Of Ballots and Hockey Sticks

Ah... it's been a long while. But as my readers may know, yours truly only likes to put up top-quality content on this blog. Oh, I'm the greatest. Anyway, last night one of my mates from school, finding I was sitting on my ass and would continue to do so for the next 2 weeks or so, asked me about this clusterfuck of an event that went down at college. This was a rather long story, mind, and I, the preeminent planner, concocted out of it a six part feature, complete with a prologue and an epilogue. Please do note that in order to protect the privacy of those involved, and also to prevent my opprobrious demise, I have refrained from using names and edited out a few (possibly, vital) parts to the narrative. Also, a few facts have been twisted or otherwise undone, either to suit my warped mind, for narrative effect, or again, as a countermeasure from a most disturbing expiry.

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Of Ballots and Hockey Sticks
Dedicated to Hari, the schmuck who asked the question in the first place.
Rated M for Mature

Prologue: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Indian Democracy -- IT AIN'T A LAW IF THERE'S NO STRIKE.
For as far as anyone cared to remember, there have been two parties at NITC. The official-sounding SPF (Students' Progressive Front) and the opposing hopefuls, the Independents. As of late, what with the upcoming elections, both parties had been riding many sick dreams of global domination and what-not, especially the SPF, who, it seems, were confident of victory. The Independents, on the other hand, were just as determined to capture the glory this time around. So much so that campaigning turned out be very much like a Jerry Springer show: long, nasty and involved a lot of vodka.

Part 1: The election day was cloudy, as if an omen of things to come. It went on for the entire day and by the end, certain members of "a certain party" had already started celebrating, with booze and... mainly booze. But then the results were out. Surprise, Surprise! The Independents had bagged the two most sought-after posts. That meant the SPF's majority was still just an ice bag after a kick to the balls.
Chaos! The Independents were so stunned, half of them went and bought lotto tickets. The SPF parties degraded into something sadder and more pathetic than a Justin Bieber album. As the raucous crowds of the Independents on the streets moved to the hostels, their path was blocked by the sorry losers (Sorry!), who decided to be disgruntled jerks, rather than the gracious runner-ups. It was a classic Mexican standoff, except with about a hundred people and shit for guns. The Independents flung remarks at the SPF with all the wit the alcohol frying their kidneys would allow them to muster. Finally, one remark ended with a taunting nudge, as people tell me.

Part 2: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Caesar's Royal Whisky -- IT MAY NOT "BLOW YOUR TOP", BUT IT SURE BLOWS A HOLE IN IT.
Whether from the booze screwing with their depth perception, or their shot-to-hell egos, the nudge was alleged as assault. War broke out on the streets of Rome, err... the college. People were being beaten L, R and C. The "party" idea was just an concept, now. It seemed more of a juniors versus seniors fistfight. Some dumb schmoes who challenged the other to come out in person and fight were greeted by a welcoming party of twenty or so. From the rear. Talk about rear entry! The recent release of Shikar also seemed to have made an impressive effect on fighting techniques.
The college authorities finally intervened and a temporary state of cold separation was established. Over the next few days, random brawls broke out all over the college. In essence, there were squabbles of revenge, avenging a revenge, taking revenge for an avenge, revenging revenges and so on. If I weren't the impartial sideline observer that I am, I probably wouldn't be saying this, but being less in number and at a genetic disadvantage, the fourth years did NOT come out looking pretty with fights against the juniors. But even as college authorities mourned the graying of their lustrous black hair, the situation was still reasonably under control as no one had been staked, dished, fried, holed, stoned, bombed or otherwise assaulted, yet.

Part 3: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Yonex Sports Equipment -- LIKE A DICK IT HAS MANY USES... LIKE AS A DICK.
The fourth were still smarting over their apparent humiliation against the juniors. They laid plans to turn things around at the upcoming DJ Night. All the big guns were called upon, men reputed not to quail at the sight of blood, and a bevy of drinks were brought in to wean any sense of mercy or for that matter, any sense at all. These were men renowned for threatening to chop a hand and ending up whacking both hands, and then a leg for luck.
The fateful night was tense. Even though rumors of the planned carnage had spread, the sight of 12 or so hulks thumping down the street was not exactly unicorns and rainbows. The final damage report confirmed our trepidations. A group of kids were said to have been stampeded, their chicken-like bones ground into what we can only assume to be powder... of the talcum variety. One kid ended up with stitches to the head, and all of them presumably developed a phobia of anything over 6 feet.

Blood begets blood, they say, but nothing would account for the retaliation unleashed after that. We can only assume that a goddamn hit-list of the faces the beat-up kids managed to catch was drawn up, one for each of the following days, unclouded by booze so as to revel in the Hell they unleashed with clear minds... Ooh, nasty! Numero Uno, for instance, was reported found in the gutter with a busted femur and an assortment of other damaged parts he probably would have use for later. But it was No. 2 that really got things kicking.

Part 4: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Hanuman Police Lathis -- LAB TESTED TO BE 4.67 TIMES THE CONSISTENCY OF HUMAN BONE
On the morning of September 23, when half the good world were in their beds, a gang or twenty (or so I was told) hunted down Victim #2. With calculated precision, they got him into his single room and methodically proceeded to beat all shit and reason out of him. With Big-Ass (TM) hockey sticks. Until all that was left was about half a gallon of blood on the floor and a fetus shaped pulp on the floor. (Read disclaimer below).
The college authorities were so taken aback, they called the police, which is a dumb thing to do because then they get total control and your word don't get to mean shit no more. For four hours, while #2's remains were being scraped off the floor, police patrols roamed the campus waiting for something else to go down. But since we were Engineering students, or rather, 10th Standard pass-outs, nothing DID go down. Finally, when the cop figured that sitting on their asses wasn't the most judicious way of exercising their new powers, they ordered the evacuation of the campus by 2200 hours that very day, failing which would be a criminal crime.
Now this new turn of events played havoc with those who had upcoming placement interviews and the like, but the cops played piñata with them anyway.

Epilogue: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Transportation Industry-- EVEN TERRORISTS LOVE US!

1. On Thursday, the 23rd of September, masses of students cleared out of the college grounds. A few stayed back to argue the terms of the shutdown -- duration, placements and other stuff the police decided were too inane to matter (this was on the record).

2. Charges of attempted murder were flung both ways, but both sides realized they were going down together, so all charges were dropped.

3. On the 25th of September, almost 2 days after the incidents, an undisclosed source revealed the truth behind the NIT-Clusterfuck (as in NIT-C), sending shock-waves through campuses across the world.

THE END... for now.

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Disclaimer: As I've said before not all of the above is to be taken at face value. What can I say, I like to exaggerate. If you would like to point out inaccuracies in the descriptions, post them in the comments... I would prefer that over getting it pounded into me. Also, the gory description may not be suitable for certain readers, but that's what you get for reading the blog of a 20-year old adolescent in the Industrial Age, who listens to death metal.

What a home-grown Indian learns from Hollywood

I'm a movie-buff. And I'll say it again. This article was not written by a hypocrite, whose knowledge of English movies is limited to Titanic and Top Gun. Currently on a 2 month Sabbatical, I watch upwards of 4 movies a day, every day. Being thus movie-irradiated, thanks to Star Movies and HBO, I've come to take for granted many (supposed) aspects of life in America (or Canada, Britain, Ireland or Australia as the case may be). As have probably the other million or so other Indian movie-goers. Below are some of those that I found surprising, awe-inspiring, disgusting or simply ridiculous.

1. Private gun licenses (AWE)
   

   I first saw this in the movie, “Jumanji”. Summoned by Robin Williams through the board game, the movie shows this cowboy cop walk into a store labeled “Gun Store” and, cool as a pigeon crapping on a limo, pick up a double barreled and wreak havoc in the store by way of target practice. The movie (and nearly every other one I’ve seen along the same vein) never shows store owners bothering with ID’s or other superficial inconveniences. The checklist to obtain a gun is designed to maximize customer satisfaction than ensuring honest, God-fearing families sleep well at night.

   Furnish yourself with atleast one (1) of:
   
   • Biceps atleast 5” around.
   • Tattoos themed around biker babes, bad news animals, the devil or the Ghost Rider.
   • A leather jacket, or even better, an entire biker outfit, complete with burgoise beard.
   • Weapon permit (opt.)

   While it seems however, that a 60 year old nun could be a member of the Mafia in America, in reality, all gun stores are required to check a customer for a valid permit (distribution of which is regulated legally, as I learned the hard way).

2. Mother Nature hates America and America pwns Mother Nature (RIDICULOUS)
   

   Everyone knows this. Every natural disaster from meteor crashes, freak-nuclear accidents (except for those few REAL ones), zombie attacks, mutated insect infestations, alien invasions and in totality, the imminent end of the Earth has to happen in America. It’s like American scientists are all simply too brilliant to warrant NOT killing them all off. The most catastrophic of dangers however are coasted in an action-packed hour-and-a-half, thanks to the butt-kicking firepower of the American Marine Corps, led by the battle-hardened though heartless Major Cigar Popper. They come up with bold and risky battle strategies to thwart the impending doom; plans they themselves pretty much suck at carrying out, but are helped out by the town “normal guy”, who does it for the ones he love, but ends up saving the world anyway. Oh, and someone always manages to provide some much-needed comic relief even in these hard times.

   There are movies that revolve around the leads being entrusted to drop nuclear bombs on THE FRICKIN’ SUN, to adjust its revolution because it was drifting too close to the Earth and had to be taught a lesson. Fuckin’ BRILLIANT!

3. The "family" life of an American (SURPRISE/AWE/DISGUST)

   Many shy, demure Indian girls have watched, horrified, as the two star-crossed lovers declare their love to the world with a full sweep-over ending in a French-kiss (with tongue), in places so public, smoking there would be illegal. Indians have never really gotten used to the idea of public displays of affections, especially nothing involving the throat-rape that most movies have. More and more of us, however are warming up to the idea of a little outdoor smoochie, for whatever reason. Many Indian dudes are also given to daydreams involving one or more of those beach babes that movies portray as the pinnacle of bum-chika-pow-wow madness.

   The American custom of every teenager finding his own partner is also frowned upon (atleast by the elders) in India. Also, half of us are only able to sleep at night with the belief that our parents would, in time, find us a girl, self-sustained efforts for which have invariably gotten the soup. The idea of possibly spending retirement age still in search of a soul mate does not rest easy with most Indians.

   Also, Indian families with any level of home-stench on them are wary of divorces or relationship breakups. Home-grown Indians are sore amazed when movies show people getting together, breaking up or having divorces left, right and center, cycling through relationships faster than traffic lights on a busy intersection.

4. Everybody hates Americans (RIDICULOUS)
   

   This is mostly true of action movies like James Bond or one of the van Damme movies. The protagonist follows the elusive crime lord to remote islands in South East Asia (conveniently called Kirogi or some shit to avoid political complications) and it’s funny how the petty local gangs treat him like he’s bad news by default, the “American oppressor”. Everyone in a “Third World” country is wary of that well-dressed American tourist. Either that or the lead has already spent years with the locals and has to convince his “colored” friends that the new arrivals from the West are not bad people.

   Any Indian knows that’s not true. No Indian can resist the temptation of excitedly pointing at a foreigner in the streets, and the more comfortable of us going “What is up, dog?” in that accent we’ve come to be known for, and the stunned foreigner going “What the hell’s the matter with this dude?”

5. Sex sells (GO FIGURE)
   

   There are only two kinds of Indian movies that make direct reference to sex: the (A) movies (that people don’t watch in theaters because it’s too public) and those award movies (that nobody watches, period). Indian movies use adult themes to portray some serious mysterious emotions and shit, too tawdry to be watchable.

   English movies, on the other hand have perfected the art of using boobs in the place of a storyline to make a successful movie. People watch horror movies more because there are always cute babes in there than for their (non-existent) horror. Both Roadtrip and Eurotrip are perfect examples, with movies along the same vein coming out twice a year. For a pretty good summation, have a look at this article.

The funny thing about the Indian movie industry is how much they like to imitate Hollywood. Non-family material began showing up by the 2000's and no story movies have been around for a while. I refrain from giving examples for fear of hate mail or bomb threats. If you've got a comment or some other point you'd like to put, please post it in the comments below! Just remember, if you don't agree, you're wrong.

So until next time, Ciao

The Differently Abled

I'm felling rather pensive today. It's the weekends and I've curled up with a Miranda Lee novel, which is about as non-thriller a book as I'm ever going to read. The afternoon heat seems to have got to me and I'm feeling pretty drowsy at the moment.

I just thought of something I saw the other day, which made me feel really weird for a long time afterward. Living as I am in a rather crowded part of suburban Aluva, I've seen my fair share of the disabled, or, as I'm loathe to call them, the under-privileged. But every once in a while, you meet one that leaves a deep welt in your heart, and you cannot but respect them for the way they have come to embrace theirs in life, as if they simply wouldn't have it any other way.

With me, it was these two men (let’s call them Tom and Dick), of not more than 25 that I saw at the bus stand. Both of them were blind and were using canes to negotiate their way through the rows of buses lining the place. I watched fascinated, as they walked holding hands, with Tom expertly leading his friend Dick behind him. Every once in a while, Dick would squeeze Tom’s hand as though scared he might let go, and Tom would reassure him with a quick squeeze in return. I marveled at the way he avoided small objects and obstacles on the road, while guiding his friend to do the same.  Just as I was about to look away however, I noticed Tom beat a complex tattoo on Dick’s wrist, as though drumming out a code. I then realized that Dick was not only blind, but deaf as well. The two of them had worked out an ingenious system of signing. Dick paused a while as he deciphered the signs; then let out a low short laugh. The idiosyncrasy of their situation almost winded me.

I felt a thrill pass through me as I tried to imagine the symphonic perfection of the way they had architected their lives, each one supporting other and made stronger by the symbiosis. By now, I couldn’t take my eyes off them, rude though it may have seemed. It seemed to me to be almost cruelly ironical, that through the entire proceeding, not once did Tom or Dick ever stop smiling (the blind do it to hear better); as if it were the one way they had of proclaiming how they had defied life itself.

One may talk of how the differently-abled now are more empowered and helped by the community to lead “normal” lives. But one must never forget or underestimate the immense amount of self-will, patience and courage that it takes to pull oneself out of the crushing pit of despair one is in danger of falling into. To do so and, through patience and perseverance, to find the means to work around their setback deserves praise of the highest order. The centuries have given us stellar examples of such achievers, including Helen Keller, Ludwig van Beethoven and Stephen Hawking. The fact that more and more are able to insert themselves into the mainstream of life is an immense motivation. It also poses the question, “What is that we have accomplished that would put us at par with them?” Because make no mistake; they are where we’ve only always had the potential to reach, but never have.

The Great Language Experiment

This is one of those things that felt almost mother-effing cool in my head while it was happening, but the way I say it, things may start to get "What the fuck was wrong with the guy?". Just to make things clear, this is a true story. It's just too witless to make up.

SITUATION 1: 

Coming home from work, (not work actually, just something I usually do from morn to dusk), I was at the bus stop, waiting for the Kerala Govt. owned KSRTC bus to my home at Aluva; a 40 minute journey. Anyone with any experience with State Government facilities would tell you that you're never served when you're supposed to, and if by some huge cosmological aberration you are, you're just too stunned to know what to do next. Meanwhile, I wasn't served. Not for 45 minutes. Not as I was waiting at that ill-lit street-corner seeing gay rapists and drug dealers all around me.

 Like I said, rapists and drug dealers...

Being thus stranded as I was, I chanced to hear two people engaged thus in conversation  (words translated for your reading pleasure):

Man 1: Man, screw KSRTC. These guys are never on time.

Man 2: You're right. The last bus was to be here half an hour ago. ... and so on in a similar drift.

What I was testing: As I was listening in, I thought to myself, would they say the same thing to someone outside Kerala? Or would they paint colorful pictures of how truly blessed they are to be in Kerala, where the KSRTC is nothing short of philanthropic? Since there wasn't any foreigner in sight I could ask questions of, I decided to take on the part myself. I approached the two gentlemen and put forth the same comments they had said only moments ago (except in Hindi, mixed with English for the words I didn't know). 

Result: To my amusement, the two men  proceed to shoot me a murderous look and start trying to convince me of how KSRTC is the most punctual bus-service in India (this at 7:45, when we're waiting for the 7:15 bus). Their cleverest reasons for the bus being late were, "It's dark", "Buses go slower when crowded" and "It's fuckin' dark!" That's like saying the reason the Indian cricket team lost to Australia is because we're colored. It's like they're telling me, "You're in our land, you'd fuckin' better love it".

I chat with them a while longer, place a few bogus calls (talking in rapid-fire Hindi to the lady at the other end who's telling me to check my number), and barely escape an all-Kerala whup-ass.

Oh and by the way, I'm a visitor from U.P. interning in one of the companies in Kerala. I know enough Malayalam to read bus boards, but lack the verbal skills to carry out a mentally-unretarded conversation. And yes, I'm really enjoying my stay, thank you very much!

SITUATION 2:

At 20 minutes behind schedule, the bus finally arrives (the two men act like that was the right time all along). Once on board, I decided to try the same thing on the bus conductor. I've often noticed these guys to be notoriously intolerant of foreigners; there's something about the language barrier that seems to remind them of their tortuous school days.

So, I say to him, "Bhaiya, ek ticket Aluva ke liye." The conductor asks me for 50 paise in Malayalam. I decide to play dumb and stare blankly at everything he says. Remember the bus is packed to shit, and the conductor is trying to get the message across while being ribbed with a plough by a drunken land laborer. As for me, I managed, by replying to each of his questions with Duh!, to get him to do the whole act in sign-language.

Result: By the end, the poor sod was so exhausted, people around us started to feel sorry for the guy. Colorful Malayalam swears flew around, none of which I was expected to understand. It turns out I  was to blame for everything from the conductor's headache to Kerala's degraded youth to the lack of liquor in the State.

Things were going great; I even made a few phone calls home jabbering away in Hindi (my mom thought I was surrounded by gun-wielding LeT operatives), a friend called me (I had to convince him later that I was still reasonably sane), until another U.P guy (the real deal, this time) felt a bout of regional patriotism and came up to talk. If I wasn't a great big fraud, this would have been a lively conversation between two brothers in a foreign land. But as things were, it went along these lines:

Him: Namaskar, bhaiya. Kahan se ho? (Hello, brother. Wherefore are you from?)

Me : (Shit!) Mein U.P se. (Me from U.P.)

Him: U.P mein kahan? (Where in U.P?)

Me : Um... Gandhi Junction, U.P.

Him: Suna nahin. Aluva mein kya hain? (Never heard of it. What's in Aluva?)

Me : (God, save me!) Kaam pe... dost ka khar. (Got work... friend's house.)

Him: Tum aise baat kyo kar rahe ho? (Why're you talking all funny?)

By this point, whatever I said would have got me sent to jail for a count of fraud. Thankfully, the bus arrived at my stop, saving me from having to answer that question. If you think I made this story up, here's why not: it's over. No brilliant ending... just "I got off and was picked up by my uncle who was sent in the anticipation of the LeT attack".

CONCLUSIONS:

1. There's nothing like language to unite even warring peoples.

2. People don't translate well under stress, but they rock at word mimes.

3. Don't try this at home, but if you do, send me a mail.