Interest Rate

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“The young and energetic secretary or clerk or someone, I don’t know what she exactly is, is the only reason I went to the Sloppy Bunk of India.” Racer (name imaginary) said with a conspicuously agitated temperament. He was talking about a bank. He said “Bunk” in order to avoid any legal problems. He was very careful, especially in public.

“You know what, she—that secretary__”

“Clerk.” I cut in.

“Yea, clerk; she is pretty, you know. I mean beautiful. Nice eyebrows, nose and all.” Racer brightened his façade with a smile.

I did not know that my childhood friend Racer could be such a connoisseur of feminine appearance.

“I go to bank only to pay the exam fee. I don’t even take the concept of ‘savings’.” I said.

Racer did not seem to hear what I said. As I was about to rephrase my point, Racer with dreamy eyes and an amorous mood stumbled back upon his topic.

“I was in the bank the other day with a handful of money.” He said.

When Racer says a handful of money, he means his monthly salary; INR 6000; USD 110.66 (as on 6^th May 2013); Euros 84.48 (as on 6^th May 2013). Racer should sustain himself the whole month with this meager amount. He was a temporary guest faculty at a self financing college. Among the community of Guest Lecturers, his kinds are the least fortunate ones. The government colleges offer a better pay. Those who work in the self-financing colleges are literally squeezed by the management, like galley slaves.

“I ask the guard in the bank, the guy with a gun and a faded khaki uniform, which receipt I should fill, in order to deposit money.” Racer continues. “There are forms aplenty; receipts and bills are many on the counter.” He said.

“Aplenty…hmmm…” I thought.

“There are white ones, red ones and green ones. Sometimes, there are even grey receipts too. Many of these have multiple purposes, it seems. But most of them ask for the same details from you—your account number, amount in Rupees and in words and date.

“The guard, the gate keeper of that whorehouse of money, doesn’t respond. There are other people; people with rich smells, in white shirt and white dhoti, or in sari and with a lot of gold, and with the keys of their vehicles worn on their fingers like wedding ring, extracting some extent of playfulness with it and also those who work inside the cubbyholes. The guard attends only those affluent folks.

“By the time I fill the bill or receipt or whatever you call that pitiful lifeless leaf of paper, which asks the same information over and again…that dumb piece of bureaucratic arrogance, it is about twelve pii em.”

Racer paused for effect.

“So it went well?” I enquired, already bored.

“Went well? Ha!” He scoffed. “There were six or seven counters for transaction.”

“Did you go to Cannanore branch?” I cut in, once again.

“Yes,” Racer said.

“Then six counters.” I stated.

“Ok, six. I don’t remember, exactly. Man, it is hard even to think of the crowd. Neck to neck, you know. Someone stepped over my feet. I got very irritated. I was standing in the tail of one of the lines. I was getting a bit hungry too. Then I saw that the clerk in the counter I was standing at—a young man of about twenty six, in counter 4—was chatting with the female secretary I told you about.”

“Clerk!” I said.

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“Ok…ok…that female clerk. She was cooing with the male clerk on the desk in front of the queue I was standing half a mile away. It hardly seemed a possibility that I may reach the starting point and deposit my cash. And over the top is this chitchat! Wasn’t this on our patience that they are building their castle of romance? Well, I didn’t know if they were romancing for that matter, but I got really infuriated!”  

 “Then?” I blurted out, without waiting, eager to end his bluff.

“Then what? I went straight to the beautiful creature,” Racer said with a smile. “I told her to shut up! These bank officers, they are nothing but helpers with our money. The common folk are the authority of the money these clerks sit on and enjoy and eat.” When racer said this I noticed his fist going tight, rising a few feet and reaching his shoulder level. “So I told her to keep her arrogance inside her purse, and not to shove it upon our face. ‘You help us manage our money. You don’t own us,’ I said. And that pretty clerk went pale and red. She was around in her twenties too, you know.” Racer paused again.

“Then what happened?” I said with some interest in his story from the turn the things in the bank took.

“Then? Well, then finally, the guard approached me, but this time with his gun. You see, he is just a security guy and I am a lecturer. But nothing works there in that parlour of arrogance. Don’t trust them; these banks. They are so…so…arrogant! And they threw me out!”   

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

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Eragon: the Drrrraagon moovieeee

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It doesn’t matter if you believe in dragons. What matters is if you are ready to own one.

Eragon (Ed Speleers), a farm boy gets a dragon for himself, and becomes a Dragon Rider to save the land of Alagaësiafrom the cruel and despotic ruler Galbatorix. The seventeen year old boy was out hunting at night, with his uncle peacefully asleep in their house. Arya, the princess of Ellesméra is chased by the wicked shade named Durza, a sorcerer. Arya had stolen a stone from the king, Galbatorix. When Arya (Sienna Guillory) is sure she is busted by Durza, she transports the stone to another place and it appears in front of Eragon, the naïve farm boy, in his adventure at night in the woods.

Stefen Fangmeier’s direction is praiseworthy. He condensed the bulky book that goes by the same name as the movie, written by the American writer, Christopher Paolini. Mark D. Rosenthal and Jesse Wigutow, the two screen writers, clearly helped Fangmeier to condense the novel into the movie. And it works too, although to a certain extent. Frankly, it is not The Lord of the Rings.

Whether Eragon, the village boy could raise himself to be the saviour of a land is the theme of the movie. The dragon egg that Arya transports to Eragon hatches and a little dragon comes out of it. Within the length of a few days itself, the dragon grows bigger. You might think if a dragon grows so fast, will it get aged early, too? But then that will be like asking why there are two ‘d’s in Buddha.

Sienna Guillory
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It’s not very clear to me if they have hired the guys from The Lord of the Rings, but still, the graphics and special effects are fairly good. There is a lot of influence by the Gallic culture. For instance, the name Galbatorix means 'the big king'. Most of the magic words used in the movie too are taken directly from the ancient European culture. 

The dragon that comes out of the blue egg, and becomes the companion to Eragon is called Saphira. Just like any other dragon, she is expected to spit fire. But we have to wait until she gets matured and grows up to the age when she can play with fire. There is one thing special, though, about Saphira. She can read Eragon’s mind, because he is her rider.

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If you still remember the dragons and sorcerers from the mind of the child you once were, you will like this movie. Otherwise, you may not.  

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Hoover Building?

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Ididn’t know what this was. I never cared.

This argument has been around for some time. They say if I should get across the struggle to possess a permanent job, I would be required to qualify the job tests, and in order to get through the job tests, one requires General Knowledge.

General Knowledge?

Yea, you know what this is, don’t you? A potion that is part buried in the history and part in the present—science, math, geography and whatever you can think or imagine about. Well, it also depends on who prepares the question papers. For some even the date of birth of some dumb old politician is General Knowledge. Can’t blame them. So is the charm of this phrase—General Knowledge! Sometimes, this phrase even makes me feel that I am good for nothing.

The crux of the argument was related to my loves—things that I love the most doing. Reading is a skill I possessed in supreme ratios, as a young boy. As I grew up this skill grew with me, too. But as every gift goes, there is a ‘field of inclination’. I was inclined more towards reading fiction. Not that I despised non-fiction or poetry for that matter. Fiction had its hook and we had our own walks to take.

To put it simple, I was denied the pleasure a couple of times, at least to my memory, directly, of reading fiction due to the restrictions on living a life without GK. The question stands, why is fiction considered barren of any GK?

Even in my book Wall of Colours, I think, the best part is what you learn about a variety of subjects, and not just a bunch of stories. In a world, where knowing is controlled and limited by a criteria set by the ‘rulers’, one cannot read a book just for one purpose. There should be multiple purposes for a book; otherwise, the majority of population is reluctant to buy it. I have seen scenes the like in book shops I visit. There parents or even kids, stand in front of the book shelves, spending a considerably long time in weighing the ‘usefulness’ in buying a book. Eventually, it is rare that such people end up in buying fiction. They purchase Yearbooks and go back home gloomily.

What I have to tell you here is something that shakes this assumption of the mainstream middle class homemakers that fiction offers no ‘facts’ or GK, as they sum up with their parochial and limited sense of understanding. Have you heard of Hooverbuilding? I did not know anything about it until I read The Racketeer, the latest best seller by John Grisham. Yes, the very same book I offered a review of. And by the way, the review will be published soon, as currently I am still in the process of reading it.

“…Victor Westlake was settled back into his routine and office on the fourth floor of the Hoover building in Washington.” (205)

I thought a moment for Hooverbuilding, but remembered nothing of the sort. Like everyone else struck with something uncommon or unknown, I went to Google.

Built in the 1960s, the J. Edgar Hoover Buildingis the office of the FBI, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The building is situated in the US, at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NWin Washington, D.C.

Here is a screen shot.

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Now tell me what you learn from it.

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MLA: Member of__

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Theschool was quiet except the regular high pitch accent from an English teacher, who had been in charge of the vacation class. The April sun blazed above the tile roofed building and the day was hot.

The time was close to midday and the traffic was milder too. Any kid of voice that interrupted the class was minimal, which was a very impressive factor for the teacher, who was actually fed up from the otherwise roar of the traffic and the chattering of the 1500 students of the school.

He preferred the vacation classes to regular ones. 

The teacher’s preference for the vacation class had one more reason, other than the noise factor—time. During the vacation class, he could experiment with his teaching, provide better opportunities for the students to express themselves, and there was more time to do activities in the classroom rather than the regular school days.

The class was under his total control. There was less interference by the Head Master or anyone else, much like the noise factor.

The teacher was also happy due to the fact that he could spend more time talking with the students, the little boys and girls in the seventh standard. They are a bunch of nice little brainiacs,he thought. With all the pressure from the Head Master to finish the course and the syllabus, student-teacher interaction was the last thing teachers were concerned about. This is the chance, he thought.

Next he was supposed to teach English words and their uses. In order to familiarize the students with words, the teacher thought of an interesting game. He gave clues about what a particular word meant and asked the students to locate the correct word.

“Please volunteer!” He said. “Can you give me a word that means ‘characterized by, based on or done by fraud’?”

He looked around. No one moved. Not even a single head turned either left or right. Dead silence.

The teacher knew what to do next. He kept his face pleasant and smiled at the students. “Please volunteer!” He said again, milder this time. The scene lightened.

“OK. I will repeat the question once again. It’s Ok if you make a mistake. I am not going to punish you for anything. Come on guys.” The he paused for a moment, giving enough time to find some order in the newly sprouted spike of activity, once the teacher turned down the knob of seriousness of his face to minimum. “Find the word that is characterized by, based on, or done by fraud?” He repeated.

The English teacher paused again. When he did not see anyone standing up with an answer or any hand being raised, the teacher repeated the question, yet again. “Give me a word that is characterized by, based on, or done by fraud?”

Then a student stood up and said with a confidence; “Sir…Sir…MLA!”

 

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This story is fictional. There is no relationship with anyone living or dead or any organization, governmental or private. Any resemblance is strictly coincidental.    

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Season of the Witch

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At first, I thought this would be a movie about the great witch-hunt during the second part of fifteenth century to the early eighteenth, and the usual sympathizing with those people who were fried and grilled on stakes in public. But then there is a twist. One of the witches that is hanged and drowned as part of the exorcism ritual as per the ‘Book of Solomon’, comes alive and kills the priest who performs the rituals.

Season of the Witch was released in 2011 and directed by Dominic Sena. Nicolas Cage plays the protagonist, a Teutonic Knight named Behmen von Bleibruck. He and his friend and companion, Felson (Ron Perlman) decide they should quit the crusade. The massacre of the innocent people in the name of god is out of their comprehensibility of justice.

Claire Foy
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As they return, they pass through villages hit by the disastrous plague. Black Death had claimed not just villages but cities as well. The two horsemen are spotted by the military in the city and are recognized. As the deserters of the church, they are imprisoned. But the king summons them. He too is bed ridden with blisters with the size of tennis balls, all over his body.  The king assigns the two knights with a mission; the city had captured a witch (Claire Foy). The two knights should take her to a remote monastery where the monks possess the book that can cure possession.

S. King
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I remember Ron Perlman from the Stephen King movie Desperation; the weird police officer in the town called Desperation? But Season of the Witchis a different ground for Perlman. Not even like Hell Boy. Needless to say, I am very much hooked to the role of Ron Perlman rather than Nic Cage. Don’t know why. I am a Cage fan, but this one must go to Perlman.

Ron Pearlman
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The story is nice; it gives a fantastical background to the historical event of the Black Death. There is good ground for some quality witch-craft and horror show in the medieval background. The journey to the monastery holds our attention, but unlike any other flicks about journey or adventurous mission, Season of the Witch dwells mainly about the question of identity of the witch. Many times we doubt if she is actually a witch or just accused by the tradition for being so, just because she is different. I had thought that it would be a sort of fictional rectification of a historical wrong. But it is hardly anything close.

At the end…the twist awaits. This twist will solve all your questions regarding which side the movie has taken in the legendary witch hunt and all. What I think funny about Season of the Witch is its language. The characters, though from the mediaeval period, all use the American language. They all say “shit”! (No pun intended.)

A scene from the movie
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This movie does not leave you feeling bad about watching it. But you feel more happy imaging yourself happy watching it. You have Nicolas Cage, Ron Perlman and all the setting and wonderful art direction. Still, you might feel dissatisfied due to some reason you do not want to put your finger on. However, you would like to like it too, much due to the above mentioned reasons. It is one of those movies which can be similar to faked orgasms. It works, sometimes, you know.

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Lungi: The Story Continues.

This is part fiction and part darn non-fiction

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“Don’tyou dare, poke a staff in the eye of an angry mammoth!” An outrageous Mohanlal shouts at the villains in the Malayalam movie, Narasimham (2000). As part of the accompanying gesticulations, he slops his right shoulder down at an angle and raises the left leg and tags the white dhoti up, folding it around his waste, ready to attack the baddies.

“What shall I do sir? My father asks me to wear a lungi at home. A full NO to Bermuda shorts!” The student asks over the phone. I stand puzzled.

Then I try saying; “The white dhoti, “mundu” is the traditional male clothing in Kerala. It’s part of the formal dressing style and is used for most of the auspicious occasions such as festivities in temples and marriages, you know. Even kings wrap a dhoti in order to show their affluence and importance. The informal version of dhoti is ‘lungi’. Look at the variety of colours that are available for lungi. In most of the households, male members of the family wrap lungi at home. It’s a leisurely dress, and no need to be ashamed of putting it on. Mundu or lungi is not as complex as the Highlandoutfit of the Scots. You just wrap it around you waist and it’s comfortable, very.”

“Sir, I have seen women wear it too, surely taking on an attempt to lure the opposite sex. Seen it in old movies of the eighties!” The boy says.

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Ample examples, where lungi or mundu becomes a crucial motif in movies, show the affluence of this traditional wear in the mind of Keralites, even at a time when most of the youth prefers wearing a Bermuda shorts or half pants or shorts at home. To feel at home, I would rather say. Perhaps, lungi it is very air-allowing and easy to wear. Kerala is a hot place, and, of course, this justifies the choice of lungi or mundu as the traditional dress.

“Look, a white mundu is such a proud wear.” I try to convince him. The informal lungi can be a very convenient trial tool to learn how to wrap mundu on more formal occasions. 

I wait.

For a moment, my student on the other end of the phone is silent. Then he speaks; “Sir, most often when people fold the lungi up their knee, they look like standing with a barrel attached to your waist. Of course, then there is no pointing in hiding what lies beneath, with a large opening. No stitching to cover the groin. If you stand on a neatly polished surface, with lungi folded or mundu this is a guarantee that you could not hide your secrets from a nearby person!”

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The boy is very open in his concerns and he is right too.

“Why such a vulgarity is hailed the traditional dress is out of my logic.” He barks to no one other end.

It is my turn, now. So I say; “The question here is not which dress is the best, but how can we put an end to this problem by making your father happy and not making you much uncomfortable.”

“Hmm…”

“You should take inspiration from movies. That was what I did, when the similar problems surfaced. Then I was doing my twelfth.” I say, proud.

“What did you do then, sir?”

“I was asked to wear lungi when I was at home. Shorts were prohibited. And my parents were really strict those days. So I looked up at Mohanlal and Mammooty for inspiration. All those great actors preferred mundu in their movies, as their clothing. They were stylish and masculine. The movie Narasimham is one example. Then there is Vallyettan, Sphatikam, and many others.”

The boy seems to think for some seconds. Then says; “In movies, the more there is mundu or lungi, the more there would be vulgarities and obscenities, considered by directors, scriptwriters, fans and the actors themselves as a sign of masculinity. Sir, do you remember that fight scene in Narasimham?” the boy asked.

“Yea,” I say.

“The hero’s mundu goes up and down, revealing his innerwear and thighs in the nastiest manner possible. And every one in the theatre claps and shouts at the sight of this manliness. And…and…sir, even cinema, these days has shown signs of changing its outfits and style!”

 

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He is right. So I just hang up. But before I did, I had told him this; “Those who pay, order. You have one choice and one option; obey.”

And before hanging up my student had asked me; “Is this, what tradition is all about?”   

“Yes, sadly!” I say.

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Lungi: the memoir of a middle class youngster

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Thisis non-fiction. What happened was, today evening one of my students called me. A boy, who is a multi-talented performer of sort. His is a dancer, and when he dances the whole crowd gathers around and rocks away along with his natural moves. He says he never learnt dancing, but it comes to him naturally. The unknown source of creativity somehow springs into his mind and fills everything around him with a magic, very unique. He is good at his studies too, although uses his gifts to sometimes cut corners. The best part about him is that he never gives up at anything. Unlike his teacher.

“Hello, sir!” he said excited due to some reason, and with an usual cheerfulness in his voice. After some initial hesitation and usual introductory cookies, we immediately came down to business. He turned to sharing his problems and I to the digging for stories. I knew this boy might have something really wonderful and surprising to share with me. Intuition, you can call it.

He had a story to tell.

The story goes like this: a father, typical Keralite middle class father, wants his son to learn how to wrap lungi and dhothi, because these are the traditional Kerala clothing. The son, like every other young man in Kerala is accustomed to wearing jeans or shorts. For him the order of the father was a dictator’s tyranny. And so the call to his teacher.

Cool. I thought; people asking me for various advices. But then there was a problem; I didn’t know how to let him feel comfortable in a lungi. His father had already told him how to wrap the lungi. What I was supposed to do was the ‘strengthening of the morale’ part. 

And then I had an idea.

The story of lungi is next.

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