Riddhiculously Yours!!!!

DKD is my prof from college. The following is a small part of my conversation with him. Only later did I realize that sometimes overtly commonplace conversations can be extremely hilarious. DKD was trying to recall the name of this very good friend of mine. He did not succeed in recalling her name but in the process discribed her in ways that perhaps suit Riddhi very well. Expression was the Literary and Debating Society in College. Alongside is Riddhi's picture.

DKD: Tumhari English Hons wali dost kaisi hai?

ME:(Looking lost) Kaun si dost Sir?

DKD:The woman who was always with you and was a very good freind of yours.

ME:(visibly stunned thinking does he know about me and Mhk) Sir many women were good friends with me.

DKD: Arrey wahi jo staff room mein hamesha rehti thi.

ME: Ankita, Maddy, Vaishali?

DKD: No no. The one who walked with a sense of purpose all the time.

ME: Sir can you be more specific.

DKD: Wo jo chasma lugati thi!

ME: Sir bahut saare log chasma lugate they!

DKD: (looking pensive) Wo jiske baal bikhre rehte they.

ME: Bahut se loogon k baal bikhre hote they Sir.

DKD:(Almost frustrated) Arrey wahi jo "Pagli" si thi Expression mein.

Me:(laughing hysterically) Riddhi.

DKD: Haan Wahi...Where is she?

Mess!!!

Why would you want to call it the Mess? I mean really!!! I have always wondered and in the process I have managed to use up quite a bit of my free time (not that I am seriously busy anyway). It is the last place you would expect to find in a mess adhering to the fact that people eat in a Mess. A place that can ill afford to be in a mess.

Such was the gravity of the question that I submitted my self to its investigation for hours at a stretch. It was one of the more perplexing questions that I had encountered in a long time. After much perseverance I have somewhat managed to decipher the code in question. I may be grossly off the mark but allow me to conjour up the answer for it is one that befits the situation at MSE and the timing of the discovery of the answer emaculate.

The discovery of the answer was even more breathtaking. I woke up one morning feeling a little wiser and probably a little more enlightened. With long white locks and white whiskers that reached his stomach an elderly man looking quite young for his age appeared in my dream.Such was the radiance of his face that I was nearly blinded. However I remember his baritone clearly. He told me that there once lived a man in the middle ages who had perfect foresight and is credited with the discovery of the word Mess. Before he could finish his story the alarm went off. I woke up feeling wiser, now i had one vital piece of information that had the calibre of answering my question. I put much thought in to the fact that the man with perfect foreesight had coined the word Mess. After hours of contemplatation, rumination and a little confusion I arrived at the answer. It seemed to fit the bill just about perfectly and also its timing was perfect.

I figured out that the wise man had forseen that a boy would be born in God's own country. He would dawn the name of the Gods but his conduct would put the demons to shame. This boy would then grow up to be a bigger demon and then run a catering service in the sleepy suburb of Cheenai in an institution called MSE. This catering service would be one of its kind. It would not only earn the ire of the inmates of MSE but also defame the South Indian cuisine. This would not entail the food being bad becasue it is South Indian but becaue it would be very badly made. The choices that this service would offer would be a little different, a choice of not what one wants to eat but what one wants to avoid more.

Ramdasa's catering, in all its philanthropy, would intend to serve humans but the even the cows would refuse to eat the uttapam from this catering service. To top it all rice would be served with slimy looking, white harmless, well cooked worms. The management of the kitchen would be in harmony with nature, cockroaches would have full access to the refrigerator and the storage. The water cooler would be well protected from an invasion of flying insects with a series of cobwebs serving as the first line of defence and King Spidy would over look all assults on insets and humans alike that dared to infiltrate the boundaries of the water cooler. Ramdasa would be the Indian manifestation of Shylock-miserely, unscrupulous and clever. He would be allowed to steal water from the cooler with the help of King Spidy, his close accomplice. The curd rice would be Ramdasa's secret weapon against the inmates of MSE. With a liberal use of chillies, far more than what humans would like to eat, he would often prove a point. The dosage of Sambahr rice would so good that even the ice cream would taste like it. All in all, this would be a perfect Mess!!! One in which one had to be there to fully undertand that the origin of the word, for the first time in history, was not in the past but in the future. God bless the man with foresight. He gave us subtle hints, it's a pity we could not see it coming.

When I Died

The light is fading away, and dusk is approaching.
Flickering and unsteady the light goes out………
A story has ended, a lifetime spent.

Wails, cries and frantic howls.
In a state of possession she sits by my side.
Can not be comforted by any aide.
Too shocked and stunned, he can’t believe
His son has taken his last worldly leave.
Never to come again and never to go away.

He had never imagined; he would see this day
On his shoulders he carries me away
One last hug; her momentary comfort
Smell of incense and some holy chant
I enjoy the ride on my father’s back.

A pile of wood and a river near by for the common good.
I am laid on it, on top of me some more wood.
His eyes are teary and red,
He can’t see I am cozy and comfortable on my bed

I am set ablaze, like a stone he watches me burn,
Soon it will be somebody else’s turn.
Hands, legs and torso turn to ash,
And the rancour odour rising from my burning flesh.

From the material into the sublime
I pass, and it’s time.
They go back and try to forget in vain,
They knew that I would never walk at home again.

Another tear, another cry
No smiles and another sigh.
Dull, dark and grey all around
Not even the shadow of joy to be found
The birds don’t sing, nor do the flowers bloom
The music also never plays at home.

I go near and try to comfort her,
All I manage to soothe is air.
In different worlds we live, but yet I care,
She is my mother; I can’t touch her, is it fair?

Now the sun never rises for it never sets,
The air is soothingly warm; I go to Him on his behest.
On a new journey I am sent.

A bud on my own shrub, I blossom and I grow
The caressing wind pushes me to and fro.
Another tear in her eyes, she holds me close to her
Now I feel her comforting touch, he watches us.
In dazed silence he takes her away,
Quite aware, this momentary reunion is here to betray.

My days are done again,
It’s winter, fury the winds gain.
Blown away am I
On the cold earth I lie.
Withering and wilting
Pismires are also working
And it is the time for another journey.