small pleasures...

“In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea... and he told us of his life, in the land of submarines...tanana tanananna tananan tanana... fe fe feeee  feeee fee fee feee” pauses for breath “... in the land of submarines”

“We all live in the yellow submarine yellow submarine yell....” the steps in line with the song; the hand twirling his lunch bag, the lad is making his way home. This song somehow, was stuck to his head right from lunch. Finding no one else in the vicinity, he sings with gay abandon, like he owns the road. “tan tan tan tan”. The bag comes to a stop. Without missing a step, in one fluid motion, with an expertise that comes out of practice, he crosses the road, lifting his hand up nonchalantly, stopping vehicles and stamping his right of way... and it takes just a beat before his trained eye finds a break in the traffic in the opposite direction. Done, just like that...

“What a warm evening” the bag starts twirling again; he’s lost in thought. “Need to ask ma for new shoes, this one’s almost dead, look at that guy walking... must get white leather... ok resin shoes, poor animals... these canvas shoes are so bad, they are not even shoes. Why do they make shoes from bag material? Mad people. The rubber toe guard sucks. And the two holes on the sides; what is the point? On top of all this, I have to wash this stupidity that is this shoe, every Sunday. What a bore. I’ll ask amma for new ones today” He pauses, pulls out a bottle from his bag, frowns at the water level and empties it. “There, 20 grams less. We all live in the... cha such a boring song... fee fee fee feeee“ shuts off his mind “useless”.

The boy walks 1 2 3 *lunch bag twirl* 1 2 3 *lunch bag twirl*. “finally... we are here..” he surveys the shoulder of the road, the walls of the foot path; blows the dirt away and carefully sits down, resting his chin on his palm. “Astra, Escort, Escort, Zen, 800, Esteem, 800, Contessa! Do these things still run? Icon, Icon, Lancer - such a nice car, Zen, Xing, Xing, Xing, Peugeot, man, how do they pronounce this?? Qualis... this is easy today, Uno, Sienna, Baleno. Wow!! What was that? A Merc? Bmw? BMW OMG!! I'm blessed... hmm what's that car? Skoda... Skoda.. oh ya! Octavia... oops! bus vannu (arrived), what number is this now?” He draws up a conclusion from his experience and the remnants of a board partly eaten, on the side.

His friends stay at a different part of the town, on the other side of the school.This leaves him alone, without company while returning home. The lad gets a place to sit if he plans his time right, which is starting half an hour after his school’s final bell. So, he makes it a point to chat/loiter around after school. The early birds would have left by then and the next wave of office commuters would start only at 5. This strategy wins him a window seat most of the time; a seat he values a lot. A seat behind the driver is even better. However, this time, He manages to capture the ultimate prize- the side seat across the driver,with a full undisturbed view of the road, facing sideways.

“Ha finally, some breeze...“  His mind shuts off for a few minutes enjoying the breeze; He smiles. The bus that leaves Malar hospital, Adyar, has to take the Thiru-vi-ka Bridge across the Adyar River to reach the other part of the town. “Appa will want me to cut my hair next, useless. He should see Adi, such long hair. What’s wrong with that?”Absentmindedly curls his hair. “Yay traffic jam!! Hey that was a Corsa swing... ooh and a Sienna weekend. I’ll tell Bala tomorrow, I saw both of them.I'm sure He wouldn't have. These are rare“

The traffic clears. The driver looks across, smiles under his moustache. The kid smiles back.

waaat iss yovaar name?

Venkat

Ethanavadhu padikkara? (Which grade?)

6^th

Veedu enga? (where’s your home?)

Mandaveli

Hmmm...

He converses with his eyes on the road stealing glances at the boy as he checks his side view mirror. The boy mimics him. Looking ahead, answering in the same tone, co-driving the bus with his will. The brake pedal is worn, so is the clutch, from one side. The driver shifts gears. “Ah, so this is why... why does he use his clutch carelessly? Shouldn't   his entire feet be on the pedal? The pedal would have worn out uniformly. This looks ugly. I would have maintained it well.”

A dull horn sounds, like a bored cow stretching out and yawning.”Hehe, what a stupid horn”. They had banned all the loud ones on the city buses. Some of the Periyars and Thiruvalluvars (inter city services) still had them. It’s a pity, really. The private buses had two of them. He had just returned from a trip - visiting temples in and around Kumbakonam. Obviously, this had resulted in a lot of travelling, "specially bus journeys.  He was shaken out of his wits the first time he heard them, the loud horns, but slowly, with repetition, it had caught his fancy. In fact, the creativity of certain drivers using those found him praying for slow moving trucks, carts or tractors. “These buses should have two horns... they can install a goats ‘meh’ and the driver can use it alternately, simultaneously or in quick succession... fun”.  Such possibilities, much creativity, so wow.  

The Tata buses had a distinct sound; or maybe the Ashok Leyland buses had a distinct sound, wait Eicher too... ok every engine had a distinct sound. He hated the Tata buses. He had a curious affection for old, run-down, DATC buses. The buses made much noise and did very little. But it promised value for money for the small distance he travelled.

Tickets tickets tickets

Pass, pass, pass

Kami, kami, kami (show me).. hmmm ok.

Ok, value for bus pass then. “Man! The time is almost 5;I should reach before cartoons start”.

He gets up, steps down the ladder and alights gracefully jogging to a stop while the bus rolls a few meters more. The setting sun starts casting a yellow ray or two as he walks away from it. He prays for a second as he crosses the roadside ‘Pullayar’(Ganesha), more out of practice than reverence.

“I want something to eat...” rummages through the bag maintaining his pace “pch, no money, I’ll ask amma for 5 bucks tomorrow”, slings it back carelessly. “I’ll buy one dairy milk”. He tames his hair, lets his shirt out with a sigh of relief. One hand inside his pocket and the other one holding the lunch bag’s strap, he becomes conscious of himself walking; stylish, no? He stops casually, takes a step back, twirls his bag and moves ahead his head bobbing to imaginary music, his mouth chewing on a nonexistent gum. A slow smile creeps across. “How I wish I had a toothpick now”   

“la la la la lalala lalala heeeey judee jude jude judy judy... wait a nimit, what was the other song? Hmmm lala... Hamm... yellow subjjmarine yellow submarine... wait how does it start? Yellow sub... hmmm...  ma open the door”

“va da (come in)... wash your hands and legs, eat the bowl of flakes ...  Ennada yosikara (what are you thinking about)?”

“Yellow submarine yellow... hmmm aaaargh screw it... onnum illa ma (nothing ma)... maa I’m watching duck tales, I’ll do my homework later.”

“Ok only this, not the next one” heading inside the kitchen ...“Don’t sit in front of TV till 6:30 like yesterday”

“OK OK... no”

fanboy

“Did you know Sachin hit 100 100s ?”

“Nadal is number one now”

“Portugal is through,omg CR… oh you don’t watch no?”

I know, I know all of this and more. The media had managed to etch it into my brain. But, I’m very confident that if you ask me next week I might not recall any of this. I can never recall Djok’s grand slam tally. Neither can I recall Dravid’s count of centuries. I love watching those guys play though. I Egg them on; Shout at the TV pretty much like any other fan.  I’d in fact drop everything and just watch them play if I could afford to drop everything and watch them play. I’m a fan of those two you know? The problem is sometimes, in social circles, I can’t claim to be a fan. I have no idea what he did last week.I have no idea where he is next week. I did not follow them properly, I forgot, my bad, it is really a shame. So! it seems I’m not really a fan. Oh dear! I’m crushed. Well… not really.

I do not hold anything against statistics or numbers. When you are a keen follower of a game, you naturally gather stats, scores, the dates, match venues etc. the problem is sometimes, amongst the crowd, there are people who are not that good with numbers or dates, or people who have pressing demands but appreciate it nonetheless at leisure, or people who really don’t care about what happened earlier or what might happen consequently. These people might not know the exact match, location or the opposition but a sense of déjà vu when a shot plays out in front of them is as good a validation of their love for the game as any other.

“What kind of fan are you?” 

Without fandom, deification, the sporting world would be devoid of a lot of fun. These people pique interest in the plebs lurking in the periphery, letting them enjoy a few moments of unfettered joy vicariously (what a snooty sentence already), thus initiating them to the game. A sportsman, for every fan, is a man who inspires him, a man who stands for his personality, beliefs and standards and wins games validating it. When a fan supports an underdog it lets him fight his demons and he rejoices when his man wins, it inspires him to be dogged and dedicated. While supporting a winner, he is inspired to be perfect, to be the best at what he does, and to be more regimental with his schedule. Sometimes, he decides to start hitting the gym the next day but the day never comes. These emotions, the feeling of victory or loss that course through watching a sport, which can be only perceived by the TV were it a living thing, cannot be quantified in numbers, stats or memory.

If you were willing to give me a penny, I'd tell you that the term ‘fan’ is pretty fickle. The barometer for measuring it is even more so. The point is, I believe it is perfectly fine to go around doing your household chores while stopping for a second to admire a perfect smash from Saina. It is also ok that you missed the better smashes or did not know about them. It is alright to watch a sport as a movie, as a transient phenomenon, as a background noise or as a companion when you need it. I believe, Watching sport is a very personal and rewarding experience. You don’t need to know everything.You don't need to convince anyone. You just need to know enough to appreciate a long rally, a brilliant lap, a perfect straight drive, or the whole 90 minutes of football without being bothered about its prognosis, and you are still in no-way a lesser mortal than the other.

So you think you can biology record?

That was just wonderful, don’t you think so? OMG It blew my mind. The way you drew the respiratory system; the skill, coordination; Not one wrong stroke. It’s one of the more difficult things to draw and your dexterity was there for all to see. I’m still a little distracted, let me complete ogling at it. Oh ya, I love you, Well done kid, It’s a 10 from me.

Haha… Mani my man, you were awesome. I thought the bryophyllum leaf last week was below par. It was amazing, but I believed you were capable of more. You have just slammed my case shut. The concentration on your face, the way you bit your pencil. The lungs were perfect and the final flourish with the man’s nostrils were awesome.  For me, you are the shining example of why this show is such a great success. This is precocious talent right in front of you, India.  

Few things can be taught, some skills are inborn. You have a unique gift of drawing biology diagrams so beautifully. In my younger days, I’d have bribed you to complete my record work for me. It's is really good to see you have improved a lot from last time.That is something because I thought last week's work was your magnum opus. A hat tip to you, Girija ma’am, It’s a nice routine that you have picked for him, the respiratory system, allowing him to showcase his variety. This is a 10 from me too Mani. Well done…