HIVy League

It all happened on a day I was feeling particularly thirsty. Dehydrated to my core. How I wish I could say it was the side-effect of popping a certain alphabetical pill. But in my case, it was the cured shark I'd eaten after a brief culinary misadventure. It was bought from a native shack from a popular market, as a spur of the moment indulgence. I'd also asked the shopkeeper for cooking instructions before bringing it home.

Now I'm not usually a bad cook, and mostly, just the way the food looks and the aroma it gives will tell you how good it is. 

After cooking, the shark actually looked fine, with the right amount of glaze and did I even detect a sharp undercurrent of the sea? Well, the latter intuition wasn't quite off the mark because when I put the thing in the mouth it tasted like a fillet...........of salt.

I was supposed to soak it in water for about 8 hours, the part of the instructions I'd completely forgotten. But seeing there was nothing else to call dinner, I chose to face it rather than go hungry .

And that's how I got dehydrated. Even two days after that fateful meal, I was gulping down water like a camel in the Gobi. When it continued till the third day I rushed to the doc, carrying a bottle of mineral water in one hand.

The little clinic I went to was a poor man's clinic. The doctor wasn't even there. But when my turn came, I found myself sitting uncomfortably with my mouth wide open to this man who looked nothing like a doctor. He didn't even talk like a doctor; in fact he wasn't even a doctor, as I found out when the apprentice addressed him as compounder saab.

I then suddenly remembered the real reason I'd chosen this clinic, of all the others in my neighbourhod. That hot nurse who looked at the patient with a look of contempt while taking the blood pressureP? But it probably was her off that very day.

I'd just let out a wistful and regretful sigh, and the next thing I remember is a flashlight probing the depths of my throat. The compounder hadn´t even bothered to ask me what was wrong.
"I've been feeling very thirsty." I managed to gargle-warble.

After much inspection and nodding and shaking of head, the man started asking me stuff, with an intonation that suggested he was clearing his throat to spit. He asked me a whole bunch of questions, but still couldn't figure why my thirst persisted. He noticed that I was constantly taking sips from my bottle even while talking to him.
So, his ingenius mind had a plan.


Him: "Is your merij done?" (sic).

There were around 13 other patients in the room, who could hear everything and everyone in the clinic - from the rising and heaving chests to the old woman's crackling bones. So he probably meant marriage, and his question, although very innocent at first, was actually quite loaded.
You'll very soon know why.


Me: "Well, no I'm not married. "
Him: "Hmmm. Have you done anything phhun?"
Me: "Fun?...mmmm, well...a lot of things actually. Drinking, playing the guitar, listening to music, watching sitcoms, going out. Yea, quite a few things."
Him: "Hmmmmm...yes....ok...hhmmm.........yes.....Dhiruuuu....give patient HIV test."
Me: "Huh? What? I mean, excuse me....???!!

But before I could protest, I was whisked to the waiting room, where an attendant stood gleaming with a giant syringe in one hand, ready to draw the blood that was quickly draining from my face.

It cost me some 300 bucks. To see two tablespoons of my blood being whirled around in a little tiffin box, so as to separate the plasma. I liked the sound of it initially. Plasma in my blood and I didn't even know it??

So the plasma then goes into this little pregnancy kit, which has HIV written in big block letters. And that's how I figured it wasn't a pregnancy kit.

A line means I'm ok. Two lines and I'd be joining the big league of celebrities like Michael Jordan, Freddie Mercury, Derek Jarman, and what have you. Sometimes, an extra line is all you can pray for not to appear. There there, I was also beginning to sound like Chuck Palahniuk.

Anyway, Dhiru and I were sitting and waiting for the results to show when I began to wonder what was worse - a positive pregnancy for a 20-year-old responsible adult or HIV+ for an equally responsible adult.

When, very hesitantly, Dhiru asked me whether I'd been up to some fun stuff lately. I didn't know what to say. As if the compounder's incompetence to suggest an HIV check for something as simple as dehydration wasn't enough to make me livid.

Dhiru: Don't worry. If you know you haven't done anything, what's the problem?" (sic)

The idiot couldn't see that the furrowed rows on my face were caused not by worrying, but by disgust, and possibly anger.
Me: "Yea, but I think there's been a mistake. I came here to find a treatment for dehydration. Why the fuck am I getting an HIV test done?"

Dhiru: Good news. Negative. You are not HIV+."(sic)
Me: "Ok man, but will anyone please check my real problem? I'm so fucking thirsty!!"

Dhiru: "You know, your plasma is yellow colour. How many cigarrettes you smoke?" (sic)
Me: "What...? Well, I've cut down to three a day."

Dhiru: "Ahaa..so that is the problem. Just stop smoking three cigarettes a day. You will not feel thirsty again." (sic)

Me: WTFFFF...are you fucking insane? Between HIV and cigarettes, you idiots have no brains? 

Of course that's what I screamed in my mind, but anyone who observed my facial expressions for even a brief second would have no doubt heard the mad and loud clanging inside my head.  

Dhiru: "Please pay 100 rupees at the counter for only checkup. Compunder saaaaaab, patient is not HIV+." (sic)

The Magical Mystery Tool

The picture has nothing to do with the story below. So why is it here, you ask. Well, it's one of the cooler pictures that I've taken, that's why.



Till fairly recently, I was under the impression that just because a biographer has taken the pains to write down someone's life-story, it must all be true. Maybe having picked it up from the non-fiction section of the bookstore had a role in forming that seemingly innocuous but cunningly deceptive opinion. Moreover, if the object of a biographer's affections is not a popular personality, chances are you may have only one source to get all the lowdown on him or her.
But of course, not that having half a dozen bio epics written about someone is of any help either. Every author will claim that the meal he's cooked is closest to the truth. It's author A's word against author B's.
For the longest time, after having read Albert Goldman's "The Lives of John Lennon", I thought I knew enough about the Beatle-founder.
The picture Goldman paints of the Beatle chief is that of a neurotic caricature in a musician's clothing. He takes away the terribly sensitive humane side of John and replaces it with a pathos of vengeful hostility. Goldman says - look here's a man marinated in his own pride. He's this weak-willed, fearful, unnecessarily controversial, perpetually paranoid domestic despot who despises everyone in his house, including his own son, and prowls about in his ivory tower nude as a newborn.
Further, with such cogent insights that would baffle even the most dense lyric interpreter, Goldman says "Imagine" is actually a parody of the impossibility of the song's 'apparent' wishful thinking. He devotes a major chunk of his energies into proving that Lennon was a bit of a madcap posing as an avante-garde artist.
Oh and by the way, the malicious intentions of the author didn't occur to me at all while reading the book.
Only after reading Philip Norman's "Shout" did I find out that Lennon was quite normal. A genius nonetheless, but without those quasi-evil traits that Goldman was talking about.
In fact, Lennon had quit smoking, gone back into making music after a 2-year hiatus and was all set to start life afresh at 41. In his own words, "40 is the new 21".
The funny thing is, both Norman and Goldman don't get too far from each other while describing the events that happened on Lennon's last day on earth. Goldman's account shows a musician who had become so useless in his last days that his only concern was tucking his son in bed. Norman paints a man who for the sake of his wife's music career dons the hat of a househusband as well as an album producer.
Later I found out how Goldman had pulled a fast one on Yoko, making use of the widow's trust and hope for a sincere biography. In "Shout", when Norman confronts Yoko on why she hadn't denied those accusations thrown at her by Goldman, she says there were too many questions and that she couldn't have answered it all by herself. However, the evidence that Goldman had distorted the accounts of some close acquaintances of Lennon helped Yoko's case, and by extension, lent cerdibility to Norman's.

I was more inclined to believe in Norman's version.

Till Norman recently came out with a new book that claims Lennon was gay.

Curious incident of the twitters in the morning

In my house, there are three critters. The tiniest one screeches for my attention the moment I'm awake, begging for some serious head-pat and ear-rub. The three-sizes-larger critter nudges me with his paws the moment I've put my feet on the ground, thinking it's going to fetch him some beluga caviar for breakfast.
The third (and the largest) critter keeps me awake all night with constant advice on how and why I should sort my life out.
One day, the tiniest screecher went missing. I didn't find out that so soon because the day she went away, something strange happened. It may or may not have anything to do with her disappearance.
I was actually enjoying the moment of morning bliss, when the sound of a deep guttural screech just cut through my head and woke up the irritable beast in me. I was awake, but my eyes refused to open, as if too scared to see what the brouhaha was about. After all, the screech I was expecting was a pretty faint one, after having heard it everyday for the last one year.
I squinted just in time to see three-sizes-too-large sitting and making jarring sounds in the corner, just like his little counterpart. But the little furry companion was nowhere to be seen. Truth be told, I was more intrigued about this sudden inexplicable behaviour, than angry at being woken up in such a frightful manner (the screech was loud enough to scare the nightmare I was having away). There was no sign of the little one, and three-sizes was still uttering those maniacal sounds. Hmmm, still thinking.
I looked at the (largest) twitter lying next to me. She was sleeping serenely, hair forming a bedhead that would have made even Marge Simpson envious. Anyway, bedhead or not, this was serious and so I had to wake her up. I shook her a couple of times. The response was, to be honest, quite freaky. Usually, she'd cuddle up and ask for 5 more minutes or a cup of tea to be brought to the bedside. And I would happily oblige in either case. Today, she just lifted her hand... and even as I was dreading this bizarre freak of nature, started pawing me as if expecting breakfast.

(Note: The above instance took place (and was immediately written about) in the early hours of the morning, when reason and sanity take flight to leave behind a figure of mass confusion)

"It was the most disgusting night ever."
"Not that I could help it; I just didn't expect things to go this far."
"Yea, well there is nothing that can be done about it now."
"He called me. I had known it coming for some time now, so I didn't quite bother to think it could involve something else too."
"I picked up the stuff and went straight to the place we'd agreed to meet. I got suspicious when a friend of his called on the way. She said her place was very close to the one we'd originally planned on meeting at, and that he and I were free to come over for coffee and cookies."
"Seemed harmless, so I agreed. Her place was quite nice, but something seemed to suggest that it was all a facade."
"There were two others too, who I hadn't expected at all. I thought it was going to be just him, me and her."
"But that was not to be. One of them, as it turned out, was her flatmate. Dark auburn hair, with contrasting light eyes. And a body that was as fit as it was delicate. Innocence that could turn you on. The other one was very old. In fact, too old to be hanging out with us. I noticed the smirk when she shook hands with me. And I didn't bother to respond to her phoney pleasantries.
I took my coffee and dunked the cookie in it, hoping it would start a conversation with the auburn-haired beauty.
When it didn't, I picked up one of the pieces of paper lying on the table. It had the word SCISSOR written on it, in big bold letters. And a crude drawing of something that looked like it. I asked her what it was for. I saw a wry smile dart across the old hag's face. Even before I realised that the woman I was talking to wasn't listening, she jumped and sat on my lap. It wasn't that I didn't protest. What came out of my mouth didn't sound like one. She told me they'd been playing an extended form of Scissor, Paper and Rock. Except that along with these three articles, there were also Man, Woman and Devil. The rules were quite interesting, even though a little too comprehensive. Man writes on paper, hurls rock and exorcises devil. Woman tempts the man, writes on paper and uses scissors. Devil tempts the woman and is immune to rock and scissors. Simple rules, simple game. Would you care to join us for a game? I saw this as the only way to get her off my lap. I said yes.

Abstract jolt from the blue

The other day I was listening to Andrew Bird’s Fake Palindromes. It struck me that it was quite a simple song. Just 4 chords, on a 6/8 beat with some intricate finger picking. On the guitar I mean, although he does something even more complex on the fiddle.

I liked this song at the first listen itself. It has all the ingredients of a powerful, punchy track, but the beauty of it is that it doesn’t come across as one. Well, maybe the surreptious wail of the violin mellows it here and there, but musically, its soul is not too different from that subterranean gem "Rebellion (Lies)" from one of the best exports from Canada -Arcade Fire. Don't get me wrong; both songs pay tribute to two entirely different aspects -the former actually sounds like a palindrome in parts, although I'd allow that only in a figurative sort of way. The latter sounds like a clarion call against any kind of propaganda. But I think there is some common territory when you compare them musically. I know there is some cloud around what exactly that is, but it could have something to do with the music both artists have been influenced by.

Come to think of it, Bird seems to be America’s answer to the Canadian baroque outfit. Both use elaborate techniques for a multiple-layering of sounds in their albums. Bird does it through of clever manipulation of gadgetry; Arcade Fire do it live with as many musicians as the track recorder can afford. The result is the same- a dense wall of sound that slowly builds up with incessant clangs and turbulent melodies.

That said, it'd be really interesting to see both the artistes perform together. Come on, is it that difficult?

Disgrace
One of the disadvantages of being in India is that you can enjoy the independent music scene only vicariously. Not for us the luxury of watching an Andrew Bird concert. Instead, we’re left with no choice but to listen to the umpteen electronica acts that take up most of the dates in gig calendar. Not that I have a problem with that; electronica is thriving in India, but sometimes you can’t help wish The Raconteurs were playing their next gig here. Or that Radiohead would at least express a wish to tour India, and be touched by the fan following they certainly seem to be unaware of. Or how about The Flaming Lips? I’d give an arm and a leg to be in a Lips concert. I’d even kiss Wayne Coyne’s feet Timberlake-style, or even the entire cast of Arcade Fire, (Win Butler included, although he smashed up a guitar in a bout of angst-induced juvenile outburst after performing Intervention live), even though none of them are worth $125 million.
But instead, I have to undergo the humiliation of having to plead with the manager of a popular nightclub to let me in to watch a multi-sensory act, the prospect becoming increasingly distant because I certainly don’t have “above 25” written on my face, or even an ID to prove it.
So I’m left to do what has now become the only incentive to go to work. Downloads. Yes, thank god that India is not internet isolated. But coming to think of it, I don’t think any country is. So that doesn’t put us in any advantageous position. Other countries are way ahead of us economically, technologically and musically. Ah who the hell cares! I just console myself with the fact that even if any act comes here, they’ll do what every other international act does; give a merciless ear to our live-concert-deprived ones and go to South India.

My Bloody Valentine

I'm a little worried about the recent developments. Boka has become quite a rogue. He has started attacking without provocation. But that's not exactly what I am worried about. Although he was responsible for it, to a large extent.
The last person he attacked was a totally harmless chap who had walked into the room unsuspectingly, while swigging some beer. All he did was bend down (to kiss the dumb mutt), and even before the deed was done, there was blood and dog drool all over the white carpet. Of course, we laughed the matter away. The guy was zonked; didn't really know what to do. I was more worried about the carpet being messy with bloodstains. But I have to give it to the guy; he carried on unflinchingly. But we didn't what to do till I saw the dog licking the blood off the carpet.
So I tried dragging this intoxicated creature across, to the bathroom. But he just wouldn't fit. Yes, he was quite big. And so I had to pull his arm inside the bathroom and leave the rest of him wailing outside. The wound was quite deep. The fucker had plunged his fangs deep inside the poor chap's forearm. Now if I havent told you before, I'm quite revulsed by the sight of blood. So while there was a torrent gushing forth, out of his 2 inch deep gash, I struggled to breathe. There was too much blood to handle. Which was surprising, because after all, it's only a dog bite. After around half an hour, and after shedding enough blood to see a hospital unit through, it looked as if I'd just killed someone and used the bathroom to chop the body into pieces.
Anyway, the ideal thing to do was to apply a tourniquet. Which appeared in the form of a roll of toilet paper. Well, I used almost all of the toilet paper to wrap his arm tightly. But even this assistance was short-lived. The blood reemerged, first as a speck, then a dot, then a blotch, then a huge fucking map of Asia. And it didn't just stop there. Had there been a continent bigger than Asia, it would've looked like this stain.
Well, the next thing I knew, it started dripping. Yes, the toilet paper starts to drip blood. Which really took my breath away, but also made me a little worried. Why? Well hey, how would you react if you were in outer space and saw the earth drip water? And each drip was adding to the pool of blood already collected on the floor.
Basically, everything was spiraling out of control. But I was glad I thought of the phrase, because it told me exactly what to do. And soon enough, I was at the bottom of the problem. I gently unplugged the drain plug. There was a sudden pause, as if the blood saw it's end had come. And with an angry glare in its stream, it hissed violently. I didn't give up. I chose to stay in the bathroom and see the blood go down the drain. There was a lot of blood splashing, till all I could see was red. But well, fate had other things stored in for us. The bloody thing started coloring my bathroom walls red too. This got my goat. I resorted to...er...my final resort. I swept the floor wiper off its feet and started using it in powerful, wide strokes all over the floor. The blood was slightly taken aback. But you know what, the fucking door was open. And soon enough, the blood spilled onto my bedroom, briefly pausing at the doorway to take a last look at its former owner lying half-dead on the floor.
Now things had really gotten out of control. Even before I could collect myself, all the blood had disappeared. I thought it had taken the balcony route to escape. How wrong I was. I checked the balcony. No sign of blood. I came back to the room, and my jaw fell to the ground. There it was, the ugly thing, looking all fresh and perched high up. Well not all that high up, but basically beyond my reach. The fucking thing had saturated one of my walls with it. It's still there. I can show you pictures also.

It’s difficult to believe that the pet who greets you when you return home is actually a wolf in dog’s clothing. Now I mean no offence to those of you who treat their dogs like family and would rather spend the evening playing with him than go out for a drink, though such love is hard to find. Human beings and chimpanzees share 98 per cent of their genotype. But dogs and wolves are genetically almost indistinguishable, with the similarity being 99 per cent. Of course, there is a sea of difference when it comes to the behavioural pattern, where both have fundamental traits that make a wolf a wolf and a dog a dog. Much has been said about the companionship between dogs and humans. The prehistoric man and the vicious wolf have had tens of thousands of years of history between them. The wolf moved on with man in the evolutionary cycle, to produce fascinating results for us to see. It is amazing to see how physically-distinct-but-so-genetically-similar a Chihuahua and a Great Dane can be. But then, at the risk of sounding objective (everyday observation), I believe that a dog brought up in isolation from his canine folk is bound to retain his lupine instincts. Take the case of Boka, my ingrate cur, rescued from the streets two years ago and shunned from any social contact with other dogs. He is definitely a wolf in dog’s clothing. Now I don’t obviously mean it in the bad sense of the term. Lately, I’ve realised that the mutt just doesn’t bark. Something so true of wolves, who rarely ever bark. All his attempts at barking just produce a feeble “wuff” instead of the machine gun like ‘row row row’ we are so accustomed to hear from dogs. And when left alone, he starts howling, so much so that the neighbours now threaten to go to the cops if I don’t put an end to it. Now how do you explain it to them that the poor dog is just trying to call out to his pack members? Just like the wolves do when they want to signal something or need to pin-point their location in the jungles. Adding to my worries is the fact that the dog now thinks he’s risen to the rank of a pack-leader and doesn’t let me on the bed when I return from work. He probably wants to oust me from the den and usurp my role as the hunter-gatherer. But what's worrying us a great deal is that it's been happening every night now. It's almost like he gets into a tic and is torn between being ferocious and subservient. His deep guttural growls are interspersed with fleeting moments of nervous tail wagging, implying that he is aggressive by default, but will be considerate if I only speak to him softly. This is quite surprising because all his life, he has been extremely servile, even to the point of pissing in gratitude. So I’m on the lookout for a dog shrink. And if matters don’t take a turn for good, I might look up one for myself.