"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
"Jabberwocky" - By Lewis Carrol in "Alice in Wonderland"
Some how I've always found this poem a little intimidating... Especially the bit about how the mome raths outgrabed. Gives you a lot of scope to imagine who was doing the outgrabing and how they were doing it. Rather unsuitable for children, I always thought. And that said, let us begin.
I've been through a lot of journey's which were intimidating to interesting to downright painful one's. By means of transport ranging from trains to cars to being dragged along by the legs, by cursing people. Adi, Sandy and Suseen, will probably remember the last mode of transport mentioned, from B-School. This was one of the For further explanations, please refer to Suseen's comment on my previous post. For some obscure reason he chooses to call himself 'wulf paw' on Blogger. Well, better the paw than the wolf's wee wee, I suppose (The Wolf's Wee Wee - WWW - nice huh?). Having said that, I must confess that when they were taking up the onerous task of dragging me home, Suseen I hear was repeatedly heard confessing that he was 'happy' (once every thirty seconds). I'd like to think it was because he'd been given the privilege of dragging me along by the feet, something not accorded to many mortals, I'll have you know. But maybe, just maybe, it was also because we'd consumed inordinate amounts of flora from the family 'Poaceae' (Yes, your weekly visit to Wikipedia is due.. Ha Ha... Thought you'd get away this week didn't you??) Takes a lot to make these Madurai denizens happy, you know. Adi allegedly was singing a happy little Metallica ditty in tune with the bumpity bumps my head was making, bouncing off the stairs. Sandy, 'expressive' even under normal circumstances, soared to new heights. He apparently made sterling contributions to invective levels in three languages (being the relatively sober one), and was nominated for the Pulitzer for helping develop literary criticism in the expletives genre. I, as usual, got up the next day said "I'm too old for this shit" and went on my merry way. I haven't indulged in that particular pastime since then, however.
Now that this momentous occasion has been described in public, I'm relatively sure that Suseen will be hopping mad. I suppose I'm likely to receive a social call from a couple of hit men from Madurai (Suseen's from Madurai). All snazzily dressed in coolers, white shirts and 'Veshti's' (that's dhoti's for all you fashion unconscious people) folded above their 'undrawers', with AK-47's tucked into the Undrawers. Ok... So now you don't know what an undrawer is, I suppose? Its pronounced 'un-draa-yer' and is the epitome of fashion down south. It consists of a pair of shorts which are usually in a virulent green color, with stripes running down them, in as contrasting a color as possible ( usually dark blue). These come down to your knees and serve a variety of purposes. Right from hiding AK-47's to carrying your travel documents (imagine going to JFK airport, lifting your dhoti and pulling out your passport from your undrawer! James Bond couldn't be more suave), to revealing you shapely legs. Fashion and utility at one stroke, not to mention how airy they are. The point to notice is that your 'veshti' should always be worn folded above the undrawer. You are trying to make a fashion statement here, remember? 'Jockey' couldn't shine a candle to these. Try sticking an AK-47 into your Jockey and you'll know. There's a real business opportunity in the fashion business going a begging there. Any taker's with funding capabilities of about a million dollars or so, please contact me. We'll take the fashion world by storm. Versace, watch out....
Last week, I had another brilliant idea about a new venture. I suggested to Mrudula, that we open a boutique consulting firm under the name 'Uranus Consulting'. I explained to her, all the pro's of naming the firm that. People will be too embarrassed to call up and ask "So, do you have any openings in .....". And when they call up to ask "So hows Uranus doing?", all you need to say is "Man, its doing real good, you must come and take a look at it sometime". Chances are they'll never turn up. Mrudula however was not to impressed. For some reason she thought it was too childish, and vetoed the idea... Sigh...! Genius is never recognized in its time.
Coming back to journeys, the last time I traveled to Bangalore from Chennai, I was late. I had half an hour to reach the station, a journey which normally takes forty five minutes. Please carefully note the word 'normally' gentle reader, and brace yourself for the nerve wracking description of my auto ride to the station. An auto is usually a three wheeled vehicle that uses the road as means of conveyance. But I had apparently stumbled upon this vehicle which was probably a top secret military experiment, in mating a hovercraft (We seemed to spend more time in the air than on the road) with a F1 car, dressed up to look like an auto. The kind of vehicle Q (remember the old bugger who gives James Bond all his fancy gadgets?) would die to get his hands on. They saw me and thought "Ha! here's a sucker who's perfect for our first test run!".
I should have realized this as soon as I got into the auto and told the driver to do anything and get me to the railway station in half an hour. He went to the back of the vehicle and twiddled on something. 'Petrol reserve saar' he said, but was actually turning on the controls to convert the vehicle, into the traffic hazard it was. And so it began. I could probably have reached the station in the same time if I'd used a helicopter, but I would have been safer using a pogo stick and jumping down the middle of the busiest roads in Chennai to reach there. We took off at approximately 80 miles an hour, and that's when I had my first apprehensions. We seemed to touch the ground approximately once every three minutes or so.
Somewhere in the shrouded mists of time, two lines had combined. One, of Attila the Hun (in terms of disregard for human life) and the other Michael Schumacher (in terms of speeding). The culmination of these two lines was the person who now driving me to the station. I however didn't want to upset him in the least, and a stupid grin on my face, was hanging on to the auto with one hand and to my luggage with the other. My luggage showed a marked propensity to start floating (It happens at light speed, I hear). The Auto driver however seemed to see through my facade. "Less tension, more work saar" he said, quoting either from some obscure vedic text or a famous Tamil movie. I was too terrorized to realize which. I found myself singing this delightful little hip-hop number by Ludacris. The lyrics are pretty complicated and go something like " Move b*#ch! gerrout the way! Gerrout the way b*#ch, gerrout the way!" Very expressive these hip-hoppers, I tell you.
Now, knowing my commanding presence and charisma, if most of you were expecting a Moses act, with the traffic parting like the Red Sea, in response to my song, you're going to be disappointed. That day it just wasn't working. The radio was blaring an old Tamil song on the shortness of life (yes, thank you I needed that), and my life began flashing before my eyes. My mobile rang. It was my mother. She knew I was running late and called in with a lot of advise on starting early and not boarding running trains and asking the auto not to drive fast. Handling the mobile, while clinging on to the auto, and holding my luggage was a feat of contortion which even Jackie Chan wouldn't have attempted. I carried it off, while at the same time assuring my mom that all was well. Well, my ass!
Reached the station in twenty five minutes. Got down on rubbery legs, paid the auto driver and ran for my life. The old couple, on the seats next to me were very solicitous and offered me banana's to calm me down. I'd have killed for a whiff of the old poaceae right then, but settled for banana's.
There was a vendor who kept walking up and down selling 'Syphilis' . I was stunned and was wondering whether this was some kind of subtle moral warning, when I realized this was just his version of 'Chips Lays'. The 'Chi' had been converted to a 'Si' sound, resulting in the message on morality.
