To All You Rapists

The woman and a male friend, who have not been identified, were traveling in a public bus in the Indian capital, New Delhi, after watching a film on the evening of Dec. 16 when they were attacked by six men who raped her. They also beat the couple and inserted an iron rod into her body resulting in severe organ damage. Both of them were then stripped and thrown off the bus, according to police.

(Source:  TIME World)

I haven't blogged in a long time, but this was enough to spur me to break my silence.

I'm getting really tired of hearing the same old arguments in connection with abuse against women and sexual assault. I'm sick of hearing about her underage drinking, about her partying, about her drug use, about her tiny skirts, about her many sexual partners, about how it wasn't "legitimate rape".

So listen up, priests, ministers, policemen, bus drivers, layman and even some of you women - you can sit and debate - debate - the so-called ethics and 'moral code' regarding men and women's attire and behaviour. You can debate lifestyles, you can debate all of these things.

But there is no argument in heaven or earth, no argument from any religious text, no argument from any corner, no conceivable scenario that justifies or excuses a man from sticking anything, be it his dick or a metal rod, into a woman's vagina. By even trying to do so, you are joining the side of the rapist. You are siding with the RAPISTS!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT??

Got it? Good.

It has to freakin' stop. Now. 

p.s: Dear Indians; you are quick to set fire to things when cricketers fail you. Please, use this opportunity, this media spotlight, this worldwide outrage to unleash your pyrotechnics and end this lackadaisical, nonchalant, turn-a-blind-eye type of attitude towards your mothers, your sisters, your daughters. For the love of God women, please make it stop.

The Dark Knight Rises Review

To those of you that follow my Twitter feed or are friends with me on Facebook, you are probably aware that over the last 9 days my friends and I have been travelling from Mumbai to Goa to Hampi, with a few hours in Bangalore thrown in as well. Now, I could tell you that the main reason for this trip was a) purely recreational in nature; sun, fun and travelling in a foreign country with friends or b) to get a much needed break from the grind of work or c) to find myself in some sort of "Eat, Pray, Love" styled spiritual awakening among the temple ruins of Hindu gods.

Or, I could shrug my shoulders and say, quite truthfully: The Dark Knight Rises in IMAX.

Since Sri Lanka is still catching up on 3D cinemas (and has now gone on to convert almost all of their theatres to be 3D compatible), the thought of watching Christopher Nolan's masterpiece in a hastily converted local cinema and not in all its IMAX glory was unbearable! So, after a little bit of internet research, we found out that Mumbai provided the most affordable and geographically closest IMAX theatre in the region, so quickly an Indian road trip was put together, with a few additional stops so that we didn't have to actually admit we went to India to watch a movie.

Enough background; on to the actual review!

As fortune would have it, despite not pre-booking our tickets, we managed to get the best seats in the house for the movie. If you've been to an IMAX movie before, you'll know that you need to be at the perfect elevation to fully take in the scale of the screen. As I got comfortable in our couch seats (yes indeed!) I realised we were in for a helluva show.

First off the movie started with the "Man of Steel" trailer which, especially when viewed in IMAX, gave me some serious chills. Is it possible that finally, after all these years, DC was going to get a Superman movie right?

".. But in time, they will join you in the sun.." - Love it.

(Have no fear, no spoilers be here!)

As most of you all know by now, TDKR picks up the story 8 years after the events of "The Dark Knight". The people of Gotham still don't know the truth behind Harvey Dent, about his switch to madness, and how he died while attempting to murder Gordon's son. Harvey Dent is still hailed as the White Knight, and his death has been blamed on the Batman, who hasn't been seen since that night. However, when a new type of criminal begins to spread his tentacles in Gotham, Batman feels compelled to don the cowl once more to save the city that branded him a criminal.

I'm not sure I should give much more away because it would take away the experience. Let me just make a few bullet points instead.

• The opening sequences of the movie, while in the beginning may seem a little random and disconnected, are so perfectly relevant to the whole tapestry that is Nolan's Dark Knight saga when viewed in hindsight. The tone is set straight from the get-go; no wasting time at all, similar to the first two movies.
• The score in this movie is just brilliant. The "Batman theme" is hardly heard throughout the 2 hours and 45 minutes, yet when it is it gives such an amazing lift to the scene your heart will skip a beat. Literally.
• No, there is no equal (or even a mention) of the Joker in this movie, but then there was never an intention to top the Joker. Even in the comics, no matter the challenges Batman faces, there is never a criminal as chilling, as deplorable and as intimidatingly psychotic as the Joker. There is no sense in trying to compare Bane to the Joker; they are two different criminals on totally different levels.
• That being said, Bane was flat out scary. That is all I have to say; just mean, menacing, terrifying.
• Not much has been said of the Catwoman, despite a lot of hue and cry regarding Anne Hathaway's casting. Few people realise how nuanced a character she really is; she is neither a hero or a villain, simply an opportunist. Throughout the comics her relationship with Batman/Bruce Wayne is as complicated as it gets. Does Hathaway deliver? Definitely! She was everything I imagined Catwoman/Seline Kyle to be; at this point Nolan could probably cast Sacha Baron Cohen in a movie and I would still have to take him seriously.
• It's hard for me to pin down my favourite performance in this movie because everyone had their moment. Michael Caine once again provides the 'heart' of this movie, delivering one of the most moving dialogues in the movie. But I was most impressed by Gary Oldman's performance; his Jim Gordon is absolutely perfect. Once again he delivers a key line (in my opinion), similar to his screaming at Batman about having to save Harvey Dent and the ending speech in "The Dark Knight". 
• The line goes like this: "There's a point, far there, when the structures fail you. And when the rules aren't weapons anymore, they're shackles, letting the bad guy get ahead. One day you may face such a moment of crisis, and in that moment, I hope you have a friend like I did. To plunge their hands into the filth, so that you can keep yours clean!"
• The dialogue in this movie is just riveting; there are so many quotable quotes in this movie that just reading the 'quotes' page on the movie's IMDB page makes me want to watch the movie again. I haven't felt that way since "Pulp Fiction".

Many are worried that TDKR would not be able to live up to the epic performances of TDK, but TDKR achieves the one thing that it's predecessors did not: it builds up the story to a dizzying finale. The lows in TDKR are excruciatingly, painfully low; the highs are euphoric, sensational highs. The word 'epic' has been far too casually tossed around these days, but rarely has it been more apt than when describing this movie (and the trilogy in general). It is an amazing final stroke by Nolan, a perfect send off to my beloved character, and one of the most satisfying trilogies I have ever seen. 

"Mighty, Mighty" : The Power Of The Mob

It has been an unsettling couple of days in the city of Manipal, India. I use the term 'city' here very liberally however, as Manipal is more a student suburb, an elevated hamlet saturated with universities ranging from medicine to management to hospitality to engineering. The most famous of these are the Kasturba Medical College and the Manipal Institute of Technology; I was a proud student of the latter.

On the 10th of March, 21-year-old Ishan Nihalani, a second year engineering student suffered a serious head injury when he fell off the footboard of college bus on the way to class. Four days later, due to complications, he succumbed to his injuries. Immediately after this, the student council raised several issues with the director of the university, asking for disciplinary action against the reckless bus driver as well as to address the issue regarding the inadequate number of buses providing transport from the hostels to the university, a point which had been brought up repeatedly in the past. The MIT campus has banned all forms of private transport for the last 5-6 years, leaving students with only two options to get to class from their hostels - take the college bus or walk the 1.5km to 2km distance from the hostels to the classrooms. However, there are just not enough buses to accomodate all the students, a situation further exacerbated by the newly appointed director's decision to double the student intake of the college this year.

The details of what happened next are, at best, somewhat conflicting, but the consensus is that the director not only refused to acknowledge the role of the bus driver and the college in this accident, but instead laid the blame solely on the student for being late to class. If he had not been careless and had been on time, apparently, he would not have died.

This careless remark set off a riot among the student body, as grieving classmates and friends joined with agitated seniors to destroy property and then form a 2000 strong mob outside the university building, demanding the resignation of the director. Police were called in, as well as the Vice Chancellor of the university to negotiate with the student council and the director. After several hours, the Vice Chancellor appeared to the vocal mob, and announced that the director has resigned.

The video can be seen below.

It would seem unfathomable that the director of an educational institute would speak so flippantly regarding the life of one her students, but I for one am not at all surprised. Many times in my own experiences, the management and board of most large educational institutes in the Asian sub-continent view the student body as an agitated, lazy, undeserving collection of rich, spoilt children. Rarely do they see them as individuals who have specific needs and weaknesses, much less human beings eager to learn. An incident like this, no matter how innocent the victim, is immediately chalked up to negligence on the student's part, as the college does its best to wash its hands off from anything that besmirches the university's reputation, thus putting the names and jobs of the staff and faculty above the needs and rights of the students they teach.

This whole fiasco leaves me with very mixed emotions. On the one hand I'm disgusted that a person like the now former director of MIT could ever reach such an esteemed post while clearly having no connection with the student's that walk through her halls. This is not some petty revolt regarding raised hostel fees or some boycott of a campus club; this is the death of a student. But as I mentioned before, I am not at all surprised, for it seems that this sort of detachment is a prerequisite for the job. When I was in my second year, a senior had died in a car accident. When his friends approached the director at that time to inform the parents, he coldly picked up the phone in front of them, and said "Sir? Your son is dead, please come and collect the body."

On the other hand, I feel a great sense of pride in the student body at MIT. I don't condone violence or vandalism, and I have often denounced the petty protests that we had in college as being excessive (we once went on strike because the mess food wasn't tasty). But given these circumstances, I'll tell you now, I would have been right there in the middle of that crowd, chanting "Resign!" just like everyone else. I'm proud that for once, the students rallied together for a worthy cause, and for once, justice, however mediocre, was served.

We as Sri Lankans should take note of these events as well, for our universities are more famous for their protests and strikes rather than for any real academic achievements. In fact, the only times we hear of anything newsworthy from these bastions of local education is when some student is either ragged or if there is a strike by the student body. Ragging especially has only escalated in the last few years, with more students being physically and emotionally (and in some cases, sexually) abused while the perpetrators are allowed to go scot-free. No actions are taken to prevent these incidents, no one is held accountable, and the educational system of the country continues it's slow but steady decline. Somewhere, it has to stop, yet sadly the few academics who are genuine educators at heart are few and far between.

If you watched that clip, you can hear towards the end of it the vice chancellor imploring the students to please go back to class the next day, now that their demands have been met.

Wherever Ishan is, I'm sure he wishes that he could comply.

#16Days: Not My Father's Son

The moon is shockingly bright that night, adding an aura of surrealism to the scene. The soft bluish hue washes over the river banks, as a light breeze dances among the long blades of grass that grew there.

He is tall, still and silent, standing a few metres away from the rushing waters. The moonlight casts long shadows over his face, hiding his features, yet it was not hard to see the tension in his frame. He is bare chested, in a simple villager's garb, clutching a small bundle in his strong, muscular arms.

He lifts his head to the heavens, taking in the beauty of the night. The clouds are imposing in their blackness, fighting to conceal the radiance of the moon in some mystical battle of the skies. The faint breeze barely rustles the grass, yet it carries with it a deafening silence, filling his ears with nothing.

He nods, imperceptibly, to himself; yes, surely tonight is a magical night. Surely, tonight is special.

His thoughts are interrupted by the call of a nocturnal animal, and his gaze drifts over to the dim lights of his village in the distance. It is a good hours walk, but he was happy to make it. This place was special to him.

For it was here, that as a child he played with his friends, dashing among the river stones, diving into the waters to overpower and wrestle with the other boys, laughing and dancing under the watchful eyes of their fathers. It was here that he had grown accustomed to his father's approving gaze, whenever he raced to the banks first, or threw a pebble across the surface further, or when he swam the furthest without any hint of fatigue. He had come to love and even crave that glint in his father's eye, that showed that he was proud. It was intoxicating.

His father had been good to him. He had provided him with everything he could, and as a dutiful son he had helped bear his father's load; first in the home, and then with his work. He did it joyfully, knowing that this was the way it was done. This was how it was meant to be. Why else was he born, if not to take over from his father once he grew weak? It had been the way for generations. His father had told him as such, until the day he died.

Now, here he was, so many years later. He is no longer a boy, yet at this moment, he has never been more unsure of his manhood. He has been growing tired with every passing day, more so than usual. His wife's nightly duties no longer pleased him; in fact, she barely pleased him at all. There was no joy in work, no comfort at home.

How had his father done it, he wonders? But he knows the answer; his father had him. He had realised as such many months ago, and it was a sign from the heavens when his wife told him she was with child.

As soon as he had heard this news, he knew it was what he had been missing. Not a day went by when he did not dream of life after the child arrived. The joy he had once felt from his own father, he would now bestow on his child. A child of his own, to love and to care for, to teach and to mentor, until that child was old enough and strong enough to lift this burden off his shoulders.

He is brought back to the present suddenly, as the baby in his arms starts to cry. He looks down, and realises he has been holding it too tight while lost in his thoughts. He looks at the baby's face, round and full yet somehow glowing in the dim light. It continues to cry; a sign of weakness, he tells himself. This baby is nothing like him, despite what his foolish wife tells him. How dare she compare him to this, this crying, sobbing, twisting...

.. girl?

In a trance, he takes a step forward, and another, and another. His feet enter the water, and he presses on. The waters rush around his ankles, then his knees, and then his waist. The rushing stream is icy cold, and yet it cannot match the chill he feels inside of him. He looks back at the shore, a moment of indecision, and in the dim moonlight he sees his father, from many decades ago, seated on the rocks, watching him. Smiling at him, and nodding at him in approval; and in that moment, he makes up his mind.

He looks back at this baby one last time, this wretched baby girl that should have been his newborn prince. She is silent now, and her eyes suddenly lock onto his. He is transfixed, his gaze only broken as the clouds win their battle with the moon, engulfing the night in darkness.

Minutes go by before the moonlight finally breaks free again, its rays falling to the ground to find him standing in the water. Alone.

---

I'm not sure how well this post fits in with the others I've seen for the '16 Days of Activism Against Gender-based Violence', but somehow I could not shake this scene from my head. I was inspired by many of the posts written already, especially this post by Dilly where she says "Violence (particularly against women) is sometimes un-physical, passive, and the signs aren't skin deep." I found that to be very true; often we think that violence entails pots and pans and beatings, and while those are widespread in themselves, we often overlook the simple things such as words, actions and attitudes.

In 1984, a study in Bombay found out that 7999 out of 8000 abortions performed after prenatal sex determination were girls. In another study, it was found that in Jaipur, capital of the state of Rajasthan, prenatal sex determination tests resulted in 3500 abortions of female foetuses annually. If you can't fathom that, try this: India as a whole loses half a million girls a year to prenatal sex selective abortion and infanticide.*

This is real. This is happening. As I wrote this post, I felt so completely helpless; hopefully, together through efforts like the the 16 Days of Activism, we can affect a change that we as individuals would be powerless to achieve.

*Sources from here and here.

30 Day Movie Challenge: Days 06

It looks like I've fallen horrificly behind in my self-imposed 30 Day challenge, so let me see if I can do some quick catching up while I can.

Day 06 - a movie that reminds you of somewhere

Easy. Whenever I think of hear about this movie I'm transported back to the time and place immediately. It was 2007, and I was in college in Manipal India, dragging myself through the days, praying for and praying against the arrival of exams, when suddenly some of my friends came up with the idea of making a short road trip to the big multiplex in the city proper for the Indian premiere of Spider Man 3. You probably remember the enormous hype the first two movies garnered, so the third movie was a must-see. Plans were made, tickets were booked well in advance for the first evening show, and about 25 of us made the 90 minute ride on bikes to Mangalore.

However, somone had forgotten to inform us that in order to collect your reserved tickets, you need to arrive 45 minutes before the show starts. We arrived 20 minutes early, and found out our tickets were gone.

Naturally, we were all rather bummed out, so we decided to drown our sorrows in tandoori chicken and kebabs from across the street. By the time we were done, it was time for the next show, and by some miracle, we managed to find enough seats for all of us, even though we'd have to end up driving home well past midnight.

Finally in our seats, the movie started.

Half an hour later, my warning bells were ringing.

An hour later, people started murmuring.

Two hours in, people were laughing when Peter Parker burst into tears on screen.

And then, thankfully it was over. We had just driven all the way for what must be the biggest movie letdown at the time (we have since been blessed with Transformers 2). What an absolute rubbish movie, and yet, that movie always makes me smile as I remember the moonlit bike ride back, the looks on the faces of the kebab joint when all 25 of us started ordering food, and the good time we had despite our friendly neighbourhood Spidey getting stuck in his own web.

Good times!

(You have to watch this, it's just priceless!)

No Room For Patriotism In Sport

As I type this post, there are a billion and a few people hunched over the tv sets, radios, and computers, watching and listening to the India versus Pakistan World Cup semi-final match, in Mohali. A few lucky thousands are actually at the ground, no doubt waving flags and banners, shouting slogans, singing songs, and cheering what is easily the most anticipated match of the tournament so far, a clash between not just two sides, but two nations with a long, chequered history between them, both on the field and off.

The build up to the match has been huge, and though I do not meet any Indians or Pakistanis at work, my social networks are buzzing with all the taunts and barbs going back and forth. Yet, out of the smoke and gunfire, I noticed an interesting trend where one or two Indians were supporting Pakistan, the 'dreaded enemy'.

This naturally drew the ire of many Indian supporters, who either a) threatened bodily harm to said offender b) labelled him/her a traitor or c) attempted to change their mind.. by threatening bodily harm to them. It was an interesting exchange, as some either had no reason for supporting the boys from across the border, while others simply thought they were a better team, and still others didn't want people being tied to their TV sets on a Saturday night.

I found all this rather amusing, because being a Sri Lankan, we don't have any real hardcore, in-the-blood-and-genes type rivalries to speak of. The closest we have is against Australia, but then who doesn't hate the Australian team and want to beat them at every chance? If you have been following fellow Sri Lankan blogger Pseudorandom's blogs and/or tweets, you will have read her rather well-documented story of dealing with criticism for cheering for both England and Sri Lanka when they played each other in the quarter finals. I don't necessarily agree with it all, but while hers is definitely a rather unique case, I think she makes one or two valid points.

Patriotism is a term that we love to use these days, and we throw it around loosely without really understanding what it means. When exactly does it apply? 

When it comes to almost any sport, there is a lot of freedom of choice. Take for example, if I were to support Manchester City, Arsenal or Newcastle, no one could really argue against it. It's my inalienable right to support whoever I choose to, for whatever reasons I choose. I could support the Lakers because they have hot cheerleaders, or I could support the Red Sox because I like their name. 

But when it comes to teams representing their country, do we really have that much of a choice? When I see anyone wearing the Sri Lankan colours, am I really able to say "Well, this other person is a better player, so I'll support that country instead"? When a team or player says they are playing for their country, do the countrymen have an option to say "well we didn't ask you to"? If we are allowed to choose who we support when it comes to national sport, do the competitors get to choose which country they'd like to represent?

Of course, these are all my personal views, and I cannot fathom all the many individual reasons that people may have for not supporting their national team. Sometimes its as simple as "I don't like the sport, so I don't really care". But while I believe 'patriotism' is not a term that should be associated with national sport, and that at the end of the day, it's still just a game, perhaps we need to re-evaluate what it means to "play for one's country", instead of simply being a fair-weather fan when it suits us. Or filling up stadiums just because the other team is 'the enemy'.

Alone

We are all alone.

It has been a tough few days for me (I say that a lot don't I?), both on the home front and the personal front. Of late I've started feeling like everything in my life has just gotten too loud, and I'm unable to find the volume control.

Panic and pressure are nothing new to me, neither is the feeling of having my hands tied. (No I don't mean that in a good way.) Most of my college life, and the year after in which I was quite literally 'lost' with regards to job hunting, I always felt I was under 'too much'. Most of the time I was wrong, at least during my first few years abroad. I was just unable to handle what normal students would call 'exam tension', and as a result I moped instead of mugged, resulting in poor grades and a GPA sink-hole that would affect the next 4 years of my life. Yes, I was an idiot.

I learnt my lesson, and my final years in college went by with more success, even if the pressure and the stakes had now more than quadrupled. I realised that if I didn't show my panic and my worries to the outside world, I felt stronger. This was rather easily achieved; I have never been more alone than that final year in India, where I lodged in a hostel of more than 1000 people, all juniors, and all strangers. Every friend or even aquaintance I had made over the years in my campus had graduated and left, and so I walked between hostel, library and canteen all to myself, my blue headphones firmly clamped on my ears and my trusty Creative mp3 player clamped to my pocket. Yes, I looked like an idiot.

Things have looked up since then. I returned home, back to the comforts of home and family. I bonded with my brother, so much so that his return from school was the only thing that kept me going, especially during the trials that our family went through last year. I made new friends, and I fell in love. I got a job, and I found some form of independance. I spent half my birthday in a hospital. Yeah, that was legendary.

Last night, I couldn't fall asleep, so I got out of bed and switched on my small bedside lamp. That lamp is more than 9 years old, and had been my companion during my entire uni life. I had brought it to my work lodgings only that morning, and as I sat at my desk in that familiar yellow glow, I felt a feeling of deja vu. Late nights, quiet, alone in a large room, the reflection of the yellow beams on the wooden table.

I sat there and I realised that we spend most of our lifetime with ourselves rather than with other people. Whatever time we enjoy with others, whatever fun we have in the company of friends, those are all just benefits not to be taken lightly.

Perhaps when we realise that fact, and accept it instead of cursing the loneliness and complaining about it, perhaps then we can truly be at peace with ourselves, and as a result, acknowledge and appreciate those around us even more for choosing to enter our lives and be a part of it, even if it is only for a short time.

I am alone. I am alright with that.

The Vendetta Against Valentines Day

Valentines Day. Just saying the words brings up a look of slight revulsion in most people's countenance. Valentines day is about as appreciated as the musical talent of the Jonas Brothers or Megan Fox's Golum-ish thumbs. The Twittersphere is rather full of V-day bashing, and no doubt as I type this post there are couples being assaulted and set fire to in India, Hallmark card shops being stoned and loud angry men marching in the streets denouncing 'Western' influences on their great country and vowing to make India a land without any form of expressions of love; unless of course it's in the form of two people running around trees and bushes in various locations around the world. (For more details, click here to read a full detailed report about why Valentine's Day is evil). No doubt, our local riot and protest 'organisers' will catch on to this spectacular idea and try in the near future to emulate their Indian counterparts in an attempt to rid this great land of 'Western' influence, while driving Western cars, dressing in Western clothes and buying Western appliances.

But I digress.

Yes, it's Valentines day, but it seems rather ironic that there is so little love for this day which celebrates love, especially among people my age. Why all the hating? Girls especially seem to be offended by Valentine's Day, saying it is unnecessary and commercialised and pointless. Most of them are single though, but I'm sure that has nothing to do with it. Apparently due to media pressure they are made to feel alien if they do not have a date for Valentines Day, but really that's like accusing Chuck Norris for promoting exercise equipment that makes men feel inadequate about their bodies. And who on Earth would accuse Chuck Norris of anything?!

The men in general that I have observed do grumble a little bit about having to step up to the plate and make this one day special for their girlfriends, lovers or whatevers, but otherwise are not too affected by it. By now we've gotten somewhat used to every other day of the year being meant for something or the other. Pick a random date and you'll probably find it's World Panda Day or International Day of Remembrance for Bambi's Mother (everyone makes Bambi eyes at each other and scampers away at the sound of loud noises).

As for me, well, I've had some disastrous Valentine's Days in my life. I was telling one particular high school incident to someone last night and she literally covered her face in horror. (Yes, it was that bad. Not her face, my story. Err.) And yet, I'm really not that affected by this. In fact, I find myself rather happy for the people out there who are willing to take the time to make one day especially great for the people they love. Sure there are the odd couples here and there that make you want to yell "GET A ROOM! AND A LIFE!! AND SOME PRACTICE COS WHAT THE @$%! ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO HER?!" - but all in all I don't mind seeing the sea of red in shops, malls and restaurants, nor do I hate on the people that actually enjoy this opportunity to openly express themselves in ways that might have been considered corny or over the top any other day of the year.


So to all the haters - just calm the heck down. Don't make me come over there and force you into diapers at arrow-point.


Happy Valentine's Day!

Life And Basketball

(Sort of continued from here)

I vividly remember the nights playing basketball in college. The sweat, the lights, and the heat emanating from my body mixed with the cool night breeze that blew across the floor of our outdoor court. Most of the time we played in the evenings from 530pm till about 8pm, but I often found myself on the court either before or after this period, usually due to some personal issue that was weighing on my mind.

You see to me, being on the court was always therapeutic. When I was angry, alone, frustrated or depressed, stepping on the court never failed to fix my mood. Those of you that know me or have been reading this blog should know by now that I have a passion for basketball that borders on obsession. Perhaps that was why some of my best and worst memories from college all involved the court in some way; the highs being reflected in soaring through defenders for a basket, the lows in the taste of blood after hitting the merciless concrete floor. But it wasn’t just the triumphs and failures of my sports life that were affiliated with the court; even my personal struggles were somehow intertwined with it. Often I have paused at the court when walking back towards my hostel after a lonely day and smiled as I watched some kids playing under lights, just chucking the ball around and falling over each other in laughter. Other times I’ve waited there for a special someone to meet me for a nice late dinner, nervously checking to see if I was presentable or not.

To me, basketball and life are very similar. I was never very good at the game, despite my passionate love for it. I have thrown up many ‘Hail Marys’ from beyond the three-point line, missed tonnes of assignments on defence due to lack of concentration, made terrible decisions in transition and watched several of my not-so-clever passes being intercepted by the opposing defence. Yet such is the game that there is always a way to redeem yourself somehow. I’ve played in tournaments filled with personal failure that still ended with a performance that saved the team, mainly because the opposing team didn’t think I could play due to my lack of scoring, and so, much to my great pleasure, left me relatively unguarded through the finals while I hit mid-range jumper after mid-range jumper. ‘Player of the game’? Why thank you very much.

Life is not too different either, for despite my love of life and everything that it symbolises, I have proven to be rather bad at living it. I’ve made so many wrong decisions, foolish choices and missed opportunities due to my lack of focus and direction. It seems that my 25 years on this earth has done nothing to remedy that.

Yes, life is a lot like basketball, but it isn’t; the difference being that this life isn’t a game. Second chances are hard to come by, and the odd ones that do come our way are very few and far between. Plus, how many times have we buckled at an opportunity to make things right simply because we couldn’t face what was wrong in the first place?

So here I am, looking back at things that I wish I could change, things I wish I could do over and make up for, and I realise that as much as I want that, perhaps I would have more luck lacing up my sneakers and looking for my jersey.

How Not To Read The News, Courtesy GOLD FM

Back in the day when broadband internet was not freely available in every household, cyber-cafe's were all the rage. When I was studying in India, there were at least 4 within 50 metres of each other (it's an Asian thing I guess, opening up a store right next to another store that sells exactly the same products as you). These establishments are generally considered shady, especially since they are the perfect location for unscrupulous activities such as drug deals, assassinations, blackmail and extortion, but mostly because hormone-crazed couples gravitate to them like fat people to bran crackers.

So why did I brave the dark and dangerous world of cramped love-making alone? Simple - to catch up on the news.


Yes. I read the news.


No doubt you would think that reading the newspaper would suffice, but you would be wrong. Sure, the papers have it all well-documented, but I'm not really interested in Indian politics or what Pakistan has been up to lately, and I couldn't care less about the latest travesty of a movie Bollywood, Tollywood and Lollywood just churned out. My main interests lie in the latest NBA scores & updates, tv shows (English please), movies (likewise), music (you guessed it) and Formula 1; all of which were almost never mentioned in the newspapers.

One thing that 24 hour cable news and the internet have taught us is that the world is a very happening place. Switch to any channel and you'll hear of natural disasters, plague, murder, scandal, kidnapping, corruption, arrests, politics - the works! Even the business and sports sections are not without drama and excitement, thanks to the likes of Bernie Madoff, Caster Semenya and Max Mosley's bizarre sex life.


Which is why I am somewhat intrigued by some of our local news networks. My father plain loves the news. He wakes up to it, surfs the local news websites during work, listens to the lunch time news, listens to the hourly updates when he's driving, listens to the 830pm radio news, watches the news on TV at 9pm, and probably has dreams in the form of new bulletins ("This just in, a new law has been passed making it illegal to not own at least one two-door roadster if you're over the age of 50. Also, you can now sell your children legally...."). He buys almost all the English newspapers on Sundays, and is probably the most informed man in the district; a fact I pity him for, since according to certain news reports, there isn't much on the news these days.


My main concern it the 830pm news bulletin on Gold FM. Since this falls squarely on the sacred hour of dinner, the entire family is expected to devour our food with the least amount of auditory disturbance, be it in the form of normal conversation or even loud chewing, as my father listens intently to the happenings of this great nation - again. However, after listening to this news bulletin countless number of times, I've come to the conclusion that nothing really 'happens' here. Take for instance last night's bulletin.


[Cue drumroll and dramatic news-type music]

TOP STORY!

"President Mahindra Rajapakse said today that he would hand over a united nation to the people, but that only real men could properly serve the motherland. He said this while speaking at a random event somewhere in the island"

This would be the part where I looked at mom and mouthed "Real men?!", Mom shakes her head in disbelief and Bro bursts into a (silent) fit of laughter under the table.

LOCAL NEWS!

"The opposition leader today said that the government is trying to trick the people, and that they would not stand idly by while the government abuses the integrity of the nation. He said this while attending a rally at another random location"


"In further news, another politician that wants to get his two cents in said that foreign powers seek to destroy our great nation by spreading lies and scandal, and that we will sue the European Union for their corrupt talk. He said this while opening a primary school in Colombo"


"Also, the minister of agriculture and trade said that we have the greatest army in the world, and that foreign superpowers will bow to our greatness, even as India, China and Russia send their top army officials to learn from our valiant troops how to win the war against terror. He said this while standing in a field of daisies, as the wind blew through his hair."


"And finally, some children in several areas died due to the Rubella vaccination, another person was found dead in his home, a woman was abducted and raped in a village, but this all pales in comparison to what I've already read, so let's move along".


Then they move onto the foreign news, mispronounce ever other world leader's name, stumble onto the business news which has obviously been written by some super-nerd with a Ph.D in economics who wants to flex his academic muscle, and I'm left wondering how I could get those 15minutes of my life back.


If the news in the country is restricted to what random politicians and ministers have to 'say' on matters of the country, why bother listening? Surely we all know by now that nothing gets done by talking, and this country definitely needs people who can do more than rant and rave about the 'integrity' and 'sovereignty' of our great nation. Yet if our news bulletins frequently give these people a platform to pontificate from their pedestals, then we are only encouraging them to continue doing so. Nothing beats the torture I used to go through when the war was still on, as every night's news update had something about "freeing our people from the clutches of terrorism" or "rescuing the motherland from the grip of tyranny" and other such prose. Who comes up with this stuff?! If I were a newsreader on that show I'd at least have some one cue "audience laughter" every now and then so that the listeners wouldn't be completely blown away by the bizarreness of the content.


God bless the journalists of this country who tirelessly seek out the truth, but please, someone find the guy who writes for this radio station, stuff a sock in his throat, light him on fire and tell us the news that really matters.



EDIT: After writing this post, I've realised that while everything in this post is true, it is definitely not the rule. Sometimes, they actually DO broadcast the news. Yet, over a long period of time, I feel it is safe to say my accusations are justified.

Heaven

I had written a long post detailing the events that occurred exactly one year ago today, explaining how I ended up playing and singing this song for a certain someone, and what happened next. I tried to describe the magic without making it sound too corny and/or mushy, but after reading it for the 40 millionth time I had to accept the fact that I had failed miserably. And also that I had to move on.


So here's the song, and let me just say: what a night. Happy Anniversary Sunshine. This will be the last post I write about you, I promise. GBU.

G


*Click here if you want to download the song direct without watching the video!

Never Again

He looks up at her.


She sits two steps above him. She looks beautiful; she always does to him. The street light casts her face in just enough shadow to hide the tears, and since he is facing her, he imagines it does the opposite for his own.


He looks down again, replaying the conversation they just had. He has heard the words before, but this was the first time he was listening to her say it. It hurt, but the truth always hurts. On top of that, he is angry at himself. He should be the one making the tough decisions, he should be the one to bear that burden, not her. Instead, she was breaking down in front of his eyes, saying what needed to be said, and he hated himself for doing that to her.


He wants to sit next to her, to comfort her, to wipe those tears away, to whisper in her ear and soothe her, but she doesn't let him. She wants to see his face, to read his expressions. He understands; at a time like this, words only get in the way.


He has only one question left, though he already knows the answer. Still, while they have always understood each other without the need for words, there are times when he insists that they are spoken.


"Do you.. do you wish we never met? I mean.. do you regret meeting me in the first place...?"


She doesn't say a word


Instead, she shakes her head with such conviction and force, they leave no room for doubt in his mind. Such conviction, they bring fresh tears to her eyes, and she buries her face in her hands and cries, her muted sobs tearing his heart to pieces.


He curses himself, and swears never to doubt her again, never to question her feelings, never to be the reason for her tears.


Never again.



* I know this post sounds rather dramatic and negative, but I assure it isn't. Just retelling an event that occurred last week while I was in India, because it meant a lot to me.

This Too Shall Pass

His eyes fly open.


Slowly his vision adjusts to the darkness, and the room is filled with a light blue hue from his digital clock. He glances at it. 3am.


Matchbox Twenty starts playing in his head. He silently curses his mental jukebox.

He slowly drops his legs over the bed and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. He isn't used to having 4 hours of sleep under his belt at 3am. Oh how times have changed.


Next he notices the heat; the stifling heat that is easily winning the war with his ancient wall fan. He takes of his shirt as the sweat trickles down his spine.


Suddenly he is reminded of a time long ago, when he was back in college. He had returned after failing yet again, only this time he was alone; no batchmates, no friends. Just an unwanted room on the top floor of the hostel, a real furnace during the summer heat, surrounded by strangers who looked at him with a questioning glance. He remembers returning to his room late at night, after hours of aimless wandering, only to be welcomed by a blast of pent up hot air as he swings the door open. He remembers trying every trick of cooling the room, including dumping water on the floor and sprinkling his mattress with water. He remembers his frustration at sleeping in a bed that was now not only soaked in sweat but with water as well.


He smiles in the darkness. Six months. He survived six months of that torture, studying alone, struggling to sleep in the early hours of the morning, ordering food at ridiculous hours of the night simply to keep himself occupied. Six months of screaming at the walls and wondering when he would finally lose his mind.



He thinks to himself, 'compared to that, this is nothing'. And he's not just talking about the heat.


This too shall pass.


He notices a spider crawling across the floor in front of him. He looks for something to swat it with, and unthinkingly, apologises to Makuluwo in advance.


Again, he smiles in the pale blue light of those digital digits.



The Darkside is back.

April Fools And Other Fools

What is the purpose of April Fools Day? Now, don't go rolling your eyes at me! Think about it: is it simply a day where we are all licensed to lie, cheat and swindle? Hardly sounds like something to celebrate, does it? And if it is an excuse to test your skills of 'foolery' out then is it really advisable to do so when everyone on the entire planet is expecting it? I am tempted to google the story behind April Fools Day but I'll leave that to my more research oriented readers to figure out.


I have hardly every pulled a really note-worthy prank on April 1st, though that's probably due to the reason that I generally pull one out when even I least expect it. However, I doubt I'll ever forget the 1st of April 2002. I was in the first year of college, and it so happened that one of our friend's birthday was the next day. Since it was exam season, we were compelled to put our books aside and put our minds to more practical use. By 1030pm, we had surreptitiously put all the clocks on the entire floor forward by one hour, and at 11pm we got the entire floor to turn up at his doorstep screaming "Happy Birthday!" (accompanied by the usual string of expletives). Needless to say, the boy was completely confused and totally unprepared for the traditional birthday thrashing that is so famous in our hostels. After a good half hour of kicks and bumps and what-not, we all shook hands with him and told him it was still April Fools Day, and that we were coming back in 30 minutes to repeat the whole ordeal again! The poor soul was dumbstruck with disbelief, and could only prepare himself for the encore by wearing 7 pairs of underwear. Yes, seven, and we know this because we counted while we removed them off of him. Don't ask.


In other news, the job hunt is in such a deplorable state I wouldn't be surprised if I was more successful searching for life on Mars. My little notebook in which I write down the posts for which I have applied sits on my bedside cupboard with an aura of mocking bemusement, as week after week I fill in another couple entries while noting the prior failed applications. However, I am not entirely to blame for my current state of unemployment.


Perusing the ads in the papers can be a rather enlightening experience if you analyse it. I have already mentioned earlier my confusion at the number of decent jobs available to school leavers and O/L pass students, but recently I have noticed another twist in the tale. Not only are companies looking for school leavers for all sorts of 'executive' positions, but now they want them to have work experience as well! How is someone 'between 18 and 22 years of age' supposed to have 'minimum of 3 years experience' in marketing, advertisement and/or management?? The same can be said for technical jobs. I doubt you'll find a single individual in the country that is under 25years of age and has '5 years experience in pipe laying and electrical conduit maintenance'! I thought joining university at 17 years was quite young, but apparently these days the average 17 year old has already completed his secondary and tertiary education along with CIMA and a 2 year course in nuclear physics!


Happy April Fools Day indeed - the jokes on me!

Century: Looking Back

In commemoration of my 100th post, I thought I'd put up what is probably my first ever attempt at writing an article. I stumbled across it a few days ago and it seemed an apt way to bring up the century. Back in 2005 I was in college, and a friend of mine from the journalism college asked me if I'd like to write an article for the guest column of their bi-monthly newspaper. The paper was circulated within the university campus and was used as a training exercise for the post-graduate students of the college. Now, I've never been asked to write an article before, and I was naturally elated at the idea. So after a lot of draft posts and many complaints about me spending too much time on it instead of my studies, this was the end result.


So here I am, returning to hostel after a hectic and furnace-like day. I live on the second floor in the farthest corner of the building. On my roomward journey, I am struck by the familiar cacophony of music, sound and expletives. By the time I reach for my keys, I have already absorbed all forms of verbal abuse in at least 10 languages, a host of musical styles ranging from Boyzone to Black Sabbath, and some cheering from the TV room. As I sit on my bed, my first reaction is to reach for the remote control of my stereo and press the magical button marked 'play'. It seems ironic that after putting my auditory faculties through such a strain, I choose to flush my system with my own form of audio abuse. It was then that I got to thinking - why does music play such a big part in our lives?


No matter what age, race, class or sex, people are exposed to music from a tender age. Be it our parents singing lullabies or some dumb toy that plays a nursery rhyme when you wind it, music is one of our earliest sensory experiences. Growing up, we may choose to take interest in music, in artists, styles etc. By the time we hit our teens, each of us has distinguished some corner of the musical world that we identify with. It is quite common to find teens sharing music, ideas and opinions with each other, and now with the help of television and radio, a person has a world of musical knowledge at his fingertips.


But my question is, what is the big deal? What is it about music that can drive us to listen and sing along with it over and over again? Is it simply for pleasure, or is there some other more subtle appeal to it? Is our musical preference based simply on public opinion, or how 'cool' a group/singer is? Possibly. Perhaps we all need some place to start from. But where do we go from there?


Now don't get me wrong. I am not trying to be philosophical about this! But no one can deny that we do sometimes use music to either express or reflect our own emotions or our own character. Be it heartache or happiness or a plain "I hate you!", I am sure you can find some song, some tune, some chorus or some line that mirrors that emotion. Not only is music a vehicle for us to express our emotions, it also has the power to induce them. Simply put, sad songs make us sad and happy songs make us happy. We all have our own anthems, however small or insignificant they are. For example, how do students in MIT face sessionals month after month, with close to no preparation at all? Simple, for as their anthem screams, "In the end, it doesn't really matter!".


Well, maybe I'm going out on a limb with my last example, but it conveys the meaning that I am trying to impress. Music has a deep control over our innermost thoughts and emotions, processes that many learned men before us, and possibly many men after us, will never fully understand or decipher. And perhaps, that is its strongest appeal. Man has always been fond of mysteries, and surely there is nothing more strange and amazing than the mysterious way in which music speaks to our souls, soothing and stumulating at the same time.



To all you readers, thank you for your comments and opinions - they are all greatly appreciated!


Cheers!


G

Welcome To The Darkside

I'm sure that while getting here, at some point or the other your brain would have registered the fact that this blog is titled "Darkside Daily". Next, your brain notices the black and white layout, the dark clouds etc. Then you may or may not notice the profile picture, the little black Batman-in-shadows picture. Then, through no fault of its own, your brain proceeds to 'deduce'. "Aha!", your brain tells you, "this guy sounds evil! I bet he's a tall skinny guy, with an evil countenance, a hip flask and a total badass attitude! He probably wears only black, has a ponytail and a beard, listens to Pantera and rides a black motorcyle with a flaming skull insignia on it!" And so you start reading, with the expectation that the content of the blog will reflect this mental image that your brain has so astutely assembled for you.

But wait? Christian music? A post about love? Videos of a headless piano player??

So then you set about writing comments about how I am some sort of charlatan for duping you into this little misconception, but really, is that my fault? Isn't it possible that I have a form of deep psychological issue wherein the colour black makes me feel 'whole again'? Perhaps other colours in the spectrum remind me of some traumatic kindergarten incident involving crayons??

Alright, perhaps I am stretching it a bit. Either way, I think it's time I explained the Darkside movement. Many moons ago, I wrote a post about my reason for blogging. However, I don't think I've ever mentioned where the whole 'Darkside' came from.

That story starts in India, when I went to join university. The place where I was studying was basically a student city, as it was filled with various different colleges and offered various programmes from engineering to medicine to hotel management and even - wait for it - jewellery management (don't ask). The two largest campuses belonged to the medicine and engineering colleges, which were often at odds with each other. The church I went to consisted of mainly medical students, and there was a friendly (and sometimes not so friendly) rivalry between the medical and engineering students.

You see, the medical students were considered to be intellectual book worms that spent long hours either in the hospital or in the library, speaking a language that could not possibly be English. Most of them were rich, and a large percentage were Indians who had lived in America all their life, thus turning them into identity confused individuals with loads of cash and annoying accents. Besides, being a medical student also entitled you to certain rights, such as the use of the 'doctor' aura which is accepted around the world as a way to walk with your nose a little higher and also entitles you to free parking. And don't get me started on their lab coats!

The engineering students on the other hand were different. They were generally not so affluent, neither were they as sophisticated as their medical counterparts. Instead they were into fighting, partying, smoking weed, blasting loud hindi music, cutting class, cheating on exams and generally being total idiots. Good natured, intelligent, practical idiots, but idiots nonetheless. Add to the fact that the engineering campus was considered to be somewhat alien territory to the medical students, and you may see where I'm going with this.

So among my church going friends, I was a bit of an outcast to begin with. I had subjects none of them had heard of, was involved in activities and labs that none of them could relate to and I had absolutely no understanding of any medical jargon they happened to use in conversation with me. However, instead of feeling alienated, I somehow revelled in being different. I'm not usually the kind of person that likes to stand out in a crowd, but for some reason, I enjoyed the aura of mystery and wrong-doing that was handed to me simply because I was an engineer. Engineers just handled problems differently, and whenever I mentioned an alternate solution they would say "Oh, that would only work in the Darkside...!"

Society celebrates people that speak their mind, but there is a subtle catch. When I look around, I find that the people that are 'outspoken' are all saying exactly the same thing; so really, what is the point? It has almost become fashionable to be cynical about everything under the sun while at the same time we are ruthlessly tolerant about other things. Yes, apparently being part of the 'minority' is also fashionable! We like to label ourselves as people that 'call it as it is' but really, is being a total jackass part of the job description? Having a hope for the future or for the present is just a bit too 'Dave Matthews' and not enough 'Dave Navarro' for us, so we turn into these venom-spitting 'rebels' that believe in values simply because it's the 'in' thing.

Being part of the Darkside doesn't mean you're against everything from celebrities to celibacy for the sake of image. I call it the way I see it too, but I'm not an idiot about it. When my medical student friends complained about the lack of preparation time before an exam, I used to suggest selective study and writing long elaborate answers to confuse the examiners; I didn't suggest burning down the exam hall and parading naked in the streets in protest against examinations.

Bottom line: it's time to change the world. But perhaps, it's also time we change the way we 'change the world'.

Animal Love

She tries not to wake me, yet somehow I hear her as she enters the room. Trying not to move, I glance at the clock to see the time. “Dammit,” I think to myself, “She’s coming to bed at 6am?!?” She pauses at the foot of my bed, checking to see if I’m awake. I lay completely still, and after a few moments of silence, she slowly crawls into bed, treading carefully and making no sound at all. Again, she pauses, probably to decide the most comfortable position to sleep. She settles for snuggling under my arm and placing her head gently on my shoulder. She breathes softly, and part of me knows that if I stay silent any longer she’ll be fast asleep within seconds. However, the other part of me was much too annoyed at being woken up so early, so I turn and face her.

As soon as she senses my movement, she jerks her head up and looks at me, guiltily. I look straight at her, my face a mask of disapproval as I channel all the annoyance of being woken up by her into my expression. She looks right back, impassive, yawns a little, and says –

“Meow?”

“Dammit Speedy, it’s six am! Go sleep in ma’s bed!”

I can see her black tail whisk in the semi-darkness; she’s glad I’m awake. I make a bit of space for her and offer a bit of the sheet, and she curls up in it within seconds, purring all the while. Mom hates when I let her sleep up near the top of the bed – something about cat fur causing asthma. But what can I do if we have a cat that’s so pampered she sleeps with her head on the pillow?!

We’ve had Speedy for 8 years now. We got her with her mother, Erica, who was a pure bred Persian. Sadly, Erica passed away a few months ago at the young age of nine, leaving Speedy a somewhat muted and lonely cat.

I was never much of a person for pets. It always seemed like something that only looked good on TV but not in real life, a bit like every exercise machine in the market. The idea of a person bonding and forming a human-like relationship with an animal seemed too Disney to be true. I know it sounds terribly irrational, but then again, growing up I didn’t have any friends that had pets, so I suppose it was an understandable misconception.

What exactly qualifies an animal to be a pet? Sure we have cats and dogs, and the odd Chihuahua, but is that it? Apparently when I was 6 years old, my parents gifted me a parrot. I ignored that bird so much, that out of sheer desperation it took to daily working on the bars of its cage with its beak, until finally, in true “Great Escape” style, it literally flew the coop one evening when no one was watching. I didn’t miss it at all – it was a bird that kept squawking, how could I miss it?! I also know a person that kept snakes as pets. And I don’t mean in cages, I mean me-casa-es-su-casa-slither-all-over-the-place pets.

When I was in India this time, someone I knew was planning on gifting a golden retriever puppy to his girlfriend for her birthday. Till the big day though, he was going to keep the pup at our place. She was only 6 weeks old, and she was the most hyper-active thing I’ve ever seen! She’d run around like mad for about 45 minutes, then suddenly stop dead in her tracks, pause for a second, and collapse in sleep. However, the poop that was appearing everywhere prevented me from really considering her more than an over-done birthday present (seriously, gifting a puppy to a girlfriend is the equivalent of giving her the keys to your apartment - and that can lead to this!). Either way, that all changed one night when she woke me up at around 3am. She was crying and yelping and as much as I tried to ignore it I couldn’t go back to sleep. So I trudged to the hall blindly, and I soon as she saw me she came running, barked a bit, ran around me, and promptly flopped on my feet. Before my sleep-numbed brain could process anything, she had passed out.

So there I stood, for about ten to fifteen minutes while this ball of fur slept peacefully on my feet, and – believe it or not – my heart melted.

Perhaps that’s why we have pets. Many of us can attest to the fact that the world forces us to numb ourselves to almost all emotion, because today’s generation has been taught that the only way to get ahead and be successful is to be cold blooded and ruthless. And in such a world as this, perhaps it’s heartening for us to come back home to a ‘person’ that is unbiased, fair and honest. Perhaps, just once in a while, it’s alright for our hearts to ‘melt’.


HOWEVER – fish are by far the most ludicrous and bizarre ‘pets’ a person can have. By far. Fish are for fish fry, nothing else.

Weight Issues

And so I'm back. It feels good to sit in the familiar surroundings of my room, with my computer and my music playing, as opposed to the annoyance of sitting in dingy cyber cafes with their cramped cubicles, horrendous machines and nerve-frying Hindi music, which is what I've had to endure the last three weeks.

Of course, the last three weeks have been far from unpleasant. I had a total blast, right from day 1 of landing in Bangalore. Even though I had managed to keep the date of my arrival in India somewhat of a secret, I was pleasantly surprised to be bombarded with texts within an hour of landing at the airport. Good news travels fast. So does bad news though. Let's move on.

I'm not going to attempt to give a detailed report of my trip, instead let me just summarise by saying that it involved lots of quality time with my bro's, my sistah's, and a certain someone. As my time in India drew to a close, I looked back and couldn't believe that I had managed to squeeze in so much in such a short time; I felt as if I'd spent three months there and not three weeks. I have to disagree with Elton John here because 'goodbye' (and not 'sorry') is, in my opinion, one of the hardest words to say and one of the hardest acts to actually carry out.

As I boarded my flight for home in Bangalore, I was in a foul mood. First of all I was leaving behind some amazing people, some of them probably never to be seen again (well, for a long time anyway). Secondly I had slept only 4 hours after somehow managing to drag myself out of bed at 530am to make it to the airport in time. Thirdly, I had some drama before checking in my luggage. Yes, the airport never fails to provide some entertainment for me. Yay.

Usually when I return from India, I always end up carrying loads of food stuff, sweets and other Indian delicacies back home for the family. Hence even though I had gone with just the bare minimum amount of clothing (DeeCee, control yourself) my bags were loaded!

So I toss my bag onto the weighing thingy at the check-in counter and hand over my passport and ticket. The man looks at the scales, frowns, and looks back at me. "You have excess luggage" he says. I look at the scales myself. Sure enough, there it was in bright red on the display - 26kgs. "You are only allowed 20kgs on this flight, sir. I will have to charge you for 6 kgs excess weight". Now I've been travelling for years, and I know the drill. Sure, 20kgs is the limit but usually they're flexible and let me through as long as it's below 30kgs. Just my luck to run into Mr. By-The-Books.

So he asks me to put some of my luggage into the hand luggage bag to reduce the weight, and I say I doubt I can manage that because there's food items in that bag. Suddenly his eyebrows shot up, and he says "Sir! You cannot carry food items on the plane!" I explained that it was just chips and nothing bottled e.t.c., but he was adamant. "Sir, NO FOOD!". Now, my mom loves me. She does. But if I turned up at my doorstep with only myself and my clothes, she would have burned me alive. No, correction; she would have set me on fire, and just before I passed into the light she would have put the fire out and then sent me on a plane back to India to get her stuff. And THEN she would have burned me alive.

So I take my bags back to the seating area and start repacking my bags. I tried stuffing the food items in the check-in luggage bag but most of it would have got destroyed, so it was hard to manage. In the end, after close to 20 minutes of packing and repacking, I took my bags back to the counter. Before I went to the man though, I asked two airport officials about this 'no food in the hand luggage' nonsense and both said that there was absolutely no problem taking the stuff on the plane. Needless to say, I was simmering inside as I dropped my bag onto the scales again. We both look at the numbers - 23kgs.

"I'm going to have to charge you for 3kgs sir"

I looked back at him. I thought about beating him to death on top of his precious scales with the 5kg aata flour bag I had in my luggage.

"You have GOT to be kidding me", I said. "You're going to charge me for 3kgs?!?"

He then gave this long defensive speech about how it wasn't his fault, and that he personally WANTED me to get on the plane, but 'rules are rules' and yada yada yada...

"Look, are you going to let me through or not??" I started flexing my right hand and prepared myself to rip through my bag for the flour bag. Somehow he must have sensed this and he agreed to allow me through this time, as long as 'next time' I was more 'careful' because I won't be this lucky again. I wanted to tell him the same thing.

But that wasn't all. Just to make things worse, after emigration stamped my passport the security went through my hand luggage and called me to a side. "What's this?" the man asked me. I looked inside.

Rats. I had forgotten about that. My friends had gifted me an expensive Ferrari Black perfume for my upcoming birthday just before I left, and in my haste I had forgotten to pack it into my other bag.

"Perfume, sir" I said. (Weak smile)

"Is it more than 100ml?", he asks.

I turn it over and say a silent prayer. It hits the ceiling and comes right back.

"125ml, sir" I say (weaker smile).

"Sorry, can't allow".

So long story short, I had to run all the way back to the check-in counter, plead with the guys there, and then allow them to check in my precious hand luggage with the perfume inside. I watched the bag go on the conveyor belt and just prayed that by some miracle the chips and biscuits inside survived the trip.

So finally, I got on the plane. I sent messages to my friends, and sat back in my seat to sulk. But that wasn't the end of it. I glanced up and looked into the business class section of the plane. There, squeezed into a seat, was one of the largest and most obese men I have ever seen. The fact that he managed to fit in just one seat was a testament to the luxurious comfort that business class seats could provide to the more average sized individual.

And to think they were going to charge me for 3kgs of excess weight! Who's paying for his excess weight?!?!?!

Life is so unfair.

Check Check Check!

First of all, let me just say, the Darkside has reached India safely.

Secondly, what the hell?!

I've blogged about airport and other security before, but this just struck me as weird and I had to put it out there.

We know that air travel has become the most security filled exercise in the average person's life. The fact that you have to be there 3 hours before you have to fly is testament to that fact. Let's be honest, very few airports in the South East Asian subcontinent can boast of an airport that requires a 3 hour trek to get from one end to another. No, the time for check in is because of all the security checking, bag checking, ID checking, passport checking, visa checking, belt checking, drug checking, gender testing procedures that need to be done before allowing someone to get onto a plane.

But honestly, thanks to Osama's boys, I totally understand the paranoia. So I'm not going to complain so much about all the security and "oh-this-is-liquid-we-can't-allow-it-in-case-it-self-ignites-and-explodes" bull.

What I don't understand is, after putting us through all this nonsense, why do we have to be checked again after we land?!

Here I am, landing in the rather funky new Bangalore airport. Oh, I'm sorry, it's Bengaluru or something now - Bangalore was too colonial (talk about insecurity). Just when I think that they've outdone even our prized Colombo airport, I find a big line for the x-ray. Are you kidding me?? I need to be checked before I get OFF the plane as well?? Let's get this straight - in the minds of the Indian aiport officials, the terror suspects (me) are so devious and smart that they have somehow evaded all the security measures in the Colombo airport, snuck their lethal weapons (mp3 player) onto the plane, and then in yet another move of utter brilliance, decided to NOT blow the plane up/take plane hostage/set random people on fire, but rather sneak the device (mp3 player) OFF the plane as well!

And so, they set up the x-ray machine again. To catch me. If I was that dumb, then I should be arrested.

This reminds me off the time we went to Sweden. We went through the usual channels of security, and just before boarding the flight, we were confronted with a big white man. After a few seconds I noticed there was a little black man standing next to him, but he was almost invisible - such was the enormity (and whiteness) of his companion.

Just when I thought they were going to wish us a pleasant flight, they ask for my passport. Again?! Haven't we already done this?? But no, they were insistent. So we give our passports, and the little black man opens it to the visa page, and takes out a little magnifying glass and inspects the seal around our visa. After a few minutes scrutiny, he shows it to the abominable snowman, who grunts and allows us to pass.

Again, I am amazed. Instead of checking our visas at the emigration counter, they wait for us to get through all the other formalities, buy our duty free presents, remove our shoes and belts and nipple rings, and only THEN do they decide to check if our visa is legitimate or forged.


Someone explain this to me. Please. Anybody?


Next time I'm just taking the ferry.

Home

Wish I were with you, I couldn't stay

Every direction leads me away

Pray for tomorrow, but for today

All I want is to be home

...

People I've loved, I have no regrets

Some I remember, some I forget

Some of them living, some of them dead

All I want is to be home

...

In my short stint as a blog writer, I've rarely come across a mental block as bad as what I've been going through now. I've typed and deleted 4 draft posts in the last 24 hours alone! It's not really a case of not having anything to say, it's more like not knowing how to say it.

As usual when I'm confronted with this, I turn to music. And, more often than not, either the Foo Fighters or Incubus come to my rescue. In this case it's Dave Grohl's boys and their track "Home" from the latest album "Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace" (love that album name for some reason).

It's been said that home is where the heart is. Somehow that doesn't really help much, especially in my situation, because I don't really know where my heart is. The last 6 months or so have been interesting to say the least. I'm not the type of person to open out to just anyone, and so I have kept most of my personal musings to myself instead of exposing them on this blog.

This is a bit different though. In a few days I will be heading back to India, back to my college campus. I need to get some paper work done with regards to my degree, and if you know how things work in the Indian subcontinent, you'll know that the saying "If you want something done right you got to do it yourself" is not just apt, it's something of a motto for life. However, I'm not complaining. To me it's a golden oppurtunity to get in touch with some old friends and, most important, I get to finally spend time with real people instead of in front of my computer screen! (I know, how sad do I sound huh?)

Despite living at home the last 6 months, I've always felt something was wrong. Make no mistake, I love my mad family. I don't agree with them on everything, we have our fights and little hang ups, but hey that's what family is (or so I'm told). Despite how much I enjoyed the home cooked food and the freedom to flop in front of the TV whenever I feel like, the price I had to pay was that of being cut off from real people. I didn't have that many friends in school, and the few I did have are all out of the country, leaving the 'dark one' pretty much alone in Kandy. Of all places.

So my life has consisted mainly of jogging, gyming, listening to music and blogging. Sure the odd interview here, the odd trip to Colombo there, but all in all it hasn't been the most productive period in my life. The fact that i have still managed to spew out some 30 posts in this time is a testament to my ability to talk utter nonsense irrespective of the surroundings.

I have been looking forward to this trip for a while now. I know that this will probably be the last time I see them for a long time. In that respect, three weeks seems much too short a stay, but that is out of my hands. If anything, I've learnt over the last few months that when you get the oppurtunity to be happy, that you should hold onto it and appreciate it as much as you can, while you can - and that is exactly what I plan on doing.

Bottom line: Despite being at home for 6 months, I feel like I'm only going 'home' now. These people were almost like family to me during my stay in college. I have a fantastic array of anecdotes to tell involving them, and most importantly, they respect me for who I am. It's not often that people can boast of friends like that, and I realise how blessed I am.

Of course, there may be a beautiful girl with a gorgeous smile waiting for me there too. But I digress...

So Darkside Daily will be on hold for a few weeks. It seems to be terrible timing with regards to the blog, because my hit counter has been telling my very nice things regarding the increasing average hits per day. Still, I may get a chance to blog from there, so keep your 'darkside glasses' on.

Peace, take care, stay safe and remember to spread the darkness.

G