Attacked

This is an amateur interviewer's account of a mediocre interview followed up with an attack by transvestites.


Venue: The Grand Hyatt Lobby


Our egos were flogged by the fantastic–looking waiters and waitresses. We behenjis did not feel home. Not even at The Grand Hyatt where, standing in the lobby, we had the behenjiness to ask an attendant where the lobby was.


Then we stood waiting with unconditional awkwardness as the hunt for the interviewee began. We were herded into the lobby-eating-place (excuse me for my limited vocabulary).It was a good cup of cappuccino that the waiter brought along. When the interviewee finished drinking and ogled at us we realised that the interviewee had not ordered it. But neither had we. It was an embarrassing situation and the interviewee had to pay for it. And then we didn't expect him to be a smarty which he turned out to be. He said he'll give only a short interview. A shorty short interview. We had permission to shoot only for 15 minutes. So a shortier video. A fiasco.


And then of course the eunuch attack.


I have never seen eunuchs attack in full force. But they did. At Chamya, our official photographer. It was a well planned attack.



Black dots: Chamya, me and shraddha
Pink dots: Them
Yellow& black: Auto
Red: BEST bus

We didn't see them coming from between the autos at the traffic signal. Our photographer being the sole possesser of "Y" chromosome in the vicinity, was immediately targetted. They actually grabbed him in a bear hug as we girls scampered to safety. His camera dangling from his neck must have been attractive. He never told us how much money he paid them to spare him.

Moral: If you don't pay for cappucino you haven't ordered, eunuchs attack.

Pee Yes Am

That is what I am going to do. Day after tomorrow is the PSM Prelim exam. One of the turning points in the life of a medical student. It makes you turn hard enough to make you dizzy. You turn back to look at the innocent days of a pigtailed girl frolicking in the corridor of a South Indian school oblivious to teh torcher she would face five years from then. To the time lost solving differentials and integrations, which were supposed to be difficult, to have learnt and attempted to understand Newton's discoveries and inventing a different physics on paper. All for this.

All this for a blog I would write as a third year medical student struggling to give up sleep and laziness, struggling to be motivated to turn a page of Park. Yes, we come back to turn, again. It's always someone's turn to feel frustated. It's mine now. I don't want to learn the dimensions of Latrines. I don't want to learn about Macchhars and Makhkhees. About the fact that Indians are squatters who prefer anal washing. That economic development is the best contraceptive. That some people commit suicide by drowning and some by smoking. That randomisation is the "heart " of a trial. That cholera is the father of Public Health. That Yaws is a shining example. That accidents occur due to unusual animal behaviour.

May be this is why our country is in such a dire state. If we actually studied PSM and understood its implications the public health standards of our country would be possibly better.

May be it's my turn to launch the National Interest in PSM Preparation and Learning Emerges(NIPPLE) Programme.

I have wasted 20 minutes writing this. I could have taken a walk in the Park.

Sarcasm and Sewri

(For lack of activity on this blog, I had to chapofy from gosumag)

Owing to my contracted imagination, poor memory, undeclared frustration and utter lack of knowledge, I request to be excused for writing on what you might find to be a mundane subject. Sarcasm, it seems to me, is the right medium to describe this delightful place which I am fortunate to tolerate everyday.

Out of the many avenues of entering Sewri, I choose the Railway Station. Even with blaring sinusitis I have managed to identify the arrival of this station, owing to the enchanting (mal)odour of dried fish. It always strikes my consciousness hard enough to catch me off guard – every time. I get off the train only to hear the monotonous crackles of an unseen antique speaker which I have come to associate over the past three years with (un)timely railway announcements. Two policemen (one of the many kinds of men you will meet soon) stand guarding something, about which I have been curious for a long time. They occasionally pester the hawkers to reinstate their authority in the public’s eyes. I find them irritating because apart from their royal moustaches and pot bellies, they have nothing else descriptive about them, reducing the size of my article by a few lines.

I also unavoidably spot the Polyuric-men standing around the periphery of the station. These men have residual cave-men instincts and mark their territory sincerely everyday in their favourite niches. (Sometimes, I feel they are necessary as their large scale generation of ammoniacal odour neutralizes that of the dried fish.) I find this ironical as Sewri has the highest density of public toilets than anywhere else. (‘Anywhere’ being the finger-countable places I have been to in my whole life.) It makes the typical morning of Sewri a riot of colours – colours of buckets of all sizes and shapes, meant for different purposes and lined under different taps.

Leaving the station behind, I encounter my first dose of major excitement. It is time for some serious athletic activity. Every year in the three months of monsoon, the narrowest pavement leading out of the station has its tiles freed from cementing bondage. Anyone who dares to step on them is thrown off balance and is swathed in mud from knee to toe. So an aerial view of this pavement probably resembles a large number of adults engrossed in a difficult game of hopscotch. Of course, to make this game more exciting, there are overhanging tarpaulin roofs which cave in as rainwater accumulates and give away without any warning. It drenches me in gallons of water especially when Murphy knows that I have unedited Gosumag articles in a vulnerable canvas bag.

In these regions, you encounter the first signs of any wildlife in Sewri. The wildlife is quite sparse, mostly comprising of colourless strong willed mongrels with inhuman canines and odd mating habits. Another constant four legged species is the friendly cow tied in an unfriendly fashion to the old woman who owns it. Day after day, the cow stands ruminating respectfully with its derriere exposed to the hundred hands which take its blessings regularly.

In Sewri, I never fail to get a Gutkha-carpet welcome. Here, every man and woman revels not only in consuming gutkha but also in watching its tiny plastic packet flutter innocently onto the street. Also, the gutkha chewing-men staunchly believe that the world is their spittoon. I always guard myself from sudden spurts of blood-red well-masticated betel leaves striking from unexpected directions. I am fortunate to witness the process of the formation of some of the largest stains on the street. (You get the best results if you spit off a speeding motorbike.) These paan stains along with the gutkha packets adorn the streets of Sewri which get converted into a wild canvas of the modern artist.

I apologise for introducing the most proactive member of Sewri’s active social life towards the end of the article. I call him the Leering-man. This man (who I am sure is found in many other places) provides hundred percent entertainment on my way to the 8 o’clock morning lecture. Be it calling me “Garam garam murgi...” or the occasional grope or shove, he becomes another victim of the cave-man instincts lurking in these areas.

All this and much more have made me an ardent admirer of life here. But what I wish to share with you is the philosophy of life in Sewri — ‘If life comes to a standstill and you ruminate too long, they will touch your rear. So don’t chew too much, just spit...’