AN HOUR OF MYSELF

It is 9.27 A.M. Wednesday morning. The thought which is running in my mind is a song. “Otrai devadai yaarda,” by singer Karthik. The catchy tune “ Aval paarvai minsaram”…….. of the same song continues.

I open my Excel file to check whose birthday it is today. Then I remember that it is Dharini’s birthday today. I should remember to wish her.

I see my colleague, bent over his laptop. I think,” Why is this young fellow always so serious.” He looks over the wall of his cubicle, to flash a tired smile at me,” His way of saying good morning.

Another colleague walks in, buttoning his cuff. He is always stimulated my materials. This guy is always enthusiastically searching to buy things online.

One more young colleague walks in, to show a funny video, he had recorded on his mobile. His sense of humor is amazing. He always cracks jokes even in unexpected situations.

Another walks in to wish me a, good morning. This guy is formal in all stages of existence. Waking, sleeping and the dream states. I have never seen him drop his mask.

I remember that I should speak to another person in my previous office, to remind him about my Diwali bonus.

Now I am practicing even breathing. I feel the cool air of the AC blow on my face. I ring my wife at 9.52 A.M, to see whether she has reached the temple safely. Her mobile rings. But, she does not pick it up. A fleeting worry crosses my mind…” I hope she is safe.”

My boss comes in. He wishes each one of us a personal ,”Good morning.” He is tall and has a deep voice. He is impressive. I hope he has not read this material. I tell myself, “ No, it not possible.” Meanwhile my breath is out of rhythm. Yes now it has once again normal.

I press ALT TAB, when I see someone coming near. Once again the excel sheet opens. I notice that 3^rd October is someone’s birthday. I wonder, ”Is he a representative or a manager? The doubt clears as I remember correctly. He is a manager.

A thought  of my Brother in Law, who is in the USA comes. In my thoughts he wears a white T shirt and a dark brown shorts, and is sitting on the floor, on the carpet in his son’s room. My sister and sister in law who are also in USA pop in my mind. Yes, my sister in law son and another sister in laws son also come in.

I feel like going to the wash room. I am also thirst. I ponder, “ Should I drink some water or not?” in the meantime someone in the next room has used a room spray. The perfume wafts in. but before it, the alcohol base seeps in first. As I inhale the smell of alcohol, I remember the last time my son had come home for dinner. He vaguely smelt of alcohol. After we had our dinner, I sat close to him. He burped. Then there was no mistaking. He said, it was beer.

I look at the time. It is 10.14 A.M. I open the bottle of water, and drink three gulps. The water is cool, and my mouth feels warm in comparison. As I screw back the lid, I hear the sound the cap makes. I set the bottle back in its place. I hear the soft thud as the bottom hits the top of the table.

As I key in the words, I am hearing the sound each key makes as I press it.  I get up from the chair, as it squeaks. I stiffen my legs and manage to crack the back of my knees, and hear two popping sounds, one from each knee. As I walk to the washroom, my new shoe soles squeak with each step. The washroom is not air- conditioned. It is warm by contrasts. I did not switch on the light, so it is dark. I hear the snap of the lock as I shut myself in. I hear a swishing sound as I unzip my pants. The steady pour of my urine make a peculiar sound as it hits the water in the western commode.  The sound changes as the steam ends in a dribble. I flush the tank, to hear the sound of the water gushing in. I come out closing the door behind me. I walk back  listening to the squeaks of my shoe and settle in the chair, to resume typing.  As I drag the chair forward, the wheels  drag on the cement floor, making a grating noise. I feel the  word commode is not quite correct. I search the net for the proper word, landing with the word closet; a more appropriate word. Meanwhile my mobile blares with my ringtone, the BGM of the song, “ Ennai innum enna seiyya pogirai,” from the film Singaravelan. It is an amazing composition in the raga Tilang. Hats off to the Mastero Illayaraja for  such a perfect exposition of the raga, in a fast paced, lilting manner. I answer the call. It is 10.36A.M. My wife has returned my call, after 44 minutes, to tell me that she is OK.

In the meantime, the office woman has come to serve us fresh coffee. Normally the aroma reaches my nose long before the coffee does. But today it has not happened. I wonder why, but am not able to come up with an answer. I love coffee so much, that the aroma can pull me out a coma. So I stop typing, adjust my backrest, lean back to relish the hot coffee. I swish it in my mouth, feel the heat, relish the flavor before I gulp each mouthful of sheer delight.

Now that the holy ritual of morning coffee is over, I get back to typing, this blog. Now, the reader may wonder, why I am recording all these meaningless random thoughts and actions. I have simply been observing my mind and body, and all those internal and external stimuli for an hour, from  9.27 A.M.  to 10.37 A.M. That is, an hour of myself.    

MUSIC AND TECHNOLOGY

We had a well to do neighbor, who had a gramophone. My 2 sisters and I used to go to their house to listen to music.

I recall 2 songs, which I picked up from their gramophone; one was “ Fall in love, “ by Cliff Richard and the other was   “ Dark moon.” By Elvis Presley. These songs were so melodious, that I used to sing along, as well as I could, as I was just 6 years old then. Our neighbor’s daughter whose name was Sachhu, was 10 years elder to me. She loved my singing, and always asked me to sing these songs.

We had a radio. Hindi songs were broadcast every day in the morning by 10A.M. my favorite song was , “Jiya o , jiya o jiya kuch bol do,” from Movie Jab Pyar Kisi Se Hota Hai,  by Singer Mohd Rafi.

Then, my parents bought a record changer in 1960, from the German company Garrard. We had got it and paid the money in monthly installments. We are a very religiously sentimental lot. Whenever we buy something new, we would like to inaugurate it with something connected to rituals and ceremonies. So the first record to be played was a sloka. My first introduction to Sanskrit slokas, came unexpectedly. I had not anticipated anything so new. When I heard the sloka, I was so frightened that I ran far away from the record changer, and hid in another room.

The sloka was “Kaalidasas’ Shyamala dandakam” a hymn to Goddess Saraswathi, sung by D.K.Pattammal.

Later we purchased a lot of records in 78RPMs. In these records you could listen to just one song in a side. For the other song we had to flip the record and play it.

My earliest recollection of songs were:

Ellam inbamayam-from film Marumagal- sung by MLVasanthakumari and P. Leela.

Varugiral unnai tedi- from film Tanga Padumail- sung by MLVasanthakumari

Teerada vilayattu pillai- from film Vedalaulagam- sung by D.K.Pattammal.

Shambho mahadeva and Arul Purai by M.S Subbalakshmi.

These records were brittle and could easily break if you dropped them. Each came in a paper sleeve. We had to handle them with care.

Then came the 45RPM records. It contained a minimum of 3 songs per side. The first record we bought in 45rpm, was from the film ,”Do ankhen bara haath.” The most famous song being, “Ai maalik tere bande ham.” This song was sung once, by Lata Mangeshkar and once as a chorus song. It was a moving song, and still raises goose pimples every time I listen to it.

Then came 33 1/3 RPM records which had all the songs of a movie in it. The first record we bought in 33 1/3 RPM, was from the film , Sangam. It had thrilling songs, like “Tere man ki ganga,” by Mukesh, and “Ye mera prem patru pad kar,” by Md.Rafi.

Of course no lover of music can escape the Beetles and their song, “Its been a hard days night”

Mono recordings were replaced by stereo recordings. Now, we could hear music waft from two directions. The  sheer beauty of stereophonic  recordings impacted me, the first time I listened to a symphony of ,Lara’s theme, “Somewhere my love’” from Dr.Zhivago.  Records were ruling till 1974 to give way to the cassette player and recorder. My sister who settled in USA, sent us the first National Panasonic cassette player and recorder. It held a C90 cassette which could hold the songs of 2 records or 33 1/3RPM, record. 

This trend which lasted till 1990,was replaced first by the CD and later by DVDs.

The magnetic hissing and the crackling noises of records and tapes were heard no more, and we could listen to clear music.

Then came A.R Rehman, who added technical dimensions to crystal clear music. As I listened one night on the FM, to his composition “ Puttham pudu boomi vendum,”  from the film, “ Tiruda Tiruda,” I knew I had to chuck my stereo cassette player and upgrade to CD player. It cost me 12000 Rs. But it was worth the investment. All composers had to upgrade technical quality of music, because the bar had been raised by A.R Rehman.

I too moved with times, to a DVD player, and to a Sony walkman too. Today we have the pen drive, which holds so many hours of music in such small space. We have too the mobiles, the smart phones , the laptops, the notebooks, the I pads, all of which play glorious music.

From 1960 to 2014 I have moved from one gadget to another ; from the  gramophone to the I pads, taking my precious music with me from one format to another.  Whether it is” Manam kudugalippadeno,” of M.S Subbalakshmi from Sakuntalai or ,” What a Karuvaad,” of Dhanush from, Velai illa patta daari, each moment of my life has been enriched by music. Thanks to the composers, lyricists, singer, films, albums and of course the technology.   

42 YEARS LATER

I finished my schooling in 1972.  I was 18 years old then. After 1972, I did not meet any of my classmates, or teachers for a very long time.

In every period, there are some favorite teachers. For our class, we had 3 teachers whom all the students liked. They were; Malathi  madam – our English teacher, Meenakshi madam – our Science teacher and Susheela madam – our Geography teacher. The three of them were good at heart and kind to the students and very good at teaching. Therefore, they remained as everyone’s favorite.

I kept in touch with Malathi madam. Once I met her while travelling in the local transport, the Chennai bus. I used to talk with her by phone. I visited her, at her home, as it was close to my residence.

When one of my colleagues, Muthu, wanted to improve his English, I sent him to her. She gave him free tuition.

When another colleague had some health problems, I referred her to Meenakshi madam , who  was also a healer.

Susheela madam’s son was my age, and was a trainer. We met at times, and I used to enquire about her to him.

We had a dynamic classmate, Balakaanthan, who had settled in the USA. He was energetic, affectionate, and full of life. Every time he came to India, he used to meet all the classmates, with whom he  kept contact.

He organized  reunions a many times. He had also called me and had asked me to attend it. But I could not make it, as the schedules clashed with my work.

Finally this year, in 2014, almost 42 years later, I could make it to the reunion. None of us could recognize each other. We had changed so much in appearance. But, the voices remained the same. We recognized each other by the familiarity of our voices. It was a time for rejoicing. There was laughter, hugs, and recall of the golden old times. Our favorite teachers had come too. They too had aged, like us. But  Meenakshi madam ,  was looking unbelievably same; youthful, energetic and chirpy.  Along with the students, some of their parents and some of their children too had come to the reunion.

It was nice to be once again in the student mode.  The party ended by 11 PM. We had the group photo taken. It was mostly with all the oldies, all of us who had aged together, while sharing a common memory of a more pleasant and youthful days.

 

THE LAST 24 HOURS

Suppose you knew that your last day had come, and you had exactly 24 hours left, what would you do? Have you ever thought about it? Here is what I would do.

My first priority would be to be alone. The last day definitely should be “MY DAY.” I would not like to share it with anyone else.

I would get up at 6 AM.  I would have a hot cup of steaming coffee in silence. Relax, and relish each sip, standing in the balcony of my house, looking out at the serene morning. Then I would go to the beach, so near my house, and take a casual stroll, and see the vast expanse of space over the sea, the rising sun, the pinkish blue sky, and see and listen to the restless waves.  I would feel the salty air, inhale the particular fishy smell of the sea and feel the coarse sand tickle my bare feet, as I walk the shore. Walking barefoot on the sand is a different experience. The feet sink with each step into the soft sand, and the next step requires more effort, as the terrain is uneven and not hard and firm like the pavements.

I would return home, to have a quick bath, and a shave, before I go to a nice star hotel for taking my breakfast.  Dressed in shorts, white cotton T shirt, flip flops, I would relish my favorite dishes. Fresh cut fruits, to go with fresh fruit juice, both pineapple and orange. This would be followed by cup cakes, croissants, cinnamon buns with more helpings of fruits, and juices.

Then I would have a double egg omelet, with onions and tomatoes, mushroom and cheese. Finally, I would down a steaming black coffee, with a nice cigarette to smoke.

I would come home, to relax and listen to some of my favorite latest movie songs. Then I would paint a last picture, of a still life, a picture of a single beautiful pink lotus in full bloom; Something  not too challenging, easy to finish and impressive all the same.  By the time I finish the painting, it would be time for lunch.

Now it will be a restaurant than offers soft tandoori rotis and fresh mushroom, with peas and gravy. This I will eat, drinking a cold sprite with a dash of lemon.   For desserts I would have delicious Rosagullas.   

From the restaurant I will go to a good theater to watch a good movie. After the movie, I will go to a non- veg,  joint to have a tasty hot tea.  The non –veg restaurants in Chennai are the best places for having good tea. They have perfected the art of preparing the wonderful tea.  

From there I would once again head for the beach. Now it would be dark, and one can hear the incessant rise and fall of the rolling waves.  Of course;  we can also see the white froth of the waves as it reaches and immediately leaves the sandy shores. There I would go to a secluded spot, far away from the crowd of playing children, talking families, circle of elders, and teenagers with the inseparable mobiles, and the passionate lovers necking each other in the privacy of the darkness. There I would lie down on the sand and watch the vast expanse of the dark sky above me, with the innumerable twinkling stars.  I would feel the cool breeze, on my skin, and I would light a cigarette, to smoke, in the joy of being alone, all by myself.

Then I would head back home. I will have a slow luxurious hot water bath. I would scrub myself well. Once again I will shave, and be generous with the after-shave and deodorants. I would like to look good and smell clean, even as a corpse. I will dress once again in a fresh shorts and T shirt.

I would order for a cheese, tomato, onion, mushroom pizza.

I would mix myself a large vodka, with lots of ice, some sprite and some water. I would enjoy each sip as I listen to my favorite songs in the darkness, as I would switch off the lights. I would slowly nurse each sip. I would have some healthy side dish like moong-daal and vegetable salads.  With the fourth large, when I feel high enough, I would heat and eat the pizza, slice by slice.

When I am done with drinking and eating, I would finally eat a nice a small Five star bar for my dessert.

I will clean the place, dispose the pizza cartons and whatever I need to throw off, wash the glass, and return it where I took it from.

Then I will be at the balcony to catch up with my last smoke. I will inhale each precious puff, and exhale closing my eyes to enjoy it further.

Then having thrown the last butt out, I will switch off the music. I will change into a simple lungi, thank the Gods for having given me the wonderful gift of a lovely life.

I will switch on the fan and lie down on the bed, and wait patiently for the last breath to leave me.  

BEER BATH

One of my colleagues, Chandran, had this very interesting story to narrate. He  is from Tiruvannamalai, a small town in Tamil Nadu. He was schooling in a place, in TamilNadu, which was near Pondy. Those days TamilNadu was a dry state. So people used to go to Pondy for drinking. but carrying of booze from Pondy [  a Union Territory of India formed out of four enclaves of former French India ] to Tamilnadu was illegal. Anyone caught smuggling booze into Tamilnadu was dealt with  severity by the police.
Since Chandran was then in his 9th standard, the police did not bother to check the students. The school students used to smuggle booze in their school backpacks.
One weekend, Chandran and his class mates decided to have a beer party. Chandran, went to Pondy and picked up 8 bottles of beer. He stacked them neatly in his school backpacks. His schoolmates  were waiting for him eagerly. He got into the public transport, which was heavily crowded. As he stood on the foot-board of the bus, hanging outside, by holding on to the side rails, the weight of the bag became increasingly difficult to bear. as the bus stopped in the next stop, he  handed over the bag to a lady sitting by the window side. The lady took the heavy bag fro him, and rested it on her lap. Relieved of the he pushed his way into the bus, and stood, tightly squeezed by the jam packed crowd.
Those days, the roads were in really bad condition, full of pot holes.  The buses normally swayed, jolted and shuddered as they made their way through the crowded disorganized erratic traffic.
As the bus hit a really deep pot hole, The beer bottles in the bag clanged against each other and broke. The beer flowed out of the backpack to wet the saree of the lady passenger. Her saree was now drenched in beer. The entire bus reeked with the stench of beer. The lady was aghast, at the turn of events, as an innocent backpack burst open with contraband materials. She frantically searched for the dubious school boy, who had dumped her with banned items. She started telling the co-passengers, " The bag was given to me by a young school student."
Chandran, knew that his reputation was at stake. As quickly as he could he made it to the doorway, and jumped out of the moving bus, and ran as fast his legs could carry him, bang in the opposite direction, till he disappeared into the crowd.
He waited till the bus vanished from eye sight, and went to a nearby shop, to buy and light a cigarette , and smoked in new found peace.

6 Tricks I Learned as a Faith Healer (for Scamming You) By Robert Evans,

For some of us, religion is a reason to get up in the morning -- a balm in hard times, an inspiration during bouts of temptation. For others, the only time we encounter it is during sex, football games, and/or award shows. Still others view religion as nothing more than a paycheck or a cynical tool of control. We call these people bastards, monsters, and blasphemers. Some folks simply call them "faith healers." We sat down with a man who learned the conniving ways of a faith healer when he was a teenager. Here's what he told us:

The first woman I "healed" just had a cold. Like a lot of people who agree to stand up in front of a congregation and talk about their illness, she had a thing for exaggeration. That's one of the first things you learn about faith healing -- you're not the only one operating a con. Doctors probably would've sent this woman home with a prescription for chicken soup, but I listened when she said it felt like she was "dying," and even offered up my own prescription: 50 cc's of God, delivered straight through my palm.

I was still a kid at this point, and so I took on this healing with a few other children from the congregation. We laid hands on the woman, prayed for her sickness to be healed, and boom -- she went down quicker than Michael Spinks. After the service, our pastor (a professional faith healer) went to my parents and told them he saw something "special" in me. I've no idea what it was, maybe the extra pizzazz I put behind slapping the Jesus into that woman, but the pastor took me under his wing.

My formal training started when an elderly gentleman came to the pulpit to be healed. I believe his name was Don, and he'd been a member at the church longer than I'd been alive. He was in the midst of a cancer scare, and eventually stepped forward. At this point I still believed in miracle healing, and here was my first chance: I was going to cure someone of cancer. I laid my hands on him and demanded God take his cancer away. At no point did I realize how weird it was that I believed cancer was the sort of thing God assumed people were cool with unless explicitly told otherwise.

Later that month, Don got a clean bill of health from the doctors. Cancer-free, hallelujah! It was a miracle! Or at least it seemed like one if you didn't know what I knew: Don had never actually had cancer. The "scare" started because my pastor claimed God had told him Don was going to die unless he received a massive dose of Vitamin P(rayer). The faith healer giveth cancer, and the faith healer taketh it away.

See, faith healing works best with people who are probably going to get better anyway. Some healthy young person has a cold or flu? If you tell them they're healed, the power of suggestion and a bunch of cheering people will make them feel momentarily better. And by the time church comes 'round next week, they'll be over whatever was ailing them. Yep, we are taking credit for the general concept of an immune system.

"It's OK if we have to fake it a little bit," my mentor told me once, "because people need to see the power of God, and it's OK if we have to fudge things to make that happen."

Our congregants would write their fears and problems down on a prayer card "for God" before each meeting. We'd read them in secret, and then repeat their prayers back to them word for word while we laid hands on them. It was easier for them to assume "miracle" than it was to think their trusted spiritual leaders were running a con.

Don's cancer scare wasn't a one-off. If you ever wondered why so many people seem to believe faith healers cured their [Horrific Incurable Disease and/or Crippling Pokemon Addiction], it's because most healers lie whenever they can about who has what. We're not some sort of Holy MRI, but they believe whatever we say. And when simple gullibility wasn't enough, we got by with a little help from our homeless friends.

Yes, we hired hobos as actors. We often did outreach to the homeless in the city, so we knew where to look. The first time I was involved, the person we hired was just passing through. He was trying to get back home (he was somewhere from the south), and we offered to pay his way. He was our final act of the service. I had instructed him to hobble up on stage with a wooden cane. He was probably in his late 40's and wore fatigues, so he looked like a soldier who had fallen on hard times.

When he got on stage, I instantly laid in on him, screaming for God to heal this man's lame leg. After about a minute of hollerin' at God, I told the guy to start taking steps without his cane, and then encouraged him to run a bit, which he did fine. While he was doing that, I tried to break the cane over my leg, which only ended up giving me a bruise. Instead, I threw it away from the stage. When the guy finally tried to get off the stage, he ended up falling. He was fine, but he also was drunk (we said "touched by the Spirit," which is a euphemism we suggest everybody uses from now on).

On one occasion, we had hired a young "actor." He insisted on being called Mystique, because God might be able to fake-heal a lame leg, but nobody can truly heal a lame soul. I placed him in a wheelchair, and gave him a backstory about being struck by a drunk driver. He was the last person to be "healed" that day, and I wanted to make sure we ended with excitement. After he was rolled up on stage, I went into my God-hollerin', and then forcefully dumped him out of the wheelchair, demanding the power of the Lord compel him to walk. He toppled onto the stage, and then slowly stood up.

I got to pretend I was magic, Mystique got to pretend he was an actor, and the congregation got to pretend their weekly donation was the same as having healthcare. Everybody won except for actual sick people, and we tried not to let them up on stage.

We did something called psychic surgery. We'd have someone lay on a table, and beneath the table would be a bowl of chicken gizzards and livers mixed with blood. We'd lift the person's shirt up and act as if we were going to take out a tumor or an infected gall bladder or like, a possessed kidney or something. We'd pretend to cut the stomach open, putting a hand in front of our fingers to hide it, then pull out the gizzards and the liver, calling them "cancer" or "Yendik, the Kidney Demon." Applause and donations would follow.

I wouldn't perform this sort of act until after the first year of faith healing. By then, I knew we were phonies, so it wasn't a big surprise when I learned that the surgery act was basically performance art. My pastor told me that an act like this bolstered the congregant's faith and "portrayed a deeper reality," which is a line I plan to use if the IRS ever audits my income tax returns.

My first psychic surgery patient was a teenage girl named Courtney, whom I had known for quite some time. She was a friend of mine, and her parents were devout members. This put a lot more pressure on me, which I think was my pastor's plan all along. If I was really in this "scamming the faithful" thing for the long haul, I'd need to get used to lying to friends. Courtney's family believed she was infested with a bad case of Demonitis. Her mood had changed lately and she'd been acting depressed -- almost like some sort of teenager. Instead of talking through her issues, her parents found it easier to have them theatrically ripped out of her, as if she was the frightened peasant from The Temple of Doom.

I had her lay on the table, pulled up her shirt to bare her stomach, and placed my hand in front of where I was "making" the incision. I secretly grabbed a chicken gizzard from below the table and made a big gesture of struggling to pull it out. Then it was a matter of cleaning up her stomach and helping her back to her family. Courtney did actually get better afterward, in that she started fitting in at school. Apparently she'd just had one too many chicken gizzards in her general vicinity, and it was keeping her from socializing properly.

That first psychic surgery was a major blow to my faith. But it wasn't so easy to give it up altogether. It was ingrained into me from a young age, and a part of me didn't want to let go. I still wanted to believe we were serving God and helping our community. That got harder and harder to believe as the con went on ...