Domain Maximus

Participating in Democracy

11th January 7:00 P.M.

Blisters. Big ones. On both feet. Indigestion. Not one decent meal in three days. A room full of stinking clothes and muck. Throat sore from screaming and almost complete, merciless exhaustion. Surely, surely you say, this must be an I banker on a weekend. Well I did offer options to people, otherwise it was a just a fat person electioneering. A mere two hours ago, thanks to the Election rules, I had wrapped up an arduous, memorable election campaign. Memorable for many things besides smelly underclothes and delicate vestibules of clear liquid at the balls of both feet. Yes, now how did it all begin…

The Manifesto

Egads!!! Those words will never leave me. Hours of writing, rewriting, vetting, correcting. Speaking to myself in my room. If people tell you good jokes are always good, THEY ARE SO WRONG!!! Ever been to one of those restaurants where the waiter doesnt give a !@#$? You sit there and he stands next to you screaming across the floor to the other guy, who himself is flooring another poor hungry man with the same Customer Service. And when you finally ask him whats there to munch on, our friend, with his “How can I elp ou?” badge blurts out: “ChappathiparathadosaidlisamosadahivadaLikeIgiveashitbondamoronjalebiIhatethisjobpoorimasala…” Thats exactly how you sound to yourself when you’ve been threough that “Oh what a clever play of words” joke a million times.

Writing a manifesto is real hard work. Besides the political correctness and substance, the sheer effort of writing a serious document which deep inside you trust in is nerve racking. So far you could type “Thus we increase market share for kidney stone crushing machines…” while your mind thought “If I push evil old people with walking sticks down the stairs will I go to hell….” This reminds of two interesting mallu jokes.

Interesting Mallu Joke 1: Theres this kid who has an exam and he had thoroughly learn’t one essay for it. Thats right, one. His mother believes “My Friend” can be modified to handle any topic. Little boy returns home from exam. He is gleeful. “How was the exam son?” “Oh I have cracked it, the topic was “My Father”. The mother winces. “And you wrote…?” Son: “I have many fathers. Arjun is my best father…..” The boy had a troubled childhood.

Interesting Mallu Joke 2: Theres this kid who has an exam and he had thoroughly learn’t one essay for it. That’s right, one. His mother believes “The Coconut Tree” can be modified to handle any topic. (Boy, there are dumb people back home…) Son skips back home. He has dished out an essay on “The Cow”. And how did dear son do that? “The cow is a useful animal. I have a cow at home. It is always tied to a coconut tree. The coconut tree is a useful……” The kid is today a successful NRI in Qatar.

The Pitch

Halfway through my second pitch one of the more painful memories happened. I violated the ancient rule of eyecontact. Oh I gave plenty. Not one of the 11 in the audience were looking at me. I believe the exact words I was uttering were: “Now isnt that fascinating…” Apparently not…

My campaign manager is a real gem. So much so, at one point he almost took a dorm away from me. I walk into a dorm and imagine my suprise when I read the slotting time table. “7:00 Raaka, 7:20 Campaign Manager (Arpit), 7:40 Sidin…” My pitch was delivered with remarkable venom….

The pitch of all pitches has to be the one where everyone eagerly listens to you…. waiting for you to finish. Thats because your talking to 5 candidates waiting in line and one listener. They have all heard it before and can even lip sync with you. I think I will see nightmares of that one guy not voting for me….

And bang!! its over. No more pitching. In two hours the voting wil start. But I think I am really too tired to worry. I just want to…. sit down, kick off my shoes, and booth capture.

12th January 1:00 A.M.

They havent started counting mine yet. A few results have come out. I am nervous, tense, and frozen. Its really cold. Futta’s jacket maybe aesthetic, but not insulated. Every face I look at reflects tension and many have good will in them. I just want it over with and to go back to real life. I run over to a small crowd of people and laugh loudly at some joke. All candidates, all trying to hide behind the laughter and noise. All shitting bricks….

12th January 2:45 A.M.

Oh my god……

Veritas Vos Liberabit: Or another one of my stories

“The retro boosters look ok. All systems on the Eagle are a go.”

The status message flowed into Mission Control. The easy drawl of Neil Armstrong’s voice reverberated off the dull grey walls of the cavernous room. Out in space, the Eagle was poised to create history. Neil and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin were cramped into the Lunar Module, while astronaut Micheal Collins was busy checking readings in the orbiter. Micheal had a whimsical look on his face. He would always be known as the guy “who WATCHED man walk on the moon for the first time”. But he had a job to do…

Neil was making last minute checks on the three video cameras they would be using on the landing. Aldrin had a whole list of things to check on. Last on the list was a run through of the “Abort Exercise”. Noone liked to talk about that.

Images of the three astronauts flickered on the Mission Control Video Wall. “Images clear. Audio sharp. We have broadcast quality”. Media Liaison Tom Brooks spoke firmly into this microphone. He looked out of place in the MC room. He was the only guy without geeky glasses and short sleeves. There were atleast a hundred “geeks” in the high ceilinged room, bent over flickering green monitors and inches-thick printouts. Some had pictures of past mission teams, and Mission Mugs proudly placed on their desks, amidst pock marked switch boards and chewed pencils. A few had pictures of the Apollo 1 crew. There was talk of dedicating this mission to the unfortunate members of that bad memory.

The pressurised suits had slots for the cameras on the front. Neil firmly locked each camera into place and made sure the spare was charged. Aldrin was preparing a most important part of the mission, the flag that would go up on the moon. Nylon pennant and aluminium piping. There was a crowd in front of the video screen back on earth.

“The Eagle has landed”. Once again the drawl filled the room, and, as if by clockwork, a hundred voices went up in cheer. Subdued cheer. There was more to come in a few moments. Two hundred eyes watched the screen in rapt attention. The video feed was exactly as anticipated. Clear, grainy, but defined.

The door opened with a metallic clang. Neil Armstrong stepped out of the oblong opening. Through his tinted visor he could see the lunar landscape, a horizon that looked too close. He gingerly stepped out on to the ladder. Then he said the words that would beam across the world. “One small step for man, a giant leap for mankind…” The drawl wasnt there now. He said it firmly, with a pause for effect. He swung down the ladder rung by rung. And then it happened. Neil Armstrong slipped.

Neil Armstrong went tumbling down the ladder and fell to the lunar surface in a cloud of grey dust. Edwin ripped off his helmet and ran down the steps. “Come on Neil, this is the fourth time now, the Oval Office will have my ass if we dont wrap by the weekend…” director Dean Timmons screamed on the studio PA. A set hand ran onto the lunar surface and helped Neil up. Dean yelped “Okay lets do this again, and this time Neil, watch your step…” In set no. 3 one hundred extras put their glasses back on and went back to looking like geeks…

Of captaincy and perverted nomenclature

Ho hum ho hum. 2004 it is. A new year with new hope, new expectations, new ambitions and most importantly the European Football Championships. A tournament better than the World Cup anyday. The World Cup is a joke really. I know I know. The game has to be globalised. But thats doesnt mean you let countries like Jamaica or New Zealand play in the World CUp. But then they let UAE play cricket. All you sports organizing people out there, the writing is on the wall. Everyone cant play EVERYTHING. What will we have to suffer next? Ethopians and Somalians doing body building???

Staying on playful issues, Steve Waugh is to retire after this most momentuous test. And ironically there are Australians who think he was a BAD captain. Oh yes there are. They say he inherited a great team, but only managed to turn them into ill-mannered brutes on the pitch. “He condoned sledging and bad behaviour”. I’d like to meet these wonderful people. Are they the people who call Cricket “The Gentleman’s Game”? Good Lord. A game where someone throws a chunk of leather and cork at you at 140 km per hour. And you have all of a bat as wide as my thigh to protect yourself.

They have made concessions of course. An inpenetrable wall of 1.5 millimetres of plastic to protect your genitalia. “Oh yes lad you may get hit midships, but you won’t feel a thing… till the match is over”. Yeah.. and then you won’t feel a thing forever… You won’t stay a gentleman for too long in this game. If cricket is the gentleman’s game, Ice Hockey should be … “The Psychopathic Chain-Killing Cannibal Cocaine-Snorting Sado-Masochistic Man’s Weekend out with the Family”. These whining chicken-livered morons obviously havent seen such sports like soccer and american football. You idiots!!! In these sports they ACTUALLY touch other… with their knees and elbows. My sister once asked me why they rub the ball all over their crotches and back sides. I told her its so that they can get the paint off. “Oh… then why do they paint it in the first place?” Currently she does not intend to pursue an MBA program.

My trip home had some pristine moments of unanticipated humour. On a trip to Thrissur, I came across a shop with a most intiguing name. So intriguing, I had to find out what the owner was thinking of when he named it. A little investigation brough out a thrilling story. The owner had a daughter called Anupama or Anushree or something. So he decides to name the shop after her. “Anumapa Textiles”. When the name board he ordered came he finds to his consternation that the board is way too long for his quaint shop and wouldnt fit in the facade outside. So he shortens it to “Anu’s Textiles”. Then came a day of fierce wind and rain. And alas, the apostrophe fell off. So now he’s left with a rather anatomically challenged establishment. He was not doing roaring business.

And thus the new year beckons. I do hope we win this test match. Winning a tour abroad is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Domain Maximus, rest assured, will be there to keep tabs on the latest in global and local happenings. Here’s wishing everyone out there a cracking good 2004, with lots of foreign jobs, PPOs, illicit booze and romantic interludes.

Viva Wimwi!!!