When the Rupee can Fuck Off…
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on August 31, 2009 – 5:56 pm -I had some nice fun catching up with Reva and Gautham this sunday. We met up at a very upscale coffee place in a book store.
While we were catching up on things and discussing my north india tour et all, i noticed something i’ve noticed shit loads of times before. I thought i would write about it today.
I’ve always had the habit of calling things in straight forward terms, for example what happens in every religious book off all religions, what other people would call culture, i would call sexism.
On a similar note, i noticed something which in my opinion can only be called Treason. I’m of the opinion that i live in india and we indians use the Indian Rupee as our currency for all sorts of trade activities within india for all indian goods of indian origin, made in india. I hope that makes things clear.
Now what i did see was books displayed and one or two of them books had “now at a new reduced price of US $ 45” or something along those lines. This is not the first time i see stuff like this on window displays of shops. While it is acceptable that exclusive items that are not available in india but made available exclusively by an isolated entity like a shop where in a seperate Indian version/edition of the product is not available the quotation of foreign currency might be unavoidable.
However what seems to be happening is people quoting american/european currency for the heck of it to give something a posh “im an imported good” feel to it when you turn to the last page of the book it perfectly quotes a indian version print and the local printing press’s name as well, this practice of quoting dollars on goods as completely ridiculous.
I don’t get it. Do i agree with the fact that almost all indian made products or consumer goods suck in quality? Yes, i certainly think so. I myself use much of foreign made consumer goods for quality and health reasons much but that does not mean that i have to read a US dollar price tag (regardless of the fact i may be paying dollar equivalents in rupees).
Regardless of how much shit i have in my country and how it may suck im an indian and im proud of it. When i buy something sold inside the indian border, i would want to be quoted a price in indian currency.
I just cannot accept blindly giving head to white skinned fanaticism. Its racism at its simplest form and communicating in a foreign currency inside the country, regardless of what country you are in is treason. Retailers please get this fact. I dont care if you bill me twice as much just because you sold it in an a/c showroom with a please and thank you. I will cough it up, in RUPEES.
Tags: consumerism, dollars, Racism, rupees, sales
Posted in country, crib, daily life, incident, opinion, questions, rantings | 1 Comment »
Never Can Say Goodbye!
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on August 29, 2009 – 7:10 am -The first ever Michael Jackson record i brought with my own money.
I explicitly remember this. I used to be a conservative goodie goodie god fearing south Indian iyengar brahmin boy who was nuts about English music, in particular Michael Jackson. I was quite famous for this eccentricity as well. I always used to win 1st prize in the school singing competition for Patel house team. It always was a Michael Jackson song, from 3rd grade to 10th grade. I still have all of those certificates and medals. When it came to the school correspondent’s funeral anniversary, it was always "Will you be there" which was the last song of the event, your guess is as good as mine as to who sang it.
I remember Michael Jackson’s history. I already had "Off the Wall", "Thriller", "Bad" and "Dangerous" on tape. I used to beg each and every cousin visiting and put up a scene, not eat food, study straight through the night to score good marks in school tests. All for that one cassette which costs Rs. 150 every 5 - 7 years when MJ releases an album. In 1995 however the scene was different. My dad’s company was liquidated and shamefully we found it hard to manage one square meal a day after me, my brother and my cousin devoured all the little family money in the name of school fees.
Grandpa did not have the usual Re. 1 he used to give me as pocket money. His pension of Rs. 350 a month was not enough to buy rations at home. That does not stop me from laying my hands on this beauty now does it? I found work. I used to pack worms in a aquarium after school for 2 hours a day. My family never knew any of this, not to this moment. I used to get paid Rs. 4 every day. I waited. The very thought of touching those worms used to make me puke everyday when I used to have dinner. I skipped meals, I suffered but it was worth the effort.
I managed Rs. 250 and I took 29 C from perambur to Gemini Flyover. Spencer Plaza was about 6 - 7 kilometers from Gemini Flyover, I think. I did not have money after spending Rs. 3 on bus ticket since the cassette was a double pack. It must cost more than Rs. 150, I knew. I decided to walk. I walked, I was almost out of breath by the time I crawled my way inside Music World. The manager knew instantly at my sight what I wanted. He asked me to wait. I did, for 3 hours. It was about 1 pm when a carton labeled "EPIC/SONY" arrived and they stashed out the cassettes on the racks. Like a hyena pouncing on a carcass I jumped on the rack, despite no one being there since it was a Monday morning. I paid Rs. 250 and I happily rushed to buy several packets of mineral water and some bovonto to put off the fire that was burning inside all of me and of course, get rid off that dehydration.
I came home, took out the AIWA walkman I had sneaked out of my dads locker the earlier night and I plugged in. What happened next was nothing short of 15 amps of electricity flow through you the next half of the day.
Every year on the midnight of the 29th of August I play "Man in the Mirror" to remind myself it all starts and ends with myself. The good, the bad and the ugly. Today is the first time in my life I will play Man in the Mirror without the man who made it all possible.
Today is a day to remember, a day to cherish this man and to thank him for his gift that has changed things for me and many people that words cannot tell. If you feel it, then be here.
Meanwhile, Happy Birthday. King of Pop!
Tags: Michael Jackson; King of Pop; History Album Casette; Tape; Personal; Childhood; Events;
Posted in emotions, happenings, incident, short story | 2 Comments »
For the Pill that lived in Pain…
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on June 27, 2009 – 5:44 pm -
If Michael Jackson was wine, he would possibly be by far the best wine i would have ever tasted in my entire lifetime. I’ve always had this connectivity when Michael speaks out, especially about his childhood and about the children of the world. I think we share a common thread, in the sense that like his, my childhood was not a normal one. Being left out is no fun, especially when your friends are out there playing in the field and you have to sit and watch or see kids around you do all sorts of wonderful things… hiking, cycling, scout, NSS.. you name it. If you even suggest you want to attempt such things, you get laughed at and your capabilities constantly question everyday. It’s not easy, i can tell you that for sure.
Michael Jackson was a pill, a pain killer perhaps. When you turn on thriller and listen to “Beat It” you know you just gotta beat it if you wanna stay alive. You live by the words and with the music. You know you have to “Keep the Faith” no matter what comes your way and if something needs to change for the better it needs to start with the “Man in the Mirror”.
Often his love for other people and others problems will leave you “Speechless” quite literally, that’s Michael Jackson to me. When every time i wanted to jump off a railway track on to an oncoming train and end it all somewhere, something that i heard last night on tape would stop you from irrationality and make you keep going no matter what.
Of course If you are just pissed off and want to find out “Why you wanna trip on me” or just “Scream” and say “They don’t really care about us” when the whole system comes crashing on you, you could always say “Leave me alone” and get out of it. A song for everything, every emotion, every situation, every moment of your life.. its all a song. That’s Michael Jackson. Of course there is this perfectionist and this performer in him like no other. When you watch a young African-American from the most lowest sections of the society grown up on stage and become the biggest phenomenon in the entertainment industry, having someone like that as your role model never hurts. I think its one of the possible factors of my success today, i’ve looked up to people who were born genius and i’ve tried to do achieve what they tried to in my own way. Of course i’ve failed miserably many a times but its never made me stop trying and i guess i’ve at least gotten somewhere.
Today is possibly by far the most bitter day in my life since my grand fathers death. Words fail me when i try tell how much of a personal loss it is to see the most inspiring personality of your life, the biggest motivational factor you ever had pass away. I’ve been so busy onsite with a client i did not read the news or check twitter. When a friend messaged me i was irritated, trust me i’ve heard atleast 500 such “Michael Jackson is dead” hoax messages. Unfortunately, today was bitter reality.
I know i will pick myself up, lick my wounds and move on.. life moves on but life is never going to be the same again. I would just like to say Michael Jackson was the most significant and the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. Life is a compromise, i’m never going to meet the idol i admired for all these years. This is not the first compromise i’m making though but its possibly the most painful one.
You will be missed Michael, i’m sure everytime i see cheap acts imitate you on screen or some punk rips off your music back here in india, your memory will never die in me and the millions of others that you’ve touched in a way words fail to explain.
Tags: condolence, funeral, Michael Jackson, mourning, tribute
Posted in crib, emotions, happenings, incident, personal, story, world affairs | 2 Comments »
Air India aka North Indian Racist Pig
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on June 5, 2009 – 8:45 pm -Allow me to explain the rather racist title. Aren’t there racists in south india? Of course, yes. Our chief minister is a fantastic example for this. What happened in air India, however is something worth mentioning. This post is in no way intended to take a dig at north Indians or insult any racial community but just named for the sake of calling a spade a spade. I find this attitude of companies that have no context sensitive approach to things completely insulting and pointless.
The story goes like this. I fly to Singapore often. Almost every month for work reasons. I always fly Singapore Airlines. Their service and professionalism is one of the best ive seen in times from any company or service provider. Luck sometimes does not favor you. Its one of those times when a sudden Singapore travel was scheduled i did not get tickets on Singapore Airlines in the last minute and good old Air India came to the rescue. Thanks to recession the 3000 rs. cheaper ticket compared to jet made Air India the default choice.
Never in my life have i seen such “i don’t give a flaming fuck” attitude in a service that it just beats the crap out of me. I’m writing this blog post barely 2 hours after i landed in chennai after my Air India flight. I don’t want the forget the spec of gems i was thrown at in the form of service so let me bring up as many star pointers before i forget them…
1. Chennai is the capital of Tamilnadu. Tamil is the Official Language of Tamilnadu & Chennai. Singapore has close to approx. 1/3rd tamil population, tamil is an official language there as well.
2. The crowd you are serving is all tamil crowd. Not one north indian passenger, not one white/black/asian/hispanic passenger.
Given this context what is the need for an out and out Hindi announcement on the PA system. The facial expressions of half the people in the flight was blank. They were oblivious to your communication as our politicians are oblivious to accusations and shame. Why can’t you use some common sense. Singapore Airlines is not even an indian company. The first thing they do when you get on their flight is a tamil announcement. All their menu cards are tamil too. Actually they’re written in Tamil/Malay/English.
I find it highly irritating when someone tries to coax a language down someone’s throat when its 100% irrelevant to a given context. I agree with the fact that Hindi is our national language and its a responsibility we should carry to know it. Personally i do but it is unfair to expect every tom, dick and harry to do so because you are dealing with india. A country where the number of official languages recognized for communication across states is 14. Its not like you really want to spread hindi an shit. You even switched OFF the safety announcement when the hindi version was playing, bravo!
I have many more wonderful pointers to discuss but all of it will make this post a long and boring one. I will follow this up with another exclusive “Air India” bashing post.
And yes, i will also add. All of the crew in the Air India flight spoke good galeej tamil but preferred to speak hindi and spoke tamil only when responded to in tamil or say a blank response. Seriously WTF?!
Amen..
Tags: Air India, Hindi, Language, Racism
Posted in daily life, incident, india, opinion, personal, rantings, review | 42 Comments »
Brahmin Bastards? Thank you Indian Politics.
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on April 25, 2009 – 8:42 pm -Attended a Wedding of a close friends sister. Anglo-Indian Wedding, had much fun. Drank wine, ate cake, good food. What more does one want in life?
Of course met two of my friends from my first job whom i’ve not seen for ages. All 4 of us i.e., my friend [friend#3] (who’s sister was getting married) then my other two friends and myself were standing in the queue to meet the couple, wish them and leave for food.
General vetty discussion goes on. Suddenly discussion is like between the 3 of them. What was i doing? As usual gaping at the colorful disco lights & regretting why i did not bring my camera. So the conversation is like…
Friend#1: “Fuck this dude, once upon a time Anglo-Indians used to be respected like shit man!”
Friend#2: Yeah man, every where i see i could only see Anglo-Indians. Nowadays though its so hard to spot an Anglo-Indian.
(I’m stupified by how everyone wants to see people from their community all over the place and if they don’t they feel victimized and offended, sigh!)
Friend#1: Yeah man, all because of these Brahmin bastards (or i heard bitches?)
…uncomfortable silence from all 3 and i jump into the scene…
I try to lighten up the situation.
Me: Guys, i just heard Brahmin, i was not sure if it was bitches or whores? Nevertheless, im an atheist mother fucker. Why do i even give a fuck.
Friend#3: Sorry dude, no offense meant.
Friend#2: Yeah dude, Varun Gandhi is a fucking dick head.
Friend#1: Yeah man, BJP sucks. Congress is secular given any day compared to anyone.
Me: Yes, the congress is just as secular as much as im gonna pull a monkey out of my ass now. 
***laughs out from all, we shift topic to hot women on the dance floor***
I don’t know why i felt to post this. In fact after typing so much i feel this post has no direction except the fact that im once again realizing, we as indians are so fucking divided. I have this feeling that we shall never come together and we shall never move forward. My doubts are being re-assured when i go out of india and see how people are committed to the law and order situation and how sincere they are in what they do.
Fuck all Brahmins, yes they are bastards. They rode on the sudhra’s ass for 1000’s of years brutally, bitches. No questions when it comes to that but then was it only the Brahmins who did that? What about the portugese slaughter of brahmins in the olden days, what about the massacre of sikhs across this nation when indira gandhi was killed, what about the genocide of pundits in kashmir?
I’m extremely disappointed today, that’s all i can say. We’re divided and we’re divided like hell and there ain’t no fixing this shit if people don’t start using some common sense. I’m very very disappointed. Christians hate brahmins, Muslims Hate Brahmins, Hindu non brahmins hate brahmins and what about brahmins?
Brahmins hate everybody..
Tags: anglo-indian, brahmins, conversation, religious bullshit, talk, Wedding
Posted in country, crib, daily life, happenings, incident, opinion, personal, rantings | 69 Comments »
For Usha, if you are alive and someday you read this…
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on April 12, 2009 – 8:28 pm -Foreword: All incidents, names, places mentioned are for real. Nothing remains changed to the best of my knowledge.
To put it in simple terminology, i was a bit of a loner most of the times. I tried my best to fit in. I tried my best to like Tamil music but nothing moved me as much as Michael Jackson did and Ilayaraja for most parts sucked. Yes, i was ridiculed and occasionally awed at for being the weirdo who listens to English music all of the time.
My MC tapes were often in my absence erased and re-recorded with Tamil music that i used to hate and silently sneaked back into my suitcase. I tried to fit into the class cricket team but i simply did not fit in at all. All i was let to do was wicket keeping, the job everyone hated to do. Of course the ball boy who would fetch the ball if it went into the roads or the neighbors house. The water boy who would fetch water from the house when everyone was famished.
By the time i was in 9th grade i had a tricycle and i was a bit more famous now, i guess cuz 2 folks can tag along on that cycle and i could give them a ride easily. One can sit with me on the chair like seat and the other stand on the bar that connected the two wheels and framing at the back and yes, this routinely happened on the way back from school. But then that lasted only while going and coming back from school. I looked for elsewhere to have fun, to find company apart from the annual holidays where i would spend time with cousins, the best of the times ever in life, i would swear.
One could only wish for 2 months of school and 10 months of summer vacation and your wish came true but that was possibly the best pipe dream one could have. At this time when i was trying to find exactly where id fit in i also realized that i had to pass mathematics if i had any chance of clearing 10th grade and going to high school. Thankfully, that is when the legend of RJ master from Jayam Tutorials came to the rescue. He taught my dad, my aunt, my cousins (same aunt’s daughters) and now me, math & yes all of us cleared math. I’m not sure if this indicates a genetic weakness for arithmetic in the family blood-line but it sure indicates RJ master could teach any idiot math.
Anyways at this point in time when i wanted to go in for math tuition classes with RJ i met Usha and Swapna. Usha and Swapna were from the girls school branch of my School. My school was the main branch in perambur. The girls school branch, the most exotic of all branches with private zoo (which was later confiscated and barred) and stuff was called “Maryland” and was in madhavaram. To put it in short, usha was highly attractive, smart, witty, intelligent a woman and i sometimes used to wonder they the heck on earth does she even needed tuition classes at a tutorial since she was first rank holder type anyways.
Technically, Usha stands to be the first personal friend i ever had. Not some cousins classmate, not someone i tried to fit in with. Someone who liked who i was with no alterations and liked to hang out with me. I don’t know why but randomly this thought hit me a few days back and i was wondering who was the very first genuine friend i ever hand who liked to spend time with me without having any expectations. After much thought i would conclude its usha. Well there was this Didymus d’monte that i hanged out with during school all of the time but it never really occurred to me that he was plainly being rude to me behind my back and i was the star character of his dirty jokes which impressed other kids in class. Then there was this Kiran whom i used to have lunch with in 4th grade but he left school in 5th grade and i never saw him again.
I remember numerous friends whom i used to play cricket with, fly the kite but they were all my cousin rakesh’s class mates and i did not fit in with younger kids either. I would say this because i remember not once they were keen on hanging out with me or doing the things i wanted to do. It was always me trying to tag along with whatever they did and look cool and not be left out. Of course it did not work. I do however remember this incident, so vivid and crystal clear as water in a fish bowl.
I was cycling to tutorial class when it was announced the 5 pm class for biology was postponed to the next day but the math class was preponed to 6 pm instead of 7 pm. I had to kill 1 hour so i pointlessly drove around meenakshi street and school road when i came back to the class 15 minutes later, i bumped into usha. Together we decided to pointlessly cycled around perambur and she suddenly said “Hey, wanna drink something? I feel thirsty” and i lied “not really, its not so hot today..” and yes it was extremely, unbelievably dumb of me to say that. I do have my own reasons for it. First off my only source of pocket money was thaatha and he was out of town, which meant i was penniless. The very thought of a girl buying me something to drink humiliated my ego to the core, i wanted to bury myself alive. Secondly, the hard reality of the fact was that no one had outside of my family (read as cousins) had actually asked me out to do something fun! I was so hit like a moving train at 90 mph i just could not figure out how i should even react. I guess the default reaction was to escape from the situation.
Usha retorted “what?! just come i say, i can’t stand the heat and im dying of thirst!!!” and we went to this fruit juice shop at the end of raghavan st., opposite to Anand Book store. Grape Juice it was and 1 by 2. It felt extremely good. Someone really wants to hang out with me. The very feeling was like having 3 large vodkas. Usha used to routinely hang out with me, almost everyday. We were both fond of amman and used to visit the lakshmi amman temple in melpatti ponnappan st., everyday. We spoke on a variety of things, what we wanted to be, our perspectives of life, school, report cards everything under the sun. Of course that perverted bastard Solomon, biology teacher hated us St.Mary’s students to the guts. Our common enemy was a strong foundation for our friendship.
Some few weeks down the line i cancelled tuition classes for all the 12 subjects that i enrolled for and just took the math class. I guess usha must have realized she was wasting her time at the tutorials class and quit. It was the late 90’s and telephone was a luxury and i did not have one at home. My class mates Javed Ahmed and Sai Prasad used to ridicule me everyday for hanging out with these two women. Especially usha, being the pretty one of the two. The everyday routine before assembly was a healthy dose of comedy which comprised of sex jokes. One only needs to make an average guess who were the two characters in those stories. Ironically, they did have usha’s number but would not give it to me. Apparently they even visited usha at her house and she enquired how i was doing and she had been promptly lied to that i had her number and i was too busy with other things in school. A silly fight between them two would dig out such dirty facts, i found out later.
I met usha about 2 years later on the road and was glad to find a lost friend. I promptly got her number but then who would know that writing down important things on a small scrap of paper was a bad idea? Before i landed home i had a nasty accident in that tricycle and my fingers were caught in the hand pedaled gear wheel and my blood soaked my shirt red and gloriously washed away the fountain pen ink in the paper that lie in my pocket. My white shirt was not the only precious thing i lost that day, sigh!
So why the hell am i blabbering all of this now? Well as i look back and figure out who were the real friends and the loved ones who made my life worth fighting for, usha shines like a star on top of a Christmas tree. I believe its a shame to let go of friends when you can consciously try harder and see possibilities all around you. If there is anything i would love to do, i have this list of friends i’ve lost and believed i would never be able to find out for eternity. I’ve been proved so darn wrong by facebook thrice and i think i have higher hopes now. I have this list and usha is on top, i guess i will post more of these gem of people i’ve lost in time.
People talk about the power of social networking and social media and the internet. Well then, here is the deal.
The name is Usha. I hope you are alive, i hope you compute frequently and you use the internet and you are into social networking. I’m assuming you must be married right now and probably have kids, or the other obvious possibility that you’re slogging out a Ph.D somewhere. If you still remember Maryland school, If you still remember Montford School or Jayam Tutorials, If you still remember the silly fellow called dilip you used to hang out with almost every day before tutorial class at Lakshmi Amman Kovil, ping me will you? Email me here. The year i think is 1996-97.
I can’t do much but if i can throw in a big treat for the very first personal friend i ever had in life, i guess nothing would make one happier. Yes, if any of you could identify such a person and get her contact info i promise you, name the place and your lunch/dinner treat with/without saraku is on me, no questions asked 
Tags: friend, good times, jayam tutorial, lakshmi amman kovil, melpatti ponniappan street, RJ master, st. mary's school. maryland school, usha
Posted in incident, personal, relationships, story | 12 Comments »
Child Sex Abuse and Disabled Children - Part #1
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on February 18, 2009 – 8:26 pm -Parthasarathy lived in a lowly neighbourhood. He attended a local school. Back in the 80’s English medium Anglo-Indian schools were like the equivalent of breast implants and Liposuction craze of today. Gentlemen please take no offense, let me say its also the equivalent of Penis Enlargement claims that come in spam emails that read on the subject line “make her cum and moan with pleasure with ur megadik!”. Parents would just have an orgasm that read “Holy”, “Mary”, “Anglo”, “Christ” and any of the aforesaid old and new testament biblical terms in the name of the school. At least, the ones around partha did or he assumed.
Nevertheless, the difference between partha and other kids was quite simple. He was physically challenged. He had cerebral palsy and his lower limbs were affected. Having CP is fun, really. Why? Cuz partha couldn’t stand for long in the sun and the boring school assembly ran for about 35 min - 1 hour everyday in the morning. Whilst every other loser kid in class stood in the scorching sun to listen to the usual gyan that the principal of the school blah’ed over the mic, partha sat in class and he enjoyed the sadistic pleasure of seeing his class mates go through the same boring bullshit everyday in the morning.
The scout boys and the NSS guys would come everyday to check the empty classrooms to see if some kid was hiding under the bench to avoid going to the assembly. They would bully the one or two kids who lied down on the desk because they were sick or had a headache or injury that prevented them from going to the assembly. Mostly, it was the smart ass ones who pretended to fall sick and bunked assembly only to rush with the unfinished homework or dig into a little of what they had brought for lunch or from someone else’s tiffin box.
Partha had fun watching the silly interrogation methodologies of the Scout boys and NSS folks, repeatedly examining the resting (assembly bunking smart ass kid) for genuine temperature, sickness etc., Then they would come to him and ask “hey! why the heck aren’t you attending the assembly” to which partha would irritatingly answer “because i can’t stand in the sun for that long and i give you the same answer, everyday!”. The Scout kids would bah at his answer in sheer jealousy and leave. It was their ritual. They had to ask the same dumb question everyday even though they knew the answer already and they have been doing it for years. Apparently, it was their 60 seconds of fame by trying to enforce authority and show how big daddy they were cuz they were “Scout”.
Partha’s life was simple. Go to school, no assembly, no doing stupid exercises during P.T class and sit and day dream alone in class or practice his marksmanship skills with compass or divider on wooden benches. He had been doing this since kindergarten and he was now in 7th grade. Cerebral Palsy was a blessing in every form that he knew. Little did he know that life would have confusing surprises that he would experience and come to understand of it only after 2 or 3 years into the future.
Partha was glad as usual, practicing his compass art skills on his wooden bench. A gentleman in white pants and white shirt came to the class and started a conversation with him. Duds like this one were usually parents of other kids who came to school to meet the principal or teacher for their kids. They were often unbelievably boring and had standard template questions like
“How did this happen to you?”
“What do you want to become in life when you grow up?”
“Does it hurt when you walk?”.
If it weren’t the questions, it would be emotional and over sentimental blessings aka statements like…
“Your wife will be the most prettiest woman in the entire world!”
“God is loves you the most of all kids and wants to constantly watch over you. You are special, which is why he made you so”
“You will certainly go to heaven!”
“You are handicapped? oh poor sod! How pretty the face but how sad you are crippled.. sob, sob!”
Partha had by now heard all sorts of irritatingly boring statements. Partha would just wait for it to get over and these losers to leave so that he can go back to day dreaming and think about the things that moved him like Michael Jackson, Bill Gates, Rangoli designs for the competition that is closing in…
Nevertheless, this white and white fellow came and he asked partha the same old questions. He then said something extremely different that no one else had said before.
“I’m a doctor and i can cure you in 2 weeks”.
Partha’s curiosity was kindled. He was not convinced but he was impressed by the statement. Partha knows best how many doctors his parents had taken him to. The English doctor, the homeopathy, the sidhdha doctors, the unani, the saint who heals via prayers, the church father who sprinkles holy water to cure people, the bad breathed muslim grandpa who blows air into your face and brushes you with peacock feather and blesses you. He knew them all and none of them could fix them. Partha was a natural skeptic, he never trusted anyone but nevertheless he was curious as a cat when claims de extraordinaire were made.
The gentleman in white now shined in different light. He said “Let me see you walk”, which was a standard thing everyone asked of partha. Even most of these parents had the pleasure of making partha get up and show them how he walked. It somehow satisfied them in ways partha could never understand. Partha got up and walked for the gentleman. He followed partha and keenly observed his walk. Often the doctor would comment on how fast partha walked and how me must learn to be patient. Partha was tired of hearing such things again. This doctor gentleman would frequently show up at his classroom once or twice a week, randomly.
Days passed and during the conversation partha informed the doctor that he had been operated the famous “Dr. Soundarapandiyan” in his thighs and he walks better now than how he used to when he was studying in 1st grade. The doctor in white suddenly had more interest in the surgery. He said “Let me see where the surgery was done”. Partha was not sure if this was right. Possibly instinct took over and he asked “Where is your stethoscope?” and the doctor paused for a moment frozen and quickly recovered and said something to the sort of it not being necessary since partha was not sick. He proceeded to unbutton partha’s trousers and examine his scars in the thigh. Something was different with this doctor though. His touch was different. His whole way of rushing into the examination was different.
Suddenly the 7th graders mind raced with a million questions. Why wasn’t this doctor in the P.T room in the ground floor? Why does he not have that hammer that doctors usually have that they hit on the knees that give you electric shock? Why does he come to the class to talk to me everyday when even the very sick kids were carried to the doc room in the ground floor? Most importantly, the school did not have a resident doctor at all?! After all the school was on strike for half of the year cuz the teachers were not paid salaries, why would they get a doctor?
Partha excused himself from the doctor and lied to him that he had to go the the toilet immediately and went and hid inside the toilet that was seldom used by any of the kids for their cleanliness issues. This doctor would come once every often and examine partha. Partha would use the same excuse and go to the toilet. Partha had a friend in his adjacent class named bala, who was also physically challenged, his blessing was polio. He too stayed back from assembly grounds. Everytime partha left for the restroom, he would find the doctor in his friend bala’s class. Possibly several months since this had been going on partha and bala happened to catch up at bala’s house accidentally. Bala discussed the doctor who came to examine everyday and talked about the doctor and the irritating examination which was so weird. Both of them decided the next time this doctor would come to examine them, they would say no.
Bala was the first victim of that irritating doctor check-up, that Monday morning. Partha stayed with bala for the first time, in his class. Partha waited for bala to say no but the doc stayed in bala’s class for long, did some physiotherapy finally and came to partha’s class. Bala followed the doc to partha’s class. While the doctor unbuttoned partha’s trouser for his routine examination partha shot a question?
“My father would like to have an appointment with you, doctor.”
The doctor in white stopped. He smiled, he left without saying a word. He was never seen again…
None of them spoke of the doctor or recollected the incident after that. Parthasarathy would go on and blog about this incident 12 years down the line. He does not know where Bala lives now. He does not care.
There is a different agenda however and the need for some awareness is long pending…
To be Cont. in Part #2…
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#5, Sankara Madam St - Chapter #1 - Jason Doctor
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on December 22, 2008 – 2:37 pm -I did a lot of things that required a doctor’s visit all of the time. Of course, being physically challenged means all the more useless doctor’s visits. Cerebral palsy is incurable, but that did not prevent my parents from trying. They tried real hard too. Yunani, Homeopathy, Allopathy and of course the ganapathy who resided on pavements all over the place.
Homeopathy docs did what they did, take the money and bullshit around. So did yunani. English medicine docs did some nice stuff. Made some considerable improvements to the way i walked and made my day better, however they did not predict the usual stuff that happens to cerebral palsy patients everyday and here i’m waiting for the d-day. Nevertheless, speaking of doctor’s reminds me of the very first doctor i saw in life.
Our family doctor, jason. Jason was the typical christian convert. Tall, dark, handsome and smart a doctor. However what made him so special was his medicines. Not only was his injections utterly painless but his medicines had something about them. I’m fairly convinced he believed that the disease must be fought from the inside. So whatever evil is inside, if it comes outside then the problem is outside of your body too?
I should have known better. His pills were usually huge. They were like the size of a jackfruit and somehow they always were stuck in your damn throat and made you throw up. Of course, the smell of it was so horrendous, you threw up even before you swallowed one. One thing though, the moment you threw up you felt better. The only drug that he prescribed often and that i liked was betnesol. Why? Because they were small tasty tablets and chewable.
You could take them to school, swallow one in front of the kids and tell them you are sick. Every enthu pattani kids will yell to the teacher, “miss, dilip is sick miss…!!!!” and the teacher would send me to the biology lab to take rest.
I would then lie in the biology lab and peep through holes in my hands/fingers that cover my face and live in the fantasy land of science and anatomy for the rest of the day. All class bunked, excused from homework, what else would one want as a school kid?
Dr. Jason unfortunately went to the United States. I assume his excellent interaction skills and wonderful professionalism took him places. Sometimes i just wonder what would have happened to me without Dr. Jason’s betnesol. Wherever you’re doctor, my well wishes are with you. Anything to escape that bloody math class. Who gives a shit about least common multiplier and highest common factor? yuck!!!
Posted in #5 Sankara Madam St., autobiography, betnesol, daily life, emotions, incident, personal, short story, story | 3 Comments »
#5, Sankara Madam St - Chapter #1
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on October 29, 2008 – 2:08 am -Memoirs of Desikachari Thaaththa and Kanakavalli Paatty
Continuing off the last post i start the story of my life with the first chapter.
As vaguely as i remember, my kollu paatty considered me as a re-incarnation of kollu thaaththa. Why? because i was born on the same thidhi as his thavasam comes, same natchathram and of course it seems apparently i had a line on my forehead like a thirunaamam that kollu thaththa would wear. Desikachari thaatha was my fathers, grandfather. His wife died and he re-married my kollu patty who did not have any kids with him. Possibly why kanakavalli paatty considered me to be more like her son than a grandson.
Desikachari thaththa was notoriously famous for his temper and arrogance and charisma, so was i, doubting the charisma part alone. I’ve never seen kollu thaththa but only kollu paatty. I’ve been told stories about kollu thaththa so much by family members i dont miss not seeing him, i have his picture and every event engraved in the form of stories in my mind for eternity. I was told how rich a family we were and the palace like house we owned in sabapathi street next to sembithamman kovil, before we sold it to marry out aunt’s. Thaaththa owned a bus service in ooty and our family people would arrogantly get on it and not buy a ticket and quarrel with the bus conductor. After 30 minutes of hassling they would reveal they were "owners" of the transport company to make the conductor pee his pants and salute adchify with a "saari saaar!" dialogue.
I was also told how thaatha knew every mesthiri and carpenter in town and addressed them derogatorily as "sudran" and called them as "dei thevdiya maa, inga va da, idha pannu da" kind of authority and they would tremble in fear at kollu thaaththa. I was also told after all the work done how kollu thaaththa would give the mesthiri or the carpenter twice the money he asked for or deserved, also buy him tiffin and tea/coffee from a nearby iyengar’s hotel. I was told how big a turban kollu thaaththa wore and how he was 7 foot tall and commanded respect from every person on the street and folks hushed "periya iyer’u varaaru" and wished him good morning/afternoon/evening when he walked by. He always walked, he never drove a vehicle and he always used the bus, railways and tram.
Kollu paatty considered me to be her world, probably. She could not call me ‘Dilip’ and she called me ‘dilli’ which sounded more like ‘delhi’ with a i instead of the e. She was very aachaaram and cooked for herself in her small kitchen and room dedicated to her which had a separate door too perpendicular to the main entrance door. She would ask me every morning which i distinctly remember "dilli, enna da samayal pannattum?" and i would blurt off random things from my cherished desires and i would have it in front of me in flat 60 minutes. Kollu patties thaval adai’s were an extacy. I swallow a lump down the throat as i think of her, she really made life so much worth living for and how a kid i was and never realized what i had in life. Of course, for evening tiffin again i would command "poori", "chappathi", "dosai" and every possible permutation and combination and i would have it. My brothers plea and my cousin (my widowed aunt’s son who lived with us) would sometimes try to intervene and ask for stuff but they never made the promised land to the best of my knowledge.
Finally, i distinctly remember this. All 3 of us, after every nights meal would go to kollu paatty and i was always first to be served in the line. Paatty would have a huge, yellow colour green leave’s designed "Dabur Chavanyaprash" bottle. She would take some ayurvedic white powder which tastes like menthol. This powder she purchased for herself and just for me. It was some sort of protien or immunity booster or whatever. My bro and cousin got just the teaspoonful of chavanyaprash while i got the nice tasting powder along with it too and vayathu yerichchala kottified for the other two, every day.
Kanakavalli paaty also had a wonderful bench cum bed which was cool to lay down on. After her demise this was used by the kids in the house as a place to sit and study. Kanakavalli paatty is no more, the house is no more. Dabur chavanyaprash brings them back to life for a brief few seconds every time i see one.
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Posted in #5 Sankara Madam St., Kanakavalli paatty, autobiography, daily life, emotions, incident, personal, short story, story | 5 Comments »
Immanuel is a Pundai
Written by Dilip Muralidaran on October 27, 2008 – 2:45 am -No, we are not swearing at somebody here. Not certainly me. This post is merely an inspiration from this post. I was tempted to write. Immanuel was our School math teacher during 9th and 10th grade. Immanuel master was special. Why? Because the kids knew how to pass a math exam. He taught tuition classes that costs you Rs. 80 per month and if you went for those classes it means you get a guaranteed 40% and pass the math exam. Not just that, he was sight adchifying the cute 18 year old french teacher, whom most of the kids in the class were sight adchifying too.
Nevertheless the point of this post is not about Mr. Immanuel our math teacher or his sex somersaults but its about toilets. Yes, toilets in the school. Wait, i know you wan’t to know what it has to do with the title. Allow me to explain.
"Immanuel is a Pundai" was the most scribbled text in all toilet wall’s in the school. Of course, other teachers having sex with weird unexplainable things and being castrated or crucified in horrendous ways were also a vital part of the loo art that you would find in these toilets but Immanuel master topped the hate list followed by our biology teacher susan rajan who was precariously described as slime. Why? Because she was the only person on earth who would eat with her right hand and dissect a cockroach off the left, peel things off it and explain things to students will she munched food in her mouth. Brilliant! Yes, she was!
Of course, we had Miss Sheela Christopher who was our Chemistry teacher. I’m not sure how good her chemistry was but her language was pathetic. She always used to point out to our unruly class leader and yell "munnadi pora yeruma maadu ozhunga ner kodula pona than, pinnadi vara yeruma maadu ellam ozhunga ner kottula nadakkum" and she added "munnala pora yeruma maede seri illa, pinnala vara erumaigalellam enna pannum?". Of course, she was promptly rewarded with fantastic pictures of her riding yeruma maadu’s in the nude and also giving birth to a yeruma kannu kutti. Utter genius in artistic expression. I remember winning 4 rangoli competitions in school successively from 7th - 10th grade during the childrens day festival and project days/exhibition. If only the judges visited the toilets to see the art on the wall, i swear i would not have had a chance in the remote possibilities of planet earth.
I studied in a "All Boys" school till 10th grade. The world famous in perambur "St. Mary’s Matriculation Boys Higher Secondary School" and all of our school toilets were famous and had so much culture and history as much as our school did. Everyday we failed to do homework and we had to kneel down outside class and the cute french miss walked by laughing at us we would rush to the toilet to draw such weird things of the oppressing teacher of that particular period, what awesome a way it was to take it out on them. It was a fantastic channel because the staff toilet which was close to the staff room was cleaned on an hourly basis and kept well compared to the students toilet which was cleaned only when there was a cholera break out amongst school kids, housed in the classes close to the toilet.
To start with, none of the toilets had doors. Yes, no kidding! Im not talking about urinals where you stand and take a piss, im talking about toilets where you squat. No doors, the school management believed doors were too much of an expense and we were "just kids" and deserved no privacy even while taking a shit. Nevertheless, no sane person in their realistic senses would ever go shit there and most of us never did with one or two of those weirdo kids who found these places habitable. We stayed away from those folks all the time, we knew they were of an elite kind. In fact when a kid goes to the toilet we know of what hard bound stuff they are made of and finally they get elected to be School Pupil Leader (SPL) and Assistant SPL. That was our test, the ultimate one that makes you SPL.
To conclude, i would kindly request we relocate all teaching activity in toilets because i think that is the only place where young boys have the utmost concentration and intense dedication when it comes to doing some work. Look at those drawings, breathtaking! I mean, sometimes i used to see women with so many tits, i could not even count them with my poor math skills. Some sex positions were so impossible, if not innovative, they would beat the crap out of kama sutra. I think what we should have is a public addressable system with isolated toilets with walls to separate each kid. This teacher can speak over the mic and deliver the lecture material via the speakers installed in each kuckoose and you will see the artistic potential of each and every kid revealed to the best possible extent.
I also suggest we fire all these useless old blokes and hire chick 18 year olds as teachers (like our french teacher) and ensure that in this way the students behave themselves and look their best and the teacher has the complete attention and control of the class. I think this is the best formula for any boys school. I hope St. Mary’s school is listening.
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Posted in comedy, daily life, funny, humour, incident, opinion, personal, rantings, school, short story | 5 Comments »