Adios Annus Horribilis Deux, Willkommen Annus Horribilis Tria

Another year down the drain, while a new one is slithering up omi(cro)nously. “Twaaaaaang” goes scary music in the background.

As for the year that went by, it was one involving lots of driving for me, in particular, ferrying kids to school and other activities so as to avoid public transportation. When I’m in my car, sometimes I have four women in my life. It’s not that I converted to the religion that allows you to have up to four wives. Conversion, as we all recently found out, is not good. I’m even scared of converting rupees to dollar nowadays. Or to try and convert distance when talking to Amreekan friends.

Me: “I drove about 70kms today going to Chiba.”

Friend: “70kms? How much is that in miles?”

Me: “Hmm…err… Po mi###.”

And the conversation ends just like that.

Talking of conversion, I sometimes think of converting to the ancient religion of my mom, given the pressure to conform to society. However, with conversion getting banned here and there, I am having second thoughts. If at all I go down that path, (and this is something I have said before) I want to join the upper-est caste available. The crème de la crème of castes, whichever that is. I am not interested in joining some run-of-the-mill upper caste. I want to know who is at the apex of the pile and I want to join them. (Reminder to self: Google that.)

Getting back to the four women I sometimes find myself with in my car:

One is my legally wedded wife of 22 years (who has, in fact, been with me for a quarter of a century now, living in sin for three of those years). She is the quietest one in the car. Never says a word regarding my driving skills, or lack thereof.

The second one is the lady inside the car’s in-built navigation system, who spews inanities such as the date and what special day is that day when I start the car for the first time, as in “Today is December 31, 2021 – World No Conversion Day,” or something like that. She also tells me when I cross prefectural borders. “You have entered Kanagawa Prefecture.” I nod, knowing she’s harmless.

The third woman in my car is the Google Navigation lady. I use the Google app because the in-built navigation is not updated real time and you have to shell out quite a bit every few months to keep it up-to-date. So, I use Google maps, which has its drawbacks. There are times I suspect the Google map lady has homicidal tendencies and I fear that one day she is going to drive me into some lake, something my cousin recently experienced with his navi lady in Malaysia. (I did end up in a ditch once, due partly to the Google map lady.)

The fourth is the youngest and the one that is quite annoying. She is the lady in my drive recorder. Like the in-built navi lady, she also does small talk when I start up the car, but is quite condescending. “You’ve been driving quite skilfully of late. Let’s aim to become even better.” I keep quiet. Then she starts giving me driving tips – “Mind your driving lane,” or “Maintain distance with the car in front.” A few days ago, she said, “You’re speeding above 80”. I might have barely touched 120 km/hr. I thought I would fool her and did a mental conversion to miles and almost blurted out “it’s only about 75, milady” but then I remembered the anti-conversion rule in the nick of time and checked myself. Whew! Narrow escape.

Anyway, things are going smooth, or as smooth as they can be under the circumstances. The mallus in my neighbourhood had an Xmas/New Year party yesterday (Dec 30) after missing 2021. As usual, the menu included, among other items, the national dish of porotta/beef and sufficient fluids (also known as jeeva jalam) to wash the food down. Talk of beef may be crime for some, but we mallus, as a species, revere beef. So, this was prepared religiously by a group of volunteers overnight spending three to four hours. The volunteers were also provided with ample fluid support, which made the task easier. Would we be able to hold a similar get-together in the new year? That is the big question in front of us. The halls are open and available for parties as of now here in Japan, but the BGM is getting scarier with omicron slowly sneaking in. Let’s hope the music turns upbeat soon. 

Wishing y’all a happy 2022.

 

Kootharas of the World, Unite..

We are mallus (some consider this term derogatory. I don’t). Many of us were and are proud of that, though I never understood why. We had achieved immense progress, the propaganda machinery had told us over the years – high this, low that, big schlo…, what not. And somehow, even after learning from G Carlin (that being a mallu is not a skill, but a f#$king genetic accident - G Carlin on Pride), there was this subconscious pride in me. Dormant, most of the time, more or less like the subconscious religious and racist bigotry found in the depths of people’s hearts, which peeps out in unguarded moments.

All this pride, however, has been slowly crumbling in front of my eyes over the last couple of years, ever since I started using Facebook and WhatsApp. I found out that we are one of the most reviled people in this country. Chu#$ya mallus. All those achievements were nothing but old wives’ tales. If this continues, the only legitimate remnants of mallu achievement could be the gooey remains in sleazy movie halls across the length and breadth of the country.

The first inkling of what was going to come was when the Grand Poobah compared us to Somalia. There was, however, another hint much earlier in my life when in college a Delhi kid told us “You south Indians are all like that.” Never understood what he meant by “that”. We just told him “Po thaya#$” and left it at that. He was a fair and lovely kid and I think had a fancy-sounding (at least to us) name like Saxena. We were all Bijus and Jubis and other disyllabic names and many of us were jet-black wheatish complexioned. Obviously, no one was there to advise our parents on how to get a uttama santati. No north-faced banyan tree twig, no 72 days of abstinence. They got married, fornicated and reproduced like rabbits. No, that is not true. They didn’t reproduce like rabbits because they were vaccinated, which, in case you’re not aware, is a big scam by the West to depopulate the world. Well, the result is clear. Look at me. They got one parameter right, by accident, for sure. Tall! That’s all. Tall….dark, ugly and dumb.

Well, subsequent to the Poobah calling us Somalis, they started downgrading us one by one. We became the worst state in the country. The crime capital. Our cities are dumps. People, especially of a certain majority religious persuasion, are on the verge of becoming refugees. There is murder, mayhem, and there are trans-genders in workforce, etc. and before you could say Jack Robinson, we became “thundery Pakistan”.

That was when I lost it. “Thundery?!” What the f#$k is thundery? My dormant pride was stirred. Are they alluding to thunder thighs? Those plump women in the mallu movies; a genre that the country loves more than Bollywood fare. Are they telling us that when the Gujaratis were lunging for their asmita, we were embracing Silk Smita movies here? So, that is the deal. They want to paint us as “kootharas,” which could be translated as dirty rotten scoundrels. Once we start believing that we’re kootharas (I know quite a few who have become believers), they, the fair knights in shining armour, riding their cows, will come in and save us. It appears to be from the playbook of certain religions. You’re a sinner who needs to be saved.  

I was downcast at this turn of events. The horror of knowing that you’re universally hated! But then, I do have some friends, who religiously post uplifting messages and motivational bullshit in my WhatsApp groups, which I used to deride. Not today. Today, those have come in handy. I’ve decided to look at the positives and take ownership of being a koothara. After all, I was born and raised in one of the koothara-est neighbourhoods of Trivandrum, thanks to which I had developed a fine command over koothara language at a very tender age (a fact revealed to me by the taxi driver who used to ferry us to school). So, here is my response for calling us thundery. I’m raising my lungi to you in protest, an ancient vedic ritual practiced in this region to express dissent. NO! Not that, don’t look there, you koothara. Look at my thighs, my thunder thighs!

Kootharas of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your lungis.