A Day In The Life Of Killer

Behind the demeanour of a Killer, a loony hue should lurk. An intense wink, or at least, a piercing, probing look.

Perhaps, Arbab's Killer's graceful anatomy betrayed a snooty behavioural pattern suited for a murderous instinct.

No shades of dark existed in Killer, at least among his laconic circle of camaraderie. And no one knew why the Killer tag stuck to him.

Not even Killer.

That wintry day, Killer traversed through the depths of the mundane life he has wallowed to figure out where the tag latched on to his otherwise calm and aloof aura.

He stumbled upon more questions than answers that after an hour or so he felt he should have better things to pursue.

But Killer himself knew he didn't have much to deviate out of his curriculum of spartan joys of life.

Not that the tag was a nagging worry, but Killer felt uncomfortable somewhere.

Realisation struck that he always was ill at ease with a chilly ambience. A deep melancholy seeps through Killer during winter.

It struck him that resolution, at least for the time being, was in sight.

The monk in the bottle was waiting to be grabbed. Killer decided to put up some sort of a resistance to this easy option, but succumbed to his cravings earlier than he himself expected.

One ... three and Killer suddenly immersed himself into the cocoon of a delightful warmth.

He felt pepped up and forgot the wintry pangs that so dragged him.

He gradually realised in the depth of a drowsy plunge that the day has just been buried for good.

That was his first tete-e-tete with the vocation his Killer tag proclaimed.

In the wee hours of the first day of the week, Killer embraced a sleepy burial, leaving behind a flickering tag of uneasiness to fend for itself, an act its perpetrators would come to know only few hours after daybreak.

Only that Killer’s assassins wouldn’t have  thought his next incarnation would bore the  scorching melancholy of sand dunes.

The fertile sand dunes of My Arbab

That night, Arbab seeped in again through the remnant veins of Killer’s nightmares, the voluminous fragrance of countless sweet spots and the bizarre trajectory of illusions. My Arbab.

Arbab, whose creator, for the sake of the irresistible urge of having one for all creations, let us presume, should be faceless.  The Unknown. At least, that was Killer’s choice. “And the Unknown created Arbab,” Killer made himself believe.

In hindsight, Killer should have sought His consent.  He should have known unwritten protocols that point to such niceties when you deal with the whims of Arbab. My Arbab. 

After tormenting his soul for some time, Killer waded into his beloved theory of procrastination. That inevitable task was postponed to a future date.

Thereafter, conviction descended on Killer – the world's first Arbab could have been created only by the Unknown. 

Killer, though, was certain Arbabs existed from the beginning of the universe, or rather of mankind.

Perhaps, the first glimmer of life was that of an Arbab? Didn't we always have a master for all circumstances? We always needed a guardian angel to guide every moment to its logical course. Wasn't the onus of every perceived misdeed tagged on some soul – poor, evil or kind? You may disagree, but Killer thought so.

Look at Raza – Killer’s only human contact in the arid swathes enveloping his constricted existence. His tormentor is also Arbab.  His Arbab.

Arbab's medieval curriculum of torment, which Killer slowly imbibes and embraces, actually made him think he was more blessed than many other pawns in the desert. He had no clue they even existed.

If Raza can reconcile with his fate, intertwined with Arbab's whiplashes, that is something the poor soul in Killer also should encounter. Without choice.

If Killer were to examine the trajectory of his perceived struggles with that of the hapless Najeeb's servile existence in his Arbab's 'Masara'... 

Ideally then, Killer thought he would lord over the Sun.

The same Sun whose piercing radiance ripped through the fragile coating of Raza’s countenance, loading mountains of misery into his daunting, bland chores.

Killer figured out that the narrative of my loony conscience pricks was deeply flawed.

Welcome, the Arbab of my future playbook, the master of my elusive desert and the connoisseur who unravelled the infinite mysteries of sand dunes laced with sweat and blood of zillions and Raza. Embrace this uninitiated moron my Lord.

Kiss of Love and the curriculum of morality

There is enough space for proponents or opponents of any idea or cause in a democratic polity, but stifling dissent is not an option.

Prem Udayabhanu



Make no mistake, the narrative that is panning out in God's own country may have been probably scripted by the devil himself. 
The larger picture of the robust cultural ethos of the state remains intact, but the social fabric that hosts it is being pulled in all directions by fringe elements that flaunt their medieval moorings.
The arrest of cheer leaders of the Kiss of Love protest was celebrated by the same chorus that loves the songs of intolerance.
While the arrests on charges of links with an online sex racket is not end in itself, the trial has begun, albeit in social media itself. 
Curiously it was the same platform that moved heaven and earth to flaunt the celebration of love in the streets laced with kisses of protest. 
Now we know that social media with its porous borders and lack of accountability can have an elephant's memory.
The same accountability factor comes into play in a reverse situation 
after the arrests of the Kiss of Love cheer leaders.

Now, those who had supported it have been put on scrutiny. 
The political and cultural platforms that came out in support of Kiss of Love have been targeted in a pattern reminiscent of hardline right-wing elements who seek definitive proof of the patriotism of certain sections of society after every terror attack.
The same narrative was in play when a celebrated journalist was recently held in the United Kingdom on paedophilia charges. 
The venom of hatred that trolled in the aftermath of the arrest clearly had a grudge – his harsh criticism of the ruing dispensation. Moreover, he was a Left liberal. 
The same hate mails can troll the opinion expressed here also and hence a voluntary disclosure: Paedophilia or sex rackets are not what we are talking about. And being charged with an offence does not mean you are a culprit. Period.
But does it doesn't make sense to rubbish a noble cause just because some players attracted to it are alleged practitioners of illicit ways?
The answer clearly is blowing in the wind.
There can be proponents and opponents for Kiss of Love or any such symbolic protests that espouse the cause freedom of speech and expression. We have enough space for arguments and counter arguments in a democratic polity.
Advocating a cause does not at all mean that anyone can be held accountable for any probable misdeeds of those who are fellow travellers in espousing it. 
If that is the case, no one with a semblance of sanity would  be able to associate with any movement or cause, regardless of whether 
your political leanings sync more with the Left liberal voice or the radical right.
This learning point is perhaps missing when it comes to the curriculum of some of our political masters too, who are not so keen to camouflage their medieval moorings.
That is why there are staunch proponents of  gender discrimination who back the retrograde notion that boys and girls sitting together in a mixed college amounts to something akin to blasphemy.
Fair enough, you can have your arguments. But where is the sanctity of our pluralistic collective consciousness, when a teacher, albeit of another college, is unceremoniously sacked for posting on Facebook     that he did not agree with such forms of gender discrimination?
Perhaps, it is time to revise the curriculum of morality in the social altar of God's beloved country.

One for the master, And one for the dame........

It does not matter if nobody reads your writing. The point of writing is self-expression — gathering an audience should be secondary. You cannot connect to other people without connecting first to yourself.

So, no need to connect to others. And that is a pleasing proposition. Just like the other day when an old school mate dragged me out of my cocoon of inertia, sat with me soberly while I drank, talked to me tenderly, told me lies.. I am not a woman, you know. But time did fly. Not bad at all.

My last blog post was on June 24, 2008. That, I still remember was on a trip to Arunachal.  A North East trip that could probably be never re-enacted. Not that some one stops you from travelling to NE. 

In fact, tickets for my next NE trip have already been booked by pal Ullekh. I leave Kochi on Feb 9 at 7 am and reach Delhi at 10.10 a.m. The connection flight to Bagdodara is only at 2 I think. That is the nearest airport to reach Gangtok, the capital of Sikkim.

So when I wait in the airport till our man turns up, probably I will have to hunt for the airport bar. Rather, that is certain. I am not programmed to wait. Forgot to boast that this ain't my first trip to Gangtok.

I think three years back, it was in April, 2011, that I went there with Professor. The cricket World Cup was happening and the central city square, which in my faint alcohol-tinged memory is named something like Mahatma Gandhi chowk, was bustling with cricket fans. The national flag was all over the place. 

The noisy crowd, not locals but mostly the Hindi speaking cow belt lot, was getting some rush of adrenalin, which was being confused as nationalistic fervour. Perhaps more of that later... as if some one is pleading..

Back to the Delhi airport bar hunt. I don't remember having a drink in Delhi airport, but I have had it in Mumbai, Bangalore and Kolkata (The airport didn't have a bar then, but some Bhadralok helped).

Twice, I think, I missed the flight after checking in. That was in Mumbai airport. I also had the fortune to run through the tarmac with gun totting men chasing me. I realised the power of  my breath -- reeking of you know that -- then. They left disappointed. 

The day I left Bangalore to perhaps end once and for all my nearly two decade stint outside Kerala, I had the fortune to stumble upon Nandamuri Balakrishna, the son of the legendary NTR and brother-in-law of Narra Chandrababu Naidu.  At the airport, I realised what stardom is when two airport staff, or rather fans of the Nandamuri clan, jostled with each other just to carry his bag for which Balakrishna probably didn't need any assistance. Balakrishna is now a TDP MLA.

Gradually, after many YouTube rendezvous with Balakrishna, I began to develop a liking for him. Just a few hours ago, I managed to watch the punch dialogue scene (Watch video below) from his blockbuster Simha.

Even folks with whom I went for Telugu movies can't digest the phenomenon that is Balakrishna. Not even Don Sebastian,  who otherwise has a liking for all things Telugu. But his little daughter Izarra, who barely started walking then, loved Balakrishna garu's famous "No Police" dialogue I belted out then. Telugu was Greek to me. And she hadn't yet uttered her first sentence then. That is the power of Balakrishna. 

Izarra (See video above) and her younger sibling Nayra have now christened Don3 as Diya -- the name of their school, albeit tentatively, their parents presume.  Perhaps, the only trick Don and Delma  could now resort to is to settle for another name in the guise of school name, official name, church name. Whatever.
One for my master, And one for the dame..

Back to the Mumbai airport bar, and back to the first NE trip. Professor and me reached airport by say 1 p.m for a flight which was I think around or after 6 p.m. The instigation was the murky reputation I had for missing flights. So we decided to hit the bar in the airport hoping that at least that would ensure we board the flight, which happened fortunately.

I say fortunately because, as I referred to earlier, yours truly had missed it twice after checking in. The Professor who was to stand vigil against such anti-social tendencies hit the bar with me in gay abandon.

I don't remember the drink, but professor would. For every three pegs we had, the offer was a jacket. We drank nine and collected three – a sacrifice for our brethren who were calling from all over Mumbai and Bangalore every now and then, hoping till the last minute that the curious case of the missing flight would happen again. It didn't. All three jackets have vanished now.