OM SHANTI OM CIRCUS

"Pandit? Ready!"
"Aarti? Ready!"
"Devotee's wallet visible? Roger that"
"Let's start. Om Hocusey-Pocusey Namaha!"

These days, i frequently visit temples. It's not because i've not bagged a job yet; the reason is "scientific study". A study of devotee, devoted and the antics of everyone in between.
The God doesn't change throughout the year. Yet, on specific days, He or She assumes more significance. People, who haggle over morning milk, stand patiently to get a glimpse of the Lord. Strangely, the Q is co-ed. Men are supposed to stand on the right, the ladies they stare on the left, and far behind, obscured from view, their wives. Even if one bends over the railing, the rest scream and shout. Pushing and jostling ensues. Angry looks and not-so-holy words are exchanged. Once the screen is removed and the radiant God is revealed in all his tax-payer paid jewelry and glory, hands are folded and self-slapping occurs from one chin to the other. This a showstopper that Prada, Gucci and Louis Vuitton have been trying for ages, and are still at it.
There's a mad rush to get the hands on the aarti. Heads are knocked out, pulled, crushed, beaten and in some cases, wigs stolen or worse, falls on the aarti plate as dakshina! The bald pandit is all to happy to take it as a token of appreciation. As for the theerta, their's many a slip between the cusp and the lip. The ones in the front are pushed, so they inhale the liquid. The ones in the back are given a face wash, enough to quench Tamil Nadu's thirst for water.
Some families try to outdo their relatives and neighbors by throwing in notes as Dakshina, inspite of clear instructions to put them in the hundi. The temple is all too glad at this. However, the pandit does frown when for all his efforts, only coins are donated. He looks at you with such disgust, that you immediately throw in another 10 bucks to ensure he puts in a good word for you with God. Infact, temples collect so many coins that they give the Reserve Bank a run for their own money! In these times, where tendering exact change is more important that electing a competent Prime Minister, temples collect hefty commission in exchanging notes for coins.
One of my favorite moments is when you are supposed to utter your and your family's name, the stars under which they were born, the whole deal for the archane; the pundit repeats them with peppering of "swaha". Sometimes he underestimates the strength in numbers of joint families. Twenty or forty, from mamas' in Bellary to mamis' in Vijayvada. Further embarrassment occurs when he's perplexed by the names. Vijay Anrogyabhasysundaram Jamilpetti, or there's a Vanita Nagendra Saravannaamma Mugilpete. And he thought mastering the schlokas (holy verses) was tough!
The mad scramble for prasadam is a sight to be seen. For once, the autodriver pushes the Audi owner, the cricket lover beats the sop opera lady. If the menu is ladoo and sweet pongal (Indian delicacies), the scramble is faster that F-16s and F-22s. The devotees eat it contently, and dump the plates and cups wholeheartedly within the temple premises. And a loud burp signals the Heaven that it was well received. It is immediately followed by a cigarette or a spit. To err is human, to forgive divine. In that case, the guy who ran away with our sandals and shoes is not guilty. He had plenty of time to shop, choose his size and brand. And walked a mile in another man's shoes before realizing it was the perfect fit.
The little boys can even sneak away with a pee, given the size of the temple's compound. And children are the forms of God, and the Devil, depending on what pocket money they earn. They run around the temple, pulling the dhotis' and baring the inner secret, that even priests are "Just Jockeying". This is as real as it gets for them to play Temple Run.
The father's dare not spank the child, lest the other pretty ladies think low of them, never mind the wife is horrified. Why, he even offers to pick up the son, place him on his shoulders to get a balcony view of the God. But, he just steals a peek on the opposite row's deep necklines. Like father, like son. With lax rules for dress etiquette at temples, more men are drawn in their Bermudas and T-shirts. Their gaze is stronger than Shiva's third eye and the women seem to don't mind it. Marriages might be made in heaven, but temples, some with huge parks, seem to have become dating grounds.
The next day; the same God, the same temple and the same pandit. The next day. But the only devotees seem to be the pigeon, the monkey and the fly. It's as if the Gods have lost their Midas touch. Sayonara God and hello daily life, until the next event on the religious calender.
Exhausted for the week? Free time to kill? Still a Bachelor or an attractive damsel? The Om Shanti Om Circus has rolled into town. Showing at at temple near you.

MAKE HAY WHEN TSUNAMI STRIKES

It is amazing to see how the army laid down across a bridge, and helped the pilgrims cross over on their backs, when the number of planks wasn't enough. It is humbling to see a group of Sikhs going into ground zero to cremate the dead. They are the sunshine after a storm passes.
And then there are those who made hay in the absence of an actual sunshine. News reports are filled with these shocking stories. A guy tried to make away with a whopping 85 lakh, washed away as part of the five crore kept at the bank. The rest of the money, is either in the silt or in the pockets of the locals, some who have become unexpected millionaires on finding nature's loot.
Food packets, some from our own Mysore city, were and are being sold at 100-200 bucks. Air dropped, these find their way into some locals, who sell them to bewildered pilgrims. This in addition to parothas costing 200 bucks a piece and fried rice for even more. Even basic water was not spared.
On one side, you have the cab drivers who drove through the land slide and right beside the ferociously flowing Mandakani, to ensure their passengers reached safely. They are shamed by their colleagues who are reportedly charging 10,000 rupees for a ride which would cost 500, for relatives who are in search of their loved ones.
This reminds me of Hurricane Katrina. Just when the rescued thought they were safe in the SuperDome, crime broke out. Women were raped and possessions looted. Survivors were turned back by police with shotguns, as the rescue shelters could not accommodate more people. Ambulances were parked on the highway for days, just because the administration did not give them a green signal.
It took three days for Rahul Gandhi to "flag off" a convoy of trucks carrying relief material, once he had got over jet-lag from his Spanish vacation. Not to mention his convoy of SUVs to the site, which further blocked the only roads which were viable for emergency transport.
People get the government they deserve. The initial looting was done by people, who took advantage of helplessness and despair of survivors. The political vultures will come next, siphoning off funds from the relief package.
Yes, some organisations did distribute free food. The Armed forces are carrying out their largest rescue operation, even tragically losing their own men in one of the sorties. Individual stories of survival, bravery and brotherhood will emerge. It's the like the scene from The Dark Knight, where both civilians and convicts refuse to blow up each other's ferries.
But, these few vested interests, who displayed "extraordinary greed" in the midst of an mammoth disaster, i just want to say this: Life comes a full circle.

MANUFACTURED FOR MARRIAGE

I'm thankful for being born in a household where women are allowed to follow their dreams. This inspired me to take the offbeat path in life.
However, any trekker worth his salt and backpack will tell you that the next surprise is always round the corner. My cousin, practically younger than me but theoretically older, is getting married.
It's a love marriage, as we, the younger generation, are allowed to choose our seven year partners (the seven -year marriage jinx, after which it hits the rock and we are back to our parents house). I do hope our marriages last long. But, here's my question: How come it's assumed that girls are manufactured for marriage?
Yes, this question is repeated in a lot of households across India, why even across the world. Pretty sure it is the same in your home too. My sister, an IT professional, returns home late at night. She has decided to build her career and lives her life by her terms; almost. When i asked her which car is she going to buy, pat came the reply, "I'm saving enough for the marriage venue".
Who decided that the girl and her family should pay for the venue? And how come these days, its always a 5-star hotel, with 2-star food and half-star waiting staff? Not to mention the Gold rush, which is almost destroying the middle class in India.
Marriages are made in heaven. Unfortunately, even our aunts and relatives come with the package. They reinforce false expectations and beliefs. They are the first to complain about the a flower petal missing in the bouquet, the halwa being too sweet and the gold glittering less. I've seen that they are the first to scoot and slam the door when marriages turn sour and their help is needed. They show up again when a boy is born and to check out the ornaments when a girl is put in the cradle.
This year, we welcomed another baby girl to the family, pushing the total number of "manufactured for marriage" candidates to seven. That in itself is a sad thought. I'm not against marriage. I'm just against the idea that it is a must to establish identity and be accepted.
As i write this, my sister gets complemented on a successful project. "You have a bright future ahead of you", says her boss.
A midst the pestering calls for alliances, ads for Elite matrimony, 24 carat gold and pure Mysore Silk, nothing can be farther than the truth.

THE DEAD BANDICOOT

Lavasa, Brigade or your neighborhood jopadpatti; on some mornings, after you have ensured that Mr. Sharma has left for office and Mrs. Sharma is at her sexy best, a common sight greets us all. No, its not the security forgetting to zip his pants. It's a dead bandicoot.

The kids cringe at it, the Jains feel sorry for it and the Brahmins are back to washing their eyes and chanting the holy Lord's name, and cursing the apartment's management. "This is not acceptable", is the common phrase that is belted out. The neighborhood kids see it as the perfect opportunity to place it on the ever grouchy & angry Mr.Anthony Pillai's front door and ring the bell. This is Grey's Anatomy of a different kind.

The mystery bunch has already secured the crime scene. This inefficient and namesake CSI has already drawn a list of possible suspects. Was it killed by Ms. Julia's cat? Did it commit suicide on eating Mrs. Lucia's bitter gourd cake? Or did it become over confident after watching Man of Steel? Conspiracy theories arise. 

No one bothers to pick it up, except 3 year old Alex Pandyan Gowda (a by-product of inter caste marriage). His mother immediately shrieks out, freaks out and gives him a scrub bath, till his skin peels off.

A conference of crows gathers  immediately. The Congress side wants the tastiest bits, the BJP side wants the tender pieces; a fight breaks out, till the regional party leader, a Bull Dog, decides enough is enough and lifts his leg,and sprinkles his own flavor on it. Everybody takes a flight, including the 80-year Vanitamma, who just had finished a breakfast of smashed bananas. This unpalatable sight washes it out, along with her medicines, braces and pacemaker. (RIP granny).

The maintenance guy, an ardent fan of Shree Ganesh, refuses to touch it. "Evil shall befall us for this crime", he proclaims. It sends shivers down the housewives group. They cannot afford to have their mothers'-in-law visit them. Finally, the garbage collector picks it up, for a fee of 500/- rupees. One man's belief is another's business my friend.

Everything is back to normal. That night, at the end of a very tiring day, half spent in his Audi Q7, Mr Deshpande jumps into the pool and shows off his Nicobar islands-like-potbelly. He practices his man-boob strokes and runs his chubby hand over his laser treated hair, only to find a fat, fleshy and hairy thing stuck on his hand.

One loud ear-piercing Dolby surround-sound sream later, the saga continues......