A walk down memory lane (Warner Road)

Epilogue

I don't know what possesses men (and women, but mostly men) to identify tasks that defy logic (stupid), undertake them and revel in the afterglow of accomplishing them. In every university, at any point in time, there exist a few guys that are capable of executing such tasks with finesse. These guys exist outside the confines of a university too, but I use it to include everyone in the general age group of early twenties. That phase in life when nothing, barring a few things like showing up for that early morning class in winter or timely submission of homework assignments, appears impossible. And in that elite group, there exist two sub groups. One try to cover up their stupidity, leave no tracks and carry their acts to their graves, whenever possible. The second group wear their stupidity on their sleeves like it was a bravery medal. And a few, for the benefit of those that couldn't get to lay their eyes on their sleeves, blog about it...

I am a walking person. I enjoy getting from point A to B on foot. In fact, I'm blessed to be living within walking distance from work, which, for the most part, is a great advantage. Before you berate me for being not truly appreciative, I must dare you to walk 20 minutes in hot, wet tropical climate, trying to reach work in time for that important meeting or conference call. But, on most days, I do enjoy the ~ 20 minute walk, particularly the one back from work. K, my good friend at ASU, and I shared this passion for walking and were part of the walking club of Indian graduate students (members: 2)

We were in the habit of taking long walks on Friday nights. Fridays signalled the end of our part-time work/full-time study week and no matter what state our academic pursuits were in, a long walk was always on the cards. It was a routine that the two of us would look forward to from Wednesday. Elaborate plans would be made, in reverential tones, about the route and the pit stops. But we didn't set ourselves any goals. We would go as far as our legs would take us and our legs would usually take us about 4 miles one way. The pitstops would be gas stations for a drink(for both of us) and cigarettes (for K only) and the topics discussed would include anything from the dinner that night to solutions for all social evils (including the said dinner) and everything in between. Before long, we became the butt of many jokes and earned the moniker "Forrest Gump(s)" from the rest of the friends. A few of them would talk about joining us, one actually did once and swore not to do it again. But we were pretty serious about it, often choosing a good walk over watching a movie with friends and alcohol in the comfort of an air-conditioned apartment. And mind you, this was Phoenix, AZ where the heat, dry and sapping, hung like a blanket well into the night, 8 months a year. We've had people calls us names, dogs straining at their leashes, eager to try Indian food, eggs thrown at us (OK, only at me) and yet, we walked. Every Friday night.

It was around 9pm on one such non-descript Friday night that we realized that we had run out of racquet balls for our weekday evening games. A critical situation, you might agree, that demaded our immediate, undivided attention. So, naturally, our agenda for that night was to walk to the Walmart store (about 3 miles away) and stock up on a pack or two. We reached there in due time to find their doors locked. If sanity had prevailed, we would have walked back home that night, putting off buying them until the next opportunity presented itself. It was Friday, remember, and sanity had taken off early, leaving us under the grip of it's stand in, stupidity. K suggested that we go, as in walk, to the nearest Walmart Supercenter, open for business 24x7, to buy the very critical, life-saving raquet balls. It was unanimously agreed, in under 3 seconds, that that was the best course of action under the circumstances. Only, the nearest supercenter was located a good 10 miles away.

Our march began in right earnest. Great ideas and thoughts spurred us on and the conversation was interesting as always. Girls? Check. Cricket? Yes. Movies? Done. Girls? Yes. Religion? Sure. Politics? Mm hmm. Girls? Yes. Well, you get the drift. We were doing a good job, keeping up a good pace. The first few miles went by without much trouble. We stopped at one of the gas stations to fuel up on gatorade and Marlboro lights. It needs to be mentioned here that the summer of 2002 had taken hold of the Sonoran desert and it was a particularly intense summer. The pitstop was longer than usual and 500ml of the liquid was gone without a trace. But not once there was a mention of beating a retreat. The march continued. We were not too sure about the exact location of the store and were heading out in the general direction of our destination. Since Phoenix has a grid system of roads, we wouldn't be doing additional miles unless we were walking in the opposite direction.

It was well past midnight and we would have done about 5 miles and a couple of hours, on top of the first 3, when things started getting funny and took on a sado-masochistic flavor. With another 5 miles to go, of which we weren't aware at that time, conversation had thinned down and we were walking past silent neighborhoods, with only the occasional car whizzing past. The mouth had gone as dry as the air and the throat parched and I was feeling light. The dinner from early on in the evening was digested and it felt like we hadn't had a drink in ages. Our plight wasn't very different from people trying to sneak into the US from across its southern border, lost in a desert without maps or water. Doubts, about the wisdom behind undertaking this trip, were beginning to creep into our minds and the bodies, dehydrated, were clearly unable to match the spirit (stupidity) that was available at the start. That was when we spotted lights in the distance. As we approached, we realized that it was a Sonic outlet - America's Drive In. Charged at the prospect of a drink and some rest, we quickened the pace and reached there. There were only a couple of cars parked randomly with engines running. We walked up to the menu and sat on the bench opposite, to catch our breath and to rest our legs while debating the drink of choice. We decided on a tall glass of some juice each and as we stood up to order, I'm not making this up to spice up the story, the lights went out and the staff left in the waiting cars, in a mix of squealing tires and exhaust fumes.

I want you to picture this. It was about 1:00 am on a 90+ deg. summer night and there we were, two graduate students - a couple of semesters away from graduating, laying sprawled out, tired and thirsty, on the bench of a dark and empty Sonic outlet that had just closed. We were about 8-9 miles from our apartment, without a cell phone to call either friends or even a taxi. A good 15 minutes must have passed in complete silence before we gathered our wits and decided that we didn't have a choice but to continue to press ahead.

And with that agreement, we trudged along, knowing that we were on the final leg of the journey. We had left behind neighborhoods and were walking down a lonely stretch with nothing but empty lots on either side. The pitstop routine became leaning against lamp posts, waiting for the swimming vision to settle, swearing and trying to preserve ourselves. With the shirt buttons undone and the shoe laces free, if the cops had spotted us that night and wanted to lock us up on suspicion, they would have had very little reason not to do it, in spite of our ID cards. After another hour of labored progress, the destination loomed into sight. I've never felt good about Walmart and their practices. But that night, their store sign was the most pleasing sight I could ever hope for. I pinched myself to see if it was really happening and the skin remained pinched. Entering the comfortable interior of the store we crawled straight to the cooler section. A litre of cold water and sports drinks later, the body and the soul were revived enough to face our next problem: the return journey. If you're thinking, "But didn't you guys think about it earlier?", chances are you skipped the epilogue.

Sanity had just returned and we unanimously ruled out walking back as an option. Over a couple of more bottles of water, we hatched what was a reasonably good plan: we'd take any available late night (or very early morning) bus service in the general direction of our apartment. We scanned the check out counters and picked our target, a native American girl with a pleasing countenance even at that hour. We had gotten smart enough to acknowledge that any random, grumpy late night sales person wasn't going to make the cut. Approaching her gingerly, we brought ourselves to ask for the Valley Metro bus schedule. As unusual as the request was, coming from a couple of idiots, she started looking for it. Unable to find one, she paused, and went "Why do you guys need one?". A very valid question, you might notice. We weren't sure where to begin or how much detail to share when K sprang to life and came clean in one breath. He narrated the entire story very animatedly, including our agenda, as I stood there, still taking swigs from the bottle. I'm not sure about K, but the look that she gave us both was something that will stay with me for a long while. I think this picture would convey more about that situation than any length of prose.

"There ain't no late night services", said the girl, slowly and deliberately, as if she were talking to a couple of kids demanding candies after having brushed their teeth for the night. What followed was truly an awkward silence, interrupted only by the beeps of night owls checking out stuff in the adjacent counters. There was a lot of staring going on back and forth between the three of us. Finally she broke the silence with, "Which direction are you guys headed towards?"

"ASU campus", K and I cried out in unison, sensing that she, and not us, might have a solution to the situation that we had walked into.

It might not have taken her much time to decide that we were a couple of dorks capable of much more stupid things. "I'm getting off work in another 15 minutes and may be I can drop you guys off at the campus", offered the dusky angel. As to why I didn't sweep her into my arms and plant a kiss on her forehead that moment, I'm not sure. It was a small red Chevy truck she had and we piled into the cabin. The entire drive, 10 minutes long, went in listen mode for us. She filled us in about her family, their tribe and their handicrafts shop somewhere in Northern Arizona. She dropped us off at the campus, accepted our gratitude, wished us good luck and drove off into the night.

As her tail lights faded away, one thought was foremost on our minds. "How to buy racquet balls for Monday night?", for there were none in stock that night at the supercenter.

K and I decided to write about this incident independently. For a racier version of the same story, go here.

Artful flu

It appears that the flu is going to be around for a while. The management is sparing no effort to keep all their eggs safe, since they are all in one basket. Temperature screening, which required only visitors from abroad to get checked upon entering the building, has now been extended to all employees. Upon passing the test, you get a nice sticker on your badge with the date, that you wear around all day and, on the way out, you contribute to this avant garde piece of art that is evolving everyday. Thanks to the combination of a well meaning health measure and this nation's neurotic sense of cleanliness, an otherwise comatose staff have now caught the found art bug.

This is my third post related to the swine flu outbreak (after this and this) and I intend to stay away from this wonderful topic. You're welcome. Unless something really blogworthy comes up.

Guns n' roses - India style

Following the progress, or the lack thereof, in the trial of Kasab is an experience of its own. An exercise in probing the very depths of our patience. Introductions first. Kasab is the lone surviving Lashkar-e-Tayiba gunman captured from the November terror attacks in Mumbai, dubbed conveniently as "26/11", a la 9/11. There is videographic evidence available showing his involvement and he has been positively identified by eye witnesses. He is a part of a group that let loose terror on our soil, smoking out innocent human lives.

What have we done since 27/11? We have housed Kasab in a high security jail. He has been provided legal counsel and has promptly pleaded not guilty and a trial that adheres to and upholds the law of the land, trying to prove beyond reasonable doubt that the accused is indeed guilty and, of course, holding him innocent until then, is well underway. His excellency has requested for Urdu newspapers, Urdu Times, to be specific, perfumes and toothpaste to be provided in jail. He has also requested to be allowed to go for walks within the jail complex without which, he claims, he might lose his mental balance. And, he has also directed the police to deposit into his jail account the amount seized from him when he was captured. Mood lighting and channel music are next on his list, perhaps. I'm sure the righteous, secular, bleeding hearts in New Delhi would have fallen over each other in rushing to ensure that all his requests are met and he has been made comfortable and cozy in his new nest. Over the progress of the trial, the emboldened Kasab laughs when his pictures are shown during the trial which has led to a reprimand from the judge. All this while Dr. P Chidambaram was busy answering a series of questions regarding the attacks posed by our friendly neighbor to the west. He has responded to all questions, complete with a 400-page dossier. "We have put together answers to the 30 questions submitted by Pakistan. It is a very comprehensive document, answering each of the 30 questions," beamed the diligent, obedient student, chest swelling with pride. Even as we continue to go around in circles with our procedures and self-righteousness, Pakistan has released Hafeez Saeed, the founder of the Lashkar organization and the alleged brain behind the Mumbai terror attacks, cancelled petitions against his release, cancelled Sarabjit Singh's mercy petition and has been suitably rewarded by the US, which has tripled its aid with very few conditions on how it needs to be spent. A failed state Pakistan may be, but one with a very clever and quick government that knows how to work the right knobs.

Assuming that Kasab is found guilty and handed the death penalty at some point of time in future, there is always the legal system that allows for re-trials, appeals and prayers at many levels even for such a straight forward case that was a slap on the combined faces of our intelligence, security and preparedness. And finally, if all else fails, the mercy petition kicks in. Given our government's unbreakable, 'one-mercy petition-per-month' rule that is written in stone, Kasab might actually end up giving Afzal Guru, convicted of conspiracy in the Dec 2001 attack on our parliament building and a veteran of the 28 member long death row waiting list, company and bide his time until our Prez. Patil clears the pending petitions. In one of the interrogation scripts published online, Kasab says that he was promised jannat (heaven), after completion of the terror attacks. For someone who was wallowing in stone age across the border throughout his sorry life, waking up within a high security prison every morning, brushing his teeth with toothpaste, going for a brisk walk and reading free Urdu newspapers, after applying some perfume, all provided free, Kasab has indeed reached the gates of jannat. The L-e-T has delivered what it had promised him.

Let's say we hang this guy at the crack of dawn tomorrow and by noon the whole world has solid proof that it was a horrible mistake and that he was a wonderful, innocent chap - a nice son, a good brother and all such dung and that he just happened to be at the CST at the wrong time, toting a toy gun that he had bought as a gift for his nephew back in Rawalpindi or some other hell hole. Only, it turned out to be a real gun that took out a few lives. What would happen? Yes, Pakistan would rattle their sabre and the rest of the world will cry foul and will apply "diplomatic pressure" and spout vitriol laced advice on the need to exercise restraint. But our message would have been loud and clear: "You don't mess with us." We would have erred, but on the side of caution and it isn't all that bad when you consider that tiny nations like Bangladesh and Sri Lanka routinely pull the trigger first and ask questions later if their national pride is messed with. If, on the other hand, he is guilty, which he is, quite obviously, then again the same message would have been sent out, forcing wannabe terrorists to at least think twice. But here we are, running a seemingly endless trial at tax payers' expense. The lethargy that the Indian government has put on show in dealing with an event of such magnitude has instead set a wrong tone. Terrorists, trained or aspiring, following the events since 26/11, can conclude, quite correctly, that India is a soft, spineless and stupid state that can be attacked with nothing to fear.

While we take great pride in how quick we are to bounce back (The now famous "Mumbai spirit") every time after a terror attack, we must hang our heads in shame for having such an impotent government that drags its feet when it comes to dispensing justice, even when our national security was breached so brazenly. And provides enough occasions for the Mumbai spirit to shine. Justice delayed is justice denied. But we have our prince, nostro principe, on record saying, "There is a huge line and there are others before him (Afzal Guru). When his number (turn) comes, he will be hanged” - as simple as that. Till then, did you say Burberry for men? Right away, janab!

Adios Michael

Michael Jackson's death initially felt like a distant event. A happening outside my immediate sphere. It didn't quite register the same way with me as, say, Nagesh's or Shivaji Ganesan's did. The passing away of the latter two hit me closer. I grew up watching them perform and were a much bigger part of my childhood than MJ. Yet, it didn't feel right.

While being a kid, against my staple diet of Tamil music (MSV, Ilayaraja and AR Rahman, in that order), the only source of "Western music" that I was ever aware of, was Michael Jackson's. He visited India in 1996. Pepsi (It was Lehar Pepsi then, I think) was offering a free audio cassette of his Dangerous album with the purchase of some quantity of their products. And, as was the case back then, my cousins were among the first citizens of Chennai to get that cassette (as with any other freebie that came out with just about any product in the market) which was playing non-stop. That was the first time ever that I listened to his songs. I quickly caught on to "Black or White" and "Remember the time". Just those words, mind you, for I absolutely couldn't understand the lyrics. But the music was something out of the world and I was truly blown away.

When I was in college, I was bothering my parents to get me a music system. So much that we would have visited a half a dozen showrooms atleast 6 times each, and still managed to not buy one. Anyways, everytime we were there, the sales man would almost always play a MJ CD to demonstrate the capabilities of a system. As the clear beats flowed through the giant speakers, I would get goose bumps. 1200W PMPO was one thing to read on a brochure but a Jackson song gave it a different meaning altogether. Through the 90s, I caught glimpses of his stunning videos on MTV. While I can never claim to be his "fan" in the real sense of the word, he was always on the periphery. I was a long distance fan, if you will.

When trying to make sense of the MJ phenomenon, the first word that springs to mind is style. This man had tons of it and some more. The dance (although his crotch grab made me squirm), the walk, the costumes, the looks, everything had style about it. Style of the kind that was never seen before. It confirmed his status as the King of Pop. And the King had colonized the world. One could love him or hate him but nearly everyone had to have some opinion about him and that was proof of the influence he had over everyone out there.

Then yesterday, at a music store, they were playing a montage of his live performances with video clippings from his tours. Two words: mass hysteria. Be it Europe, the US or Asia, his mere presence on the stage could work the crowds into a mad frenzy. Colossal stadia were filled with people in tears, tearing away at their clothes. Women, and men, had to be helped away as they passed out. I don't know if it was the music or the musician behind such scenes of crowd adulation. This man possessed something that could touch the lives of millions. He was an entertainer. But in the eyes of the masses, he was a messiah. He was special, residing well beyond the realms of mere mortality. Whatever the case, it would be very easy for a person to be carried away at being worshipped by all races across the world. And what is stardom, anyways, without that touch of eccentricity or a streak of self destruction? He was in the news for all the wrong reasons, proven or not, and was getting good at living up to the "Whacko Jacko" label, what with his pale complexion, the weird nose job and financial troubles. The all too familiar tale of sublime talent gone wrong. But I continued to be a long distance fan: of his music and entertainment. As me and my wife stood transfixed, watching the probably 3-minute-long video, I had a lump in my throat. It finally sunk in that the pop icon, the performer, the prodigy, the entertainer that could rally mankind is no more. Somehow, it still doesn't feel right. RIP.

(Image courtesy: www.soulwalking.co.uk)

Beware the hand!

Warning: This post has scary images that are not suitable for the young or the faint at heart. Unless you are Singaporean, that is.

This image is what greets members of the general public these days. At train stations, bus stands, on the side walks and just about everywhere. The latest horror offering from Hollywood? An otherwise normal hand by the day morphs into this creepy one on full moon nights and attacks the city, striking terror among residents. The local priest knows it is the work of the spirit of a young girl that got killed last summer while camping in the woods under very unpleasant circumstances. The cops have closed the case as "Unsolved". This priest knows just what it takes to bring it to an end. He makes a bullet by melting the dead girl's silver pendant and together with the help of a smart guy and an extremely good looking girl, slay it in the grave yard after much blood and gore, you say. Possible, smart reader. But wrong.

The above image is the face of (hand of?) the Health Promotion Board's rather subtle campaign against, what else, the H1N1 virus. To promote washing hands as the first line of defense against the virus. These images started popping up, I'd say, nearly a month back when the virus threat was beginning to take hold. As of last night, there are over a thousand suspected cases of the virus here alone. And a line of child pyschiatrists at the BMW showroom. So much for choosing scare tactics to spread awareness. Here is a second image with more context. A picture is worth a thousand cases, I suppose.

Now, I'm no expert on creating such posters with graphic images. But I'm sure that the HPB would have spent a small fortune on coming up with the above masterpiece. But my question is, why reinvent the wheel? Why re-create when you can reuse? If the concern is to safeguard against germs from beyond your shores, a quick search would have yielded good results that convey the message just as effectively. Like this, for example.

Stop the horror with some common sense and punching the right key (in 2014)!

(Image courtesy: Kon Jirjo's media works for APCC)