What's in a name?

“Shrinkage”

Seven years back one of my close friends Bharathkumar Leelakrishnan got his first job in a Fortune 100 company. Now nobody advised him such, but on the first day, struck by a brainwave he decided to introduce himself to his manager as “Brett Lee”, only one of the premier fast bowlers Australia has produced. Positively shocking, considering it was from a chap who cared for cricket as much as say… curling. A far worse travesty than claiming that he was the son of the Indian President or he was composing a symphony over the weekends. I could so imagine myself snapping at some guy, who jaywalked to me at work and said,

“Hi! I’m Brett Lee. Can I have a database extract?”

“Oh yeah? I’m Shane Warne. I bowl leg spin. I don’t do no extracts. Bainchoth!”

Perhaps I’d have renounced the expletive at the end but my indignation would’ve simmered. Agreed it isn’t a pretty sight watching your colleagues squirm and go through muscle spasms when attempting to pronounce your first and/or last names,

“How do you say this? Leeeee…laaa…kreeshh…naan?”

Dude! It’s just a #$%^in’ name. You don’t have to act like you’re having a heart attack!

but then what else’s a man’s got to do except grin and bear, right? Especially when your dad’s gone all creative cramming his village’s name (and other irrelevant details) into yours. Unless you’re one of them fortunate ones who’s blessed with a first name like Joseph/Robert/Bala that naturally lend themselves to an easy-on-the-lips Joe/Bob/Bala/Balki you don’t got no business shrinking them to something that makes no sense. If nothing, that’ll at least ensure simpletons like me don’t get their hopes up when their barren-than-the-rocks development team gets an email from “Janet” only to realize later that it’s none other than plain Jane Janaki. That too from the same borough as mine!

“Paging Dr. E”

“Janet”s and “Harry”s aside, pray, what on earth does someone do when he’s been bestowed with a name like Ehiyoruonahmenh Oghagboun. Let’s find out now…

While I’m not exactly splitting the atom at work, one of my many requirements is to moonlight as an administrator, which means I’m involuntarily copied on close to a hundred emails a day on servers being restarted, releases installed and patches applied on systems that I didn’t even know neither existed nor cared for in the first place. Even though I’m itching to shoot of a response like “About $%^&in’ time” to at least one of those emails, my reaction has always been passive. Select then en masse and dump them onto my Outlook trash. I would’ve done so that day except an email from Ehiyoruonahmenh Oghagboun caused me to sit up to rapt attention. No, he wasn’t our new CEO taking over our company. Simply put, yet another administrator like me who was going to install the latest Microsoft OS patches on some VM servers. At 6pm MST.

“Ehiyor…” I tried valiantly pronouncing his first name for a minute before I started howling “What a #$%^in’ tragedy”. Blame it on the extra caffeine or diet cokes but I felt a sudden dose of impunity creep through my veins and declared that I was going to hear him say his name. Which I wasn’t sure how, since E didn’t leave no contact information in his email. Perhaps to shield himself from specimens like me, I surmised as I tried calling the Data Center who were equally clueless. Would I like to page the Tier 1 Escalation Support? Sure. Let’s wake up the President if we need to! That proved to be the trick and less than a minute later I heard E’s cell phone ringing sending a tingle through my bones. The same reaction that’d net when one’s managed to track down their high school flame after a decade. Just saying...

“Hi! This is Ehiyoruonahmenh” No cuts, no chops, just like it was spelt, except it was rattled off faster than a bullet train that I couldn’t figure out a darn syllable. Could I manage to hear it one more time?

“Hi! Can I please speak with Ehioru…?” I started off slow, soft and sincere as if asking him for a loan.

“This is he.”

Oh no! “I got your email about the MS patches on the VM servers. Will they cause any downtime in RIO?” Obviously I wasn’t calling him for a dinner date. I had to cook up something and was lying through my teeth praying my giggling wasn’t too apparent.

“No.”

E’s forte wasn’t small talk. E was also not going to address himself in the third person anymore during the call. I’d got the response I wanted, thanked him and hung up.

“Ehiyoruonahmenh” So that’s how it was said. Maybe over a beer or two he’d throw some light on his name while I’d pat him with “Great job! Holding your ground and all”…

“What do I call my baby doll?”

It was just another day at the gym and I was sweating it out like a pig on the StairMaster conducting my nightly battle against the bulge. Someday I dream of a physique carved out of oak but… never mind. Right in the midst of one of Deva’s gana songs my phone rang rudely interrupting me at the 30 minute mark.

“Her family wants me to name her Shanthi Bala. What do I do?” screamed my friend Prashant Kumar into the earpiece. The first “her” was his wife and the second was the baby girl they were expecting in a couple of months. Lately the task of finding a perfect name for his girl was having him in knots.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know! Their family astrologer said that was a lucky name” I could feel his irritation throwing a vase or something across the room anytime now.

“That’s bullshit man!” I snapped causing me to miss a step and almost topple over. “That’ll never stick. Don’t worry!” I comforted him before reminding him that I had 15 more minutes of hell to suffer through and I’d talk to him later. I wasn’t entirely sold on my reassurance but “Shanthi Bala”? Puh-lease! No way was that going to stick.

Now I love dishing out “life truths” at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable (after my heart rate returned to normal and I’d caught my breath back). The worst thing you can do as a Dad to your kids is not cutting them out of their trust fund. Rather ordain them with a name that’s so uncool that he/she shall be cursing you all the way through teenage.

Case in point: à la Deivasigamani and Kumudavalli. Agreed, these two names are dripping in divinity and probably paying homage to half a dozen Hindu Gods. But let’s take a deep breath and analyze these headlines, first for him,

“Deivasigamani, Casanova of the Eastern World ushers in the new year with a wild party in his swank 300ft yacht. Host snapped with topless Miss USA, Miss Venezuela and Miss Puerto Rico.”

“Sparkling point guard Deivasigamani scores 30 pts dishes 14 assists and shreds the Lakers defense in comeback victory. Starting gig is certainly his!”

“Dr. Deivasigamani, professor of Computer Science at SUNY wins ‘Researcher of the Year’ from Intel for his contribution to Wireless Sensor Networks.”

and then for her,

“Kumudavalli graces Sports Illustrated 2012 cover with Chanel’s new summer bikini line”

“’Yay! I’m getting married!’ An ecstatic Kumudavalli at Beverly Hills with George Clooney showing off her thick engagement rock”

“Noted Obstetrics & Gynecology surgeon Dr. Kumudavalli to address AIIMS class of ’13 today in New Delhi”

Hand to heart, which one of these did you naturally gravitate towards? And how much of that was influenced by the name? C’mon man! Humor me please, will ya?

In my humble opinion with a name like this you can’t go around in tuxedos saying “shaken… not stirred” without sounding unintentionally funny (Ok! Maybe if you shrink it to “Daniel”, but still got to lose the “Mani”) nor sashay on runways to Chanel or Versace. In the same breath, not dribble a basketball between your legs and throw no-look passes nor sleep with Matt Damon. But before you go ballistic and all preachy on me, note that I’m not mocking them or their kind or much worse, consigning them to be bottom feeders. No sir! Definitely not. Humble and respectful all over again, I’d like to note you’re more likely to encounter his publications when browsing through IEEE journals or rush to photocopy his latest textbook on the eve of your semester exams. Just like newly minted mothers all over the country will be tom-toming to their counterparts “Oh! We managed to get an appointment with Dr. Kumudavalli after 6 months”.

Fate isn’t a cruel mistress after all. Three months later I became the proud Godfather of “Manasa”, a cute bubbly bundle-of-joy with a million dollar smile. “Santhi Bala”, “Annai Abirami”, “Krishnaveni” and their ilk thankfully never saw the light of the day. Unless of course, Prashant Kumar’s in-laws were thinking of theatre names in Chennai!

“The Prasanna Situation”

And speaking of names designed to throw you off kilter, here’s an intriguing tale from the memory bank. Confusing names and confounding sexes never got better…

It was one of those bleak dreary Monday mornings when I was trying in vain to savor every minute of sleep before the alarm started howling intent on jerking me into consciousness and dragging me back into reality, when my dad called me out of the blue and said something to the effect of,

“Son! Her name’s Prasanna. Here’s the email address. You better get on you’re a** and contact her right away!”

Of course, Dad never sounds like a four star general barking orders at his troops. Instead in his customary soft, smooth, yet no uncertain and non-negotiable voice, he informed that she was his friend’s daughter and I needed to touch base with her, like yesterday. An executive order to initiate long distance matchmaking delivered to critical acclaim.

Being the selfish prick that I am, I’d have paid lip service to his sermons, hung up and snuggled deep into my comforter eager to make up for those lost minutes. But something wasn’t right.

“Wait! Her name’s Prasanna???” I repeated slowly highlighting “Prasanna” the second time around disbelievingly.

“Yes and here’s her email address…” my dad started off again from his script forcing me to cut him off irritatingly in mid sentence.

“I got her email address. But is her name really Prasanna?”

“Yes”

Followed by the most uncomfortable 30 second pause of my life. That pause could’ve been replaced with a lot of things. Dad could’ve said “Joking! Prasanna’s my friend’s name. She’s Preethi” or even gone with a tamer version of adding a “Kumari” or “Lakshmi” at the end. Nothing! I figured I should’ve rolled off the right side of the bed for either of those to happen. Instead I was saddled clueless with an email address of a “Prasanna” and my dad had hung up ensuring that irrespective of whether that name gave me the kicks or not I was going to throw the first pitch. #$%^

Caught-between-a-rock-and-hard-place moments like these call for a sounding board and mine was my friend Murali, a fellow who specialized in “calling a spade a spade”, especially when it came to me and women. Considering my sleep was shot and heralding the week with a stiff dose of reality couldn’t hurt, I texted him,

“What do you think about a Prasanna?”

Nothing happened even though I kept staring at the phone impatiently for the next few minutes and even shook it a few times to get something out. Wearily I woke up to freshen up. Thirty minutes later all ready to roll I found it blinking and wisecracking with “Dude!!! When did you start batting for the other side? LOL” Real mature!

Obviously he too was thinking that Prasanna referred to nothing except a guy, which made me squirm even further. What the #$%^ was my dad thinking? More importantly, what the #$%^ was her dad thinking when he coined this “brilliant” name? What on earth did he have against names like Preeti, Pavitra and Priya? Questions questions questions… All of which formed the backbone of my introductory email to Ms. Prasanna, though I toiled through multiple drafts to ensure the contents evoked mirth and weren’t downright throwing her dad under the bus.

The next 48 hours were officially a mess, primarily because Ms. P hadn’t emitted any signs of life, which made me almost certain that I’d gone over the top. Which is when I committed my first blunder. Instead of researching on Google like any sane person would do, I leaned on a few scatterbrained (looking back, that is) colleagues and friends (sample size – 10) to figure out who actually held sway over the name and the answer was universal. “We don’t know any damsel named Prasanna. A Madhu maybe, but no Prasanna” Anand even went one step further wondering why I kept saying her “brother”’s name when asked for hers!

Which is when I committed my second and biggest blunder. Letting my evil alter ego conjure up rabid situations packing me off on a crash course to self doom. I’m not a “honey” or “sweetie” guy, so what was I supposed to affectionately address her as? “P” (eww!), “Pras” (yuck!), “Prassy” (???)” when I couldn’t even bear to say her name. And somewhere sometime outside a marriage hall would read “Me weds Prasanna”. Christ! Might as well have added “What a shot in the arm for gay rights!” Almost an entire day of negativity and it was taking its toll on my fast approaching project deadlines. I just couldn’t take it no more. Sigh! I pulled up my laptop and shot out an email explaining why I couldn’t go through with this because I was being transferred to an office in South Korea and hoped she’d understand. How? Since when was South Korea cut off from the rest of the world? Pretty, cute, next biggest supermodel or not, I’d come to realize that she could never be my Ms. Right. Especially with that first name and nothing afterwards…

Fate IS a cruel mistress after all. At least in my case. Less than 10 minutes after I’d dispatched that ill-fated “shoot myself in the foot” email she’d added me as a friend on Facebook. Jack Nicholson would’ve deemed the “Oh my God! Is that really her?” and “Oh my God! What the #$%^ have I done?” expressions written across my face instantly as Oscar worthy. Too late, I swore to myself biting my lip. Closure was achieved less than a couple of hours later when she summarily indicated that she had no enthusiasm in pursuing a long distance relationship (#$%^in’ Korea. Couldn’t I have said South Carolina?) and she’d like this matter closed. Silver lining? NFL was in full swing. Talk about dropping down to earth gently…

Epilogue…

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

Immortal words from my main man Shakespeare, regurgitated verbatim from Romeo & Juliet. All of which have made a more contrite me emboldened to go after the next “Sreenidhi”, “Kamal” or “Snehal”. Kidding!

Adios!

P.S.: All names have been changed to protect privacy. Of the author, that is. After all who wants a thousand curses and hexes flying their way, right?

The Evolution of a Lakers Fanatic - An Incandescent Journey

To put it mildly, the trouble with infatuation over sports like Cricket is that babbling about in-swinging yorkers or cover drives can help you score only if you’re on Indian shores or somewhere in the big cities of Australia. Pretty much elsewhere people look at you as if you’re from outer space. Especially here, in the land of “Milk and Honey”. Sample this. You’re out for lunch with your buddies from work Roger, Mike and Mark. Eager to show off you breathlessly exclaim right off the elevator,

“Hey Roger! You watched that game last night?”

“Yeah dude! #$%^in’ felt miserable afterwards. Manny strikes out thrice and Dodgers lose in the ninth!”

(Deflated like a week old party balloon)

“Uh huh… Ok… Actually I meant that cricket match. New Zealand trumped South Africa?”

“What? #$%^ no dude! Mike, you have any idea what the #$%^ he’s talking about?”

Mike’s opinion doesn’t matter, since you’ve already fizzled out like a wet firecracker and are now resigned to listening to the threesome recount for the rest of the lunch in graphic detail about last night’s ballgame, while you pipe in with a few “Wow!” or “Oh man!”s just to reinforce that you’re still sitting at the table.

In summary,

• 
  
   You’ve no clue what channel ESPN is on,
• 
  
  The only topic you can talk about without embarrassing yourself is exception error handling in Java.
• 
  
  Hand on the Bible I’ve never gone out for lunch/dinner/drinks with a gang involving Roger, Mike and Mark. Seriously!

Whoever the poor soul above is, I pray that he still isn’t blissfully watching re-runs of “Friends” and “King of Queens” on TBS, while the rest of the humanity can’t seem to get enough of the Super Bowl or a Yankees – Red Sox playoff series.

Swinging back to me, I’m fairly sports literate now but wasn’t always exactly the “Sports Guy”. Until a few years back the only way I’d be caught dead watching a basketball/football game was if someone came to me and said “Just keep staring at the TV for the next three hours and I’ll give you a $25 Starbucks card”

“Everything in life happens for a reason”

Spinning the memory wheel backwards, I vividly remember the first football game I saw. No fancy touchdown passes or no receiver clutching an elliptical ball and running for his dear life through the length of the field. Nope. None of them ESPN Sports Center highlights. Just a bunch of well fed guys clawing at each other’s throats as soon as a whistle was blown. And almost immediately men clad in zebra clothing threw a yellow towel (which I later learned was a ‘flag’) and rushed onto the field waving their arms wildly. The crowd was cheering and so were my friends. I just shook my head in amazement. And America pays good money to watch this?

If that was football, the basketball game was no edge-of-the-seat thriller either. Ten black men each almost the size of a palm tree and who could easily pass off as each other’s first cousins were scrambling around an orange ball. Two suited old men looking like worn-out Mafia dons were patrolling the sidelines showing fingers (no, not the middle one) and barking orders that no one seemed to pay a heed to. I peered closer into the tiny TV and found to my shock three puny referees scrambling about desperately trying not to get crushed by the giants. Give me a break! Well… then what sport did Michael Jordan play that made people go weak in their knees?

In my feeble defense, at least I gave these two the benefit of an hour before determining them unworthy of my adulation. Baseball? I’d given up within the first few minutes. Yankees vs. Red Sox, it doesn’t get any bigger than this, right? Apparently not. One look at that parallelogram shaped lush green field and it brought back fond memories of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. I was half expecting Sachin Tendulkar to step out and thump Glenn McGrath for a scorching extra cover drive. Instead I got an Asian guy who swung his bat around for a few minutes like he was swatting flies.

“He’s so getting it from his captain and coach” I surmised, watching him make a fool of himself.

Right when I thought he was dead meat and I had it all figured, he suddenly crouched low, barely made contact with the ball and shockingly started ambling to his right. That apparently set off a chain reaction among the lazily standing players on the brown mound (right… “base”) who started running towards each other at breakneck speed. The bar I was in with my friends went abuzz too and folks started cheering, banging their drinks on the table. One lady even stood erect eyes moist, fingers cupped on her lips blowing kisses as if she’d just won an Oscar. Ok! I made the last one up!

“#$%^ yeah! Way to go!” I joined the chorus setting my beer down hard determined to get into the scheme of things. I gently nudged my friend inquiring what on earth just went down.

“The bases were loaded, runners crossed and now we’re in a position to score” he hastily clarified, eyes still glued at the flat screen.

“Oh! So… we haven’t even scored yet?”

No score and the Asian guy was walking back with a not-so-thrilled face, probably because no one seemed to be cheering for his sacrifice. I’d have exercised my vocal chords if that ball had flown out of the park. Whatever! I swear if anyone had offered me a ticket to India at that moment, I’d have gladly gone back and watched South Africa and New Zealand grind it on my dad’s telly out for the next five days.

And that’s why Daddy spent more time salivating over a rental video on Sundays than soaking up America’s favorite pastimes…

“Nothing is inevitable except death and taxes” espoused Benjamin Franklin. I’d respectfully like to add “A paradigm shift in the quantitative thought process of what constitutes quality entertainment” to the mix. The renaissance of which began when I setup shop in Los Angeles…

One thing’s that stuck with me since childhood is my fascination with figures. Yeah… yeah… the fair kind too. But I’m talking digits here. Nothing heavy duty like breaking codes or finding patterns in random numbers, just an innate ability to reel off match figures to nonplussed friends.

How many runs did Sachin score in the 2nd test against South Africa at the Wanderers in 1996? 160(225).

What were Waqar’s figures in the semifinal against Australia in the ’01 Natwest Series? 10-2-59-6.

If I could do this for matches that took place years ago, then regurgitating box scores of games less than a week old should be child’s play, right? Question was, what game? The answer wasn’t difficult, thanks to a beaming Kobe Bryant plastered all over the Los Angeles Times the next day, arms outstretched as if he’d just conquered Russia. Bryant had single handedly outscored the Dallas Mavericks with a stellar 62 points by the end of the 3rd quarter sending them to one of their most embarrassing losses. Thank you!

• 
  
  Possess rudimentary knowledge of the Lakers (know who Shaq is, won a ring a few years back) Check
• 
  
  Team’s still winning games with pizzazz Check
• 
  
  More than half of the state goes gaga over them Check

When in Rome… Goodbye Dodgers, Angels, Trojans or even Long Beach State Volleyball. Daddy was now drawn hook, line and sinker into longest running soap opera in Hollywood.

It’s fascinating how the same games that seemed so lackluster earlier could be so enthralling now that you’ve a faint idea what’s going on. The learning curve was much easier than I thought. 90% of the offense ran through their ringleader Kobe Bryant who seemed intent on contorting his body in every imaginable way and taking every difficult shot that existed. People couldn’t get enough of yelling “Yes! Kobe!” or “MVP” every time he was on the court, which only spurred him on to put on a show every night. Passing the ball wasn’t in his dictionary, at least yet, so most of those early games were a dissertation on how much you could score and make people scream.

Special Mention: The 81 point spectacle against Toronto Raptors on Jan 22, 2006. 81 points of the highest order designed to lead your team to victory when you were down by 18 and dead in the water in the 3rd quarter. For a recent convert like me, watching it unfold before my eyes I kept thinking “This s**t is impossible. I can’t believe he just scored from that position” as goose bumps erupted all over my body. Strangely, I wasn’t tearing my throat out. Instead I sat huddled in a corner arms crossed with a beatific smile facing the TV like a college grad who’d just toked up.

81 points: 28/46 FGs, 18/20 FTs 7/13 3ptrs 6RBs 2ASTs 1BLK.

Perhaps that’s when my in-game ritual was born. Whenever the team’s dead in the water I mute the TV, switch off all lights and curve myself into a fetal position. Sounds radical all right, but trust me, the team always mounts a furious comeback. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose, but faith ensures they never rollover and play dead. Ever!

And for those games that the Lakers were winning or played by other marquee teams, their broadcast is always about the drama. Three men talking incessantly for almost three hours covering the game 60% of the time and the rest 40% talking about what was going on with the team, league and pretty much anything else that came to their mind when the microphone was on. So before the final buzzer you’ve been told what each player did for Thanksgiving, what they got their moms for their birthday etc. Sounds cute right? Well… for me who’d already devoured this online it was a nightmare listening to it again. Can we not discuss the last few offensive plays? Didn’t someone miss a defensive assignment? I mean, Kobe’s great but giving him three uncontested layups in a row means someone stunk, right? I probably had to sit in the coaches meetings to get that stuff…

Onto Act Two: Hello Fantasy Basketball.

(Insert stupid joke)

No! This isn’t where we fantasize about the players and talk about it!

Keeping things simple, you gather a bunch of likeminded basketball crazies, form a league where each constructs a team of 12 players and go head-to-head every week to determine the winner in all categories – points, rebounds, assists, steals etc. 2006 I first signed up, officially gaining entry into the world of the “Big Boys”. Incidentally, nothing more than my high school and college buddies who’d happened to have a two year head start in the world of pro sports (read Anand, Aravind, Sriram, Shankar among others).

 

Operating with your fantasy team requires round the clock access to all details on your players. Thanks to websites like Yahoo! Sports, Rotoworld, ProBasketballTalk who religiously updated their news as much as when a player sneezed and which I checked at least 5 times a day, I’d say I was pretty much covered.

(overheard in the cafeteria)

“I wonder if Kirilenko is playing today?”

“Oh no! AK-47’s got a sprained thumb and strained ligament. That stuff’s going to keep you out at least 2 weeks. Go for Millsap instead”

Prognosticating with a straight face as if I were the team doctor! AK-47? I was now calling them by their nicknames as if I’d been playing ball with them since kindergarten. Well… If any tool could transform a dumb $%^& into a know-it-all, this was certainly up there. Of course having Bryant as your #1 pick in the draft two years in a row certainly helps. That, and a collection of nobodies whom everyone had either no clue about or given up on. Thanks to a leap of faith and favorable assurances from newspapers (Sacramento Bee, Indianapolis Star etc.) I picked them only to watch them outperform every week. Dutifully never missing any opportunity to rub it in the faces of my more experienced compadres who wondered how I’d struck gold. Work ethic son…

 

All this huffing and puffing is great but you know, there was something gnawing inside reminding me that I was still only a “Laker Fan”. To become a fanatic (maybe even a diehard one) I had to crank it up a notch. That meant I had to cough up dough and start following the team on the road. Quite naturally, everyone except me thought I’d gone s**t crazy. I’d never been so sure of anything else in my life. Considering that we play quite a few games in the west coast in cities like San Francisco, Sacramento, Phoenix and Portland, given my limited resources going over there screaming and in general making a darn fool of myself wasn’t that much of a stretch.

Nothing more noteworthy than the game in Portland two years back that I’d gone to with Anand, his wife, Aravind and bunch of other friends. Everyone around me was a Laker hater and thought Kobe Bryant should be burned at the stake, if not already. The only way I could tune them out was by taking a few puffs of you-know-what, which I certainly did. By tipoff I was high as a kite and realized that I was the only one in our section wearing some piece of identifiable Lakers clothing. If there were other fans they were as yet to come out of the closet. And that’s when it happened.

The Blazers won the opening tip and the lead guard Roy was now setting up the offense. Right at that moment, I stood up triumphantly and announced “Defense! Defense!” making no bones of the fact that I’d come there for one purpose and one purpose only, “Support thy Lakers”. I swear to God, at least a thousand people were shocked and stared at me wondering who on earth I thought I was. Anand certainly thought I’d lost it and slunk lower into his seat dragging his wife along. She refused to look at me and kept reminding us that someone was going to hit us with a hot dog!

Hot dog, popcorn, soda I couldn’t care a damn. I was already in seventh heaven. Everyone wants a piece of the Lakers when they’re squaring off against them and the Blazers were no exception. Dazzling plays, the constant back-and-forth between fans made things even spicier. As is the wont, I had a lot to say after almost every possession. Good plays were rewarded with a “Fantastic sir!”, “Well played boys! That’s the way to go!” and even the ubiquitous “MVP” chants whenever Bryant went to shoot a free throw. Never a doubt that I’d came off like a proud English teacher watching his wards perform a school play. Bad Plays? Let’s just say we’re glad none in our section (and the ones adjacent too) save for my entourage didn’t understand my mother tongue. Lamar Odom bore of the brunt of my beautifully strung together choice expletives that in hindsight I’d like to recall. Sorry L.O.!

By 9.30pm we’d lost the game and I was reminded yet again by a 100 odd people that Lakers suck. For added measure Aravind grabbed a bunch of random guys and informed them that I’d driven from Los Angeles just for this which made them go even wilder. “Take me to the nearest bar” I grabbed Anand’s wife and pleaded. Nothing like some Jack Daniel’s to get me back to the penthouse and forget about the a** kicking that we’d received. Good times good times…

Somewhere along the way I’d realized that I was afflicted with multiple personality disorder. Now I know what you’re thinking. I wasn’t smearing my face with paint, donning a cape and slashing people’s throats by night to come back to a desk job during the day. Simply a metamorphosis in the overall psyche and demeanor after the outcome of a Lakers game.

Victory? I’m the chirpiest son of a b***h around. It takes me at least half an hour to wipe that smile off my face, even longer if it’d been a couple of overtimes, comeback victory etc. My adrenaline’s through the roof, I get substantial work done in record time, go to the gym and sweat it out like a pig without feeling a thing and finally come home to watch the highlights at least five times over three different sources (SportsCenter, NBA TV, Yahoo! Sports video).

Loss? Stay away from me as I’m the biggest sourpuss in the vicinity. Getting blown out from the beginning or right after halftime it’s much easier to deal with those. But close ones that boil down to the last possession or two, it’s that much harder to take. Thanks to your cousin or a few friends who’d like to continually remind you by sending texts like “Say, were you watching the game?” or “Please call me when you’ve stopped crying” Seriously?

Honorable Mention: Loss to the Celtics – Game 4 of the ’08 NBA Finals. My therapist (which is me, by the way) has advised me to often talk about it as its cathartic. I don’t even know what that word means! But I thought I’d endured my share of heart wrenching defeats after India folded belly-up against Australia in the 2003 ICC Cricket World Cup. No! Lakers in an amazing display of cluelessness ensured that they’d take the cake. How do you lose a game at home when you’re up by 31 points in the 2nd quarter, the entire fan base is screaming wild and thinking the Celtics aren’t going to show up after halftime because they’ve been embarrassed enough already?

It wasn’t the amateur display on the court that made matters worse. Rather the aftermath. Flurry of calls from friends, colleagues that started pouring in even before the result was official. I threw the phone away in disgust and ran off to the beach. At 9.30pm! I drummed up every imaginable “In the Devil’s Doldrums” scenario to continually kick myself under the bus. As I begun to feel better I realized there were still 3 games to go and that we still stood a chance. Pfft! whom was I fooling? Even I knew a 3-1 series score meant a death knell. Trudging back home way past midnight I even wondered if I should pray at the Malibu Temple tomorrow for a Lakers victory. Never mind! Lord Balaji too had probably smartly bet on the Celtics anyway!

It took me almost three days of wallowing in self-pity before we finally beat the Celtics on Sunday. There weren’t a deluge of calls, just a. But at least I could answer them and say “hope” without getting laughed at… There, I feel much better now. Thank you Doc!

(Present Day – Somewhere in the Bay Area, CA)

“How much longer?” I snapped, fidgeting and getting frustrated by the minute.

“We should be there in 15 minutes” drawled Avinash taking a deep breath from his cigarette for added effect.

“I can’t believe I’m missing the game” I hissed further. Didn’t matter even if I had a meltdown in the middle of the freeway. I wasn’t going to get a hug or nothing like that. I still had to drive him to Santa Clara to pick up his car while the rest of America watched the Colts dissect the Jets defense.

“Since when are you into football?” he asked, dripping with both sarcasm and surprise.

“Long time baby! You’ve no idea”

True, on both counts. A couple of years back, thanks to a crash course from my brother and cousin, two self-confessed football-aholics I realized that following a much smaller pigskin (the football, that is) carted around the field wasn’t that bad at all. Agreed, there were more men and more rules, but as long as I’d learned the vital ones, that’s all that mattered. Fantasy football entered the equation and pretty soon I was flying high mucking up my Sundays doing nothing except vegetating in front of the TV watching NFL. Half a dozen million men in this country would rightfully approve…

Me, Avinash and plans should never be used in the same sentence. That’s why instead of heading to the hotel at least 30 minutes before the Saints and Vikings tipped off we were scrambling to find the first available bar in Santa Clara. Barely making it I bumped into a TV showing some obscure horse race.

“Awesome ‘Princess Diamond’! Way to go beauty!” I blathered without thinking.

“Machannnnnn! You follow horse racing too? Wow!” Avinash’s eyes were now wide open and the words were dipped in nothing but sincerity, adulation and admiration. Right at that moment I’m guessing he’d have coronated me as “The Sports Guy”.

“Definitely! She won the Kentucky Derby in ’07 and ’08. I’m going to Louisville next month and betting $500 on her and her sister. Surefire wins pal!”

Of course I said nothing like that.

“I’m just kidding man! I don’t know what the #$%^’s going on” I patted his shoulder reassuringly and lead him to our table…

Daddy might be the jack of all trades, but he’s the master of one. One that involves unrivalled unwavering and unquestioned fanaticism towards his favorite team, the Los Angeles Lakers. And pray, what might get to drag him away from a game?

• 
  
  Nuclear Holocaust
• 
  
  8.5 Earthquake

(b) and not (a). Considering all the adjectives used thus far, I’ll stay transfixed to the idiot box my skin peeling off all around me, watching Kobe sink another eye-popping field goal.

Hallelujah!

(Thevidiya) Paiyya!

Boy bumps into girl. Boy drives girl to Mumbai on a lark, gets jerked around by a bunch of illiterate idiots (ahem, gangsters) for causes ranging from stupid to inane. Boy kicks ass regardless. Boy brings girl home to friends who say that he loves her. Boy kisses girl. Crowd heaves a huge sigh of relief and rush for the exits.

Save for the last line, the rest in the hands of an experienced ad film maker would’ve made for a prizewinning promotion for an automobile, considering that more than half of the film is shot inside a car.

Mitsubishi Lancer: Keeping you and your beloved safe from bad roads and bad guys.

See where I’m going with this? Precisely what should’ve happened when the director pitched this 30 second brainwave to anyone who cared. Instead we’re assaulted with a close to three hour exercise in bad writing and bad screenplay that satisfies no one or nothing. Think of it as if you’d just endured a six hour road trip with an obnoxious cast, stuck in the back seat listening to bad songs and not stopping enough to pee or take a puff. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to “Paiyya” playing in a theatre near you.

“Paiyya” is a craftily woven tale of a boy and a girl who discover each other during a momentous car journey they undertake from Bangalore to Mumbai. Deftly weaving through thugs and underworld gangs that desperately want to settle old scores the boy stands heads and shoulders above the ensuing madness protecting his precious fair maiden. Employing a heady cocktail of humor, romance and intrigue the director engages the audience in a visual extravaganza that transforms the irrepressible happy-go-lucky boy into a committed responsible person. Did we mention die-hard romantic too? “Paiyya” - A fairytale road trip through many a mile to conquer the heart of his soulmate.

You realize all that I said above is baloney, right? Exactly the stuff I’d have churned out if I were the director’s brother or were being paid a 100 grand to say something nice about the film. Neither is the case. I am just a dumb fool who’d been duped off $30 (two tickets!) and four hours of precious Saturday nightlife. So excuse me if I sound a li’l pissed…

In all fairness I knew we weren’t going to watch an epic when I suggested to my friend we could catch “Paiyya” that night, hoping that she’d shoot the idea down as fast as I’d said it.

“Yay! I haven’t watched a Tamil movie in a theatre in a long time. Let’s go!” she screamed.

Groan! “Well… It’s not an Oscar movie or something. So chill!” I quickly clarified.

“Karthi”, the hero couldn’t have agreed more, since he’d insinuated so in all interviews that this film was his debut as a “commercial hero”. He might’ve as well said “I’ll be doing absolutely nothing except prancing around with a girl wearing designer clothes, hanging around with a bunch of friends cracking jokes and maiming a dozen people at a time with nothing severe than a punch or a kick. So if you want to leave your brains at home and question nothing, fine by me.”

“Heroine’s Tamannah” my friend blurted suddenly looking up from my laptop.

“Really? Oh wow!” Yay! I was doing everything except jumping up and down to convey my enthusiasm.

And why wouldn’t I? Tamannah was the petite 20something heartthrob who’d taken tinsel town by storm with a complexion that’d give milk a run for its money. That girl had been haunting my dreams and fantasies the past month or so ever since I’d chanced on her wallpapers on an online gossip website.

“Let me fix the Wireless. I think it’s awfully slow” I said snatching my laptop from her without waiting for an answer. Nothing was wrong with the Internet except that if I didn’t sneak a picture of Tamannah at that instant I’d have put a bullet through my head. Pictures like these, topless ones of Kate Moss, Cindy Crawford and Sports Illustrated models in bikinis don’t lay around on the desktop for public display. Every self-respecting red blooded straight man like me has their secret stash that’s guarded more ferociously than ancient Egyptian mummies. C:\WINDOWS\system32\drivers\temp is a hard one to remember and an even harder one to navigate to with an excruciatingly slow laptop as mine. Couple of minutes later I was lost into two dozen photos when she screamed,

“Hey!!! Is it fixed? I was watching a movie” causing me to almost drop the darn laptop.

“Uh huh! I’m reconfiguring the adapter now. Can you go check the modem?” I let loose a string of lies eager to dispatch her to a corner of the living room. I quickly logged onto YouTube to check some familiar videos all of which I felt brought back some of my sanity.

“Tamannah smiling coyly”.

“Tamannah dancing in the rain”.

“Tamannah draping a saree and lighting a lamp”

Girl was $%^&in’ gorgeous. Logic, common sense, coherence, anything else in the movie could take a hike. Yup! I was sold.

To wit, watching a Tamil movie in Los Angeles isn’t exactly like waltzing into the nearest AMC theatre and reclining on those plush leather seats. Overflowing Cold Stone ice-cream to stuff your face with and bombarded by sounds from all sides, courtesy of that Dolby surround sound, yeah… none of that. Ordeal would be a better word, considering the experience’s anything but worth reminiscing.

The venue more often than not is a dimly lit Dollar cinema tucked away in a nondescript corner of the city that shows all Hollywood movies at least two months old for the grand price of $1. “Paiyya” and its Telugu/Malayalam counterparts however goes for as high as $15! A fact painfully made aware when I realized the $20 bill I was waving at the middle aged bespectacled lady behind the counter wouldn’t get us through.

“Oh wait! Here’s my student ID card” I shamelessly pulled out my faded Sun Devils card. 8 years since leaving ASU and I wasn’t done pulling this charade at every movie theatre I went to. Saying nothing she grabbed and stared at it front and back as if trying to crack a code.

“Is there a treasure map in there?” I laughed. Nobody except me seemed to be interested in that joke.

“This is old. You’re too old to be a student” she gruffly handed it back. There isn’t exactly nothing you can say when someone calls you old and a liar in the same breath. Precisely why I gave up after the first two syllables. “I should’ve shaved today” I consoled myself in Tamil to my friend still buried in her Facebook messages.

“Do you have your ID dear?” she now turned to my friend, smiling for the first time in three minutes.

“Um… Actually I’m a Professor. I teach” she shot back with an equally steely smile letting the words hang in there for a few seconds. Enough time for me to swiftly turn around to gauge my opponent’s reaction. Damn! If Miss Spectacles was shocked I saw none of that. Acting as if she’d been using this line against teachers all the time and knew exactly what she’d get. Eager to flee the scene I forked up the necessary $10 and waved off any refreshments.

“Creamy Pista milkshake” I explained pointing at the tall cup I was holding.

Little did I realize that in a few moments it’d be finding its way down the dustbin. Since there was no way in hell it would’ve cleared “theater security”. That’s right. Those two men and a woman religiously checking with a fine-toothed comb everyone’s person to ensure no outside food was brought in.

“Company policies” answered the burly guard with a baton as he motioned me to throw it away.

“But… This is $15. It’s actually my dinner sir. Please…” I quivered knowing I’d have better chances against a brick wall. After all why wouldn’t I? For Christ’s sake this wasn’t a McDonald’s McFlurry or whatever. I’d handcrafted this baby for 10 minutes throwing in three ice creams, a whole array of nuts and put it through a blender twice to achieve the right texture and composition. Heck! I could’ve been holding a 100 year old bottle of French wine but there was no way in hell the stupid #$%^in’ management of this rundown theater was going to heart melt. “Here, you do it yourself” I sighed and handed it over to him who trashed it in a second without blinking.

Du siehst den Wald vor lauter Bäumen nicht – “You can’t see the wood for the trees”. Obviously I wasn’t thinking in German, but loosely translated in my case it means I couldn’t miss Tamannah for the ice cream shake. Wouldn’t and shouldn’t too, as I rushed back to the counter to find something to eat. Movie, game or concert there was no way I was going to sit through one without guzzling or chomping one down. I knew I wasn’t going back to a buffet but still the washed up hot dogs, nachos and watered down sodas scared me. And this cost $10? Christ! I was getting #$%^ed from all sides! Finally I entered the dungeon (yes, the theater) and found my friend stuck somewhere in the middle between a bunch of families.

“Let’s go someplace more comfortable” I shouted. The front rows were empty and no one would bother us there. Arms and legs spread across adjacent chairs like a passed out drunk I couldn’t wait for the movie to start…

“Paiyya” began by making the right noises. A recently graduated “Karthi” living with his friends/roommates in Bangalore was having a blast blissfully unconcerned about finding a job. His friends/roommates though seemed more intent on snagging him one and I didn’t understand why. It’s not like we were told that he’d saved their lives in a boating accident or his dad owned a software company that employed them.

Just a few seconds of his female friend and I couldn’t stop throwing curses at her. Bad curly hair, gruff voice, horrible dresses she looked every bit an overbearing matron that everyone hated, bossing our poor guy more than his mom ever would. Why couldn’t this have been a fair buxom girl instead I wondered as I impatiently bit my nails waiting for my object of fantasy to appear.

Almost as if on cue the screen brightened a few notches and flower petals adorned the street as she sashayed in with a million dollar smile plastered across her face.

“Tamannah’s here” I joyfully screamed, punching my friend.

“I can see that!” she barked going back to her ice cream. Among the myriad things a woman’s purse can hold, a certain malai kulfi just got bumped to the list.

Tamannah’s arrival certainly picked up the pace. Quite soon in an intriguing stretch of events her annoying uncle or whatever was let go off in a petrol bunk and Karthi and her were on their way in a maroon Lancer. The destination immediately changed from Chennai to Mumbai thanks to our lady’s pleas. Not that it really mattered to him. He was driving smiling smug as if he’d won a round trip to the moon, while she was parked glum in the backseat as if a spider was crawling up her behind. The road trip had officially moved into second gear…

Which is where I think the movie scored its highest. The chemistry, camaraderie (and whatever else adjectives can jump in) between the two were undeniable. Funny retorts going back and forth, tongue-in-cheek humor the next hour or so had it all. For all the growling and heavy duty acting Karthi did in his first movie (Paruthi Veeran) he was undoubtedly having a blast here. Totally laidback with his sarcastic comments and constantly checking out my girl in the rearview mirror nary a focus on the road ahead. Me and almost the entire crowd laughed out loud when Tamannah pitifully explained that she was on the run because her vicious dad was trying to forcibly marry her off to some rogue. Couldn’t the director have thought of a less incredible reason? I could’ve even accepted a “I failed my Plus 2 and I’m running away from my dad because he’d brand me with a hot iron!” Thankfully Karthi commiserated with us by chuckling and flashing his pearly whites which were beginning to look as wide as hers.

Quite a few scenes stood out and made me sit up, especially the one where they went into a restaurant. Tamannah didn’t want nothing while he started off as if he was planning to feed everyone around. The moment the food arrived she attacked it with such gusto that he was forced to fend for himself with an idly sambar. It was both cute and funny and only reaffirmed that in the land of women no means yes and “not hungry” means “I can eat a horse”.

The next one was where they helped an IT professional facing some engine trouble. Tamannah cooed to the hapless guy in Hindi almost sweeping me off my feet while Karthi stood there with that perfect quizzed expression wondering if they were cussing him. Not to be outdone moments later he gave it back all to the 9-to-5 dropping him abruptly in the middle of nowhere when he realized that things were getting a tad too close between him and his girl. Once again humor and body language saving what could’ve been a disastrous acting job.

Time for a rain song we all realized and the commercial movie didn’t disappoint us. Skies darkened, water poured and she was off pouting and preening soaking wet alternating between pink and yellow skirts looking as resplendent as before.

“This is where I get my money back” I cheerfully clapped turning to my friend. Karthi, Tamannah or those cute kids dancing along whatever, she was engrossed and couldn’t care less for my enthusiasm.

If there was an irritant in these otherwise frothy proceedings it was Tamannah’s dad’s henchmen who kept sprouting all over the highway looking to parcel her back to Chennai. The director’s vision meant these menacing dudes played a prominent subtext so I couldn’t argue. Even if I thought they were overweight, one too many unnecessary and was waiting for their Mahindra Scorpio they were travelling in to break an axle under all that pounds of flesh.

“All good things have to come to an end”. Or to an intermission in our case, when Karthi who’d just finished off beating the living s**t out of ten men each brawnier than the other and announced to the camera (hence, audience) “I have a past too!” What the #$%^ I had a sickening feeling that we were going to be seeing more fist cuffs than French kisses in the second half.

Intervals in India and elsewhere run for at least 10 minutes. Enough time for the men folk to empty their bladders, smoke a couple of cigarettes and make a general nuisance of themselves filling up the cafeteria with second hand smoke. Three drags into my cigarette I had a sneaking suspicion that wasn’t going to be the case here. I rushed past security like a madman only to find the second half had just begun. As is the wont with all Tamil movies “start with a bang and end in a whimper”. I crossed my legs in agony to watch the director devolve his thus-far-impressive work into a sordid tale of meaningless violence…

For those of you who haven’t tuned out yet, a couple of years back on an innocent visit to Mumbai Karthi got into a scrape with a hoodlum who was courting trouble. Rightfully so, he punched him senseless and then followed it up by doing the same to his leader Milind Soman. Disinterested, old, tired and with a bad Hindi accent I couldn’t help notice he looked nothing like that strapping bare chested guy who made hearts race in “Made in India”. Why he when any Joe Blow off the street could’ve hammed it up was beyond me? Back to Soman… He’d now issued an APB and was roaming around with the sole purpose of finding Karthi and repaying the favor. What a #$%^in’ joke! The boy and the girl were now being chased through the streets of Mumbai by a dozen odd idiots and we had nothing else to do except watch Karthi do a painful Bruce Lee impersonation.

Any hopes I’d of Karthi and Tamannah continuing their whirlwind romance were immediately squashed. Both had little time together and to make matters worse his obnoxious friend kept popping up talking incessantly. Sadly for what passes as comedy these days. Towards the end the director attempted to throw in some suspense as well making us want to ask “Is Tamannah who she really claims she is?” You’ve got to be kidding me! The only question I wanted to ask was “When is this trash going to end?” Mercifully in a few minutes once Karthi was done finishing up the Pièce de résistance - the grand fight at the marketplace where both parties united for a common cause - to break his bones. An entire array of makeshift shops were destroyed, the bad guys suffered broken limbs, jaws, bruises and whatnot while our hero stood tall and proud like he’d just conquered Mt. Everest. Whatever! His fair maiden secure, the pair flew back to Chennai to their friends to make it official. Whew! Thank #$%^in’ God!

Unsolicited advice to the Director: Sir, next time you want to make a “commercial” movie, let’s just stick to the driving and joking around, shall we? Rip off a few Hollywood DVDs, throw in two more friends to fill up air space and cram it up with jokes and catchy songs that make us laugh and sing together. If you think a trip from Bangalore to Mumbai isn’t enough material, feel free to extend it to Goa, Delhi, Calcutta or wherever else your Highness pleases. Oh! One more thing. Beating a dozen people with a club, cycle chain or nicking them with scissors is so 80s. Unless you’ve a tale of international espionage and terror leave the violence to James Bond and Matt Damon.

“Thevidiya Payya” I sighed, loud enough for a few folks behind me to hear as I exited the theater after what seemed an eternity.

“Is that at you or your namesake in the movie?” my friend asked amidst peals of laughter.

“Me of course. That bugger got the girl. I didn’t!”

Peace!

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.