The Intrepid Malayalee goes travelling

You see a person in a train, whom you can't place. You doubt whether he is a Malayalee because he does not have the usual walrus moustache, the oily hair or the malayalee accent.
Well when you notice that he has got into the train at 3 am in the night and has set his mobile alarm for 6 am in the morning, and having slept for just 3 hours still goes to the basin to wash his teeth for an infinite period of time, a homespun towel draped across his shoulders, you can be sure then that he belongs to the malayalee tribe. As Douglas Adam quotes in the HitchHiker's guide to the galaxy
<quote>
A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.
</quote>
It may not be for these reasons that the malayalee carries his threadbare towel (homespun, because it is easy to clean it by just wringing it), but all the same it is a malayalee trademark - a symbol of hygiene.
In fact most labourers in Kerala can be found with a red towel wrapped across their head as they go about their menial tasks and when he comes home the first thing he will do is wring the sweat and water out of the "toowal" and have a long renovating bath with the costliest herbal soap available in the market.
Mark these actions. You can bet he was brought up in the best of malayalee tradition.
To a malayalee sleep is sacrosant. He will never disturb his body clock, come what may, I think even if there were to be a mild earthquake.
Another malayalee trait is the habit of constantly worrying. If he reaches a bus stop and has just missed a bus by five minutes, he will spent ages fretting about it. And he can be even verbal about it. "If I was just five minutes early..." to all who care to listen!
This is in sharp contrast to the laid back attitude of rural north india. Time does not flow, it stops. If a bus is missed, of course there will be another bus coming, even though it might be after a good six hours!
I am posting a flowchart that shows what we must worry about, and when nothing can be gained by crying over split milk. But that goes against the malayalee mindset!

The Ones that did not make it to Wiki Leaks!

The recent Wiki Leaks was truly hilarious in some ways.
One that took the cake was that the Saudi King suggested released Guantanamo Bay detainees be implanted with electronic chips to keep track of them, like they do horses and falcons - sounds like something out of a Hollywood block buster!
The other cables seem to indicate that US diplomats are a genteel lot considering what potential secrets could have been passed on through those secure cables! Here are a few that could have made it to the list.
Cable from the Italian consulate in Delhi to HQ: Looks like India has better Italian leadership than Italy has.
Cable from the Chinese embassy to HQ: Looks like the Chinese are not going to have an erection.. er. election any time too soon..
Cable from US Secretary of State to US Consulate in Pakistan: We will let the Pakis continue to support the suicide bombers in India; that way they will be more busy bombing Mumbai and Delhi leaving us alone in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Cable from Kenya to HQ: I strongly recommend that the President rename the White House to some other, for instance, Black House, because Kenyans and many Africans refer to the loo as their White House. It's truly disgusting.
Cable to HQ from the US embassy in Delhi: The Consulate has run out of toilet paper. Please expedite the process of sending the necessary item immediately before the Consul General is forced to use an adult diaper!
Urgent communique from the US president to British PM visiting South Asia: In India the agenda should be to blast the Pakis out of their wits and when in Pakistan give the Indians a good blastng. That's true diplomacy. As they say be a Roman in Rome!
Cable from a US diplomat on tour of Iran: Just found out that the Iranian president has a soft spot for Mickey Mouse movies and wears Mickey Mouse adorned underwear. Recommend that we put an embargo on these two items as well, if we already have not.
US Consul official on hotline from Saudi Arabia: URGENT: Our stock of Bloody Marys destroyed when US fighter jet carrying them over in a diplomatic pouch got shot while flying over Kuwait. Recommend express delivery of the same!

Elegy on the death of a Cow

Once upon a time in the sleepy town of Malkapur a cow died by the roadside. Rumors soon spread all over town. There was one group that claimed that the holy Cow had been poisoned by the Muslim community to vent their disapproval of the Hindus. Another group claimed that it had been poisoned by a Hindu posing as a Muslim to create animosity between the two communities. There was a third group that claimed that the cow had been poisoned by a Hindu posing as a Muslim who had originally been a Muslim. None were ready to believe that a healthy cow could have died a natural death.
In the riots that followed five people were killed, two of them burnt alive in their houses.
The Central Reserve Police Force was deployed in town and a dawn to dusk curfew imposed. The authorities ordered an autopsy on the dead cow, bowing down to public pressure.
The kith and kin of the five who were killed were compensated handsomely by the government. The brethren of the dead cow of course got nothing except for the pride of place on the streets and highways where they strolled around chewing newspaper that told the horror stories of the Hindu - Muslim clashes with commentaries by eminent analysts.
The local veterinary hospital claimed that they did not have the facilities to perform as sophisticated a procedure as an autopsy on a dead cow. So the body of the cow was placed in a mortuary for months before it was sent to Delhi for further investigations.
The authorities realised that the autopsy by itself was not important. If the cow had been poisoned the Hindus would riot. And if it had not been poisoned the Muslims would riot for the injustice done to them earlier.
Finally after much deliberation the result of the autopsy was buried under sheets of red tape and the dead cow was soon forgotten by one and all as everyone waited expectantly for the India Pakistan cricket series to start.

Ulta Pulta Down South!

I copy below two separate snippets from two different female white bloggers on Kerala and its attire, that I chanced to come a long time ago, which I rediscovered today, which just proves how useful a photographic memory and GOOGLE can be! I apologise to these writers for anonymously harvesting their creativity but I am too greedy to let this opportunity pass :-)
The first one:

<chenoa>
I become more and more jealous of the men, who wear lungis, a long piece of cloth that is wrapped around the waist and worn as a long skirt. They usually fold up the bottom and tuck it into the waist, though, which provides a nice breeze. So while the women are wearing churidars (the pants and long shirts and shawls), the men wear lungis and show their legs. A bit different than the United States.
So have a good weekend and write if you have any questions!
</chenoa>


<sharell>
Ah, Kerala, the land of meeshas (moustaches) and mundus (sarong type cloth wrapped around the waist and worn like a skirt, similar to a dhoti).
The men of Kerala are constantly readjusting their mundus — folding them, draping them, and refolding them.
The mundu is particularly practical when walking through water during the monsoon season. No need to worry about getting the bottoms of your pants wet, just do a quick fold-up of the mundu, and you’re good to go!
However, in hot weather, the length of the mundu often becomes quite short, as the men folk aim to get some air flow to their nether regions.
While I was down Kerala way recently, I heard a joke. How do you know when the temperature is going to be extremely hot in Kerala? When the government issues a ban on the wearing of mundus. Hardy har har.
</sharell>

The original posts here, in case you are interested->

http://www.pcusa.org/missionconnections/letters/yav/yav_stockc_0411.htm
http://www.whiteindianhousewife.com/2009/06/india-photo-you-know-its-hot-in-kerala-when/

I would advise anybody to read the entire articles linked above, and yes, go through the commentary if you please!

Never Say Die.....

Smoking Hypochondriac: Doctor! How do I begin? You know the graphics the damned Minister Ramadoss promised to put on cigarette packets ($#@#$%#& ... )?
Doctor: Yeah! I know. He did promise. But they have not appeared so far have they?
Smoking Hypochondriac: I don't need to! Coz I have already seen them! And the graphics on the package if they ever come will be too late!
Doctor: How come? That's strange!
Smoking Hypochondriac: I had a chest pain and a severe bout of coughing so I saw a chest specialist.
Doctor: And?
Smoking Hypochondriac: Well, he told me to have a chest X ray taken. And I did!
Doctor: Then?
Smoking Hypochondriac: The lungs! It was all rotten- I swear! Though the X rays were too hazy for me. And I fear I have ulcers in my mouth!
Doctor: Really? We need to do a check up and run some tests pronto! (Praise Ramadoss!) On the lighter side if what you say is correct we could send your chest x rays to the cigarette people so they could put it on their cigarette covers. The best graphics ever, I bet. You could even make some money that way! (Praise Ramadoss!)
Smoking Hypochondriac: Doctor, I also fear I have a stroke coming! I am dying, Doctor! Please help me!
Doctor: Now, now, be calm. Let us run those tests first. (Praise Ramadoss!) Don't get so excited. We are there to help you out.
Smoking Hypochondriac: And doctor, I am out of breath. The cigarettes did that to me. And I never suspected!
Doctor: OK... Let's put you on oxygen for half an hour. And I shall add an expectorant to it, so breathe easy. (Praise Ramadoss)
Doctor: Why don't you give up cigarettes, by the way? That's the best option you have right?
Smoking Hypochondriac: It's too late Doctor. Every time I think about my afflictions I reach out for a cigarette!
Doctor: Ok. First things first! First the chest x rays. Then oxygen and the decongestant; after that maybe some oral application for your mouth, and maybe we could do put you on some medicine to prevent that stroke you said was coming. (Praise Ramadoss!)

Will this happen to all of us one day?

In honor of the perpetual net surfer

A tribute to the funny Malayalee

Malayalees are a funny lot. I would say they are the Indian counterparts of the Irish in the UK.
They see something funny in almost anything, sometimes at serious issues too.
I recollect some stories my father used to tell us when we were kids.
One of them is still fresh in my mind.
Private buses operate in most of Kerala. So the owner of a bus fleet was interviewing potential conductors for a job. There was a huge rush of candidates thanks to the unemployment problem in Kerala.
The bus owner asked each candidate to perform a single task. The task was to stuff a brand new matchbox with matchsticks from another new matchbox. In other words two matchboxes in one.
The enlightened gentlemen who were asked to do this refused to do so, considering it simply illogical, saying that it just could not be done.
Finally a smart young man took the two matchboxes as the others watched in disbelief. He removed a few sticks and placed them into the other. Then again a few sticks were transferred. This went on till the matchbox he was filling started bursting at the seams. Still he went on. Then finally he was putting each match, stick by stick into the overfilled box.
He was about to continue unmindful of the other people who were watching dumbstruck, when the bus owner motioned him to stop.
"I very well know that the task is impossible. But I wanted one of you to try it. The idea is, you need to try to cram more and more people in my buses even when they are jam packed full!", he said with glee.
The young gentleman got the job.

Another instance goes to a time when the British were still ruling India. The English brought a lot of changes to India, their biggest gifts being the railways, the other being the English language.
When the Englishmen started raising poles to lay the electric and telephone lines, the locals were suspicious and dismayed.
"They are putting poles into the ground, tying them up with electric ropes to pull India towards England!", was one wise goon's opinion.

Another story I have to relate might irk feminists, so my apologies to them. Everyone has heard of the obese uncle who seemed pregnant. Well this one has a similar twist.
The lady teacher was giving a Biology class to a class of toddlers. Thumping her chest the saree clad lady said emphatically, "This is where the lungs are".
Next day the lady came to the same class wearing a salwar - kameez. I can see your lungs, now, madam!" one of the toddlers exclaimed pointing at her breasts!
Just to prove my point here is a funny take on the IT recession by the Funny Malayalee :-D
http://www.technoparktoday.com/2009/02/technopark-ottanthullal-video/
And another one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpQkc7CMqLc

All that glitters...

This incident took place in the early eighties when I was still in my upper primary class.
We had a lot of stuff to read in our house. My father subscribed to The Blitz, The Times Of India and the now defunct Illustrated Weekly of India (then edited by the most venerable Khushwant Singh). So we were never really short of reading material.
The Illustrated Weekly reserved its last page for classifieds and one advertisement insert that appeared week after week caught my fancy. It was an advert for a mini printing press. It promised to print wedding cards, visiting cards and anything that came to your imagination.
I was intrigued by this product and I mentioned this to my father one day. He brushed it off as a child's immature fancy. But week after week I saw the ad and got more and more excited about it.
Finally my father told me he would order the product. It cost 30 rupees which was quite a sum in those days. The order was supposed to be placed by VPP(Value Post Payable) which meant that we would have to pay the postman the amount before we could open the package.
I waited anxiously for the mini printing press and started dreaming of all kinds of thing I would be able to do with it.
It was a long wait but one day finally the printing press arrived. The postman handed over the package, my father paid the money and I tore open the bundle as soon as I could.
To my dismay what was supposed to be a "printing press" was just a collection of rubber blocks with inverted letters embossed on it. There was a small holder for the these blocks and an ink stamp pad came with it. It was just a crude rubber stamp.
I tried arranging the letters on the holder to spell out my name. I pressed it against the pad and tried to make an impression on paper. But it was a clumsy process. The letters fell out and if they didn't, the impression was imperfect with some letters not producing any imprint, being misaligned.
I was dismayed.
My father laughed. He said,"Let this be your first lesson in life about buying. You always have to be careful of being cheated".
I wondered whether my father indeed had an idea of what the so called printing press would be, when he placed the order.
I never bugged my father for anything after that, until I reached the 10th grade when I asked for, and got a typewriter which proved out to be a real utility and on which I drafted my first story which appeared in a local english magazine in serialized form.
I had learnt an important lesson in life - things are not always what they seem.
Later in life I saw some weird products some of my friend bought on the internet. A mosquito killer arrived in the form of a hammer and a plate. There were spurious products which promised to produce rays which would repell anything from flies to rodents.
I smile now, when I think about that mini printing press and what it turned out to be and what it taught me.

Chicken poop for the soul

Not long ago the city of Bank-lure which was the capital of the ancient land of Canara-arctic was known as the Garden City. It was a clean and green city with wide boulevards and lush greenery on either sides and neat gardens with trimmed grass lawns dotting the city. The weather was akin to that of European lands with mild winters and warm summers and people came from far away lands just to sit in the gardens and enjoy a quiet picnic.
Bank-lure was the chosen destination for people to retire. People retiring all kinds of jobs from government services to the military liked its quiet ambience and idyllic lifestyle.
Soon all that was too change.
Multi-nationals from the West and home-bred multinationals saw in Bank-lure their chosen destination for setting up offshore software development centres. The weather was a plus point and its proximity to nearby lands which had a huge resource pool of well educated professionals was an added bonus.
The government of Canara-arctic welcomed these huge corporations as they saw in these industries, a milking cow for cash and also a potential employment provider for locals and the fact the huge salaries paid to the highly skilled professionals these companies attracted, would ultimately trickle down to the locals. In addition to the fact these were non-polluting industries unlike those in the neighbouring bigger cities.
In short it was a win-win situation for all those involved.
Soon software development hubs sprung up everywhere and yuppies from nearby lands thronged the city. Bank-lure became their land of opporunity.
These yuppies did not mind paying some extra money for whatever they required, be it food, clothing, shelter or trips in an autorickshaw, as they believed they had to maintain a lifestyle akin to their status in society.
Then things turned real ugly.
The poor auto drivers who once were very careful to charge passengers by the automated fare meter, found life getting difficult for them. They had to pay higher prices for basic food items, as the yuppies were ready to pay more for the same stuff causing the shopkeepers to start selling cut-rate items at cut-throat prices. The auto guys had to struggle with their housing because all of a sudden every cent of land became a goldmine for real estate developers. The auto drivers could not send their children to good schools as all the seats were already filled up by children of yuppy families. With no other option left, the auto drivers too hiked their fares. They started billing ordinary people for just waiting in the mad rush hour traffic jams for hours, caused basically by people moving from point A to point B and another set of people moving from B to A. The roads choked with traffic exhausts.
With the higher auto fares, the auto drivers found that they could send their children to better schools, buy prime land to stay and eat nutritious food. For this they charged the poor yuppies sky-high fares. Being inherently thrifty, they thrived.
The yuppies liked to work hard and party hard and they were paid well, so they thought. They didn't mind paying a bit of extra money for buying some goods or paying the auto drivers higher fares. They didn't mind going to hotels and bars with their colleagues just to half-eat a special food dish and leave.
The real estates developers, the shopkeepers, the hotel owners all joined the rat race.
Prices went sky high until the yuppies could take it no more. But they had a lifestyle to keep. The salary received at the beginning of the month vanished by the end of the month. If a month's salary was missed due to illness, they had to borrow from friends to cope with the rest of the month's expenditures.
Land prices shot sky- high, the gardens disappeared and huge high rises came up to cater to the software industry and residences for software employees.
The banks and the financial institutions did not like to be left out. The yuppies no longer to be able to pay in cash now bought desirable objects on credit, courtesy the banks with just a payslip as a promise that the money would be repaid.
Newly married yuppies bargained with shopkeepers for each and every thing they bought, be it a new TV for their home or a dish washer or a apartment in a high-rise.
The city was dying, literally, throttled by software yuppies and the culture they bought with them.

The joy ride after the wild goose chase

Recently several media publications were bold enough to expose the sham that lies behind police interrogations involving narcoanalysis. Injecting suspects with a so-called truth serum, before they have been proved guilty, exposes one of the extremely crass and crude methods that the law condones (in India).
On the lighter side why don't these so-called preservers of the law take their suspects to the nearest bar and make them have their fill of the strongest liquors. Surely some of these "guilty" offenders might just spill the beans for all we know or maybe even "sing" for them. Or how about Cocaine or hashish, and if thats too costly for these guys in mufti, they could try good old marijuana.
The interrogators too could have a sniff at the substance on offer just to test whether it truly works. Once both the parties are "high", they could swap truth stories with each other and perhaps the "real" truth would spill out in the bonhomie.
These are the Dr Deaths' of today in the garb of forensic experts. The description of it being "scientific" just makes everything seem very sophisticated to the lay man.
The basic intention is the age old classic manoeuvre. When things go very wrong, and the law enforcers are clueless as to what went wrong they are under pressure to produce quick results - from the public, the politicians, the higher-ups and in order not to lose their credibility they have to produce results fast. What way other than a quick fix(pun intended) for this? In fact, the situation for them would work the other way round if they solved the entire mystery in a short spell- pats and kudos from everyone.
It's high time the law enforcers and others who condone it, recognize narcoanalysis for what it truly is.

Stale News

Just before leaving for work, I had a hasty look at the newspaper.
"Four killed by a suicide bomber in Iraq." "PM hopeful of an amicable settlement on the nuclear deal." "Famine in Africa." "Bird culling after Avian flu epidemic." "Blast in Israel kills two Palestinians." "Tamil militants attack army convoy."
These were the main stories of the day.
I usually have only a cursory look at the front page of the newspaper while the sports section and the editorial hold more appeal to me.
That reminds me of some great soul who had said: The first page of the newspaper is full of lies, the editorial is a half truth and the only page with truth in it is the sports page!
But I am digressing.
Having gone through the headlines I ritually moved onto the comics section. The newspaper people had messed up again I thought with disgust. They had printed the same comic strips that had appeared a few days back.
Suddenly struck by doubt I turned over to the first page.
I checked the date on it. The newspaper I was reading was more than a week old.
But why did I mistake it for the day's newspaper?
The news has so little variety today that I think last week's newspaper would be as good as today's!