Death and All My Friends (or) ‘Vida La Loca’

(Written over the space of a few days, thanks to not really feeling up to a post the last week or so.) Title play.

For the last week, I haven’t brushed my teeth before sleeping at night. Nor have I cleared my bed before sleeping, or drawn back the bedspread. I just keep putting it all off, and finally I fall asleep on one half of my bed, without having changed, brushed my teeth/washed my face, or getting under the sheet. (The only thing I always do before I drift off is move my glasses to a place where I can’t roll over and flatten them. Very sensible of me.)

If I had any sense, I’d remove my lenses and bathe right now, and come back to write the rest of this. Hmm.

I’m waiting up with the vague idea of having myself a drink before bed. In times past, I would be waiting up for everyone to go to bed so that I could slip onto the balcony and have my starry smoke, but these days I’m being a good boy and not puffing. So now I’m just waiting up to drink-and-not-smoke. Mom is asleep, so I could pour it even now I suppose– birdbrain brother won’t be able to tell it’s not plain Coke even if he does come down. I’m sitting in a rocking-chair in front of the tv downstairs, watching Rafael Nadal’s horsey ass wobble slightly as it struggles somewhat to keep up with Nicolas Kiefer’s beard. Boris Becker is commentating, and the other nobody commentator can’t help but kiss his ass a little bit, poor chap. Brer is upstairs watching The Departed on the big tv in our room and text messaging his little non-girlfriend nonstop. It annoys the rest of us, his incessant texting, but I’ve been there, done that, so I’m trying not to say too much.

Anyhow I’ll keep putting off pouring the drink a little longer, and a little longer, and maybe I never will.

Sigh. At some point in the near-ish future I’ll have to take a sabbatical from the ethanol, just to see if I can live without it. As the months pass I’m finding it less and less cool that I have a couple of hollow legs. The idea came to me last week when I was taking stock of my finances for the coming school year and I realised that I simply can’t afford to keep drinking in bars any more, until I earn my own keep. Why not take a year off alcohol entirely? 12 months’ Lent of sorts. And without booze I’d have no reason to smoke either, so not only would I give my liver and lungs a rest but I’d save at least 3 grand a month. 

Ugggghhhhh. Can you imagine a year without alcohol? I can, but I can’t imagine actually living it. So sad, yes, that in my head good times are inextricably linked to intoxication? Kingfisher’s slogan seems to have hit its mark perfectly.

So the dry year isn’t happening, not right now anyway… but a dry quarter? A dry month, at least? Who knows, who knows. Que sera ho jaayega.

*** 

My grandfather passed away last week. He was a day short of his 80th birthday, and… not sick sick, let’s just say bedridden. When he moved to Vellore in 2002, just when I was finishing school, my mother didn’t really want him living with us, so he took a place on rent 5 minutes’ drive away. He was quite normal in those days, walking with his walking stick, still driving, even though he wasn’t supposed to. Poor guy. A career as an aircraft engineer gave him the love of vehicles that he passed on to my dad and myself. When finally his sons forced him to sell his last car (the driver was conning him, or something), he never really got over it. “I’m going to buy a new car so that I can drive to Bangalore when I want,” he’d confide to me. “I have to have a car.” My dad merely laughed it off, but my mother felt sorry for him. “He would have had a car all his life,” she told me. “It must be really hard for him to know that he’ll never own one again.”

His legs were what betrayed him finally, giving up the ghost a little more each year. Walking stick became one of those walking frames, became a wheelchair, became 5 minutes in a chair after his daily bath and the rest of the day in his bed. I was a good grandson, regularly went to visit him even when my dad wasn’t in town (to accompany me). Brotherkins didn’t go half as much, although to be fair it certainly helped that I could drive myself there and he still can’t.

My mother uses Appacha’s example as dire warnings of what happens to you if you smoke– he smoked two packs a day for decades, decades– fuck me, I’m not going to smoke for decades on end, heart attacks hurt, don’t you know? According to her all the smoking is what caused the arteries in his legs to constrict and rendered him immobile. I suspect there were more factors than that, but whatever.

***

Because he was so unwell, we were all expecting Appacha to die sooner rather than later. I didn’t feel particularly upset, although I did appreciate the messages of support I got from a few friends. I was slightly annoyed that my mom hadn’t told me as soon as it happened, but waited until that evening, but I understand that she was just trying to make sure I wasn’t distracted from that day’s exam.

The last funeral I went for was ten years ago, when my mother’s brother finally died after spending six months in a coma after hitting the median and falling off his scooter. He died on a Republic Day, and the first thing that came to my mind was, “Will I still be able to go to the [annual] carnival this evening?” It’s not an unknown point of view, is it– once the person’s dead they’re dead, right? Unless you’re genuinely upset, from close emotional bonds or whatever, why should you have to modify your behaviour because of an inevitable occurrence?

Because you do, I suppose. I was touched by how many relatives and relatives-in-law landed up for the funeral. He’d wanted to be cremated, but there were some issues there, so instead he was buried in the CSI cemetery, next to his wife. I was also touched by how many Vellore people came for the funeral, as well– people who couldn’t have known my grandfather very well at all, but who came to show support for my dad.

Having turned into a (rather large) crybaby thanks to repeated exposure to episodes of The OC, I’m now trying to contain the pearly drops– at least in public. I watched Prince Caspian in Bangalore last week, alone (!), and I LOVED it. I thought it communicated the essence of the book as well as any movie could have. And once or twice, especially the bit with that darling Knight of Mice, Reepicheep’s tail, I was horrified to find myself fishing in my jeans pocket for my ‘kerchief and dabbing at my eyes. Horrified because it’s all very well to let one’s eyes well up in the privacy of one’s room, but in a movie theater where noone else in the row is showing the slightest bit of emotion? Bad enough I’m a solo male movie-watcher, and then I cry during the movie too? No, no, not done.

With even my limited experience of them, I know how easy it is to sob at a funeral, what with all the gloomy atmosphere, and the memories, and the cold body lying there with its hook-nose poking above the coffin sides, and the singing of Abide With Me, which seems to be a tune custom-designed to stop up my lachrymal ducts. And I didn’t want to be seen crying at this funeral. I just didn’t.

So I made an effort to sufficiently stiffen my upper lip. And lo and behold, what was the best way to hold the tears back?

Mentally composing this blog post.

I Want To Ride My Bicycle

And so, to Bangalore, where the weather is absolutely fantastic, stupendous, and magnificent all at once. Munificent, even. (It’s the middle of June, don’t they know??) The people speak a strange language that is vaguely familiar to me because I can understand Coorgi. A lot of them also speak Hindi and/or Tamil and/or English, so I’m positively spoilt for choice here every time I open my mouth. However, the natives are completely clueless as to how to decongest their roads and so moving around is a phenomenal pain– alleviated somewhat by the 23-hour English FM radio station, unique in India to the best of my knowledge.

We drove here a few days ago, the family and I. I’ve recently discovered, with the male parent temporarily around and wishing to drive ‘his’ car (hmph), that (a) it’s very boring to sit in the front passenger seat on road trips once you get used to being the usual driver, and (b) the rear seat of a Qualis is far bumpier than the front. But my brother and I swallowed our prides, sat slightly closer to each other, and watched a movie on my mom’s lovely laptop– double headphone jacks! –while Ma and Pa chewed sticks of grass and shot the wind up front. I found Superbad hilarious in moderation, but then I do go for the Ben Sandler brand of humour… you may not.

Mother and Father have built a house in north-east Bangalore, on the way to the new Bengaluru International airport. It was my mother’s dream to build her own house, and she’s done it with a modicum of style. The community is green and woody, with lots of shoots and leaves, large lawns, VERY pretty houses, and a stud farm for a neighbour. I kid you not. There live horses whose purpose in life is to– well, you know. 

I can’t see the great attraction in building a house of one’s own, myself (why not buy a readymade one, instead of going to the tailor?), but in our family if Amma wants to do something, it’ll get done sooner or later. Later, in this case. But we finally had the puja to inaugurate it, while my dad is still here! My mom consulted her brother, who consulted a Hindu calendar, and they arrived at 6 a.m. on Friday the 13th as the most auspicious time to have the ceremony. The three rational men rolled their eyes and cursed silently to themselves many times– but only in private. Our puja was short and simple: it consisted of boiling some milk until it spilled over, apparently to represent plenty. My maternal grandfather flew up from Madurai to be with us, and we asked my paternal grandfather’s brother to say a prayer. Pappan Appacha remembered “those who should have been here but are not able to”– my mom’s mom and both my dad’s parents, and the tears rolled down my dad’s face as he honked his nose in his hanky.

Custom further dictated that we spend a night in the new house, and so we had come laden with sleeping bags and blankets, although I forgot my pillow. Bugs and drainage problems: but we survived.

It’s at heart a retirement house built a couple of decades early, so the plan right now is to rent it at a price that covers the loan instalments. Standard procedure perhaps, but cunning nevertheless.

Look what I found in Bangalore though!

Isn’t she simply gorgeous? Pardon me for using the gender-specific pronoun, I usually find it pretentious, but this excepts. She’s my baby! I learnt to ride on her, 7 years ago now, and fuck, was I cool then. *grins cheekily* Mint condition, truly very well-maintained she is. Most bikes of her age and class (1974 model Jawa 250 cc, if you’re interested) have Hero Honda headlights and loads of other rubbish thrown on. Our lady has almost all her original parts: she just needs an engine rebore and some wheel alignment and she’ll be perfect. That helmet lock at the back, pointing up like a happy tail needs to go though.

We’re not going to do all that, though… she’s not really my bike, you see. She belongs to an NRI uncle, my father’s brother, and we merely looked after her for a few years (luckily for me, my high-school years) after my grandfather became too old to do it. That grandfather was an aircraft engineer with Indian Airlines, and my father and I have both inherited his love of locomotive machines. After I left for college though, my brother was still too young to ride her and with the disuse she began to rust quite quickly. A couple of years ago she was shifted to a Bangalore-based cousin for safekeeping– Bangalore is the place to be for Jawa and Yezdi bikes. My dad and I miss her though, and we always look in on her when we can.

I can’t really bring her to Delhi to live with me, although I’d certainly like to– then I could sell my rat-pat Bajaj. No fuel guage, no horn, terrible brakes, terrible lights, two-stroke engine, clouds of white exhaust– the Jawa was not designed for modern-day traffic, and I suspect she’ll never leave Bangalore again.

Actually I didn’t suspect that until I thought of it just now, but it seems crystal-clear now. *sniff*

She’s not dead yet though, and neither am I! :)

PS Yes I know, the ugly parking sticker has to go too. Meanwhile you kindly be noticing the regular door lock behind the number plate, and also my new boot cut Levi’s.

Really Now

If I don’t see fit to think of them as bitches, noone else should have the right to, even on my behalf, don’t you think?

But I Brush Twice A Day :(

Like a well-maintained car, every summer I come back to Vellore and get myself serviced. It helps that there’s one of India’s best service stations just down the road.

More proof that I should celebrate my birthdays with less gusto the more they pile up: turns out I have borderline high intraocular pressure. I’m at high risk for developing glaucoma later in life. “Constant vigilance!”, barked the ophthalman.

And today I went for a dental checkup. Never have I seen a doctor so surprised to see me. “Perakath! What is the praoblem? We saw you just last year! I told you there is no praoblem…” Malayali dentist, furthermore.

So much for all the “have regular dental checkups!” messages in the media and on the backs of tubes of paste and packets of floss.

So when he hooked his little hook instrument into my lower right 2nd molar and jiggled it around, I couldn’t help asking, “In one year I got a cavity, sir?” (English suitably dumbed down, please note– this man said “what is the problem?” instead of “what’s the problem?”.)

The joke’s on me though– I’m the one with the cavity that they’re going to fill in tomorrow. Apparently I caught it before the tooth pulp was exposed, so it shouldn’t hurt too much, but it’s a little awkward and embarrassing to sit in that chair with your mouth wide open and your spit collecting faster than ever.

I wonder what compound they’ll use to fill it? Not cement, surely. Can’t they tell you these things?

Twain Twacks

Did you know that the engine in a diesel train “merely drives a large generator that provides power to individual electric motors at each driven wheel“?

I’m not sure what the alternative would be. But I vaguely imagined a diesel train engine to be a larger version of a diesel car engine. Perhaps it is; but cars don’t have little wheel-motors.

I think, like most people, about train drivetrains to a limited degree only: mostly wondering why (how, rather) Metro and EMU trains have high acceleration but low top speed, and long-distance trains accelerate slowly but reach higher speeds. The short answer is of course that the intracity trains have powered wheels along the length of the train (a ‘unit’ in these trains consists of a powered car with an unpowered car on either side of it), whereas the carriages in a ’proper’ train are passively pulled along by the engine and the cars in front of them.

Anyhow. I found it very interesting that a diesel locomotive is more correctly termed a diesel-electric locomotive!

Do You Really?

Yeah I know… do you want to come over for a smoke or something? Can you cunningly sneak away?

Hmm… I could… although I’ve just brushed my teeth and gotten into bed. Alright… I think I’ll cycle there, so see you in 10 minutes.

I don’t carry smokes any more though, I’m supposed to have quit… do you have any?

Yeah, I do…

…

Do you want to go for a walk?

<shrugs> sure…

So, what’s happening in your love life?

I don’t have a love life right now… I had a small one back in Jan/Feb, but it died as a young child…

You’re supposed to tell me these things!

What, just randomly ring up from nowhere and tell you I’m seeing someone else??

Yaaa!

…

I’m in that mood again…

What mood?

I don’t know if I want to be with –!

<grins>

…

So what have you– you know, I think I should just MOVE AWAY, because I feel like making out, and that’s not happ…

<grins>

You know, I think of you as my booty call… you don’t have a problem with that, do you?

Haha.. of course not!! Better me than –!

…

Do you want to sleep here and go back in the early morning?

……………………………………………………………………….

And yet we didn’t do anything (much). Full credit to her; although I didn’t initiate, out of respect for the poor cuckold-to-be, I wouldn’t have said no if she had.

“There is no right or wrong… there is only Power, and those too weak to use it.” — Voldemort’s line resonated strongly with my aura when I first read it, and it’s stuck with me over the years. It makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?

Perhaps there really is always a Right Thing to do, but it’s deucedly hard to believe in it when the other option is sex. Temptation isn’t confined to religion.

Do you believe there is?

WTF? Sundays

Did you feel that? I certainly did. A quaking Earth? “Hundreds homeless,” tomorrow’s headline I hope isn’t.

Went next door for dinner tonight. Got home a little late from basketball, yet decided to shave before going. (An extra ten minutes’ delay, you see.) I do like shaving; you often feel more clean than after a simple bath. Next door people are younger than my parents, more chilled out… and as always when out at social gatherings where alcohol is served, I can drink to my heart’s content and folksies will be too polite to say anything to me. I started off with Bordeaux, moved to neat Glenfiddich 12, and wound up with Absolut and 7-Up. Yuck. After drinking whiskey, everything else tastes far too sweet.

I knew enough to stop before I got so tipsy as to begin sway-walking, of course.

And, and, I haven’t so much as looked at a cigarette since May 31. Come on, be optimistix, not bad for me no? 10 a day to zero, so far so good. How many days has that been? When I have a surfeit of free time I switch to ‘day’ mode. Today was Saturday, I’m leaving on Thursday… that sort of thing. ’31st’, ‘22nd’ and the like become meaningless.

Had a good basketball game yesterday, finally, after so long. I love it when I have a good basketball game! Then I feel like the day has been worth something. For someone who loves it so much, I’m surprisingly bad at basketball. I long ago resigned myself to this fact– it’s beyond my control, I feel. I mean, I practise and practise… if after so many years of playing, my hand-eye coordination and reflexes remain at this level, well, I’m not a natural athlete. But I love the game anyway, and I get a kick out of playing it, and it’s not like I’m some dodo who can’t play at all, just not at a very high level… so there’s nothing to be ashamed of, in my book.

Here are two very good reasons why I didn’t follow in Pappy’s footsteps and become a cancer surgeon. They’re two patients of Pop; I stumbled across their photos while investigating a stray flash drive. The photos were taken because such advanced cases aren’t that common in the West, apparently.

(Photos after the break, to spare squeamish hearts.)

Where Were You [In 1998]?

Now 3. Remember it? 8th grade, it came out in– that’s 1998, to you. Well actually I would have finished 8th grade in ‘98, so perhaps this came out in ‘97. Filled with such goodies as the still-immensely catchy Mmmm-Baop, the Spice Girls’ mushhit 2 Become 1 (that remains the only Spice Girls song I have on my computer), and No Doubt’s semi-classic Don’t Speak, which I used to listen to while mourning my broken little 8th-grade heart, Side B also contained Sheryl Crow’s If It Makes You Happy (It Can’t Be That Baaaa-aaa-ad!)

I hated that song. It was the only one I would fast-forward past, making a disgusted face for good measure. I couldn’t understand what it was doing on the tape that captured the imagination, hearts, souls, minds, and earlobes of little men and women who would never again wear shorts to school as part of their regular uniform.

The years passed, I grew up, I began to find Baby Spice less attractive, Scary Spice’s boobs more captivating, Ginger’s body very much like an 8th-grade crush’s, Sporty as bleh as a can of Axe deo spray, and Posh eminently fuck-able while still having a very weird pout– especially the canal from her nose to her upper lip. (Who’s going to be the smart commenter who tells me what that’s called?) Little By Little, Our Lady Crow also began to grow on me, and by the time I reached 3rd year college I was firmly of the opinion that Sheryl Crow was a hot lady with a great voice who sang nice songs.

3rd year, 1st year, 2nd year, 3rd year law fac– 4 years later, Ms Crowley’s done it again. What the heck is this?? [For you Perakath-type readers who never click on Youtube links, it's her song Love Is Free. Don't know if it's new, but I saw it on VH1 in Bombay and it's been on the radio a few times since then.]

Eeeaaaauggghhh. I very much dislike this Jack Johnson-oid guitar strumming style. Chee, chee. She can do so much better than this! All I Wanna Do, My Favourite Mistake, The First Cut Is The Deepest, Leaving Las Vegas, Every Day Is A Winding Road, Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door….

Check back with me in 4 years to see whether this has become my favourite Sheryl Crowe song or not.