Work-life balance | Weekly Status Mail | 04 August 2017

Please find below the updates for the week starting on 07/31:

Temporal Processing Tool

• Continuing from the previous week, the current week also had its every passing day caught in its own strange rhythm 
• The mornings seamlessly flowed into their nights and the nights blended into their mornings. The input parameters for wall clocks were set to zero but still, the 'hour' hand seemed to follow a steep and consistent rise, as normally observed in the 'second' hand 
• Some of the key findings: 
• Facial hair was trimmed every couple of hours
• A cup of coffee was sipped every second minute 
• WhatsApp statuses of friends got changed every 20 seconds 
• Initial presentation to the stakeholders about the 'rhythm of the days''received comments as below: 
• A plastic token in a tiny eatery that keeps travelling from the bill counter to the parcel counter and back to the bill counter 
• Water in a fountain that keeps spraying out and seeping down the drain back to spraying out 
• A lift operator who travels to the top and to the bottom and back to the top 
• We plan to observe the patterns for the next two weeks before concluding that the ‘mundaneness’ metric has reached its tipping point 

Interpersonal Interaction Performance dashboard

• US toll free numbers dominated 76% of the ‘Most Frequent Contacts’ monitoring, Indian toll free numbers following with 14%, leaving a meager 10% to other personal contact numbers 
• In the ‘Most Frequent Messages’ word bubble, we observe that there has been a reversal in the first and second positions 
• Caught in a meeting.. Ttyl – 47% 
• Sorry for the delay in replying – 34% 
• Belated birthday wishes :) - 11% 
• Other responses - 8% 
• Microsoft Outlook emerged the clear winner in the ‘Most Active Mailbox’ monitoring, for the 7th consecutive week, with the heat map indicating that the most preferred time for mail responses is 12:30-2:30 AM 

Weekly task completion status

• We observe a radically different picture of the completion statuses of the official deliverables and passion projects 
• The statuses of the official deliverables promised this week resemble a satellite image of the Amazon rain forest, whereas the statuses of the passion projects planned for this week resemble a satellite image of the sun 

With the above mentioned updates, we are very happy to end another week with >100% productivity achieved towards improving the quality of work, continuing the trend of very little to no effort directed towards improving the quality of life.

We have refreshed the tool, dashboard and the status report in their respective locations. Kindly let us know in case of any queries.

Regards,
Someone torn apart by an equal love for work that pays and work that satisfies

Being a super villain

“There are four of us. We can either split ourselves into groups of two ninjas – red team and green team. Or we can have one super villain and the other three can be ninjas who fight against the villain”.
“Let’s play with a super villain. But what powers does the villain have?”
“Dai...He is the super villain. What other power does he need?”

This conversation was a part of the discussion my twelve-year old cousin and his three friends were having, ahead of their game. I was having a great time, overhearing this, from some distance. 

What was I doing?

I was helping another cousin – a nine-year old – ride a bicycle. She did not require much guidance and I felt that she considered my presence an unnecessary nuisance. Because every time a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler passed by, on the street, I grabbed her bicycle and did not let her pedal. The only reason, I guessed, she tolerated me was because her mother had warned her not to ride the bicycle without an adult’s presence and the adult (!) she had found the most jobless and the easiest to convince had been me.

As I stood there, looking at her pedal the bicycle with all her strength, I experienced a sense of pride. I was being a part of her initial steps towards an independent life. 

I imagined her life ten years later and it seemed highly possible that she would grow up to become one of the most beautiful girls in her group. I wondered how she would react if a guy expressed his love to her. I wondered what piece of advice I could give her, if she consulted me then.
What piece of wisdom can any person share about love?

I imagined her life fifteen years into the future and it seemed highly possible that she would drive herself to work. I wondered if on some day, as she was stuck at a traffic signal on her vehicle, she would try to recollect her early bicycle-riding days and how I had played a miniscule role in it. Would she laugh heartily remembering me grabbing her bicycle every time a vehicle passed?

As I was lost in these thoughts, I suddenly heard a high-pitched shout. I turned to see my twelve-year old cousin being punched by his friends. I was shocked and hurried to stop their fight. As I separated them, all the four boys gave me puzzled looks. 

“Why were you fighting?” I asked them, in as authoritative a tone I could put up. “We were not fighting. We were playing a game” my cousin replied, exasperated. I did not know how to respond and smiled sheepishly. 
“Do you want to join the game?” one of my cousin’s friends asked me in an excited tone. “Yeah! He could be the super villain!” my cousin immediately shouted in joy. “Please join us.. Please join us..” they started shouting. I tried to hide my happiness and pretended to agree just out of my goodwill.

“Awesome! You be the super villain. The four of us are ninjas. We will try to defeat you” my cousin explained the entire game and ran away to join his friends who were standing near a gate. A minute later, the four boys held the gate firmly and started shaking it. I was confused. After they stopped shaking the gate, one of them shouted, “Ninja mode full power ding ding”. Then they turned towards me and gave me a threatening look. I realized I had committed a grave mistake. 
A few seconds later, all four boys started running towards me and as they reached me, they screamed “Ninja mode attack ding ding” in unison and they started punching me. I did not have a clue as to what to do. The boys seemed to be punching as hard as possible and my cousin seemed to be extra-excited. I understood that I couldn’t continue taking their punches and screamed the first thing that came to my mind – “Super villain freeze ding ding”. The boys froze like statues. I let out a sigh of relief.

I then turned to notice my nine-year old cousin looking at me from her bicycle. I sensed that she had realized that I was no adult.
I imagined her life five years down the road. I wished, with all my heart, that she would not remember then the sight of me getting thrashed by four twelve-year olds.

Mini tiffin & Mini celebrations

When you walk on a dimly lit road after a nearly 12-hour 'work' day, a lot of thoughts fight for attention in your head. Even if the beautiful 'Tum Saath ho..'  from the film Tamasha is playing through your headphones. 
Thoughts about an article read in the morning. Thoughts about Deepika Padukone. Thoughts about the people who work all night to lay new roads. Thoughts about the client feedback for the day's work that would reach the inbox the next morning. Thoughts about dinner. 
Unfortunately, the last thought process almost always emerges the winner in grabbing attention. It has a loyal accomplice in the form of a grumble from the stomach which then sets in motion a recollection of all the vegetables and raw material available at the flat for cooking. 

Standing with the head bowed down in respect to the induction stove, allowing the fingers to play with mustard seeds/cumin seeds/turmeric powder/chilly powder/salt and adding the wrong ingredient in the wrong proportion, letting the hand holding a ladle to exhibit a hurried hula hoop dance to ensure that the dish does not get over-fried, thinking of every possible way to make the dish eatable when it goes awfully wrong (adding sugar to an over-fried dish helps!) - Only a bachelor setting out on a 'cooking' journey can testify to the strange joy such a process provides. 
Also, only the same bachelor can testify to the extremely large handful that every flatmate takes out of a dish (prepared for a single person) with the help of a very simple statement - "Chumma oru vaai taste thaane da paakren...". 
If you prepare a dish for yourself in a flat with 6 other flatmates, you will be the only person really 'tasting' the dish with a small handful of it. All others would be busy burping. 

Such a thought is never encouraging. 
Especially when you see a bright light at the end of the dimly lit road - the light originating from a popular and good South Indian restaurant. 
Finding a good South Indian restaurant in Bangalore is similar to finding an Indian engineering student who took up engineering because he/she happily wanted to. 

After you step into the restaurant, it would not be your mistake if you first notice the less-in-hunger-more-in-love couples seated all across the place. 
They would be seated so close to each other that you would want to snap a photograph and send it to the 'Fevicol' manufacturers asking them to add a simple tagline - Inaithidume Idhayangalai - before putting it up on a billboard. 

But to be honest, one does not really feel bad about not being in a relationship when the stomach is creating its own symphony.
Hunger is a good companion that way.

Idly, Dosa, Pongal, Vada - For some reason, choosing between these seems very difficult in comparison to choosing between a roti and a paratha and a naan. 
The Idly is as soft as a newborn's tummy. The Dosa is as thin as a butterfly's wing. The Pongal always is a little island floating in ghee. The Vada is so crispy that crunching it would wake up a corpse.
How do you choose?
It is never as easy as selecting a shirt in a textile shop.
And hence is available an option - Mini tiffin. 
You get an Idly. You get a mini Dosa. You get a mini Vada. And a spoonful of Pongal that would leave even a crow hungry. 
But why complain?! 
Getting a cup of sambhar with these that does not contain coconut or is not sweet is in itself a blessing. 
The sambhar served in the hotels of Karnataka have actually made me despise sweets.

But why go through such a word-struggle for a simple and heavenly mini tiffin?!
Well, it's not just about food. It never is.
After I finished eating, after I finished observing how one of the waiters kept looking longingly at a kaju kathli placed in the opposite counter, I washed my hands and walked out of the restaurant. 
As I stepped out, I saw a girl of about 8-10 years of age walking towards the restaurant with her mother. There was a wide smile pasted over the girl's face and her face was gleaming so much that she could be mistook in a Tamil horror film for being possessed by a spirit. 

I watched the mother- daughter pair. 
They stopped outside the restaurant. The daughter chuckled. The mother smiled. "Are we really eating here?!" - the daughter asked. The mother nodded. The daughter grabbed her mother's hand and swinging it wildly, she entered the restaurant. 
The restaurant did not just mean food for the girl. It was a celebration.

I couldn't help remembering my jubilant march, as a kid, every time my mother took me to a restaurant. 
I wondered why the celebration had departed me. 
The list of reasons that popped up in my head seemed lengthier than the Quality Checklists I prepare at office. 
Perhaps I needed to prepare a Quality Checklist for my life. 
The little things were getting missed. 
The very little things that make a life richer. The very little things so important in the grand scheme.

Being a Diwali hero..

When your aunt hands you a sweet and tells you, “Please accompany your cousin and take care that he bursts the crackers safely” with concern for her 9 year old son, you feel happy. Happy that you are being trusted as someone who can be relied upon for the safety of a kid.

When you accompany your cousin outside the apartment and see a group of kids already bursting crackers, you feel happier. What gives more joy than a group of playful kids?  

When one of the kids looks at you in awe and exclaims, “Whoa! You are really tall!”, you feel proud. The same way you feel when you board a crowded bus and notice that all the heads of the seat-less passengers are below you.

When your cousin looks at you and says, “Go ahead! You start with an atom bomb!”, suddenly you go numb. What did you just hear?!

When one of the kids from the group rushes towards you and says gleefully, “Do you hold the atom bomb as you light it? My elder brother always does that”, you feel anger. Anger towards all the overtly courageous guys who perform such acts and make life difficult for a normal guy.

When another kid immediately shouts, “We should never light crackers while holding them in our hands. My father has warned me”, you let out a sigh. Whosoever the father, let him have a long and happy life!

When you are guided by the kids to the spot where they have been bursting crackers till then, you see the infinite torn pieces of paper and get scared. Scared the same way when you are about to give a presentation on ‘How to treat a patient?’ in the presence of Gregory House.

When a kid places an atom bomb on a small stone slab and another kid quickly adds in a second atom bomb and says, “Hey! He’s very elder to us. He can easily burst two bombs at a time”, you wonder. Wonder if such guys later go on to become the friends who spoil a guy’s mental peace by provoking him that a particular girl has a liking for him.

When you are handed over a very small incense stick and you experience a disturbing feeling in your stomach, you get confused. Confused if the feeling is out of fear or if it is a result of all the sweets and savories that reside in your stomach, thanks to all your neighbors.

When you start running as stylishly as possible after having set fire to the 2 bombs and a kid shouts out to you, “Hello! You did not light them properly”, you stop frustrated. Frustrated the same way when you have packed all your dresses in all the available bags to their maximum capacity, before vacating your hostel, and the laundry-guy comes smiling, carrying 3 shirts and a pant to say, “Sir! See how clean your clothes are!”

When you finally – really – set fire to the bombs and start running again, your mind goes berserk. 

What if one of the bombs flies to hit you on the back of your head and you lose your memory? Why has your neighbor still not properly learned to prepare Mysore pa? Would the review of Thoongavanam be out by now? Why did the Chinese have to invent crackers? How difficult a job would it be for the Municipality sweepers tomorrow with all these cracker-papers? Why are you still running when the other kids have stopped? Why hasn’t the cracker still….Boooommm!!

-------------------------------------------------------ooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnn------------

When you turn slowly to see a smoke arising from the spot where you performed your heroic (!) act, your hearing returns to normalcy and you hear the jubilant screams of the kids. What gives more joy than a group of playful kids?

When your cousin hands you two more atom bombs and the other kids step aside to make you a wider way to the cracker-bursting spot, you decide to drop your heroic mask. You then suddenly notice a pretty girl watching the happenings from the balcony of an adjacent apartment and you get angry. Angry at all the courageous guys who make life tough for a normal guy.

Who said being a woman is difficult?!

Try being a man. At least during Diwali.

It literally hurts.

Huff. Puff. Fat. Fit.

From the day I properly understood all the tasks that my body could perform, I had never paid serious attention to my fitness. 
Except for a brief phase during my 4 year stay at college - the phase was one where my primary ambition in life was to impress a girl. A phase which when thought about now, makes me laugh more than I would for an episode of The Big Bang Theory.

I have never been a huge fan of any sport. I have had favorite sports personalities but I have liked them for reasons beyond their playing abilities. 
I have always liked watching a game being played rather than being a participant in it. 
Seeing a bowler deliver a short-pitched ball to a batsman coming forward has given me joy. Seeing a football midfielder fake a sprint in one direction before passing the ball in the opposite direction to the forward and assisting in a goal has given me joy. Getting involved in the processes hasn't. 
The sweat and the loss of breath and the bruises are as unwelcome to my body as the distant relatives who visit my home on the very day I and my mom plan to visit a place we had been wanting to go for a long time.

My head is my body. To put it down in simple words. 

And I have always been happy with this approach of mine. 
Or at least I was till last week when a kindergarten kid and a rubber ball shook the very foundations of this approach.

I prefer walking to my office in the morning. 
A bus ride from my flat would cost me only 5 minutes as opposed to the 30 minutes my walk takes up. But I prefer walking. 
Walking lets me think. Walking lets me notice. Walking takes me past a residential area where I get to enjoy the sight of kindergarten kids start to their schools.
A girl with a small fountain of hair bursting from an elastic band in the middle of her head, a boy seated on top of the petrol tank of his father's two-wheeler wearing his father's helmet, a girl whom I have always noticed to be asleep on her mother's shoulder - All these visuals help me through the rest of the day at office as I sit analyzing data and exceptions. 
Or at least they did till last week when a kindergarten kid and a rubber ball shook me apart.

It was like any other normal morning in Bangalore. The sun was out and bright but not hurting. A continuous cool breeze kept moving ahead on the roads irrespective of the stationary vehicles lined up for miles. 
I accompanied the breeze as I walked, thinking about a photo series that I had come across on Parisian floor designs. The thought process made me want to look down at the road I walked up on. With every step of mine, a new portion of the gravel road came under observation. After stretch after stretch of gray rocks, suddenly came rolling a tiny red colored rubber ball in my frame of sight. 
I stopped the ball with my right leg and picked it up. 
Looking ahead, I saw its owner - a small kindergarten kid struggling to escape from his mother's grasp in order to run towards me and fetch his ball. I quickened my steps to reach him and hand over his ball. As he took the ball from my hand, the kid smiled and then a moment later, added, "Thanks uncle!".

My world stopped.
Parisian floors and gravel roads vanished in a moment.
UNCLE???!
In the 21 years I have walked this planet, I have been called a lot of names by my family members and my close friends (many of which have been curse words!).
But never once have I been addressed by that term.
UNCLE!!!
It felt like I was being told on my college graduation day that the entire 4 years I had spent learning engineering had all been a dream and I had another 4 years of engineering ahead of me.
UNCLE!!

It took me an extra 20 minutes to reach my office that day. After I reached my bay at office, I placed my bag at a corner and rushed to the restroom. I positioned myself in front of the huge mirror that had witnessed the sleepless faces of many of my colleagues. 
The coffee-brown colored wall of our restroom with me at the center - This was what the mirror showed. 
I moved closer to the mirror. I scanned my reflection from head to toe. It would have probably been because of the tummy. I then turned sideways to observe how bad the protrusion of my tummy was. It's actually not that bad! It's nearly flat. What then could have been the reason? Still standing sideways, I moved few steps further to the mirror. A significant portion of the hair on the right side of my head had turned gray. So it should have been the gray hair! Yes! It definitely should have been the hair! I turned again to see the reflection of my entire body. I scanned again from head to toe. I concentrated on my face. I slowly removed my spectacles. A slightly blurred reflection of myself became visible. Do I look younger without the specs? I waited for a few seconds before putting back the spectacles on my face. And I suddenly noticed the beard. Oh! It should have been the beard! Definitely the beard! I slowly massaged the one-week-old beard. And then slowly I turned sideways. It would have probably been because of the tummy.

I decided that I had to change my lifestyle. 
Only green vegetables and fruits - nothing else. 50 sit-ups and 50 push-ups every day. 
I left the restroom a determined man.
"Let me begin today", I thought and locked myself in one of the empty discussion rooms in my office.   
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Huff. 6. Puff. 7. 8. Huff. 9. 10. Puff. 11. 12... 
And by 10 minutes, I had completed 50 sit-ups. I was already feeling younger. I then proceeded to my office cafeteria to buy a bowl of sprouts. 
The change had begun.

And I experienced the complete impact of the change the very next morning.
With every step I kept forward from my bedroom to my restroom, I felt the pierce of a knife through my thigh.
It took me 5 minutes to climb down the stairs from my flat on the first floor. 
It took me an extra 20 minutes to reach my office than it had taken the earlier day. And with the piercing pain I proceeded to my office cafeteria. 
I avoided the shop selling fruits and vegetables and proceeded to a North-Indian eatery and ordered a plate of poori. 

No more sprouts. No more sit-ups.
No more change.
I was fine with 'uncle'.  

Playing it no way!

(This is a post about a cricket match that has very little to do with respect to the match and instead puts forth, unnecessarily, the emotions of a Ennaku-cricket-match-TV-la-paarthale-moochu-vaangum-da guy who was forced to play the game.)

"En python script run aaga maatenguthu? Environment variable declaration correct thaana?"
"Sari. Bacteria ku essential genes paathukalaam. Virus ku enna panna porra? Papers refer pannaa thaan solution kedaikkum!"
"Enna da?! Comparative modelling mudikalaam nu paartha mudiyave maatenguthu! Pesaama molecular dynamics serthuruvoma?!"

In the midst of such statements, when you hear something that goes like this,
"Bat, stumps laan olungaa kondu vanthurunga da. Ball puthusaa irukkatum. Naanga laam rendu over thaangrathe perusu. Ungaluku oru oru over'um rendu ball potutu thanni kudikka innings break kekka porom paaru!", as a boy, you would be expected to jump in joy. 

What could be more joyous than the prospect of playing against your project guide?  

Honestly, I would type down a very long list that includes reading Kafka's stories, watching a Woody Allen film, listening to Rahman's music but there are certain things you promote tentatively to a higher position in this 'joyous' list when your close friend compels you to.
For instance - the game that continues to be played in 10 different but closely located pitches on your college ground with balls whirring past boys in trousers and scares you so much that you prefer to take the longer way to your hostel than being hit by a ball on your face as you cross the ground. 
Or simply put, Cricket.

When you are a person who is not talented in any of the three departments of cricket - batting, bowling and fielding - you would be waiting very patiently and happily as your friend explains the field setup to the entire team and discusses the bowling strategy. 
(The first indication that you have a match ahead that would be a whole load of fun would be when there is a serious explanation going on, "Nee inga long off la. You stand at long on da. Dai.. nee vanthu.." and one guy interrupts asking, "Mama! Intha T-shirt nallaa thaane irukku?!".)
The patient wait would obviously be for one reason - to have the last laugh at your friend for forcing you to play. But the problem of having a friend who has extensive knowledge on cricket is that apart from knowing the spots where a batsman would tend to hit the ball the most, he would also know very well the spots where a batsman would hit it the least. And there would be no option but to stand at a spot close to the leg-umpire and serve one purpose - help the leg-umpire with the names of the batsman batting and the bowlers bowling so that it could be jotted down in the plain paper functioning as the scorecard. 
Of course, when you have your team skipper standing parallel to you and shouting, "Jolly'aa nillu da. Eppidiyum naan'um ball vida thaan poraen.", it becomes a different issue altogether. 

As the match progresses and as every ball is being bowled, you would attain a hunched posture (the fielding posture one learns from television) with your right hand held horizontally above your eyelashes to keep the sunlight out of your eyes. And at some point during the match, as you bend down to attain the posture again, would come to your mind, flying, the image of your very old neighbor who would enter your home in a very similar fashion - in a hunched way with the right hand held above the eyelashes to direct the focus - and ask you affectionately, "Enna pa, nallaa irukkiya?! Innum college mudikalaya nee?!". 
So much so for saying that playing delays ageing.

After about 11 overs (27 extras would contribute to around 4 overs and of course, the highest scorer for the opponent team) of occasional passionate bowling and tremendously improvised fielding, you would sit down heaving a sigh of relief that you were never required to hold on to a catch. But very soon would start the next horror show. The batting.
You would have no choice but to sit silently amidst your teammates who would be having a friendly fight as to who would bat next. It is, after all, better not to ask for a chance to bat when you alone know the fact that when there was a cricket bat lying around in your house, it was used more by your mom for chasing away rats than by you for cricket.

And when circumstances help you out by not threatening you with a batting opportunity, there would exist no reason to not be happy. Especially, when the happiness is accompanied by the fun you had, trying to imagine in your head the Tamil commentary (as funny and punch-line filled as in the Tamil television channel) for the batting phase of your team till the end.
"Kavignar na vaarthaigal'a vechu velayadi thaan namma paathirukom. Aana intha kavignar bat vechu velayadratha paaka porom!"
"Puzhuthi parakka, manal therikka, ground la neechal adichu antha batsman run-out aagama irukka paatharu. Aana entha palanum illa!"
"Saatharna nayagan nu nenachaa intha kilee pachai bowler oru sagalakala nayagan'aa irukaare!"


Even when everyone starts dispersing after the match, there would not seem to be any overwhelming feeling. But only as you walk slowly towards your hostel with one of your Telugu speaking classmates, his sweaty arms around your shoulders, and his statement, "Romba naal kalchu velyadnthu. Totally tired aachu. But nallaa irunchu la?" in a modulation similar to a new Tamil heroine exported from Mumbai, would you start understanding the importance. 
And it would only begin to weigh you down more as you turn to look at the slightly visible golden tinged edges of the cloud covering the sun and your glance falls over a small group parading ahead in a hurried manner.

The messages that would later fill up your class WhatsApp group would provide the final touches and you would lie down on your cot with two important realizations:

• You have been part of something that would not be forgotten so easily.
• If something similar happens another time, it would be intelligent of you to opt out of the team and act as the Tamil commentator instead.

"Vala vala nu pesa mattum thaan theriyum nu nenachom. Aana Annamalai padathu la varraa maari 'Vetri nichayam' nu jeichutu poitaanga professors team. 'Vayasu aanalum vegam innum koraiyala'ngra punch dialogue inga naan solliye aaganum!"

Pig-face and Pacha pullu!

(This is a post written with the sole aim of tickling a person's funny bone. Not even an iota of offense is directed towards the language Tamil - I truly respect it - or the commentators mentioned below who do a commendable job of taking the sport to a larger audience.)

Being a guy in his early twenties and not being a very enthusiastic lover of cricket can put you in an isolated spot in any major city/town of India, let alone an engineering college. Especially when you have the ICC Cricket World Cup in progress, almost every statement that comes out of a guy’s mouth in an engineering college would revolve around cricketing statistics/cricketing teams/cricketing advertisements/cricketing anchors and when you want to not be a part of such a group, there are fair chances that you might be considered an alien who had been made to land at Rajasthan.

****

A case in example:

One of my friends in a regular WhatsApp conversation asked me last week if I was looking forward to February 22 and I replied that I had been waiting for this month's 22^nd for a pretty long time. He asked me who, in my opinion, would win and I replied that a victory for ‘Birdman’ would make me happier but ‘Boyhood’ had a pretty good chance of winning after having been shot over a period of twelve years ('Birdman' actually did manage to win - Hurray!). It was only in his next message that contained a few 2 syllabled and 3 syllabled Tamil curse words that I understood that he had been talking about the ODI match between India and South Africa whereas I had been talking about the Academy Awards. And after I explained him the confusion, his next message read “Periya ulaga cinema*@$&* ivaru! Feb 22 na naan match pathi thaan pesraen nu unnaku therla?”. When having to deal with such situations, you need to be very careful with your next reply. If you fail to be so and send a reply explaining in detail that Academy Awards actually deal with American cinema and not world cinema per sé, there is no use complaining later for a message that you received from your friend which if typed here would amount to two entire lines of special characters.

****

Being in a hostel when a cricket match between India and Pakistan (or any opponent, for that matter) is played makes things much more worse. You would be a happy person only if you did any of these two:

• Join the group in your hostel that is watching the live online streaming of the cricket match and keeps growing in size by a member every 10 minutes, shouting and hooting, for every ‘boundary’/’sixer’ an Indian batsman scores and every wicket the opponent team looses  
• Sign your name in the ‘Out-Sign’ register of your hostel and board a bus to the nearby town to explore its streets (which would most likely be empty due to the match, making it more convenient)

If you decide to do something other than these two options like deciding to stay in your room and watch a documentary based on the 21 years of filmmaking of Richard Linklater, you are very likely to get an expression from your hostel-mates (who step into your room to get an update on the score they had missed while having lunch) which is an equivalent to the one your mother would give when she catches you eating a handful of paruppu saadham that had been given to you to feed your 3 year old cousin. And of course, you would not have a choice but to give your hostel-mates the same sheepish smile that you would give your mother conveying indirectly that it was your first handful.

Caution also needs to be taken while drinking water on such days at the hostel as you never know when a sudden cheer might erupt from the match-watching-group that would make you spill the water on your face, especially into your nose, which might lead to your making a ‘pig-face’ for the next one hour.

Having been daunted by such threats, when you decide to sit down and watch a cricket match between India and South Africa on the television at your home and try to become a cricket lover (saying people that cricket does not matter without Sachin does not seem to have the same impact it had in the first half of 2014), the unexpected might actually happen, at least when the match is being watched on a Tamil channel with the commentary in Tamil.

“Pitch’a nallaa paarunga. Anganga evalo pacha pullu irukku nu paarunga!”  – when this is the statement that you hear as the game begins, would you be tempted to abandon watching the game? 

You would have gotten an unexpected incentive to watch it instead.

After all, where else do you get to hear Shikhar Dhawan called ‘Victoria maapilai’ and Imran Tahir called ‘Ulagam suttrum vaaliban’?

And as the match progresses and Shikhar Dhawan hits a ‘sixer’ and a ‘boundary’ on consecutive balls, you make it a point to remember the shots to mention it proudly to your friends at college as a validation to your having watched the game which is only made more easier by the commentary that follows – “Namma aalu ippa semma veri la irukaaru paarunga. Avaru bat ku bathil aruvaa, kathi vechu vilayaaditu irukaaru! Last ball’a aruvaa vechi velaasina maari velaasi thalinaaru. Intha ball’a chinna kathi vechu theetra maari wicket-keeper thalaiku mela theetitaaru! ”.

But if you believe that you have heard the best, you would be absolutely wrong. Because, the best would come about 30 minutes later when a commentator would say “Minaadi mega mootama irunthuchu! Aana ippa veyil nallaave adikka aarambichuruchu! ” and the other commentator would try to joke saying that “Neenga sariyaa sonninga! Aana minaadi mega mootama irunthathuku oru kaaranam irukku nu nenaikaren. Indian innings paakanum nu megangaluku ku kuda aasa vanthathu thaan athukku kaaranam. Athaan Indian innings mudinja odane megangal marainju veyil adikuthu!”.

#Respect #AbsoluteRespect

#PinnitingaPonga #KiliiKiliiKilii

#Awestruck #Dumbfounded #Speechless #Flabbergasted

(If not for hash-tags, how else would you describe such statements?!)

Anyways, after 3 more hours filled with memorable statements like “80,000 Indian supporters minaadi South African batsman’ku kannu maraika thaan seiyum, kaadhu adaikka thaan seiyum! ” and “Soodu patta poonai maari egiri gudhichu antha batsman defensive shot aadinaaru! ” leading to stomach-aching-laughter and occasional face-palm moments, the match would end and you would make note of the scorecard carefully in order to vomit it out during the discussion amongst your friends at college.

But as you keep trying to get the scorecard into your head, a painful thought might strike you – How nice would it have been if Tamil commentary had been facilitated long back?

It would have given you a reason to love cricket in addition to Sachin.

It would have, more importantly, saved you the pain of having to suffer from water being accidentally poured into your nose.

*@* - Try holding such a face for an hour. You would probably understand the feeling. 

Emotional pot-boilers!

"A book, film, or other creative work produced solely to make the originator a living by catering to popular taste" - This is the definition given for the word 'pot-boiler' on the internet. 

But the pot-boilers I am about to discuss have a similar as well as an additional meaning - "Creative work that make people forget their pots that remain boiling (and eventually spill out) on their stoves."

If you have not yet picked up what this post is about, I would be happy to lay it down plainly - Tamil tele-serials!


The following account describes an episode of a tele-serial I was forced to watch as I sat down for lunch at my home one fine day.

An old man in the tele-serial had been informed that his son-in-law urgently required an operation for his damaged kidneys that would cost a few lakhs. The old man, whose family belonged to the lower-middle class, had been shocked hearing it from the doctor and had left the hospital, devastated. 

I honestly admit that I was a bit intrigued as to what would follow. And, to my utter shock, this is what followed.

The old man came walking down a road as slowly as possible. A melodramatic music started playing. The camera showed, primarily, the left side of his face. Then a shot with the camera before him showing his entire face. A shot followed showing the right side of his face. And finally a long shot showing him walking down the road. I was surprised for a moment at the way the cinematographer had tried to effectively convey the old man's emotions when it all began again. Left face. Entire face. Right face. A long shot. Repetition to probably stress the character's emotional state, I thought. And it happened again, the melodramatic music reaching its peak. Left face. Entire face. Right face. A long shot. And the character started speaking to himself, not worrying about the helpless situation but instead, literally - and I stress this to the maximum, literally - started narrating the incidents that had happened in their home from the çommencement day of the serial to the present day. 
Seriously?! What the hell?!

And having mentioned 'repetition' and 'emphasis', the one aspect of the Tamil tele-serials that drives me totally crazy is the so called 'close-up shots'.

Most of the families in these tele-serials have a considerably large number of members. And if a happy event occurs (which is quite rare) in the family, the viewer is guaranteed to be subjected to two full minutes of 'close-up' torture where a close-up shot of every single member of the family is shown. The mother is happy. The father is happy. The son is happy. The daughter-in-law is happy. The sister is happy. The younger brother is happy. The elder brother is happy. The grandmother is happy. The maidservant is happy. 
Fine!! We get it that every single member is happy!! Move on!!
And if a sad event occurs (which is close to every episode), the viewer is guaranteed again to two full minutes of 'close-up' torture of the family members' sadness.
And the one thing that never fails to miss out in any of these 'close-up' torture scenes is that in the occurrence of any happy event, the entire family would be happy except one fat aunt who would be twisting her lips in frustration and in the occurrence of any sad event, the entire family would be sad except the same fat aunt who would be smiling a cold,evil smile.
Seriously?! What the hell?!


With the increasing availability of foreign tele-serials in a very easy manner, I find a lot of my friends, here at college, dismissing Tamil tele-serials outright. And they wouldn't be wrong since every tele-serial that comes out of the foreign land (especially the United States since 'foreign' automatically relates to the U.S. to many) - be it The Big Bang Theory, be it Breaking Bad, be it House of Cards, be it Homeland, be it Da Vinci's Demons, be it Suits, be it Orange is the New Black - represents a different genre varying from science-comedy to crime to political to espionage to historical to legal to prison drama whereas every Tamil tele-serial that comes out here falls under one simple genre - Heroine's struggle.

The role of a tele-serial is often undervalued in our state, perhaps even in our country. The tele-serials have the great responsibility of entertaining (and if possible, educating - which I would say is mandatory) every family that watches them together, in the comforts of their home, giving it a status equal to a family member. But most of the Tamil tele-serials fail to do so sticking to the so called pot-boilers with a self assurance that families - women in general - prefer emotional dramas.

In spite of having had experimental and yet successful predecessors like 'Marma desam', 'Balu Mahendra'vin Kathai Neram', 'Veetuku veedu looty', ' K.Balachander's Sahana', the Tamil tele-serial makers hesitate to switch to different genres/storylines. I wouldn't call for an extreme leap to the science-comedy genre as in The Big Bang Theory or a CIA operational thriller as in Homeland. But why not set more tele-serials in a rural milieu? Why not showcase the life of women attached to the gangsters of North Madras?  Why not set a tele-serial with the Koyambedu market as its backdrop - if the marketplace does not buzz with life and stories, I don't know which other place does?! Why not try a tele-serial based on the so culturally rich Tamil history? Why not showcase the lifestyle of a local tribe like the Toda tribe settled near Ooty? 
The stories (even the emotional dramas which can be handled in a different way) that suit the taste and sensibility of the Tamil audience lie aplenty around us.

But then, I guess a significant part of the blame should be directed towards the settle-for-the-average audience as well. A maker, after all, caters to the general taste of the audience. When the viewers begin setting their standards high and the general taste surpasses the mundane 'evil aunt-struggling heroine' banalities, would the maker have a choice other than resorting to newer and higher forms of storytelling?!

And discussing the general taste of the audience, I remember a conversation I recently had with one of my friends. We had been talking about films and for some reason, the conversation had moved towards television and had landed on the now cult-status-attained 'Mahabharatham'. 
Though I had had reservations earlier (a result of the memory etched watching the many over-the-top mythological serials telecasted in DD national when I was a kid), I had changed my opinion and had developed respect for the serial as it had made 'our' so called Eminem-listeners and Gucci handbag-wearers sit back and notice one of India's greatest legends.
And so, I asked my friend eagerly as to her opinion on the serial. I expected a comment about the Kurukshetra war or the Pandava/Kaurava clan or something related to the story. But her statement stunned me. She said, 
"The guy who plays Duryodhana - with his free flowing hair and well toned physique - He is just too damn hot!"

Seriously?! What the hell?!  

Madras Bashai

(Warning: The post contains many Tamil statements typed with English alphabets sans any translations. So, please do not proceed further if you have no prior knowledge of Tamil or Madras Bashai)

I wanted to type up this post for 2 main reasons. One, Madras (the film). The other, a very short yet very memorable encounter with a flower-seller on the morning I reached Chennai (I had gone home for my study-holidays).

Madras fascinated me for various reasons. The fact that a director had had the guts to make an immobile, non-living thing – a wall – as a character as important as the protagonist, the fact that Santhosh Narayanan seemed to be growing with every film (especially his background scores), the fact that Karthi, after a slew of headaches, had finally acted in a film with a story worth boasting were some of them. But the one main element that really gladdened me was that every single character in the film spoke Madras Bashai. I tried to recall a recent Tamil film that had its female lead speaking all the lines in Madras Bashai and except for Aishwarya (she was actually not the female lead but the closest to one) in Aaru, I couldn’t come up with any.

But then, this post is not an analysis as to why Tamil film female leads are always made to utter the dumbest of lines and wear even more dumb designer clothes. No. This post is a tribute of sorts to my tryst with Madras Bashai.

Studying in one of Chennai’s premier schools has a lot of pros. But of the few cons that it has, everyone around you expecting only (posh) English to come out of your mouth is an important and a terrible one.

“Machi! Ethuna panniye aavunum da. Kandukka kuda maatraa!”, “Sappa matter da! Onniya problem illa! Nee free’aa voodu!”, “Inna thaan da prachna intha Chemistry vaathiyaanuku? Varra gaandu la book eduthu padichiralaam nu thonuthu!” were dialogues often heard in my school-gang circle. And when a friend repented because of a girl, the pain was expressed in its entirety, not by ‘It hurts me a lot’ or ‘She is slowly killing me’ but through a poetic “Novuthu machaan, novuthu! Avalukaandi evlo senjiruppen?Ippa mattum innavaan da?!”

The slow march as we crossed another premier school, on our way to the bus-stand, in order to catch a glimpse of the girls there during when most of my friends would have their mouths wide-opened and would require a comment like “Aiee chiii! Moodu vaaiya! Nallaa aaaa’nu Anna Arch maari!” to close it still lingers clearly on my mind. Certain passers-by would wonder among themselves, quite loudly, as to how ‘local-language’ guys like us were given admission into premier schools like ours. And a quick “Dho daa! Soltaaru Shakespeare maama paiyan!” would fly from our side. Those slow marches and retorts, when thought about now, tend to abase me a bit but they also do infuse me with laughter when I realize that none of it was intentional.

The Madras Bashai that I practised stopped with my school and school gang. But its existence was/is always felt and cherished with certain unforgettable characters I came across/come about in my Chennai life.

How could I forget the tall and rude conductor with the totally worn out leather-pouch inserted under the armpit shouting at a deaf old man:
"Aie perusu! 5'ovaa vechikinnu laam T. Nagar pova mudiyaathu! Aerri varra sollave paaka maatiyaa nee thuttu keetha illaya nu? Pee pee uthikinnu ilichavaayan irupaan nu nenappa unukku?!"

(For which the old man would very politely reply, “Aama aama. T Nagar thaan! Oru ticket pothum.”)

How could I forget the old vegetable vendor at the marketplace near my home who would jump into a fit of rage at the sight of a customer breaking the tips of ladies-fingers:
"Yamma! Nee un paatuku udaichikinnu poiruvae. Naan bonee panna venaan? Venun na vaangikinnu vootla poi udaichi paaru ma!"  

How could I forget the fat barber at my regular hair-saloon who would welcome me with a huge smile and would spread the same old white cloth (the same one for the past 5 years!) over my body and tying it tightly around my neck would sprinkle water all over my head and begin speaking, looking at my image in the mirror:

“Regular cutting thane?! Appalika bossuu.. 2 maasama aalaye kaanum?! Vera ethuna A.C. kadai paathukiniya? Unnakaandi speshaal cutting laam paanikuraen. Maranthuraathe bossuu..”

And of course, how could I forget the old maid servant, at my home, whose face would give birth to a very strange expression if I roamed about while she was sweeping the floor:

“Kannu! Kootinu irukka solla thaan 4 thabbaa ippidikaa appidikaa poviya? Anga engana poi orama kunthu.. Kooti mudicha apaala suthiko!”

Apart from these lines and these characters, Madras Bashai also has to its glory two main features – first, the way it mixes English words amidst local Tamil words giving them completely new dimensions and second, the curse words. I wanted to dedicate an entire paragraph to the curse words since the beauty of Madras Bashai cannot be fully described without the curse words. But I guessed that it might accidentally offend anyone kind enough to give this post a glance and decided against it.

Anyways, coming to the giving-new-dimensions-to-English-words part, I guess there wouldn’t be a word that would have assumed more meanings possible than matter. One of my most favorite English words – more so in scientific terminology (especially with the words dark or anti preceding it) – when thought of in Madras Bashai terms sure does invoke uncontrollable laughter. And so do scene, film, show, party and many more.

Moreover, among the various dialects that exist in Tamil Nadu like the Thirunelveli dialect with its elai, enna la nee’u and makka, the Coimbatore dialect with its endra, undra and aenunga, the Madurai dialect with its vanthaainga, ponaainga and vechu senjitaainga maapla that apply slight modifications to the regular norms, Madras Bashai stands tall with its very own gaandu, bejaru, meiyaalama, takkaru, galeeju, attu, mokka, kasmalam, apeetu, sokku and of course, the now popular mersal. 
(And by "its very own", I only point to the immense popularity and the stronghold of the Madras Bashai terms and not to the words' roots because it seems, after all, kasmalam is derived from a Sanskrit word and mokka from a Burmese one. )

And I guess I would probably go on but the rumination already seems to have become quite lengthy and I guess it would be better to conclude with the second reason behind this post.

It was about 5:30 am as I got down at my stop from the bus I had boarded at CMBT. I had to walk for about 10 minutes to reach my home from the bus stop. And I started walking towards my home, earphones inserted and “Yun hi chala chal rahi” from Swades playing. Being one of my favorite songs, I kept swaying my head to and fro as I walked and for a moment, I got so immersed in it that I forgot to look around before crossing a junction that a few seconds later, I stood dead on my track, my eyes widened, heart in shock and the front tyre of an auto-rickshaw about 2 centimeters from my left leg.

As I slowly retreated a few steps, removing the earphones, the auto-rickshaw moved forward and shouted a voice from inside:

“Yov saavugraahi! Nee vulunthu tholaikka en vandi thaan kadchithaa?”

I stared at the driver blankly when a voice from behind me, to my utter surprise, shouted:

"Aan aan..Ivaru vandi thorai vootu vandi! Ivaru vandi la vula'kaandi thaan thavam kedakuraanunga! Mappu la nee vanthukinnu antha pullaiya aegurriyaa nee? Moothevi! Moodikinnu poda!"

The auto-rickshaw driver gave a nasty look at the lady who had shouted and drove away. I looked at the lady, a flower-seller, and not knowing what to say, I mumbled feebly, “Romba thanks aunty!”

She looked at me and looking at the earphones in my hand, she said:

"Atha maatikinnu innathuku naina roat'la varra? Onnu kedakka onnu aana inna pannuve? Kanda kanda bemaani kaila laam pechu vaanganuma ippidi? Vootla poi atha maatikinnu kelu, mandaiya aatu - inna venaa pannu. Roat'la venaa naina. Inime kaandi paathu iru!"

And she started sprinkling water over the flowers arranged before her. I thanked her again and started walking, now very careful of the vehicular movement on the road with the earphones deep inside my pocket.

As I neared my home, those statements of the flower-seller still kept ringing in my ears and as the statements kept playing continually, I couldn’t help smiling.

Anger and affection couldn’t have been expressed more beautifully in any other dialect/language than it had been, by the lady, in the Madras Bashai.

Madras Bashai meiyaalamave top-takkaru maamu!!

Leg-less ghosts, Einstein and Genomics

"Whoa! How big a lock hanging from the door! What would probably happen if I hit the examiner on his head with it?"
"How could someone possibly carry a pink colored bag?"
"What would be the dinner at the hostel mess today? Try remembering from the menu! Try hard!"
"How could Nazriya agree to marry someone like Fahad though he is a good actor? She definitely deserves someone younger and with more hair, perhaps!"
"Wow! The girl sitting nearby seems to be good at drawing. She also seems good looking. Why don't I borrow her eraser? I could return it with a smile and start up a conversation later probably. Do it! Don't do it! Do it! No! Do it! What would she think? It's just an eraser! Do it! No! Do it! Oh darn! She has completed the exam!"

These were a few among the hundred thoughts that were occupying my mind as I sat in the exam hall today, completely clueless to the bullet that had been fired at me in the form of 'Genomics and Proteomics' question paper.

I generally find many people panicking the moment they realise that they are not aware of the answers for the questions asked in the question paper. I honestly find this reaction of people baffling. It might sound weird but my happiest moment after receiving any question paper would definitely be the moment when I realise that I don't know most of the questions, let alone answers, that have been asked in the question paper which occurs very often in my case. 

The reason I get excited - I can think about anything I want in the exam hall, without a single person questioning me, because exam halls are meant for that, aren't they? 

Normally, at any other place, when I keep staring pointlessly thinking about some random thought, people always question me as to what I am thinking about. And when I reply that it is just some useless thought, they never agree. Should a person always think only meaningful thoughts? Most of the thoughts that crowd my head are completely random and meaningless. And I enjoy it most of the time. Thinking about Samantha and moving to Siddharth and travelling to Surya's 'Michael' via Aayutha Ezhuthu and jumping to a student revolution in the political arena and reaching communism to finally end at Che Guevara - doesn't the train ride of the mind seem fascinating?

A similar train of thought blew my mind as I sat in the exam hall today. As I looked at the question - 'Explain in detail about the human genome and its contents' - my mind began to wander imagining how I would feel if I came to know about the diseases that I would be facing 20 years later if my genome sequence could be completely examined and analysed. And for some inexplicable reason, my thought process shifted to AIDS (completely weird, right?) and as I kept thinking about AIDS, the train automatically reached the station of Matthew McConaughey. As a few scenes of his fantastic acting as an AIDS affected electrician in Dallas Buyers Club ran past my mind, 'True Detective' stuck me like a lighting bolt. And as I kept recollecting some of Matthew McConaughey's thought-provoking dialogues in the series, the thoughts came to a halt at the 'M-Brane theory' explained by him in a fabulous scene. For a few minutes as my mind kept circling round and round the 'M-Brane theory', it suddenly took a leap to the 'Superstring theory' and as I thought about the 4 fundamental forces, the thought process gradually shifted to the 'Space-Time continuum' and Einstein's statement hit me - "Gravity is the glitch in the space-time continuum". As the statement kept reverberating, along came Matthew McConaughey's dialogue from the series - "Souls in the other dimension generally see time as a flattened parameter and not a linear one as it is supposed to be" and as these two statements combined along with the Space-Time continuum and the Superstring theory, an unexpected revelation hit me. If gravity was the glitch in the Space-Time continuum and souls in the other dimension could view time as a flattened parameter, could the Space-time conundrum be resolved probably for the other dimension and most importantly, was the 'gravity-glitch-in-the-continuum' the reason behind our Tamil filmmakers showing ghosts without legs in most of the horror films??!!!!

My mind went blank for a moment. And as the thoughts started crowding again, I thought about the revelation I had had and thought about its magnitude. After a moment of self-appreciation, I couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh. What a scientific explanation for the 'ghosts-without-legs' phenomenon!

And as I controlled myself from laughing out loud in the exam hall, I looked down at my answer sheet. It was filled up to halfway with an answer for a two-mark question. I read the answer I had written. And I couldn't control myself from letting out a chuckle.
The answer seemed absurd than my thought process!
For a moment I thought about how my professor would feel when he corrected my answer sheet and an endearing warmth filled my heart.

And I placed my pen on the answer sheet to write down another absurd answer. But I stopped. Who cared about the answer? 
I started my thought process again. I wanted to see if I could probably get the answer as to why Tamil filmmakers placed a mole on the actor's face when they wanted him in disguise!

The thought process is still in motion.

Spicy Capsicum Biriyani

From my grandmother’s diary:

Ingredients:

Onion – 1

Capsicum – 2-3

Beans – 5-6

Carrot – ½

Potato - 1

Garam masala – 1 tea spoon

Salt – ½ - 1 tea spoon

Garlic- ginger paste – 1 tea spoon

Chili powder – 2 ½ tea-spoons

The most important ingredient – One good-for-nothing grandson

Procedure (Never ever follow this):

Before you wash your vessels and get them ready to cook, wake up your good-for-nothing grandson who is busy watching Alia Bhat’s Offo number for the nth time and ask him to help you. He might first try to give extremely silly reasons to avoid coming to the kitchen to help you and when he does so, please do let him be and never ever call him again. Because, if you do, you might regret it for the rest of the preparation.

But unfortunately if your grandson agrees to help you, never ever start by giving him a carrot. If you tell him that half a carrot is required, there is a very high possibility that your grandson might bite and eat away half the carrot and try to hand you the other. If this occurs, be clever enough to drive your grandson out of the kitchen. If you allow him to stay further, be prepared for the worse.

As you give your grandson the cut pieces of the red, green and yellow capsicums and ask him to cut further, please take care that he is really indeed cutting them. Because there is a very good chance that he might be trying to cut and arrange them in such a way as to bring out a ‘vegetable face’. And amidst all this, as you sincerely try to peel the onion and as a few tears drop, please don’t lose patience if your grandson tries to crack one of the worst jokes you have ever heard about the onion-tears.

You finally realize that your grandson is no good with vegetables and decide to just give him the simple task of adding tea-spoons of salt and chili powder. But before giving him the task, do make sure that the fellow is not messaging someone on his mobile. If you fail to do that, you will notice after a few minutes that instead of the 1 tea-spoon salt and 2 ½ tea-spoons chili powder intended, 2 ½ tea-spoons salt and 1 tea-spoon chili powder would have been added by your distracted dear grandson.

Even after all this, if you somehow manage to stop yourself from driving your grandson out, kudos to you! But if you are one of the very patient ones still managing to seek your grandson’s help, you might probably decide that the only thing your grandson could probably help you with might be in the decoration process and might hand him over the cashew nuts so that he might carefully break them in halves for the decoration. But while handing him the cashews, please be sure to mention to him that they are for the decoration and needed to be broken into halves carefully. If instead, you hand him the cashews thinking he might understand the purpose and get busy in preparing the dish, your grandson might leave the kitchen with the cashews only to return a few minutes later to say that it had been a long time since he had eaten cashews fully.

At that point, you lose your patience and finally apologize to him for having called him to the kitchen. He might say that he could help further but if you don’t want to throw the entire dish you are preparing into the trash can, please do drive him out. For the next half an hour, it is up to you to lessen the effect of the extra-added ingredients and increase the effect of the missing ones. Eventually, as you finish cooking the dish despite your grandson’s ‘very helpful’ efforts and go to his room and serve him the dish on a plate and ask him to taste it, you might get such a comment:

“It’s really good but it could have been a bit more spicy.”

Don’t lose your patience. Just smile politely and ask back the plate and add about 3-4 tea spoons of chili powder and hand it again to him. Few moments later, you might find your grandson rushing to the refrigerator and pouring water in his mouth like he has crossed the entire stretch of the Sahara desert.

‘Revenge is best served cold’, they say. But sometimes, when occasions present themselves, revenge is also best served hot!