Synopsis of an ‘F’ grade movie

Thursday morning I was late to report for work. The reason – The preceding night till well beyond the wee hours of morning, I and my wife missed sleep to ROFLOFAO watching an ‘F’ grade movie.

I am sure most of my friends know what ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’ grade movies are. However, in case you don’t know, here’s some totally faltoo gyan:

·      It is an ‘A’ grade movie if it has a red and bold ‘A’ printed on the poster. And now, if you are thinking “It is obvious, what’s the freaking gyan in this?”; think again. These are rare and priceless movies, and believe me you will hardly find a genuine ‘A’ movie in your local store. They are hard to find because they are patented by a few enterprising mallu men, who took the pains to shoot it around and over the many hills and valleys of Kerala’s most loved landscape, Shakeelachechi. As per the prevailing movie making laws, a movie is not an ‘A’ movie if it doesn’t have a Shakeelachechi scene. Sadly, it has been many years now since they stopped making ‘A’ movies; this disruption because Shakeelachechi stopped acting err, displaying. Shakeelachechi had to stop acting err (again!), displaying since some environmentalists objected to her long kuli scenes, which supposedly had caused water scarcity in Kochi and its neighbourhood districts. Some alavaladi skinny mallu girls did try hard to replicate her act and hijack her position, but alas! They all fell flat on their chests! Such was the grace of Shakeelachechi. Shakeelachechi is not just hot, she is super hot. There’s an old saying in Kerala that “When Shakeelachechi takes a dip in the kolam (pond), it turns into a geyser”. She is so hot that I am already experiencing the onset of an orgasm by merely typing her name.

Shakeelachechi, Shakeelachechi, Shakeelachechi ………. aarrrghhhh, I need a break. And while I enjoy my break, you guys go ahead and enjoy the pics.

*** BREAK ***

*** BREAK OVER***

*** Ahhhhh! My body hurts. That was a lot of rolling-on-the-floor last night! I am really tired and not in a mood for anything else. But for the sake of dissipating gyan, I will continue***

·     ‘B’ grade movies are those totally ‘Bekaar’ movies made with the sole interest of gifting a livelihood to the bekaar kids and siblings of famous ex-film stars and/or media barons. In short, if you are jobless and you have a filthy rich dad or a media powerhouse in your household, you can always coax that person or your mom into coaxing that person to invest in making you your very own ‘B’ grade movie. The good thing about making ‘B’ grade movies is that nobody really cares as to when it released or how it performed in the box office … etc etc… so if you fail, you can always start again with a new ‘B’ movie… and go on and on and on. With every movie you do, you are a fresh new face on the block.


      Some of the famous ‘B’ grade aspirants are Kishen K, Harman B, Uday C, Baby AB, Sallubhai’s brothers and the two Khanna sisters. The two sisters are so so ‘B’ grade that if you typed their name on google and clicked ‘images’, it would return pictures of their mom! Anyways, these are mere aspirants. 


     The real star of ‘B’ movies is a certain guy called Tusshhaar K, who stands up to his reputation as a ‘B’ star and keeps comes back again and again and again.

·       ‘C’ grade movies or the ‘Chootiya banao, paise kamao’ movies are purely patented movies. Patents for directing these movies are solely guarded and held by just two guys namely Karan J and Farah K.

·      Finally we have the ‘F’ movie. An ‘F’ grade move is ‘Fully Faltoo’ movie in its own right and by far (as per my opinion) also the most entertaining one of all. Here ‘F’ stands for that effing four letter word which does not end with a ‘k’. ‘F’ is the acronym for fail, Yes, F-A-I-L fail. Men, or Lukkhas as we like to lovingly call them, who act in prominent roles in an ‘F’ movie otherwise do odd jobs like selling Bhel Puri at Mumbai Chowpatty or those five for twenty five Bras over the Andheri Foot Bridge. Unlike the ‘B’ grade stars, these guys are self made losers. Although there are some exceptions, female co-stars usually, come from and go back to their dancing bars.

The biggest Bollywood ‘F’ movie star of our times is the great KRK. This guy wears a toy gun on his neck and thinks that he is actually an underworld don. The greatest Tollywood ‘F’ superstar is a guy called Sam Anderson. Mallu’s are not far behind either. Very soon you guys will hear about a certain guy called Santosh Pundit; man in reckoning to be crowned the first ever ‘F’ superstar from mollywood and I am eagerly waiting for his first/mega and possibly only release ‘Krishnanum Radhayum’. These guys are great entertainers I say. You must check out their videos on youtube.

Enough of gyan, let’s go back to the main topic. The movie!

Here’s the story in concise. I hope you’ll all like it and if you do, do buy an original CD. It is available on Moser Baer. We should at least do this much to keep these talents alive.

ISHQ AUR INTEQAAM (LOVE AND REVENGE)

The story revolves around Goan Christians (I am sure they are all Goans, because they all keep muttering ‘Oh my God, Oh my God’) and primarily three friends, Simon (Played by a real life mumbaiya lukkha who has this funny smile on his face, which makes you feel like he is farting all the time or like he has a lump of shit already in his pants), Michael (played by our very own Thakti Kapoor), Prince (Played by a local Bihari lukkha, who with words like desejan (decision), exiden (accident) and pojijun (position) adds in a bhojpuri flavour to that typical bollywoodish goan hinglish) and a girl named Pretty (played by Amita Nangia). The film is directed by a guy named Sunil Kumar, and that reminds me of a pukka alavaladi (Utterly Useless Fellow) from our college days; A guy who once saw Sakshat Brahma (the creator) in his real form! This movie was made in 1993 (my prime) and is classified into the genre: Mature/Obscure. What the heck is that?

Simon and Pretty are in love and Pretty’s dad (played by Kishan Dhawan) is an ailing man who would die any moment. Pretty is this typical bollywood-goan girl who wears skimpy dresses, prays to Jesus and wears a big cross on her neck. The cross is so big that half of it is parked inside her cleavage. Since these guys are rich, while at home Pretty’s dad is always shown dressed in silk pyjamas with a  silk night robe over it (and yes, don’t forget that big cross on his neck), while Pretty keeping in line with the bollywood-goan tradition wears only a skimpy negligee with nothing underneath. Since Pretty’s dad is likely to die any day, dad calls up Simon and without seeking their desire, fixes their wedding for the coming Sunday. Simon is surprised; Pretty is ecstatic and she starts rubbing her legs and twitching her lips.

Simon calls up his best buddies, Michael (Who is a fultoo drunkard) and Prince and invites them for the wedding. Prince who is in Delhi, promises to come down at any cost by the next flight. As the call ends, the scene shifts to a butcher shop, where they show a head butcher (played by Raza Murad) chewing pan with a disdainful look on his face as his half naked body builder assistant, chops mutton with a programmed frequency that could put most machines to shame. For a moment, you contemplate that the head butcher is possibly plotting to rape the next female customer visiting his shop, but the scene changes and you wonder WTF is happening? Don’t worry. Just hold on and you’ll know as the story unfolds itself.

Simon and Pretty tie the knot, and outside church they are greeted by Michael, who is almost always over 90% drunk and carries a full bottle of MCD in the inner pocket of his coat. There are two things about Michael that you’ll never miss noticing; firstly that he is always cheek-by-jowl with a girlfriend whom he keeps changing with every scene and secondly, that he never greets anyone with a ‘Good Morning’. For Michael, be it daytime or night, it is always a ‘Good Night’. However, there’s a sad story attached to these two traits, which you’ll find out later.

As Simon and Michael exchange greetings, the camera moves to Prince, their Bihari adulterated Goan-Christian friend who is standing next to them, but avoids all contact as he hides his face behind a bouquet of flowers. Incidentally, Prince has just found out that Pretty was the girl whom he dated while in college. Pretty, who is a good girl had dumped Prince once she found out that he had some connections with bad people. As Prince visualises his past, his blood boils and he turns into a man full of vengeance.

As Simon and Pretty drive away in their ‘Newly Married’ convertible, Prince drives down to the butcher shop and mutters some censored gibberish to the Head Butcher. Now, if you are thinking that Prince is here to buy mutton, then you are mistaken; he has a horrendous scheme on his mind.

The scene shifts to the newly weds bedroom which has S-E-X written all over it. A steamy act of copulation follows which is interrupted by a phone call. Simon who is over Pretty, multi tasks with gyrating hip movements while talking seriously on the phone. Pretty who is on the threshold of visualising brahma screams and shakes her head vigorously as her hands try desperately to tear off the bed sheet.  Just-In-Time, Simon jumps off a visually perturbed Pretty, who seems to be saying “WTF?” to Simon in her mind. Simon gets up and hastily dresses and tells his new bride that he has to go to the hospital as his friend Prince, who was arriving by flight for their wedding, has just met with an accident. (Note the emphasis on ‘flight’). Pretty responds back asking “Magar?” (“But?”). It’s just a one word question but says a lot. She is actually telling him “Bloody MF, first finish the job that you were doing and then go where ever you want!” As Simon leaves the place in his bike, they show a smiling Prince, who from the adjacent building has been monitoring the first night proceedings through his binoculars.

Simon is attacked by goons on his way to the hospital, but he manages to escape unhurt. As he nears the hospital, he is shot from behind by the Head Butcher, who later calls up Prince and informs him that the task has been accomplished. Prince celebrates the event with a drink. As he sips his drink, Michael, along with his new paramour drops in. Michael enquires as to why Prince did not attend the wedding and also the reason for Prince’s celebration; but Prince says nothing. Michael however ends up telling his story of how he became a drunkard and as to why he keeps changing girls every other day and hates greeting ‘Good Morning’. Incidentally Michael was in love with a girl, whom he could only meet in the morning and as they met, the girl would greet him ‘Good Morning’. Actually this girl was prostitute, and poor Michael didn’t know about it. One night Michael sneaks into his girlfriend’s house and finds her with a customer.  Later that night Michael ends up at Tuntun Aunty’s Feni bar and dances to a song with lyrics like “Apun kamal karega…. kale kutte se pyar karega…” From that day Michael is a changed man. I was touched!

Scene shifts to the steamy bedroom where Simon abandoned a visibly desperate Pretty, whose desire was left unquenched. Pretty tries to douse her inner fire by gulping down a bottle of chilled water, but alas, it goes in vain. She can’t control herself and she cringes in pain. (If you are a potent man watching this scene, I bet, you’ll almost get up from your seat and try to crash into the screen to help this poor girl. But I’ll suggest you to wait a moment and control yourself) The phone rings and delivers the obvious news to Pretty.

Pretty runs out of her bedroom in a negligee and appears in the hospital in a gown. If you’ve imagined that Simon is dead by now, you are mistaken. Simon is very much alive. But, there’s a sad news. The doctor (who in real life looks like the guy who sells peanuts at Juhu Chowpaty) informs Pretty that Simon was hit by a bullet on his spinal cord. (At this point, you’ll start imagining that possibly Simon is paralysed and bedridden for life. Just wait and listen to the fantastic revelation!) The doctor looks at the x-ray and informs Pretty that since Simon has been hit by a bullet on the spinal cord, he has lost his erection ability!! Prince visits Simon at the hospital, and is formally introduced to Pretty and the movie leads to a new angle.

Simon is discharged from the hospital and once back home immediately embarks upon his unfinished task. He does well with the foreplay and also dreams of a steamy saree (with no undergarments and no yes, no underskirt too) song performing intimate dance moves in the rain on a parked motorbike. Alas, our director’s effort to ignite passion goes in vain as Simon doesn’t last beyond the foreplay. He collapses and apologises. Pretty’s thirst remains unquenched and her fort remains unconquered. Prince, who monitors the act through his binoculars, gives out a sly smile.

Next day as Simon leaves for work, Prince calls up Pretty and offers his services, but Pretty, who is a good wife declines. Simon meets Prince and informs about his disability. Prince offers his advice to Simon “Har marz ki dawa, daroo” (“The remedy to all ailments, Liquor”). Simon takes his advices and reports back home fully drunk. Simon again lunges on to Pretty and tries to perform, but alas. At this point Pretty displaying her huge cleavage (minus the cross) in a horny tone asks Simon “Bhook lagi hai kya? Kya khaoge?” (“Are you hungry? What would you like to”) Simon looks into the cleavage and replies “Nahin main thak gaya hoon. abb bhook nain” (“I am tired. I have no more hunger”) What a class act!

Next day Simon hastily leaves for work, leaving the main door ajar. Pretty forgets to latch the door and leaves to take bath. Prince gets in, latches the door and tries to seduce a half naked Pretty. In the ensuing struggle, Prince’s version of foreplay meets success and it manages to rekindle the pyre in Pretty. They are about to enter into the next stage of the act and you are taken wide eyed and pulled close to the screen and now on the edge of your seat grabbing the chair cushion with great expectation as the bell rings. Shucks! It’s Simon, who has forgotten his red file. Prince jumps off the window and runs away as the watchman witnesses the escape. Back in the room, our poor lady Pretty, whose passion has been ignited for the third time now, tries hard to seduce Simon. But Simon who has to rush to work, pushes Pretty down on the bed and runs down the stairs. As Simon leaves the compound on his bike, the watchman informs Simon about Prince’s great escape.

Next day again as Simon leaves for work, Prince revisits Pretty and tries his hands on her. Incidentally Simon comes back and is about to knock the main door when he overhears the ongoing struggle between Prince and Pretty in the bedroom. He realizes that his wife is innocent and tries to break the door. Again Prince jumps off the window and runs away. Simon follows Prince; possibly he wants to talk this out with Prince and enter into an arrangement and so shouts “Prince, mat bhago, ruko Prince ruko. Mujhe tumse kuch kehna hai” (“Prince, don’t run away, wait Prince wait, I have something to tell you”), but Prince who is scared of a confrontation steals a parked jeep convertible and drives away. Simon follows him on his bike. A long chase ensues, which takes the viewer along the length and breadth of the Mumbai’s Western Express Highway. Finally, Prince’s car hits a truck and he dies instantly. Next minute, Simon’s bike hits Prince’s car and he is ejected off the bike, performs a summersault and lands on his but on the protruding rocks along the road which seems to have been created specially for the event. Thankfully, Simon survives and is taken to the hospital.

At home, a visibly tense Pretty receives a call and she says “Oh my God” for the last time and leaves for the hospital. At the hospital, the same doctor looks again at an x-ray and informs Pretty that a miracle has occurred! Since Simon landed oh his bum with the rock hitting the same point on the Spinal Cord where he was earlier hit by a bullet, he has been miraculously cured of his erectile dysfunction. Pretty is ecstatic and expresses the same emotion as she had when her dad fixed her marriage. The doctor gives some censored instructions to Pretty, which she wilfully agrees to perform.

Few days later Simon is released from the hospital and Pretty gets on to implement the doctor’s instructions. Pretty starts seducing Simon and catches him unawares with her sexy lingerie song. Simon, who has actually lost all hope of experiencing stiffness, lethargically joins in. As instructed by the doctor, Pretty implants her foreplay moves one after the other and Simon finally gives out that dirty look, which it intended to send out the message that “Man, I have an erection”. In a fit of rage, he jumps on over Pretty, who is by now panting heavily. The accident was truly a miracle, because Simon, who in a span of two weeks has had two surgeries on his Spinal Cord performs with the finesse of a porn star. Pretty clutches Simon’s palm and vigorously  turns it in all the possible directions; her nostrils flare and she finally visualizes the creator; Shakshat Brahma.

The movie ends.

Although, I may not watch it again, I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it. Definitely better than OSO or TMK, for one this one is a rare movie; it has a real CLIMAX in the end. I do have my reservations on its name though. Instead of ‘Ishq aur Inteqaam’, I think ‘Woh adhuri Pyas’ (The unquenched thirst) would have been an apt title. Any suggestions?

My good luck charm.

Few days’ back I shaved off my moustache. The next day at work, I was at the second most happening place in my office, the kitchen, making and stirring my cuppa when this new African-European friend of mine gave me that weird look and came out “Heyyy, why would you do that maannn?”, I responded by replying “Well, just for a change”. He continued giving me that strange, ‘make-you-feel-guilty’ look and continued “Aww, that one was good maann” he said and added pointing to his soul patch “See this, I never take this off. It’s my good luck thing. As long as it’s here, nothing goes wrong”. This casual event took me down memory lane and reminded me of my very own trysts with lucky charms and some events that had changed my life for ever.

I remember having a three paisa coin as my lucky charm. I had it safely tucked under a sheet of paper inside my geometry box and believed that it actually helped me fight some of my most dreaded fears and fiercest challenges; which included mustering enough courage to:

• stand up in the class and ask permission from the teacher to allow me to go for a leak; find ways to avoid meeting up with bullies in school;
• keep climbing the stairs up to my third floor apartment by avoiding any eye contact with this scariest monster (read: A big eyed swarthy podgy hirsute sardar with his dreadlocks left open and only a kaccha on), which most invariably was found sitting in a rocking chair on the second floor passage buttering his handle bar;
• and also to avoid getting caught by this monster’s huge wife, who if found me, would touch both her palms on her cheek, scream out some gibberish in Punjabi, grab me close to her chest and pull my cheeks till it lost all elasticity and in compensation force me to go through the ordeal of downing a large glass of tasteless buttermilk, which I believed she made out of rinsing her curd vessel.

I must confess that I had also heavily relied on my three paisa coin to help me cruise through the HSE Board exams. It was always there in my trouser pocket as I prepared for/took my exams and later on, even on the day when the results were out.   My three paisa coin was a reliable and trustworthy lucky charm and had always done its job well. After the results, I took my coin and tucked it safely in the book shelf, under my old exercise books and left it there expecting that no one would find it. My exploits in the academic field had made me a local hero and I was busy basking in this newfound glory. I forgot about my lucky charm. Time passed and I got my admission into engineering and left for the REC in Kerala.

At the Engineering College, I experienced freedom first class and decided to turn into the bad boy that I always wanted to be. I was not as bright as my buddies who could multitask as bad boys and do well in academics too, and needless to say my capacity showed up in the exam results. Meanwhile, folks at home decided to shift into a bigger-better place and, in course of doing so ran amuck through my bookshelf and misplaced my lucky charm, or should I say ‘they thrashed it’. Who needed a worthless three paisa coin anyways?

Although I had one of the best hostel buddies to lean on to, I must state sincerely that, I missed my lucky charm badly. I found it difficult to focus on academics and never really mustered enough courage to woo that chick I liked. By the end of the third year, I was carrying a backlog of sixteen papers and most folks at college reckoned that I was the next freedom fighter in waiting. Except for a girl, who was my closest friend, my guide, my counsellor and my beacon of light, no one ever believed in me; not even I, me, myself. Somewhere around the final year, this friend gifted me a small money plant placed in a recycled bulb for a vase with a threaded jacket to hang it. I called it ‘Sophie’ and hung it on the window of my hostel room and somehow found it worthy of being my next lucky charm.

While in my hostel room, I would keep staring at it and think about my next big task to accomplish. We were already in the final semester and I had only one last chance to clear my entire backlog, which, I had to achieve in one sitting, and in some cases at the rate of two papers in a day or get relegated to being christened a freedom fighter. To make things worse, the marks I earned through sessionals were in single digits and it meant that I had to score really great numbers to merely pass the exam. The task was tough, but not impossible. Notwithstanding, I did extremely well in the practicals and also my seminar. Charged with my belief in that newfound lucky charm, I took my exams and cleared them all. I did it. I finished college just in time with my best buddies and that girl who, by now was a special someone. When I left for home, falling in line with the tradition of the college, I passed on the plant with its vase arrangement to one of my favourite juniors, resolving that, if I ever got a chance to name a newborn girl, I would name her ‘Sophie’.

Back home, things were too cool. My parents, who were so very happy with my graduation, granted me a year’s vacation. But I didn’t want to wait. I had things to do. I wanted to hastily get into a management college, finish it, get a job and settle my future plans with that special someone. Every boy in that age did exactly the same, possibly because it was the simplest of things to do. But for me it seemed a tough act to follow. I was missing my lucky charm. I was taken ill with jaundice and caught under house arrest for over three months. I missed my GRE and CAT which I was so eagerly preparing for. I was heartbroken and I did what was possibly the most ungrateful of all things that anyone could’ve ever done. I banged the phone and broke that special someone’s heart. That was it! But my life had to go on and I found solace in my new designer briefs.

Yep! I wrote it right. I meant designer briefs. My sisters, who were fashionistas in their own right found it very annoying that I was still using briefs that they got for me before I left for my Engineering College. Yes, my undies were over four years old, and yes they had holes in it, but didn’t it matter that I found them comfortable? My sisters refused to accept that. According to them, it was below standards even for our maid to wash it and that; there was no way that the cloths line would accept my underwear alongside their designer lingerie. Don’t even imagine! I begged, but they didn’t allow it to be even converted into a floor mop. No way! It went straight to the thrash can. One fine day, my undies were all missing, and in my cupboard I found new packets of Kalvin Klien Designer Briefs, all animal prints! And in it was my new lucky charm, the one with zebra stripes.

There was something special about the zebra stripes that, every time I wore it, something clicked. The first day I wore it, I attended a walk-in interview for the job of a door-to-door salesman to sell items like hand held food choppers and magnetic healing chappals. I got the job, but decided not to take it as I was still enjoying my year long vacation. However, the brief had passed its litmus test. It was working and worthy of being my next lucky charm. Few days later I had to attend an interview for a Design Engineer’s position within a prominent engineering company that designed Cooling Towers. On that day, sadly my lucky charm was taken for washing and needless to say, I crashed in the interview. I humbly accepted that it was not my fault, and my belief in my lucky charm was reinforced.

Days went by and again, I wore my lucky charm to attend an interview for a marketing job which required promoting a drafting/designing software and I got the job. My new job took me to Ahmedabad, where, on one of the days I happened to visit CEPT to give a demo of our range of products and luckily for me, that day I had my zebra stripes on. At the main hall my eyes fell on a poster saying that the college was inviting applications for Masters in Construction and Project Management. I brought a form, cracked their entrance test, appeared for an interview, got the admission and resigned my job. Ever heard of an underwear doing wonders? Mine was a super hero.

After all these years of so called learning I was back to school. And what an amazing place of learning it was. And it was here, that I eventually learned the lesson that changed my life. I befriended ‘A’, who was an architect by profession and great believer in himself. Someone who contended that there was nothing out of limits if one believed in the self and was passionate enough to go full throttle with ones heart and soul into it.  ‘A’ was not only my project mate, but also my room mate and we spent a lot of time listening to each other. On one such chat over a smuggled bottle of XXX rum, he opened up and talked freely about his love life and that how he was fighting against all odds to secure it. I talked to him about my trysts with the many Juliets in my life and tried to justify how my ‘bad times’ had always failed me. He contested and proved me wrong.

The chat coupled with the after effects of tippling had rekindled my love sconces; I got up in a jiffy and headed straight to the nearest STD booth with my lucky charm on. The intention was to conquer and the plan simple. I made a long distance call to that special someone who, I thought was eagerly waiting for my call for the past seven odd months. I wasn’t entirely wrong. The conversation was short, but long enough. When the call ended, it was all over. My walk back to the hostel was the most strenuous one, not because I had just realized that I had been a treacherous immature chauvinistic brat, but more because I just realized that I had wasted a beautiful life in frivolities.

Later that night, back in our hostel room and in our undies we resumed our drinking. ‘A’ pummelled me with some more gyan, and out of which, one the most significant one (pertaining to this topic) was, “If only we believed in ourselves, we wouldn’t have to believe in anything else”. I was enlightened. And in the spurt of enlightenment that I had just received, I ran up the stairs, straight to the terrace of our three storied hostel building as ‘A’ screamed behind me “Abey kahan bhag raha hai wapas? kapdey toh pehente ja!!” (“Hey, where are you running away again? At least wear some cloths and go!!”)  

At the terrace, I ejected out of my favourite zebra stripes and unfrocked my past life. I wrapped it on a stone and threw it high towards the sky expecting that it would fly off far away into outer space. It was a windy night and the flying brief ended its journey positing itself in the corridor of the Arts College Hostel adjacent to ours, where, I am sure, it must have found itself a new worthy owner. I ran down back to my room, where my friend, who was totally drunk and trying out a complicated yoga position, recoiled like a spring and jumped up standing straight staring at a naked me and asked “Arrey, chaddi kahan chodd aye aap?” (“Where are your undies?”). With teary eyes I informed him that I had baptised myself and that from today onwards I am new person and that I’ll believe in myself and nothing and no one else. He smiled and spread out his arms saying “Chal, isi baat pe galey lag jaa” (“This calls for a hug”).

It was a life changing day, not only for me, but also for ‘A’. As two very drunk boys, one in briefs and other totally naked hugged each other (out of pure platonic love) in their hostel room leaving the door ajar, someone who had spotted a naked boy crying and running down the stairs raised an alarm. In no time there was a decent crowd outside our room, which included not only our hostel mates, but also their girlfriends who had dropped by to check out their boyfriend’s manliness under the pretext of joint study. Our lives had changed for sure. The news leaked out and we instantly became the infamous naked boys hugging. The news spread like wild fire and a few creative guys spiced up the story with their own blend of masalas. ‘A’ had a lot of explaining to do to his sweetheart. As for me, the event ensured that girls no longer got sucked into ‘The Nelson’s Triangle’ (Read: Nelson’s sweet sexy triangular smile), albeit a few ‘good’ men did try to rub their asses to mine. Shucks!!

 

“It's fun to have a lucky charm, but it can't replace believing in yourself.”

-     Rescue Heroes @ Kidsco TV

  Famous lucky charms:

·    A legendary all rounder and the star of India’s maiden World Cup winning team always had this red handkerchief in this pant pocket. It was his lucky charm, but however, his cricketing career ended the day he spoke against the selection committee. Last heard that this guy was desperately trying to become the coach of the current Indian team, but alas!

·      A mallu lad who plays cricket with a vengeance. His wrist is full of amulets and his neck full of blessed trinket jewellery. Sadly, he is still the most disliked player in the game.

·    An Indian Tennis player with a nose ring, who acts like she is already a legend, believes that her hubby from the other side of the border is her lucky charm. No sooner did she proclaim this, her hubby lost his job!

Happy Vishu.

Vishudina Ashamsagal to all my mallu folks, both genuine and like me, fraud.

I am a pucca fraud mallu and I proclaim that proudly and pretty loudly. Proudly enough to state that I had no clue of what exactly the significance of this day was till I read a wiki about it earlier today. And I must confess; my quest was purely driven by the itch of finding the correct answer to the question - ‘What if my growing up son, Kevin posed me a question on the significance of the celebrations that we were having at home today?’ and not necessarily to augment my database.

I harboured a faint belief that Vishu Day was the day when the state of Kerala was formed. I was wrong. Vishu is actually Kerala’s New Year Day, which is in fact the first day of the Malayalam Calendar. That was some gyan!

As a kid, I remember celebrating Vishu. The celebrations were usually on the succeeding weekend. Elders would dress up in typical mallu style and the celebrations primarily included devouring some very veggy mallu food + payasams (the sadhya) served on a banana leaf. Drinking payasam off a banana leaf required special skill, and as a kid I really struggled with it; but had to endure it to preserve whatever was remaining of my mallu identity. We never had a Vishukanni or Vishu Kaineetam paripadee at home, and due to the similarities in celebrations, I was always confused between Onam and Vishu. It is only much later that I discovered; through comic shows on Mallu TV channels that Onam has something to do with a certain King named Mahabali’s return and, from a certain Malayalam movie named Meehsa Madhavan, the significance of Vishukanni. Kaalam poya pok-kke!

Our Vishu celebrations in Doha have been good so far. Every year during this time, it rains and transports us back to our damp malluland. Qatar, like other Gulf countries is very mallu friendly and Doha is actually like an extension of Kerala, so celebrating mallu festivals has not been difficult. I remember how tough it was for us to find certain exotic mallu vegetables or even a banana leaf in Baroda; whilst out here local groceries even sell packets of ready cut vegetables for making Avial and Sambar; special Vishukanni kits and even those golden yellow kanni flowers. Yesterday, due to the huge demand, Doha’s busiest hypermarket had to ship in additional loads of coconut on urgency basis by air and further impose a rationing at the rate of two coconuts scrapping per person to check the huge demand. Whoa, we are majority here!

It is Friday today, and sadly, by the time I wake up, most of my mallu folks would be having their uccha orakku (siesta) after savouring a sumptuous dose of Vishu Sadya. Anyways, here’s wishing everyone a very happy Vishu.

My day and celebrations start late, but it starts apt with a large peg of brandy and the kallushaap style beef cooked specially for the occasion. For the late lunch, we have a non-veg mallu platter comprising of Rice, Sambar, Pachadi, Thoran, Meen Vettichadu, Meen Porichadu, Naii, Papadams and Kadalaparippu Pradaman, all served on a banana leaf. Kudos to my very mallu wife, Thaara for all the cooking.

My mouth is watery and my boys are waiting. Can’t prolong this wait any longer, am going to grab my Vishu Sadhya.

Bye and enjoy the day. HAPPY VISHU!!

PS: Smart Alec, Gyan says "It is not Banana Leaf. It is a Plantain Leaf". Who cares!

Mistrust / Journey from you to Him.

When I was just a boy, I had many friends,
Then I grew, and there was you.

I then met your friend, who had a big bust,
You had your doubts, and you lost my trust.

You dumped me, and my friends were none,
I joined the seminary and pumped my first nun.

I became a priest, and went around preaching,
But at the altar, I found, my eyes were crouching.

I found this lady who was coy and oozed piety,
Who, in my parsonage, later lost her sobriety.

Now she’d missed a period and she would soon carry,
So, using my office, I found her a man to marry.

When the kid was born he was dark and ugly,
And the hamlet knew; that the priest was guilty.

Next day dawn, I was bathing the sun,
When a guy with a gun, exploded my bun.

I blurted my last fart and let my soul depart.

As I reached the gate, God decided my fate.

He declared “Go to Hell and try to be glee”,
I begged “Please give me a chance, that’s my plea”

“I’ll change myself, please for heaven’s sake, believe me, you”
That’s when He replied “Bloody asshole, I don’t trust you” 

Meet Gyan

Another usual weekend outing followed by the ‘weekly until midnight’ shopping at the Lulu Hypermarket and we were yet to be done. I decided on patialas of French brandy to soak me up as wifey turned on ‘Phas Gaye Obama’ on the DVD. Kids finally got hold of the home computer and Kevin lunged on to his newfound penchant of watching cookery videos on Youtube.

As time passed, Tara, who was still in her right senses realized that this was definitely the movie ‘not worth watching’ and so lazily left for the kitchen to do the only other job that she disliked lesser – dishwashing. I sat there, slouched on the sofa holding on to the last sip of Napoleon, who had already finished pounding my cerebellum and took over control of my motor movements. 

Although, the movie started with some rustic comics, PGO had no other qualifications to be worthy of being called a bollywood flick. No fights, no drama, no sex, no item numbers, no songs, no scary villains and to make it worse, it had a lady Gabbar, who was more sexy than scary. Just realized that I had begun to hate Obama and all that was American. I just wanted to get up and run, but I found myself stuck on to the place, as if my bum was glued onto the sofa. I was under attack from the bullying coalition. I guess, by this time the Frenchman had captured my medulla. I could barely lift a finger. Couldn’t do more than give a scornful look at the little ounce of his left in my glass and swear “You will be finished soon”.  I closed my eyes, shut off air supply to my eardrums and left for my nether world.

I found myself in a dilapidated building, which seemed to have been just raided. I sat there on a broken cushy sofa staring agape at the ruins of what seemed to be an office space, when my sight met up with a huge portrait of what looked like ‘Scar’ in an army suit. I got up, went close to the portrait and observed closely. Under the portrait was a sticker which read ‘Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, the King of Kings, President, Libya.’

“What the eff!” I said to myself and asked. “Where the hell am I?”

“You are in Tripoli, Libya, and this was the Administrative Building and that rubble there, on your left was his residence” came the response which was very strongly adulterated with a gujju accent.

I hastily turned around to see where the voice came from, and there he stood, in his blue suit with the red tie. This guy had a photocopy like resemblance to the younger George Bush. I had just opened my mouth to enquire if he was the same. I guess he visualized what I was thinking and got instantly aggravated. And in typical gujju’s style he picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it towards me screaming “I might look like a moron, but I am not one” and kept staring angrily at me. 

He finally gave into my innocent looks, smiled and said, “My good name is Mr. Gyan Buch. I am in the service of giving a bit of myself to anyone who wants it. Either gyan or buch, whatever you deserve or, are found in need of.......by the way, Gyan means Knowledge and Buch is the Gujarati word for Cork/Stopple”

I stood there agape like a dimwit, unable to decide how to react.

He continued “It seems you are in desperate need of one of my services and so here I am. By the way, what is your good name?”

I stretched out my hand and said “Hi, this is Jacob Nelson”

We shook hands and he continued “What is your bad name?”

“Bad name, err.... what is that?”

“Don’t you know what a bad name is? It is like what your parents or close peoples call you.... mine is Gyanagunasampanna”

I was amused totally. What a loser, I thought and responded “Oh! Is that your pet name? Don’t you think that your pet name is a wee bit longer than the official one”

His response was fast and crisp “The asshole who inscribed my name on the ration card was lazy to write the whole thing. It is not funny. Anyways, what’s yours?”

After a little hesitation I said “S... S....Sweety.”

He instantly blurted out a “What? Seety.... like the whistle?”, and lent a sumptuous package of annoying laughter as he rolled on the floor holding his tummy. When he was finished with it, he got up, patted the dust off his clothing and with a straight face said “Well, that was Nitrous, very Nitrous.” He then walked up next to me, put a hand on my shoulder and said “Well now, let’s get on with the business.”

I asked “And what is that?”

“I have been informed that you are against the coalition”

“Which coalition?” I inquired.

“Don’t act dumb” he said and continued “I know that you were with Saddam when we were on that Iraq thingy, and now we have been informed that you are with Gaddafi. Tell me, aren’t you harbouring a negative opinion about the coalition strikes on Libya”

“Opps!!” I thought and came back apologetically and pleading “Well, I don’t have anything against UAE or Qatar. I, in fact love these places. I work for a company which is British, so don’t really have anything against the Brits. It’s just that I was watching a movie with Obama’s name on it, and despite the reviews and hype, like his government, even this movie didn’t deliver. And then, to compound the misery, my brain has been invaded by a brand of French Brandy called Napoleon. It is just these two little events that has turned me Anti-American and Anti-French. It has nothing to do with Gaddafi. I don’t even know who this guy is.”

“Ahh!! now I know”, he said and continued with gung-ho “You need some gyan on Gaddafi, and that’s why I am here. But for that we got to go someplace else.” And he snapped his fingers. 

Instantly, we were transported to this breezy beach which smelt like dried fish. The place seemed familiar and I was struck by this strange feeling of déjà vu and I asked him. “Where are we, and what are we doing here at this time of the night?”

“It’s all for your gyan. Just lie down like this, with your back on the sand and your arms crossed to support your head. Just relax; we are here to watch a movie, a documentary to be precise. Stay serious, no chuckling, no giggling or questions in between” and he lied down as he instructed me to do and continued “I know, some eighteen years back you had been to this very beach along with a bunch of cronies at this very same time of the night and were driven away by cops. I know you guys ran like mad dogs till you reached the main road”

I lied down next to him complaining “I definitely don’t have the same stamina and energy now and if history repeated itself, the cops would outrun me. I don’t think we should take the risk, I have a family waiting at home.” He was not bothered.

I just lied down at the spot gazing quizzically at the sky, expecting something to happen. Nothing did and I asked him “Where’s the gyan?” and instantly, a white screen popped up in the sky and the movie started. This is how it went:

The screen displayed a man, in his late thirties coming back from work, tired. He enters his house; gives a light peck on his wife’s cheek; gives a high five to his 9-10yearish old daughter who is busy watching Justin Beiber videos on Youtube; goes straight to his bedroom; freshens up; changes into his pyjamas; goes straight to the bar; pours in a drink; slouches on to the sofa and switches on to the region’s premium news channel, Al Jazeera English.

Instantly his daughter runs out of her room whining, “Daddy please, I want to watch Disney now. It is time for Suite Life. Daddy please, please.”

Daddy however remains indifferent to her tantrum, gives her a scary glance and goes back to concentrating on the man on the TV.

The girl, who by now has realized that this tantrum thingy wouldn’t work, tries to break ice by starting a fresh conversation. She asks her dad “Who is this man who looks like a lizard? ... eek”

“He is Gaddafi, President of Libya..... he calls himself the King of Kings”

“So, is he a King?” asks the girl.

“Nope. He is a Colonel”

“And what is that?” asks the girl, to which her dad responds “Don’t bother me. Ask mom” and shouts out to his wife, who is busy cooking in the kitchen “Just tell her what is the meaning of Colonel, will you” and turns back to his daughter and says “Go to mom, she’ll tell you the meaning of Colonel. Your mom’s grandpa was in the US Army, she knows everything about the ranks”

As the little girl ran from the living room towards the kitchen, her mom stopped her midway, asking her to refer her dictionary and then went down and sat on a vacant sofa near to daddy.

The girl now rushed to her room, got her dictionary sat down next to her dad and read aloud:

“K-E-R-N-E-L, Kernel. The softer, usually edible part contained in the shell of a nut or the stone of a fruit”

Both parents freeze wide eyed with their mouths open on listening to this startling new revelation.

The movie ended and the screen flew off with the next gust of breeze.

Sincerely speaking, I had no clue of what had just happened. In my mind, I was trying to figure out the purpose of the movie, what gyan it contained. I felt cheated and was now falling deeper into the well when he interjected. “So, did you see, Libya is like a nut and Ghaddafi is the Kernel. We are going to take the Kernel out of the nut and squeeze out the oil. If you didn’t know, each kernel has around 55% oil in it”

“So this is what you are doing” I said “You guys are raiding Libya for the oil”

“Yes” he replied.

“And what about Iraq? Why did you guys invade Iraq? That too for oil?”

“No! In Iraq we were looking for weapons of mass destruction”

“And did you find any?” I asked back.

“See Jacob, the ORB Survey reports, that in the four year period from 2003 to 2007 over 1 million people have been massacred in Iraq. Incidentally, the population of whole of your hometown, Kannur is just over 1 million. Can you imagine that your whole hometown can be wiped out off any living being without using a weapon of mass destruction? America did find the weapon of Mass Destruction in Iraq. And it is now for the world to see, that the weapon is America itself. Beware!”

This gyan had left my heart pounding and moist in the eye. I stared back at him angrily and rolled my fingers into a fist. I was just going to punch him when he said “Hey, the cops have come. Manage yourself ....... will be back whenever you need more gyan. Bye” and vanished. I punched into the sand and lied down still as I didn’t have the energy for another police chase.

I lied there awaiting sharp pokes by a police baton on my soft spot, but on the contrary, it was a pair of soft hands the shook my shoulders and called out “Pappa get up. Your movie is over; go and sleep in the bedroom.” 

The Return

It has been over two months since I put some pen on my blog, and my wife who has been my self proclaimed alarm on these tasks is now losing faith. During the earlier few weeks she politely reminded me of my task every Thursday, which I aptly noted and snoozed. Later on, by end of February she started pounding me with light abuses and mockery. We have now reached a point where I fear she will turn indifferent and stop pestering. That would be bad. Like most mallu men, I like being pestered about, and losing out on it would be like losing on my daily dose of dope.

In the nine months since I started my blog, this is third time that I proclaim my ‘Coming Back’, albeit this time the break has been longer. This break has also been different, in terms that whilst my earlier breaks were driven by laziness, this one was expended purely on exercising restraint. Visiting one’s hometown and organizing family get-togethers can be great fun. Each such visit can fill one with enough enthuse and why not, provide more than enough fodder for filling in a blog page. But like a rose, every element of joy brings along with it thorny revelations that pierce right through. I guess this is life and just have to accept that my life need not be any different.