Literary Diarrhoea

(This is going to be a series of posts leading up to my graduation on August 10th. And it is about the best time of my life)

"Academic success is just on the scroll,

But the memory remains forever etched on soul"

It seems just like a year ago that an idealistic and impressionable young boy walked into a private university in Malacca to register himself for a course he didn’t know much about, nor had much interest in. As unprepared that he was, the boy was pretty excited about the prospect of meeting new people and the abundance of experience to be gathered in his time there. 6 years on, this boy, now a man, would like to pen down his story of the most glorious times of any person’s life - the university years.

I was 17 going on 18 when i registered myself in MMU Melaka for a degree course in electronics engineering. At that time, my brother was studying for mechanical engineering in UTM while my father was a civil engineer. There was not much question of what my future would be after high school. The question was rather, "Which engineering school would you like?".

When we all moved to KL from Penang after my Form 5, i had met a guy called Pradeep in the Sai Centre in Subang. He was my age and applied for MMU too. We chatted a bit, and though i found him to be a bit of a rebel, we sorta clicked. Later i found out that he thought i had nice features and a funky hairstyle. I just thought he was a funny prick.

Later, fate would decide that this funny prick ended up being my roommate in Emerald Park, a jailhouse of a private hostel just outside the MMU main gate. Orientation week started as soon as we registered, and we all were allowed to mingle and make new friends. I met a small framed boy called Nirmal. At first glance he looked like a typical Malayalee boy from Kerala. A few football games together (and missing penalties together) got me acquainted to him. He was Punjabi. I swear to God, Penang never had Punjabis that small and cute. They were all huge, beer-bellied and bearded. This guy was small, clean-shaven and puked after one can of beer.

One day, as Pradeep and I sat and spoke about the people we’ve met and exchanged notes about girls, he said he met one particular guy who is so damn cool. And the reason why this boy was cool was because he had the biggest and best porn collection and was willing to share it with us. And this is how i met Rohan. Initially, i must say,  Rohan didnt impress me much, neither did his porno collection which never really made it to our room. But Rohan lived just opposite our room in EP, and so being friends with Rohan made me meet another guy called Puva. This guy Puva was from Ipoh. He started talking the day i met him, and he is still going strong. I’ve had some good chats with this guy, and never will I ever doubt that he’s going to be a politician.

Football was a big part of my life then, and i joined a group of guys who played football at a small area of sand and dead grass just beside the tennis courts. Here is where i met the best part of what will turn out to be WhupAss Clan and NUTS FC. I met Kishen, a really good footballer. I met Bal, a big sized bhai dude with a girl’s voice and a small boy’s turban. I met Devan and Khugan, both identical in terms of their anorexic body but very tough on the ball. Also got to meet Vinoth, a pretty nice guy to chat with but somehow disappeared every time the lights went off. Apart from these guys, i also met a guy from Sabah called Coach. Coach didnt quite like me in the beginning because Pradeep stepped on his hands once during football. But within weeks, Coach didn’t stand the idea of being deprived of our friendship, and he approached us to seek forgiveness. We duly forgave him, and established the start of the craziest of times in Emerald Park, which ended with all of us being kicked out of EP and Coach returning to Sabah without a proper farewell.

Naresh Lal and Jayaveera were other 2 guys whom i’ve known before coming into MMU, and they continued to be my friends in university. Jayaveera was our roommate for a long time in EP, and the smell of his fart still lingers in certain regions of EP. Naresh was one of the guys sitting with Nirmal and I in Rama Ram(now known as Spices Hub but still tasting the same), when we formed NUTS FC. Naresh was goalkeeper. Our team never lost by conceding less than 3 goals at those times. My best memory of Naresh as keeper was when he took a goal kick that hit one of the defenders standing just meters away from him. If im not wrong, it must’ve been Vinoth, and the game must’ve been after dusk.

Whup Ass Clan was formed primarily to allow a bigger number of people into our circle of friends. We really loved having new members in Whup Ass Clan, because that would mean a new Ass to Whup. I remember the time Pradeep and I were christened into the Clan. I wore double belts and a tight jeans. It was to no avail. I couldnt sit for a few hours, thanks to Ramanan - a guy who i only remember as the best hand in an Ass whupping session. The only consolation i got was, i chose to go first, which means i got to whup Pradeep’s ass. Pradeep’s non-existent ass, that is.

I think only a few guys really escaped getting whupped, with reasons varying from asthma attacks (Jayaveera) to just simply being a cry baby about it (Bal). But if ever there was a guy whom we did not whup because of his sheer destructive nature, it was Melvin. This was a guy, averagely built with lots of hair from cheeks to toe, who can just slap you accidentally if you are within his reach. Try poking his hips if you want to know what a concussion feels like. Melvin Raj - the most clumsy dont-touch-me guy I’ve ever met.

The way i met Giribalan was very memorable. Prior to this event, i only knew Giri as a nerdy boy who hung out with nerds. Then, something happened that changed everything. Giri had slapped a guy called Bryan. And though Bryan had literally asked for it, there was some "tak-puas-ness" about the whole thing. Giri sought some help, and at the end of the day, General Coach got involved and Bryan and his screwdriver yielding gang from Kajang were ousted.

(to be continued - fuck, i havent even finished on Alpha and there’s so much to write, i think this write-ups gonna have a lot of sequels!!!)

Coming up next…

The association with the local thug Pathma

A foul-mouthed Sai brother Selva

Sleeping in Melaka town waiting for the 7am bus

and last but not least…

Failing exams.

Another piece, plagiarised from my dad with rights, being the second-in-line to the throne Enjoy…

Jana was sitting in his small but cosy living room. His wife Suja sat across from him, while his 10 year old daughter Vinny sat on the carpet at their feet. Their teenage son Jeevan was sprawled on the armchair.

Suja: “I heard you met up with your old boss today?”

Jana smiled to himself, “He is in trouble now”.

Suja looked at him.

Jana: “I warned him many times that this would happen, but he never listened”

Vinny, who had been silent for while spoke suddenly : “Why do you say that?”

Jana just grunted.

Jeevan looked at him for a moment.

Suja : “He is such a nice man. And he deserves it”

Vinny : “You always say such things”

Jana : “That’s not the point at all. He just pushes his luck, and this time he pushed it too far”

Vinny : “That’s a nasty thing to say”

Suja: “Of course we feel good when such things happen to people we know.”

Vinny: “I just don’t think that’s right”

Jana : “What do you think we should do ? Rescue him ?”

Suja: “Is he at Kamunting ?”

Jana: “He could go to hell for all I care”

Vinny: “I just don’t want to be a part of this. Just leave me out. Bye Nimmi.”.

Suja: “Ok, Bye Sangeeta. We will meet up sometime.”

Jana: “Well, Prabhu, you go ahead and help him, I wont. Bye.”
Jana turned to his wife: “Krishnan is in trouble with loan sharks. Prabhu wants to help out. I told him I am not lifting a finger. Krishnan, he is incorrigible.”

Vinny: “Mom, I hate Nimmi. She is such a gossip.”

Suja: “Jana dear, I just spoke to Sangeeta. Her ex-boss Vino, remember him ? He has been promoted to Branch Manager. He is posted to Kamunting, so near his hometown. So lucky.”

Jana grunted. But he didn’t hear anything. He was dialing again. Vinny fiddled with the iPod. Jeevan glanced at them, and went back to his messaging. Suja picked up the Astro remote.

He opens the drawer and finds the book its little and green to most eyes unseen flips the pages memories gush in teardrop gathered overwhelmed shame recall the moment the call that came a worried mother of her daughters steps words of caution shameless confession pride at throne love the victim later he hears of her new path glad that his prayers bore at last but alone he ponders and himself asks, will she ever forget the past?

It was white in colour, carelessly painted. The canvas of this art was in fact the side panel of an orange phone booth, situated right beside the Rukun Tetangga operations office (which doubles as our Art Class in the daytime). The ink, probably from a spray paint, had dribbled a little before drying up; creating an effect usually reserved for posters of B-grade horror films. I stood for a while, checking with my memory, of this very unusual but hauntingly familiar image I saw in front of my 9-year-old eyes. After a while, impatience got the better of me, and I tugged on my brother’s sleeves and inquired, as would every obedient younger brother.

“It’s a bad word, the gangsters in my school use it,” my 12 year-old elder brother explained.

I stared again.

FUCK.

It looked too simple, too harmless to be a bad word. It was just 4 letters, but it looked like so much more, being sprayed across a public facility, staring out at me with stealth. I needed to probe further.

“How do you pronounce it?” I asked innocently. My brother was evidently annoyed.

“I’ll tell you, only if you promise not to use it ever. And don’t tell Appa I taught you,” he looked almost like my dad when he warned me like this.

“Of course, I promise!”

“Fuck”

“Fuck? Isn’t it FOOOK? Like in Cook?”

“No it’s fuck, now shut up and don’t say that word again. It’s a bad word”

I remember clearly, that was the only word in my mind the whole trip back home.

This really is a true story; I think my brother would vouch for me. But I wouldn’t blame him if he had forgotten about this whole incident. It wasn’t much of an eventful day in his life. But to me, it was a beginning of a great discovery.

I don’t think I need to explain about that experience, involving dictionaries and uncomfortable conversations with elders. My point lies not in that. On the other hand, allow me to concentrate on the matter of bad words and my point of view.

For me personally, fuck is not a bad word at all. In fact, I would say fuck is a really convenient word in casual conversations. For example, I will never be able to tell you how difficult my exam was. Except if I use fuck.

IT WAS FUCKING DIFFICULT.

Or

IT WAS FUCKED UP.

The point is right there, there need be no further inquiry on the level of difficulty. It was just fucking difficult. If I had said it was very difficult, I can bet my ass some idiot would ask me,

“How difficult, can you still pass?”

But when I say it’s fucking difficult, you know what the fuck I mean. Period.

Same goes to post-examination dialogues.

“IM FUCKED”

Same goes to describing how much I studied.

“I STUDIED UP TO 5 IN THE FUCKING MORNING”

Or how much I have yet to study.

“I HAVE 7 FUCKING CHAPTERS LEFT”

No one word has done so much for the English Language than the word Fuck. You either fucking acknowledge that fact or just fuck off.

Now, I have a list of bad words I would like to share with you.

INCOMPETENCE

FEAR

DEPRESSION

MELANCHOLY

DESPAIR

JEALOUSY

MISERY

ANGER

I think you get the picture. All the word Fuck does, is help us paint a better picture, in times when conventional language fails us. But the words above; they represent the growing trend of using big terms to mark ones ineptitude. Those are bad words. Those are words abused by incompetent humans to blame their lack of ability on something external, something out of the reach of their control.

And, what’s more, we have gold-digging, money-spinning doctors, dieticians, psychologists and psychiatrists who jump into the opportunity of making the best out of these bad words. And they pay, for sitting in a fucking shrink’s office and telling him how much the burden of life weighs on their feeble fucking shoulders. It’s ridiculous, for a grown human to blame a break-off in a relationship, for example, for the way his life has turned out. Your girlfriend cheats on you, fucking pick yourself up and move on, bitch! Don’t become an alcoholic or a drug addict! That’s fucking brainless, retard!

And I don’t want to write further, for fear of accidentally using any fucking bad words that might fucking offend the reader.

Fuck, man!

(This is a story my father wrote in his blog on 2nd March, 6 days before polling day. How true it sounds now! Haha, i bet even he didnt think it would become a reality.)

The PM looked exhausted. It had been a grueling campaign, and last night as the results came in, the news had not been good all the time. Expectations and disappointments.

His advisors had been with him since early that morning. How should he look. How should he project himself. What should he say. What questions should he expect and how should he answer them. He was sleepy and just wanted to hit the bed.

He stood and faced the reporters and all who had assembled in the room, and smiled weakly.

“ Asalumualaikum, and a very good morning. I am your PM again this morning (scattered laughter). Yes, last night the results of the election came in, and Narisan Basional has been given a strong mandate to govern this country yet again. We thank the people for the confidence in us, and we promise we will not disappoint you.”

Those present looked at each other. They did not look convinced.

“But it is also a fact that we have not done as well as we hoped. We no longer have the 2/3 majority in Parliament, which we have had all along. Also all the MDC candidates lost. We are deeply disappointed. The Dinnian community now has no representation in the Government now. Even their leader, Masylevu who was the sole minister in our Government lost. But all these will not weaken our resolve to be the Government for the people, of the people, and by the people”, he stopped, swallowing on realizing how hollow this sounded.

“The people have spoken. It is their decision. But we will not forsake the entire Dinnian community just because some of them let us down. We will appoint someone to take care of them. We will make sure they get what they deserve”.

One of the Dinnian reporters present looked up. Was it his imagination, that this sounded rather ominous?

Those present applauded half heartedly. The reporters were ready to ask their questions. But the PM’s eyes were half closed. “No questions”, announced the official. And that was it.

At his palatial mansion, Masylevu sat around in sullen silence with his oversized companions. Several bottles were on the table in front of them. In their alcoholic stupor, each was plotting his own revenge on those who had brought their idyllic existence crashing down.

On the vast lawn of the ex-MP, the group of Mubis sat, sipping their sickeningly sweet syrup. How could this happen ? This was their country, and these lowly Dinnian coolies, who had come here to escape their wretched country, who deserved nothing but the lowest contempt, had thrown this glorious reign into disarray. They fumed within themselves, inconsolable at their loss.

Government office canteen. The Government staff , all coincidentally Mubis as usual, looked thoughtful. What did the PM mean when he said he will make sure the Dinnians will get what they deserve? Did he really intend to reward the Dinnians for what they had done ? In their minds they knew exactly what the Dinnians deserved. And the Government machinery will ensure this.

The group of Dinnian friends were at the Temple. They were all smiles. At last, they had made a statement. Everyone recognised them. Life looked rosy. They looked up at their dilapidated Temple. And the pathetic School next to it. Soon these could look very different. Soon, their lives would be transformed. Their future was assured. We are Lamaysians, they thought proudly.

And so it was that Casoman Cavilla went to the forest in search of the Dragon. And upon setting foot on the grass that marks the beginning of another land, Casoman promised himself of no return, unless with the head of the famed Dragon. With Hope as companion, Casoman traversed the alien land, all too familiar with unfamiliarities.

Casoman Cavilla was a son of a preacher, but Faith never shared a room of thought with him. Casoman ridiculed Trust with a passion and slayed Faith with the swords of Reason. Eventhough that, his first steps into the treacherous forest, Casoman begun with a Prayer. In his thought, a Prayer is a promise made to oneself, not to God or an external force. It is a contract with the conscience, not to be broken ever upon undertaking. And that contract this time was never to return without the Dragon, slain.

A few minutes upon traversing the jungle, Casoman stopped, for a moment of quititude. He reflected on his journey, and the words of his master rang in his mind :

Be sure to find it, the Dragon of 5 heads, evil yet mighty. Many men have traversed the path of knowledge, the path of wisdom, the path of power, the path of strength, but none, almost none, has slain the Dragon of the Jungle. And upon finding it, slay it, without thought, without hesitation. But…if at all…in the end of your time, you fail to find the answer to this mysterious Dragon, climb the ninth mountain of the sacred Jungle, and turn the rock that is there, unbelonged. You will find much help, there underneath."

It made Casoman cringe, that his master’s last words were to him, for his benefit. To slay the Dragon, infamous for its ruthlessness, and become the member of the highest order of Warriors.

And so Casoman Cavilla trekked the mountains, and traversed each path, always looking out for signs and tell-tales of a Dragon.

He saw, on one notable occasion, what was to be the remnants of a great city. The city seemed to have been destroyed, yet trickles of shining pearls lay scattered around its marble floors, surviving the lagacy of what once must have been a glorious empire. Inside, Casoman chanced upon massive chests, spilling with pearls and diamonds and golds. A fortune, but no one to claim them. Casoman’s mind did ponder on the turn of fortune he would enjoy, if he took a mere fraction of these treasures home. But no, he had a mission, the dragon, "still the mind, still the mind…" he told himself, leaving the place.

After several days of wandering, something caught Casoman’s attention. A  beautiful song, being sung by a faraway voice. He followed the music, it was a woman’s voice, sweet but with pain. He couldnt make out the language, but he knew this was a sad song. He followed the voice, till he reached a flowing stream. And amongst the rocks that littered the river, Casoman saw a woman, the stream bathing to her voice. She was naked, one with the river and nature. Even her voice, and songs, her flowing hair, and dark, silky skin, were one with nature.

Hearing his footsteps, the woman stopped her singing, and turned to look. Casoman didnt make any conscious effort to hide himself, for he was, in a way, inviting himself to be spotted.

"Who are you!"

"My name is Casoman…i come from a land far away…in search of the Dragon with Five Heads. I didnt mean to interrupt…"

"It’s alright. The hands of fate has met us here, in most unlikely circumstance. Would you like to have a bath with me. You must be really tired from all the trekking"

Saying this, the mysterious woman inched closer to him, the receding water unveiling a well defined bare body, her bosoms clothed only by her dark flowing hair.

Casoman’s every cell tempted him to just rip his clothes off and jump in with her.

"i better get going,…I…I…am already on my way. Goodbye"

He turned his back, fighting back the strongest emotion : temptation of passion, all and only because he had a contract, a deal with his conscience.To avoid the (in)famous "second thoughts", Casoman ran. He ran and ran for hours on end, aimlessly, his mind a blank cacophony of a emptiness. He was beginning to doubt himself, his mission, his purpose, and this made Casoman agitated…running helped ease the burden of doubt. And so he ran.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his neck, and as a warrior, instinct told him to fall. One of the greatest lessons thought to him was the control of general reactions. When a usual person would turn in curiosity, Casoman was trained to respond, not react…Soon, his eyes closed, and he allowed himself to pass out without panic.

Casoman jolted up, head spinning and breathing heavily. There was a drum being played, maybe 2, or maybe a hundred. The sound of drums and conch and stomping feet, indicated a tribal ritual being carried out. In his heart was only one fear; that he be not the reason for the ritual.

The local warriors had caught him, and when he felt a little more oriented, he realised he was tied onto a tree, his hands behind his back. The tribe spoke a language unlike one he has heard before, but their hand gestures told him they only meant harm. He was made to understand, that the penalty for intrusion was death, paid at the first light of dawn.

Fear, is a feeling most terrible. It clutches your soul, squeezes your heart, and burns every cell in your body. A myriad of possibilities run your mind when in fear, all cowardly solutions, acts disgustingly undignified seem naturally acceptable when taken over by the claws of fear. Such was Casoman’s emotional situation, when death loomed just a sunrise away. He thought of trading his family, his riches, his warrior ethics, secrets, everything short of his soul, for the pittance of his life. He cried, screamed, wallowed in self pity, succumbed to fatigue and distress, accepted defeat and resolved to die in shame.

A few hours before dawn, as the tribal watchguards slept, Casoman, in his bouts between sleep and wake, noticed a scene, an event of such miniature size but of colossal significance. There by his tree branch, was a spider web. A bee had unwittingly got itself stuck on it, and the spider waited patiently for the right time to strike. And as helplessly lost the bee would be, it never wasted a single minute in self doubt or pity. On the other hand, the bee, used its mouth, legs, and even its wings trying to wiggle away the web. The bee, being slightly heavy for the web was moving so much and so vigorously that the web became more and more unable to contain the activity. And true and soon enough, the web snapped, the bee escaped, the spider immediately started to work on repairing its broken web.

This gave Casoman much inspiration and insight to the laws of survival. Neither did the bee give up its life to the web, nor did the spider give up its web to a single failure. Both the insects displayed what was so apprently lost in humans today, the will do go on doing their righteous acts. That action is the only substitute and remover of doubt. Without hesitation, Casoman started rubbing the tied knot on his hands upon the tree, having only a couple of hours to go before the watchguards wake up. He used his new found energy and adrenalin to good measure, and blocked out all negativity.

"I am not meant to die this way! I belong in the Order of Warriors. I will survive! i will survive!"

As it got brighter, with only a few minutes to sunrise, Casoman managed to sever the knots and the rope that tied him to the tree. Without hesitation or ideas of revenge, Casoman ran. He ran like he never did before, up the mountains that surrounded the forest. The famous Nine Mountains of the Sacred Jungle.

After days of running, Casoman could see the ninth mountain on sight. He remembered the ninth mountain, told by his Guru, where lied the answer to the Dragon which he has evidently failed to find. He was constantly chased by sounds of horses, bad dreams and sudden frights in his sleep. Casoman recalled his guru’s words

"Fear is the blindfold of the eyes of glory. Overcome fear, and all this world and the netherworlds are yours."

As he climbed his way up the final mountain, his body feeble and undernourished, Casoman realised he did not fear death anymore. He laughed, almost insanely, at the thought that he had held on to life so much, not realising he was dying every second. A coward dies many times before his death, a valiant never tastes of death but once. Casoman laughed and screamed, a thunderous roar, an exclamation, a proclamation by a warrior who has no more fears, when all worries, anxieties, fears, joy or sorrow can never affect him anymore.

It was the last resort, his guru had said..the 9th mountain, turn the rock unbelonged. Casoman crawled atop the mountain, his eyes scanning the ground, so virgin and untravelled. At the back of his mind, he kept asking himself, "Why didnt i find the Dragon!"

But, his maturity had blossomed, and he comforted himself, "There must be a meaning to all this. I shall find the rock"

Finally amongst large rocks of dimmed and greying colour, Casoman saw one, a rock, one amongst the lot, but dinstinctly black and shining. This must be it.

Rushing to the rocks, Casoman lifted the big black rock…

Turning it over, Casoman finds a papyrus leaf underneath, untouched by the natural elements, so pure and divine.

And on it was written :

"The dragon looms not in the forest of this land. It strays large, within the vastness of mind."

Casoman Cavilla closed his eyes. Tears flowed down uncontrollably, his heartbeat amplified on his mind, as he struggled to contain the gravity of the emotion. He flashed back on his days and days in the forest. The treasures that he sacrificed, the carnal desire that he overcame, the successful fight with fear, and his final realisation that to live, one must remove all doubt and fear.

He stood up, took a deep breath. As the vast jungle and faraway lands stretched out on the view from the top of the mountain, Casoman held the papyrus with both his hands. He read the immortal words again :

"The dragon looms not in the forest of this land. It strays large, within the vastness of mind."

Indeed, Casoman had slain the Mighty Dragon.

"It’s gotta go."

Mohandas paced back and forth, each time glancing at the rattan cage.

"No dear! Please!"

Kasturi was a forlorn figure, beaten by the stubborness of her lover, and tied down by the decorum that’s expected of Indian women.

"It’s embarassing, to say the least! I’m a man of honour, a freedom fighter! Its humiliating to think that a man of my character can allow his wife to be part of this cruel sadistic pastime you women are into! What would people say; What would people think at the back of their minds? I have to practice what i preach, walk the talk!"

Kasturi stood up from the floor, and straightened her body. "You always speak about freedom and its greatness. Did you not think for one second about my freedom? My freedom of speech, or my freedom of choice? I have had this with me for the past 5 years. It has become a part of my life. I cannot allow it to be taken away!!"

Again, Kasturi falls to the floor with tears, the hallmark of every women in desperation - taught to every indian women through the movies.

"This is the problem with you women. No sense of appreciation for great things like honour, freedom, pride!"

Kasturi remained on the floor beaten, as Mohandas paced up and and down the hall, the wooden floor creaking to the beat of his steps and her heart.

"I am off to my editor’s office. I am writing an article tonight on the true nature of freedom. I would love to come back to my house, where i live, and find that at least in my house there is true freedom." Mohandas left the room.

The cause of the argument, a rattan cage, housed the mynah, Orange, named after the dark orange coloured beak that Kasturi fell in love with. Orange could speak, words like hello and goodbye. But it was much less the speaking than the listening that brought Orange close to Kasturi.

See, Kasturi was the wife of a famous man, Mohandas Karamchand Ghandi, a revolutionist, a freedom fighter, a warrior in his distinct manner. And there has never been a day in the life of Kasturi that has passed without her being called lucky, and herself feeling so unlucky.

"Being the wife of a national figure," she once shared with her diary, "was like being the wife of his plight, of his struggle, of his people. I never felt like i owned him or he owned me. We both belonged to the fight for independance, him willingly, and I, unknowingly."

Such was the loneliness of Kasturi that she confided and shared most of her grievances with her little mynah Orange. It could as well have been a damn stone she spoke to, because Orange was a bird only interested in the scenary outside the window from which the cage hung, and the occasianal kuaci it ate with intrinsic agility. Sometimes, Kasturi felt inclined to just open the cage and let Orange fly out to the skies, but then again, there was so much that Kasturi only felt inclined to do.

Two hours in the editor’s office, and Mohandas began scribbling sentences into his pad, words that danced to his tune of independance. And within an hour he had actually finished a rough draft of the whole article. He began his conclusion..

My wife showed me today, in her utter innocence and blatant naivety, how a person living in ignorance and compliance can allow slavery and cruel indiscrimination seep into the very core of our hearts. The home in which i live, housed up to today a little creature that belonged in the wilderness, in the skies, floating merrily and singing songs to the trees and oceans. My house, up to today caged such a symbol of freedom in a rattan box, with practically no room for it to spread its wings, let alone fly about. And the wife of Mohandas, up till today thought it was perfectly alright. I end here with this true depiction of our situation. Let us start cleaning our own homes of the dirt of slavery. Let us rid ourselves of the despicable act of animal cruelty. And then, perhaps, we are ready for independance. And then, perhaps, we are ready for true freedom. Then, perhaps.

Upon reaching the house, he saw that his poor wife Kasturi was lying on the same spot where she was when he left amidst their argument. He felt bad, that he had left her with so much of misery, but he consoled himself that it was the right thing to do. Walking towards her, he glanced into her room, and saw that the rattan cage was left open, and the bird, it was no more there. Mohandas felt glad that his wife had followed his instruction, or maybe even realised the message behind it.

He touched her hair softly, and she woke up, her eyes a shadow of tears.

"I have done as you asked"

"Yes, i noticed, Kasturi"

"I really wish you realise…"

"And i, too, wish that of you"

Kasturi knew it was worse talking to him than the bird or the rock. She got herself up, and walked into her room and closed the door.

Mohandas stretched himself out on the patio outside, reading and correcting his article. It was the most relaxing time of his day, the evenings when he sits on his patio, the sun setting in a sea of orange, the birds always busy with chatter, and the crickets and frogs taking turns in musical combat.

Suddenly, Mohandas hears a scream. Then a shriek. It was coming from inside his house, and he rushed to see if Kasturi was alright. She has never looked this sad before, the past few days have been pretty rocky in terms of their relationship. Running into the house, Mohandas tried his best to keep the negative thoughts off his mind. She wouldn’t do anything to herself! No, she’s not that paranoid or suicidal!

He opened her door at once. And there she was, her eyes staring directly at him. He couldnt believe his eyes.

There she was, Kasturi jumping and shrieking in joy, running around the opened rattan cage. Inside the rattan cage, little Orange sat on it’s swing, in her beak, a kuaci, as if nothing at all had changed.

"Look!! Look!! She is back!! My baby Orange has come back to me!! I told you!! I told you!! She wants me!!"

Mohandas closed the room door. He could still hear her talking to her bird, excitedly. He even could hear the bird making noises in return. There was a communication, a deep bond, beyond human understanding, beyond his teachings, his principles, his reason. He felt the little bird knew his wife better than him.

He smiled to himself, and walked to the patio. He took the draft of his article, folded it into half, and without a second thought tore it off. 

Opening his writing pad to a new page, Mohandas started his new article :

My wife showed me today, in her utter innocence and blatant naivety, the true meaning of freedom…

Khadal endru oru paatu kerten,

Athu un raagathil irunthethu,

Azhagi endru oru oviyam parthen,

Athil un mugam therinjethu,

Iravu nerethil nilavai paarthen,

Athu ennei paarthu sirrithethu,

"Yen ippidi sirrikirai?" endru kerten,

"Un manasil irrukum kadhal," yendrethu,

"En kadhal unakku sirruppa irruka?!" yendru kerten,

"Kadhalle oru sirripputhan appa," yendre sonnethu,

Athin solley naan sinthicchu paarthen,

Udeney, naanum sirrithen.

(I asked two of my friends, about ideas to write, as a comeback to blogging after such a long hiatus. One told me to write something different. Another asked me to write something about love. So i decided not to let either of them down. I wrote about love, but in a different language. For those who don’t understand Tamil, i can only say Im glad!)

This post is not going to be a story.

Nor is it going to be an offspring of my imagination.

I am going to be totally honest, this one is about me, my life.

I feel it’s necessary, especially now; for I have a mission now, and one of the ways of realizing this is to be completely honest with others. A friend told me that day, that I wear masks, and it’s alright because we all do and it’s totally normal. I don’t think it’s normal. Masks are only good if you are a clown, or if it’s a Halloween party. Otherwise, masks help you slack and drift off from your identity. And that can only be bad. And in order to avoid myself from hiding behind my mask in the future, I’m using all of you to bear witness to my naked self; my thoughts on my past, my motivation in the present and my ambitions for the future.

One of the worst things to happen to me in recent years is the fact that I am extending my degree program by a year. A lot of people might find it difficult to admit this in the open, in fact I am writing this after much debate within myself too. There was a lot of hurt and disappointment in the eyes of my parents when I broke the news to them, and those who know me well will tell you that’s the last thing I want. My parents have always been my one true blessing, and to let them down merely by my lack of effort and ambition really dealt a blow, to both parties. Even then, they were loving enough not to show me much of their ill feeling. But I feel it, and I know it. The times when their friends ask them how long more for his son to graduate, I shudder as they stumble for a dignified answer. This bugs me a lot, more than I can describe.

See, I have been blessed with wonderful, fun and loyal friends. My university days will live long in my memory as the most glorious days of youth and excitement. But behind all those smiles and laughter was a silent curse of incompetence and lack of ambition. I have no right to blame my failure on my friends, but truth remains that failure is never apparent when all about you are cruising at the same gear. Having said that, I must say there were many friends who chose the better path, some even offering advice, but the youth of my age was very much an ally of ego and pride, of misguided confidence and mistaken priorities.

And then there were friends, in offering help and counsel kept telling me engineering is not my ‘thing’, that my field is that of art and creativity, of mass communications and public relations. I won’t do justice to them if I said they meant harm. Humans generally feel the need to belong, and in my failure they looked for other places for me to belong. And I did believe them, for a while. But a wise man once told me, that adaptability is the single most important quality for any living creature. I still remember him telling me, as the mighty dinosaurs failed to survive, the tiny amoeba lives today, since the start of evolution. Why is that so? Adaptability. And so, why can’t I adapt to life, why can’t I master my destiny, rather than just be pushed about and bullied by the thought and fear that this is not for me?

Often times I gave advice to my friends, to matters ranging from love to life, if they both be not one and the same. I preached love to be decorated bullshit, of human relationships to be based entirely on selfish motives and opportunistic pretense. And from those views, born out of my misguided observations, I attracted a band of followers who would nod and agree to the things that I say. Wisdom comes with a price, and in this case I was pronounced wise just because I was different. I spoke often times with my mind looking for lateral explanations, and in my wit and lip lived much of my celebrated fakeness and fondness to manipulation and deception. I look back now and I see a young man patching up the holes in his life with sands of bad memory and marking it with scars of past; all the while reminding himself, ‘I am right, I am right.’ But no, that was not me. My heart does not hate love; it yearns for it. Love is not just a term for a boy and a girl in relationship, It goes far beyond, where words with arms outstretched fail in vain to enfold.

I mentioned in the beginning, about my mission, my ambition. All this while I have lived behind masks, under the shade of incompetence in a world of lies. I stand now naked, for I have realized my potentials, and that which has been wasted. It is the most aching feeling, to look back and regret, and as much as I want to avoid brooding over the past, I can’t help but feel sorry for the man I was. I have been a boat, adrift this ocean, just adjusting to the weather, rocking along the waves, feeding off what was made available. And now suddenly, I have found a sail. And with this sail of ambition and a hell of a lot of faith, I am about to give myself a new direction. May the winds of fate come in torrents, and the waves of destiny crash on my boat from stern to bow, I shall direct my life to the shores of paradise.

I have only a handful of subjects left to finish my degree, and I expect myself to ace each one of them, for that’s the least I can offer my parents.

I have a long life ahead, and I expect myself to become an ambassador of love, to redefine all it’s splendour, and rediscover its beauty.

I have a winding road ahead, and I expect myself to always be the friend of Truth and ally of Peace, for there is no greater form of bravery than to defend the Truth and offer peace, having made peace with oneself.

Last but not least, I expect myself to rid myself of all the masks I used to wear in every different circumstance. A few may laugh, a handful may ridicule, but there is nothing more liberating than the choice of being your true self.

With that, I bid adieu, there won’t be any more stories in this blog. All this while, I have been living in another’s story, in the characters that I brought to life through imagination and consideration of what you might want to read. It is time now to write my own story, the way I want it to be read. Do bless me, and I love you all!

Yours,

Vijay Dorai

Twas a kite, a bird.

A bird of the kite kind,

Take this to your mind,

A lot of life you will find.

The kite had caught a fish,

A fish of any kind,

Never mind,

Flying high with this fish,

In its mouth balanced,

In its heart excitement.

The forgotten pains,

In dreams, multiplied gains.

But soon the kite was prey,

To the opportunist, inevitable.

An eagle, even from distance,

Is as dangerous and terrible.

The fish, the kite held firm,

And floated with pace,

But nature will confirm,

Often, eagle won the race.

And so with much effort,

The eagle, the kite avoided,

The chase took its toll,

But the fish was still whole,

And provided courage, unfounded.

Down the trees and up the clouds,

The kite travelled, with its fishy baggage,

But the eagle drew close, not much effort.

And then upon colliding with a branch,

The fish, the kite stumbled,

And falling onto the forrest,

The kite cried, a meal wasted!

But turning back, found the eagle,

But the eagle had drifted.

The eagle had drifted.