My Li'l big boy

The last time I wrote something on this blog, lil Isaiah was a cute little toddler. Today, after all these months that I did not care enough to write anything on this blog, Isaiah is a little boy. He is still kind of cute though, to my eyes at least, but he is now a nice little boy and not a baby anymore.

No, he has not gained enough weight to please the doctor nor is he the tallest or fastest boy in class, so how do I know this?

Well, yesterday we watched 'The Lion King' together and when king Mufasa fell off the cliff and died, my son was in tears. Not just welled up, but properly sobbing and the moment I held him close, he was an emotional wreck! He couldn't bear the sight of little Simba running from home in tears. I tried to console him but he was unhappy with the turn of events. He sobbed his way to sleep and with his limited EQ even mumbled something about not having his own son to take care of!

In spite of ruining his bedtime,  I felt happy within and even a bit proud that my little boy could relate to that scene. I remember crying during the same scene when I watched the lion king in my teens and I felt I could connect with him better and that made me feel happy.

As a toddler he would cry for milk, or chocolates or for objects that he had no interest of ever playing with, but this was different. He cried not because he wanted something or was told not to do something. He cried because he was genuinely upset.

He had shown similar sentiments before and sometimes spoke about being sad but it is a bit of craving attention and is just a part of growing up. Guess this streak of sorrow runs in the family and I mean that in a nice way. As a great someone said; 'true bliss can only be found in absolute sorrow... 'or something to that effect.

While watching other movies with scenes where someone, usually children, get hurt we have seen him being disturbed. Certain movies and scenes, I agree, can be very disturbing to children.but No, we do not get offended or criticize people who make such movies, we just distract our kid. When an inappropriate scene pops up we ask him to bring something from the next room that is placed somewhere he cannot reach.

I am someone who can be easily brought to tears by stuff on television. The garden variety death scene with close shots of relatives crying aloud does not work on me but show me some genuine trail of sorrow that I can empathize with and I am done for. Scenes depicting courage, honesty or even despair can open my teary butterfly valves.

'Be a man, don't cry'. Nope, I sometimes cry and I can't help it. Neither do I subscribe to the whole ,'crying is good', 'real men cry', sought of metro-sexual outlook; but to roll those tears in the privacy of my own eyes while making sure no one can see me cry is a well deserved comfort while watching those scenes and should be seen as a manner of appreciation to the folks who created that bit of television.

So I did not tell my boy not to cry or use the age-old adage that 'boys do not cry'. I thought it was fine for now and once he grows older we will tone down the intensity a bit and make him sober enough to gel in with a world where 'boys do not cry'. For now, let him cry.

So that is my little big boy with whom I can have an interesting conversation with, someone I can discuss things with. Now I ask him for opinions on all manner of silly things and spoil him with overtly stupid explanations that he just cannot comprehend. Most of all, at times I see him as a nice little person with whom I can hang out or go on a drive with.Tantrums along the way can be disastrous but the trick is to treat him like an adult and listen to those lovely but often irritating rants and somehow, things are more pleasant when it is just the two of us.

This lovely little song was suggested by my dear sister,

Betty's Umbrella

It was graduation ceremony and even though they got out on time it seemed like they were getting late for the gathering. All the girls from her hostel wore the most propitious clothes. Even the ugly ones wore nice clothes and added many different colors to their face. The short girl with yellow top looked sick while the larger ones were bright and presentable in a strange manner or so it seemed to Betty who also did her best to look good. Lip-stick was not favorable as she thought it accentuated her buck teeth which she always tried hard to conceal using a weird expression which gave her permanent stretch marks and a forlorn expression. It made her appear more lost and friendless than she actually was but it made her look prettier than she thought herself to be.

They met the boys near the large tree next to the bus park and instantly Betty was lost in the crowd. Her tall friend screamed with excitement as she met her fat friend.The loud talks and sighs of ecstasies with occasional expressions of " no da macha" seemed to put her behind a curtain. The curtain was woven out of her own intellect where she knew she was better than the others and from a terrible sense of inferiority derived from her thorough understanding of self. 

The big city was a retreat, an escape, a feeble attempt to rediscover herself as she wanted to. She did not belong there and she knew it. Betty considered herself to be well read and arrogant. She always thought of herself as the more radical one, the extremist and she chose to hang out with a loud and obnoxious crowd. This was in part due to her desire to stay visible and in doing so, the one whom she chose to like was all very wrong for everyone. She did not approve of his behavior either, but still she liked his rebellious streak. She even realized that underneath all that immature display of machismo he might be a meek idiot but the streak of rebellion was what turned her on. Sanity was never her companion.

Her college in the big city was bustling with life… the change of pace was visible in the daily traffic and even the weather which was hotter and sunnier like her home town down south. However, unlike in her townish village, it was cool to be hip and speak English in the big city.

Boys were better dressed. Even the ones from her place wore trendy clothes and some spotted a beard to cover those chubby cheeks. This made them feel new and acceptable as they tried to shed their image of being pretentious, sex starved, hypocrites which they still were.


There was someone from her village she used to like. He studied in the big city before her and spotted a beard when he came back for Christmas. This time they made out at his place, full of fondling and sweet awkwardness. He had since  moved on from ill fitting pants to T-shirt and jeans and on the next Christmas , he fondled her at an internet café at their townish village. On the following Christmas, he ditched her after they had sex. Since he thought it was not right and god would punish them and most of all, he “wanted to move on in life.” He wanted to settle down. ‘That kid was only 22’, thought Betty all of eighteen. This Christmas was his wedding and Betty was 22.

Betty had since hated the many men from her town though they were always revered by elders for how good they were. Why were they the nice ones when they slapped her when she was ten, abused her when she was fourteen, ridiculed her when she was sixteen and abandoned her when she was eighteen.

The celebrations were loud and boring and the crowd showed more excitement than they could muster. It was a sad day for all the messy couples and dear friends were upset about parting ways. Few tears were shed. The younger ones appreciated them elders who had an year back given them many sleepless nights and nightmares. The elders revered their teachers whom they ridiculed for being incompetent six months back and those teachers in turn praised all those students some of whom they had failed few days back and some of whom they hated with all their hearts. So after a whole evening was lost with everyone praising everyone else, they headed for the pub where they discussed about politics, counter culture, moral policing and call centers. All very relevant topics. A few tried to dance while few tried to persuade others to dance which made it uglier and as night grew late they all parted ways after more hugs, tears, bad singing of old songs to celebrate those old times and several sincere promises to stay in touch. 

Betty slipped out of the pub along with her friends. She did not cry but she did laugh harder than usual at all the fun bits. Few of them told Betty how much they would miss her. Betty smiled as usual. She would not miss any of them.

On the cab she thought hard about it and could not find anything that she would miss. She was not upset or emotional, she would not even miss her rebellious friend. She did not miss her folks while she was here, she did not miss anyone. She did not feel upset about not seeing her friends, the ones with her in the cab, anymore. She thought hard and thought she did not like anyone to start with. That cannot be true. She liked them all dearly but she was still not sad. She liked the big city and the college and all the life she had there. Now that was about to be over and she was still not upset about it which seemed weird. 

She reached the hostel and those thoughts were still with her while she took a shower. As she lay in her bed she hugged a stained orange pillow and without the slightest thought she began to cry. She did not think of anything or anyone as tears rolled down her cheek. The unpleasant smell from the pillow felt strangely comforting. It felt so comforting that this ugly orange pillow was more beloved to her then than anyone she had ever met. If someone were to take that pillow from her she would be devastated.

Still lying awake, Betty felt the weight of the ugly pillow against her head. It seemed to weigh hard on her... it weighed on her conscience. She felt young and innocent as she closed her eyes and and  through a thin veil of tears she thought she could see all the clarity and purpose of an adult.

Our very special nice song...

Beautiful, yet not so popular Malayalam song.

Used to watch this song on television with my sister and we loved this song a lot. It was one of those in-home hits that others did not know about or appreciate.

It was not so popular in the sense that none of my friends had heard this song, but we found this hugely melodious and appealing. Remember trying to tell all those juke box kind of people, the musical anoraks around us, about such a song. The lyrics ‘Anpin Thumpum Vaalum’ did not register any sense with them, or even with me, only that it sounds sweet. So they ask me to sing it, so they can identify the song from the "tune", and then, as my untrained voice tries to indulge in some rhythmic rendition, they just burst out laughing. It could be the lack of any background instruments or more probably a lack of any melody in my voice... but they did have a good laugh at my expense.

Finally I found it on the WWW, and I want the whole $%^&ing world to know about this song, at least the few ppl I know...

I had goggled and YouTube-searched for this song many times before, so many years before. Yet today morning as I got up, the first thing I did was to search once again (pretty jobless here), I had thought of different spellings to use, but the first vague stuff I typed returned the YouTube video for this song... and that almost made my day...

Watching this song brought back some memories of the not so distant times when I came home on weekend and watched television with my sister, while momma was cooking our lunch and our grandmother, well she can be at different places simultaneously, but we can always hear her shouting in the background. Sometimes we hear her asking the dog to shut-up although we rarely hear the dog itself.

This song was mostly played in the afternoon. The probability of watching this song together was very remote. it should be played on a weekend when we returned home, and at a time when we were at home, we have to agree on the same channel. Grandmother, the resident cricket buff and viewer of most crappy soap and reality show should not have the remote, in which case there could be a fight, very close to fist fight and some tears. More importantly, this being my beautiful house on a little village on top of a little hill, there should be electricity.

Power cuts at home are more frequent than illiterate idiots being voted to power where they can then decide on when and for how long each one of us should live without electricity. Then there is the cable TV network and our cable guy, rather the cable over-lord, Manu, who has attached this network using some strings instead of regular cables and stapled it inside a not so water tight PVC piping so that even a dark cloud could render the cable network useless.

Even so, in spite of all these adversities, I remember several weekends when we were together and were able to watch this song together, keeping quiet until the song ended and marveling at how different it was and how soothing it felt.

This was not the only song we held this feeling for, there are several other songs, one being Lucky Ali's , ‘gori theri aanken’...

This is a pretty pointless article befitting a pointless blog, but just listen to the song, it is beautiful... now I am listening to it with my lil one, trying to tell him how 'appachi' and me used to listen to this song...

Shenanigans of Divinity II

This is another feeble attempt to translate a beautiful and brilliant song/poetry by  Prof. Madhusoodhanan Nair from the movie Daivathinte Vikrithikal (Gods mischief’s) based on a story of the same title by M. Mukundan. The post title ‘Shenanigans of Divinity’ seemed a suitable alternate expression for the movie name.

From the deep slumbers of darkness you wake me to the colors of life

You gave a sky for my wings, and on a branch in your soul, you gave me a nest.

Wherever but here could you smell so sweet; in every little flower, in the softest breeze?

Where also can I find you as this river; which brims with every drop of my life as I melt in?

Wherever but here can I find this sky that blooms when you spread as a petal of dreams?

When the little nightingale cries; when the narrow stream stops her lullaby

Where mercy is lost, when time trembles,

I bind my heart in yours; and it is in you that I seek refuge

Can’t part from your heart, May paradise call…

Cant part from your soul, let heaven seek...

To melt in the depth of your soul…as I perish,  is my paradise

To remain in you... is eternal truth

The protagonist in the movie, Father Alphonse (played brilliantly by the versatile and charming actor Raghuvaran), is a French native and a successful magician living in Mayyazhi (French Mahe) in Kerala. The French colonial influence ends and the settlers leave for their homeland.

As the siren for the last ship to France sounds, his wife Maggie (Srividhya) tries to persuade Alphonse to leave for France, where they belong. The siren acts a final call from destiny for all success and prosperity that awaits them in France. However, Father Alphonse refuses to leave Mayyazhi.

The end of colonial rule also marks a new dawn for an oppressed, unjust and yet vibrant society that burgeons with madness. While Father Alphonse and his family stay back in Mayyazhi, failure and poverty bejewel their life as they try in vain to be part of a reclassified society which disowns them with derision, much to the dismay of Father Alphonse. In his angst he develops a deep sense of resentment towards his self and refuses to accept the reality, which in his case, is that he is no longer the successful, much admired French man in Mayyazhi, but an impecunious vagrant who is no longer required in this society. He seeks refuge in alcohol and leads a secluded life confining himself to his world of magic which he holds dear to life.

The song is about his unrequited love for the beautiful sea cost of Mayyazhi; the love for which he had to forsake every reason, every virtue of happiness and all that he ever was.

Someone with a better understanding of both languages should do a better translation of this song.

Directors Cut...

Yet another bad movie; this time in Malayalam... 'Pokkiri Rajah'. With a name like that, I was not expecting a 'Benhur'...' but is it not prudent to expect a minimal level of sane entertainment...but nooooo. This movie falls into a genre called 'stupid'. Not comedy, not action, not sci-fi, no ... this is a 'stupid' movie... At a video library, this is the movie you would get if you asked for a stupid movie... Now why did I watch it...!!! aah...!!!

a gun shot...


In our movies, a gun is a novelty item to be displayed often but seldom used. In the movie 'Lelam' M. G Soman takes a gun from one of the baddies and casually suggests the origin of the make. "Germana... allyoda?" now that was kinda cool, there was a godfather like charm and style. At the other end was a Suresh Gopi movie, where they seemed to loose or find the bloody Pivoting Knot or whatever of an AK 47 and do some crap with it. The presentation seemed odd and the whole gun affair was an overkill. I believe all our actors should read through Jeff Cooper’s gun usage techniques before grabbing one.

Anyhow, the most we can expect with a gun, is for the hero to display his expertise in ‘Tanju’ and grab the gun from the villain in a supposedly swift move which is shown in slow-motion. The confused villain has now lost his only gun. 

I think it has been quite a while since a gun shot was fired in a mallu movie. Especially during the final stand-off. Even if our hero has a gun, he resorts to fist fight… A classic example was Keerthichakra... Mohanlal was responsible for the death (on screen...) of that Tamil actor and widowed his wife, the good looking girl.

Our actors, heroes, rather superstars, have this intense desire to personally beat up all the antagonists; the villain, his side kick, his concubine, her mother and any cops in sight, unless, he himself is a cop in which case there will be a bad cop who gets beaten.

Now all this physical exertion calls for some sound physique which could portray the appearance of strength, stamina and athletic ability. But far from that, our heroes are usually fat, chubby, fair, globoids who wallow all around the screen.

Mollywood & Kollywood; 

In Indian, especially South Indian movies, the usual strategy of fighting the villain is by deploying some long, senseless, rhyming monologues which somehow manage to tire the villain who always appears to be hurt and shows his true sensitive side after the dialogue monologue ends… or the villain does not comprehend the meaning and seem confused... Sometimes, the villain would retort with an equally long senseless sentence which can hurt out heroes sentiments.

Nevertheless, towards the end, our hero can no longer take it… his wife was fucked, sister was raped and his mother was brutally murdered along with his father even before he was born… his only hope for a “and they lived happily ever after” dance sequence, is the heroine, who we had briefly seen in two songs (no wonder our hero forgot to protect her) is now taken captive. 

While she is being tied up and prepared for a tasty rape, yes… it usually takes less time to prepare chicken curry… the villain finally comes and delicately begins to lick or bite her, presumably, he wants to kiss her. No touching on boobs or anything of that sort… the worst can be a kiss on the lips followed by what appears to be an act of learning to swim on top of a woman… the reverence of removing her clothes often occurs only after some rolling and licking… but our hero somehow manages to reach the scene before she looses her bra and panties…

Another type of rape involves a game of ‘Kabadi’ with the villain and the chubby lady in a locked room… the villain usually bolts one door to convey the message that he is about rape her. Even if it is his place, unknown to him, the room has another door which is left open and the lady manages to escape through this door and runs straight to our heroes arms, legs, den whatever falls in the way, followed closely by the really stupid villain who is confronted by the hero…

And then a long and arduous fight sequence follows. Now, the hero forgets all about his age, blood pressure and BMI. What follows is a weird act of body exertion with gestures and flights that weaken once belief in the very existence of physics and physical endurance…

The pace of body movement is represented by a ‘swissshhh’ sound as the heavy hairy body cuts through the wind. When a punch lands on the villain, the force and fury is represented by a ‘loud Bushuuum’ sound, which causes the poor guys facial fat to flutter around a bit… cars, rickshaws, small shops, entire buildings, bridges, trees everything and anything that falls in the way is broken during the fight sequence… Finally, when the villain is tired (almost finished), the Bushuum gains an echo;

Bushuum, Bushum bushum, shum shum…

And there lay on the floor, the poor guy who was causing our hero so much of trouble through out the 3 hours and 15 minutes, the length of the movie being 3 and half hours with 15 minutes for fighting…

Back to 'Pokkiri Rajah'... well forgot what it was all about... not a memorable movie that is... but so much was my frustration that I had to type all of this to vent out the tears...

Not that all movies are bad; far from it some of the movies are exemplary…

Good movies as well as bad movies are being made today as it was made yesterday as was done the day before… Somehow, the number of good movies seemed to have gone down a bit… no worries with that though...

What worries me is the onset of really stupid movies which defies commonsense and sanity… this might be alright in some of our neighboring states but in mallu land, where in the great golden 80’s and early 90’s some of the best movies were made, this defines the start of a retreat, a slowdown in evolution, a large step backward…


If the sole purpose of a movie is for the producer to make money, then why not focus on porn…If the sole objective of any business for that matter was to make money, pimping would be the best job, prostitutes the best investment and a brothel the best enterprise…

The highway story

It was Aslam who suggested that they drink at his place and between them, they had finished a bottle of Honeybee. Marcos realized that it had rained only after he noticed large puddles outside the house. He did not know when it started to rain but he knew that it had rained for a long time. The rain had stopped for a while and Marcos scrambled to his car in a hurry.

It was raining again by the time he got into his car and the old Fiat had a reputation for letting him down whenever it was wet. Nevertheless, the small diesel splurged to life on the second attempt and Marcos was on his way home. The sudden realization of rain had taken off some of the pleasure from the brandy.

The drive home was slow and boring. He was familiar with this road and the mundane job of avoiding potholes  made him crave for a cigarette. It was only after he opened the case that he realized he was out of cigarettes and all the shops along the highway were closed by then. The only shop that stayed open at this time was the one next to the railway crossing. Marcos hoped that it would be open. He tried to speed up a bit, but the lashing rain made it difficult for him to see outside.

Almost six kilometers down the road, he saw this lady standing by the roadside. She was carrying what seems like a child. She was looking at Marcos and she seemed to walk towards the road... and towards the car. It was absurd and scary. As the car approached, she stretched her hands towards the car and Marcos saw her clearly, her face, that face... it was just a face, there were no prominent features, devoid of any expression and well lit in the dark rainy night.

The sight alone sent a shiver down his spine and his legs were numb. He did not stop the car. He did not even think about stopping the car. On passing them, he tried to glance at the rear view mirror and yet, he could not dare himself to do that. Every sense of exuberation was sucked out of him in that instant. Even the smell of brandy had disappeared from his mouth. He could use a cigarette now but he did not have any. Even if he had, he would not have lit it up. For the next four kilometers, Marcos held on to the wheels. He even tried to pray; oh God, oh God, he said and started with "our father in heaven..." he did not know the entire prayer and fell silent, Fear had crept into him. Again he tried to recite Hail Mary, which too, he could not complete. He tried to assure himself that he was hallucinating. May be it was the drinks, he thought to himself, but it was so clear and that face. It was as though there was no face, or there was no person. He saw a lady, with a child, but he could not figure out how they looked. Her eyes, her mouth… yes she had them but it was more like a shadow in his memory, like a mannequin.

Without even realizing, Marcos had slowed the car and downshifted to negotiate the sharp right turn towards the coastal road which led to his house. The approach road to the narrow bridge was broken and the car skidded around a bit as he crossed the bridge at a high speed. Two minutes later he saw the closed railway gate. He looked towards the tea shop. They had closed early. His eyes scanned at the tea shop expecting to see light inside. He had done that before. Once when he was completely drunk and needed a smoke, in desperation he knocked on their door at two in the morning and bought a packet of cigarette for twice the price. But now he did not want to get out from the car, for fear, and he did not want to buy cigarettes either. His just wished to see someone there.

As the car stopped in front of the level crossing, the rear door opened and the lady with the child walked out of the car. The sound of the door being unlocked had sent a shock over Marcos as his heart cringed. The distinct sight of the lady getting off from the car and shutting the door made him pale as his blood froze. Marcos kept looking ahead and out of a corner of his eye, saw her closing the door behind and walking towards the narrow road adjacent to the railway track.

There was no other noise except Marcos’ own as he kept whispering to himself; oh god, oh god help me, some one please help me. But there was no one else around and Marcos had to wait for the train. That was when he thought about the gang man. He could be somewhere near by, on his small building, just behind the tea shop near the track.

But Marcos was too frightened to get out. He kept quivering as he clenching his fist against the steering wheel which gave him some comfort. His throat felt heavy and the tiny noises he made failed to reach his mouth which felt dry and cold. He felt tears rush to his eyes as he sobbed and shook himself in tears. Fear had crippled his sense of sanity. Marcos kept pressing on the accelerator pedal in a rhythmic manner until he heard the train.

The siren from the train somewhat shook him, but it was a sign of relief. As the train approached, Marcos sobbed louder and louder, almost screaming to himself as the train passed the railway gate. The old gang man came out and opened the gate and Marcos drove the car across the bumpy railway track as fast as he could.

It took him another five minutes to reach home. It was usual for him to open the gate himself since he always got home late. But tonight he sounded the horn even before he reached the gate. But the lights were off and every one at home seemed to be asleep. He rushed out of the car in anger and frustration and pushed open the rusty old gate. After parking the car, he rushed towards the door fumbling with the keys before rushing back to close the gate. He did not lock the gate that night and ran back towards the door as though the devil was after him.

Once he was inside, he felt some peace. He could hear the noise of his wife snoring loudly which felt comforting. As he turned he saw the picture of Christ, behind the large candle stand and half burned agarbathy, garnished with several garlands and electric lamps in different colours. He promptly drew the cross and thanked the lord for getting him home safely.

Rushing into the bedroom, he saw his wife, snoring loudly and his little girl, Alice, cuddled up next to her. He tried to wake her up. He needed someone to talk to at the time. Renu did not wake up and Marcos tried to find himself some place beside her.

As he closed his eyes, those thoughts rushed back to him and he saw the featureless face of the lady again. He opened his eyes and realized that he needed water. His throat was sore and it started to hurt. He got up and walked to the kitchen. There was a foul stench all around. He opened the refrigerator and took a bottle of ice cold water. As he drank the water, he saw the fish tank. All the fish were dead and were floating on the water, which caused the stench. All of the sudden, fear gripped him once again and he tripped his way to the bedroom.

As he lay next to his wife, he realized that he was starting to sleep, tired from all the ordeals of that night. Yet the thought of the highway incident and the dead fish haunted him. He thought about the lady and that featureless face. All of the sudden, she gained a face and it became clear as he dosed of into a dream, the  lady resembled his wife, no... It was his wife. He realized that he was dreaming. It was the bad sought of dream where you know you were in a bad plot but you cannot snap out of it. The face, as it became his wife’s, crawled on to him and kissed him passionately on his forehead. Then it started to strangle him, with a pleasing face. Marcos tried to push her aside with all his strength. He could not.

The agonizing cruelty of the dream had just begun. What seemed like hours of trauma were made up of strange yet vivid visuals of his wife strangling him over and over again.  He tried to push her aside, but he could not lift his arms. After a while a little child crawled up to his bed. With sick eyes the little child started to bite on Marcos’ belly. As she bit harder and harder it began to hurt until it started to bleed. Marcos could see the blood. As the little girl bit deeper and deeper into his stomach, the gory sight and the numbing pain... all felt real.

Then there were shadows. Of trees, of the old slaughter-home down the road, the old municipal building and the lamp post near which he had seen the lady with the child. He was thirsty again, but he could not walk up to the refrigerator. He though he was going to die of thirst. Thirst became a prominent part of that cruel dream. Finally, he summoned all his strength and walked to the kitchen. The stench from the dead gold fish was even stronger and as he opened the refrigerator, he saw his little girl, inside the refrigerator. He woke up scared and sweating in a state of fret.

It was nine in the morning. His wife came into the room and asked him what time he came in last night. Said she had a sound sleep and told him about the dead fish. Marcos looked out of the window and saw little Ancy playing outside. He felt relieved and wanted to tell her about the strange incident and the ugly dream. But he thought it was better not to discuss the incident at all.

On global warming & Smoking

Why is it still hot in Dubai? Agree that things have cooled down a bit and it is warm and early mornings are slightly cool, but it is still not cold and it is November. There is a reason why it is called 'November' and not 'March' or 'April'. November is supposed to be cold and romantic not dusty and warm. Guess it is that phenomenon - Global Warming? The buzzword of the era...

If that is the case, global warming seems to take a toll on my smoking comfort as well. Having a fag on a hot afternoon gives me a sore throat reminiscent of instant throat cancer and an overall discomfort owing to the heat outside. But like Chandler said, it still makes me look sick and happy.

My take on the harmful effect of smoking and global warming are the same and I hold both in the same light of observation. Inevitable side affect to a bit of pleasure that can't be truly avoided.

I am not excusing the science of global warming nor am I discounting its adverse effect on our earth including the observation that man made causes do aid in global climate change. But to what extent? My ignorance in the science of this scheme prevents me from offering any useful info.

But from my very limited scope of understanding, all said and done, it is still inevitable. I do not think that global climate can be made to stay the same for as long as we wish to, considering that we have enough empirical evidence to know that it has continuously changed through out the history of our planet. With or without human intervention changes do happen in our universe. New stars are born, Dinosaurs were asked to leave, things move further apart, come closer, collide etc. etc. We cannot prevent this but we can prolong it, for a future generation.

Then how much into the future is future enough? Which generation do we call as future generation? Based on the Domesdayers predictions, my son would face droughts, heat and possible extinction. A more optimistic estimate would allow my son to raise children in a livable world. Fuel may be scarce. Fossil fuel may be extinct. So is that the future generation we try and save for? If it is, what about their children, and then their children. Based on our present set of remedies, which proactively serves the monetary interest of a few large green companies and the mental incapacity of a few green washed extremists, it does very little to counter the affects and adversities for more than fifty years, which is hardly enough time for a generation.

So how long can we really prolong this? There are many brilliant minds at work; scientist, engineers, medical professionals, or any one who understands the science behind the issues, all of whom are working on identifying possible solutions to these issues.

Smoking on the other hand is harmful and there is no denying this. It is worse than fat, cholesterol and sugar and as a threat to dear life, it is comparable with alcohol. It is less dangerous than speed, which they say, can kill you instantly, but then so does stupidity, which can get you killed instantly given the right circumstances.

Why do I smoke? Some do it for the kick or the feel good factor or to appear cool, like a show-off.

I do it for all these reasons and then some more. I like every aspect of smoking, from opening the new packet, pulling out a cigarette, the taste of filter against my lips, the perceived coolness of lighting it, which can be made super cool by using a match box. The apparent warmth from the tiny glow at the end. Holding it away for a while while trying to appear serious or as though you are trying to comprehend all the philosophies of this universe in that randomly chosen interval. Blowing a smooth cloud of smoke. Tapping out the ash to reveal a glow made brighter as you suck in more smoke to fill your bitter self and a final display of dominance as you kill the smoldering butt and crush it under your feet. Less appealing though is the smoky bits that get in my eyes and the terrible dry after taste it leaves in my mouth.

The stage where I perform this act holds relevance too. A cold rainy day, the kind you get in Kerala is most suitable. A chilly night on a deserted highway is a beautiful alternative. Less appealing though is the hot dry afternoon outside my office. Smoking with dear friends is so much more pleasurable than smoking with your weirdo boss whom you dislike with all your heart.

The memory of some of my dearest friends have an aroma of nicotine. Some of the most pleasurable conversations I have had were often accompanied by an overfilled ashtray which was stuffed with half burnt butts. These conversations lasted until the excitement of the conversation ended or someone had to really leave or as had happened most often, when we ran out of cigarettes. The last cigarette was often shared and there was more sorrow in the room than there would be at a college farewell.

Smoking is also a great way of killing time. Girls flip out their Black Berries every time they have to wait for someone or something or are stuck in an uncomfortable social situation. Guys do it too, hell I have done that too, not on a freaking Black Berry though. Cell phone thus act as an odd friend through whom you stay connected, if you have credit or flip through the images or old SMS as it takes you back to that good old time which might have been only a few weeks back.

Smoking is a suitable alternative to this because instead of looking awkward as you have very little to do, you engage in an activity that lets you be with yourself, like a low budget philosophical path to self discovery. In that, smoking is like a good friend. The kind who make you feel good, listens to you, and does not advice you.

My sister counters this argument by saying that my lungs, the large airbags inside me, the dark ugly things I saw at medical exhibitions should be my more intimate friend and that every time I light a cigarette I hurt his feelings. They say that it suffers with every smoke I blow and gets even darker and uglier as I finish a packet.

As much as I appreciate the metaphor and would like to see an anthropomorphic version of my lungs crying out loud and asking me to stop in the next anti-smoking campaign, I apply a different analogy to justify my case. Lungs, I feel, is like god. I can't see it, not without a scan at least nor does it answer my prayers and most importantly, like the one true god, it is within me, literally. But I can feel its presence just as believers feel god, only more obvious and much more effective in  life.

Then, just like divinity and mankind, where after every sin you make a confessions and god presses a giant reset switch to set you back on the path to righteousness and the ultimate thrills of afterlife, after every fag, I should ask my lungs to forgive me, and it should wipe out the tar in a jiffy. I could even say a million thanks to my lungs for keeping me alive every second of my life. That should keep it happy just like the jealous gods in heaven who get terribly upset and puts you through a lot of misery if you fail to praise them first thing on a Sunday morning. That was what the vicar said when I confessed.

If I get a lung infection or cancer, I could make an offering to set things right or go the Bollywood way and abuse my lungs so much that it finally saw some logic in my request and I would make a remarkable recovery just as the camera zooms in on a close up of my dark ugly lungs.

I know that things do not work that way and my life is so full of happiness that I do not appreciate even a suggestion from anyone to pack up and go heavens, no, at least not until I am old and irritating enough that someone decided to put me to sleep like they would to an old useless dog. Until then I will try to cut down on smoking or quit, which is a sad thing because it is something I like doing, and keep the ball rolling in the most exciting way possible. As for global warming, I don't have a bloody clue.

Shenanigans of Divinity II

This is another feeble attempt to translate a beautiful and brilliant song/poetry by Prof. Madhusoodhanan Nair from the movie Daivathinte Vikrithikal (Gods mischief’s), based on a book of the same title by M. Mukundan. The post title ‘Shenanigans of Divinity’ seemed a suitable alternate expression for the movie name.

From the deep slumbers of darkness you wake me to the colors of life

You gave a sky for my wings, and on a branch in your soul, you gave me a nest.

Wherever but here could you smell so sweet; in every little flower, in the softest breeze?

Where also can I find you as this river; which brims with every drop of my life as I melt in?

Wherever but here can I find this sky that blooms when you spread as a petal of dreams?

When the little nightingale cries; when the narrow stream stops her lullaby

Where mercy is lost, when time trembles,

I bind my heart in yours; and it is in you that I seek refuge

Can’t part from your heart, May paradise call…

Cant part from your soul, let heaven seek...

To melt in the depth of your soul…as I perish,  is my paradise

To remain in you... is eternal truth

The protagonist in the movie, Alphonse (played brilliantly by the versatile and charming actor Raghuvaran), is a French native and a successful magician living in Mayyazhi (French Mahe) in Kerala. The French colonial influence ends and the settlers leave for their homeland.

As the siren for the last ship to France sounds, his wife Maggie (Srividhya) tries to persuade Alphonse to leave for France, where they belong. The siren acts a final call from destiny for all success and prosperity that awaits them in France. However, Alphonse refuses to leave Mayyazhi.

The end of colonial rule also marks a new dawn for an oppressed, unjust and yet vibrant society that burgeons with madness. While Alphonse and his family stay back in Mayyazhi, failure and poverty adorn their life as they try in vain to be part of a reclassified society which disowns them with derision, much to the dismay of Father Alphonse. In his angst he develops a deep sense of resentment towards his self and refuses to accept the reality, which in his case, is that he is no longer the much admired French man in Mayyazhi, but an impecunious vagrant who is no longer required in this society. He seeks refuge in alcohol and leads a secluded life confining himself to his world of magic which he holds dear to life.

The song is about his unrequited love for the beautiful sea cost of Mayyazhi; the love for which he had to forsake every reason, every virtue of happiness and all that he ever was.

Someone with a better understanding of both languages should do a better translation of this song.

Shenanigans of Divinity

Every once in a while a huge tide comes along and washes away his castle of dreams. It leaves him shattered and depressed. In a state of confusion he loses all interest in self and in the reasons of his existence. On times like these one could cling on to divinity to be consoled through those dreary moments. But he did not do this because he knew that unlike divinity, the tides are a reality. Over time, he got back to the shores and builds his dreams in sand all over again. This time it may be a new design but the entities still remained the same. 

But worse still were the waves; ripples of desperation that crashed on his castles nearly destroying them but not entirely. These waves always left him in a swarm of agony and fear as he lost hope in his virtues. When he was a little boy, in vain he used to express his frustration by crushing down what remained of his castles. The anger did not subdue as he kept crushing others hopes. Out of egotistic desperation he trampled on the little girls garden which had tiny blue flowers as he smeared sand on her teary face. 

As he grew older, the wisdom of age reflected on his appreciation of beauty. And now every thing around him, every thing he had, was so beautiful that there was nothing for him to crush or trample. All of them were to him more beautiful than his castle of dreams. And they were so beautiful that it was worth building a castle of dreams around them. Yet there were those times when his selfishness made up for the lack of divinity and ripples of agony crushed his sand castles.

Why does he still build it on the beach where it gets washed away by the tides? Because the sea was beautiful, like his life it was blue and bubbling. It may be dark, dangerous and deep, but the shores are safe and there was solitude in its depth.  And that was reason enough for him to keep building those castles of dream at the beautiful sea shore where it may yet again be washed away by the tides or crushed by a white foamy wave.

The Sincere Candidate

Interviewer: Do you think you can work under pressure?

Sincere candidate: I don’t think so. I detest working under pressure.

Surprised Interviewer: Then you may not be the right person for this role, we want someone who is hard working and can handle unbearable pressure.

Sincere Candidate: If my idea of a good work environment was unbearable pressure I would not have wasted all those years for education, would have been a thief where I could at least choose the rewards for taking unbearable pressure. As for hard working, I may do so, but I am not too keen to do that.

Angry Interviewer: Then why do you come here? Why do you need a job as such?

Sincere Candidate: So I can take care of my family

Angry Interviewer: So you mean to say that for you family is more important to you than work?

Sincere Candidate: of course, if I had to choose, definitely family, and if had to choose between my work and my friends, definitely friends...

Angry Interviewer sarcastically: may be you think you are very smart, but right now, you are only wasting our time, do us a favor, stop talking and get out of here and a word of advice, please don’t outsmart your wits lest you end up nowhere.

Sincere Candidate thinks to himself while walking out of the room:

"If I were choose between my friends and my family, I may be confused."

He was not very smart. He was too sincere and vacuous and he could not stop thinking;

If I were to choose between my friends and my life, I will choose life...

...and so if I were choose between my life and a bout of pleasure. I would choose pleasure; I would disown the agony of life and choose pleasure, for that is what I truly seek...

The old mans philosophies

He grew up listening to and understanding old philosophies, he appreciated them and joined the wise masses, all of whom who appreciated those old philosophies… ancient philosophies that talked about wisdom…

As he grew older, he ridiculed those old philosophies, now he made new philosophies, his own philosophies, colorful, bright and very different from anything anybody had ever heard before; he could not join the masses now since the masses did not understand his new philosophies. He was defined by his philosophies and the masses did not understand him either.

Now that he is old, he disdained his own philosophies as he began to understand the meaning of those old philosophies, ancient and prejudiced as they were he began to see truth in them… and just before he lay dead, he felt empty and clenched his fist with a sense of resentment towards all philosophies, he seemed to know the truth and then he could not think at all…  

Critical Observation

the gentleman's sanctuary...

I do not know any men, myself including, who cannot refrain from criticizing or correcting their ladies.

Wife, girlfriend or if you cannot get either, an younger sister will do, unless she is so fat that she could slap your brains out.

Our mallu forefathers have conveniently designed a ‘Pazham chollu’ to ascertain our wisdom... "pen budhi, pin budhi"… the pen & pin is not what it seems in English, literal translation,’ ladies brain, back brain’ which only means, "babes are dumb".

Truth be told, at least in mallu land, babes are often well read and intelligent when compared to their male counterparts and most of the time, we have to resort to the entrance result rank sheets to emphasis the superiority of our species. There are exceptions though, on either sides...

With girl friends, it may be a tolerated as an expression of love, an act of over enthusiastic concern for her well being, her comfort is no longer her decision, you know that the hot sand at the beach can be perfectly comfortable for her ass... where she places it delicately based on your bloody advice. Or may be the thought goes, if she was dumb enough to pick me, she could easily loose her way to her own house. Or she cannot decide for herself if the just fried chicken is too hot to swallow.

With married men, it is their wife’s; marriage being the woman’s agreed and documented acceptance to the condition of sharing bed-space with a man, a condition which she should now understand as her ultimate resignation of intellect.

Even if the selfish me has at times failed to see her upset face, over the years, I have seen, heard and learned from others… all those red faces and welled up eyes have taught me exactly what not to do and I should by now know well enough when to stop...

but should I really start… No, I don’t have to; I can keep my mouth shut just as I would do if my boss were to proclaim that the moon is indeed made of cheese.

I still do not understand why we do this? I cannot refrain from blurring out a silly remark even with the complete understanding that it is not going to be appreciated… sometimes at the least acceptable situation and with certain knowledge that this remark is one of those things she could live without. At a darker moment when we surrender our will to harmony and peace, reminisce of these pedantries could form a gust of stinky breath while waddling through the swamps of marital memoirs.

I do know a few men who end up being ridiculed by their ladies for not being brawny enough... but in most such cases, it is kindoff true...

But with woman, most often, it is unjustifiable...

All you need to do is imagine that she is your boss and then it could be hard for you to keep imagining how she could ridicule every single aspect of what you are as you sulk for mercy while she threatens to seize your only means for a sane existence.

To those of you who have had a lady boss, you know what it is like... This is not the "come lets go have a smoke" murky shady lazy fatso who makes you do everything and takes credit for everything you do... this is a more viscous, ambitions, organized, multitasking genius who gets her act right each an every time while ensuring that you do not even take a split second to breath.Your productivity is two fold and you catch insomnia. You would rather die in a road crash than report late to office... and while you jump around like a mad man with a bad itch she makes good of the opportunity to vent out all her frustrations from any male dominance on her domestic, social and work front (her boss - aka the big guy). you would not dare to criticize her, would you? At least not until you find a new job.

Yet it is difficult. To control this urge, this innate desire to correct them, to criticize them when even the slightest splash of criticisable element sparks up. 

The other day, while discussing about our dwindling bank balance:

Me: “60 dirham was debited and on the next line it says that 60 was credited, so does this not mean that we still have 60 dirham.”

After a nano seconds pause I look at her confused face while she is trying to decipher what I just told her and blurts out: “What accounts did you study?” (This from me who has almost consistently failed in accounting) and I did not stop there…

“Debit what comes in and credit what goes out?” “Is it not?” This to my wife who works as an accountant, a commerce graduate who managed to complete her MBA with a specialization in Finance.

Aside from my personnel imprudence, a few examples I have heard:

Same situation as above, but instead of bank statements, it had something to do with tan squared theta. The conversation ended with a sarcastic enquiry about her schooling.

Gramatic and linguistic skills are areas where we men need to pee in circles to mark our territory of dominance.

Even a most recently heard piece of irrelevant information can be transposed as an unassuming question to the poor soul. "Do you know about star nurseries? No? Do you know how stars form? "No"At least, have you heard about the Big Bang? Did you not study elementary physics at all?" At this juncture, Big Bang in her mind is the moment she decided to share a bed with this idiot and she could only wish that Big Bang be translated to a Big, indeed bang of the large glass bottle on the large heavy empty head.

"Who was the Zulu tribal leader who developed the ‘buffalo horn’ military formation?" between her impenetrable tight lips, you could hear her say “must be your father, he seems to be a rather athletic bloke", "or that tribal looking POS uncle of yours... With a family full of tribal, it could be any one of those” and if you look carefully, you can see those tight lips twitch with a slight hint of smile.

Appreciation of movies or music can all be made reasons to emphasis our appropriate taste. All the movies we pick are the classy ones… If it is crap movie, we call it kinda cool. Classy and cool are indeed all the movies and songs we pick.

Not from personal experience, but the worst situation to act like an ape is at a social gathering when there are other ladies present. Try correcting her at the dinner table and you could almost certainly expect a splash of water followed by a parliamentary walk out.


A poem by Dorothy Parker titled 'Men'

They hail you as their morning star

Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.