Chapter 1: The Genesis
The Nandini Chronicles (Silent H) :
Time: 09:00 AM. There. Crash Bang Pow Snap Dash Chush Flick Grunt Swoosh. There. Here. Nothing
Time: 10:00 AM. There. Dash Hop Jump Skip Sink Smash Lash Chomp Wunch. There. Here. Nothing
Time: 11:00 AM. There. Flux ... Flux ... Flux ... Calm ... Caaaaalm. Settle. There. Here. Nothing
Time: 12:00 PM. There. Nothing. Here. Crash Bang Pow Snap Dash Chush Flick Grunt Swoosh Λ N
And the day has begun ...
If you are looking for a character sketch, this is not. If somehow, after reading this manuscript, you think you will be able to comprehend the illimitable prowess of the She, you will not. A simple rule to this entire piece; pardon digressions. There is so much to say in such little time and yet when one sits down to pen those trite superficialities which metamorphose into something a little more cerebral, or so we think, ink runs dry. So, at the cost of repetition, pardon digression, as you did this.
The day begins with a scoff, a scoff filled with an innate tenderness to all mankind and what mankind defines as the lord, for it is he/she (and this equalization of the sexes to ensure no wrath) who made the sun rise; for it is she (notice the swift transition) who brought light into the system that is the Universe. We hate mornings; I do, you do, all of us do. But not with the venom (read veracity) or the extent (read venom (read veracity)) as does She. If you be the unfortunate one to shine the light of the creator on her tender pupils, and are the next day found decapitated somewhere in the lost jungles of the lost islands of the Bahamas, fret not, for it is that innate tenderness to the morning that is the cause of it; not you. As the pupils mildly adjust to the torrential torture (alliteration to a cause) which is the morning sun, a smile creases that face, and If you be the unfortunate one to shine the light of the creator on her tender pupils, and are the next day found decapitated somewhere in the lost jungles of the lost islands of the Bahamas (repetition to a cause), make your way back from the lost islands of the Bahamas; thrash through the forbidden waters of the Amazon, fight the giant panda on the crossing to the Chinese border, fly that yellow and red aircraft into the land of the forgotten temples, for that woven caper is worth all of that and more.
After a limited time that is spent on morning ablutions the She settles down to sing. Yes there shall be a healthy mention of her straining her vocal chords (termed singing), for it is something that defines what is definitive of the She and at many levels. At times as a transferred epithet (and poetic license allows for its usage with only nouns as well ... the purists bellowing at me with smoke in their eyes) and at times as normal as is for her to decapitate those that disturb her slumber. She sings.
The Genesis of the morning is thus at the crevice of completion. Yet, there is one simple detail that causes its completion; The Phone Call.
Somewhere, in another part of the world, there sits a soul waking up to another sphere of the second. Calm, Composed and Confident, he picks up his cellular device and .. kik ... kik .. kik .. kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik (speed dial 1). A second’s wait. Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
The Genesis is complete
Chapter 2: The Phone Call
The Nandini Chronicles (an H somewhere in the horizon)
Nathan B. Stubblefield roamed the streets of Murray in Kentucky in March of 1908 with the U.S. Patent No.887357. Neither did he serenade unclothed nor did he scream his achievements in wireless telephony atop the then non-existent tall rises. Zero Generation dawned around the time Nehru was walking with Lady Mountbatten in the streets of Calcutta in 1945. Recently we went beyond 3G; the advent of 4G aiming at providing broadband wireless access with nominal data rates of 100 Mbit/s to fast moving devices, and 1 Gbit/s to stationary ones(reads like I’m getting back to my Wireless Research days); all really good information for the common man / woman. But She is not common.
He picks up his cellular device, Calm, Composed and Confident, (notice the capitals) and
.. kik ... kik .. kik .. kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik (speed dial 1).
A second’s wait.
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
In his head; dressed in a white T-shirt (fashionably short I may add), white shorts (a tad loose (and by a tad I mean most of his posterior in full View)), white sandals, and white underwear (quite useless considering that it does nothing to protect the world from The View), time warps as he lopes onward. Gorgeous monstrosities of color anoint the path that he treads as far far away he spots what he was running toward. His footprints on the warped sands of time are washed away by the ebbing winds which blow his hair back with the fragrance of the endless petals of red that seemingly descend from the heavens. Music bows its head to the romance of the contiguous environment and is briefly interrupted by a distant vulgar intrusion...
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
In her head; Nothing. And yet that vulgar intrusion continues...
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
She has been singing for the past few hours, (here a transferred epithet) with the surprising amount of office shop discussions and the umpteen numbers of youth congresses to be addressed. Something unique about her singing is the ferocity with which she would and can. The only time a song was lilting (and there is considerable leeway for this term to be used) was when it was sung (here as a verb) for passionate pursuits (alliteration now a way of life). If this piece makes you believe that these pursuits are few and far between; they may be. However, their potency cause all of the time warped emotions, colors, petals and music blooming to existence in the land far far away as they did by this particular vocal cord exercise. As you hear the song of the canaries playing in the distant golden horizon, that vulgar intrusion continues.
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
Snap ... Chod ... Pick up ... Dash ...
“I’ll call you back” ... Kik!
Melancholy engulfs the beings of those that try in vain to validate Nathan B. Stubblefield’s meanderings. Fret not though, for again, if Cool, Calm and Confident can be dialed back at; so can you. And now for a little trade secret ... there is none. As everybody else ... and I mean EVERYBODY ... for telephony solutions, quoting the now very popular Ms. Kandaswami “Aap Kataar (not the place) mein hain”.
Chapter 4: The Followers
The Nandini Chronicles (an H peeping up from behind the D but shying away)
All the nay sayers (a blasphemy for purists), this is The Racquet. Sam, Madhav, Shyam, Ram, Yesus, Rehman and Crotax (wonder which country he is from) line up outside her abode in the land of the forgotten temple. They rev their engines, all bikes lined up side by side. Sweat trickles down Crotax’s brow as Sam hydrates preparing him for what is imminent. Sam, Madhav, Shyam, Ram, Yesus and Rehman look at the newbie; Crotax (cloaked in a black, cropped, cardigan-like garment with long sleeves), and his rather diminutive TVS 50; they gaze at their own Hayabusas, smirk and think - “Rookie!” She is spotted (shaky camera style) walking down the stairway. Deep breaths fog the inside of the helmets and all eyes squint looking at the target. As she walks out, Madhav, Shyam and Ram close their eyes to remember the creator, Sam and Yesus look to the mother, Rehman says “Allah!” and Crotax begins a strange canine grunt that sounds like an anthem, as they glance at each other again, secretly wishing the competitor luck but seeming blasé and then do what they do best; Follow!
As she tends to invalidate Nathan B. Stubblefield’s creation, many people from the realm of human existence tend to try and comprehend the enigma of the She by Following. Little surprise, that recently, when She commenced cordial connections (double alliteration now) with an acquaintance of yore, the Follower seemed to know her every move; where she ate, where she ascended her means of transportation, what nutrients her meal contained, the color of her sock when she took an official sabbatical to a land of the unknown. She seemed surprised; but with the knowledge of The Followers Racquet and their leader, who tends to call himself Dr. Following Moriarty, my worst fears were corroborated. The Racquet is now public.
She has several traits that entail Following.
The way she reprimands each and every non-descript or fantastic attempt at public displays of emotion or public displays of no emotion or non public displays of anything, with a characteristic grunt (for absence of a better parallel). This is now the anthem of the lost land of Kazhbunnistan in eastern Beluchistan where people of all ages get together every morning and with fist on abdomen sing “ yayy! Yeiy! .. yeiy! Yeiy!”; repeatedly, in a canine exhibition of patriotism, beseeching good-will from the She (Confirming Crotax’s nativity). Thus, if your extended arms are either chopped or frowned at (depending on the time of the day), She is just making sure her brand is Universalized.
The Shiver that she dances (and yes she does dance) has now been patented by MJs lost school for the Dancers below the age of 10. This dance requires not only skill, poise, grace and mobility but also requires a spirit that is devoid of all bindings of this world and the nether as we know it. There have been repeated attempts to emulate this art which is now rated higher than Omulu Capoeira for its complexity and detail; each time in vain.
In Nazabanilujistan (neighboring province to Kazhbunnistan) the burkha has been illegalized. The official uniform for all people, young or old, male female or otherwise, rich or poor, insane or insane (not a typo), is a black cropped, cardigan-like garment with short or long sleeves (the sleeve length to bring about choice) called The Shrug. This is now gaining popularity among the neighboring countries and in Texas. Soon the Universe will be shrouded in The Shrug.
In all the tribes of Southern Africa, every evening is now an excuse for merriment. The party begins by scared chants of the She and all women now open their once tied up tresses and rotate them incessantly in all directions with the ferocity of a thousand sons to invoke trance that was popularized by Her during her many nocturnal trysts with disk jockeys across the globe. This is also the step that marks the final ascent of any being into the worlds unknown to us. The gods (notice no capitals) stop The Followers and ask for a demonstration of what we will call The Head Shudder (notice the capitals). Depending on the quality they are either sent up to meet the thousand virgins or sent down to suffer an eternity of pain and torture. In schools now, all children have asked for this elective to be taught in five stages as a compulsory main-stream course.
In another realm, Cool, Calm and Confident, He tries to defy the urges to Follow. He tries to create a move of his own with asymmetric hip gyrations, un-coordinated rotor movements with his hands clasping at the carafe of inebriation, his legs attempting furiously to keep pace with the hip and the hands, song (transferred epithet) on his lip, bespectacled eyes in a stupor of his own melody and an expression of lust that transcends Don Juan’s dexterity at attraction and raw sexual appeal.
Coalesce his attempts to non-conform to the sheer inability of mankind to do anything but Follow and Coupling results. One you must stand back and admire, for music is not about the placement of the notes but knowing what the right notes are. The Followers move away as The Other Man makes his entry, as is his trait, Cool, Calm and Confidently, sun rising behind him (quite quickly I may add for She hates delays) and as The Followers let out a shriek of having been trounced, The Other Man lets a lop sided smile drop, points at himself in the mirror, walks up to her and says “Yeiyy!”
Chapter 3: The Shrug
The Nandini Chronicles (Eicchhhh! WHO DAT!)
For those who know not the string of decimal
A lesson which is at the abacus’s core,
Look again at what earlier written was questionable
And know that three comes before four.
Interest now piqued in cerebral pursuits keener
In the black, cropped, cardigan-like garment with long sleeves,
An explanation for my darling sister debleena
About the She’s most significant of many pet peeves.
As She begins to pick out clothes at sundown
Black, Pink; or of the two a healthy mixture,
Irrespective of destination, disposition or gown
There is but one, and only ONE permanent fixture.
She wears her make-up dark and beautiful
Causing a significant rise in ambient temperature
Saunters around the mirror-less room
With It sitting in the corner, staring relentlessly at her.
The silver shoe slips onto the foot, the hair winds up to be tied;
Left flowing, sourcing mirth, only to be tied up again.
The large hoops go around the ear, the pinned tresses now sanctified,
Singing all this while by the Kazhbunnistani ordain.
Rendezvous with vehicular accompaniment is fixed.
Inebriation, by decree of The Head Shudder, The Followers incur.
Meandering music melts the keys to the nocturnal tryst,
As It, sitting in that knowing corner, staring unremittingly at her.
The Phone Call has been called back at several times tonight
As there is that collateral of time and song and everything bright,
Cool, Calm and confident dealing a little Floydish hand of slight
“Wish you were here, Wish I was your shining armored Knight!”
The Night’s sun has not heard the thermometer’s jeer
As feet foray forth to streets fantastically lit
She circles around looking at her mind’s mirror
And for some inexplicable reason still wraps around It.
Hear the ardent request as a legacy member of The Follower Club;
Fearing decapitation, smiling sheepishly, I give out a giant Hug,
In ignorance of the architect of that diminutive self-image, I articulate,
“Darling, you’re gorgeous, so please please - Lose The Shrug.”
Chapter 5: The Singing
The Nandini Chronicles (Hechh!) Chapter 5 (Decimal restored)
Of failed attempts at poetry, the word SHAAMPHOO and verbose anecdotes after a deliberate mathematical aberration; hear ye, for this, as mentioned before, is what defines the being of Her.
“Singing is the act of producing musical sounds with the voice, and augments regular speech by the use of both tonality and rhythm and also involves a substance (like air) that is burned through the larynx to be tasted and then inhaled usually done in a group of other singers / musicians who are primarily industrially manufactured or hand-rolled, done for pleasure (singing in the shower or karaoke) or formally (during a religious ritual) and is practiced by over one billion people in the majority of all human societies.(source - Wikipedia with minor changes)” If comprehension is defeated by the unique amalgamation of both the parallels that can be drawn to this act of Her, let me elucidate certain instances to aid understanding.
Singing: Part 1: Scene 1: During a certain road-trip that She had taken on a super-bike down the memory lanes in the land of many forts and the silk sari, in the absence of other vocal modulator devices, She decided to lend her expertise for the entertainment of the rider who Cool, Calm and Confidently meandered the roads, much behind the pack one may add, due to the extreme rotor power at the core of the super-bike that he was terrified to unleash. For around 200 kilometers (333.3333 miles for the folks in the Americas region (not in Canada for they use different calculation methodology like the actual abacus), they ambled on, song after song, making the minutes on the clock shrink due to the musical authenticity and acumen of the singer. As they covered the 201st kilometer (333.3334th mile (Canadians calculate value individually)) the rider, inexplicably, turned back to Her and requested, for once, to string the words in poem rather than in prose; to make a tune rather than verbalize; to break the mono in mono-tone; quite lovingly (one must add). He failed to believe that the quality of her song melted poetry to prose, created trance in monotone and turned tonality and rhythm to nothing more than mathematics of the vowel. If a question arises as to how she reacted to this request, refer to paragraph 4 of Chapter 4: The Followers; “Yeiy!” She whispered (exaggeration) with a barrage of non-verbal assaults dealt to his abdominal area. He survived! The super-bike did not!
Singing: Part 2: Scene 1: During the innumerable inane insinuative inebriated ideation processes, (new heights of alliteration) that The Followers are privy to, one of these innumerable inane insinuative inebriated ideas was that of a business plan. She recommended (actually stated) that becoming a mogul of ‘alcohol at your door-step’ would end all our economic variances. We gleefully (or so it seemed) agreed. What ensued though was a confrontation between her copious business sense and conscious pangs of the conscience. As this battle developed, the sheer volume of the songs that slipped through her lips was phenomenal. Not to mention, the conalarity (new word for Oxford now) of the song and the way the receding trail of fiery lyrics left ash for us to admire, proved adroitness at the art of the song. We then bowed down to her and proclaimed for her to be The Queen of Singing (She being The Queen of many things known and unknown).
Singing: Part 1: Scene 2: She continues to sing. He has never (to emphasize NEVER) questioned her ability at song ever (to emphasize EVER) again. When she sings, He can be seen, at a distance, nodding his head in silent approval of the brilliance that can only be Her brilliance. Bountiful presence of alcohol in the blood stream ensures the nod is permanent, for what happened to the super-bike, could happen to him.
Singing: Part 2: Scene 2: She continues to sing. We have never (to emphasize NEVER) been over-eager to ever (to emphasize EVER) share our tunes, or allow for Her to sing our songs lest the conalarity of the song and the sheer conflagration of those tunes leave a wake of ash that hamper our visionary senses; many other senses however are hampered by us refusing co-operation to collaborate. One of her Followers, who by wake of his agility calls himself The Sloth Follower, has tended to develop brain hemorrhage for his refusal at collaboration during the many ‘timely’ trips they have taken for her jetted (actually a word) return to her abode where he tends to take his feet off the accelerator to ensure time stops moving and at times turns back in its tide. He now allows for sharing (but is still not over eager).
Of chuchumber (read as is), self-assured friends, newspapers in toilets, petite feet, arm-boxing tendencies and air kisses; hear ye, for this, as mentioned above, is what defines the being of Her.
Chapter 6: The Other Man
The Nondini Chronicles (Duronto Ghurnir, ei legeche paak)
We have spent close to 84.83% of this document in Following Her. Hence, now, as a precursor to The End, it becomes my duty to sensitize the rest of the world (the 4 people who are reading this) to He who has peeped through several of these anecdotes Cool, Calm and Confidently. We shall, for ease of reading and writing, call Him The Other Man as we did when we saw him let a lop sided smile drop, point at himself in the mirror, walk up to Her and say “Yeiyy!”
A blaring horn is heard far away as the moon sets to yet another humid morning. The laptop is nestled between the upper abdomen (the lower abdomen having been severely injured due to unknown reasons) and what is above it (unfortunately a distinction may not be made). As the broken spectacles prop up on his beard, which has now been unattended to for the last month, the one thread holding it to the right ear screams for respite. Eyes open and pupils adjust. Time stands still. Feet patter past unaware of consciousness, trying desperately to ignore the rising shirt and hanging-on-for-their-dear-life not-washed-in-about-three-years-and-a-half jeans. Even though, the visual senses are active, a remote button in the cranium has not yet been stimulated, causing the eyes to stare uncomprehendingly at the list of songs. Subconsciously, the senses meander to the song that had been his companion through the dark. The sun rises higher, making all six senses aware of day-break as his hands automatically are raised by an unknowing force close to his face. The second’s hand is spotted first (surprising, yet true), the minute’s next and as the pupil focuses and strains to read the hour’s hand; The seventh sense kicks in, the cranial button is activated, the countenance transforms, the earphones are snapped free from the ear, the straining glasses are now hurled aside, the shirt pulled down, the hanging-on-for-their-dear-life not-washed-in-about-three-years-and-a-half jeans left where they are, eyes opened wide, telephonic device picked up and:
.. kik ... kik .. kik .. kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik ... kik (speed dial 1).
A second’s wait.
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
The Other Man is not dawdling, if the earlier paragraph gave one a sense of that. With a Sherlock Holmish precision of energy dissipation, he does have a propensity to avoid ATP degeneration at times of stipulation. However, when battles need to be fought (like on the telephone), The Other Man dives into the field to counter any and every obstacle that may be in the path of progress or inane insinuative inebriated ideation processes. As quickly as there is motion there be complete inaction, irrespective of whether; His creator were calling for him for an aiding-of-the-ATP-regeneration process, His sibling were bringing the house down with whatever she were bringing the house down with, She were saying ‘Yeiyy!, His abdomen were being non-verbally assaulted due to his honest yet puerile inquiries; the stillness of expression and invariableness of countenance is appreciable.
The Other Man chooses to amble to the lavatory and spend a few hours understanding world economic status and the weather (in-dump reading material a permanent requirement). Walking out, he then chooses to amble to his work-place, hopefully bathed. As he walks, that old knowing vulgar intrusion;
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
During all the conversations with all the peoples of all the worlds; he feigns interest. Unknown to most, the reason why the nod of the head is permanent, is education that The Other Man has been through to acknowledge without consideration (thank Sachin for all the Weekly ‘mujras’ where She sang and he nodded). The day drags on slowly but surely. The evening dawns and as he makes his way back in his new automobile, the silence of the surprisingly sober evening is broken by that offensive incursion again;
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
The list is visited. ‘Pink Flioyd’ typed into the search criteria. ‘Wish you were here’. A healthy helping of scotch accompanied with ice. ‘So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell’, the first sip is savored. ‘We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year’; almost half the drink gulped down. ‘Running over the same old ground.’ disturbed by that constant disturbance;
Trin ... Trin .......... Trin ... Trin ......... Trin ... Trin.
Snap ... Chod ... Pick up ... Dash ...
“I’ll call you back” ... Kik!
‘The same old fears. Wish you were here.’ and a repeated incursion. Melancholy on lips he picks up unaware of seeker;
Snap ... Chod ... Pick up ... Dash ...
“I love you” ... Kik!
The song changes on its own. He boogies with asymmetric hip gyrations, un-coordinated rotor movements with his hands clasping at the carafe of inebriation, his legs attempting furiously to keep pace with the hip and the hands, song (transferred epithet) on his lip, bespectacled eyes in a stupor of his own melody and an expression of lust that transcends Don Juan’s dexterity at attraction and raw sexual appeal to that kazbunistani ordain.
“ yayy! Yeiy! .. yeiy! Yeiy!”
Chapter 7: Unnamed
The Nandhini Chronicles (I comply!)
I do think it is a rare case of the writer’s block forcing me to leave the chapter Unnamed; or maybe I am looking to see where the journey will take me and begin to think about what it could be christened. What started on the 2nd of March 2010 meanders to a close on the 15th of March 2010. And yet, for most that have been unfortunate enough to endeavor meandering with these anecdotes, the purpose needs to be defined as I shall in this very succinct conclusion.
The 2nd of March 2010 (or) the 3rd of March 2010 (there was confusion then, but now both have agreed that it is the latter (took a few phone calls)) was the day, four years ago when She and He decided to walk. Together (causing for him to finally stop proclaiming the count of people he had been with (surprisingly out of place)). So four years after their nocturnal conversation in the land of many temples and the silk sari; Her attempts to look away and feign interest in other Followers so he could lope toward her, in white overalls, beseeching attention; eons spent in transit and conversation; a year spent on the phone; I raise my glass (no champagne, just good old Laphroaig with a dash of water) to Him and Her to about forty more. I am not over-bearing; I am not violent; but all those who attempt the evil eye even five years hence, one piece of advice; ‘work-out’. Even those five years of pumping iron and running laps will not prepare you for the physical torment and mental torture that you could bring upon yourself.
To Her: Cheers (sans liposuction for you are perfect). Unfortunately for you, I shall always be the relationship keeper; (yes it is a threat!) and yes I do love you more than you know (or I show).
To Him: Surprising timing to the end for today I can raise a glass to another year of you walking the planet (must have been planned). Friend. Family. Brother.
And now back to that rare case of the writer’s block: ‘The Tribute’
Chapter 7: The Tribute
The End
Dr. Following Moriarty
