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?”

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 friend 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 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.

“I find it utterly shocking that an intelligent guy like you fell for it!” And 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.
• Should possess a firm grasp of web technology trends
• Excellent communication and inter-personal skills a must. The role requires engaging various team including Product, Design, Engineering.
• 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.

Very rarely a product comes along, gathering tremendous support and anticipation even before it’s launched. A huge fan base is built even before anyone has seen the product. Product companies fail to get that sort of PR even after spending millions. Adam was one such product. It was touted as the Apple killer. The underdog that’ll for sure, kick butt.

I got my Adam yesterday after more than a 40 day delay. 40 days more than the promised ‘six to eight weeks’ delivery assurance. Adam probably is a brilliant product no doubt, but customer experience is much, much more than just a great UI or prodigious engineering. Here’s why:

1. Taking the ‘personal’ ‘we are a small outfit’ charm too far: I understand that Notionink is a start-up but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to jump in and collect pre-orders, without even as much as a decent website for the product! So many pages are ‘under construction’. Their initial demo videos were so amateur, I was wondering if I bet on the wrong horse. Jazzy imagery can never replace solid information dear NI. I hope it’s not too late to rectify that. Your fans have set up better websites than you have.
2. The CEO also doubles up as the PR person and posts – at times adoloscent- pleas, product announcements, and updates! That, on a blog hosted on wordpress.com. Are you telling me setting up a blog on your own domain is tough work?
3. Not communicating with customers: After I placed the order, I got an order confirmation mail from NI. But it didn’t mention anything about additional ‘Customs Clearance’ fees. I get to know about it two days before the delivery through the shipping company, GATI. I understand that customs fee is something I will have to pay, but why wasn’t I told about it? Why didn’t NI tell me about it through a mail? Some people told me that it was posted on their blog. Heh! I have a job and I can’t be following NI’s blog. Not after I have paid some 23k INR. I expect them to be professional about it. And, their address, as it appears on their site, indicates their office is in Bangalore. Either NI doesn’t care about the Indian market or they are as naive and silly as I am: why should I pay additional customs fee to buy something from an Indian company? I know it sounds silly but that’s the first thought that crossed my mind.
4. Not offering standard communication channels: No phone numbers that I can use to contact NI are listed on their website. What now, you are a start up so you can’t afford to hire a few people to man the phone lines? Then act small! Don’t make expansive statements like ‘change the world’. The only way to contact them is through e-mail.
5. Focus on jazzing up the product instead of focusing on user’s efficiency and productivity: Simple tasks like firing up the keypad is made cumbersome because of the apparent lack of attention to detail. I conclude this after asking my colleagues (who are used to touch interfaces and who use the Internet for more than 5 hours a day) to perform simple tasks like ‘enter a URL’ ‘Delete configured mail account’.
6. Unless Adam is meant for the geek, it is astounding that the interface ignores basic UX tenets like learnability, efficiency, system status… I could go on.
7. It is obvious that Adam was never tested for usability with actual end users. I doubt if they even know who their end user is. Apple’s iPhone and iPad target the lay user and their design is centered around that user’s context. Which is why iPod, iPhone are cult products. If NI wants more people to buy Adam, they need to sell it lay users. And if they want to do that, they will have to do a lot of work on the product to make it user friendly.
8. Lack of product documentation: Adam’s manual says little or nothing about how to use important features like 3G. How many users know what an APN is? And worse still how many will know how to configure it?

These are observations from using Adam for barely more than a few hours. I got it last evening and my disenchantment and disillusionment grew starker the more I used the product. I bought Adam because I thought that we should encourage products like these: products that are a result of a young man’s dream to change the world. To show the Goliaths that great products needn’t necessarily come from big corporate houses. That, Adam is from India. If Notionink continues to ignore end users, their aspirations, and their problems, forget Apple, they can’t beat the neighborhood grocer. Notionink needs to understand that it takes years to build a brand. And you need only minutes to ruin it. The rate at which they are getting bad press, I wouldn’t be surprised if their sales demand drops, when they graduate to real retailing.

Rohan, the CEO, of NI should probably leave PR to professionals. And stop posting stuff like ‘the customs department wanted bribes’. It serves no purpose and it makes him sound like a whiner who’s looking for excuses and will exacerbate NI’s PR predicament.

I wrote this in a fit of mixed emotion: rage, disappointment, and disillusionment. I wanted to gift Adam to my wife. But alas, if I find it difficult to use – I am a UX pro – I really doubt that she would like Adam. Unless of course, I am a complete noob and got it all wrong.

If you think I have read something wrong or if I wrote something factually inaccurate, do leave a comment. But I don’t think I let my emotion get the better of me. Which is what Notionink should be doing.

Someone stole Niall O’ Brien’s kit and that inspired me to recount this story

The match was, how do I put it… ah!, tantalisingly poised. It was a ‘bet’ match. We were playing for money. Not for a ball or bat. The money at stake was 110 INR. Each player contributed 10 bucks. 10 bucks was a lot of money then. I am talking 1986/87 here.
The Greamspet team, our team, was chasing and the Srinagar colony boys were all over us. Two wickets to go, ten overs remaining, and some 90 odd to get. Parthasarathy, my first friend, neighbour, and captain of the team was a worried man. I was curious.
‘Machan only ten bucks da, relax.’ I said.
‘Yeah but my dad had only 15 Rupees, for the entire month. And we have two weeks to go. And I stole ten.’ He said, throwing the abdomen guard (which we all shared as we couldn’t afford to buy one for each team member). It was April. Our holidays had just started. A breeze was picking up in the Arts college ‘B’ ground. B ground was for kids. The town team didn’t let us play in the main A ground. I could understand his plight. His father worked as a peon in the Taluk office and his salary hardly helped in making ends meet. Most of us from the Greamspet were in a similar situation. I took money from my dad to buy Bata shoes, but bought some cheap brand to save some money, so I could play in the bet match. Whereas, the Srinagar colony boys were rich. They drove to the ground in a car. We walked through the fields of Godugumur to reach the ground. They got an igloo box that iced their Rasana and water. We had to stand in a line near the tap, inside the college, to drink water. So losing to them within itself was very painful. To top that, we were losing our “hard-earned” money. One more wicket fell. Partha was furious. “Lanja kodukulu” he kept swearing. The last batsman walked in to take strike and Partha’s eyes lit up.

“What if we run away?” Partha said. I was not very comfortable with that idea. It was a lame idea. Plus, we had a team reputation to safe guard. The heat was unbearable.
“Forget it ra… all of them have fridges in their homes is it?” I asked.
“Who the fuck cares? You should drink from that pot, which my mom got from Cuddapah. Better than a fridge.” He said.
My eyes fell on Srinagar Colony’s kit. A Tusker bat lay against the wall. Spanking new and glowing in the afternoon sun.
“That’s an oil bat no? Tusker? How much is it ra Dabur?”

His eyes became glazed. He licked his lips and said in a gravely voice “yeah.” I didn’t quite understand for a moment and when I did, I said “No way Dabur, machan, I am telling you… what if they give a police complaint?”
“Did I say I am going to rape their sisters? I just want that Tusker bat, which is better looking than all of their sisters.” And thus, a plan was hatched.

Our last batsman took it upon himself to offer fierce resistance. He blocked everything, classic Dravidian defense and all. Partha wasn’t amused. “Thikka lanjoduku! What a time he picks to be a hero!” He briefed the rest of the team, in the meanwhile, on what the modus operandi was. My knees were shaking by the time he finished. The captain of Srinagar colony was a rowdy fellow. And, they had Hero Majestic mopeds and a car to chase us down.

The last batsman was playing his defensive game so well that, when he was on strike, the non-striker sat down, and chewed on grass. With 2 overs left in the game and plenty of runs left, the fielders also sat down. This prompted Partha to walk to the pitch and propose a ‘win-declare’ which meant we give up the match voluntarily. But the rowdy fellow also turned out to be a sadist fellow. He said, it seems, ‘No. I want to earn the money. I don’t want gifts.’ So Partha came back determined more than ever before to steal the Tusker bat.
‘Vaadi philosophy lo naa sulli! Dengaayra baat ni’ he said. It roughly meant ‘Insert your member into his philosophy. Steal that fucking bat.’

Finally, with three balls to go, our last batsman got out, ironically by way of ‘hit-wicket’. And the 12th man, who was guarding Srinagar colony’s kit, screamed and ran to join his mates in the victory celebrations. Partha pounced on that small window of opportunity. He picked up the bat, ran into the forest department nursery, which was right next to the B ground, and was back before one could say ‘sulli’.

They were still celebrating. It was a rare victory for them. Beating the Greamspet team was a stellar achievement in those days. Especially for Srinagar colony because this was their first ever victory since they had formed the team. I moved next to Partha who was relaxing, sitting under one of the many trees that encircled the ground.
“What are you going to do with the bat? Don’t tell you stole it to score a moral victory?” I asked him.
He laughed and said “Ngotha machan, I want money. You know Suresh from Darga chowk? He deals with used bats. I will get at least 250 Rupees.” That was a princely sum. “I’ll give you ten plus fifty, sixty Rupees, ok?” He offered.
“Yeah. Assuming we get out of here alive.” I said.

The Srinagar team crowded around the two captains. As was the tradition, both captains signed on the scorecards that each team maintained and shook hands. And Partha took out a bunch of soiled ten rupee notes and handed it over to the winning captain. They cheered and screamed, as our team watched. The last batsman whispered to me ‘that was the only way they could have gotten me out.’ I threatened him that I would crack open his skull if he uttered one more word.
The Srinagar team now raised stumps and bats as their captain walked away. He acknowledged their victory salute, and screamed, more to us than to them, ‘This is just the begining. Aaahhhhnnn!’
I chuckled and thought ‘Yes, we’ll have to loot your entire kit. This bat is just the start.’
Partha started to walk back to us. My heart started bouncing and banging against my chest. My mouth went dry as the Srinagar team took their kit bags, and loaded it in their car. One by one, the Hero Majestic mopeds trooped out. The captain drove the car. As he passed us he gave us the finger. Partha also gave two fingers.

We waited till the car and the mopeds turned on Vellore road, outside the college’s gate. And we broke into a cheer.
Partha ran into the nursery and came back with the Tusker.
“I told you ra, it will be easy.” He said.
“You never told anything like that!” I said. As I was dreaming about all the things I was going to do with the sixty rupees, I noticed Partha stop in his tracks. The car was coming back like a hurricane. He was driving right through the ground. Clouds of dust billowed up. Behind him were the Hero Majestic mopeds. Partha turned around and bolted in the opposite direction. [will conclude in the next episode]

Somewhere from across the hills abutting the Chittoor Arts college grounds, the Lapwing’s shrill call pierced the peace of our cricket match. “’Did-yoo-doo-it! Did-yoo-doo-it!” It questioned. I ambled to the bowling end. Scratched my calf with my toes and took my position as the umpire. L. Ramesh, self-proclaimed ‘pace’ bowler adjusted his spectacles and waited as Farooq took guard. He took his own time. He took a bail out and rammed it into the ground, to mark his leg stump. And then, took about half an hour to place the bail back on the stumps, thumped his hands on his sides, dusting them. He studied the field, multiple times. I was almost dozing off when Farooq’s “LEG STUMP EMPIRE!” woke me up. I never quite understood why some people called an umpire an ‘empire’. I shook off the grogginess and nodded.

He was taking a middle stump guard but I didn’t want to grow old waiting for him to change his guard, again. So I said ‘Perfect anna! leg stump, bang on!’ And then, Farooq took his stance and started banging the bat, behind his feet. I was almost expecting water to gush out of the hole he had managed to dig. So Praveen, I mean, Farooq was finally ready to face the bowler, L. Ramesh.

Farooq, claimed he had made it to the Ranji probables. Now, that is big. For someone from Chittoor, forget being a part of the Ranji probables, being part of the district team itself was a big deal. But this man, did it! He had played at the highest level: a level no cricketer in Chittoor could dream of. At least in 1989. Which meant that Farooq, was a fixture in the town team. My dream team.

I had toiled for three years now. Carrying the mat and nailing it on the pitch before matches and practice sessions. Watering the pitch and getting the the 25000 ton roller to even it out a bit. Lugging around the ‘kit’. Yes, I had done it all. I did all of that because just talent alone didn’t get you a place in the Town team. You needed the blessings: Raju’s. Reddy’s. And of course, that of the ‘Ranji probables’ man, Farooq.

Only a couple of days back, Reddy, the Town team captain, had told me “We need a medium pacer. Back up bowler. I am thinking of you.” I cried like Kapil pa ji that day. But if I pissed of Farooq, there was no way I could get into the Town team. Forget Town team, I would be banned from playing book-cricket with my own self.

Paceman L. Ramesh screamed in and bowled a beautiful yorker that smacked Farooq on his toes. Ramesh didn’t even appeal. He just ran to deep midwicket celebrating. The fielding team was obviously delighted and ran behind Ramesh. It was not often that a college team had the town team on the mat, as Shastri would have put it.

Ramesh, the bowler did a victory lap and came back and suddenly remembered he hadn’t appealed. “How-how-how-how…” He went. I was almost starting to dance to his song when he finally appealed “…HOWZAAT! Empire?”
I stared hard at Farooq. Right after he was thumped on his toes, Farooq performed a foot-shuffle that would have done Michael Jackson proud. Farooq had hopped away from the stumps and proceeded forward and was now standing almost in the middle of the pitch. Tapping the pitch with his bat and checking the bat’s inside edge. He was sending a message!

Ramesh’s appeal was getting over-board now. He was sounding like an evangelist that had just gifted sight to a blind man. The fielding team, sounded like a thousand congregations. And then Farooq looked at his watch, looked at me and said “Can we play the match please? I am wasting my time here.” Now, I wanted to play for the town team, very badly, yes! But I thought to myself, ‘I would be playing with this condescending prick!’ I wasn’t being all self-righteous and all, but I had had enough of these guys taking me for granted.
That bird, the Lapwing, flew over us , screaming ‘Did-yoo-doo-it! Did-yoo-doo-it’

‘I just did.’ I thought and slowly lifted my middle finger and shouted ‘You are out!’