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And so finally, there was one. Jambu has left this sleepy hamlet long back for the glitz, glamour and bright lights of downtown Jersey City. Today, Golu also left us to sing odes to Odin as a modern day viking in the icy Nordic tundra of Minneapolis. That leaves just little ole me flying the flag of unemployment at Stony Brook (Shake, BC, Rishu, Krack, Lao et al are still at the receiving end of academia). Before long, I too will be gone (to fly that very same flag from India, that is). So as my American sojourn winds to an end, I would like to tearily reminisce and nostaligically look back on my time here. NOT.
After all, why cry when you can laugh. To that end, I have once again started collecting anecdotes and humourous outtakes (submissions accepted) of life@SB which I shall publish here as soon as I have enough. And anecdotes from earlier, too. Also, spring is here. More reason to be cheery.
Though there might be a few sappy ones in there too. NOT? NOT.
Till then, never fear, for Italian Spiderman is here:
And this is for those who dislike those irrtating photo-tag thingies on facebook.
PS: A busted laptop adapter, and wireless unconnectivity have sapped my will to write. Oh, and I’ve been lazy too. Really.
PPS: I met a madman in the bus today, on the way to drop Golu off at the airport. He was quite polite and surprisingly well-informed, and took it upon himself to violate my ear all throughout that part of the trip with his knowledge of India and his views on why India is such a nice place as opposed to America, and the occasional question about whether certain species of animals are found in india or not. Rather than laugh him off and ignore him, I nodded and answered at all the appropriate places, letting him carry on his lecture without the slightest trace of disinterest or annoyance. I could never bring myself to do that, even if he might not be all there. Also, I was afraid he might stab me.
I have always been lucky that, wherever I’ve lived away from home, I’ve always been blessed with great friends and roommates. That’s not to say that they aren’t sometimes weird in their own way, but they’re adorably weird, each with their own idiosyncrasies and quirks that just about keep them from being normal. Either way, I suppose many of them might say the same about me. Not without justification, I might add. But I suppose if you observe any person long enough, its impossible to consider them normal. Everyone has their little peculiarities and peccadiloes which, when averaged over any decently large number of people, has little enough variance that they are approximated normal. But I digress, and I’m only yet in the first paragraph.
So, friends. And fun times with friends. Even the not-so-fun times. The most enjoyable part of my existense for the last eight years or so. These are the people that have been my support and safety net, my shoulder to cry on (metaphorically, of course) and the audience and witness to my follies and triumphs. These are the people that helped me keep my sanity and sense of humour [citation needed] through the otherwise humdrum existence that I have had so far.
Of course, the only reason I say all this is as munkoor jaamyam for a little story that I was relating to current rooommate and friend Shake about earlier roommates and friends from college. By college, of course, I mean the better part of four years spent ’studying’ in a hot, sweaty, nondescript part of Kerala that will always retain a special place in my heart.
So, anyway, as I was telling Shake, and as I am about to regale the eager reader, this tale takes place during a class trip to Yercaud and Ooty. On a fine misty September morning in Yercaud, three of my dearest friends, Njanju, Mr Brahmachari and Chronic Bachelor (hereafter known as MB and CB) are out for a walk around the TTDC grounds and cottages. Jaskon did not play a part in these proceedings as he was busy fighting off the inebriation brought on by the previous night’s celebrations (will be covered separately, sometime later, I am sure). But our protagonists were sober and ready for the exertions of the day.
As they meandered among the grassy knolls (slight exaggeration) of the TTDC resort, one of the resort workers threw a stone at a grazing cow in order to get it to move. And boy, did it move (and mooo). Right towards our heroes. Seeing the cow cantering in their direction, Njanju, MB and CB decide that haste is not waste and decide to run lest they become roadkill (or hillkill, or whatever). So the situation is as such: three hardy, red-blooded malayali youths running for dear life, followed by a by-now truly confused cantering cow among the cottages of the Yercaud TTDC resort. Three more classmates see the three running men and decide to act first and ask questions later, and start running themselves. Thankfully, they ran in a tangential direction and (presumably) reached safety. When later asked, they only said, ‘What cow? We saw you running, so we ran.’
If this doesn’t sound like a Buster Keaton movie yet, the best is yet to come. Our running men now are presented with another challenge in the form of a cottage in their path. Ordinarily, this would not be a severe challenge, and one would just turn or strafe to a path that did not have such obstacles. But evidently, that does not always happen when a sudden flow of adrenaline, and a running cow on one’s tail, leaves one only slightly better sighted than a bat. To his credit, Njanju manages to make out a large looming stationary shape in front of him and swerves at the right time, to take cover behing the house. MB and CB are not so lucky.
CB runs right into a side of the cottage with a resounding thaak, and before he can realize what just happened to him, MB runs right into him with a more muffled poff, sandwiching CB, who was already seeing stars and counting birdies, against the cottage’s brick wall once again. The cow apparently had a better sense of direction and avoided the wall by making a right turn, and then stopping and calming down when it realized she did not have three humans running in front of her to confuse her.
MB and CB collected themselves and brushed their lightly bruised bodies and heavily bruised egos and did what anyone who has just proven themselves to have accident avoidance skills inferior to a cow would do: try and silence the witness. But Njanju, not being one to be cowed down (punintended) by such threats, dutifully reported the story to, among others, a hung over but conscious me. And though we don’t bring it up all that often, and especially not in public (we prefer to keep inside stories inside), we haven’t really let them forget it. And though I regret having to declassify and publish this incident, I am sure the minor chuckle I got recollecting and writing it has been worth it.
Notes on Nomenclature: Obviously, names have been changed to protect the innocent, ie, me. Mr Brahmachari and Chronic Bachelor are named after Mohanlal and Mammootty (respectively) movies that came out at around the same time. We feel these names best express their attitudes towards and success with women while in college. Of course, times have now changed and both have found marital bliss of their own choosing. So I guess the joke’s on me, there. And Njanju is, well, just that.
I saw three (three!) movies over the weekend: the screaming swipe at Hollywood that is Tropic Thunder (watch out for that Tom Cruise), the very violent-yet-charming buddy-tale that is Pineapple Express and one of my all time favourites The Big Lebowski. All very excellent comedies with some wonderful characters, and very excellent timepass. And each with a great soundtrack. In fact, this is all about the soundtrack to The Big Lebowski. One song from the soundtrack in particular.
Years back, as a part-time aspiring guitarist and full-time first year engineering student in Kerala, probably the one question I was asked the most at the time was, ‘Can you play Hotel California?’. Specifically, the flamenco-ish version they played on the Hell Freezes Over album, which was more famous in God’s Own Country than the electric original. Apparently, Hotel California is accepted in Kerala to be the dividing line that you must cross to be considered a guitarist of any worth. Kind of like Summer of ‘69 or Neele Neele Ambar elsewhere in the country. A reputation built to scare the pants off any young fellow who happened to pick up a guitar.
Having been intimidated by the song since I first heard it, I was even more daunted by the endless requests from friends and seniors to hear it played. Not really knowing many chords or scales (not much has changed), I figured out the first few chords from somewhere, and then the rest from Danny, a kind senior, and then I realised that now I had a response for ‘Hotel California vaayikkeda‘ that wasn’t ‘ayyo cheta, ariyilla‘, which would be followed by the inevitable ‘nee pinne enthu gittarist aadei?‘. I was a ‘guitarist’. Or a ‘gittarist’, at least.
It was about this same time that people kept telling me about the song and the band having connections to Satan or drug use or backward-masked lyrics or something (I never really got what the fuss was about). So it was also kind of a ‘dangerous’ song. Everyone wanted to hear it, but would it damn my soul to hell to play it? Giving the Eagles the benefit of the doubt, I ended up listening to and playing the song almost tirelessly thoughout my first year and even after that, mostly for myself, to try and perfect the arpeggios and licks (the solo was out of reach) that Glenn Frey and Don Felder had by now etched into the back of my brain. Of course, I never got close. But as a result, I ended up tired of hearing the song and, backward-masked druggie lyrics or not, I have not played or heard the song seriously or in its entirety for a long time. Sorry, Eagles.
Wait, what were we talking about? Yes, The Big Lebowski. One of the best moments in this surreal movie filled with quirky, silly, borderline-unstable (okay, Walter Sobchak is clearly unstable) and memorable characters, is the cameo role of creepy latin-lover-pederast Jesus Quintana, passionately holding the bowling ball, licking it, then rolling a strike and celebrating – all in slow motion – with his boxer-like dance to the intro of the Gipsy Kings’ version of the song that can no more be named. I’d say its flat-out one of the Coen brothers’ finest moments ever.
Watching the clip over and over again yesterday brought back memories of learning to play the song and the sudden (if slight) increase in status I saw among batchmates as ‘the guy who plays Hotel California on guitar’. Suffice to say I never got any women or drugs playing that song, but it was a great boost in confidence for a young man working his way around six strings.
I think when I get back home today, I’ll give the song another listen. Just for old time’s sake.
PS. I initially considered, then quickly dropped, the idea of any references to Hotel Keralafonia for cheap effect. Kudos, though, to the true red-blooded Malayali who came up with those lyrics, documenting and forever sealing the connection between the song and the state halfway across the world that is crazy about it.
Enough music talks for now.
I have recieved some feedback (the only feedback, rather) to this blog from a dear friend who advises me that my posts are long-winded, prolix pieces of verbiage that spend too much time beating about the bush before coming to a poorly expressed point. Meaning: too much air, too little matter (sorry aliya, I couldn’t resist the previous line). Anyway, I suppose that means I am supposed to join the less-is-more school of verbal expression. Okay, I’ll give it a try. No promises.
Anyways, three months of timepass, formally known as summer break, comes to an end in a couple of weeks. Then it’s back to school for what should be my last semester, and an interesting job-hunt marathon. I guess something will work itself out. Fingers crossed.
Also, it seems to be a time when not just me, but many of my friends, too are in a period of personal transition. Some have already acheived important milestones in their lives. Some are pushing towards them. Some are playing the waiting game and trying to have some fun while it lasts. Like me. Either way, the spare time does allow a lot of scope for reminiscence. Nostalgia is like an army of Kochi kothukukal*. All it needs is to find a small opening in the window mesh of my thoughts, then it enters in waves until I am overwhelmed. Overwhelmed enough to realize that for all the borderline-boring and slightly-amusing experiences I have had, the sum total has actually been quite interesting. I might put some of them down here sometime. For any friends that might read this, I might consider changing your names to protect your maanam and my skeletal structure. Depends on how much you are willing to pay me. Cash, cheques and money orders accepted.
* An especially persistent and undying member of the family Culicidae that is the true ruler of the wide open vistas, uncongested streets and sparkling fragrant drains of Cochin.
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