Stranger than Fiction

Plumberman

2010-08-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

"I am a plumber."

It may seem hard to say that aloud. Not if you're me. I am not ashamed. I never was. Not when I told my father. Not when I met my wife. Not even on the day my children saw me plug the shit-pot. It's a proud profession, plumbing. There's some honour in cleaning a blocked drain. Some may even call it noble.

But who gives a shit right?

The more I work it, the more I love it. I love it the way a dentist loves cleaning teeth, a carpenter loves polishing chairs, or a banker loves writing cheques. I grow to enjoy my work. Who am I kidding you ask? Trust me, I wouldn't lie to you if I were a lawyer.

It's as plain as day. Plumbing makes me happy.

I know what you're thinking. You think that I'm full of shit.

You're so far from the truth, that I feel sorry. It's not so hard to love what you do. Especially if you're me.

I love a broken, messy, stinky bathroom. I've seen toilets so vile, that I am sure hell is a kinder place.

Now, anyone can fix a broken pipe or a leaking tap. More often than not, plumbing means cleaning a ball-bearing here or changing a threading there. It takes real talent to stop a regurgitating toilet or stem an over-flowing bowl. I won't be lying when I say, "It's as hard as rocket science".

How do you flush a toilet and not stain? How do you drain a bathroom and stay dry? How do you lose a pump and keep a smile? But most of all, how do you look at crap and still get hungry?

It's easy.

I am not saying it's easy for every plumber. There are a few in the profession who find it real hard. I know them personally. But not me. I find it easy. I don't care about shit. Crap doesn't bother me one bit. I can stare it right in the face and say "Hey! I don't care about you. Your stink doesn't offend me. Your ugly face doesn't revolt me. You don't disgust me. To me, you're just a piece of shit".

I've never missed a meal.

I see people picking up dog shit all the time. "It's no different from our shit" - that's what I said to myself - when my lady neighbour bent over her defecating doggie. I was just a young lawyer then.

I watched how people went about picking up their dog's shit every morning and every evening. They walked about with this little brown packet that would finally hold some bulging poo. Eagerly watching over their pets, celebrating when the deed was done, rewarding their animal for emptying it's bowels, I wondered how foolishly people were revolted by their own wastes.

I knew it then and I'll say it aloud now, "People will pay good money to clean up their shit”.

Nobody knows this better than plumbers and contract killers.

People won't use a bathroom that's disgusting. Not unless they're poor. Any kind of tax payer will pay to get a bathroom fixed.

I know they will.

I've seen them belch, cringe, shudder and revile. I know how it disgusts them – a chocked pipe, a sickening stench, a flooded bathroom – they're grateful when you fix it up. They'll give you anything you ask.

I once thought of asking a client (Yes, thats what we call them) for his daughter's hand in marriage. I don't know what stopped me. Perhaps I remembered I was married.

Anyway, on a good day I make anywhere between 500 to 1000 rupees.

I know what you're thinking.

You think that's not much. But let me tell you, I always have a good day.

And, it's not bad money for 3 hours of work. I don't work more than 3 hours a day. I don't know why. As a lawyer, I never had a court case that was more than 3 hours long. I suppose old habits die hard.

I know what you're thinking.

Let me tell you, nothing makes me more happy than restoring order in a God-awful bathroom. I am as happy as a lark, gay as a jay bird and shy as an ostrich.

I sing and dance as I mend toilets. I swish and sway as I clean drains. I coo and sigh as I fix a flush.

It's terrific.

When I was a little boy, I watched the office plumber skillfully fix my mother's bathroom. I stood at the door and watched all day. He asked me to move. I didn't understand why.

I remember now.

The plumber got down on the floor and looked into the drain. He sat in the muck, allowing his pants to get wet. His face was made up with concentration. I heard him mumble a prayer. He asked me to move, “You're blocking the light”, he said.

I fixed my eyes on him.

From his belt hung a shiny spanner, a wrench- still in it's plastic cover, a trusty looking pair of pliers. In his hands he held the plumber's friend - a plunger. A long wooden handle with a suction pump at the end. The rubber suction squeaked, as the plumber swung into action. In one swift motion, he thrust the plunger into the drain. The plumber began to pump.

Rapidly he moved the plunger. He worked it up and down. The plunger sucked and breathed. The plumber grinned and grimaced. The drain gurgled and belched.

I felt hot.

An oppressive heat descended on the bathroom. Sweat trickled down my brow. Through a strange haze I saw the plumber. He was hunched over the drain, working the plunger like a mad man. His face red, with hands tight around the handle, he grunted loudly. The water swished around his ankles. And in that filth he sat, striking the drain again and again and again.

I could feel the pressure build up. The plumber glanced at me. I looked into his eyes. They looked worried. I knew why. Water was moving in and out of the drain. Writhing like a big, black snake.

The plunger was stuck. It stood kissing the drain in a vacuum world. The plumber got up on his feet and tugged on the plunger. I stepped back.

The plumber jerked the plunger, trying to release it from its hold. It sputtered and wheezed. The plumber swallowed big bursts of air. I bit into my collar.

The plumber looked back at me. This time he seemed sure, more determined. He even smiled. I chewed harder on my collar.

Whatever was blocking the drain was getting dislodged. We could hear it move up. As if climbing one step at a time, it moved closer to the opening. The plumber wanted it out. After a dozen firm strikes, he jerked up the plunger quickly.

There was a moment when time stood still. Then, it all happened very fast.

A small sword flew straight out of the drain and hit the plumber square on his face. The plumber fell. On his way to the floor, he hit his head against the basin. Blood rushed out of his head. Water burst out of the drain and hit the opposite wall. The drain water washed his blood as it flowed.

I flew into the bathroom, picked up the shiny sword and ran to my father. Papa was in his study. I found him asleep on his leather chair.

On the table were piled half a dozen books. Scattered in different directions, all of them were bound in red. Empty pens, awaiting refilling, filled up the little space that remained.

At the table end stood the statue of Lady Justice. Big, bronze and bold, she was blindfolded. In her left hand she held the universal symbol of justice – a pair of scales. Her right hand was clenched around nothing. It was missing a bronze sword.

I tiptoed up to papa's desk and approached the grand Lady herself. I glanced at papa and was sure that he was asleep. I didn't waste any time. I looked up to Lady Justice and beheld her glory. I returned to her the sword I stole.

She couldn't see, but I did look sorry.

When it rains, it doesn't quite pour.

2010-01-28T01:48:00.000-08:00

Rain is God's Pee. There... I've said it. Now sue me. Just like you and not me, the Great One takes a leak whenever nature comes calling. I get rid of my wastes with more sophistication. I don't just unzip my pants and shower over Argentina unexpectedly. Or when looking for a laugh, deluge poor India. I'm afraid I cannot reveal what my sophisticated methods are; but know this mortal, as we speak my pee is being actively converted into petroleum. Yes. I am conscientious about falling petroleum levels. Or would you rather have me flood your backyard for two days in a row? That would just crack up everyone here. But believe you me, dangerously full bladders are distastefully destructive.

Who am I? And what do I know you ask? I am a proud Deva, and I come from the rich bloodline of Lord Indra himself. Son of Poonduswamy, my name is Nutyurswamy. So listen carefully, for what I have to say is the truth. As for you doubting Thomases, who dismiss me with an irreverent wave of your hand, answer this - How does water fall from the skies? What are light drizzles? Why do cloud bursts? Why does it rain acid? And, why does the rain in Spain fall mainly in the plain? I will now proceed to dispel all the lies you have learned from your sissy science books. I will reveal to you a sacred chant from the Rigged Veda. A powerful incantation that will fill you with all worldly knowledge, and leave you with extraordinary insight into God's own urinary system. Sing with me O mortal.

Shower of Blessings

In the skies there lives a bladder,
Now and then it leaks.
Sometimes for weeks and weeks,
Now and then it peaks.

When it's full it likes to take,
What we call a piss.
And, when the Great One, hasn't drunk much water,
It maybe even hiss.

Sometimes he likes to fart,
Children call that thunder.
Sometimes he likes to please,
Children with his shower.

When he's frigid and quite cold,
(Now that is very often)
The Great one likes to squat and say,
"You deserve this precipitation!"

Hail and sleet, may make you bleat,
By Jove! They've made him tougher!
For passing those is no mean feat,
When you've got an ulcer.

I agree that this great revelation leaves you with mucho disgust. Now, not all revelations are joyful. I know you're thinking of all those times you danced wildly in the rain. Opened your mouth to the skies and drank in greedily. Or did a little jig, kicking at the water around your feet. Sigh... fun times weren't they? Ya, but definitely not wise. Lest you forget...

Remember!

Precipitation = Urination

(To be chanted 5 times during ablutions.)

Escape to University this one hour

2009-12-09T00:54:00.000-08:00

Gosh I am so bored. This ennui is killing. I can't work. I don't want to do work.

I need to fly away to another place, another time, and just lie to watch clouds move. Now here. Slowly, there. On a sprawling blue canvas, spot the occasional passing plane. Wonder who's on board. Wonder if they can see me: I-cannot-count-how-many Kilometers below. Wonder what I saw the last time I flew back home. Look at the tufts of grass growing around me. Wonder if I should pull them out. Remember mum telling me that plants can feel. Guiltily, draw my hand away. Examine my nails. Look at them as if nothing interests me better. Listen to the sudden odd call of a bird. Wonder what its doing on an afternoon so hot. Wish I were a bird, or a dog, or maybe even a snake. Wonder about the few people I know. Wonder what they're doing now. Wonder if they ever think about me. Hastily abandon that line of thought. Inhale an odorless smell. Wonder why the cities are so god damn... so...god damn, just... so damned! Look at the large boulder, grown from the earth, standing square next to me. Watch it squint at the sun. Look under its crevices. Check for snakes. Send a silent prayer to God. Thank him for all those times he didn't let a snake bite me. Look up at the sky again. Search for a big ball of orange. Remember the time mum took Ashwin and I swimming on her Hero Puch. Remember how we clung to her. Like monkeys- Ashwin to her and I to him. Remember watching the sun that day. Watch it glide to the end of the world. Watch it end its day within minutes. Remember the orangeness of it all. Feel my eyes grow misty. Embarassed that I cry so easily. Feel it slowly grow chill. Welcome the lazy cold breeze. Say, "there's a nip in the wind". Sit up to enjoy it. Wonder why it had to come at all. Turn petulant. Sigh aloud. Look at the building, English Department, a few meters away. Listen to laughter I don't know. Wonder whats tickling those guys. Think of the good time they're having. Wonder about the girl whose laughter is the loudest. Imagine throw her head back and laugh. Laugh until it hurts all her sides. Laugh until it grows so painful, and water run down her eyes. Purse my lips. Gather my stuff. Walk back to hostel.

Man and his Dog

2009-12-03T02:57:00.000-08:00

My father has never been one to show his affection. In moments of pride and happiness, he'll simply smile or grin. My brother and I have made our peace with this. My mum on the other hand, is one who reaches out, gives great bear hugs and smothers us with kisses. But the most embarrassing of it all is when she insists on talking to us in a voice so strange, at a decibel so unusual, at a time so horribly wrong, that eyes pop right out and jaws simply drop. However, such bouts of her over affection are short lived, and are assumed to occur with the next full moon. Not much more can be said about how my parents choose to shower their affection. Mostly they give us money and shower it. Other times they buy us cell phones and clothes. Sometimes my mother is over affectionate and cooks a nice meal. I also like it when dad lets us drive his car. These are usually times when mum and dad complain the least, and all seems well in our household.

I wish the same could be said about my dog. Money, cars and clothes don't impress her much. That dog wants the real thing. She wants the hugs, the kisses. She needs the patronizing, the baby talking. She pines for these. I have never been able to understand that dog. I don't know what dogs want. My dog doesn't let me be friends with other dogs. She bares her teeth and growls when she sees me chatting with one. I can never have a pleasant person-to-mutt conversation because she sniffs me out in a minute. Our relationship is not what it used to be. It's no longer a throw-and-fetch thing with us. The constant attention she craves and her incessant demands have taken its toll on me. Not to mention the lying, the sneaking around, and her indignant eyes.

My face is drawn and my clothes hang loose. I have lost all appetite and my dog refuses to bark at me. But this is not about me. Nor is this about my dog and me. And, no this is not about my brother and my dog. And, while we're on the subject, this is not about my mum and dog either.

This, my friends, is about a relationship so rare, a friendship so beautiful, a love so true, that the word affection tries hard to fit in. I shall no longer speak in tongues and now reveal all.

This is about my father and the mutt. My dog lives for my dad. Okay she really lives for my brother alone. But poor dad, I suspect, has begun to live only for her.

As one would expect, mum absolutely dotes on the dog, but dad has never before been so expressive of his lou for anyone. He gushes and rushes with praise for her. He takes her on walks, on secret routes, so that the common stray may not follow. He adores and prides her. Again, my brother and I have made our peace with this. But, we haven't been able to get over the former stiff upper lip turning into a misty eyed, fawning little girl. The deep baritone hath gone. In it's place now resounds a girly giggle and saccharine sweet speech. Yes, the army dad has brought shame to the bristling mustache club. His once stoic face now melts with many loving emotions at the sight of that dog. He is hurt when she ignores him and indulgently gives into all her doggy tantrums. I cannot say this enough- Dad lous that dog.

I cannot tell you what exactly are that dog's feelings towards dad. I know she loves him, but then she does love all of us. One must remember that my dog is needy, clingy and a bit of a sentimental mutt. She needs her hugs, kisses, and loud loving greetings every time one of us walks past her, comes out of the bathroom, and when our eyes suddenly meet across a not so crowded room. She cannot go two minutes without someone calling her "baby", "sweetie" or "bad dog". She wants all the patting and petting that she can muster from all of us. My dog is crazy. My dad is crazy about my dog. My dog is crazy about my brother. My mother and I are crazy that no one's crazy about us. We are making our peace with this.

2009-06-09T05:08:00.001-07:00

Pat-a-Pat-a-Pat-a-Pat-a.

2009-03-18T04:31:00.000-07:00

I realise that it's been a while since I've written anything. Life has been pretty busy ever since I've come back to University. I've been meaning to update my blog but some how I haven't been sure of what to write. The trick I guess is to just put "finger to keypad" and let the thoughts flow. 

For those who may be interested, I've been good. I finish my masters in April and I will be ready to enter the "real world". But the real world aint all that willin to take me in!

For starters the recession has dampened all job prospects. No one is willing to hire and no one seems to be getting fired. I wish people would be laid off, so that we(or maybe just I) could get a job. There has to be a point to people losing jobs, which is morons such as I, with no experience whatsoever and no clue, finally find work. 

Finding work is exasperating. You think you know what you want and you are willing to join anything that remotely matches your interest. Every time you hear something new you're willing to try it, you think it sounds really great, you're bloody impressed and you don't listen to that tiny voice that keeps saying "Oi! this is NOT what you want". You go for the test, you attend the interview, you're even given a call letter. But you're not thrilled, exuberant, excited or even happy.

Why can't jobs be tailor made for people? They should be available all the time. If they're short, new stock should be ordered for immediately! People should be able to walk into the job market, browse around, try out a few things, make faces at the rest and walk away with that one job that excites them so much that they're waiting to try it the moment they're up. Job shopping would be such a great aphrodisiac. 

My interests require me to exercise my brain for not more than two hours, is there a job that matches this description? I want to be able to get to work at 10 or maybe 11 and leave by 4 Sirji. I want to be completely engrossed and not just FaceBook to let my friends know how bored I am at work. I want to be passionate about my job and be fuelled by it. I want to be able to wake up every morning desperate to start work. I want to work as... See that's the problem. I don't know what I want. Mr Boss Man can you please figure what I am good at? Can you please be impressed with what ever I manage to gurgle. Mr Boss Man can you please pay me 20 Thousand Rupees. Wherefore art thou Mr Boss Man?

I have come to realise I have no searing interest or passion with which I can build a career immediately. Why can't I find a job that makes me a film maker par excellence or a popular column writer not over night, but just now. Why, why, oh why do I have to start at the bottom? Why must I struggle? Why can't everything be handed to me on (the proverbial) silver plate? Whew.

I have no sequential train of thought.

And thats one more thing about careers why do they take time and why in the name of God do they have to be "built"? Madhulika seeks to build her career as a writer. Anil wants to build his career as a film maker.

Build, build, build. All this building is really taking it's toll. I am tired. I've been trying to build for the past five years, yet I'm getting no where. So far I've built a very unstable and shaky foundation. I've started on a column, but the architect has warned me. He tells me that my building will soon be a beautiful pile of rubble, "If" I'm not careful.

"If I'm not careful", I yell. "What do you mean, if I'm not careful"?

"Nothing just that...mnnnnmng"

"mnnnnmng? MNNNNMNG?"

"I mean you shouldn't start with the column as yet. G-g-g-g get the foundation right first."

"I can't g-g-g-g get the foundation right, because the foundation bores me stiff. I can't work on it any more. I am done with the foundation. I have to build on this call-it-what-you-might foundation."

"Hmmmm"

"You Suck"

"Mmmm".

"Go away".

"Right"

"No wait...

 Architect-architect, God's own man,

 Build me a building as fast as you can.

 Build it and paint it and mark it with 'M',

 Show me the blue print, TODAY my men."

The Holiday!

2008-12-10T01:31:00.000-08:00

I am in Chennai after only a few months. Last time I wanted to come home, this time I wasn't so keen. Lots of reasons. But surprisingly this time a lot of people know I'm back home. The last time I kept it rather quiet. No reason.

Nevertheless, it's good to be back home. I finally have time. The bad thing is that I don't know what to do with him- this extra time. It's boring to spend all day with him without not doing anything. Since I have so much of him, I sleep with him. Some more of him I share with my family. A majority of him I spend with the television and my beautiful Mac. While still little I protect in case I need him to meet a friend.

But it's not enjoyable. I wish I had little or no time. I wish my days were packed. I wish I had something to do. I wish I were motivated enough to get off my butt and do something I like, love and enjoy. Nah... I don't want to do anything I enjoy. Bloody ironic.

Any way what good is a holiday(read sem break) if you don't sit at home in your PJ all day, don't bathe until it's time to go to bed, read the paper at one in the afternoon while having your "breakfast", know the time for every soap and program on TV and still not watch all of it, and eat and eat right before Christmas and new year.

I wonder if I could have a strict regimen that I would follow now. I don't think I could do it. It would defeat the very purposelessness of this holiday. I'd hate to do that! This is MY holiday, I deserve it, I need it, I like it. But how come I'm so bored :(

Boredom. She's always presented herself in my life. She won't go away no matter how hard I try and today, ever since this holiday, she's come to plague me as if sent by God himself; harsh, painful, bitter and even sad. I wish I could wring her neck and throw her outside for the stray dogs to eat. Maybe tonight I will kill her and be rid of her for now. For oh no! i know she will be back soon. The bloody bitch. ha ha.

You know what, I want to be able to make something of this holiday. Even if it is to lose more weight to fit into that new years dress or talk to my brother more. But I should make something of this excess time. Use him so that I don't have to deal with her- boredom.

But should I? I don't know, like i always don't. I can afford to be lazy now and i probably can't for some time to come. I love lazy. Unlike boredom she's nice, she's fun, she keeps me from doing things boring. I like lazy, she lets me be. And that's what I am going to do- be; be lazy, be in my PJ, be without my bath, be in front of the TV and around the fridge, be without anyone-jobless, smelly perhaps, bored out of my mind, but funny, always be funny.