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

CITI-ZEN RAIN!

Musings during a 200km journey in torrential monsoon rain in Kerala, my home state

Prologue

Some may call me irrational for riding in the rain without any form of wet-weather gear. But the ride, though fun, was not planned and when it happened, I just enjoyed the drift in all its glory. I dedicate this piece to the stern critics of my exercise, most of whom are my dear family. So here goes my attempt at figuring out the Zen of riding in the rain!

Present Zense!

It was a sight to behold from the foothills of the Western Ghats, right beside a road sign which read ‘215km to Kochi’ and my home. And then I focused my eyes, nay, focused my heart rather, to the beauty which lay ahead of me, up the winding NH47, the road which will take me through Palakkad Pass, Walayar check-post, and to Kerala.


Ahead, on the horizon, I could see the clouds getting squeezed and crumpled at the peaks, forming funny faces and forms, as though trying to make me laugh. And laugh I did, not at the clouds, but at myself, for drinking too much water during breakfast an hour back!


Drinking fluids and that too loads of it is more-or-less a second nature for me now as, these days, most of the road trips I make is through Tamil Nadu, known for its energy-sapping Sun.


But now I was entering Kerala, God’s own country a.k.a monsoon’s own country and with the cold breeze filtering through the pass and the imposing dark clouds over the mounts, I realised I had made a mistake by taking in more fluids than my body needs. I stopped at the sign-post for nothing else but to take a leak you see!


Pit-stops for answering the nature’s call - that too as frequent as every 15 minutes at times - was the order of the day till I parked my bike on the drive-way of my house in Kochi some six hours or so later.


Yeah, six hours it took for me to travel the last 201km of my journey from Chennai to Kochi, which had a small detour to be among friends in Namakkal and a two-day stopover in Coimbatore to fulfill my professional obligations – writing on a national racing event.


Now it was time for a break and I wanted to get home as soon as possible so that I can get into holiday mode the very day I arrive, the first in the list being love, from amma, and more...


I revved up my engine soon after I snapped out of the cloud-gazing voyage and slowly started pushing her, my 350cc single cylinder Enfield. I warmed her up gently, doing 60 or so, before opening up the throttle. The light drizzle was making it all the more fun to push her down the pass till I got a reality check. But, lucky for me, it was like a light pinch, rather than a punch, to tell me: “Boy, caution, wet roads ahead.”


No signs warned me of the couple of speed-breakers a few miles before the Pass and when I reached the spot I had no choice but to brake hard and the bike skid as the tyres locked. I released and eased the brake and countered the bike’s free drift towards the right with my body, before applying it gently again to slow her further. Another skid, this time to the left side and I followed the same tried-and-tested easing routine which I had picked up during my days of riding in the rain with Uncle Roney guiding me from the pillion seat.


That was during high school and riding bikes were exhilarating then though it involved stiff hands and loads of concentration. Started off with a Yamaha RX100, steadied myself on a Vespa on the city roads, then a taste of RD 350, before settling down for a Bullet Machismo during college.


Now, riding bikes are still exhilarating, but it involves more relaxed shoulders and though learning is still there, the machine between my legs is more known now, its every beat telling a story.


I still remember clearly how my uncle and on occasions my dad used to tell me what to do and what not to do while riding, especially in the rain - a necessary skill if you are biking on the badly-maintained slippery roads of Kerala during monsoon.


Lesson No. 1 was, of course, not to brake hard. “Remember to ease into a stop,” they used to say. “Ride in sensible speeds and use your gears to slow down and then gently compliment it with the brakes, both front and back together.”


But near the Pass, I just used the rear drums and I sure had a little bit of a scare as a fall is not what I wanted. Not at this point, not at the start of my vacation. But I was excited the same time for some other reason.


Though rain is not ideal for my bike ride, the fact that a drizzle itself refreshed my memory and triggered a chain of thoughts, basically introspection, made me look forward to the downpour across the State border. And I was damn sure images from my school days up to the present day journalistic excesses will flash across during the ride.


School! Talking about school, the moment I skid, a couple of school kids who were standing next to the speed breakers with their thumbs extended out in the universal hitch-hikers signal, were surprised at the sudden burst of activity from this lone rider. A couple of “woahs” and “heys” I did hear from the younglings and I also saw them smile as I waved at them after steadying my wheels, telling myself – “Leslie, now that’s a sign. You just can’t afford to do the speeds that you were hitting on the good, dry Tamil Nadu highways.”


You will know the exact time you reach Kerala; cross the border and it suddenly becomes dense, both the trees on both sides of the road and the small houses, showing that it is Kerala, one of the most densely populated state in the country, and a place which has all the blessings of mother nature. Of course the other sure sign that you have reached my home state is the sad state of the roads.


Drops started appearing on my visor soon after, first as single dots and then as small lines as though my helmet was crying... But I didn’t have time to listen to the wails of my head-gear as I was already drowned in the thump of my engine and the invite from the lightning flashes yonder.


I did stop though, to tank up, and at the petrol bunk I asked the service personnel about the rains at that part of Kerala - Palakkad district to be exact. My question was to make sure it will rain throughout my journey and was not an attempt to find out whether there will be a let-off in the showers, a window during which I can bolt home.


The guy thought I was more concerned about being dry and so his answer had a tone of hopelessness. “It has been raining heavily in the night sir,” he said in his hilly Malayalam accent. “I don’t think you will relish the prospect of riding down to Kochi now, especially without any rain coat.”


I smiled, more to myself than to fuel station personnel. I was congratulating myself for making it to Kerala on the right day, a rainy day.


And so I began and as I headed deeper into God’s own territory, the downpour became heavier and I, unlike some time before in Coimbatore, made sure I would stay within the sensible rain-riding speeds.


The roads were bad – potholes, deep enough to break one’s back, were strategically placed it seemed - forcing a biker to go on a perpetual slalom ride, zig-zagging to avoid the bumps and the oncoming traffic, led by monster trucks and killer private buses which ply the route.


And as I negotiated a tricky chicane formed by two huge puddles of water, I heard a small rickety noise and it was not from my well-maintained baby. It was my teeth. Oh Boy I was cold and I touched my thick T-shirt and jeans and realised that it has more water molecules than cloth fibres and my shoes felt as though it was made of lead.


Time to save my electronics from further damage!


So, during one of my pit-stops, rather visits to a road-side tree to relieve myself, I put my mobile and all the other perishables into a plastic bag and kept it with my laptop. Replaced my shoes with slippers, folded up my jeans and I was ready, for more chill.


But as soon as I started, I decided to stop again, the reason being white steam coming out from a small wooden shack perched precariously on the edge of the highway adjacent to a paddy field. A Local tea shop, what else!


The shop owner was amused by my looks, all wet, and shivering, but he knew and I knew too that I was not going to stop there for long and so he was amused at my madness, while I was amused at the five ladies, fully covered in plastic sheets, working in the paddy fields.


The sheets were all of different colours and were custom made for the occasion. Naturally, they can’t afford rain coats and they can’t afford not to work too. So there they were, backs bent, gently pulling out the paddy shoots.


“So, where are you heading to sir?” The shopkeeper succumbed to his curiosity finally. “Kochi,” I answered, my pre-occupied mind keeping the answers in single syllables. “You would have been better off with a rain coat at least,” added the gentleman, who must be in his early fifties. “I am sure it must be urgent business you have to attend to in Kochi. Do drive safely.”


I smiled at the well-wisher, answering him by paying for his hospitality, garnished by a “thank you”. But I was talking to myself too as I stepped into the rain again.


“Leslie, look at those ladies. The tea vendor won’t ever think those workers are crazy. But he finds my small exercise of riding in the rain amusing. Now, they are working to feed themselves at the end of the day while my exercise has already started feeding my thoughts. A good bargain for them, a better bargain for me, any day! You’re a winner Leslie. Go on but ‘Caution! Wet roads ahead’,” my mind wandered; and it was not some rain-induced gibberish. It was an attempt at justifying my motives, not to the tea-shop owner, but to the non-believer in me.

Some eighty-odd kilometres in the rain, nearly two hours, and finally mother nature was touching my soul and though it was a rather cold touch, it sure was filled with love, full to the brim just like those clouds.


Rains have always touched me, but not in the same way as it is doing now. From the caress on the skin, it is now tickling my very soul as the chill reached the bones. I removed my leather gloves and my palms were white, lifeless and scary. But I pinched and there it was - the unmistakable red sign of life.


I was very much alive, of course I will be. For rain is all about life. Be it for the developed, climate-controlled North Americans, or the Indians from the Amazon, rain provides joy and life for everyone, everywhere.


But this day, as I exposed myself to the rain, laced with the cold mountain wind, it was kind of a baring experience for me. I would like to compare it to shedding of skins by a snake. However, snakes get older after each layer is shed while in my case, I was getting younger and my thoughts simpler after each layer was removed.


First I shed the sophisticated outer skin of a journalist, used to the air-conditioning in the office cubicle. In fact, I’m used to climate control so much that I ring up the electrical department each time the AC gets switched off; even if it is for a minute.


And here I was, exposing myself to the elements, first in the form of sun and dust in the well-maintained roads of Tamil Nadu and now to water and nature's fury in the wet-lands of monsoon Kerala.


Then it was time to shed the ego layer of my self. A few splashes which almost took me off the road and the controlled ‘out-of-control’ nature of my ride and the inability of my so-called writing skills to express my experience in the rain is more than enough to show how insignificant I am in the bigger scheme of life.


Rain can do that to you, it can show that you literally have miles to go just to stand up face to face with this form of expression of mother nature. And when you finally stand face to face with rain, when you finally become strong enough to attain that status, you suddenly realise that you are just facing the first persona and many deeper forms are left and you just continue your journey.


Continue I did, further down the highway and further inward till I decided to slip-stream behind a bus as I felt the bigger vehicle might provide protection from the other monsters on the road. It was time for a hill-climb too, the final climb and descent which would lead me to the flat lands of Trichur and Ernakulam and then Kochi.


Bad Idea it was! The bus obviously splashed mud on me every now and then. But that was the least of it. While riding close, I just couldn’t see the road properly and the obstacles it was throwing at me. A gutter would suddenly appear in front of me from under the bus and there you go, my 30-year-old back could take a bit of tossing around but this was too much.


A lesson for life too perhaps! Never follow a big fish. You may never be able to handle the fringe benefits as well as the fine prints, the so called under-currents; be it in office, be it in life.


Down hill was fun even with a cautious pace and now it was time to go flat out, literally. And my crazy mind found something to occupy itself. As cars and buses zoomed past me I could notice the temporary ruts they make on the wet road. It was like a vapour trail from a jet. And it was time to shed one more skin, that of age and of maturity.


The kid in me woke up and he desperately wanted to make vapour trails and that too, not in straight lines but in circles.


I cut the lane and swerved to the right and looked in my mirror before smiling at the work of art, a perfect semicircular trail on the road behind me. And as the line slowly disappeared, I made a sharp turn to the left. Fun, fun..."You're one hell-of-a trailblazer," I was talking to myself again!


Paaannnnnnnngggggggggg!


The powerful air horn of a national permit truck followed by an uncensored greeting snapped me out of my activity. It was time for the home stretch and the skies were getting brighter, though still overcast.


About twenty-odd kilometres out of Kochi, the drizzles frizzled out and I stopped; no, not for a loo break. This time it was to take out my mobile from its cocoon inside my bag and make a few phone calls.


First, to confirm a scheduled stop for some warmth on a road which used to be the bypass for Kochi, but not happens to be its heart. Oh, how this city has grown, to ugly proportions I would add. 


More warm hugs followed at my driveway in Fort Kochi, this time it was amma and appa... And then the inevitable question from my dad.

“Bike sounds OK. How was the ride?”


I can’t sum up the answer in a word. Or can I?


It was fun, I dare say, literally, figuratively and philosophically... 

hmm...MJ!

Finally the man gets some peace!

The paparazzi aren't hounding him, or rather his soul. The "writers" of the world, who fill up the sold and unsold edit spaces, have forgotten him. Finally, Michael Jackson rests, without any managers, "friends" or "fiends" around him to remind him of commitments, big shows and record deals; remind him about rehearsals or stage trials and about taking his daily doze of painkillers to go through the ordeal of wearing the mask of the King, the King of Pop.

It's been an year since the death of Jackson. June 25 last year, the world woke up to the shock news of MJ's death under "suspicious circumstances" and the circus began in earnest. With follow- ups after news-breaks about developments in the investigation of his death or murder.

If the circumstances to his death were suspicious, the subsequent investigations were equally shady, with every other Tom, Dick and Harry - and a couple of Jacksons too - coming out with "revelations" almost all of them controversial. All just for their few seconds of fame and pieces of silver!

And with time, as it is the usual custom in modern-day journalism, Jackson slowly made his way to the inside pages and news-briefs till, finally, on his death anniversary, he is not remembered at all, at least not in the broadsheets of Chennai.

"Wait a minute, there was something in the paper you work for. Don't you read your paper boy?" The question was from the big man at office.

Yes editor sir, I saw that. A sentence on top of the world page of the second most-read English paper in this city about how the spiritual guru of MJ reveals to the world that the "Bad" boy used to mimic the high-pitched voice during conversations to give out a feeling that he is still a young boy.

Another publicity seeker, searching a new avenue for making money. But a mimicry artist or a singer, MJ sure had the world dancing to his voice for four decades and counting... But the jug-heads of that section of my paper did well to mention Jackson on his death anniversary, though through a shit of a story. Justice indeed, I would say. You can't expect more from the pseudo music connoisseurs.

"Well you are biased," frowns the editor from the third most circulated paper in the city. "You think journalism begins and ends with your brand, the big shark. We maybe small, we may have bad layouts and ugly fonts, but we carried MJ as lead in our city tabloid, didn't you see?"

Yes sir, I did. I do agree you did better than the rest. But I didn't even bother to read the "takes" of the MJ lovers of the city talking and debating on someone they never ever truly appreciated.

Jackson shouldn't be a debate topic. Jackson was, is and always will be a conversation stopper.

So instead of straining my sleepy eyes on the fine newsprint font, I upgraded the Winamp in my computer this morning to pay tribute to MJ in my own way, the way he would approve, by doing a couple of my trade-mark disco moves! "Beat it, editor sir"!

At least we did something, the editor hits back: "What about the paper you work for, the biggest, they say."

Well let's not take the conversation towards those dick-heads please sir, thank you. But it was so different twelve months back.

There are four English language dailies in this city, including the paper I work for. And all four were in the race an year back bringing out the day-to-day progress of the Jackson saga. Yeah, it was a saga for them, serialized, sensationalized... Till the news value died down or rather was "shoulder-charged" out by the Obamas of the world.

And what about the tributes and the nostalgic pieces and bits by celebrated writers in their columns and blogs? They did their rounds last year and died down: how little they really cared about this man - the greatest musician of the post-gramophone era.

But I am very happy he is forgotten by the sensation-hungry, ad-hungry media. At least he is getting some peace of mind now, a luxury he never had; not even in Neverland. And the people who really loved him, still cherish him; I know I do.

But, what remains of Jackson?

This day I woke up to "...mama always told me, don't go around breaking young girls' hearts..." - Billie Jean, of course.

What remains is his legacy, the man who made MTV groovy, with fans switching on the idiot box to have a glimpse of the moon-walking Jackson in one of his out-of-the-world videos. Yeah, Jackson revolutionised the music industry, which was struggling to catch up with the changing times, brought forth by the satellite dishes and then the Internet.

MTV and the rest of the bunch cashed in.

But, what remains of Jackson?

Why should I waste time on that question when I can hear a glass window break. JAM! He lives on, his music is endearing, and he still calls the shots. Who can't be without loosening those calves, quads and hips when he comes on air.

He lives on and in a new-found peace... Indeed, a welcome twist of circumstances...

U2 Brutus vs U2 Bono!

I knelt down to get a closer feel of the fresh radiance from the rain-drenched creepers outside my home here in Chennai. It was an attempt to revive my numb senses in the only way I know, through memories.

Rain brings back those images for me, the ones covered in dust deep within the dark cellars of my subconscious. It is the same for everyone, I’m sure. Because rain is special, it is life for all being on this planet!

And the memories!

Be it the first skid fall from you bike as a kid while splashing through the flooded lanes in Kochi or the romantic rendezvous with the special person in your life just outside her college, followed by a walk under her umbrella, craving for each others’ warmth but abstaining from indulging in any form of PDA, respecting the sensibilities of the Malayalam-speaking, love-hating, well-educated average citizens of the biggest metro in my home state - Kerala.

“You too, Leslie”, would have been the snide remark from that elderly gentleman who was staring at us from the opposite side of the road that monsoon day when I held the girl in my life close and walked, getting wet all over.

Hey... Wasn’t that line reserved for Brutus for the most famous betrayal in history. “I don’t deserve that remark, dear sir,” I should have replied, holding my girl even tighter to convey the truth and the bare truth that I would never betray her.

But did Julius Caesar really had enough time to turn and see Brutus’ power-hungry eyes and then raise his hypnotic voice above all the commotion on the Ides of March to express his pain in three simple syllables. “Et tu, Brute,” they say was the great Monarch’s last words before resigning to his fate; though even now history freaks have a field day arguing that the phrase was first used across the channel in England and not in Rome or thereabout.

Whatever it is, since the English happen to be the keepers of history till the Yankee resurgence in the twentieth century, the version best known in the new world is the Latin phrase Et tu, Brute?, which is derived from William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, where it actually forms the first half of a macaronic line: "Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!"

Shakespeare in turn was making use of a phrase already in common use in his time: It appears, for instance, in Richard Eedes's Latin play Caesar Interfectus of 1582 and The True Tragedie of Richarde Duke of Yorke of 1595, a source work for Henry VI, Part Three.

Shakespeare's version follows the Roman historian Suetonius, who reported that others have claimed Caesar's last words were the Greek phrase "καὶ σὺ τέκνον;" (transliterated as "Kai su, teknon?": "You too, my child?" in English or "Tu quoque, Brute, fili mi" in Latin). But Suetonius himself claims Caesar said nothing as he died. Plutarch too was sure Caesar was silent and merely pulled his toga over his head when he saw Brutus among the conspirators. While some others believe the phrase was meant to be a curse on Brutus which ultimately brought forth the violent death of the statesman.

‘You too’ remained though, even now, and in highly abbreviated forms in modern-day text messages. “U2, u fucking asshole,” says the evolved man through his IPhone 3G, the adjectives taking on more biological implications which one can attribute towards the rather high awareness our generation has towards sciences, especially biology.

U2!

“U2, so what is U2 sir?” A friend of mine was asked this question by an eight-year-old kid at an obscure village in Bengal not so long back.

Why would a primary school kid in a laid back Bengal village want to know about Caesar and his supposedly last words – U2? And what prompted him to ask this question to my friend who is hardly Plutarch.

My friend, who was standing next to me during my sense-stimulating exercise mentioned at the start, explained, after snapping my attention from the trip down memory lane to the music at the background. He was playing Bono and the gang you see; wait a minute, The U2! Now I get the connection.

The music he was listening to, apparently took him a few years back to his university days in Kolkata. Music took him for a ride just like I was taken to where I belong by the rain.

“Back those days I had this habit of taking train rides and getting down at a random station and just walk around for a while and get lost. Of course getting lost was literal as I didn’t have a mobile phone then,” my friend said unassumingly.

I wanted to interrupt saying, “dude, these are the same things that the modern day spiritual types do and then glorify it as trips to the depths of nirvana”. Am sure Buddha turns in his grave each time he hears that. But that’s the way the world is now.

My friend continued: “I got down and some station and was walking. I was wearing a red U2 T-shirt and then this kid comes up and asks me ‘what is U2, sir?’ I still remember his face. He must have just started learning the English alphabets or something and he asked me this. And when I listen to U2 these days, the first picture that comes to my mind is the boy’s face.”

But sadly the boy’s question as never answered, my friend’s justification was that “he would never understand”.

How could he be so sure, I felt. It’s the age when we are all so well informed and misinformed too by the G-Thing, Google, I mean. So you can never fathom what people around you know or don’t know.

Anyway, back to the all important question that has come out from all these random memory trips. What is U2?

I, being inclined towards pessimism these days would say that it points only and only to BETRAYAL of the highest order. While my friend here would say, shut the hell up and listen man.

I am listening and he has a point, you see. The guys from Dublin (read: U2, the band) are not betrayers at all. They are very honest in their music.

So is the definition of 'U2' evolving? Are the history books being re-written by a bunch of musicians? I would be very happy if that is the case because, for a pleasant change, history books would not be written by war-thirsty generals and oil-thirsty presidents; but by musicians.

But my friend didn’t help the peace cause one bit by not explaining to the kid, who is the next generation, that U2 is not a word of betrayal, but U2 is music and love and all things that love stands for.

I guess “you too, Brutus” will stay for some more time. So will U2 and their Joshua Tree and history will take its own route.

Aha! It is raining again. Time for another trip, another route!

Vain Reaction

It was a few minutes past midnight. The splashing rain drops in front of me got illuminated suddenly by the head-lamp of a car fast approaching from behind. It was probably a metre or so away from my cycle when I cut to the right to negotiate a puddle. But the driver slowed down to give me space; a courtesy you don’t often get from megalomaniacs – the average Chennai driver.

This car had slowed, then it overtook me and the driver looked at me: Can’t blame him for that, can I? I was a sight!

Wearing a three-fourth pants and my rain coat over my t-shirt, I was half drenched, pedalling in the steady cadence I have attained after a year of the ‘cycling to office’ routine.

Besides, seeing someone cycle at midnight in heavy rain is something people are not used to either. So I decided to forgive this driver, who happened to be the big-boss at office, my Resident Editor.

He looked and then zoomed past me, perhaps trying to figure out what I was trying to prove or gain by braving the elements, when I could take the office car and reach home safe and dry.

Same question was asked by a senior colleague of mine. “Are you crazy? The entire city is flooded and you just take your cycle and come to office. What if you fall or something?” he had quipped, in a scolding tone.

I just smiled and blabbered something about the fun of riding in the rain. In the last one year I have answered a lot of questions like these, but more importantly, I could find answers to a lot of questions from within me during my long solitary rides. I dream while I ride you see and only cycling can provide you with that opportunity.

And I have seen my share of adrenalin rushes too – all with my soul-mate here in this city, the lady in red, my cycle.

And the city is fast catching up with the idea of going green and healthy on two wheels, I was told by a friend of mine through her article in the newspaper she works.

She was featuring ‘Chain Reaxion’, the group which organises a 40-km monthly ride to Mahabalipuram, an effort to popularise cycling among the city’s young as well as the old elite. My writer friend went on to add, quoting one of the celebrity members of the group, about the impact cycling is making in their lives and the environment.

Good for them, but I just can’t digest the “good for the environment” bit!

I bet my saddle-hardened rear side that it ain’t making any difference to the toxin-infested Chennai air. Is the city getting green because a bunch of wine-sippers and arm-chair warriors pedal down East Coast Road once in a month? I beg to differ maam!

“Chain Reaxion, a great idea isn’t it,” I was talking to a cycling enthusiast, who was hunched over his expensive imported bike at the cycle shop I frequent. Actually we both were, rather childishly, hunched over our bikes, mine looking all dressed up after a service, while his was getting greased up after a wash.

We looked like a couple of kids but grown up kids I would say because, like any adult males homosapiens these days, we had exchanged our visiting cards.

“Chain Reaxion is very good but it is something for beginners. I am glad cycling is catching up in the city and events like these may help popularize it. But I am not sure how many will take up serious cycling after one 40-km ride. Cycling is not a monthly affair pal. I cycle daily and it’s a passion for me, and it keeps me fit without the rut of hitting a gym,” added the senior executive of Royal Enfield Motors, who hits the East Coast Road (ECR) every morning for an hour of pedalling.

“Sadly, my office is far off so I can’t pedal to work,” he added.

Well this guy sure seems genuine; one could fathom the passion in his eyes when he was holding the wheel of his bike, examining the spokes for signs of metal fatigue. Now, here is a guy smitten, just like me, I had told myself then.

Back to Chain Reaxion, the city’s answer to the problem posed by the thousands of smoking guns – the cars and buses and trucks!

The event, which charges 600 bucks per participant, is maybe aimed at promoting cycling but it is hardly hitting the mark when it comes to making the participants give up their motorized modes of daily transport to pedal power.

A classic example is a colleague of mine who had messaged me one Sunday evening last month saying she can’t walk properly because her legs are buckling after 30-odd kilometres of Chain Reaxion.

“My legs are buckling but it was fun cycling down ECR with friends. Only thing is that I had a fall and couldn’t complete it,” madam said before adding: “I shall do it again next time and complete it.”

“Good,” I had said at the same time criticising her for jumping onto a saddle for such a distance without any preparations. Of course her legs were sore for the next couple of days and as far as continuing cycling: Well, she has not gotten on a cycle after that. Maybe she is waiting for the next event.

So much for inspiring people to take up cycling! The organisers here are just promoting the event, the higher ideals probably getting lost in the mad chase for sponsors, publicity and of course the entry fee.

Cycling, for me, has been a liberating experience. It has brought out the kid in me, the kid I identify each time I get involved in a down-the street drag race with school boys.

The kids want to take on “the geared cycle” I’m riding while this grown-up is trying to relive those lost days.

So, will I ever need a bunch of marketing honchos to tell me when and where to pursue my passion or, pedal in this case. No!

Now, what about the environmentalists in Chain Reaxion?

A hundred cyclists embarking on a monthly odyssey which takes them down the ECR is hardly a means to make an impact on the Carbon Signature of the city. If the participants really want to make a difference then they should give up their gas guzzlers and start pedalling, be it going to office or to the movies.

Of course, it will mean no high-heels or tuxedo and probably getting no parking space at the socialite watering holes in the city. It also means walking in sweaty, and at times, with greasy hands to your office cabin. Well, it is a small sacrifice you can make for your Mother Earth, right?

It is funny though that suddenly the city is going ‘ga-ga’ over cycling. The change began a few months back and it coincided with the launch of high-end imported bikes in a city shop. It shows how glitterati obsessed Chennai is.

I remember a salesman telling me which model of bike to buy when I was window-shopping a few months back in one US-import bike showroom in the city.

“Get this one; it was brought by Kamal Hassan and Gowthami last month,” he said. A sales trick but one which will work, especially here.

“My bike cost one lakh you see and I’m riding it because I am so conscious about the environment,” I can imagine a technocrat boasting to his pals.

The same technocrat, who drives the most fuel-inefficient of cars to office six days a week and is obsessed about leaving the AC running while his wheels are parked in the sun so that he needn’t sweat when he gets back in after a ‘power-lunch’.

I see many cyclists on road everyday, riding to work – some doing it because they don’t have a choice while others opting for pedal-power. They could easily take the bus or the train, all efficient means of travel. But they choose to cycle and I would say they are the heroes making the difference to the environment, not the weekend activists.

Now, where do I stand in this dilemma of higher causes?

I cycle because I love the physical exertion, I love the freedom it provides, and above all it gives me an avenue to release the accumulated negative energy due by my sedentary lifestyle and of course the unavoidable career complications in a post-recession world. My contribution to the environment is just a happy by-product.

Damn right I am selfish here. I cycle for myself, for the kicks, not for anything else and I don’t glorify my hobby or passion.

From, out-running angry dogs, to falling head first on a road covered in knee-deep rain water from the city’s share of north eastern monsoon. From, being not allowed entry at the city’s big shopping malls to asked whether my company doesn’t pay me well; this journey-man has seen and felt it all; including saddle sores and achy joints, after that bad skid while racing down St Thomas Mount.

Yesterday, around two in the morning, I got lost inside T Nagar while purposely taking a long detour coming back home from work. Now, getting lost in a city late in the night is no fun, but I don’t mind as long as I have my partner with me, my two wheels.

Kind of make me remember the lines from an old song – ‘Stand by me’ – by Ben E King. I am sure King won’t mind me rewriting his lyrics to suit the situation here.

‘... I won’t flee, I won’t flinch,
and I won’t stop pedalling,
just as long, as you stand,
stand by me... Oh darling, darling,
stand by me, stand by me...’

Finally...

After almost four months of contemplation, research, plain old search, and a small bout with Malaria, I, on the ninth day of October 2008, brought my first wheels ever.
Now let me get it straight, I have had wheels, my three-wheeler as a kid, my BSA champ, which took me places during the years of uncertainty between being a baby and a teen and of course my BSA mach and Hercules MTB which saw me through my crazy high-school days, before I switched to the less physically demanding motorised version of two-wheelers.
My scooter - LML Vespa, and then my Bullet Machismo. But all of em, brought by my dad's money. That makes this one special. My first wheels. I brought it, big deal right.
Change of plans though...
I didn't buy a Firefox as planned. I went for an LA-Sovereign (Wave) and by God she is sexy. My first trip was memorable too. From Saidapet to my office at Nandanam. A short trip, but I decided to get myself lost in the lanes near Saidapet, simply exploring. Did that for an hour till it was time to get to my office.
Finally I felt freedom for the first time in Chennai. The freedom to move, to explore, to see what this city is all about, a city struggling between different identities, or is it just a myth.
I plan to get lost here.... Let's see what comes out of it...