Martial Law at Office!

My quest continues... not just for that magic word which would do justice to music, but also to find the path that would let me fully comprehend the gift my dad had given
me a long, long time back...

Orgasmic!... Inebriated!... Drunk!... On a high!... %*&%*$*&^(^*... (*%$$%^^*&^&....!

I was searching for the right word, a politically correct word rather, to replace “intoxicated” in the phrase “intoxicated by music”. The question was posed by a dear one. According to her, the word intoxicated was negative, while music is all about positives. “You can't talk about it as though it's cheap liquor,” she said.

“Yeah right,” I nodded, quickly opening another tab in my browser to click on dictionary.com - where I generally find answers to all the problems posed by work and life these days.

Damn! No help there.

“The synonyms will all sound negative to her,” I muttered under my breath, “she being staunchly against alcohol.”

“But doesn't alcohol cleanse wounds,” I had attempted the old reasoning on her once, the one which all “spirited” ones try. To which she didn't reply, but her silence gave me the answer.

She wasn't that silent in her non-acceptance of “Orgasmic” though, but she agreed that it comes close. “But it is still not the word I want.” Man, she is stubborn!

The English-language journalist in me had his back to the wall with this one. I told her I will search for it when I get time to think.

“Right now I am watching that big-man Chris Gayle dismantle Mumbai Indians bowlers in the Indian Premier League (IPL) ‘semi-final’, the result and report of the cricket match I've got to edit and package and put it on paper for tomorrow's edition baby,” I said.

Now here is Gayle, the larger than life Jamaican, who, if it was the renaissance and exploration era, would have been a buccaneer for sure. Johnny Depp, listen up, why isn't Gayle a character in your Pirates of the Caribbean Franchise? Big loss Maan!

Instead, the West Indies destroyer is wreaking havoc for another Franchise here in India - at the IPL, playing for the ‘King of Booze Times’ (oops ‘King of Good Times’) Vijay Mallya's Royal Challengers Bangalore team.

Mallya, arguably the one and only Billionaire Playboy in the Indian Parliament (assuming the rest of them are just billionaires who don't play), believes and practices the “Law of Conservation of Matter”.

For the benefit of the uninitiated to the ways of science I shall give you the definition here, hope I am right. The Law states that: “Matter can never be destroyed. It can only be transformed to other forms.”

Just replace “Matter” with “Money” in Mallya's case and you will unlock the secrets to his billions, stashed in beer barrels.

Here's someone who's made big bucks through “cheap liquor”.

And he is using the money to fly, to drive F1 cars, to sail, to party, not to mention the expensive players he has roped in to play for his team, providing, again, cheap thrills for the average Indian through the IPL. The people in turn will revel in their team's victory or drown in its defeat, finding solace and cheers in - no prizes for the guess - CHEAP booze, what else.

(But please note that with ‘CHEAP booze’ I mean the quality of the spirits and not the price tag.)

Mallya gets his money back, no matter what, states his law of conservation of money.

Meanwhile, Gayle delivered for Royal Challengers as they made it to their first final in the four-year history of the IPL, while my office boy delivered the cup of coffee I ordered to keep my senses awake, a long night I was expecting.

But I ended up staying at office longer than I imagined...

Nay, it was not work. The relative boredom of composing and sending pages, with a creative garnish of a headline here and there, went smoothly enough.

But my plans to hit the road all changed the moment we all decided to plan a movie.

“Kung Fu Panda,” the decision was unanimous.

And as we were checking our options for a weekday show, someone decided we needed music to spice up the guy-talks. I and my neighbour in office, James Hardy, have a decent collection of music with Hardy's stash being much more decent than mine. My folders do have its obscenities, the rather revealing videos I try to justify saying “the music is just awesome, listen to that” guys.

They all listened and then my phone rang. I didn't pick up. Why?

I was busy swaying to my new ringtone -- the theme music from the big daddy of all Kung Fu movies made in Hollywood -- Enter the Dragon.

Inspiring, this soundtrack used to be, still is by the way. It is genetic I guess.

My dad, who is one of the most senior Karate masters in Kerala, began his journey in martial arts way back in 1977 after watching this Bruce Lee flick. His life entered a new phase with that movie and this theme would have played its part too, I am sure.

In the tinsel world, this multi-star Warner Bros production changed the perception Hollywood had towards martial-arts movies forever and paved the way for oriental stars like Jackie Chan and Jet Li to become world icons. Bruce Lee became the saint, a martyr in a way, which every institution needs - be it political, religious, or the arts.

Jeet Kune Do emblem

The Saint Lee had his set of disciples too, who followed his religion in martial arts - one which erased all the boundaries between styles and forms. His ‘Jeet Kune Do’, which means ‘the way of the intercepting fists’, was a style which was, according to Bruce Lee, “the best of all the arts brought under one form, a fighting style without any style”: A hybrid of Kung Fu, Karate, Judo and Jujitsu, wrestling, Taekwondo, Muay Thai and even western boxing among others.
 
Bruce Lee did have his critics and purists - masters and exponents from various arts - regularly challenged him to prove his claims about Jeet Kune Do. It is said that Bruce obliged them all and proved his point too. Naturally he would have done it with ease.

When death caught him unawares in 1973, at the young age of 33, he was in his prime, his prowess and physical sharpness clearly evident on screen in his Magnum Opus, Enter the Dragon, the final stroke of a genius.

The Kung Fu part of Jeet Kune Do had its firm base in the ‘Foshan Wing Chun’ style, the first form Bruce Lee learnt under the legendary Hong Kong master Yip (Ip) Man. A close combat style, whose famed hand movements were used extensively by Bruce Lee for his movie fight sequences.

Bruce Lee in the legendary climax of Enter the Dragon where he takes on the villain Yan in his mirror chamber

But the “Dragon's” fight moves were not the object of attention in office this day. It was the music from his most famous movie, present in which are the immortal scenes that made him a legend, including the fight with the villian ‘Yan the Iron Fist’ in his mirrored lair.

My unusually loud ringtone attracted ears from a usually silent corner of the office too - the international-cum-nation desk. I could see Mr Kumaraguru's (Guru Sir) eyes sparkle as he listened and smiled to the beats of the theme which was composed by the renowned Argentine director Lalo Schifrin.

Guru came up to me, telling me it was “super” and asked me to play the ringtone one more time. I decided to play the full version from my hard-disk.

Guru was happy and was at his smiling best as he appreciated my jukebox act with his usual nod which I always felt had the grace and ‘discipline of motion’ of an officer from the armed forces.

Guru Sir is around 5-ft 8-inches tall or there about, lean and dresses in semi-formals generally. He carries himself around office conveying a deep and discreet disposition seen in men we term these days as “old fashioned”. And I attributed his sudden attachment to a 70’s martial arts movie theme to him being from the retro generation.

How wrong I was.

Guru went back to his seat to complete the night’s job while Hardy, I and designer Kannan went about jobless - listening to songs and bitching about bosses.

It was way past midnight, and around 1.30 or so in the morning, when we decided to head for our summer-heated beds at home.

“Let me take a smoke first, come out we will talk at the stairs,” Kannan's last wish. I said “yeah.”

We were standing at the stairs when Guru Sir came out, smiling again. He was going home.

Our talk went back to Enter the Dragon. Apparently, Guru is a big fan of Bruce Lee and we were sharing our passion with words while Kannan was adding his inputs to the fact agreed by many - Bruce being the best of the lot.

And after a rush of excited words which lasted about 15 minutes, Guru took a few steps down the stairs to go home to his wife and kids when he suddenly heard me mentioning about dad and Karate. He looked up again, and I knew he had decided to keep his family on hold for a little while more.

Apparently, he was a martial artist too and trained with his cousins under a friend who was a third Dan black belt in the Shito-Ryu school of Karate.

During my fighting days, I had come across a few Shito-Ryu fighters and the give-and-take encounters still make me smile and crave for more. But not now and certainly not with Guru, I was damn sure.

I mentioned about my dad (Xavier Master or Sensei Xavier to many) and about our style of Shorin-Ryu while Guru confessed that he never really trained the art. And from his words I realised he was right and the talk was not an attempt at humility which Karate students, except me of course, develop down the years.

“I didn't train the katas or the art. My friend used to train me and my cousins in sparring. It was fun. And mornings we used to do fitness exercises. It was tough, especially the frog jumps up the stadium stairs and all. And then we used to go to college where I used to sleep the whole time dead tired. And in the evenings I would get beaten up by my friend when we train free sparring. But it was fun,” Guru Sir opened up his memoirs in his slightly accented good English.

Again the talk went back to Bruce Lee. “Obviously this man was a big fan,” I told myself looking at Guru.

This time he demonstrated the speed of Lee’s 'back-fist' (Uraken in Japanese - an attack with the back of one’s fist), the technique which Lee uses to begin the systematic dismantling of O'Hara (Robert Wall - a Karate and kickboxing champ) in Enter the Dragon.

Bruce Lee takes on O'Hara (kick boxing and karate champ Robert Wall) in Enter the Dragon

My dad was also very fond of the 'back-fist'. In fact my dad and I also at times, have employed it to score quick points off an attacking opponent who forgot to keep his guard up above his shoulders.

“Only fools rush in,” was my dad’s quick advice each time I got hit by his ‘back fist’ every time I rushed in blindly. It’s obvious my dad was an Elvis fan too, or else why would he use the line from one of The King’s famous songs all the time.

Guru Sir would have continued talking and I and Kannan would have chipped in our bit too. But then, he is a family man now, not the teenager who never used to mind getting kicked around by a black-belt. “We had so much fun then,” he smiled again before saying “Goodnight”.

Something else amazes me though. Guru, like all the rest of us guys in office, takes a whole lot of stinky stuff from the big ones on the floor. But unlike me, who is known for occasional emotional trips, Guru handles it very calmly. I haven't seen him lose his cool even once.

Now, we both have trained in Karate at one point and this Japanese art is supposed to reign in our tempers. I had trained the art as a whole, the full aspects of it including the art of fighting, while Guru Sir had trained just for sparring. But it seems, he had acquired the Zen of Karate much more than I did.

Maybe my sense of Karate was diluted a little bit by my days as a fighter, where aggression and loads of it, helped me win bouts. The dilution was further heightened by the occasional creative indulgences, or rather excesses, in the last couple of years.

And the final straw would have been the lack of training. My dad used to say, “Karate training is like tempering Iron for a Katana (Japanese sword). The sword-smith has to bend and beat the metal. Then heat it, bend it, beat again and again, a million times probably, till it is the finished product. And then the warrior or the Samurai has to prime the sword again, with sweat. Just like that, a Karateka should train and heat himself day in day bout till his reflexes and techniques and mind becomes as sharp as a sword, sparkling and deadly.”

My dad also had a simple view on arguably the most decisive edge in a fight -- speed.

“A person can only see and block an attack which is as fast as his own punch or kick,” my dad used to say in between counts while making me train the reverse punch, which according to him was like a powerful shot from a sniper rifle.

“Bang, and it would be over,” he explained. “Emphasis should be on the power, speed and of course accuracy,” the Shorin-Ryu way.

PM Xavier, my dad, executes a side kick during a demonstration at his Dojo in Fort Kochi in the early 1980's

The truth behind my Sensei's above mentioned insight into the art of fighting I realised the hard way during a tournament, when, in the semi-finals, I was knocked down by a punch which I didn't see coming.

It was that fast. I got up though and managed to bleed and huff my way around him to win the bout on a split decision, even though my dad was unhappy with the way I went defensive after ensuring a single point lead.

“You should have given it back and finished him off, that would have been the victory. You won't get a chance again,” he said. But then he also knew that the other fighter’s speed was too much for me and I had to be foxy for a win. But being a fighter to the core and not a businessman, my dad's heart was never happy with my win that day.

It took three days for the taste of blood in my mouth to subside. My dad waited too and the fourth morning, he took me to the backyard after warm-up. On the coconut tree trunk was tied a piece of sponge, barely thick to protect my knuckles, ensuring my fists will take 80 percent or so of the brunt from my punches.
 
By the way he was taking it easy on me. I have heard the grand-ma of my neighbour saying that my dad used to train on the same tree-trunk and he used to have just a few sheets of newspaper for cushion. I asked him about it.

“There used to be blood marks on the trunk,” he said before asking me to bend my knees to start my training. My dad was not keen on wasting time on chit-chat and believed in maintaining intensity even if one is just training for five minutes.

For the next month or so I used to spend my mornings punching at the tree trunk standing in Shiko-Dachi (deep stance with knees bent low) while my primary fighting focus – wrestling – was relegated to just evening mat sessions with the college wrestling team. My punches became crisper and faster and that's what my dad wanted.

Man, that’s history! Snap out of it, will ya?

“Ok, ok, chill, I am back,” I answered, trying to satisfy my inner voice, which is as cranky as me these days -- rational when I don’t need it to be and totally wacky when I want it to be level-headed.

Anyway, right now the “voice” pulled me back to the present day newsroom where I don’t need a crisp punch but a bridle for my temper and Guru seems to be having no problems at all with aggression.

His secret was maybe something else than the Zen of Karate altogether. Something I also have realised but failed to accept and act accordingly. It is true that the “significant ones” in office are so, so insignificant and minuscule in the bigger scheme of things collectively called life. In other words, they are not worth your anger.

Ah, anger management and its mysterious ways – wish I knew them!

My dad believed Karate helps one channelize that negative energy.

“But how,” I kept on questioning as I cycled back home after my martial arts episode with Guru. The query was playing inside my mind repeatedly like a stuck record in a gramophone.

Eureka!

Stuck record player! Probably that is the answer; probably it is music, the music of Karate - the resonance from the muscles performing a well-choreographed dance to the tunes coming from the trained mind. That is the music of Karate and it is intoxicating and it also calms one down.

There you go again: Back to the old question of replacing intoxicants while explaining music.

But while performing a Karate kata or training in its various forms, one does get into a trance, a war dance of sorts. All who have practiced the art will agree. And the music which induces the trance is indeed intoxicating.

Oh yeah! Maybe the word my friend is searching for is “trance”.

“That should explain it right?” I rang her up to ask her.

“No, it doesn't,” came the sharp reply, faster than any punch I have faced. How to train for this dad? Women!

My quest continues for the time being though. Maybe I should start practicing Karate. Its music might enlighten me to the word and many things more.

Or maybe, my friend George Poikayil, the wise one, who secretly reads my blog without acknowledging it, would pass a wise-guy comment as expected.

I can see it coming: “You don't know the word. What kind of an editor are you? Can't blame you though, sports journalist right, it's expected. The word is *******. Now thank me OK,” George, the business journalist will say, laughing his guts out.

I don't mind George. I don't mind at all.

Peace!

Trained Observer

I wonder whether my maid uses a Blackberry!

Well almost everyone uses one these days. The other day I was texting diligently on my 'stone-age' mobile when the driver of my office cab took out his Android or I thought it was an Android. I can’t even identify one and probably I will end up branding all touch-screen mobiles as Android and all QWERTY mobiles as Blackberry.

"Man, I am outdated," I told myself that day.

Back to my maid.

“Will she be having a BB?” I wonder whether I am missing out on her services just because I am not connected with her on the famed BB network. Maybe I am.

My maid has been missing from action for a few days now. Since I couldn’t conjure up enough Tamil, in the last one year, to make her understand that I needed her mobile number just in case some information has to be passed, I have no means to contact her. And to make matters worse, she is not in my Facebook list either and the biggest sin is I don't have her BB pin.

“Enough of waiting, it is time for action.” after all, I am used to cleaning my clothes and premises right from my camping days and college till the time I started earning enough to afford a maid.

So the last two days, I have gone back to the things I used to do while living in a dingy room in Triplicane during my early days as a journalist in Chennai. And washing clothes was one of my daily ruts as I didn't want soiled linen to pile up and create a problem for me during my one and only weekly off.

But there was a mini pile for me to handle this time around as I was just back from my Coimbatore trip. I divided the soiled clothes into two, taking the easy-to-wash ones on the first day, keeping my fingers crossed that next day the maid will appear out of the blue to wash the hard ones - my jeans and cargoes.

But she didn't come today either.

So I reluctantly soaked the clothes and during the one-hour Tamil Nadu Electricity Board load-shedding (power cut) at 1 noon, I found myself free from my internet obligations (read: Twitter, Facebook, blog, downloads and G-talk) and started working on my jeans followed by the cargoes I wore travelling in the train.

“Why you little insignificant spec,” I cursed at the small stain on the khaki cloth that was making me sweat. I brushed and brushed wondering what’s wrong. I washed off the froth from the detergent to have a closer look. A brownish mark was smirking back at me. Am sure if the stain had fingers he would have pointed the middle finger at me too.

“I wonder how it came there.” A stain is making me talk to myself, scary, I thought as I went back in time, two days to be exact, to the day the brown little thing made my pants his home.

It was in the train, on my way back from Coimbatore. I had taken the morning Chennai Express from the “Cotton City”; which meant that the eight-hour journey would take me through the sun scorched heart of Tamil Nadu to my destination. I had planned to reserve a seat in the air-conditioned chair car but missed out on the Indian Railways Tatkal window two days before my journey. Instead I got a second class window seat.

As I boarded the train, I was bracing myself for the worst of South Indian summer. But I was also happy that I would at least see life, because that is what is missing in the AC compartment – the usual assembly place for all the selfish and rude people in this world, the professionals and rich wives and daughters, sons too, so that I don't sound sexist.

Coimbatore Junction Railway station

I may have to endure the heat at the second class chair-car, but I will also feel the warmth from the folks around, my fellow travel mates, I was sure, at least that was my experience on my travels across the country during my student days.

Sharp at 6.15 am the train chugged out of Coimbatore Junction, sun already shining bright as usual during any warm summer day. I looked around. It seems my section of the compartment, which had nine seats, had a family of eight, but two of their seats were in another compartment.

The family had an infant, infant's mother, grandparents, an older girl, who I figured is the infant's sister, infant's aunt, two elderly couple... All these were speculations as Tamil language and breaking ice to strike a conversation are not my forte. Besides I had more selfish reasons to stay mum.

Bad of me, I know, but I didn't want to relinquish my seat and go to another compartment so that the family can stay together.

"Selfish bastard," I cursed myself, as I saw the grandfather ask another guy to swap seats and shift to the next compartment. The guy, a gentleman, agreed, while I was left wondering as to where I really belong. It seems I have been corrupted by the comforts of life and now I only belong to the cold, heartless AC compartment and not among warmth and love.

Anyway, I had my chance to make amends as the grandfather began tying a knot on the luggage rack right above me to form a makeshift cradle with a cotton sheet so that the infant can travel in comfort. And then he requested me whether I could move to the seat on the other side so that the baby's mother can sit under the cradle.

"Cool," I said, smiling at this second opportunity to be nice. And so my journey gathered speed.

In my new seat I was bang opposite the other old couple I was mentioning. I figured out later, again my observation and not conversation, that they didn't belong to the family. But they could possibly be neighbours because they were sharing breakfast and soft drinks along with the pleasantries that only people who know each other would share.

Breakfast time!

"Idlis and vadas," I told the vendor, while the rest of my neighbours ordered stuff ranging from pongal-vada to dosa to bread omelette.

Clearly the folks around me were not that used to eating from the aluminium boxes in trains. They were talking a helluva lot of time, while I threw my packet out in five minutes flat and drank water to wash the remaining bits of vada down my esophagus.


I badly wanted to catch up on sleep. For a guy who sleeps around 3 in the morning every day and wakes up around 10, enjoying scenery in a train at 7 am could be quite a pain. I tried my best, leaning left and right, but my sleep was interrupted every other minute by a vendor or a shudder from the Iron carriage. I realised I won't be able to sleep. No issues. I can read.

But I can't read also because of a slight technicality. I am not carrying a book. My friend in Coimbatore had suggested I should carry a paperback for the journey. I said "nay, I would rather prefer watching people". Interesting people I may add.

And the interesting character did enter into my domain in an hour or so when the train reached Erode. A girl, probably in her early 20s, entered the train. Time for assessment!

Brown complexioned, petite girl, probably from a middle-class Tamilian family, I was trying a-la Sherlock Holmes. “Elementary my dear Watson, I deduced it from the way she was dressed” - a Conservative churidhar and medium heels. She was also carrying a backpack, suggesting that she could be a college student.

She came and sat across me as I stretched myself out of my half-sleep, ready to give a smile in case she looks up. She was least interested in me and I realised the reason five minutes after the train left Erode.

A guy, again a college-going type, with an enhanced moustache, which looked a little too artificial for his age and maturity, appeared suddenly from another compartment. And what do you know; he just can't stop talking to this dame.

He was leaning over the elderly couple, happily chatting and I became mad. Apparently I was not the only person who was upset with this exercise. The elderly couple were in some discomfort with the romantic rendezvous happening above their heads and so the husband suggested to the lover-boy to move to the side to talk.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw him walk towards the door, opening an avenue for me to make my journey more colourful with the fairer side of things. But the girl got up and went behind "her guy" and again the conversation continued, this time near the compartment door, how Romantic!

Not for long though. The guy left and the girl returned to her seat but it was obvious she was lost in some thought as she was looking out of the window, half smiling, half dreaming. I wonder what. The answer I got soon enough.

The guy came back. This time with another fellow and, after a knowing nod, good old seat swapping happened with the girl walking away with her "boyfriend" to the next compartment. So much for female company!

But I suddenly felt happy for the young lovers. Let them enjoy, it's their world, the train as well was the expanse beyond.

The section next to mine had a bigger family - kids, wives, husband; the whole roll to be exact and like all families in trains, they were loud. Singing and when they were tired of their humming capabilities, they would open one packet of snacks from their seemingly unending bank, a brown shopping bag.

Crunching, munching, they were matching the train's frequency, I felt, as I raced back to the time I took a train ride with my family from Kochi to Kanyakumari during one summer holiday. We also had packed sandwiches and other eatables for our journey and I was just eight years old then. My mom had big trouble making me keep my hands inside the window. I was excited at the vista outside, a novel experience for me, and like any red-blooded kid, I was jumping up and down, "like a terrier", according to my dad. Probably I was wagging my tongue out like one too.

That was then, an eternity or so back. Now I miss my family. Wish they were with me to sing, if not to eat. Wish they were with me...

... I dozed off for a while and when I woke up the train was reaching Katpadi (Vellore) and the family in my section were getting ready to get down. The grandfather looked at me again and spoke to me a second time.

"Thank you," he said. I smiled.

It was around 11 in the morning and the heat was nearing the unbearable bit. I had brought my third bottle of water along with a soft drink and was taking in fluids left and right, just to keep my cool.

Oops! My "what the hell" was greeted by a high-pitched "sorry" by a ten-year-old boy. I couldn't be mad at the kid for falling onto me after the train jerked, can I? So I began wiping the mess. The mango juice I had brought had left its mark though - a stain on my cargoes.

"It would be child's play for my maid," I told myself. Well now I know I was wrong. It was rather, an hour's work for a heavyweight adult.

Back to the last part of my train journey. My fellow travellers had changed by then.

A Muslim gentleman, in all white, was sitting across me, a no-nonsense married lady (prominent red line on forehead, vermilion, telling me so) was sitting on my right and each time I looked at her, I felt that she had anger boiling within her. Maybe she is visiting her husband to blast him for not returning her SMS yesterday or maybe it is a missed grocery list. Women! God knows.

There were a couple of office goers too. From their bags I figured they could be marketing executives. In fact, one of them had a similar bag to which I used to carry during my days as an insurance consultant.

Selling was never my forte though and I had given up that job for writing and journalism. And the lack of selling ability still haunts me. I am enduring a bad pay-package from my current employer now just because I couldn't sell myself proper during the interview. Anyway, I will get my due, hopefully sooner than later.

And to stake claim to that better pay-package, I need to prove myself again and again starting from today, when I join office later in the afternoon to officially put an end to my three-day break in Coimbatore.

With this thought I got down at Chennai Central, greeted by the overhead Railways PA system’s squeaks and static, the roar of humanity - some going home, some staying put - while some, like me, walking towards the taxi bay outside, with no time even to look back at the Iron carriage or the vendors and workers inside it who ensured we weren't that tired after the eight-hour journey.

But then, neither looking back nor thanking come natural to us humans. We are a progressive race and like one elderly gent once told me - since we have two forward looking eyes, we will always move forward, no matter what.

And move forward I did, out of the station, to the humid world I call home these days - Chennai.

Chennai Central