinni Jayanth” act my next step ought to be a PhD. So yes master, please put me down for that one.

All through my academic journey I was focused and meticulous. Synonyms such as nerdy, geeky and boorish can also be used. These adjectives propelled me through my undergraduate degree in Chemical Engineering garnering accolades along the way in technical paper presentations, when the rest of the general population was blissfully living it up in Pizza Hut, Geoffrey’s and Elliots Beach. Perhaps my overall obnoxious behavior towards my fellow classmen sprinkled with a slight penchant for research landed me a senior project at IIMC that turned me into the first of its kind from our college. Not that nobody cared, since friends and faculty alike were pretty relieved to see me leave. Several interesting electives and lecture-seminars (that I had no clue about) made me realize that my calling was Environmental Science/ Engineering. That at least is the official version. Unofficial version? Two days into my stint at IIMC I fell violently sick after gulping down some muddy “drinking water” in the canteen. “Who on earth can manage to live without proper water treatment?” I was thinking when I was recuperating and thinking of getting a water filter for the canteen at the same time. Two weeks later and ten pounds lighter I staggered back to campus only to be told that all the cool Chemical Engineering projects were taken. All that were left were the crumbs, which consisted of Prof. Bhatnagar and his thick worn out coffee crusted folder. “Beggars shouldn’t be choosers” he brusquely remarked when I nervously broached him about Material Science. And just like that I fell in love with water treatment and the overall study of Environmental Science/Engineering!

Post Eureka moment, I applied to several graduate schools in all earnest. Unsurprisingly (according to my dad) no one bothered to acknowledge except the who offered me a full graduate scholarship and a research assistantship. A fact that shocked (well… flabbergasted) my father since he’d already begun making plans for me to work at the local Metro Water office as an “engineer”. “What am I going to say to Mr. Kumar now?” he loudly wondered. I couldn’t care less and had a blast with all the courses and research work. A week’s worth of brainwashing my more intelligent fellow project mates that nothing was right about the USEFA landed me the role of research worker over there for a few months. Keywords: Unlimited Gold Coin apple juice, peppermint brownies and discount tickets to Bengals games (read 70 yard line).

Picking up a few “technical stuff” along the way I managed to complete my MS thesis: “An exploration of neoteric insolvent extractants: Applications in the removal of phospates from solid surfaces and regeneration of automotive catalytic converters”. Irony is it took me more time to come up with the title than their contents. Cardinal rule in thesis writing: Make up a title like those Hindi movie names in the 90s. Extra length and taking a lifetime to pronounce. Of course, confusing the heck out of anyone to make them think right away that you’ve like split the atom inside. Obviously I’m not going to say no one bothered to turn the pages and it just lay there gathering dust in the top shelf. So yes, mine was the next best thing to happen since sliced bread so much that Dr. Saravino even gave me a $50 gift card. “Go buy yourself something pretty” he said, before he left. My dad was thrilled too and sent me a card where he didn’t fail to mention that Mr. Kumar was still asking about me and was prepared to throw in an office as well…

Girl with two degrees don’t work in no Metro Water office. So with much back door machinations I joined in May 2007 as a Design Engineer III. My work involved process, civil design, hydraulic analysis, cost estimation, writing technical reports, specifications and technical memoranda in projects involving wastewater treatment plants. Wow! If that was that, I certainly didn’t get that memo. No sir! And I’d thought that all a Pretty Young Thing (like me) had to do was act coy, get Mr. Andrews’s coffee, answer some calls and gossip around. After all isn’t that what Pam does in “The Office”? Thanks to Mr. Andrews’s constant prodding (sarcasm implied) I managed to obtain my Engineer in Training (EIT) licensure after several aborted attempts. I was also part of the sustainability core team and worked on climate change initiatives devising Greenhouse Gas (GHG) footprinting methodologies and calculation templates. That’s what driving around for pizza for Jim, Mack, Stella and Youssef and fixing Stella’s hair for her date with DeAngelo Matthews does for you. Get you “part of a team”.

“Curiosity killed the cat” is how my dad would deadpan when asked about my inquisitive nature. As for creativity, he’d just shrug and point to the living room wall that carries like a few hundred coats of paint. Thanks in large part to my desire of balancing equations and solving chemical problems in front of the family. Two such burning qualities in a girl, it’s a crime to let them gather rust, which is why I think a PhD at is the best solution.

On the record,

a. It would open new horizons for progressively responsible positions in R & D in various research institutes, non profit organizations and possibly the United Nations Environmental Program (UNEP). First USEFA, now UNEP. Girl can dream big, can’t she?

Off the record,

a. I’d be the first chick at Metro Water with a PhD. Now you might think nothing of that but in my country that’d mean I’d be having more powers than the President. How cool is that?

b. I’d be called “Dr. ”, which also happens to be my dad’s name. Gullible relatives (like “Cheenu Uncle”, “Shekhar Perippa”) would think my dad earned himself a PhD after 60 raising his stock through the roof.

c. I plan to get married soon and these three letters would ensure my future husband wouldn’t think I possess the IQ of a 6th grader. For crying out loud, every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to be getting his Masters these days, more common than a GED!

On a serious twist, for two years I’ve been exposed to nothing except wastewater treatment, soil remediation, water treatment & reuse. And for some reason I can’t seem to get these courses like Sustainable Development, Environmental Policy and Deregulation out of my darn mind. Which are offered only here. Which is why I need to get into this PhD. Capisce? Yes, I’d be working with an exceptional faculty, honing my skills and contributing to cutting edge research (gulp!), that’s a given.

I can continue to drone on why I’m Miss Eligible (ambition, communication skills et al) but quite frankly, after all this baloney I’ve thrown at you I’m certain you’re ready to quit your Admissions job and head off to the Himalayas. I will not let you do that. Without further ado, I’d like to conclude thus,

“A known devil is better than an unknown angel”

Ms. YYY.

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!