Bad Hair Life

Bad hair day is what you'd have heard. If there could be a lifetime grievance award for worst hair, I would win it thumbs down. Bad hair is not a lifestyle issue or a style faux paus. Its a handicap of hair raising proportions.

Never did I worry more about this curse than when I was going to go on a blind date.

Note to wife and other affected parties: Date to me means nothing more consequential than a method to measure chunks of time or something as boring as that.

Note to the dates that I had been out with: Call me! My new number is 97*** ****5.

Getting back to the topic, it was a blind date competition in Saarang, our insti's mega cultural fest. One who has the most creative line for an absurd question gets to date a girl. Your's faithfully, cracked the most creative line of that day and up I went to the stage, all glee and macho!

Next to me was a girl personifying an hour glass gone wrong in the middle. So she was more like a burette than anything else. Unlike her, the fatty entrapements beneath the epidermis were limited only to my brain and I was in shape. But to her, something else mattered. The girl flatly refused to date me saying in front of about 100 frustrated souls that my hairstyle is so screwed up that it wont be cool to date me (my fcuk beach shirt and clever lines notwithstanding).

I did a strategic withdrawal without causing visible upheavals, reserving all of those teary traumas to my hostel room.

Circa 1995 - I was popularly called in school as "Springkuth thalaya" (Springy head) - a rather uncouth reminder of my place in the class of boys who vie for the girls' puppy love. Few curling sessions, visits o hair straighteners in college days didnot yield much result.

In the meantime, one of my experiments with brylcream aiming for an italian mafia look, left me with a thankfully shortlived name "Chinna Goundar" - A popular vijayakanth character that sported castor oil laden long hair combed backwards leading to a small oil spring running down through the back of the neck.

Amply humiliated and simply tired of unwanted attention from unkind blind dates, friends during various formitive years, I decided that a sharp and short military look is what it takes to keep a check on the terminal handicap. So suddenly I started looking like Lt.Col.Ashwin Ramasamy in plain clothes.

The problem however was that the girl-types kept a safe distance from me thinking I could be a future wife-beater, with that stern looks. The extra nice and "let-me-comfort-you-with-a-lullaby" approach you see me in, all these years is a lingering byeproduct of having to practice sweet demeanor to keep the girls coming and to ensure cosmic balance of dating boys and girls.

After a few years of perfect military cut and complying hairline, one fine day last year, waves started appreaing in the hairline near the forehead, resembling embarrassingly close to 1960's Shivaji and MGR hairstyles (minus the pencil moustaches).

Though I am married now and hence there is no way my wife is going to reject an outing citing my uncool hair, my primal instincts tell me that I should keep options open and hence the hair, as closed and organized as possible.

Any suggestions that are tried and tested?

First Night

When we were in the first year of college, it was rather gentlemanly for someone to say "Maplai..I will not have sex on the first night da..Pavam Ponnu..Tired a iruppa". My curiosmometer would break down at the levels of anxiety I would have for that event, especially when its first. But gentlemanliness as portrayed by a tam hero in one of the movies and a few oaths by fellow roomies in college, it did seem like a good idea not to go for it.

The often unsaid and understood reason for not going for it, could perhaps be explained by the sheepish smiles and bountiful blushes from aunties, mamas and nandu nasukus when you get out of one of their convertible bedrooms (into honeymoon suites). Reactions can emanate in ways imaginable (just smiles or avoidance or heckling or in between) to unimaginable (Enjoy, Jamai, Enjamaai or thumsup signs from father-in-law denoting..maplai elam nala padiya pannitel polrukke)

Delicacy while it is, its delicate to face such a situation (even for a brutally shameless guy like me). For the aesthetically inclined and for those whose domicile is not where the marriage is taking place, another piquant (for the reader alone) situation is to sleep on a steel or fractured wooden cot with mattress that carries vintage urinaroma of beloved nieces, nephews and the stains of obvious multiple occurances of coitus interruptus. The idea of a crumpled jasmine flower or two sticking to the butt, however pleasantly smeling for its geographical coordinates, does not impress me and when it is manifested in front of the crowd that waits outside for us to make a federal appearance, in lines of manmohan and obama, explaining how its all good and we look forward to more co-creation.

So we decided to hit the road, veshti and podaivai laden to a nearby four star hotel with of course some perfumes, bath oils, aromatic candles and with carefully packed nightwears that are bold enough to put naomi campbell & miami beach gaurds to shame. Of course, coming from the conservative families, we never were bold or romantic enough to try them on ourselves. Our adventures reached the descent the very moment the items were billed in their respective sales counters.

The idea of doing the do in a hotel suite is however embrassing in another way. From the receptionist to the bell boy knew why we were where we were and they made no effort to hide their smiles that were products of unbounded imagination let loose in their minds. There is no scientific explanation I know, to why pleasures cannot be internalized without coupling facial expressions when the intent is not to share those pleasures with someone who is pleasured at!

The curious mami and mami who self appointed themselves to drive us down to the hotel, like in anyone married couple's case I bet, were also of age that did not preclude them from the possibilities of another production (though it would be social mockery displayed all over geni.com). There was a golden handshake and controlled smiles that we ignored, much to their relief.

Moments later we both were in and how. Cozy room carefully sealed from outside noise and din, with nice aroma and dim lights, unnecessarily strewn with lotus, jasmine and other flowers. I am not sure if that night was romantic. it was surely funny even without the elements that contributed to it till we were left alone.

The protocols of the first morning (after that night) are also well understood. The mama and mami committee incharge of taking us back to the mandapam shall not call our room or knock at it. They shall wait for us at the lobby. The dilemma we had was to whether leave the complimentary breakfast after having paid a substantial amount of money to do nothing (remember the college vow). We are till date value buyers and we dint miss the elaborate breakfast buffet while the two member transportation committee waited outside, salivating.

Our trip back to the mandapam went without any word being uttered between any of us. I imagined it could have been any question and that could have turned un-intentionaly corny..like

Hope you guys had a good night? (How was sex?)

How was the room? (Did you manage to run around naked?)

How was the flower arrangement? (To which we could not have answered normally without imagining how it set the romantic mood or not)

One question they could have asked without sounding corny would have been "How was the breakfast?". However that would have brought down the social status of the transport committee by several notches.

While all went smooth, the statement of my mom swept the carpet under my feet. "Nee vera hotel-la than vechikanum nu solite..Camera keemara vechirndhana ena panradhu..adhan mama fulla check panitan. Aprom than nimmadhi! (What if there were hidden cameras? So mama checked it completely before the event)

We got punk'd!!

To Do or Not to do?

Someone said that India stands for "I will Never Do It Again."

I went a step closer to that declaration today.

9 Am: I frantically drive through the maze called morning traffic congestion to find a stationery shop in what is the fastest growing suburb of the decade. Found one which had no name board.

It had notebooks, books, dust, a newborn baby inside the shop, its mother who also is the shop co-owner, her husband and a few assorted things that neednt be there. They had no stapler or pins. No complaints..It happens everywhere...Why blame the country?

I made a tough U-turn made tougher by impatient users of the road. Soft pedalling all the way to office, trying to catch a glimpse on both sides of the road, I reach the 40 ft gully where the state of the art IT companies have located themselves without much thought about approach roads.

9 30 AM: A speeding car at 60 Kmph hit my car mirror and gave some unpleasant free advice about the perils of sticking to a lane and driving under 40 kmph...Why blame the country..Its just a few people here and there (mostly around me, perhaps?)

I park the car in the safest possible area that wouldnt disturb traffic and walk to the petty shop for a cigarrette lighter (Note: To melt the seal that is used to seal confidential business documents). I got free advice, free "kangu" from used cigarrette and free matchstick all without asking my purpose and all without asking me if I needed an alternative method. Finally I settled down for the wax match box. Why sulk about lack of professionalism in a shack? Okay!

10 00 AM: Office. Sir we cannot print your document because we have only black and white printer. After a few airs of disbelief, calls to remote and unimpressionable people, I found a way to reach someone who can do just that - Print in color.

10 10 AM: Sorry sir. We have file size restrictions. Your 2 MB file is too big for us. We cannot get it.

10 20 AM: Sorry Sir. we need approvals to send the file in any other means. You can try telepathy instead

10 40 AM: Sorry I am alive!

10 50 AM: I hit the road searching for a color printer. 20 Kms and 4 stopovers at seemingly purpose built shops for print outs that dint conceive the need for color printing, I went back to the maze of a place where it all started.

11 30 AM: After precariously coming close to a vertical fall from an improbably tilted and compressed stair case, I ended up in a shop that proclaimed to print in color.

11 40 AM: The shopkeeper laid the bait of "quality" job and asked me to be back in 30 mins

12 30 PM: The shop boy had been sent to print the stuff out in a japan printer and where? 20 kms from where I was! And how? In a bus! And when will he be back? - Just now Saar!

1 00 PM: After impatient wait in a sultry car in a messy traffic junction, I climb back to the shop. The hot air from the fan named "toofan" (hindi for storm) blew the sweat of my face so that replinshment can go uninterrupted.

1 25 PM: The boy was not back and could not be communicated.

I wasnt close to thinking what someone said about India (until I realized that a couple of pages were missed out).

After a few catcalls, silent protests and unavoidable ambushes to strangers' cubicles, I finally printed all the stuff.

Can I not afford to buy a printer? Not until someone scientifically proves a printer's inability to sniff data from across the floor and teleport them to competitor organizations.

I may probably not do it again!

Kamal Hassan & Gautham Vasudev menon - New Movie - Story Exclusive and all that..

Living up to the name of this blog for the first time, we (?!) are bringing you a world (as though it cares) exclusive of the story of the yet to be shot movie staring Kamal (who still shamelessly carries titles "Ulaga Nayagan" & "Oscar Nayagan" after A.R.R sealed the deal) and to be directed by Gautham "appa per comes here" menon.

Like all GVM movies, this movie also has a story. Its the 43rd chapter of the life of a police woman. If you read the book from backwards like I do, it is the 37th chapter. The novelty is that, from that angle it becomes the story of the mother-daughter-daughter-mother relationship. If you read the same story in an amazon kindle optimized format, the story is the 2nd chapter and is all about another different love story, once again.

There is also a casting coup. More on it later!

Kamali is a 28 year old Aay.PeeYes! officer of 2005 cadre. She is an ultra modern police (cooling glass, nike sleeveless black t shirt with cleavage display feature) who also has money to buy a brand new jeep wrangler imported from dubai (fully assembled version). For this role, Kamal has reduced 90 kgs and now weighs only 50 kgs. Surya has been roped in, to train kamal on slimming down while maintaining the girly features.

The story revolvers around andhra, bihar, orissa, madison avenue, some backwater, ecr road, times square and some locations of europe shown as new york. Yes. You got it. Its a story of a policer officerini who is pattaya kalppufying against naxalites in India while the trail leads her to NYPD's office for the suspected links between naxals and the NY car bomb plotter, Faizal.

From reliable sources (who eves dropped on kamal while he was soup nakkifying in Le Royal meridien) we learn that Kamal said this to GVM "Kadhai illa nu sollala. Kadhai irundha nalla irukum nu than solren". Enna Makkale.Naa solradhu cheri thane makkale?

As usual Kamal has introduced his directorial head butting overtures and there comes the double role. Kamali's mother Camila played by ulaga nayagan (hence that title is justified) again, is a british aaypeesarrr of 1930's (she ate vajradanti and hence produced kamali in her late 40s and hence she is 28 years old. Not that GVM would have given this explanation. But still..my duty to report unbiasedly). She and appa rao had some gajabujaks and Kamali is hence half gult/half brit. The brit portions of the voice over are given by Shruthi hassan. It is also reliably learnt that GVM wanted to cast Anu hassan in the role of mother for the portions where she is supposed to be 70 years old, but kamal's (non)sense prevailed.

Ok..javvu izhuthufying..start the story.

Camila once wanted to take pala pazham from the andhra forest and strays into kolli malai where malayoor mambattian (Prashanth's father Thyagarajan) mistakes her to be a moving mass of atta (make up was melting in the heat) and suttufies her. He feels bad when instead of becoming chappathi she becomes deadbody. No facial reaction from thyagarajan.

Kamali now takes a vow to quell the naxal menace (as she thinks her mother Camila was killed by naxalites) and now we come out of flashback. She veri ethufies herself by imgaining how good it would be if camila amma would have meera shikakai thechu kulipatifyed her every saturday. GVM has his trademark mummy mummy english song by celin dion.

Kamali in between all this vellai, turns to the screen and says "I am Kamali Camilla Rao. Enga appa raovukum, raw-ukum sikkadha naxalites a indha rao, raoda raova pidippa". For this dialog alone crazy mohan was consulted by GVM. Rest of the dialogs were anyway written in his earlier movies..

During the second half prashanth who is now acting as new malayoor mambattian tells kamal that its not naxals, its his father who chappathi suttufied her mom. Prashanth also saval vuttufies "I am in NY..come if you can". Kamali goes in continental airlines with jet lag and all that, with his peter england suit. There the officer on special kollywood interaction duty "sathya" is Kamali's counterpart. we first show the face, muttai kan, and then when we go a bit lowe we realize that its infact a familiar face. Yes. Sathyaraj plays a 30 year old divorced female officer in NYPD. Din't I say casting coup? This is perhaps a casting coup with genocide.

Kamli and Sathya roam around m.avenue and penn station with the "So you think you can dance' drop outs. GVM comes in a scene as desi tasty take away lunch stall owner in NJ. One thing leads to other and kamali kills prashanth to revenge for his earlier generation injustice. While at the JFK airport Sathya drops 2.5 tear drops which nanchifies her otherwise spotlessly clean white chudidhar. Kamali approaches her very ganniyamly and they both decide to have a live in relationship in boat club road bunglow.

The movie ends with a song in ECR with the imported jeep with Kamali sipping red bull and Sathya holding an ipad based navigator.

- A Gautham vasudev menon & Kamal Hassan mis-demeanour-

10 Reasons to not work in IT sweatshops

The IT job of today is like what the bank was for the graduating batch of 1960's. Everyone and his mother would get a job and they lived happily ever after. The only difference is in today's days (is that right english?), they live happily ever after an appraisal or a job change, whichever comes first.

There are some blindingly obvious reasons why you shouldn't be in these places...like lack of applied innovation, low per capita smartness per sq.ft. etc. Lets leave those to the startup companies' career page comparison tabular column. There are other and equally important reasons though.

1. You've got to carry an ID card, a car pass, a laptop pass everyday. Three biomechanical robots would check them while one could have done the job. If you are an outcast (who is not an employee of the company that he/she works out of), the process doesnt recognize you and hence the biomechanical robots wont too! So till some "Head of something" carrying a templatized approved business card that reads totally title to his/her actual job writes an email (at 10 30 am) to "Head of security" you wont get in.

2. The quality of marble in the ground floor and top floor (fat cats floor) are better those you would find in the finest italian monuments. But let that not fool you. The ones in your floor are only slightly better than the anti-skid tiles in my 2 bed home. Is that a problem? No. Its just very wal-mart/McD-ish philosophy of saying "Anything that the customer wont see is not worth investing in"

3. The lifts wont have a/c. With people hopping on like its an irresistible disney ride and packing it enough to rub some hugo boss perfume off your body and onto theirs, you need a/c.

4. Lets compare. Google - Innovation is the line that separated the organic searches on the left from the paid ads on the right. Indian IT company - Innovation is the underground car park that is also used as the mass canteen for 3000 people to eat in a span of 1.30 hours. Cattle class, any body?

5. The water dispensers have the hot and cold taps, only if the board decides to ratify the usage of electricity for such menial purposes. The green aspect that needs to be appreciated though, is the eversilver tumblers that are used by all and sundry without the washes in between. Take water bottles. Dont take if you are a veep.Veeps get office water bottles as they have thirst. Others dont.

6. A funky card reader that shall have to be pleased before you get a one-fourth cup of a coffee could well have been used as a universal scanner for car, id and laptop entries.Being an outcast I dont get my coffee before a reluctant and yet benevolent coffee maker decides to feed my carving for a coffee. If everyone who gets in is authorized, why not just do away with the bums (bevarage user management system!!)

7. You can have any color print out as long as its black in color. Oh well, shades of grey are okay too. You have no right to print out if you are an outcast

8. Visitors and guests are those that need to be met with at the nearby cigarrete shops. A visitor with no official purpose is as bad as an epidemic outbreak and is treated as one such.

9. No one reaches office beter 10 00 Am and no one leaves before 8 00 pm.

Disclaimer: My company and my offshore office are good. This post is really about the rest.

PS: If you notice that the 10th point is missing and hence the title is not quite right, you still have some ability to question. Thou shalt not work in Indian IT company.

Incredibly Tolerant India

No. This is not a part of the clever tourism marketing campaign from Indian Tourism department. Its actually that part of the bigger construct that is not clearly represented in those adverts.

Relocation is always a stressful event that comes in two parts - when you leave out an old place and when you settle in a new one. If it happens that the settling in also includes an India angle to it, its no longer stress. Its acute depression that is just a part of a grand journey towards a cardiac collapse. In India, tolerance is taken to intolerable extents.

Right at the airport (which looks like the 1970 rajini movie climax pazhadanja bangala) I was harassed for bringing in a used LCD tv, even though law allows me to legally bring them in without duty. My nasal drawl dint work wonders with a chechi officer who said that I need to pay the duty. Much to my discomfort and resentment I realized that it was a kickback only after another chechi took the money in a dark room where any resistance would have to led to her running out proclaiming that I harassed her. I had to tolerate because otherwise, I would be made to wait for ridiculous amount of time for trivial reasons. My bags were strewn away from the conveyor belt in what seems to be an illconceived idea of organizing the bags in a perfect matrix with unapproachable walk paths towards them, much like how most processes with public or private enterprises are conceived. No one except me complained and insisted that my bags need to be re-dumped onto the conveyor. Its a system that works. In the hindsight its a bad idea, as the contract worker literally 'dumped' it in on the conveyor belt like how maniratnam made arvind swamy to dump madhubala in a meadow in Roja. Dumb then, dumb now. No one told him meadows were not spine massagers.

The roads from an international airport, could well have been laid anyother way or at least laid. That was not to be. In places where it was of international standards, the drivers went berserk, like flies running around sweets in no identifiable pattern. People find it easy to tolerate a rash driver who doesnot understand lanes. Honking irritates people but they dont care to work it out between themselves so that they could drive noise free. Taking a turn on a road seems to be a crime. No one has time to wait for someone to finish a turn and you are expected to tolerate the world's urgency while you are stranded in an awkward angle in the road, creating an impossible traffic jam without intending to.

Searching for a house for rent is another manifestation of the tolerance rot. Houses that cannot be in the market for the want of better sanitation were put up for top rent. Houses that had soiled closets, broken windows and chipped out floorings were advertised as premium houses. The least one could have done is fix them before calling visitors. May be everyone except me finds it okay to step into a rest room of a "house to let" which has yellow stains all over. The next time someone advertises for a house with lake view, I am going to drown them in that muck pit.

The apartment complex I rented in, shoved me with a electricity card which bore the name of a person other than the owner. The car park lot is yet to be re-worked to make it worthy.No one cares. And those who care park the car outside, dogs copulating under the chassis notwithstanding.In my street which is more like an enlarged nasal passage, there are 11 stray dogs. No one cares. Heck! They dont care for the neighborhood which is turning into a nomad's rest and an open shithole in the mornings.

Buying grocery is another hair raising experience. Firstly the air curtain blows the already raised hair into irrevocable patterns when you are least prepared. Secondly they have devised a rolling gate system to get in, which is a welded pipe that can perform a tubectomy if the shopper is not good at gymnastics. The stores stink. They dont switch on the air conditioners. Each store has more sweepers and helps than the employees and they giggle at you for every thing. I am yet to reason out what that giggle meant. But they do stop it when I hand them a debit card when I have bought items worth less than Rs.200. It sends shivers of megawatts if you had them a debit card without minimum purchase. There is no "Sorry, we cannot use this blah". Its just "What the fuck..how could you have done this" look, that I would not mind to convert myself into a murderer for. I protest. But no one does.

Sadly all of these could be fixed over night. No investment. No flyovers. No swanky new shopping districts. When will the society and polity stop tolerating the laisse faire attitude in every walk of life?

Incredible!

Dilbert Mashup - My ending to the strip!

Its way too cool. Now I could compete one up against Scott Adams and create a funnier ending to a dilbert strip. Check my first attempt here!