Happy New year and all that.

It is the height of all that is cliched in the world to blog about the year gone by. Meandering and frankly useless ruminations about the constantly churning vile political turbine, about yet another Bachchan who merits the 'actor of the year' award, of another smug looking Aamir Khan basking in the triumph of another movie glorifying poverty and of millions of reality TV shows coming up with increasingly desperate attempts to win the TRP crown at midnight on 31st (I'm convinced that the day isn't far off when 'Sex on the beach' ceases to be a mere cocktail)- bombard us every year. All this in the vain hope that there is some family out there with a tired housewife, a broke father and two irritated kids spending their new year's eve in front of the idiot box, all with unfulfilled visions of a better, sexier new year's celebration.

It's all the pressure isn't it? The pressure of HAVING to enjoy oneself. Of making sure you've had a wilder, crazier New Year than anyone else. I feel it right now in fact writing this post- because I want it to be hilarious, poignant, touching, introspective, meaningful and deep all at once. Which obviously isn't going to happen. It'll be another new year blog post lost in the oblivion of thousands of bloggers- teenage girls with bursting hormones and cheating boyfriends, the Mark Zuckerberg wannabes of the world, some dark drunk failed author convincing himself that his time hasn't really passed, the lecherous pedophiles prowling cyberspace for another victim-

My blog post is going to be one among these fine specimens of humanity. Ah well.

But if you stop and look into the stillness and darkness of a whole year gone by, of another dendrochronological ring added to the trunk of our lives, you will find certain experiences that stand out leaving indelible impressions.

I am currently posted on official duty in Sabarimala- a place apparently as holy as-well- comparisons elude me for once. And I have probably not a grain of religion in my body, except from the interested curiosity one has when one looks at a vaguely interesting social pattern of behavior from a safe vantage point. Yet I deigned [;)] to ascend the hill amidst the filth and muck- make no mistake there's a lot of it- suppressing the skepticism to a minimal trickle instead of the usual downpour. It helped I was accompanied-nay, led by someone unquestioning, full of faith and probably infinitely better than me. The ascent itself wasn't hard, we did it quickly.

Right on the top where the shrine stands in its modest beauty, it is absolutely- words fail to describe the ABSOLUTE FILTH there. I remember walking barefoot using only my heel and the tip of my greater toes throughout, my face contorting in the agony of inquisition. And Praise the Lord and all that but with all due respect he sits in a golden altar with golden steps and beautiful clothes. With fair maiden waiting patiently for him a little distance away. Why the devotees need to wade through the foul to prove their piety is something I'll never get.

And yet, there was a moment when I stood, clad in Jeans and a T Shirt outside a run down house looking at it with all the curiosity of a tourist, that I looked around me. In one panoramic view, it was as if I saw the world- the run down buildings, jauntily lit shops, people struggling to see the deity, angry superior looking priests thwarting yet another determined devotee, a huge gathering of black clad devotees chanting loudly and out of tune, dozens of people hobbling past stewing in their own putrid sweat, fires lit outside the temple and a pool with a fountain. And it was here, amidst all this that there was a moment approaching epiphany. I'll dial it down. A moment of acceptance. That this is where I belong. That this country is with all its faults and muck and nonsense, mine. That although I'm dressed in branded clothes right down to my personals, I have no hesitation or embarrassment in claiming these people as my brethren. And if blind unquestioning and unwavering faith be their fault, if the supremely filthy be their calling card then so be it. I will never be one of them but they still figure in the larger set of us the (thankfully) affluent urbanites.

To not believe does not mean to not admire. For to really decide which is easier- unwavering faith or rational questioning- one needs the many gifts of Cicero or Socrates or Vyasa. Is it easier to quell all questioning, to suppress independent thought and put all one's hopes and belief into one person- (divinity being a matter of opinion)- or is it easier, say even lazier to constantly doubt and question- for otherwise there would have been no religion, no festivals, no quaint traditions, no moral fibre. There would have been science yes, the unbridled joy of reason, but no Hampi and no Benares.

Midnight on 31st will be a swirl of diverse complicated imagery. From brilliant blue bathroom tiles, sharks and turtles, a moment at Cochin airport, the first traumatic duty, an argument on the roadside, the date, the girl, two movies back to back, the ugly rash ridden mangy sickness-to Natalie Portman's supreme moment of realization, the birthdays, wine, wine and sugarless iced tea on Christmas Eve, hats and motorcycles, the stalling of a car at Edapally junction and the random yet unforgettable late nights with friends- all will coalesce in one gigantic eruption of midnight memory.

The huge dilemma on New Year's Eve- Who is hotter- Kate Winslet or Natalie Portman? Winslet's 'The dead are still dead' or Portman's 'You want their names??'. Earth shattering decisions these. I mean why worry about medicine or corruption or family or world peace- when I have to decide which of these women gains the honour of being my new favourite? And don't even get me started on who will dominate the 2011 tennis season.

2011- Federer or Nadal? Common sense says the latter but sport is like constantly changing bedfellows- each new year is the first time. So I'm going to start ratchetting up the non existent tension and hope for a Federer Nadal final in all 4 grand slams, with Federer winning all of them! Granted Roland Garros won't be easy- BUT ITS JUST A MATTER OF THE PERFECT SERVE, FOREHAND, BACKHAND, INCH PERFECT VOLLEYS, APPROACH AND PASSING SHOTS AND NO UNFORCED ERRORS. Who said tennis was difficult?

People make life what it is and this past year I've met people I never thought I would. Or could. Three in particular- C, S and A have affected me like few others. C for his absolute friendship come rain or shine. The discovery of a kindred spirit is a rare occurrence but as I've mentioned before, C isn't even 'like family' or 'like a brother' or any of those oft used, oft sullied terms. He just is. Family/brother. And yes blood is thicker than water and all that but sometimes you find blood outside your home. And then there's no difference.

As for S, he's the Fool to my Lear- endearing, entertaining, entirely lovable- and occasionally, although I hate to admit it and will probably never live it down, capable of thought that approaches wisdom.

And the joy of A is in the being. 'Nuff said.

The first time I saw a woman naked was when I was 12. (Reference- Titanic. Kate. Necklace. Voila!) And my Grandma was with me. And she said- Kartik, that is what a woman looks like. Family is one thing. You have to love them and care and go through those motions but the difference with a grandmother, and a cool grandmother is that you really cant do without all those things. And cut the sentimental crap she would say, her scotch swirling in her glass. Have a drink and be happy!

Family is as always brilliant. The Mother. The Father. The Sister. The Grandmother. The Grandfather. The Dog. All without whom I'd be lost. The merry flags on the arctic wilderness of my calendar.

About politics, who's less corrupt than whom, who has murdered less people, who slept with whom, who won what award and who the so called 'Indian of the Year' is- I couldn't- actually, won't give a damn. They aren't worth it.

The others are.

That Coming of Age Thing

There's a moment in Victor Hugo's mammoth Les Miserables when Jean Valjean is offered the silver candlesticks he stole just a few moments ago as a gift by the very priest he stole it from.

It's curious that the turning point of an epic should happen in the first few pages itself. It is only from there, indeed because of that event that the whole sequence of events unfolds.

Granted, Hugo's magnum opus is far from perfect. It is meandering, but grippingly so. Hugo, that champion of the masses- whose persistently wretched life he described in his book- ended up writing a big ol' coming of age tale- of Fantine, of Cosette, of Marius, of Javert and of Jean Valjean.

It was there, at the doorstep of a priest, stolen silver candlesticks in hand, that Jean Valjean, one of the great heroes of literature came of age.

It is a much overused term- 'coming of age'- particularly in these times of the pseudo psychology that every ingenue counsellor doles out like frogspawn.

Still others dismiss it as inconsequential- a quotidian indulgence of the highly placed, a fruit that the plebeians have no time or luxury to pluck and savour.

And yet, ask any urchin wasting his sorry arse on the street and he'll come up with a ripe long tale as to when he became a man.

Never mind that his manhood stopped with that tale and he regressed into a life devoted to debauchery.

Some people though have a life so spectacularly wretched and unfortunate that there remain no adjectives (or invectives) to curse fate.

This is the appallingly true story of C- whose life reads better than it is lived.

The third child of a litter of 5- with an erotomanic brute of a father and a paan chewing shrew of a mother, she grew in bitter poverty and neglect- raised to be house 'help'.

I still remember looking forward to meeting her whenever we visited that house, those people. Because the adults back then were insufferable. Because there was that uncomplicated friendship only children can make- bereft of class cognizance or social awkwardness.

Hugo himself couldn't have written a more affecting story.

As luck would have it, C's entire family- sister, parents, niece and nephew- ultimately came to work for us.

I use the word 'work' with faint hesitation- perhaps as part of the pretentious bourgeoisie philosophy that shies away from talking about 'house help'.

But C didn't want to remain entrenched in the stench that was her life- and she made the efforts to get out of it. Mum taught her English, she took up a job as a shop assistant.

Then came the delusions of grandeur. It's what we called them, but to C they were rungs of the social ladder that successive generations of the miserables must inevitably climb. C now wanted to become a businesswoman- and on the way to that Everest, she incurred debts amounting to vast sums. And there's no denying it- because through her own naivete and gullibility she had to quit her job.

Rescue- Mum, that democratic drawbridge, going down for eveybody. The debts disappeared.

Flitting between obesity, unrealised dreams and lets face it- a basic stubborn incompetence- C blundered on towards 30. No hint of boyfriends- she was still in the 'brother' phase.

That was when that ogre of a father, that lowly disciple of the Marquis de Sade, got her married to an auto driver somewhere in the bowels of Tamil Nadu's villages. And packed her off- dowry et al.

C never saw her groom before the marriage. And when she did, it was apocalyptic.

A wizened limpy 48 year old monstrosity, he flaunted his mistresses and whores in front of his wife, and fell mysteriously sick to what is known as 'that disease'. C nursed him for a whole year- thanklessly living under leaking roofs while her husband whored the nights out.

And after a year, when she had finally had enough- C hopped onto a train with the scant money she had and returned home, to an unwelcoming household.

By which time the mother had died. Of cancer it turned out.

Now began an endless wait for the husband - either to die or to 'divorce'. An irate father, hateful sisters, a niece who accused her of being a prostitute and a mat in a corner of the house kitchen to sleep on- with 'roaches and rats for company didn't help.

The old man now turned up and demanded his wife.

C put her foot down and refused. And then began a battle for her dowry and a divorce (for a marriage in the temple) in the notoriously male centric panchayats and courts of Tamil Nadu which hasn't been resolved even today.

The one brother she loved was murdered. And the other murders himself senseless everyday with the bottle.

Now C- neither married nor divorced is involved with a married man. In spite of the warnings of well wishers and the threats of doom by naysayers. C talks in hushed tones about how wonderful sex must be. She gets breathless climbing 5 stairs. She refuses to visit a gynecologist due to the 'shame' it would cause to know that a 33 year old might be rapidly reaching menopause.

A few days ago, her 75 year old father threw her out of the house to accommodate his 40 year old new wife.

Today, if you ask her when she 'came of age'- her answer, despite the journey she's had is- A few days ago, when my father disowned me.

Time heals all wounds? Like hell it does.

Spectacles and the Whore

Every house has them.


Spectacles I mean. I suspect every house has a whore too, but that's not the issue here.


We have TWO!


And they're consumate professionals.


Now Spectacles, is somewhat of an anachronism in today's times. Public decadence but personal morality is her motto. And she makes no bones of that fact. I suppose it is easy to be liberal with outsiders.


It was another one of the tedious parties the younger generation is frequently subjected to- a crowd full of people I didn't know kept expressing shock that I'd grown up since the last time they saw me. You know, one would think that in 20 years, the 'baby' is bound to grow a little....


Anyway there's nothing these specimens like than to talk about than W.... No. 1. Fishy (as she was called) had been spotted in a prominent Bangalore hotel with a strange man who was not her husband.


Eyes positively popping with an ill concealed mixture of glee and dismay, mouth foaming, Spectacles' sister described every minute disgusting detail of the rendezvous- from the actual meeting to the intertwining of things. Spectacles' eyebrows were rising and soon they had disappeared into her hair. The 'child' sniggered in the corner and got shocked looks from all present. "What?," I asked, " Its nice listening to a bit of good old fashioned family erotica.."


Needless to say, I didn't see the end of the party.


Skip to 2:00 am.


Then we awoke to the incessant tunes to Mary had a little lamb- an exasperating excuse for a doorbell.

Lo and behold- it was Fishy herself.

And she wasn't alone.

They wanted shelter for the night. Spectacles couldn't refuse her own niece could she, however slutty she was?

And so it was- that in the home of ultra moralist Spectacles, Fishy spent a night with- well you know...

Personal morality.

Yeah, right..

Ode to the Family Adams

Disclaimer: The characters in this blog are almost purely fictional.

Staring...

I can feel it- the hair on the back of my neck quiver, something kicks me in the a** as I feel her eyes upon me.

In this case the 'she' being mum, more's the pity..

Family's annoying. Clingy. And unbearable.

Contradiction becomes the name of the game in this irritable, irritating house of self styled intellectuals- this ode to the tower of Babel. If ever there were a way to catch useless random thoughts floating about in a house, crumple it and hurl it at the first person one sees, I'd patent it right away.

Oh the staring....

In lumbers SR, his pot belly preceding him, trying its best to rip his T Shirt and nearly succeeding. He's been to the gym apparantly.. His nephew (ahem ahem) snorts and then hurridly coughs to avoid being caught...

And oh the staring....

This time its me. I'm staring.

At Pot belly. Only lower. Because adorning....nah...clinging to his not-so-light frame is a black trackpant with 'licence to kill' embroidered on a pocket. Did I mention its mine? Right now, one can see both OO and 7 clearly. Gross!

'Can I have a....' he asks.

A pair of spectacles looks up- slowly, unhurridley.....