Dilli Babu, for as long as I have known him, swore by classical music. “In the cruel summer nights, when walking around the house butt naked and taking a shower every 7 minutes also didn’t help, I listen to this composition in Jagan Kalyan. And, I sleep like a baby post that!” He said, wiping the foam off the corners of his mouth.

He was visibly upset by the recent fracas over South Indian sensibilities. “What do these guys know? They are not qualified to critique I say!” He screamed at me, as he hiked his Lungi up. “If Bangalore is South India, going by what they wrote, Nochhu kuppam is Thailand!” He added, tossing a Cheedai in the air and catching it with his mouth.

“So there’s no truth in their claim then Dilli?” I asked. He looked at me as if I were a ‘oosi pona Ulundu Vadai’ and said, “Truth?” And he sat on the thinnai and asked me sit as well. I sat down.

He said, “Machan, do these guys understand the difference between Jagan Kalyan and Pavan Kalyan? Can they identify Beer-a-vaangu-nee by the initial aalap?”

He continued, “Take for instance this masterpiece in Dhodaa raagam. Many so called experts thought it was composed in Bagul-bigil. The intricacies are many and minute, for someone from outside to appreciate, leave alone pontificate upon.”

“Our ways of worship-communication are avant-garden.” He said. “Unlike other schools like Poes garden or Nageswar Rao Park. And, we don’t rest on our laurels. We wake up before dawn everyday and compose krithis. The one recent krithi in Surroongudhu epitomises our devotion and the South Indian practice of worship.” He paused to take a breath.

“What do you think about Hindustani?” I said.

He lit a beedi, drew a lungful, and let the smoke drift through his nose. It was a poignant moment. It was already dark. The barotta shop on Alwarpet street, started his rhythm practice.  ‘tan-ku-taka tan-ku-taka tan-ku-taka tattaku-tattaku’ he went in a loop, with the occasional roll (didikinakkum-jakkajum). My beard started growing as I waited for Dilli to answer.

“Hey Dilli, can you answer me?” I reminded him.

“Who are you? Where is my friend?” He said.

“It’s me only da. I just grew a beard when you were thinking.” I said.

“Oh-oho-oh. ha ha ha” He coughed and spluttered. I thought I had managed to offend this great man; this fantastic exponent of Classical South Indian music.

“Hindustani eh? Well, I liked it in Tamil.” He said. “The hindi dubbing was fuckall.” He crushed his beedi with his bare foot, and walked away into the Sodium vapor lamp’s glow.

Anna Podi is an Andhra Chetty recipe. It is a powder that you mix with steamed rice and eat. My mother picked this recipe up from her Komiti Chetty friends in Chittoor.

Ingredients

• Peanuts: 2 cups
• Roasted Gram Dal (pottu kadalai): 2 cups
• Red chillies: about 15 (but depends on how spicy you want it to be.
• Tamarind: a small ball
• Salt: as desired (but go easy on it. A couple of spoons should work for the aforementioned quantities)
• Asafoetida (hing): a pinch

Preparation

1. Roast the peanuts and chillies (without oil, yes.)
2. Mix peanuts with the roasted gram dal (Note: No need to fry the dal. It’s already roasted yo!)
3. In a ladle, heat a spoonful of oil. Turn the stove off.
4. Add the small ball of Tamarind to the heated oil. (If you went “What the fffffuu….” I understand. But that’s how this one rolls yo)
5. Add the fried tamarind with oil to the peanuts, roasted gram dal and chillies.
6. Add the Asafoetida.
7. Add Salt.
8. Let it all cool.

• Grind it to a fine powder.

Tastes best when mixed with rice and a little ghee.

Bonus tip: I love to eat it with Rasam. Did you just ask how to make original Iyengar Rasam? Coming up shortly!

An indie movie maker said this

It’s easy to make a film (comparatively) when you have a posh office set up, Nescafe counter at every alley of it, assistants with iPhones, ‘whatever’ attitude and a man on a big roller chair telling you what to do next. It’s quite easy in my opinion because when you are part of so-called commercial cinema you have enough money to hire people to do jobs for you. But in independent cinema, you have to take in your own hands the responsibility to do each and everything. You have to be a multi-tasker, you must be ready to become a spot boy as well as an actor if need arises yet all the risk and blame for the failure of film will be duly credited to you. It all starts with a desire to make a movie that even you are not sure will garner any profitable returns probably because you are not even thinking about it when you are making it; but then that’s the beauty of Independent cinema, everything is independent of everything. (link)

A few points here. No one forces you to become a film maker. You pick it, for it has gnawed at your brains for a while. It has whispered in your ear when you slept; coaxed, cajoled you into taking the plunge. It’s called passion. Now, I am not one for categorization of cinema based on who’s making it. To me the ‘what’ matters. But some indie movie makers seem to think that just tagging themselves as ‘indie’ is enough to spout grand theories and postulates. Dear indie guy, let your films do the talking.
The average movie-goer doesn’t even read all credits. She is impatient as they roll. She wants to jump right into your story. She hopes, longs that you have a funny, intriguing, engaging, scary, or mushy tale to spin. She doesn’t award merit based on who you are. Or where you came from. I know you are aware, indie man. But your words belie that knowledge.
And remember this, the world doesn’t owe you one. So stop making a fool of yourself by making a virtue out of being an ‘indie’ movie maker. It never was a virtue. Never will be one. You cannot guilt-trip me into buying that ticket. So accept the hard facts and do what you do best. Make movies.

Only for a Little While

Rosy coming into our lives was as dramatic as her exit. My father first saw Rosy as she was being cornered by a gang of street dogs. He rescued her and brought her home. “Only for a little while, until we find her a nice home”, he said. I was thirteen.

Survivor

One day ‘the son’ found another dog. A male. By now I realized a dog was just another plaything for him. His father didn’t even bat an eyelid. “I already have two bitches, what I am I going to do with this third one”? He appeared to have told an inquisitive neighbour. So they took Rosy in an auto, and left her somewhere near Kanipakam. A good 12 KM away from Chittoor.
The next day, Micky and I found him walking a new pup. I could tell Mickey never liked ‘the son’. I guess, dogs are more concerned about whom they hang out with than us.
I asked him about Rosy, he gurgled and said, “We abandoned her. We always wanted a boy.”
With sheer horror in my eyes, I went back home and told my parents the story and my folks were stunned. More so my mother. When I was born, my mother wished for me to be a girl. It was her way of coming to terms with a loss of her four year old daughter, who died before my birth.
I believe my sister was a lively, little intelligent girl whose pretty life was snuffed out because some pharma company didn’t bother testing their drug properly. Back then, there was no Barkha or Arnab to bang their fists on the table, look you in the eye from behind their perch in the idiot box, and dramatically hiss, ‘Will justice be served? Time will tell. We will take a small break now, don’t go anywhere!’
I don’t think mom loves me any less but somehow I think Rosy coming into our lives, filled that soft spot for girls that she has. That night while serving me dinner, mom said, ‘I hope the poor dog is alive.”
What happened next morning blew my mind. My father, after his morning walk, came back with Micky. And, Rosy.
Rosy had walked all the way back into Chittoor, to her masters’ home. But the poor darling didn’t know just how degenerate humans could be. The son and the father collected stones and tried to hit Rosy out of their way.
Mickey was an eight month old, feisty German Shepard, when dad carried a frail and wounded mongrel in his arms into our living room. Rosy had off white fur that was accentuated by small patches of tan. Micky probably accepted Rosy because he was still young and before long they became great friends.

Rosy exuded an aura of maturity and grace. She was a correcting, stabilizing influence, whereas Micky was prone to consistent displays of impulsiveness and naivete. Micky chased butterflies and garden lizards in our backyard. Rosy knew better. Micky picked fights with the street dogs, and Rosy always touched noses and made friendships. Micky was the brat and took things for granted. Rosy was a survivor and was happy to just be.

Micky was a high energy, adventure seeker, which meant he would regularly runaway. The daily routine started with, Rajamma, our maid, forgetting to latch the gate, then Mickey would scurry out, followed by us running behind him leaving a trail of my mother yelling at Rajamma in the background. Mickey was an imposing pooch. Big enough (and menacing enough) to scare people out their socks or patta-pattis.
So, when were doing our routine with Rajamma and Micky, Rosy would sit in quite repose, watching the drama and probably thinking “hmm…how dumb can a dog get”?
By evening dad would be back home and the sound of the gate opening then meant, Rosy yelping with joy, running to the door, doing a “x marks the spot” by circling him and swishing her tail until both would settle down to do their nosy-nosy routine. While this tribal ritual continued day in and day out, Micky and I filled the frame as enthusiastic extras. I am sure Micky was wondering about Rosy and thinking “how boring can a dog get”?

The Last Goodbye

I would lie on the ground, next to her, look into her eyes and touch her nose. It was mostly dry but just to reassure me that she is alive, she had a little moist look in her eyes and as I stared into them, those beautiful brown eyes told me a million stories. I was constantly frustrated that I couldn’t do anything more to help her ease her suffering. Finally, after what seemed like forever, my father arrived and when he didn’t find Rosy at the doorstep, I swear at that moment I heard his heart crumble.
I could have hugged my dad, picked up poor ole Rosy or held on to my mother. But I just stood there, just like old times, filling the frame like an extra. This time without Mickey. I wished he were alive. He would have pacified them just by being himself. It was a terrible sight. Dad just drowned in the couch in the living room and stared at the Gods in our pooja room.
In the wrong side of sixties, he was not exactly agile but he jumped to his feet when he saw Rosy. She had heard him and while we were all in the living room, she called upon herself every last ounce of life she had and dragged herself into the living room.
Father let out a strange noise, ran up to her, and collected her in his arms, and buried his face in her fur to muffle his sobs.
Ten minutes later, lying on his lap, she breathed her last. She waited to say her last good bye to her best friend. I don’t know what part of my father stopped living from then on.
My father wanted to give Rosy a decent resting place, but that was hard to find in Chennai. One of our friends suggested the land adjacent to the Kotturpuram fly-over. After much hesitation, my father consented. The other problem was that none of the auto guys were ready to go on a funeral procession of a dog. Despite offers of large sums of money that is.
We found a kind auto-rikshaw driver who agreed to take Rosy’s remains. So we boys took her away in the auto. My parents were inconsolable. As the auto drove away from the gates of our apartment complex in Alwarpet, I turned back to see my parents standing on the road and crying.
My father never brought the topic of having another dog again. I tried convincing him that my nephew, who was a toddler then, might want a dog, but my father was unshakeable. He just didn’t want another dog.
As for me, I moved out of Chennai and never really thought of getting a dog. But when my daughter was born, I remembered Rosy.
I have been thinking about it for a while now. If I am getting a dog, it is going to be a girl. And, you know what I am going to name her, don’t you?

An exaggerated version of a true story, as told to me by a friend who chose to remain anonymous. Yeah. You’ll know why he did so after you have read this story.

He threw our clothes, splashed some kerosene on them, and set them on fire. We stood there, standing by the edge of the irrigation well, and watched. Once he was satisfied that our clothes were burnt to his satisfaction, Raghava Reddy, turned to us. The only thought that was running in my head was ‘if he hits me, I can’t raise my hands to defend myself: my hands were busy defending something far more important.

Raghava Reddy was an ancient man. Some said he was 60. Some said 80. But from when I knew him, I was 14, he had been the same: lanky, dark man with a 100,000 wrinkles. I don’t think he even changed his clothes in all those years: he was always clad in a white dhoti and a white baniyan. The dhoti was always wrapped up and knotted way above his knees, exposing his underwear: the world famous Patta-patti (now known as ‘Bermudas’).

Reddy’s paddy fields offered a magnificent vista from our backyard. A wooded area, guarded by ancient Tamarind trees that rose thousands of feet above the ground separated his farmland and the row of houses in which we lived. We, the kids that lived in the row of houses on Pagadamanu Street, in Chittoor, practically lived in that small patch of wilderness between Reddy’s farm and our backyards. We caught garden lizards and made them smoke beedis. We made up stories about the ghosts that lived in the Tamarind trees. And, we also once in a while, crossed over to Raghava Reddy’s farm, either to steal mangoes or swim in that massive irrigation Well.

The ancient Well’s walls were paved with granite and a winding staircase lead you to the water. The water was a brilliant translucent green. You could count the pebbles on the bed of Well, standing at the top. A couple of decades back, we were told, Reddy rescued a Turtle and gave it asylum in his well. It was still around. Flapping its fins? I think it’s called fins. Yeah, flapping about in the water or basking on the steps, sunning itself.

The reason why Reddy never let kids swim in his Well was his Turtle. He feared it seemed, one of us would, for the heck of it, kill it or something. I understood his fear. We tortured garden lizards and something as exotic as a Turtle was an exciting prospect. However, we never got around laying our hands on the poor animal. When we were swimming he hid in a crevice, on the wall of the Well. Underwater. We always had a lookout posted when we were swimming in Reddy’s well. We took turns to perform guard duties. But that day, that simmering hot day, Nanda couldn’t resist it. He just jumped in. When asked ‘What the fuck are you doing here?” He said “Reddy must be sleeping. It’s two in the afternoon!” And before one of us could climb up – we took our time debating who should replace the deserter – Reddy was onto us.

Once he was satisfied our clothes were ash, he turned to us. His glazed eyes stared at us. His wrinkled hand was shaking. He had tied a towel around his head. His gray stubble stood out like nails. If one had to pick a word to describe him, it has to be ‘parched’. He plucked a branch from the Neem tree and moved towards us. The searing conflict in my head was ‘If I did make a run for it, dash through the backyard, what was the guarantee that P won’t be around in my house. P was my neighbour and classmate. Yeah. I had the hots for her and if bumped into her now, in this state, she’ll in no time, realise just how happy I was to see her, without me having to utter a single word.

I turned to Partha and whispered “Can you get me clothes, I will wait in my backyard?” If I had had a choice, I would not have asked for help from Partha. Only a week back, he had mixed some tablets in the Sambar. In his grannny’s funeral lunch. Some twenty of them suffered loose motions.

He said, “Sure ra, of course I will run into your house or mine naked and ask your mother, or mine, to give me clothes. That’s what friends are for, right? Read my lips. Go make love to a goat or some suitable animal!”

I was crestfallen. Raghava Reddy was a few seconds away. Some boys had already started running. Partha, who was about to take off, stopped and said, “Listen, this is the best I could do. I am sure that thing is big enough to cover your modesty. Now, this old fucker is closing in. Run!” and handed me the turtle. I don’t know when he caught it and I don’t know why I took it. It was the situation I guess.

And I ran. The slimy, slithery thing stared at me. He had eyes just like Reddy’s. I ran across the farm, jumped over the thorn fence, to the wooded area, and screamed into our backyard. Reddy was far away. He was too old. Too slow.

I was gasping for breath. I instinctively covered my modesty with the Turtle, while I was looking for something appropriate, something that was not a living thing, to replace it. Leaves? No! I spotted an old newspaper in our vegetable garden. It was too fragile. Too sunned out. It was bleached. It would crumble if I touched it. I was cursing myself and the damn Turtle started wriggling. And the backdoor opened. P stepped out, she was in mid sentence talking to my mother in the kitchen when she saw me.

I had my mouth open. I had a Turtle between my legs. And it didn’t look pretty at all. Screw pretty. It looked like I had discovered my fetish at a very young age. P made a strange noise. Turned and ran out. I just stood there watching the girl of my dreams storm out of my life. I was going to tell her what I felt for her in the next few days.

I dumped the Turtle in our Well. Reddy came for it a few days later and took it. He was happy, according to mom. He almost cried it seems.

I wanted to let things cool down a little. So I waited for a week before I knocked on P’s house. After what seemed like 20 years, the door creaked open. And there she was. Her eye brow was arched in the ‘WTF?’ manner, as she digested the fact that it was me. Her beautiful lower lip quivered and that mole, right under the lip… oh my god.

Her cat walked out. She purred and rubbed herself against my leg. I was about to open my mouth when P snapped at the cat “Pinks! Get in here.” She picked Pinks up and held her against her face and growled “If you go anywhere near him again… I am warning you!”

‘It was an awkward moment’ would be a glorious understatement. It was more embarrassing than your dad catching you, you know, performing acts of self-love. It has happened to one of my friends, trust me.

I just walked away. I caught Partha standing outside home. He kept staring at me.

“WHAT??” I screamed.

He burst out laughing.

We’re looking for a Contractor for 6 months (extendable). You get to work on various sports portals from the ESPN network of sites, including ESPNcricinfo.com, ESPNF1.com, and ESPNsoccernet.com. If you have a passion for sports and your profile matches the criteria below, write to sumank/gmail

Essential functions:

• Play a role in developing the information architecture and interaction design of rich and complex interactive experiences on various platforms
• Articulate UX concepts and solutions through wireframes and prototypes of varying fidelity.
• Develop and document detailed user experience specifications for highly interactive designs.
• Will report to the ESPN Digital Media – EMEA UX team

 Basic Qualifications:

• 1-3 years in similar role
• Experience on front end / consumer driven web sites.
• Prepared to show documentation and portfolio of sites worked on.
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• Passion for sports

Write to sumank/gmail if you are interested!

Mothers spoke about him in hushed whispers. When they fed their babies. “If you don’t finish your lunch, Elikunji will take you away.” We debated “Does he exist? Or is it just a maternal conspiracy to make the babies eat?” But, somewhere in the dark corners of our minds, a nagging question kept us on tenterhooks: what if he is for real?

There were too many small stories, snippets, trivia that contributed to the larger-than-life outlaw called Elikunji. First, the name: Elikunji in Tamil meant ‘baby rat or rat’s penis’ depending on how you look at it. Conversations with old men on Pagadamanu street confirmed my doubts. Elikunji was vertically challenged. He is only 3 ft tall, said some old men. The deaf Iyer next door had a different take. “He is as elusive as a rat,” he said and farted aloud. I pitied the Easy Chair he was sitting on.

Life in Chittoor was not exactly romantic. There was talk of ‘Boochandi’ the bogeyman who took kids away and ate them. And, there were the spirits and ghosts stories that abounded. Parents fed us all kinds of stories to extract discipline. However, Elikunji was top-drawer. He had two hearts for starters. And just when you gulped that enormous fact down, they said “…and that helps him in jumping from any height. Any height, you know?” Every time I heard that bit I used to ask “Can he jump from the LIC building in Chennai?” LIC building was world famous in Pagadamanu street, Greamspet, Chittoor, thanks to me and my younger brother.

“Of course he jumped from the LIC building, the police were after him and he was cornered on top of LIC. And he just jumped. Straight on the top of the Chittoor bus that was passing by on Mount road.”

Elikunji apparently was a legendary fighter. He could beat up 100 men, while having tea and masala vadai, and reading Eenadu.

Now a part of me didn’t take all this seriously. But as a ten year old, you are bound to give in to some level of fantasy. Days rolled by. One day a huge fight broke out between two neighborhoods. Konda mitta vs Greamspet. Goli soda bottles flew. When they exploded, the pins in them delivered a nasty surprise. Swords flashed. I was watching the street fight from my friend’s terrace. My eyes fell on one short guy. He was armed with a bicycle chain and he was devastating. He whirled around like a hurricane, delivering deadly blows. Despite his short stature, he jumped up to execute his ‘dichha’ (head-butt).

The fight lasted for about ten minutes before the Police came and stopped the party. The road in front of the municipal school was littered with glass, shoes, and what not. That’s not the story anyway. The cops were chasing a bunch of guys and I saw that short guy climb up the school wall and onto the next-door bungalow’s terrace. He did it with feline grace. The cops chased. They barged into the house and were climbing up. The short guy knew it. He just stood there on the terrace wall. His face was serene. I thought he had a smile on his face. I thought he saw me. Our eyes met for a fleeting moment and he just raised his arms for balance and somersaulted! He landed, rolled a little and was on his way towards Konda mitta.

“I saw Elikunji today.” I whispered to the boys during the  lunch hour. Little Flower Convent forbade any mention of such unchristian, sinister names. The boys stopped eating. “Fuck off!” M.P. Venkatesh said. “You are in fifth standard. Not LKG. Grow up!” He added. I wanted to punch him. Velayudham, though, was interested. “What do you mean you saw Elikunji?” So I told him. The others brushed it aside. Even I forgot about the whole thing.

A few days later, Leela our maid broke another news “Phoolandevi surrendered!” I didn’t understand. So Leela told us about the legend of Phoolandevi. “Can she jump? From great heights?” I asked. The next day on the way back from school I stopped by at the snake-charmer’s house. He had two cobras dancing. The snake charmer was rehearsing. He was blowing the traditional ‘nee-nee nee-nee nee-nee-nee-nee’ snake tune. I was transfixed. I didn’t notice him until he was right in front of me. I don’t know when he arrived but I was face-to-face with Elikunji. I stared at him. He stared back. My knees shook. I felt cold. The Snake Charmer’s tune was hitting a crescendo. And Elli patted my face and walked away.

“Do you know who that guy is?” I asked the Snake Charmer. “Kutti Raja.” He said, packing his snakes in a bamboo basket. “Are you sure?” “Sure about what son?” “His name…” “Well I didn’t father him. I only know by how people around call him!”

After a couple of weeks, our maid Leela broke the story, “Elikunji was shot dead. They had to shoot at both his hearts otherwise he could have escaped!” I was tempted to ask why didn’t they blow his head away? But there’s nothing more sadistic than killing the moment for a story-teller. So Elikunji died.Or did he?

I couldn’t sit through my classes at school. After school, I went to the snake charmer. He was drinking arrack from his Pumpkin shell flask.

“Want to see the new arrival? She is a bombshell.” He asked. He was referring to, well, a cobra. I shuddered and said ‘No.’ And I asked him for directions to Kutti Raja’s house. He was perplexed but he gave me the address. It was somewhere near Pratap Talkies. So I walked.

Behind Pratap Talkies, in Kondamitta, in a small lane was his house. I reached the lane. Drummers were in full swing. Funeral drummers. A bunch of guys were dancing. So it was true. Tears welled up in my eyes. I waited till the funeral procession passed me. The pungent fragrance of Pannir lingered on. One of the fire crackers that the guys from the procession were bursting, suddenly woke up and did its duty. “Phat!”

Strong wind from the Murugan temple hill side picked up. And an arm fell on me. “Watch it kid. Those can hurt you.” He said pointing to the failed firecrackers. “You never know when they come to life!” He said and winked.

I stared at him. My heart was thumping away like a Guindy race horse.

“What’s your name?” He said.

I told him my name.

“What’s yours?” I asked.

“Raja.”

“Is that your nickname?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I know your real name… Elikunji, no?”

He stopped, waited for a truck to pass and helped me cross the road.

“Go home. Your folks will be worried.”

“You haven’t answered me…” I said.

“You haven’t asked me anything!”

“Are you-”

“For you, I am.” He said.

You can’t question the absence of cohesion or symmetry in a work of art. I mean it’s art! If you considered movie making an art, then you can’t ask Bala, the director of Avan Ivan, the following questions: 1) Why some of the scenes/sub-plots in Avan Ivan are gratuitous 2) Why the humour is constipated and laborious and 3) And why oh why, Bala, you fall into the trappings of Kollywood: get Surya to do a cameo and in return you promote his NGO in the movie?

I am not going to review the movie here. I am sure there are many reviews out there, that’ll state the obvious and deliver a verdict. I am going to go deeper.

As an amateur writer, I have understood that in a movie… a story, time is of essence. But in Avan Ivan Bala takes his own sweet time to reveal what exactly the movie is about. Now, is that important? Not to me, but for a million others, it is. If I don’t ‘get’ the movie in the first five minutes, at least the general direction of it, I am lost. Bala squanders away the first ten minutes of the movie. I use the word squanders because, the first five minutes are probably the most important five minutes of the movie: the movie watchers’ expectations are set in those five minutes. Not in Avan Ivan though. Bala starts it with a song-dance. His penchant for the off-beat is tiring me now. Okay we get it Bala, you are a different story teller, but do you have to use eunuchs, just because, they are different?

Help me here. Which self-respecting, educated girl will fall for a petty thief? Huh? But that’s very cunning though: it appeals to boys, in some sort of primordial way. No issues there but Bala, your thief falls in love but doesn’t as much as give his girl a hug. Who the fuck are you kidding? I think Bala had had some nasty, small-town-love-story-gone-sour experience and he keeps going back to it. Again. And again. And now that he has this ‘different’ director tag, he can piss on us as much as he wants and we will lap it all up. NOT!

A story teller who goes the distance in terms of painting the macabre, slush filled, shit-painted thing that is human life, refuses to ponder over the beautiful inanities of young love: the sweet nothings. The steep promises. The discovery of sex. I can safely conclude that Bala suffers from some archaic notions about ‘love’ and his unstinting, unwavering stance – one that is myopic and delusional – will prove to be his bane. Mark my words.

Characters. I didn’t expect Bala to go wrong with Walter’s (Vishal) character. We are lead to believe that he is effeminate. His make up, mannerisms indicate that he is a woman trapped in a man’s body. Five minutes later he falls in love. With a girl.

The more I think of it the certain I become that Bala is a lost artist: I think of him as a drunk painter, stuttering and staggering in front of his canvas, resulting in brash, brave, vivid strokes. And as he passes out, we move closer to the canvas, which has, miraculously, become a stunning work of art. Very well. It’s worked for you all this while. But I wouldn’t bet on that. Art is anything but an accident.

I want to be proved wrong, for I respect this man: he is a flamboyant artist. I only hope, he is not an aberration. In a world where, no one gives a fuck about the craft, Bala stands tall. This intrepid adventurer can’t afford to slip in between the cracks of the cesspit that is Kollywood. I hope he realises this before it’s too late.

Yeah. That was one hell of a rant.

I saw on http://www.notioninkfan.com/ a link to a survey. Adam developers want feedback from Adam users and they created that survey.

I immediately thought ‘Why isn’t this featured on Notionink’s official website?’ People at NotionInk Hacks forums too expressed similar sentiments.

So I told myself “Come on! Don’t be a prick. Take the survey, help them make Adam better.” And I clicked on the survey link. I was glad that the NotionInk team was doing this: collecting user feedback. But my happiness lasted only until the survey questions appeared on my screen.

Either NI doesn’t care about this survey or there has been some colossal misunderstanding on what amounts to an effective survey.

Now for some gems (these are actual questions) from the survey:

1. Prioritize your activities using a PC/Laptop (Range: very likely – very unlikely/choices: Content creation, sharing, consumption (?!!!) )
2. What are the primary destination of the content you create (similar to the above question with choices like blog, social network etc)
3. Can you remember the recent book & magazine you have read? (Dear NI, are you testing my integrity here? This is a WTF question)

And I clicked ‘close’ and wrote this blog post. Here’s a message to NI:

Dear NI, I know that spelling/grammar mistakes are no big deal. But when a company makes them on a user survey, it shows how much you care. And, it takes a few minutes on Google to find out how to design effective surveys. The net effect of your survey is that, I conclude that you don’t give a damn about me, the customer. So instead of complaining and cribbing all the time, I make an open offer: I will give you 10 hours of free consultancy on UX research methods and usability testing. Yes, free. I know you guys are a start-up and you may not have the resources to delve into detail of UX design. Let me know. sumank/gmail

Continued from part 1

My feet refused to move. It was as if my legs had a mind of their own, and they hated me. A wave of dust blew right through me. I rubbed my eyes and opened them to the captain of the Srinagar colony team alighting from his car like a Telugu movie hero: he gave a nonchalant kick to the door to close it, adjusted his Royban shades, surveyed the surroundings, and finally stood in front of me and cleared his throat. As if I was blind and didn’t notice this colossal personality. My legs were shaking and I wanted him to not see my fear. It was important to let the opponent know that I wasn’t scared. I wanted to tell him “I had nothing to do with it. You may want to talk to Partha.” But all that came out was “blahidjusta phobein. Igloo miyanka wrath.” Even my mouth had a mind of its own.

By this time, his entire team was behind him. I looked back to see if Partha was around. It was a very ambitious thought. He wasn’t. None of my other team mates were around too. It is amazing how people disappear when the shit hits the fan. It was all up to me now, to play the brave guy (that I was not!) and salvage whatever little pride I could: mine and the team’s.

There was a heated discussion raging between the captain and Srinagar colony’s team. I thought of escape but one look at the sheer automotive power at their disposal, the thought perished saying ‘oh nice try Albert!’ At 4 ft 5, I was not exactly the fastest sprinter in town. My opponent, the captain, stood a humble, imposing 6 ft 2. Game, set, match: genes.
He walked towards me, in slow measured steps. I could hear the mud crunching under his awesome Nike shoes. Gift from an uncle in the USA I was sure. I looked down at my Khelchandra shoes. They cost 100 Rupees. I had a theory that all the discarded truck tyres were used to manufacture Khelchandra shoes. I imagined a street-smart north Indian fellow living in a slum, right next to the yard where they dumped those tyres. One fine day he woke up with this genius plan and before long Khelchandra became a rage. Well it was a rage in Chittoor at least. I shouldn’t be complaining my dad said. ‘Always think of people without feet, when you think your shoes are shit.’ Years later, I modified it to reassure guys who complained they never got laid: “Every time you think, ‘god, why don’t you get me laid!’ think of all those guys without the equipment to get laid.’

“Where’s your team ra?” The captain hissed. His hands were in his pockets. I was waiting for the knuckleduster to fly out in a flash and effect a jaw smashing punch.
I closed my eyes and said, “I don’t know…” And all those interrogation scenes from Tamil and Telugu movies played in my head.
“…you will have to kill me to make me talk!” I added.
“Haaaan? Wha-aat? Do you losers want to play one more bet match or not, find out and let us know. Will you?”

I was stunned and disappointed that my resistance was not needed. Something was wrong here.
“Joolo hewaho?” I babbled. And continued… “A match?? bet match? Again!?” I said and started laughing and crying at the same time like Kamal Hassan in Sagara Sangamam.

The captain was not amused.
“You think this was a fluke? We will beat you, you want to bet??”
I paused. This was real. Not one of those day dreams that I suffered from, especially when i went to science class without finishing homework, and JK was about practice his right-hooks on me. This was indeed a miracle.

“Next match, will be a bat match. A brand new Tusker. Are you guys game? Are you man enough to rise to the challenge?” He said. I wasn’t sure if was saying ‘bet’ like a north Indian or if he really meant ‘bat’.

I waited for his team, standing behind, to go ‘halleluzah’ and said “Again?”
“Wha- what do you mean again?” he said.
I clawed my way back to the right side of the cliff and managed “Bat- I mean bet match? again? Sure. Of course. Bet matches are healthy. We should do it more often.”

With that, he swiveled on his foot, opened his car, and before getting in, he let his Royban slide a little on his nose, looked at me, and said “Get used to losing… losers.”

I watched the caravan motor back to Vellore road. They disappeared in a haze of dust. And I said to myself “Sure.”

One week later, we played the bet match. Not with a Tusker, but with a BDM bat.

“God knows how it went missing. Mother promise, we were going to bring a Tusker but yes, this time you will have to make do with a BDM.” The Srinagar captain told Partha.
“No problem. It’s about winning ra, not the rewards.” Partha said, tugging at the BDM bat which the Srinagar colony captain had difficulty letting go.

As the crestfallen Srirnagar colony was ready to get back home, Partha shouted at the captain “hey how about a Tusker, next week?”

“What if we had lost again da?” I asked Partha.

“You really think we would have lost something that was ours?” He said, and winked.

We sold the two bats, Tusker and BDM, to Suresh used-bat-dealer par excellence. I made 100 Rupees. In the next couple of years, Partha and I sold close to 20 bats. Mostly Tuskers.