Friday, March 21, 2008

Holi kab hai, kab hai Holi?

I hate Holi. Seriously. What is Holi? Isn't it a mere reason to lose the monotony of the colour of your skin, the same skin that marks your identity - black, brown, white (in alphabetical order, albeit any palpable bias is not deeply regretted) or anywhere in between. The colour of your skin can make you a teeth-and-eye-guy, a tree-trunk, a tubelight or, in some cases, even a God (ref: Hindu Mythology). May I take this opportunity to submit that it's the same attribute of your personality which has won races around the world known by different names like 'Formula A for Apartheid' , 'Tubelight Burden of Fight Club & Rude yard fame' and 'Gehuan the wheatish complexion - a mystery en route'.

Coming back. Holi. Why Holi? What in the world can be a justification for the humongous amount of dye, paint, grease, mud, cow-dung, other forms of shit, tap-water, tank-water, hand-pump water, well-water, tub-water, bucket-water, rain-water(try spending Holi in Chennai), drain-water, and all other variants of the colourful and the colourless being wasted on a mortal human? Isn't it a mockery of the serious research going on in the Chemistry Labs of IIT Madras (ref:Bhaand) that one-mile-long-molecular-formula-chemicals are being used just for fun? And that too in such huge dosages!

Where Holi? The toughest part of the byzantine problem is that Holi can be played anywhere in the world - air, water, land, outside home, inside home (better talk to your mom before this one), on the street, on the roof-top, on the water tank (ref:Dharmendra and his chakki), forests, grasslands, deserts (if carrying a pot of water for kilometres is not Rocket Science for you), and even in India( ya, sometimes people play it here, although not so enthusiastically in the northern parts of the Asian country. Or is it the other way?). So, with so many choices, this festival confuses your intellect and thus I say, my comrade, that it's better to hate it. Hate it for else you will fall in love with it till death. Hate it for the people hiding during the mad festival will hate you more for tearing their undergarments and throwing them into mud.

Moving on. How Holi? It's one of those cases where hands do a good job and you know that a good handjob is illegitimate in the country. Again, the instruments used in the sling operation resemble banned diagrams of human anatomy and the misuse of contraceptives as balloons has caused a great increase in the percentage error of Say-no-to-AIDS statistics.

Who Holi? Considering the undeniable fact that only fun-loving, enthusiastic, and lively people can play it, Holi fans overlook the question - what will the chickens do meanwhile? Hiding their asses and donkeys in some isolated corners of hostels and a marathon run when caught is all they can do.

'nuf said. I hate Holi. You are free to do the same. Thank you for being on my side.

Issued in public interest: Clean Holi Green Holi!

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Killer Instinct

All characters depicted in this purely fictional piece of literature are completely imaginary. Any resemblance to any entity living, dead, or anywhere in between is utterly deliberate!

GeeCe1, 1907 hours. A Mercedes E240 screeches to an abrupt halt. The security guards completing their afti-dharma2 gain consciousness at once and adjust their uniforms while running towards the entrance of the Central Library. The students pleading to academic babus for the reconsideration of their rejected application letters for the Cultural Secretary elections stop looking for Rs 50 currency notes in their wallets and turn around to see across the street. The Dean’s black yoRoto3, provided by the Government of India, rings.

Virgineer4, the student-spy of the Dean, is drenched in sweat, panting, and extremely impatient as the phone rings for one full minute and his call remains unanswered. He redials on his new Nokia Express Music won in the Head-Banging Contest at the Saarang Rock-Show. To his relief, he is answered this time. The identification code ‘Hail CGPA’ is pronounced at the other end by a familiar voice and Virgineer knows that he is talking to the right person. “Hail CGPA! Sir, there’s a bad news. She is dead.” “What? How? Where?” “A car accident. In front of the library.” “But she… did you take her to the hospital?” “She died on the spot, Sir.” “Who did it?” “The driver ran off.” “Oh! Holy…” “There’s something more to it, sir. The car is a royal blue Mercedes E240. And the number says TN 23E 9964. It’s yours!” “It’s all pre-planned… a conspiracy against me. Update me as soon as you get more information.” “Right, sir. Hail CGPA.” “Ya, ya.” Cut.

The news spreads faster than fire in the forests of IITM. All the editors of The Fourth Estate, the in-house publication, come up for an urgent meet with the other Writeous Penheads5 of the campus and prepare pamphlets and posters for a massive student-body protest to be held tomorrow.

With two murders within two days, the Dean has no alternative but to avoid the phone calls from notorious students demanding a mourning holiday. Virgineer had earlier informed him that Idi, a security guard of Sharavati, the girl’s hostel, was missing at the time of the three murders, albeit he had arrived for the evening shift as per the records. The Dean, seeking to tighten his grip over the case, calls the CCW Office and, to his astonishment, is told that Idi is currently on a one week vacation to his village. The Dean realizes that he is drifting towards the losing end.

Meanwhile, Virgineer discovers new evidence. The villagers relent to open-up and report about a monkey, as big as an adult man, attacking black bucks for the last three days. To probe further and forage for more clues, he decides to go for an extensive search in the jungles at night. The night manifests darkness blindingly in the absence of the moon. The trees sway as wind gushes through them beside the crystal clear water of the lake. Long hours of courage in the camouflage finally bear fruit and Virgineer finds an ID card. It reads – V.G. Idichandy, Dean, IIT Madras.

Virgineer is dumbfounded. His indignation surpasses his boiling point. Within an instant, he decides to confront him.

Dean’s Office, 0400 hours. “How did you come, sir? In the same blue Mercedes? Oh, how dumb I am! It’s now all red. Blood red, isn’t it?” “Control yourself, Virgineer. You can’t accuse me.” “Give me one reason why I can’t accuse you. Believe me, I’ve plenty of evidence to prove things, you know.” “Are you trying to tell me that I don’t care for the killed?” “No, right now, I am trying to tell you that you have killed those who you were supposed to care for. The IITM campus that boasts of its prized reserve of black-bucks, has lost three adult ones, one of them being a pregnant female. So that makes you a murderer of four. Quite a performance, sir.” “I don’t need to justify myself in front of you. You are free to think whatever you want. Why should I bother when I’m not guilty?” “May I ask you where you were at 7 pm yesterday, sir?” “7 pm. 7pm? I was…I was…can’t remember. I can’t remember. I was sleeping!” “Enough. I’m going straightaway to the Police. Goodbye. To hell with CGPA!”

The Dean leans upon his table with his head bent down. There is a sudden rush of wind across the room and a closet opens. A sealed envelope flies from the Dean’s desk and falls in front of Virgineer. He turns to see where it came from and sees a security guard’s uniform and a monkey costume hanging in the closet. He tears open the envelope to read a Medical Report which says –

Dear Mr. V.G. Idichandy,

The diagnosis report of SCID-D has confirmed the symptoms of Dissociative Identity Disorder in you. Kindly report to the institute hospital immediately.

Dr Shanti Pavan
Psychiatrist, IIT Madras.

GeeCe1: Gajendra Circle, the central intelligence unit of Geeklandia, also known as IIT Madras.

Afti-Dharma2: Nap-on-duty in the afternoon.

yoRoto3: Rotary dial telephone.

Virgineer4: : A spyware identified by the matrix as the virgin engineer who has not even touched any girl, circuit-board or machine's internals.

Writeous Penheads5: Rioters who debate whether to write as a rite is right or wrong.