Mobile blogging: a first attempt

It seems funny that an auto meter made in pune, in an auto body whose design is stolen from some Italians, and whose driver is on some mad cocktail of tobacco, speed, and crack cocaine can combine to form the deadly rickshaw.
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Male pattern hostility.

Go ahead, I dare you. Try it. Lets get it on. Make my day. And the list goes on. Angry, defensive and neurotic they may be, but these words are heard often enough during the course of any day. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but my bones will heal, and get stronger as a result of the break. Not so with words. Once out, there's nothing you can do to get them back. No amount of regret, however sincere can erase the effect of that pointed jibe, that uncalled for slur and most certainly, there is no known retraction for the verbal attack. That, as they say, is definitely that. It stands to reason that if chap A passes verbal diarrhoea on chap B, upon which chap B takes offence and challenges chap A to back up his talk with something more, both chaps A and B have reached the point of no return. Chap A can't back down from chap B's challenge, he risks ridicule and humiliation. Chap B too, now must realise that he has forced chap A's hand, and the resulting reaction will surely be anything but conciliatory. Enough about those chaps, you may say, they're both testosterone spewing neanderthals who need therapy, and some tranquilizers, you say, and you're probably right. After all, you've been hearing Dr. Phil, Deepak Chopra, and every other new age "expert", as well as reading the latest issue of the Readers Digest and Health magazine, where anger management articles, the evils of losing your temper, the hidden killer that is rage and a bounty of similar drivel points you to your assessment of the situation chaps A & B find themselves in. I think its about time I rain on your parade. You're oh! so wrong. You have no clue how destressing it can be to walk up to your favourite punching bag(not literal, henceforth called YFPB, for short), unleash the mother of all rages on him, all the while allowing him to counter your every punch(again, not literal), spot the chink in his defense, allow the adrenaline to fuel your cruel barb and thrust deep into the inky poison that is his ego. Definitely more interesting than a tennis match, and less dangerous than say, the Moto GP. There can be one of two results to such an encounter, result A and result B(I know, whats with the A's and B's, but bear with me). Result A is when you get your rage on and manage to demolish YFPB, reducing his self esteem to lows never measured before, all the while racking up points on your own rage meter, sometimes making a high score that surprises even yourself. This is particularly useful in future encounters of the same kind, where you can boost your performance by recollecting a particularly offensive slur, or a supremely demeaning turn of phrase. Of course, result B is the less preferred of the two. So supremely positive and irreverently mocking of negativity are we(chaps A, B, and such like), that we shall not dignify result B with even a briefest of mention.

 I am very much one of the aforementioned chaps. Not A or B specifically (I'd hate to steal their thunder), but a decidedly like minded neanderthal nevertheless. I will, on occassion, gnash the teeth and roar with positive conviction. It will hurt your eardrums, and drill down to the tiniest places in your soul where you're still a little child, scared of being punished by the Headmaster for missing assembly or chewing your fingernails. I will then proceed to strip every defense that age, ego, testosterone and watching Rambo movies has afforded you, and tear you limb from limb with only the exertion of my tongue, uvula, larynx and respiratory organs. It will therefore not astound you when I reveal that my rage meter is sufficiently well endowed. And by that I obviously underplay its stupendous magnificience. All of this may seem rather self aggrandizing to you, but no doubt, you may notice the complete lack of any stress, anxiety, self-pity or similar weakness on display. Chaps A, B and the rest of us barbarians, live free of these chains that civilisation uses to enslave our meeker colleagues. We do not tolerate political correctness, and will not hesitate to go to ridiculous extremes when provoked. We are the guys you are afraid to borrow money from. The guys you won't let your daughter date. The chaps you are most reluctant to invite to your cocktail parties. We are also the guys who shall inherit the earth. That other saying was just to screw with you. Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong.  

The memory of her.

 It was 10 AM on a Saturday morning, and as his eyes opened, they instinctively scanned the bedroom doorway. Force of habit, paranoia, whatever they termed it as, he knew and trusted his instincts. It wasn't his luck that brought him this far. Every closed door had been either broken down by steel-toed boots or forced open by inevitability. He showered, dressed himself and as he walked out towards the living room, his nostrils caught the slightest wisps of a once-familiar perfume in the air. The muscles in his jaw involuntarily tightened, as if in protest against the memories the smell brought with it. Memories of a time when those same jaw muscles would smile more easily and often than frown. His body, as if pulled toward the source of the perfume glided toward the balcony, from where the scent seemed to emanate. As he moved past the furniture, his limp lifeless arms and legs clumsily bounced off them, breaking some of the items they collided with. The noise from their breaking jarred him from his reverie, and he awoke as if from a dream. The first thought in his head was unpleasant. He chided himself for day-dreaming, and reminded himself that people like him are seldom allowed the luxury of fantasy, living in a world of facts, of decisions, of pressure, a world that not only demanded performance, but the very life in his limbs. The next minute he spent in clearing the damage, and loudly berated the inherited blood in his veins that drove him to passionate action, making a mockery of the quiet, deliberate nature that he spent a lifetime cultivating. He got himself a cup of coffee, and made his way to the offending balcony, determined to train his errant emotions, a determination that he completely abandoned when the scent hit him a second time. This time, there was a face to go with it. His memories painted a young, pretty enough face, that was lit up by a cheery smile, flanked by bangs of dark hair running shoulder length. His breath left him as if he taken a punch to his stomach. He could feel the heart beat in his temples, and had to grab the rails to keep his balance. Slowly, he slid down the balcony rails, to the floor, his body had the look of a defeated man, crumpled and withered, but his eyes were still sharp, still bright. How could they not be. They were being shown a picture, that came from another lifetime, that he had hidden away in the dark recesses of his past. She was not the most beautiful woman in the world, and both of them knew it. But she was the only woman who had understood him...completely. She knew of his forced calmness, of the vivacious mind behind the slovenly exterior, of the beating heart in his chest, that demanded adrenaline as much as could be had. She loved that he would whistle the notes to her favourite songs while he showered. She loved that he would pretend to be asleep after she was awake, to jump at her and grab her as she walked by. She loved when he pretended not to be affected by that emotional moment at the movies, and she always pretended not to notice him wipe the solitary tear that he couldnt stop. She loved that he filled her life with his presence. 

 As his eyes slowly came back into focus, he could feel the heart beating steadier, his breath approaching its usual rate, and his strength flowing back into his limbs. It was as if he had been knocked out by that memory of her. He remembered exactly the moment that the memory had been from. He had been away from home for a week and a few more days, and had returned home by the last train. He remembered having to walk the 4 kilometers that separated the train station from his house, every step taking him closer to her. He remembered the moment as if it had been just yesterday. She opened the door to his knocking, wearing the smile that could thaw the coldest heart. He remembered her welcoming eyes, her wavy hair, and remembered best of all the perfume that she wore. It wasn't overbearing, but it always defined his memory of her. The years they spent together were littered with many such memories, these memories were all he had left, to remember a time of his life when his step was light, his heart danced and his very core shone with a glow that could only be attributed to contentment. He lost her to time, to the inevitabile sequence of human existence. From the very beginning of his association with her, he had debated what would become of him should he lose her. And each time he had prayed he be taken from this life before her, to escape the loneliness and devastation her loss would bring. And each time he would pray the universe ignore his last thought, for the thought of causing her sorrow by leaving her alone instantly made him regret his words. 

 

 Now, he said to himself... I am getting what I asked for. I am living with the ghosts of our past. With the vast emptiness of the current, while the memories remind me of better times. I am happy she does not have to experience this emptiness. And as he walked out into the world, his lips involuntarily whistled her favourite song.

The story so far...

Since October of last year, there have been good times, bad times and sorely testing times. I've survived the slowdown (just barely), spent time with my sister and nephew and bro-in-law. Turned into a soft toy for my nephew, followed him back to chennai, and watched the new year roll in while I waited to get back home.

 Now that I am home, its slowly dawning in that life isnt all roses and pretty gifts. There's a lot to work for, a lot to achieve, to learn, to forget, and above all...this year looks like its the year people will change. People will have to adapt to survive. Times being what they are, each of us will be walking the path with exaggerated caution, and spontaineity will be compromised for premeditation.

 That being said, you cant stop the universe from throwing you a bouncer when you werent expecting it. You may meet new people, make some friends, find your soulmate, or even better, a best friend. It may happen without your knowing it, it may happen while you were doing something else, or it may happen when you were simply living life...but this year too shall pass. Before too long we'll be into the next year, and the one after that, and another....times will change, people including you will change, not all for the better, and life will go on...you can either lament its passing, or celebrate the moments that made you feel truly alive.

The fight

Have you ever been through that phase when you feel you need something exciting to happen, some landmark event that changes the way you deal with life, that forces you out of your comfort zone, and lands you right in the middle of chaos, with only your wits and your MacGyver-ish instincts to lead you into the light. If you are as old as I am, you probably cross yourself immediately and pray the universe was too busy to process your rogue thought. You have been there and done that already, and lived through situations that demanded more than you thought you had, and you don't want to willingly put yourself through that turmoil ever again. 

 In this immediate regret, you probably realise that you are simply tuning in to the self-preservation instinct that all of us have built into our psyche. It is this very instinct that both holds you back from doing something stupid and potentially dangerous, while also forcing you to hold yourself back from taking up anything that is challenging and beyond your current capabilities. How does one decide between the former and the latter. While it sounds easy to spot an opportunity for disaster versus one that opens you doors of learning and challenge, I personally cannot distinguish these for myself, and am forced to let fate throw whatever it has at me, while I battle away, picking up more scars than platitudes. Is this the fate of everyone else? Does everyone else on this third rock from the sun allow the universe to decide what their next battle will be, whether they will gain from the fight, or simply be crushed by its random, unpredictable cruelty? 

 All we have for reference is celebrity. Records of famous persons battling with circumstances, suppression, violent retribution and sometimes plain old hatred. For instance, Muhammad Ali was stripped of his boxing title, and banned from competition for some years. Right at the peak of his physical form. What did he do? Screamed, shouted and raised hell, but bore the punishment out, came back to the ring and still wasted his opponents. His career then slowly declined, and the inevitable enemy of age caught up with him. But he fought the good fight, and survived it. Did he gain anything apart from the adulation that we shower on him? Did he personally change for the better after battling adversity? I do not know. All I know is that he lost out on some of the best boxing years of his life to live by his principles. Perhaps that seems like a huge price to pay for the rest of us, because we may not be as rigid in our own principles as him. Who knows. 

 The 'greatness' factor comes into play at this point. What qualifies someone to be termed as one of the 'Greats'. Is it simply talent and performance of his physical body, strength of mind and character, his personal triumph over his personal demons, or collective good that came from his personal struggles? Why are there just a few of such 'Great' people. Are they simply better people to begin with? Or do they adapt and change and achieve 'greatness' over a period of time. Or is it just that the opportunities that life dealt them to exhibit their strength and prowess were not available to the rest of us. In our hubris, we'd like to think this is the case. That given the same opportunities to right hook and upper cut our own demons, we'd always walk away with the Gold. But it is an open question, and will remain so always. Each small battle fought leaves its scars, and adds a little toughness. During the course of each battle, there have always been negative thoughts weighing us down, pushing us to take the easy way out, to give up. Each battle has many smaller fights with the self to defeat the defeatist mentality, and persist. There is always the hope that given enough time, even we can fight our way out of this mess. Of course, there are many battles lost for every spectacular victory won. And after all the fighting there is just the one result...survived or dead. Leaving you nothing to hold on to. Nothing of the fight that you can turn back on and scrape for some confidence. A part of you aches to fight some more, just to be in the fray, and live out the madness. Another part fights against you, hoping you will take the easy way out and continue living without the madness. That is the one true fight. The fight for control on your own self. We have not yet won this fight, it never ends... it is played out each time an opportunity presents itself. Let us begin again, and let us end.

Stella

At the end of a tiring workday, I was really looking forward to a traffic-free ride back home on 'Stella'. Yes, you heard right. I name my bikes. The bullet is Bull and the yamaha is Stella. Cue snickering, finger pointing laughing. I dont care, I just like them to have names. I dont overdo this naming business, my guitar is a Hobner, my laptop is a vaio and my desktop is a plain old desktop. There have been others who have gone that bit too far, and crossed the threshold....but thats another story. 

 So, Stella rides like a dream, she's crazy fast, can turn on a coin, and can give these electric shaver contemporary bikes a run for their money. I ease my way through the crowded Bandra roads, turn out of Dharavi's slum, out of Sion and onto the Eastern Express Highway. For those of you who live here, you would now realise that after the 25 minutes of crawling traffic until this point, everyone who hits the highway just cannot resist its wide openness, and will break the speed limit, very quickly. So no prizes for guessing what I did. Stella's throttle is like a dream. She sounds like a couple of mad rottweilers thrown into a tube, and God! can she fly. I did the superman thing for a little bit, until I hit Ghatkopar's traffic, cue entrance music for the villain of this piece. This other yamaha screams past just as I slow down for the tangled mess of cars ahead of me. I must mention, the rider had on a skull cap and a beard, not that I have a problem with that, I'd just have preferred if he had on a helmet and the beard. 

 It is difficult to explain this feeling to people who have never ridden bikes, more specifically, people who have never ridden bikes the way they were intended to be ridden. Stella, is primed for speed. Every inch of her is built to be strong, light and fast. I have customised her, throwing away any un-needed metal, with tyres for better grip and lean, with an engine that is spanking new, and well run in, with a free flow muffler and with a mad balls-out fearless jackass on top. Given all of this, it just didnt seem right that the other yamaha flew past, leaving Stella behind. This sort of thing could ruin her confidence. Shake her self belief. Badly injure her prestige, while insulting her racing pedigree. She'd have nowhere to show her pretty face. Her peers would run her out of town. Maybe I need to stop rambling. Ok, I will. Next paragraph.

 So I down shift into first gear, tuck in to offer less resistance to the wind, find an opening in the traffic, and let Stella do what she was built to do. From 5 kmph to 25 in first, upto 35 in second, 60 in third(she's screaming by now), shift into fourth right when she's at her loudest, and fly away at 95 kmph. All this while, I've gone past a whole herd of commuter bikes, about 20 yuppies in their cages, and a pathetic pulsar who thought he could keep up with Stella. I havent really seen the other yamaha that triggered all this madness. Then I hear it behind, struggling to keep up. This situation just had to be utilised. I had to rub his nose in it, right? So I did. Downshifted to third, tucked in again, flew away and left him for dead. 

 In all this madness, not once did I risk kiling myself, or anyone else (or so I'd like you to believe). I was simply riding faster than the speed limit, and in an almost straight, predictable line, easy enough for others to avoid, but impossible for them to ignore. Its not often that you see someone as big as me, tucked in flying past everything else on the highway. It's probably likely that you thought you saw me, but you cant be sure, cuz I was just so damn fast :) He He. Forgetting all the insult, the chagrin etc, I decided to be a little lenient with the other yamaha. After all, the guy probably tried all he could, and is related to Stella. So, I slow down a little, let him catch up, and signal for him to overtake us, smiling all the way. He moves alongside, folds both hands (yes they're off the bars) in a namaste, bows his head, and leaves the highway at the next exit. Smiling all the way. What a ride, what a ride. The pleasure is just too beautiful to describe. Doing it again tomorrow.

The workshop

It's five pm on a weekday, and your palms are already greasy, your shirt sleeves rolled up, forehead (ample area there) glistening with sweat, as you wrestle with the spanner to tighten that one last nut that holds the engine head to the block. The bike is shimmering in the evening sunlight, it's potential energy aching to convert and escape as kinetic energy. The carburettor has been cleaned with petrol, the control cables have been checked and double checked, the oil level in both oil tanks is at the maximum safe level, the battery has been charged, the wiring harness is brand new, the CDI and plug also sparkling new. The painstaking attention to detail in the design of this bike, and the thought applied to its paint job, the chrome and detailing is bordering on ridiculous. For all this, it's a very sober looking piece of machinery. Black where its not chrome, and chrome where its not black. Not a very complicated design you would think....and you would be far off the mark. From the deliberately askew positioning of the speedometer(angled just right to flow seamlessly from the headlight to the handlebar), to the matte black paint job on the wheel drums, to the wicked sparkly red on black petrol tank and the agonisingly chromed engine head and buffed fins, this bike has been rebuilt from the ghastly piece of machinery it was, to a no-nonsense thrilling speed machine. 

 The exhaust note is distincive, and promises to scream out in fury when the throttle is opened up. That though, is a month or so away. Running in this new engine will be a labour of love, and will teach you patience. For now though, you need to scrub off the grease and oil from a day at the workshop, head back home, and patiently wait for the day your bike is ready to run.

Update: This is actually related to an earlier post (thanks ArKev) where I posted about my new (old) Yamaha. Find it (with pics) here.