Also ran - Part II

I woke up with a start as the alarm broke the silence of the dark morning hour. I got ready and stepped into the clothing provided, munched on some nuts and downed a cup of milk and a litre of water and stepped out looking every bit your long-distance-runner-next-door. En route, I met my colleague on the train. He had done this the year before and assured me that it was not too daunting a task. Words that helped quell the 10K demons that I was fighting.

It was a calm scene that awaited me at the esplanade theaters wherefrom the race began. The sun was just making its usual but muted appearance. The work on the integrated resorts towers in the distance had not started and the sleepy cranes stood out against the morning sky. Ms. Nature, usually grumpy around this latitude, was exceptionally kind that morning. There was a thick cloud cover that saved direct exposure to the sun. The humidity was a pleasant 170%. It was a day as good as any to participate in a marathon. A sea of humanity was moving in the general direction of the start line. An air of serenity hung, much in contrast to the fluttering life forms in my stomach.

As I surveyed the area, it was an even mix of humankind lying scattered around that met my eyes. Yes there were the ones that were lithe enough to scratch their ears with their legs. But amidst the athletically inclined were also to be noticed the rotund, the cherubic and the morbidly obese, giving me the faintest hope that I just might live through this to tell others about it. Fit or otherwise, most were engaged in the fine art of stretching out the limbs and I followed suit, giving notice to my extremities about the impending assault.

I didn't intend to run an inch more than the required 10000 metres and I threaded my way through the milling crowds to a spot that was as close to the start line. Boom! The starting shot was fired and my friend wished me good luck and took off like a scared rabbit. The assembled sea of capped heads started bobbing. For the benefit of posterity, I jumped and waved at the camera positioned at the start line and started pounding the tarmac.

For the first 20 minutes or so, the contest was even. I mean, the contest between me and the race. I was able to keep pace with the runners and stay ahead of the weak and the infirm. Although, it can be argued that it was too crowded to even fall behind. But quickly the race started to gain the upper hand steadily and I found myself losing steam. I was forced to make every pitstop and down glasses of some energy drink they were offering.

The smooth elegance of professional runners is, often times, described as poetry in motion. On that scale, mine would rank as a whooping cough in motion. It was in fits and starts that I started doing the miles. I remember choosing walking over running on many occasions, resembling a MTC bus that has stopped on Anna Salai on a Monday morning. As I braved on, I was definitely feeling heavier, as if I were dragging a ton of bricks behind. I was soaked in sweat and my legs were filling up with, what I'm sure was, concrete or something very similar.

The last stretch, however, was relatively easy. No, it wasn't the hordes of cheering spectators that spurred me on. It wasn't our company's cheering tent either that stirred me into shifting gears. My colleagues were either busy with the refreshments or simply didn't recognize me. My source of inspiration was one particular guy from work who was running just ahead of me. I'm sure he must be a devoted husband to his wife and a doting father to his kids and all that. But for some reason that defies logic, I couldn't bear the thought of the said guy, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Burns from The Simpsons but with a mop of hair, finishing ahead of me. You may call it irrational hatred, but I'll call it inspiration. The last km saw an intense contest between the two of us, about which he probably has no idea till this day. Heavy legs and all, I summoned the last ounce of reserve energy to pull ahead and managed to finish ahead of him.

There exists no photographic evidence of my finishing the race. God is indeed kind, even if only on occasions. So allow me to sum it up for you. I tottered past the finish line as a sweat soaked, tired, heavy mass drained of all energy and emotion. A biological weapon in running gear, if you will. I turned around to ensure that Mr. Burns was still behind and let out a guttural roar. It came out as a barely audible hiss. The clock said I took 80 minutes to complete the distance. Not a bad time, when viewed in context, as provided in part I.

The area around the finish line was much like a concentration camp. Emaciated men and women stood in lines leading up to many different tents. My first one was for a pain relieving balm. A smiling girl, who probably took the train to get there, would squirt a little of it on your extended palm that you proceeded to apply on your knees. Check. The other line was for some energy drink. I downed a couple of bottles. The longest line was for some pastries being handed out to get some sugar going. I proceeded to polish off a red-bean sandwich. Oh and I also picked up the only piece of hardware I've ever been awarded for physical exertions. As I write this, the medallion is occupying the place of pride in, I don't know, some closet. Or is it the second drawer in the dresser?

PS:

In the days after the race, the author (yeah, that's me) acquired a penguin gait and also sounded like a slow moving EMU, what with all the clicks emanating from the lower joints when he attempted to walk. He cited exhaustion as an excuse from any and all domestic assignments for an indecent period of time and still managed not to get kicked out of the house. Although, that says more about the lady of the house. Any weight loss from this misadventure was more than compensated for in a disproportinately short span of time. He is planning to learn from his mistakes and as a result, vows to campaign for a 5K section to be introduced for men next year. Wish him best.

Also ran - Part I

As I sneaked up to my desk this morning, I found an A4 sized envelope from Standard Chartered Bank propped against my keyboard. My name was written across the front, by hand. As I picked it up, I knew that it was not a response to my credit card application; they had already rejected it. The banking institutions have finally become financially responsible, deftly eschewing bad credit. Starting with my application. But I digress. As I held the envelope in my hands, it struck me that it was the certificate for...well, read on.

Late last year, I had signed up, in what may well be a moment of indiscretion, for the Singapore marathon. Okay, the 10K segment. Go ahead. I'll wait till you stop laughing and slapping your knees, at the hilarity of it. (Whistles, drums fingers, tapping the shoes) Welcome back.

I don't run for sport. Period. My athletic pursuits, over the past few years, have never gone beyond clambering down a set of stairs, at what can best be termed as a purposeful trot, to get on to a bus or a train. Or perhaps quickening the pace of the 20 minute walk to work to be able to make it in time for a meeting. Nothing more. Why run when you can walk? Now, before you picture an obese, unshaven couch potato with food crumbs all over with a TV remote in one hand and a family size chips packet on the other, I must assure that I'm anything but. Except for the unshaven look, that is. Allow me to explain. I used to play competitive cricket and clock some time in the gym on a weekly basis. Those were the grad school years. These days, I walk to and from work daily, I'm in serious discussions with my colleagues about starting to play cricket on the weekends and often think, very seriously, about helping my wife with household chores. Professional compulsions is my excuse for tapering down the exertions and I'm running with it.

So, by the strictest definition of the term, I was not a long distance runner and my sense of entering uncharted waters wasn't entirely misplaced when I submitted my name with a mix of optimism and peer pressure in equal parts. Clouded by visions of tearing through the finishing tape, with raining confetti, flashing cameras, cheering crowds, (and while you are at it, throw in some operatic music as well), I had let my heart unseat my reasonably functional brain at a critical moment. The marathon, or any portion of it, was clearly outisde the sphere of my physical abilities. In my mind, I'm still that 'no-distance-too-far' energetic guy, brimming with verve and vigor, running that first run in cricket fast, pouncing on that running ball or at least coming up with a close enough impression of it, and coming steaming in over after over to hurl leather at a frightening 95kmph. The past few years may have eroded the physical abilities but has done nothing to dent the fondness my mind bore towards those days.

In the days leading up to the event, I behaved as if I had signed up for some book reading club. No, I did not work through thick tomes if that is what you thought I did. I just went about my usual routine with absolutely no physical preparations towards the approaching event. With a book club, you at least have options to cover up your lack of time (lazinenss): listen to the book on tape, watch the movie adaptation (Salute to George L. Costanza) or get a brain dump from someone that has read the book. The marathon, come to think of it, however offers no place to hide. Sign up, practice and perform. As complex as that.

Talk in the office, meantime, centered around individual goals of improved distances or bettering personal times. The ignominy of not being able to complete the race, a realistic possibility, loomed larger than the race itself. The management had arranged for a couple of sessions from professional athletes/coaches on running best practices which I had missed as I was away on travel. Left to my own devices, I decided to buckle up and rough it out.

Even just a fair grip of common sense dictates that a bit of practice couldn't hurt my chances of, if it came down to it, crawling on all fours past the finish line. So when my wife announced, on a sunny Sunday morning, a couple of weeks ahead of the marathon, that we had run out of milk and a few other items, I put on a cap, slipped into my shoes and did the unthinkable: run to the farthest of the two nearby supermarkets and procure the essentials. At about the half way mark, because of utmost bodily discomfort, I gave up and walked.

This practice run served no purpose beyond stirring up a hornet's nest that my body was. Muscles, ones that I didn't even know existed, revolted against this abuse that was let loose on them without notice. Accustomed only to the care and love of the preceding years, the muscles, very badly surprised, struck work, leaving me with a funny gait for a few days. A normal person could have been intimidated by the side effects that I underwent. But I pressed ahead, spurred by only one thought: pulling out entailed a hefty fine if I didn't possess a visible infirmity. Jokes apart, that practise run, even if thwarted mid-way, stripped me of any pride and dispelled any notions of glory. Instead, it stoked the instincts of self preservation and survival at which I don't suck as much. My expectations from the race were now: avoid the fine, stay alive, finish the race on my legs, as opposed to getting wheeled in on a gurney and forget about clocking a decent time. In that order. I was prepared to complete it the next day if it came to that. As someone once said, participation, and not winning, matters.

The only section that I faithfully followed on the preparation guide that came with the running kit was "Preparations on the day before". It had mentioned enough rest and nutritious food, both of which I partook in ample quantities. I woke up particularly late and breakfasted at around 11:00. After some lounging around (remember, plenty of rest on the day before...) had lunch at 4 pm (Yes, 1600 hrs). I then watched Pulp fiction on DVD and went out for a stroll in the evening, rounding off the day with a late but sumptuous dinner (remember, nutritious food...). And as a result of the schedule, I couldn't fall asleep until 2am. Or 5 hrs before the starting shot was fired.

Lost in translation

The Tamil movie, Rajinikant starrer, Mannan was aired on the local Tamil channel. With English subtitles. This movie marked the best partnership between Rajini and His Excellency Goundamani since 16 vayadhinile.

For the benefit of those (few) who may not be aware, this movie has one of the best comic sequences where the two of them cite flimsy reasons to take time off work to buy the first two tickets to a movie opening, and thus win prizes that come with it. And eventually get caught. See? It doesn't sound all that funny when you read that right? That is exactly the point of this post.

One of the most famous quips from H.E as he prepares to collect his prize is this:

"Naatla indha thozhiladhibarunga tholla thaangala da. Punnaakku vikkiravan gundoosi vikkiravan ellam thozhiladhibaraam."

The English subtitle that came on was this:

"These days, every Tom, Dick and Harry is an industrialist."

Simply put, it was lost in translation.

For the sake of a dinner

Jatilo mundii lujnchhitakeshah

kaashhaayaambarabahukritaveshhah

pashyannapi cana pashyati muudhah

udaranimittam bahukritaveshhah

False signs of piety, matted locks, shaven heads or plucked hairs

Or ochre robes and others in variegated holy colors

Are so affected, just to earn an earthly living

And fools so blinded, are oblivious of the truth revealing

-Bhajagovindam by Adi Shankara

Since early childhood I've had two persistent symptoms - hunger at meal times and sleepiness at bedtime. The doc says that they aren't necessarily bad. But what would the doctor know? He is a nice man, mind you. The difference is that he resides in South Chennai, spoiled for choice by the many restaurants and home cooked food and timely sleep while I, on the other hand, am often times forced to scramble for food in far away lands, eyes red-shot with lack of sleep. Without further delay, let's delve into the next chapter in my quest for vegetarian food in the land of the Hyundais, Samsung and meaty menus. (I'm afraid that this has become a recurring theme in this blog. After this and this. But then, if I don't have anything profound to offer on world affairs and feel like saying something nevertheless, I turn inwards and start digging.)

This time, I was staying at a much less nicer hotel in a new township outside of Seoul. This place charges a lower rent and is closer to both our office and customer sites. Twin advantages to my management and none for me. And adding salt to the wounds is that I had to hunt in unfamiliar terrain for food as opposed to the now-familiar and pricey Seoul area where I can walk, with my eyes closed, to Indian eateries.

Hope springs eternal. And springs forth rather wildly around dinner time after a dog's day at work. I took a walk around the block to see if there was a pizza or a pasta place where, together with the chef's cooperation, I could conjure up a vegetarian dish. Finding none, I took a taxi to the Indian restaurant in the next town, Suwon. Exactly 15 minutes later, I was at their doorstep, staring with wide eyes at the handwritten notice saying that their weekly holiday happens to fall, as luck would have it, on Mondays. There are 3 dimensions to the universality of Indian restaurants across earth: a stereotyped ambience (print of a North Indian lady in ghagra choli churning milk adorning the wall, the inevitable elephant bearing a generic King, a carpet, and some Hindi song playing in the background), bad service and smelly restrooms. Mondays-off adds the 4th dimension to it. Seriously, what's with Indian restaurants and Mondays-off? I've been stumped by this unwritten rule in 3 continents now. If you can keep that darned place running for 6 days a week, how difficult it is on the 7th? Huh? Since when did making money go sour? Enough said. Back to the story.

Knowing that there was a second Indian restaurant just around the corner, I marched there confidently, only to find them closed too. Brothers in arms. I still peered through the glass doors and could detect human presence in the kitchen by the far end, beyond an empty, dark dining hall. An empty restaurant but a functioning kitchen? Something was amiss. Knowing that food in some form should be available, I knocked on the glass door. No response. Of course! More knocks, no response. I was tapping away on the glass like Zakir Husain when finally an exasperated lady opened the door and offered a questioning look.

A wave of spicy aroma wafted through the open door and I walked right past her in auto-cruise and took the seat closest to the kitchen. She followed right behind. She was not Korean and spoke halting English with a Spanish accent. Perhaps from Philippines. Not that it really mattered to me. She made it very clear that the place was open exclusively for a group of Indians who were residing in a nearby guest house and that dinner was being prepared only for them. Apparently, this was a "mess" and they were on some meal plan. Oh, and that they were expected anytime now. I asked her if I could I have a quick bite and escape into the darkness? Nope. Could I take away a little food? Negative. Apparently, she donned the security cap too, besides her chef's.

A man's appetite, whipped up at the prospect of a square, sumptuous meal, when denied, can lead to delirium. Or histrionic abilities. I reached deep inside me and came out with the best pleading look that I could muster. I told her that I was cold and hungry and that my survival depended on partaking the ambrosia that she had cooked up for the night. I may or may not have been on one knee at that time. I must have touched her motherly instincts for the resolve in her steely eyes started to melt. Exactly an eighth of a matronly smile spread across her face. She agreed to let me have a quick bite from the 4-item dinner before the pack arrived and went back into the kitchen to put some final touches to the meal. I don't know her real name but let's just call her Santa Maria.

Life couldn't be any better. Yes, I was staying at a cheap place with bad service. Granted, I'd much rather be in Singapore rather than in Korea, or, at least, in Seoul than in Suwon. Of course, Monday nights are a nightmare for traveling vegetarians. But still, just as a seed takes root on a rock, just as a baby turtle finds its way to the waves, I could manage to melt Santa Maria into letting me wet my beak. You could picture me seated at the table with a napkin across my lap and a contented smile across my face, brought on by my good fortune and the dinner that lay ahead, with a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other. As I said, life couldn't be any better.

It was precisely at this moment that Fate decided that there was one more hazard missing from my signature golf course. Enter Ms. "Killer Eyes" Kim, a wiry Korean lady with a stern countenance who could pass for a principal in any school across the Korean peninsula. Something about her suggested that she took no nonesense. Instinctively I sensed trouble and clutched the spoon and fork tighter. My eyes followed her as she hung her coat and switched on the lights and as soon as I came across her field of vision, walked straight up to me.

The rattling inside the kitchen stopped as Santa Maria came out looking a bit uneasy. A brief Anglo-Korean exchange took place between the ladies and the principal had sniffed out a student prank even before it could be unleashed. I think Santa Maria, despite her best intentions, God bless her soul, had plead innocence and I was now the focus of Kim's gaze.

Scientists of repute, after much study, I'm sure, have classified animal response to fear into two categories: fight or flee. But I disagree. There is a third type of response: Fake. That's right. Fake it or act like a fool.

I knew I was an uninvited guest and that the only way out was to look every bit like something the cat had dragged in. This time around, I rolled up my sleeves, reached inside and came out with the most foolish look that I could muster. Or, as quite a few of you may agree, I simply put on my natural face.

Kim: You what guest house?

Me: What? Oh common miss! It's just a little food that I plan to eat. Not much. They won't even notice.

Kim: Name of guest house?

Me; Guest house? Lady, you're taking this too far, I tell you. Its a cold night and I'm a hungry man. Moreover, ma'am, I've struck a deal with Our Lady of Kindness for Hungry Wayfarers in the kitchen.

Kim: Rahul friend you? (By now a bit frustrated)

Me: Guest. Rahul? Who the hell is Rahul? If he stood next to you right now, I won't be able to tell him from the next guy. Unless we're discussing Rahul Dravid here.

Kim: Rahul friend?

Me: Rahul. Friend. Yes.

It became evident to me that Rahul must be the elected leader of the local desi gang who called the shots around that place. If this were the movie Kalidasa, this would be the exact scene where Kalidasa, (as portrayed by Sivaji Ganesan) the gullible simpleton till that point, would start spouting exquisite verses after being blessed by Goddess Kali herself. Yours truly, having latched on to the idea that Rahul was the admin password to my dinner, began framing full, confident sentences, outlining my long standing friendship with Mr. Faceless Rahul. In an attempt to buy some time and appease Ms. Kim, I was in the middle of explaining how, as kids, Rahul and I would never eat unless it was off the same plate when dinner was finally brought out.

Thankfully, Principal Kim relented, gesturing me to take a seat, probably coming to the conclusion that Rahul had the biggest idiot in all of mankind for a friend. Or perhaps hoping that Rahul, he of the big twirling mustache, red turban, double barrelled gun and a bullet strap running across his chest, shooting fake friends as he rode on his horse, would show up mid-meal and tear my facade to bits.

The meal was simple: channa, an extremely spicy sambar (the only vegetables that I could recognize in it were well built, sliced chillies), vegetable rice and some curd. I wasn't sure about the portions: whether it was a "limited meals" or "unlimited meals". But I decided to make a full meal out of it nevertheless and my plate looked like Mt. Rice was rising out of the Sea of Sambar.Hell, if I were to be thrown out, it would be on a full stomach. I was delicately working through the second course (Mt. Rice capped with channa) when Santa Maria came out with a soft chappathi, deposited it on my plate and winked at me. Gracias Senorita! (English: Can I have one more before Rahul arrives?) I dined with furtive glances towards the door, eyeing every single Indian male that walked through the door with suspicion. Ms. Kim hovered around the entrance, with one eye on me and the other peeled for Rahul. But no Rahul came. And my bluff was not called. I had a sumptuous (but quick) dinner and paid what was a subsidized rate meant for Rahul and co.

On the way out, I grabbed a slice of carrot that Santa Maria had brought out as an afterthought and stepped into the cold night. A nearly full stomach can do wonders to a man's mood. I walked around the block, musing about my swing in fortunes in the past hour, smiling to myself the smile of the satiated. Another role had been essayed. Another meal had been won against all odds and yet another battle won. Strange are the ways of life. And, as they say, I live to face another day.

A Thursday morning

8:00 AM

As I got off the elevator and walked to the hotel lobby this morning, there were whispers and giggles among the front desk staff.

7:00 AM

rrrrrring....rrrrrrrring rrrrrring....rrrrrrrring

Me: Hello?

Girl (in a cheerful voice): Good morning Sir! This is your 7 AM wake up call.

Me (in a groggy yet matter-of-fact voice): Hi...I went to sleep very late last night...

Girl: ...

Me: I need some more sleep. Can you wake me up at 7:15, please?

Girl (in a serious voice): You mean seven, one, five?

Me: Yes.

Girl (again in a serious voice): OK...

Click.

7:14 AM

rrrrrring....rrrrrrrring

Me: Hello?

Girl (in a cheerful voice): Sir, its 7:15! You have to wake up!

Me (in a resigned voice): OK...Thank you.

Click.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes before I got out of the bed to take on the day.

Cultural shock

Today was the first time I was inside the portals of an educational institution here in Singapore. Well, if you don't count that one time I was over at Brewerkz by Clarke quay ;-) The occasion? Agni 2010, the Tamil cultural program of Andersen's Junior College (AJC) The reason? My niece, a student there, was participating in 3 different dance pieces.

I was really looking forward to it. It has been a while since I soaked in the atmosphere of a "college culturals". Hell, now that I think of it, it's been an embarrassingly long time since I graduated. Ah, never mind. But having done my bit of culturals in India, and specifically Chennai, I wanted to see how it gets done around here. And up front, I'll give you the verdict: disappointed.

The one thing that comes to mind when you observe life in general in Singapore is order. Clockwork, precise, boringly efficient. And throw in top of the shelf technology and facilities, I was expecting to be blown away by an audiovisual storm, a cultural extravaganza or a creative explosion. I was ready for the Avatar of culturals, if you will. Instead what I got was an insipid program that was sagging at many stages, leaving me underwhelmed. Without further ado, let's get into the details.

First off, the event got off to a late start. And I'm talking a good 45 minutes behind schedule. Most of which was spent contemplating the possible reason behind the happiness of the two styrofoam peacocks on either side of the dais, who, between them, were missing all 4 legs. The first event was lighting of the oil lamp. No surprises there. But for some reason the event was well hidden from the view of most of the audience. தமிழ் தாய் வாழ்த்து (Tamizh thaai vaazhthu) threw the first curve ball. I was expecting to hear the standard issue neerarum kadal udutha. Instead, the opening notes sounded suspiciously similar to yamunai aatrile from dhalapathy. I was wrong. It wasn't similar: it was the exact same tune. The Singaporean version is, apparently, a song set to the same Ilayaraja tune. I'm not complaining. Just as long as the lyrics aren't a slur on the language, one can get creative with the tune is my take on it.

In keeping with the culturals' protocol, the students were clothed in traditional attire. Translation: sarees for the girls and kurthas for the guys. And that included Chinese students as well. Long story short, everyone was a Mandira Bedi. And there is the universal law that governs these cultural thingies which stateth "The girls of the visiting colleges shath be more prettier than thy own". I was a complete outsider in the evening's proceedings, but even I could sense that the above law was applied. The other observation that I made was that the moms were, ahem, definitely better looking than their daughters.

Next up was the usual routine of speeches which were mercifully short. And long. Allow me to explain. Each Tamil speech was followed by the English translation. Suddenly everybody sounded like Major Sundararajan. And the speeches reminded me of the sugamalikkum thiruvizhas by white evangelists peddling Christianity along the Marina in Chennai. Their each pronouncement getting translated into Tamil for the consumption of the gathered locals. Thankfully, only 2 from Singapore's 4 national languages were considered tonight.

A video clip was to be shown. But just as soon as that announcement came on, the av guy turned pale and started waving frantically, grabbed a walkie-talkie and ran into the projector room. Silence for 5 minutes.

Compere 1: Due to a technical snag, the video will be delayed a bit.

Compere 2: திரைக்காட்சிப் படம் சற்று நேரத்தில் காட்டப்படும்

5 more uncertain minutes later,

Compere 1: Due to a technical snag, the video will not be shown.

Compere 2: திரைக்காட்சிப் படம் காட்டப்படாது

The av guy came out, relieved of whatever was bothering him.

Having negotiated the speeches and the snag, we settled in for some real action. Let the show begin. The first dance piece in which my niece participated in was really well choreographed and executed. That girl does know to shake a limb well. The program was all downhill from there on. Blood. Thicker. Water. You might argue. Not if I produce enough proof.

An indifferent 4-student-band launched a sustained, off-key attack on the song "kaNgaL irandAl" (from Subramanyapuram) and didn't let go until a doctor intervened and pried the song away from their clutches. But unfortunately, he could detect no signs of life from the limp body of the song. A skit was then put up by a group of students which was nothing more than the punch lines from the latest Vadivelu comedies strung together with no plot that I could identify despite best efforts. A second 5-minute skit followed, in which someone was doing an impression of Raghuvaran but sounded like an old man giving a speech without his dentures. I can only say that the ending was late by exactly 5 minutes. Except for a dance performance from a visiting college and the second piece in which my niece participated, the rest of the program, till I left, was sloppy.

As we walked out into the rainy night to take a bus home, I couldn't help feel nostalgic about our culturals that were run on shoe string budgets and had facilities comparable to the early Jurassic age but were thoroughly more entertaining than what was on show tonight.