I've taken the plunge.


(Splash!)

The Pilgrimage

A little more than two years ago, I was chilling in Delhi, having just finished my internship six days before my departure from the city. A friend, who was still doing his internship told me he'd meet me at the South-Ex market at six-thirty. By eleven-fifteen, I was feeling too restless, and I thought that I might as well check out the market (read cute Delhi chicks), get something to eat (read cheap shit at McD's), and might be buy something (read some T-shirt with a WWF guy on it - it was my life ambition then to own a WWF T-shirt - not because I liked wrestling, but because I never owned one while every respectable member of my generation owned one at some point!).

When I reached South-Ex, and had walked around for nearly an hour, this bus caught my attention. The bus was going to Najafgarh. Najafgarh! That's where the Bomber was from! Without thinking, I got in and travelled all the way to the obscure suburb. When I got off, I shocked the conductor by asking him where The Bomber's house was. He didn't know. A helpful auto driver offered to take me there and back for forty bucks. I knew he could be cheating me, but tihs was a pilgrimage that had to be made, and it was worth forty bucks. When I saw the house, I thought to myelf, "Thank you for all the entertainment!"

I returned to South-Ex on time for my meeting.

***

Its a story I hid from people when Sehwag lost his form and his place in the side. Society puts a high premium on conformism and agreeing with the national cricket selection policy, after all. But the Bomber wasn't to lie low for too long. He'd been developing newer bombs. Bombs, like many of his earlier ones, that were too big for the limited overs scene. Like Lara before him, Sehwag's finds full freedom only in the longest version of the game. While Lara was a one-day great, in the league of Ganguly and Richards, a notch below Sachin, we will always remember him more for what he did against England, Sri Lanka and Australia in the Test matches, because it was here that he was unparalleled in his generation.

I know that some day, Sehwag will get there. When people talk of the greatest batsmen of the early part of this century, Sehwag's name will be spoken of, along with Ponting, Kallis and Dravid. People will argue that while his numbers done show it, he was better than them. People will talk nostalgically of the day when the bowlers didn't know where to bowl at him. People will talk of captains falsely claiming to have "figured-him-out". People will ponder over why he was never able to replicate his success in the shorter versions.

On that day, I will tell my grandchildren of how I watched him play on a non-3D-TV, of how he hit that six from 193 to 199 off Ntini, of his upper cut, his feet that never moved, and of how I made that pilgrimage to Najafgarh, and they will listen to my wide-eyed, and wonder if they'd ever do something like that for a batsman of their generation!

Disclaimer!

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You must think that the mail contained international secrets, or answers to why the Universe was created, or whether a man was really only an ornament. No. It was a stupid forward on "WHY ARE MEN NEVER DEPRESSED"!

Subtle Subramanian - Part III

Finally! After months of laziness, and lack of inspiration, and lame excuses, here's the follow-up to Part I and Part II.
***
Vinod missed Madras. He worked there for only four years, but had grown to love the city - gossipy Mamis complaining about loose morals, loudly discussing sentiments and values in the latest loud Tamil Serial - "Poor Abhirami. Tholakappian shouldn't have betrayed her like that!"; updating each other on where their offspring are - "Oh, your son is in Berkely-aa? Mine is in New Jersey," "Software-aa? Mine changed over to finance," or "Tamil Matrimony is better than shaadi.com! My daughter got nicer matches, but we are still looking... Do you have the latest photo of your son?" or "I exchanged some jaadakams at the T. Nagar Horoscope Exchange meet, lets see what happens"; auto-drivers who have little random-number-generating-software to set fares; priests filling their pot-bellies with more naivedyam than it can hold; and citizens having to choose between Karunanidhi's dark view of progress and Amma's attempts at self-discovery and self-improvement. They gave the city a certain character - sometimes, not a very desirable character, but character nonetheless. Every person on the road wore his story on his checked shirt. Every person was interested in the other's story, and often scrutinised the other's checked shirts like an auditor. Knowing what everyone else was up to and forming strong opinions based on weak rumours was a way of life in Madras, and Vinod missed that.

Bombay was scarily anonymous. He walked into his apartment each evening wishing there was someone for company. His neighbours probably entered their apartments thinking the same. But nobody ever breached that barrier of anonymity. It was a code etched in stone. The landlady never bothered to find out anything more than whether Vinod had a job, and if he was married. She'd've preferred it if he was married, she told him, and he promised to rectify that situation, but nothing more was asked.

Such a contrast from Madras, he thought.

"What does your father do?"
"He's a retired civil engineer. Now he does some consultancy for the Railways."
"Mother is a housewife?"
"Schoolteacher."
"You have any siblings?" Now Vinod was getting irritated.
"Yeah. Brother in Bangalore. Software. Before you ask me, let me tell you my father has two brothers, one in Madras and the other in Hyderabad. Both work in Syndicate Bank. Their wives are both housewives. My grandfather was an economics professor in Hyderabad, and my grandmother, a housewife. Actually, my grandfather was a freedom fighter - a Gandhian - and I made the engineering cut through the freedom fighter quota. But I learnt all about Gandhi only through Munnabhai. By the time I was old enough to make conversation with my grandfather, he was senile and only told me about crocodiles in the flush tank and rats in my cupboard."

Before the landlady could make any admonishing remarks, her husband butted in from behind his Hindu, "Good that you're not a Gandhian. The only reason why our country suffers today is because of Gandhi and Nehru shepherding it in the early years..."
But before he could elaborate, the landlady said to him sternly, "One more time I hear this lecture, you will never get coffee in this house!"

This early exchange meant that Vinod never felt like he was away from home in Madras. He had to just go downstairs when he wanted a daily opinion on politics and state of the nation, enquiries about his life and job and vetthakozhambu. His landlady in Bombay, a Gujarati widow who called him once a month to thank him for his cheque, lived in the more posh area of town, two hours away from where he stayed. A far cry from the the mami downstairs who asked him who the girl who came home last night was and sent him paayasam on festivals.

His neighbours were most unfriendly, and he knew no one in Bombay. Well, almost no one.

His weekend routine was most dull though. He'd get his Tropicana and chips and plonk himself before the TV. Turn on.

"Kuch kuch hota hai, Rahul..." Remember watching it for the first time with childhood girlfriend. Flip.
"Breaking news just in... " Flip.
"Aamchi..." Flip.
Passionate kissing. Wait for two minutes until they start talking again. Flip.
"Ooooo, huzooor..." Curse. Flip.
"Edged and taken!" Flip.
"One, Two, One, Two. Swing those arms..." Make mental note about staying away from over-muscular women. Flip.
"Call now! Toll Fr..." Flip.
"Pandu, pandu, pandu, erra pandu..." Watch till song ends. Feel nostalgic about childhood in Hyderabad. Flip.
"Desh ka dushman, haraam-zade!" Feel happy about having found the right channel. Settle down into the chips with occasional sip of Tropicana.

Somewhere in the latter half of Tirangaa, when Brigadier Suryadev Singh had made serious inroads into Ghendaswamy's nation-destruction plans, Vinod's Inner Voice left his body, stood five feet away, and examined the scene.

"Dude, what have you turned into?"
"Wait da. I love this part of the movie."
Inner Voice snatched the remote away and turned the TV off. "Brigadier Suryadev Singh and Inspector Waghle?! You've seen this movie a hundred times. A self-respecting man would have inflicted horrible pain upon himself before that."
"What do you want me to watch instead?"
"Call Sharma."
"No. The guy's as boring as Rajinder Tripathi who handles that call-in show on Vividh Bharati."
"He has an interesting friend."
"No. I watched her enough on the train. I want to watch Ghendaswamy die. Come on, those last few scenes are stunning. After that, we'll have a heart to heart."

Inner Voice returned to his body in disgust. Vinod turned on the TV, and watched with bated breath as Brigadier announced the start of Operation Tirangaa. Various men in army costumes rented from the local costume store launched a patriotism-driven attack on Ghenda's fortress. People from either side dropped like flies, but India had the upper hand - not a perceptible upper hand from the visuals, but the sort of upper hand that you can 'see' if you've watched enough Hindi movies. And then, Ghenda revealed his trump card - he had Inspector Waghle's relatives captured.

When the door of the shed opened, Waghle's relatives weren't there. Instead, Lila stood, gagged and bound. Before Vinod could react, Ghenda said, "Vinod, call Sharma!" brandishing a pistol in his trademark white gloves. Vinod turned to Brigadier, who stood with the only things that could stop national destruction - the fuse conductors for the missiles - a smart-counter plan in the movie, but a ridiculous one in reality. There's this madman who could kill the most interesting woman you had ever met in your life, and your saviour waves around a couple of red wires that you probably used in physics lab in the eighth standard.

His Inner Voice suddenly said, "I told you to stop watching the movie!" Vinod woke up with a start. Brigadier said, "Ghenda, maine fuse conductor nikaal diya!" The country was saved again from evil forces in white gloves. Vinod half-smiled before making the phone call to Sharma.
***

Akshay couldn't believe his luck. First, he was made to work on a Saturday, when he should have been watching TV at home, and second, the guy sitting next to him in the train, one who identified himself only as Sen, couldn't stop talking. He hadn't heard such whining since the time he heard recordings of himself talking to his psychiatrist eleven years ago.

Why couldn't they just spare Akshay and let Sen start work...
"... on Monday?" Sen asked fot the seventh time in twenty minutes, "I mean, it makes no sense. I know I'm joining a news channel that knows no weekends and weekdays - only days when the markets are closed and days when they're open. I know that the channel works irrespective of whether the markets do or not. But really, for someone who's coming from a magazine atmosphere, they should allow some settling-in time."

Akshay tried to get a couple of sympathetic words in, but Sen was relentless, "I guess I have to go through this. My first passion was always..."
"Talking?"
"How'd you guess? Yeah!"

Akshay wished he had access to a large RSS danda to hit himself with.

"In the magazine, I was writing the regular business feature, but it was a small magazine, a small section and I couldn't really express myself. Moreover, the people around me were not the sharpest lot, and I think my growth as an analyst was stunted within that system. Be that as it may..." Akshay had never met a person who used the term, ' Be that as it may' in everyday conversation. Sen continued, "Be that as it may, I've always thought that the independence they gave me has made me more mature. I don't think I'd've been ready for a news channel job as soon as I finished studies."

As Sen kept up the steady stream of news, views and analysis, Akshay realised he needed an escape route. "... and Castro is getting too old. I don't really have strong opinions against dictatorships, but..." Akshay desperately needed an escape route.
"Hey! My stop is here," Akshay said, suddenly.
"Oh, I thought you were going to Churchgate."
"Um, no... I lied to you earlier."
"Why?"
"I thought you were cute."

Sen didn't immediately get the full meaning of the sentence, and when he did, it had the desired effect. He let Akshay go.
***

Lila knew there was something wrong the moment she got up. The alarm didn't ring, and she couldn't figure why. Sharma had left, but hadn't bothered to wake her up. The TV had been on through the night. There was heavy metal drumming in her head thanks to all the alcohol. She vaguely remembered commenting on the trip-value of news channels providing background music for drunken sex.

And then she panicked. She had to get to office in an hour, and the taxi took an hour. Finding a taxi at that time wasn't easy either. In fifteen minutes, she found herself on the road trying to catch the attention of a taxi driver. One stopped, but it had someone sitting in it.

"Hi. Are you going towards Marine Drive? I need to get there desperately," she asked.
"In fact, I am!" the man said. She hopped in, "Thanks!"
"That's not a problem. I usually take the train, but there was this guy sitting next to me who ate my brains out. Couldn't stop talking!"

She struck up a lively conversation with him where she tried convincing him to support the Narmada cause. He seemed interested in her. He enthusiastically gave her his card and told her that his office was only a block away, if she should ever be interested in coffee. She got off, walked ten metres, made sure she was still within his view and tore the card and threw it away.

She had made it on time. Like every morning, Lila entered her office building, took the first corridor to the left from the main entrance, pressed helpful red button to summon the lift, smiled at liftman as he checked her out, exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the her colleagues in the lift, as each one tried to outdo the other. Like every morning, she got off at the fourth floor, waved at the receptionist, entered the make-up room for a quick touch up before going on air.

Something was wrong. The make-up room didn't have her usual buddies. Instead, a nervous newbie sat staring at the mirror.

"Hi," she said suspiciously.
"Oh, h-hi."
There was that look again. Like she was the looker's long lost lover. She got that from every man who saw her for the first time. Only, with the mirrors all around, there were four Sens staring at her.

"I'm Sen, Surendranath Sen."
"Sounds cooler when Bond says it."
Sen was put on the back foot too quickly for his liking. He needed a comeback. "Oh, my friends call me Suri Sen." There it was. The world's worst comeback.
"Hi. Lila. That's what my friends call me also," she said, not being able to think of a more suitable reply to an unnecessary fact.
"Oh." he said.

There was a pause. They looked at each other, and looked away. And then, given the lack of things to look at, and the proliferation of mirrors in the room, they looked at each other again. Neither had anything to say.

Sen finally said, "I met this really strange guy on the train today."
"You aren't the first person to tell me that this morning."
"No. You have no idea. This guy, initially tells me he's travelling to Churchgate. We were having a conversation when he suddenly got up to leave way before Churchgate. So, I asked him what the deal was, and he told me he was going to Churchgate only because he thought I was cute."

Lila couldn't believe the coincidence! She was dumbstruck. Sen thought he'd brought up the wrong topic for a first time conversation. Discomfort, shiftiness ruled. And yet, the mirrors meant that they had to look at each other.
"Where is everyone else?" Lila asked suddenly.
"Um, who else?"
"I'll ask someone outside. Its okay."
As she was leaving, she told him, "You are cute, incidentally."

As she walked back to the receptionist, she realised something - it was a bloody Saturday. She didn't need to do the Breakfast Show. Hell, there was no Breakfast Show. Ravi would do the news-reading for reruns of the previous night's stories. She didn't need to hurry in the morning, share a taxi with a troubled insurance agent who complained continuously of a man who never stopped talking to him in the train.

Just then, Sharma called.
"Hi. You remember my friend Vinod?"
"On the train?"
"Yeah. I'm meeting him today. Want to join us?"
"Why not? I can find another person to add to the list of people checking me out today."
"Pah! Subbu's a nice chap. Actually, he's your sort - all senti about love and all."
***

When Sen walked out into the corridor, he heard Lila say, "Mondy's? Seven? Cool."
He made a mental note of the time and place.
***

Pot Pourri

I was cleaning up my Documents Folder when I came across this text. Now, I am feeling all senti. It is from the last play we did in fifth year, called 'Pot Pourri'. Many of these lines didn't make it to the final cut, hell, all the character's names were changed, and many that did make the final cut were forgotten on stage by the actors.
***

This is the poster for the play - designed by me.


And these are the lines in that .doc file - the file was called lineman.doc. Why? I don't remember. I'm simply reproducing the file as it is. For the sake of sentimentality.

General - Scene 1
(Balu and Arun clearing up stuff. Singing loudly and badly.)

Balu: (takes some really dirty looking food item) Fuck, what is this? Ooh, this is from that bunch of bananas I bought sometime last month. Arun, you want one? (Starts walking towards him with it) Arun, come eat.
Arun: Balu, please da.
Balu: Its good for your complexion, da.
Arun: Don’t touch me. I’m warning you.
Balu: What’re you going to do? The last time you hit me, you started crying.
(Balu laughs and starts chasing him around. Prem enters. Balu goes away to his cubi awkwardly.)

Prem: Shylock! Last day of fucking college, I thought we might’ve just given him the slip… But the fucker’s caught us.
Arun: He has to make his money da. You have a big London job…
Prem: Stop your communist cock, please. He flicked 6000 bucks the other day.
Arun: Firstly, you don’t know he’s done it. Importantly, he sells newspapers for a living.
Prem: So?
Arun: He sells newspapers for a living. He has a RIGHT to steal from us. What are you going to do next? Oppose reservations in the private sector?
Prem: Stop being gay.
Arun: You know I don’t like it when you speak to me like that.
(Prem throws something at Arun, and then looks at the bill)
Prem: It’s a hundred and seventy bucks a head, cough up, cocksuckers.
Arun: Balu, its hundred and seventy bucks a head. Cough up, cocksucker.
(Balu gives the money to Arun, who hands it over to Prem)
Prem: I don’t have thirty bucks change.
Arun: He doesn’t have thirty bucks change.
Balu: Keep the change.
Arun: Keep the change. I hate doing this shit da.
Prem: Cock up!
(They get back to their clearing up. Prem starts different song. Arun joins in.)

Balu: You have scotch tape?
Arun: Prem has.
(Balu looks at Prem for a second, and then leaves stage.)

Prem: (taking a bundle of papers/reading materials out of the room) We’ve accumulated so much junk in the last five years!
Arun: I can’t believe we’re done though. It seems like yesterday when we came in.
Prem: Stop being gay.
Arun: I’ll hit you if you say that once more. Five years hasn’t made you any more sensitive to the minorities.
Prem: You remember what Prof. Hegde said, “How can they be a minority? There aren’t enough of them”.
Arun: I remember that really well.
Prem: How can you be senti today? You’re out of this fucking shit hole. Finally.
Arun: Are you trying to tell me that you don’t feel senti even a little bit leaving this place?
Prem: Yes.
Arun: Think about it da. You’ll never sit on the terrace again…
Prem: Don’t romanticise this fucking place. The terrace stinks. There are dope heads fucking losing their brains. Two gay… sorry, pansy guys sitting in a corner and discussing nonsense philosophy. I once heard a guy say, “A man is not an ornament!” Such shyte! (picks up some reading materials) What are you doing with these reading materials?
(Balu walks back in with scotch tape in his hand)
Arun: (holding up a scarf and reading what’s written on it) SK… Balu, this is yours.
Balu: Never seen it before dude.
Arun: But, it has… Oh…

End Scene

(Prem and Balu doing the last bit of cleaning up. Arun’s packed, and is about to leave.)
Arun: This is it, then.
Balu: I’ll mail you da. Seriously.
Arun: I’ll be happier if you talked to him. Or at least tried to.
Balu: This is a guys’ thing da. Don’t interfere.
(Arun walks to Prem.)

Arun: Be the bigger man, Prem.
Balu: I said don’t interfere.
Arun: He said don’t interfere.
Prem: I’ll see you in Delhi, then?
Arun: Yeah.
Prem: Don’t cry da, please.
Arun: Fuck off. I hate you guys. (Starts weeping and leaves)

(Balu packs up and leaves without a word. Prem looks surprised, but sits for a few seconds, before packing up and leaving. Balu walks in few seconds later, looks at the empty room and goes away. Prem comes back, looks, sees it empty and walks out.)

Surya - Scene 2
(Balu and Arun at foreground of quad, feet on grass. Balu is messaging someone on his phone.)

Arun: (somewhat excitedly)…but if you look at the judgments of the Supreme Court after 1981, which is when Justice Bhagwati was going on a virtual rampage, and particularly if you see his opinion in Ajay Hasia, the whole thing has changed now, and even things like the BCCI may soon get sucked into the definition and be forced to act in accordance with vague-ass part III rights that the court suddenly comes up with (notices Balu isn’t paying attention at this point, furious)… and… your sister is a goat with… with… massive mammaries the size of Mexico! Why the fuck do you ask me a question if you are more interested in messaging than in what I am saying?
Balu: (puts away phone, but not too hastily) I was listening only; its just that its damn annoying to be sitting here alone…
Arun: Alone?! then I am off, you can really wait “alone” now for all your real ‘buddies’.
Balu: Why the drama?
Arun: You never have the time for us anymore man. And when we do get a moment sometime in the day, your mind is always elsewhere.
Balu: What? What are you on?!
Arun: You haven’t been in the room for two weeks now.
Balu: I’ve been doing some work for this NGO.

(For a second, they look at each other, and then they start laughing.)

Arun: What’s really going on man?
Balu: Ok, ok! Its just that everything is getting to me yaar. One year in this place and I already feel like, you know, I am losing my soul or something… you know the feeling… its like, I can’t relate to what I’ve become anymore… I am so afraid that one of these days I will wake up, look in the mirror, and actually feel happy about myself because I know that Justice Bhagwati revolutionised the way the Constitution is read… you know what I am saying? … I need to be who I was 2 years ago man, I need to start re-discovering the things that… that make me me.
Arun: Hmmm.

(For a second, they look at each other, and then they start laughing.)

Balu: Ok. Serious. I’ve been taking salsa classes.
(Arun looks at him suspiciously)

Balu: Serious, da.
Arun: Ok, I believe you. Speak with Sujata, her cousin takes salsa classes for Upendra. She’s apparently quite big.
Roshan: (Smiles, tries to act nonchalant but doesn’t do that very well, however Arun sees nothing at this stage) That’s the one I am going for! Sujata also attends the classes, both of us drive down together in the evenings.
Arun: Hmmm. So she’s seen you prancing around in black tights, eh?
Balu: Salsa dancers don’t where tights. They may in Gaypolis, they don’t in Bangalore.
Arun: This salsa cock is at Alliance?
Balu: No!
Arun: But Alyosha said he saw you and Sujata there…
Balu: French classes.
Arun: What?!? Are you kidding me?
Balu: What’s wrong with French classes?
Arun: Nothing. Just that you’re going with Sujata!
Balu: What’s wrong with that?
Arun: Nothing…

'Coz Talk is Cheap Anyway

Two nights ago, I watched, and made my cousins watch Koyaanisqatsi. The last time I saw it was more than three years ago, and I felt the same sense of amazement and awe that I felt all those years ago. My cousins, on the other hand, fell asleep, and will curse me for the rest of eternity. (and probably never watch any movie that I recommend!)

Now why did I decide to revisit Koyaanisqatsi after all these years? Well, I revisited Man with a Movie Camera after about a year, downloaded Berlin that preceded it, watched that, realised how much of Man with a Movie Camera was inspired by it, and decided to watch the next major achievement in non-narrative film-making - the Qatsi Trilogy - to see if there was any inspiration there. (I don't know if there are any major achievements in between. If you know of any, please tell me!) This led me to download more silent shorts from all over the internet - including a few by that great Frenchman Georges Melies, a very interesting Alice in Wonderland by Cecil Hepworth, a couple of Luis Bunuels. Tonight, I intend to watch another silent feature - and one of my nostalgic favourites - Buster Keaton's The General.

My greatest belief, after all this, is that we attach too much value to talking. If one has an open mind, it isn't hard to realise that Koyaanisqatsi asks you a million more questions about yourself and the world around you than all of the Blade series put together. Yet, more people would gladly watch the Blade series. Chaplin's movies, especially City Lights and Modern Times, touch you more than most movies you'll ever see. But there's no dialogue, and it is in black and white, you ask! Kubrick's 2001:A Space Odyssey is most effective in the Dawn of Man sequence. Nobody has ever seen anything even remotely like it.

We attach too much importance to the spoken word. We trust the audience too little. In real life, a lot is assumed, a lot less is said. But when it comes to the talkies, as they were known, we want everything to be said explicitly. They're reaching a wider audience, we're told. Bullshit. The audience has dumbed itself down. Every time a person walks into a cinema, she is conditioned by years of cinema-watching to dumb herself down. Because, the filmmaker assumes, wrongly, that a person perceives a lot less than she is capable of perceiving.

And when someone gets it right, when someone realises that you and I are capable of understanding a lot more, we play our part to perfection by branding him an artiste, whereby immediately relegating him to be watched by those half-crazed intellectuals, whom we assume are being intellectual only to fake coolness.

What is lost in all the talk, is the rhythm, the innate rhythm that is there in all life, in all movement arouns us - animate and inanimate. Rhythm that is disrupted by the explanatory dialogue - unnecessary dialogue that disturbs the music of the images that string reality and fantasy, dialogue that forces interpretations on us to the extent that we aren't required to interpret anymore, the dialogue strives not towards intellegence, but intelligibility.

Peter-Pottering

I've been away. Chasing elusive tigers. Rafting on bamboos. Playing Mynah. Chilling on ferries and consorting with the light waves on the Malabar Coast. Pondering over the questions of life. Questions of the Smartness of Man. Questions on Animal Behaviour and Animal Chilling. Eating Death-by-Chocolate. Peters and Marys. Old Peters and Old Marys. Mad Peters and Mad Marys. Bark Collectors and poachers. Madras' contribution to English Grammar - how it de-Peterised the Peters in us.

I also had six hours to kill at the Cochin Airport last afternoon. These are some reflections, and short incidents on the trip that I wrote about at the airport.



Smartness of Man
"Finally... Oh, damn."
"What happened?"
"For a second, I thought I could see nothing man-made in my view, and then I realised that the bamboo raft was visible."
"Look the other way, maybe you can..."
"No. The guides are there. Their clothes are man-made. Man has this tendency to disturb everything around him. Right?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. I have a new theory - all animals disturb. When an elephant walks through a thicket, it disturbs the plants and stuff. But there aren't enough elephants to cause permanent damage."
"No. The damage caused by the elephant is ordained by Nature. Otherwise, there'd be too many trees and so on. Thing is, man is too smart, and so he looks to beat nature. He's too smart for his own good."
"Maybe he's not smart enough."
Pregnant pause.
"Profound!"

(I love the way this conversation progressed as if it was between two aliens looking down on earth.)

Peter and Mary
The most useful word on the trip was 'Peter'. The word has its origins in Madras Tamil.

Although Akanksha did raise concerns over the anti-feminist sentiments of the term, which made us occasionally use 'Mary' as an alternative, 'Peter' was what we usually stuck to.

pe·ter /ˈpē'tər/ n. a generic term to describe anyone who is, or wants to be a foreigner, usually from the US, UK or EU. Specifically used to describe foreign tourists. Usually carries a large camera, backpack, wears a pouch and has turned pink in the heat. e.g. Many Peters hang out in Kerala.

pe·ter adj. refers to things that peters do. e.g. We did some Peter stuff like watch Kathakali and Kalaripayattu, or You'll get stuck with Peter prices if you don't bargain properly.

pe·ter, pe·tered, pe·ter·ing, pe·ters intr. v. to do things that Peters do. The Peters Petered around the Peter part of Cochin on Saturday.

Mar·y / mâr'ē/ the female of a Peter. "Dude, hot Mary. 11 o' clock."
Note: Mary is rarely used as a verb or an adjective.

On Purpose
Travel gets you thinking. Especially trekking through the jungles. As dried leaves crackle under each footstep, you are drawn into a world of your own. The magnificence of creation renders your daily pressures of deadlines and entangled love-lives irrelevant, and you're able to ask yourself the larger questions. A good trip isn't one that gives you answers - it is one that asks more questions.

As I saw elephants, boar, bison, and deer - all chilling in the jungle - spending most of their day either sleeping, eating, drinking water or releasing the remains of their eating, I couldn't help thinking of the larger purpose of life. We do so many things - we are lawyers, doctors, engineers, janitors or sportsmen. And we condemn those who chill - those who only eat and sleep. Humans are meant for larger things, we say. We aren't animals. Movies are made on people getting lakshya in their life. Calling someone a monkey is even considered racist.

Why? Why cant you and I spend the rest of our lives chilling? Find food. Eat. Sleep. Get up. Find food. Eat. Why does this sound monotonous to you and me, and not to the rest of the animal world?

Oldness of Peters and Marys
A trend that Akanksha pointed out during the trip - most Peters are fairly old. There were hardly any young, strapping Peters in Thekkady. After much thought, she came to the conclusion that young Peters hang out at the more expensive places like the Taj at Kumily, backwaters of Kumarakom, Delhi, whereas younger Peters and Marys are usually around places like Fort Kochi, Goa, McLeodganj, Pondicherry that are all much cheaper.

The Crazy Peters are usually the younger sort. The older are more racist, and less Indophilic. The younger do the whole 'exotic India' routine - peacock feather mantras, Yoga course in the Himalayas for six months, Indian music with real Indian instruments like the tabla, Maharishis and Swamis, Kamasutra. The older hang out at the open air coffee shop at the Taj and complain about the heat and dust.

The Big Sleep
Walking along the coast in Fort Kochi, we saw a board pointing towards a Dutch Cemetery. A question of deep philosophical significance was asked, "How does it matter if the Cemetery is Dutch or not?"

Reminds me of this paragraph from the last page of The Big Sleep:

"What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell..."

***
As you can see, it was a fun trip. We went on what is called the Tiger Trail, run by the Periyar Tiger Reserve. Their website is more than useful, and their guides are real pally - especially if you can speak a smattering of a South Indian language. Even Akanksha's Tamil will do! And just for trip value, here's another snap from the trip - one that somehow signifies the meaning of the whole tour...