The "Jatti" thieves

Based on a true story.

Yesterday our village was attacked by the Jatti(underwear) thieves. Before we get into what really happened, who are these Jatti thieves? For the past week or so the villages around Coimbatore are invaded by a bunch of ruthless thieves who are popularly known as the jatti thieves(தி ஜட்டி தீவ்ஸ்). Why are they called the jatti thieves? not cos they steal the branded jattis hanging on the cloth line but cos, when they come for their mission they come wearing only their jattis. Only Jattis? yeah only cut-jattis. They also cover themselves in some kind of greasy and slippery oil so it becomes impossible to catch them by hand.They are a group of four to six men and the number changes according to the mission. People who have seen them report that they were well built, tall, dark and looked like monsters. These ruthless killing machines choose one village for a night. They carry only a very few weapons, a little knife, a rod with sharp nails and a hammer.They enter like cats clad in their dark jattis, they hide in the darkest corners of the village, they choose the lonely house which is located outside the main village and as the the village slowly gets to sleep they emerge from the darkness and break open the doors.They enter without making a noise.They wake you up with their knives, one of them catches hold of the youngest in the house placing a knife in the junction of the head and the chest, the second one collects the mobile phones and breaks them on the floor, the third one takes refuge of the people in the house as the fourth one breaks open the vaults and clutches the jewellery from the women. Finally they lock you in a room and tie your hands and mouth. When they are done, they leave the house locking it from the out and escape into the nearby grooves.It all happens like it was already written. If you play their tune, all you loose would only be your possessions. If at all if you are going to revolt then there will be blood. They have scissored the right ear of a grandma who refused to give away her ear-ring, they have pierced the head of a few with the nail rod, and one has lost his eye as the nail rod hit his face.Casualties? reportedly two till date. Nobody knows who they are.They don't look like locals, people say they speak Hindi and sometimes broken Tamil too. The worth of the stolen has crossed a few million in rupees.Police? Yeah they come after the thieves leave and they leave before the thieves come again!.The commissioner has ordered for a shoot at sight and the police has already informed the villagers to murder the thieves if they are caught.

It was just another Saturday for me.Sitting inside my brown roofed village house, I was lost in the web on my over-heated PC. It was nearing eight in the evening.It was then when my Uncle called me sayin the thieves entered the village next to us. They were hiding inside the toilet of a house when a little girl spotted them, as the girl started shouting they fled the place. The four seasoned thieves were chased by some hundred men but soon they lost track as the thieves singled out and each escaped in a direction.My Uncle said two hundred men from nearly three villages are in search for the thieves in all the grooves around. I said let me know if they are caught and i got back to my work. Hours passed and my Uncle came home, their search had turned futile, but the whole of the village was speaking about the thieves. My uncle was sayin how cruel they were to the people and said most villagers had sweared to kill them if caught.Hours passed, i sat with my Uncle as he was watching Royal challengers trash CSK. His phone rang again a voice shouted "the thieves are hiding in the common marriage hall near the temple". We ran there just to see that the whole village had come to life in the mid-night, hundreds of men with huge and round sticks were running in all the directions. A huge crowd had gathered before the hall which was located at a safe distance from the village. We went there and the search was on, the bushes were cut down, huge lights were brought in. The person who reportedly saw the thieves said, they were standing on the walls wearing only their jattis and as he approached them, they blinded his sight and ran away. Hundreds were searching in places nearby the hall, I never knew there were so many people in my village.I was never a part of the social life of this village, and many were looking at me "who is this guy". I was wondering if i go for a leak removing my trousers and if these guys are gonna sight me with my jattis then im sure they are gonna think im one of the "jatti thief" and they will beat me to death. So i stayed with my uncle and the people i knew. The place was completely scanned and it was decided that it was a rumour that the thieves were in the village, we were starting for our houses and suddenly we heard a few women scream wild somewhere nearby. The crowd rushed there, the women were restlessly shouting that the thieves just ran crossing them. A women said a man was hiding inside the bushes and when she asked he who he was, he pushed her down and ran away. Suddenly people realised the kind of mess that they were into, the brutal thieves are now inside the village and they can do anything to the innocent lives. A wave of tension started spreading across. My Uncle asked me to rush home as the people in my house were already asleep. Yeah people i was asked to be the Man of my home then. I was kind of grinning inside me cos all these are hell new to me. Came home and switched on the lights, made sure that the bushes around were safe, like the cops in hollywood movies i crawled around and spyed in our neighborhood, i started practising some punches in the air, i asked my grandmother to put a thilak on my forehead and say "vetriyoda thirumbivaa raasa". As my grandma searched for a broom i left my house, i knew its gonna be a long night ahead and i took my iPod with me. groups of young men were roaming all over the place each armoured with heavy weapons, there were faces with anger and tension . I should have looked like an asshole to sport an iPod in that crowd, anyways stupidity happens. i joined the crowd which was searching in the directions pointed by the women, teams were built and each was assigned a task. Some young men took the task of roaming around in the bikes, and some searching individual homes. Nobody took me in their teams. They knew i was not a villager.I started roaming around alone, i called my Uncle and he said he was busy somewhere else searching for them. They said the thieves were hiding somewhere in the little village and the search was getting intense. Someone would shout "Hey i saw a thief here" and before the people reach there someone from the other end of the village would call that someone spotted the thief trying to jump a wall. People started circling in and around the village and it became a Tom and Jerry story. I came home to see that my orders were not in place and everyone including my little cousin were standing outside the house.ARGH!, then I kept roaming for sometime, I kept hearing Akon's new album, I knew i was too careless, I knew i din know the seriousness of the situation, i was wondering what if he suddenly emerges from the bushes, he had a knife and a rod but I only had an Ipod and a Motorazr.I was standing in some dark corner and there were no many people around in that street, a man i knew came in his bike. He saw me alone there, he suddenly handed over a huge wooden rod which weight a few extra pounds and said "mapla, inga yaarum illa naan nayaker thatava varasolren neenga intha theruva pathukonga"(there is no one in this street, ill ask nayaker thatha(an old man) to join you, you both take care of this street). I was like are you joking, but i gladly accepted the offer. Soon the old man too joined me, we both were standing in the corners of the street. He had a larger stick, yeah people an old man/young man combo to save the village.

I stood there keeping my face as stern as possible. I knew i would burst into laughter any second. The world is still believing me. I was so cool that the thatha standing near me was annoyed with my carelessness. I was like who is going to come here to this street. And my phone rang!!!. My uncle said "Vicky who is near the 3rd street", i said "myself and the old man,Y?" and my uncle said the sweetest lines ever said, lines that ill never forget all my life "i heard that the thieves are running towards the third street and they are heavily armed". The most intense moment of my life, no people i din piss out there believe me. I was motionless, i said this to the grandpa near me and he started tying his dothi up getting ready for an encounter with the beasts. What am i gonna do now!? I said to myself "No Vicky,Now you are not a software engineer who works with Steve, Matt and Davidson. You are no more the guy who visits the village for sleep and food, you are no more a guest here, you are now a part of this village, you now shoulder the responsibility to safe guard your motherland(yes! my mom was born here), you are a angry young man, you are Rambo, you are the native village warrior, you are the man that the world wants and the man that the world is searching for.Get ready for the toughest night of your life and tonight lets dine in hell". I was all charged up, i folded my shirt till my shoulders, i curved my newly grown moustach. I was like "Vaangada! vaanga! Seriyana ambalaya iruntha vaanga da"(Come thieves come to me, if you are a man and if you have your balls intact, come to me and cross me). They never came! I was waitin there for a few hours and only an old street dog was in sight. They escaped form me, the escaped from a man who was ready for a battle. I called my uncle he said "You FOOL are you still waiting there?, we enquired the people who reportedly saw the thieves and found that all was a RUMOUR, nobody actually saw the thieves, when inquired they all said that someone else had said to them and nobody saw a thief in the village, the thieves had never come to the village, YOU GO TO BED!!" No one had insulted me like this before. Go to bed? FU**! dude i was waiting for a battle. If at all they had crossed my way, if at all they had come near me... i would have looked them in their bloody eyes, i would have roared inside me once and lifted my hands, then something really terrible would have happened in that lonely dark street. The next day The Hindu would have reported "Young lad defeats thieves and saves a village" and Dhina thandhi would have reported "இளைஞர் சாகசம்!!! ஜட்டி திருடர்களுக்கு ஜட்டி கிழிந்தது".(No translation available!)

PS: Jokes apart, the village is still caught in the web of uncertainty. People are expecting that as the thieves never came to our village they may came again anytime. Dedicated police squads are asked to roam around in the villages for a few days now.

PS2: Believe me when my uncle called me to say that the thieves are nearing me, I already had my plans to tackle them. Guess what?? I would have said to him "Hey see no blood, ill give you my iPod and also teach you how to operate it, its worth 5k.You can leave without a hush. GOD PROMISE ill never tell these people the direction in which you ran". Now you all know why i took my iPod with me :)

PS3:(26/May)This post is selected by Blogadda.com as one of the best Indian(!?!) posts of this week, Click the image to view the page.

Pablo Neruda

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

the bloods in the streets.

Come...and see the blood in the streets!

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

When a poet is born, the angels in the sky come alive from their dreams, a gush of warm water flows through the springs across the ends of the world, the tree by the river sheds a single leaf which floats in the air for an eternity, a light bulb kept in an old hut fades slowly to darkness, a few fleas keep sucking blood from the wound of the dead, hiding in a dark corner a grown man cries bleeding his heart out, a tint of wild lust is mixed with gallons of love as a woman deeply kisses the man she loves. When a poet is born the world gets ready for him, for he would soon capture in the magic of his lyrics the warmth of the water, the journey of the lonely leaf, the silence of the angels, the pain of the man caught in darkness, the passion of love, the glitter of the tear and the smell of the dark and humid drop of blood.When a poet is born he doesn't come out crying, but he comes out looking at the world with with his indifferent eyes, which will make poems out of the moments of his birth. A poet I believe is never a kid, a boy, a man but, a poet begins and ends as a poet. As if the only reason for his journey is to capture his share of the poems which keep floating like butterflies in the middle of a sunny day. A poet is born to write poems, the poems which are destined for him to write. Poems which are as unique as the waves of lines in the palm. Poetry is art of capturing the world in little canvasses. To put in words the essence of the intense moments, the art of seizing the emotions which flow through the inner walls of the being, the search for truth. Poets are not gay, they share a deeper solitude inside them which pulls them towards the words. I always wished that i may have the vision of a poet, i wished i could share the sight of a poet so i could interpret the world as he does, cos in his vision there is a search for ultimate truth, he looks at the gore of the beautiful and the beauty of what that is despicable.A poet doesn't write for his reader, he writes just to capture the magnificence of the moment, he writes a poem just like a painter immersed in painting a still life art.His poems with equal measures captures the beauty of the first drop of the rain, the last tear for the dead, the purity of the white snow which slowly melts into the mountain river, and the purity of the white liquids which are melted in the hour of making love.

Just like old friends leading you to new ones, S.Ra introduced me to Pablo Neruda, who in-turn introduced me to his poetry which more than just magic of words has become a obsession for war and peace for me. He ignites fire, he throws inside some dust, he drenches with water, he puts a knife in bleeding wounds. When he wrote he did not write to impress me or guide me, he did not write to give false hopes to people or to inspire them, he did not write to teach or to preach, he just wrote.He wrote poetry to explain himself to himself. And that brings him closer to me, i read him knowing that his poems were not written for me, when i read him I and Neruda sit opposite to each other and we discuss the poem. It has not been long since i came in terms with Neruda, say it has just been a few months. Slowly i started collecting his poems, spending my midnights to interpret its meanings. After spending time with him, now i can say he taught me nothing except to accept to life as is it, to cry when you cry. to laugh when you laugh, to let life rule over you.I wonder how gifted are the ones who read in Spanish, the language in which Neruda wrote his poems. Neruda was born in Chile, belonged to every corner street of the world. He roamed around the world in Vietnam, in Lanka, in France in Spain in Italy. The Picasso of poetry was conferred with a Nobel for literature in 1971.

Neruda love for words is evident in the way he plays with them, like the piper driving with him the rats, the words run in the back of Neruda, they drown into his pen and come out as the wet ink filling in the paper. A word reaches its pinnacle of glory when it is written by Neruda. be it the beauty of the phrase "The lemons move down from the tree's planetarium","i want to be my love, alone with a tip of your breast of snow" or the pain of love in the words "Don't leave me alone, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart". Neruda had a never ending love for words, which spoke on people, society, life, truth and beauty. But Neruda is celebrated for the poems he wrote on Love. Yes Neruda was a poet of love, most of his poems share with us heavenly peace and the numbing pain of love. For anyone who reads Neruda the beginnings would be his poems on love, his first book twenty love poems and a song of despair is a must read for people who for once knew in their life how is it to love and to be loved. When a man becomes mad about a women, all his insanities are interpreted as poems. Neruda loved women, he praised her, prayed to her and he celebrated and cursed her. Neruda was in love with love. The pure essence of love keeps flowing in all his poems. As S.Ra says young men and women in Chile and across the world still visit his memorial in groups, they stand in crowds on the shore facing his house and recite the poems of love. Neruda was a saint who preached love. In his in numerous sonnets and poems my favourites ones written about love would be Sonnet XVII which in it says "so I love you because I know no other way" and Tonight i can write the saddest lines which in it says "Love is so short, forgetting is so long".

Poetry is nothing but a vision, a state of mind that you share with the poet.My days are getting drifted in the magic of his words, I have almost done with all his poems on love and now slowly moving into his poems on life which range from communism to the struggle for social justice.Lover, political activist, the voice of the common man Neruda has had a number of faces.It is in his poems i find my reasons and my reflections. It is after reading him I found that there is no good or bad poetry any word that emerges from the depth of the soul is poetry. Now i know what to search when i read a poem, what to look at when i glance the life around me.Yes! than beauty, than gloss, than the infinite possibilities of hope, give me truth.

Bangalored again!

Bidding a heartless goodbye to Arun, i started running towards the apartment.I didn't want to miss out on the Coorg trip, i already started dreaming about the trip, the mountains, the mist and the coffee estates! They said they were leaving in minutes i rushed to the room. When i opened the door, I saw a few men lying scattered one looking at the ceiling, the other clad in his brief was scribbling something on the floor and the next few were glued to the evil box. As i walked in the rest joined I looked at them and we all kept starring for a few minutes,then suddenly everyone started laughing out "Dey meesa vechurukaanda".

Me:Shut up! what happened to Coorg?

rest: what Coorg? which Coorg?

Me: assholes u guys just spoilt a beautiful day with my brother, i came running!

rest: illa da we decided two hours back that its not feasible today

Me:Then why did u guys call me 20 mins back

rest: chumma ullulaaaiku.

After sharing mutual abuses for sometime, and after making a feasibility study for a few hours sometime later in the evening someone asked "how many wants to go to Coorg?" 1,2,3,4,5 the hands kept raising. So it was decided that we do a night drive to Coorg, book some resort there for a days stay and get back to Bangalore late time next day. The two red swifts were set and we started the trip, on the car we kept discussing about the Coorg that none of us has been to.I desperately wanted to be in a hill station, to become synonymous with nature. Everyone looked excited. After twisting and turning around Bangalore somehow we reached the the outskirts, and from there we took on Mysore road. The music was loud around us, and it was fun to be a part of that drive. we were midway to Coorg.We stopped at a petrol bunk after some two hours on the road.After the refreshments and before getting into the car for the long drive, someone asked "OK how many wants to get back to Bangalore", 1,2,3,4,5 the same hands rose again and in minutes time we were back on the tracks through which we just travelled. I was not shocked, no not a bit, after all i am with my guys for some 7 years now! Its just the way we are.the trip back remains historically important cos we were LOST. Nobody knew how and we kept following the first car and after some point they said that they too didn't know the route and were following us through the rear view mirror(Yeah we rock at logic!!). It was then i saw the Bangalore opposite to the one i saw in the morning, the dull, dreaded, and lifeless Bangalore. The streets without trees and roads without peace. But the ride was, we spoke everything that men of our age speak in a car journey.Yeah we discussed the socio-economic impacts of the Obama foreign policy and which actress looked better wearing a two-piece.You speak i pull you down, i speak you pull me down. We spoke, we kept on speaking, we laughed, we kept on laughing. We were happy to be lost in Bangalore. We kept looking at the Kannada film posters and someone said

him:Dey whatever i think the kannada people are the best when it comes to loving the fellow humans?

us:how do you say that?

him:What do we do to trans-genders in our states?We insult them in our movies, in our streets, in our tasteless jokes, we treat them as degraded human beings, we make fun of them everywhere we sperate them from our society.

us:Yes but what does that have to do with Kannadigas?

him:There is a lot. You know what kannadigas do? they don't insult the trans-genders in their states, they don't make fun, they don't drive them away instead "They make them hero's in their movies", look at the posters around man what do you call all these creatures as??

yeah we laughed like our ***s popping out.(He was not kidding guys, in whatever industry karnataka goes forward there is an industry where they still compete with apes, "the movie industry"). Finally all roads drove us home, it was late night when we reached home. Dinesh made some forgettable mutta dosais, we had a house-party, and finally i went to sleep after a tired day but as i had turned into an insomniac recently i was wide awake living in my own world and sometime soon the next day had visited us!

>Sitting in the back seat and travelling through the sun-filled city, I saw them. They where caught in the middle of the road, without able to cross the road. An old man and his lady, dressed in dense rural attires these are people i see everyday in my village but they were the first people i saw wearing a dothi in that wide and big city. In the few seconds in which we crossed them, i saw a bewilderment in his eyes.He was holding the women's hand and both had no place to go.That was one of the crowded places in Bangalore, where all the new age men and women of Bangalore spend time together in their weekends, the place where a few international brands were staged, the place for the rich and the niche. Looking at the man and his women out there was like reading a crude poem in the middle of the sun. The city has travelled a long distance away from the common man. How will he interpret the metropolitan which has grown before his eyes, will he be comfortable to walk in there?, will he not feel a bit alien in that "really" alien crowd? I was wondering what made him come to the city, i said to myself that he should have come there from his village to buy jewels for his daughters marriage with a little money and he ended up here or did he come to get seeds for his irrigation?. If he had regretted a bit, or if he was not able to become a part of the place around him, blame globalisation. It was the capital of the village man some time back, but now Bangalore remains the capital of the rich, the new, and the loaded.There is no place for the village man in the streets of the city which has painted itself with pretentive colours. What kind of culture is it when it alienates the fellow citizen?. When i think of Chennai it still has the rural stint heavily in it, people from the villages of Tamilnadu still visit Chennai with the feeling that "its my capital" and Chennai has never disowned them. Chennai has had the heart to accept people. Chennai too has the rich and the niche but the attitude i find with the men and women of chennai is they try to be as local as possible.They are glad to be locals and most dont behave like they just alighted form the last flight from new jersey(i speak from the examples i saw, there may/will be exceptions). In Chennai the more you are local by heart the more you become a part of the place. I personally believe that in the long run there will be only one global culture that everyone on earth will follow, but then I am against creating alienating societies within one society.That saturday in Bangalore, welcomed me to the Bangalore which i wanted to visit, the city where everyone eats with spoon and fork(one guy was eating Paper roast with a fork!), a city where women look manly and men look delicate, a city where you can't find a stationery shop for miles but malls in every corner,a city where people wake up at 11 and go to sleep by 9, a city where the starting cost of a Puma is 3.5k, a city where you can see people fuck in closed cars i almost every corner,a city for the unusual a city where you are not worth if you are not having a girl to roam around with, a city ruled by the excess of money, a city where the sales guy speak better English than the real English men, a city which has disowned its own culture, a city in search of new masks everyday, a city which has never been, a city synonymous with Peter Keating, a city which tries to compete with New York and Paris but loses in competition to *** and ***.

But still i loved the other Bangalore, where people still lived without becoming prey to the artificiality around them, i loved the city for its natural charm and warmth, i loved the city for its trees which made evenings in hot noons, I loved the locals who were gracious hosts and guided us through the strangled roads, i loved the kannada watchman t who opened the doors for our cars without a complain even when we took it out for hundred times a day, i loved everything that connected me to the city. Yeah i did love things there after all we were not screwed, we were just Bangalored!

PS: Man, where are you leaving now? I have not done with the trip yet, did i ever say what we did on saturday after we woke up? Every trip will have a day when the epitome of all the events happen. Yes the was a place that happened to be the unforgettable during our stay and it happened on a saturday night! in this place(hey idiot click here). My heart wants to speak about it but my brain says no! So lemme leave the choice to you, tell me if you still need the last sequel.

Bangalored!

(This is just another personal and ugly rant about my weekend at Bengaluru, reading is at readers risk)

I dumped my issues and bugs at office ran to the bus depot to catch my bus at 10:30. When I got into the huge white bus which was already chilling with AC, i longed for another long journey in the middle of the night, where i can sleep, think and dream. Then i saw him, the stout-bald-decent-gentleman with whom i shared my seat. He smiled at me and i smelled a rat. I settled down on my seat, covering myself with the brown blanket and watching video songs play in the LCD. No ordinary songs, i mean which other travels would have the guts to play a mid-night masala DVD right in the middle of the a bus filled with family crowd. It started with "naaattu saraku" then followed by Mumtaj and a few others, finally the hotness quotient went higher as silk Smitha came in with her iconic "nethu rathiri yamma". As the toddlers in the bus started crying some gentlemen stood up for a fight.The video was stopped, and in the silence that then filled the bus, i knew why i smelled a rat.It was not just a rat, it was a snoring rat. The stout-bald-decent-gentleman was snoring. Yeah I do hate people who snore like pigs, i do hate to be awake when someone keeps buzzing around my ears. I detest them, but on that day i wanted to stay cool. I wanted to change my attitude a bit and stop complaining a lot about people who snore. I stayed abnormally cool.Whenever his snore went high,I smiled at him.I smiled at him just like how Jesus would have smiled at the sheep, I smiled at him just like how a mother would smile at her kid. I almost became his mother. I had no complaints when he fell on my shoulders. I let him sleep over there. Whenever he snored in an alarmingly disturbing volumes i wished i could kiss on his glittering bald head and whisper in his ears "c'mon sleep like a baby". Exactly 6 hours passed. I looked around to see that the whole bus was sleeping, i went out to see that the driver too, was almost sleeping. I was the only one to pay 600bucks and end up with a red eye. When i came back, i found that i could take it no more. I knew i am no Jesus Christ, and i hated that bald asshole for making me sit awake for hours. My face then should have looked liked a pissing volcano. I threw him away with my shoulders every time he fell there, i said nasty things in his ears when he snored. I couldn take the fact that hits two mangoes with one stone 1)he sleeps, and 2)he happily disturbs my sleep. God-damn-it how i hate people who snore!. It was almost five and we had reached the outskirts of Bangalore, the guy near me woke up. He smiled at me and said "Good morning". He smiled at my dreaded face and pulp-red eyes and said "Good morning".I said "get lost you asshole, next time you get into a bus, wear a name tag crying out Warning:I do snore like a pig". You know i didnt say those, I just said "Good morning".He left the seat and i took the window by now, as the bus passed through the out-skirts of Bangalore city, a grin visited my lips. I kept looking at the waking city and in the intervals, I saw the mystery man smiling at me from the large hoardings. Everytime i saw him,he made me smile. With his sculptured physic, his mesmerising smile, his out-of the world hair-do, he was GOD! The local brand ambassador of coke, he was golden-star Ganesh, the most handsome man of karnataka, whose movies outrun even those of SRK, who is the Rajni and Kamal combine of Karnataka, who makes every kannada speaking women go sleepless, who is perfectely flawless except and he looks a bit more manly than Namitha.(Click here to have a look at the golden star). Looking at his face I knew how my trip is going to end up as!. My plans were simple, to spend a day with My brother and spend two more days with my old roomies who had come all the way from Chennai. I knew things will not be as simple. As the bus was nearing my stop, I slept. The driver then had to throw me out at the last drop point at the kalasipalayam depot. Yeah at last i slept for exactly 17 minutes and some 0-60 seconds.

The Auto halted at 17th cross street, Malleswaram. The sight which i saw then still lingers in my eye. The sky was opening up, the first rays of the morning floated above the trees. There were trees all over the road, covering both the ends. The trees blocked the light and below the tree it was still dark. Morning in the sky and still the night prevailed below the trees. Magical! was the only word. Waiting for my brother I slowly started adoring the city which i just traveled through. All the way there were tress, the roads were wide and proportional and the ambiance so peaceful. For the first time i tried shedding my inhibitions and said to myself that I liked Bangalore. I then knew why they called Bangalore a garden city, the whole city reminded me of a neighborhood garden.Arun (My bro) came then and May1:that day was his birthday. We drove back to his house.Wait a sec! it was no house, it reminded me of somethin else. A house built over acres with the porch which can hold some 10 cars. I asked if he lived there, he said the owner lives there and they live in the outhouse. The outhouse was a bit old, but on the way there was trees that were shedding white colored flowers the mist was still floating around and the air still had a tint of chill.Man i envied the place like hell. I was thinkin about the rooms that we lived in Velachery/Perungudi/Sholinganallur. Where you sweat at 5:30 in the morning and where anytime u can glance pigs bathing in the sewage. I went around the house, it was neat. Four fully grown men live there. I was reminded of my rooms in Chennai.Here each had their own bed, own PC, own internet, own dresses and even own inner-wear. ( The sight of ten foul-smelling men sharing the same room, same matress, same dresses, same *** , of whom i was an integral part did flash in my mind). My brothers room was all neat and perfect.There is a difference between men in the verge of getting married and men like us. Being there I knew i was still a boy. After a bath and a chat we left the house for some "brothers-day-out".While leaving the house, my brother introduced me to his house owner. An old man wearing his torn vests, sitting in his wooden chair and mending his pigeon nest.

Him: So where do u work?

Me: CTS.

Him: Oh! good, you last quarter earning were good! So why did u guys back out from the Satyam deal at the last minute?

Me:(What?? did we get into the satyam deal in the first point?, this old man is blabbering) No, we never were a part of the deal.

Him:Nope, your team did propose a bidding of some **, but they backed out finally.(He analysed why backing out was a good option, why he felt the deal was not worth it)

Me:Oh!

Him:So what kind of job u do?

Me:I work for a client called DB.

Him:Oh the information guys,.....( He spoke a looooot, from the history of my client to what is their current stock price, who is their CEO, and where all they have branches in India)

Me:Oh!

Him:So what is work u do for them.

Me:We as a team are responsible for managing and enhancing their severs and applications.

Him:What servers you use?

Me: Unix boxes.

Him:Yes Unix is best when it comes to bulk file transfers, Windows boxes aren't that good.

Me: (WTH???,)

Him:So you do shell scripting in unix right?

Me:(Jesus-christ! what is happening here, what is he gonna ask me do nxt? will he bring out a white paper and ask me write a shell script for him???)

My brother came to my rescue now, i escaped the old-man- who-knows-everything just to hear that he was an IIM-A grad in the sixties. My bro gave me a look which parodied all my MBA dreams. (Eluthi vechuko un diary-la 2012 la naanum oru MBA avendaa... ithu namba koladheivam ekidamma mela sathiyamda! sathiyamda!) Finally we left the place, driving around the city in my Bro's car. He had been there for years now and knows the history/bio-chemistry of every place out there. On the eve of his b'day we visited a temple, we went for a quiet breakfast in a sub-urban restaurant, we roamed around malls, i bought him a book, we spoke-we shared, after long time we both spent time as friends. If you had ever had a brother, the point in which you shed the tags as brothers and become real friends is special. We roamed around like friends, with a lot to share and nothing to hide. He took me to his office, as we entered I saw his security guard saluting.(In the place i work, my security shouts "Hey! you! display your ID card"). The more time i spent in his workplace, the more i felt ashamed about the place i work. It was huge and each had their own bay(I share my PC with 3 others), he had 39 colleagues while I just had some 5000 in my office.(For ppl working in IT: WE SUCK). Again after stealing some stuff from his desk we again left for the city. Hanging around in brigade road and the malls around, having lunch and roaming around I be live that day was one of the best days that we had together. (Arun if you are reading this, I really wished that the day went on!). But, my phone rang speaking on the line was my ex-roomie he shouted "Asshole(Ke**P*** in tamil)!!! Wru???, we are waiting for you here, exactly in 20 minutes we are starting for Coorg, cars are ready... come here sooon!!".In a rush then, Arun drove me to Koramangala. I bid him goodbye and walked towards the room from where we were supposed to leave to Coorg. Without knowing that a surprise awaited there for me!!(I know this the cheapest trick to stop for a sequel, pardon me ;)

coming soon Bangalored! -part II

Of the voices...

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live

~ Henry David Thoreau

A year since May 2nd 2008, a year since Amazwi.It all started with this. It happened as a matter of minutes, the decision to blog, the name, the theme and things. I had no clue that this little space on the web is going to become my address, an identity which has almost became synonymous with my existence. Amazwi is not exactly me. It is my reflection, a blurred and inverted vision of me on the water. Like many i stand on the edges of the well and I look at my own reflection on the water. I started it as just another blog but soon got it ornamented with my character, Amazwi imbibed my passions, from books, movies, to the essence of my lonely moments, what you have read here is what i think and what i believe,what you read is what i am.No wonder why Amazwi remains a loner in the blogosphere. I wanted to blog, but it was this post which pulled towards the magic of writing, which i believe is the most profoundest of activities. To write is an end by itself. When you get to the mode of writing you don't write for people, for their words, you start writing for the genuine pleasure of it. I dont blog, I write.Nothing can equal the moments when you sit alone and try capture the million abstract thoughts that flow all across your soul into a few selective words. I was good, i was bad, i was happy, i was sad, i was biased, i was absurd, i was funny, i was tiring, i inspired, i depressed, but all along i was myself. Reading back Amazwi you can decode everything that had happened in my life for the past one year, every single mood of mine.I wrote when i stood a few feet above the ground with brightness filling in my space, i wrote when i was crumpled in dark room with no air to breath, i wrote when i walked indifferently with my legs firmly grounded on sand. Writing has become a companion, a window in my room through which i see the world and the world sees me.Amazwi has taken me a step near all things i dreamt of, amazwi introduced me to a new world of people where most had a voice of their own, amazwi earned me a few people whom i treasure for life, amazwi kept a mirror very close to me and let me explore all the pores, Amazwi made me a self obsessive monger, it paved a way for me to travel all my life, it gave me a hope to look forward, it gave me a platform on which i stand and voice myself even if there is no one to hear.Amazwi has been a voice of mine, times like a roar, times like a groan, times like a cheer and times like a cry. All i did was to voice out. After a year now I am grateful to the few readers who made it a habit to visit Amazwi and those who criticize and praise from the heart. It has been quite a journey from Vignesh to "Amazwi" Vignesh. But still there is a distance between my words and my life just as there is a distance between the lyrical getaways of poetry and the binding truths of reality. I will live to cover the distance, and all the noises i make in the way can be heard here at Amazwi -the consortium of my voices.

Finally like a few of you out there, Im too really glad that Amazwi happened.

Flames, Ashes.

It was dark when we stepped out of the house.I was walking with the crowd just behind the white vehicle carrying her corpse, the air was being filled with a wave of whispers and cries. Her youngest son walked with a burning pot, his eyes were wide open, i heard her daughter far from behind, she kept shouting Amma and her mother never responded. The womb they both shared is going to get burned in a few minutes from now. I was searching in all the nook and corners of my mind, to find all the memories associated with her. I was hitting at days that spawned through decades, the heart grew heavy with the load. I walked silently with the crowd. We walked through the mud paths with a few torched lights guiding us, to the funeral ground far away from the village.We crossed the groove which once belonged to her family.She would have been here- in these roads as a kid, a girl, a woman, a mother and now for one last time she walked with her feet above the ground. The corpse leaves behind a wet trail on the streets just like a drop of tear does. Following a corpse was like following a huge drop of tear.She was my Grandmother's sister. I had not cried much for her demise, not when i first saw her lifeless body, not when my aunt hugged me and said "vicky, nammala anathaya vittu poiduchuda patti", not when the north Indian doctor informed me that the "body" is decaying and its not advisable to keep it for long,not when i saw my grandma fall on her dead sisters feet and cry loud making a sound that echoed their sisterhood for nearly 80 years now, but a tear kept growing inside me.

I saw my brother walking with the crowd, he had flown from a distance to get a final glimpse of her. We embraced our hands, they were wet. When we reached the place there were a few lightnings that interluded the night sky. The vehicle then stopped.She was brought down, the body was there, where was she?. They lied her next to the bed of woods.They removed her jewellery, they tied her head with the neck, they covered her face with sandal paste. People placed rice on her and gave their final respects. they took a final glimpse of her face which can only be seen in grey memories after now. Her body was then bundled in a piece of cloth covering her from top to toe, they made a little wound on her face with a knife. They lifted her body and placed it on the woods. Women started hitting in their chests, the men were idle. The final goodbye to the departed. She was covered by conjoining loafs of wood. She was buried in wood. I saw all the women of my family reduced to tears. The men who loved her were broke in their insides.When the cries got harder her son started walking around her carrying a pot which was holed thrice and broken. When he took the torch i realised that she in every literal since will be "no more".A body which lived through the years, a mouth that spoke till the last day, a frame inside which she preserved all her memories and pain will be eaten by flames. The legacy that her life was, comes to a literal end. Her son placed fire and slowly it started eloping the body. The body became just another block of wood. There were flames and there will be ashes.Slowly, people started leaving.I stood there staring at the fire, I searched for her inside the fire. Through a gap between the woods I saw her. I saw a fire slowly removing the red cloth, inside it i saw her legs slowly emerging from the burning cloth. The legs on which fell before i left for my job to Chennai, the same legs which shivered when i touched them, when i fell in her legs she had said "nee enga ponalum nalla irupa sami, unakku entha korayum varathu". The voice kept echoing all around me. tears kept flowing from the eye. She was burning inside my eye. My brother stood near me and he too was wiping his eyes. In the distance i saw her son and daughter hugging each other and both cried aloud. It was their mother, losing the mother is losing like loosing everything that connects you to life.We stayed there for sometime and when we left it started drizzling around.

I walked with my mother through the drizzle. I embraced her around her shoulder and we walked back through the deserted mud roads. Amma then said to me something which i had never forgotten. When i was a kid i had sat in the same grandmothers lap and said "patti nee saavanu ennala nenakave mudiala ana nee settha naan bayangarama aluven, naan aluguratha paathu ellarum aluvanga"(I cant imagine you could die someday, if that happens i will cry aloud from my heart and seeing me cry everybody will cry with me). No one would have noticed the tears which kept dropping from me when i walked through the darkness of the night. Her death was in a way the best thing that had happened to her. She suffered with cancer for nearly a decade, little by little she was destroyed by it. She fought it with all her might, even on the death bed she believed she would get back to normal, but she died. She died a peaceful death.வட்டமான இலை மேல் மெதுவாய் வடிந்து மறையும் நீர்த்துளி போல், பறக்கும் பறவை அறியாமல் பிரிந்து செல்லும் ஒற்றை இறகு போல்,வெம்மையான மதியத்தில் காற்றின் திசையில் தனித்து அலையும் காகிதம் போல், சலனமில்லாத நீரில் விழுந்து மறையும் ஓர் ஒற்றை பனித்துளி போல், அல்லது ஒரு புத்தகத்தை ஆழ்ந்து படிக்கும்போது அச்சாகாத ஓர் பக்கத்தை காணும் மௌனமான திடுக்கிடல் போல், இயல்பாகவே, மிக இயல்பாகவே நிகழ்ந்தது உன் மரணம் .Like a morning dew thinning out on a lotus leaf, like a feather which leaves the bird on the fly , like a paper which floats alone in the summer winds, like a drop of winter snow which drowns in motionless water, or like the shock that occurs when finding a missing page in a long book, you died.

கோபல்ல கிராமம்

பேய்க்காற்று வீசிக்கொண்டிருந்த ஒரு மாலை நேரம். தெற்கிலிருந்து வீசும் காற்று ஒரு ஊமையனின் விசும்பல் போல் என் கிராமத்து வீதிகளை மெல்ல சூழ்கிறது. தென்னை மரத்தின் இலைகள் எதிர்காற்றில் நடந்துவரும் பெண்ணின் கூந்தல் போல் காற்றின் திசையில் நீள்கிறது. கிராமத்தின் தெருக்களில் மண்டிக்கிடக்கும் மஞ்சள் புழுதியின் துகள்களில் கொஞ்சம் என் வீட்டு முற்றத்தில் வந்து நிறைகிறது. மின்சாரமில்லாமல் இருளை எதிர்நோக்கிக் கொண்டிருக்கும் என் வீட்டின், நீண்ட திண்ணையில் அமர்ந்தபடி வானம் பார்த்துக்கொண்டிருக்கிறேன் நான். என் கைகளில் ஒரு சிறிய புத்தகம், அதில் இன்னும் மிச்சமிருக்கிறது சில ஒற்றை பக்கங்கள். ஒரு பயணத்தின் பொது, அரசுப் பேருந்தின் ஜன்னலருகில் அமர்ந்தபடி படிக்கத்துவங்கிய ஒரு புத்தகம், கீ.ரா எழுதிய கோபல்ல கிராமம்.புத்தகத்தில் ஒரு சிறிய கிராமம் அதன் வீதிகளில் உலவும் யதார்த்த மனிதர்கள் அவர்கள் வாழ்வோடு நிகழும் சம்பவங்கள், அச்ச்ம்பவங்களின் மூலம் கூறப்படும் ஓர் மறையும் வாழ்கை முறையின் மேன்மை. கற்பனை கோபல்ல்மும் என் கண்முன் காற்றுடன் குலவும் என் கிராமமும் இணையும் ஒரு புள்ளியில் நின்றுகொண்டு ஏதேதோ சிந்தனை ஓட்டத்தில் திளைக்கிறது என் மனம்.கூரை ஓடுகளின் மத்தியில் ஒளிந்துகொண்டிருக்கும் புழுதி, காற்றின் ஊடுருவலில் வெளிப்பட்டு தோள்களிலும் திறந்து கிடக்கும் புத்தகத்திலும் சரம் சரமாக கரும் பூக்கள் போல நிறைகிறது. மேலே வானில் காற்றடிக்கும் திசையில் சில பழுப்பு நிற மேகங்கள், எந்நேரமும் மழை வரும். மழைக்கும் கிராமத்திற்கும் உள்ள உறவு மிக பழமையானது, மழைக்கு முந்தய காற்று ஓர் தூதுவனை போல் மழை வரும் செய்தி கூறி கிராமத்தை அதன் அயர்ச்சியில் இருந்து எழுப்பும், பின் காற்றோடு சிற்றின்பம் கொள்ளும் கிராமம் எழுப்பும் சில தனித்துவமான ஒலிகளை. வானில் இருந்து இறங்கி வீதியில் உலவும் காற்றின் தொடர்பில் மரங்கள் எழுப்பும் ஒலி, வீட்டின் கூரைகளில் தட தடக்கும் காற்றின் இரைச்சல், இரைச்சலுக்கு பயந்து அலறும் தூரத்து வீட்டு ஆநிரைகள், தாழிகள் அவிழ்ந்து காற்றோடு போராடும் மர ஜன்னல்கள், வீடு திரும்பாத சிறுவனின் நிலை அறியாமல் காற்றை சபிக்கும் எதிர் வீட்டு பாட்டியின் பெருமூச்சு என்று சிறுதும் பெரிதுமாய் கூடும் ஓசைகள். காற்றின் ரீங்காரம் சூழ என் கவனம் மீண்டும் புத்தகத்தில் நிறைகிறது. கோபல்ல கிராமம், பல நாட்களுக்கு பின் நான் படித்த ஓர் தனித்துவமான எழுத்து. எழுத்து எனும் பெருவட்டத்தின் எல்லைகளை மீறத் துடிக்கும் ஓர் எழுத்து. இதனை தூரதேசத்தில் இருந்து இங்கே நம் மண்ணில் வந்தமரும் ஓர் சமூகத்தின் கதை எனலாம், அல்லது கரிசல் மண்ணின் ஒரு காலத்தில் வாழ்ந்த சில மனிதர்களின் வாழ்கை குறிப்பு எனலாம், அல்லது கிராமத்து வாழ்கையின் நுணுக்கமான செயல் முறைகளை விழகும் ஓர் அயுவு கட்டுரை எனலாம், அல்லது நம்மை விட்டு நீங்கி கொண்டிருக்கும் ஓர் கடந்தகாலத்தை போதித்து வெய்த பெட்டகம் எனலாம். ஏனோ இது ஒரு புத்தகமாக படவில்லை எனக்கு, கரிசல் காட்டில் அமர்ந்து மண்ணை கைகளில் அள்ளிக்கொண்டிருக்கும் ஓர் பழைய கிழவன், காற்று வாக்கில் கூறிசெல்லும் கதைகளே இவை என்று படுகிறது. ஓர் மரத்தடியில் சாய்ந்தபடி நமக்கு அவன் தன் சமூகத்தின் வரலாறு கூறுகிறான், நேர்கோட்டில் அல்ல, மையமாக அல்ல, அவன் தன் மனம் போன போக்கில் கதை சொல்கிறான், எங்கோ தொடங்கி எங்கோ முடிக்கிறான், சிறுவனை போல அமர்ந்து அவன் சொல்லும் கதைகளை கற்பனை செய்கிறேன் நான். கீ.ரா எனும் அந்த மனிதன் கூறும் கதை கால மாற்றத்தின் மேல் எழுதப்பட்டுள்ளது, நிலை கொள்ளாத மழை நேர காற்று போல அது தன் திசையில் அலைகிறது, உன் கை பிடித்து உன் வேர்களுக்கு அருகில் உன்னை இட்டு செல்கிறது. கோபல்லத்தில் கதை என்று ஒன்று தனியே இல்லை, சம்பவங்களின் கூட்டு நிகழ்வாய் நீள்கிறது எழுத்து. பகட்டுத்தனம் இல்லமைல் பேச்சுமொழியில் சொல்லப்படும் கதைகள். மேலோட்டமான வாசிப்பிற்கு இது ஓர் அர்த்தமின்மையை கூட கற்பிக்கலாம், கோட்டோவியத்தில் கோடுகளை காணும் கண்களுக்கும் கலையை காணும் கண்களுக்கும் உள்ள மாற்றுமை போல அர்த்தமும் அதன் இன்மையும் நம் ரசனையின் பொருட்டே அமைகின்றது, ஆம் மனதின் ஆழமே படைப்பின் ஆழம். A good literature acts only as a catalyst. Koballa gramam – a very little was said in the book, but it opened up a lot more doors inside me. From the day i started with the book till this second when im writing about it, Iv e been lost in the thoughts. About all that was said and more about all that was not said. The mind and the book are little stones, and in their friction shapes up a flame, the flame lights you through the darkness. நான் கிராமத்தில் வசிக்கும் ஓர் நகரத்தான், கிராமவாழ்வின் முழுமையை அறியாதவன். நகரவாழ்வின் பொய்களை கண்டவன் கிராமவாழ்வின் உண்மையை எட்டவே முடியாத தூரத்தில் நின்று ரசிப்பவன். The peace which i feel now, sitting alone and looking at the village which is getting ready to get drenched itself can never be felt tomorrow or the day after, when i will be sitting in front of lifeless computers in the huge white tombs where i work. கிராமத்தில் வாழ்வு உண்மைக்கு மிக நெருக்கத்தில் இருக்கிறது, கோபல்லமும் அதையே நமக்கு உணர்த்துகிறது. எளிமையான அனால் உண்மையான மக்கள், இயற்கையோடும் மக்களோடும் ஒட்டி வாழும் வாழ்வு, விசித்திரமான அனால் வஞ்சனை இல்லா மனிதர்கள், இவற்றை எல்லாம் மீறும் கீ.ராவின் கையாடல் என்று இந்த கோடை நேர மழை போல மனதிற்கு மிக நெருக்கமான வசிக்கிறது புத்தகம்.மூடிவைத்த புத்தகங்களுள் அடங்கியிருப்பது அச்சுக் கோர்த்த எழுத்துகள் மட்டும் அல்ல, ஒவ்வொரு புத்தகத்தின் உள்ளும் ஒளிந்து கிடக்கிறது ஓர் வாழ்கை, காலத்தின் ஒரு சிறு துண்டு, சில மனிதர்கள், காடு, மழை, கிராமம், நகரம் என்று ஏதேனும் ஓர் நிலப்பகுதி. ஒரு பூக்கூடையை உலுக்கினால் கொட்டும் பூக்கள் போல இந்த புத்தகத்தை உலுக்கினால் அதனில் இருந்து விழும் ஓர் கிராமம், சில வீடுகள், முதியதும் இளையதுமான சில மனிதர்கள், ஓர் ஏர் கலவை, ஒரு பிடி கரிசல் நிலம் மற்றும் சில கண்ணீர் துளிகள். கோபல்லத்தில் வரும் மனிதர்களுள் அக்கய்யா எனக்கு மிகவும் நெருக்கமாக இருக்கிறார் என்றாலும், ஏனோ கழுவு மரம் ஏற்றி கொல்லப்பட்டும் திருடனின் பிம்பம் கண்ணில் பதிந்தே போயுள்ளது. புத்தக மனிதரோடு வாசகன் கொள்ளும் உருவ மிக நெருக்கமானது, அது மனிதரோடு அவன் கொள்ளும் உறவுகளை போல எதிர்பார்ப்பின் மேல் கட்டமைக்க படுவதில்லை. நிஜ வாழ்வில் அறிந்ததை விட நான் புத்தகம் மூலம் அறிந்த மனிதர்களே அதிகம். சிறு வயதில் கண்களை மூடி தனிமையில் அமரும் நொடியில் கண்ணில் விரியும் காட்ச்யில் பார்த்ததுண்டு ஒற்றை குதிரையில் அமர்ந்தபடி காவிரி கரையை கடந்து செல்லும் கல்கியின் வந்தியதேவனை, ஒரு விபச்சாரியின் வீட்டில் உறவுகொண்டிருகும் எஸ்.ராவின் சம்பத்தை, பொட்டல் நிலத்தை உளுதபடி வெற்று வானம் பார்க்கும் வைரமுத்துவின் பேயத்தேவரை, முகமூடிகள் கலைந்த நோடியில் மூலையில் அமர்ந்து தன் சுயம் தேடும் ஆதவனின் ராமசேஷனை, ஸ்ரீரங்கத்து வீதிகளில் அமர்ந்து நண்பரோடு பேச்சில் மூழ்கிய சுஜாதாவின் ரங்கராஜனை, மதுக்கோப்பையை முடித்துவிட்டு விட்டது வானம் பார்க்கும் ஜெயகாந்தனின் கங்காவை. இன்னும் மொழிகள் தாண்டி, நிறங்களை தாண்டி ஏதேதோ காலங்களில் ஏதேதோ இடங்களில் வசிக்கின்றனர் நான் அறிந்த மனிதர்கள், அவர்கள் அருகாமைக்கு செல்ல தேவைப்படுவது ஒரு விழி மூடல் மட்டும். ஏனோ இவர்கள் புத்தகத்தின் சதுர எல்லைகளை தாண்டி உயிருடன் எங்கோ எல்லைகளற்ற வெளியில் உலவுவதாகவே படுகிறது எனக்கு. இந்த மனிதர்கள் எனக்கு கற்று தந்தது/தருவதே என் வாழ்கை. நான் அறிந்த மனிதர்கள் பட்டியலில் இணைகிறார் கீ.ராவின் கோவிந்தப்ப நாயக்கர், தன் நிலை மறந்த அவரின் கற்பனைகள் என் நிலைக்கு ஒத்ததாகவே உள்ளது.

மேலே உள்ள எதோ ஒரு வரியை எழுதியபோது பெய்யதுவங்கிவிட்டது என் கிராமதிலோர் கோடை மழை.இங்கே நிருத்திக்கொள்லாம். அசைவின்றி இருக்கும் என்னைச்சுற்றிலும் நிகழ்கிறது மழையின் தாண்டவம். கிராமத்து மழை, நகர்த்து மழை போன்று அங்கங்கே பெய்வதில்லை அது மொத்தமாக எங்கேயும் பெய்கிறது. கூரையின் பழமையான இடுக்குகளின் வழி கீழிறங்கும் மழை நீர்.சாரை சாரையாக துளிகள், அவற்றை கைப்பிடித்து கூட்டிச் செல்லும் காற்று. ஈரக்கூந்தல் போல மலையில் படியும் தென்னை மர இலைகள். கண்களை மூடும் பனிமூட்ட இடை...வெளி. மழைத்துளிகள் பட்டு மெல்ல கரு நீலமாகும் வெள்ளை சுண்ணாம்புச் சுவர்கள். மழையினூடே சிலுப்பிக்கொண்டு ஓடும் தெரு நாய்.எங்கும் மெல்ல பரவி வரும் மழை வாசம், பாட்டி தரப்போகும் மழை தேநீர், மழையில் முடிவதற்குள் படித்துமுடிக்க ஒரு புத்தகம், மழையில் நனைந்தபடி சென்று ஓர் வெந்நீர் குளியல். எல்லாம் முடிந்தபின் இரவோடு பகல் கலக்கும் பொழுதில் மழை வடிந்த சாலைகளில் காலார நடக்கவேண்டும், ஈரமான தெருக்களில் ஆங்காங்கே தேங்கிஇருக்கும் குட்டை நீரில் யாரும் பார்க்காத நேரத்தில் கால் நனைக்க வேண்டும், கண்களை மூடி எனக்குள் நானே ஒரு முறை சிரிக்க வேண்டும். பின் வீடு திரும்பி, மூடிக்கிடக்கும் புத்தகத்தை கையிலேந்தி எங்கோ எங்கோ தொலைந்துபோக வேண்டும், and let it rain till then.

The computer is personal again!

Winter of 1998. I was a school boy then, a little boy with a small face, smaller frame and a wide and innocent smile.That year the rains had come in a bit early, and my house was flooded with relatives. I fell ill just like i did in any rainy season. I still remember the day, it was a sunday and the visitors were packing home. I was ridden on my bed with no excitement to play or to bid them goodbye. It was then when dad came to me and said "It's coming home today". I forgot that i was ill, i forgot i was only wearing my brief, i jumped from bed stood near the gate for hours, waiting for the new visitor to our house. The visitor which had kept me excited for a few months then. I stood in the place for hours, refused food from mom and ignored the tease of my brother, and sometime in the evening there came an auto carrying the visitor. My visitor came in boxes, in huge and heavy cardboard boxes. I wanted to shout. "We have got a new computer". I wanted to shout hard, to make sure that everybody in my neighborhood heard the news mainly i wanted Iyer aunty to hear it cos she already had a PC and whenever i went to her house she stopped me from touching it saying i was small to handle it. Now i wanted to shout at her face "Aunty, now i have my own computerrrr". I walked in the room where they were assembling it, i stood behind the door fearing to go near it. It was white all over, it had a few boxes here and there and a bunch of interlinked wires and cables. After the technicians had left and after the house went to sleep, sometime in the midnight i woke up in the darkness, sat in the huge chair and pressed on some buttons. The computer, my new childhood friend came to life. The screen glowed and Windows welcomed me to a new world of possibilities. At that midnight started a very personal relationship between me and my computers.

1998 was a time when personal computers first started invading into our homes, the time when Intel sold its Pentium II processors and the name Bill gates and windows was slowly becoming household. In the summer of my 7th grade i saw a PC at a relatives home.For someone who only knew pc's had a dark screen with white fonts, and ran MS-Dos, looking at a modern PC was quite a shock. I remember shivering to touch the mouse, i almost fainted looking at the million colours on screen. I almost died when i was said that this thing could play games, songs and even tamil movies. My dad being a man ahead of his times wanted to have one for us. But remember it was nearly a decade back, so we pre ordered and waited for months to get it imported from singapore. We paid 65000 to get our first PC. It was configured with a 32Mb RAM, a 4GB HDD, a pentium II processor and a floppy drive :) (CD drive came later and it cost us a hole) and it ran on Windows 95. For me and my brother the computer became our world. I became a star in the neighbourhood i skipped my street cricket. After school i was immersed in the white box, changing wallpapers, opening ms paint and try painting, changing the screensaver to float with the name Vignesh, writing files to the floppy disk and fighting with arun(bro) over who plays the car race next. The PC literally became our world. At school in a batch of 140 only 2 had PC's the third one was me. We became the elite of the lot cos we knew how to handle the mighty:). When our school got new and modern PC we were in the team who taught our peers to click and drag the mouse pointer. I felt so proud when the girls said "hey how do you do this so easily" .Man i was in ninth heaven.

The games were moved indoor, life revolved around the room. Arun brought in games, of huge and mighty cars and trucks. We secretly raced on them after people went to sleep. We borrowed movies and the PC became our little theater. That summer all my friends denounced the streets and after mom left for work. We had friends flock in and tournaments held in the touch of mouse. The prince of persia, Soccer 96, Brian lara cricket, tomb raider, carmageddon.Arun and I became the heros of the "area". It was tough to imagine the house without the PC. Back then i din know what was meant by an OS, a processor, a kernel, motherboard, handlers, threads processes nothing. All i knew was with the touch of a button a whole new world opens before the eye. I was just a kid who was ignorant of the fact that computers and life were complex by very nature. Years passed and the PC worked, played and it grew with me. Arun left for college and now i became the new master. We had got Internet by then. i went online. created mail-ids, visited porn sites, got hooked to chat. Life became dependent on the machine when i left for college for the first time i knew its not just the company of humans that you miss, at times a box of mere circuits and boards becomes more human than humans themselves.

And then after a hiatus of a few years i got my Lakshmi. Yup my cute little, Lakshmi. Summer of 2006 was when lakshmi entered into my life, this time i hand picked her and decorated with all that i liked. This time there was no arun to quarell and Lakshmi was all mine. I dont exactly remember when i named her lakshmi, but till date i could say lakshmi is one of the best friends i ve ever got. Its always "Lakshmi, boot up", "lakshmii hate you when u get hanged" "hey lakshmi wats the next movie?" "Laskmi im bored what shall we do today?". I speak with my PC and it responds, yup its the one with whom i spend the most of my life with it almost became a companion. It knows me more than any human does, it has inside it all my passions, from the movies i like to the designs i have done, from the mails i ve typed to all the posts that i wrote, from a few memories to savor to a few photographs to cherish . Lakshmi or my own PC has been there with me for years now and if it were a human it could almost recite my everyday life. For me a computer is just like the rest of us, it comes home with the excitement of a new born, it comes to life with the flow of electrons over its nerves, it accompanies you in all the good and the bad times, it shares your memories and it knows what exactly you do when you are alone, it sings for you, it plays for you, it teaches you everything under the sky, its there for when you need it, it grows old with time, it tries hard to cope up with the times and someday it gets obsolete. Then you go for another one.

Oh lakshmi you heard it?, oh its not you. Don cry now, you are still young, hip and very very sexy.I swear ill not ditch you, I swear at no cause, believe me.