The memoirs of Mrugank Mathur

Home Sweet Home

2007-12-05T22:24:00.000-08:00

Mammo was on the Air India (AI 343) , enroute to mumbai. It was one of his trips to India, his annual pilgrimage. 400 odd people crammed into a flying enclosure, non-stop for 12 hours, this was bound to be deadly, combustible stuff. Around him, others - beautiful airhostesses with their curt work-like namastes, students like him typing away on their laptops appearing to be seriously researching but secretly wishing the hostesses were taking notice, business men wearing swatches refusing to part with their cellphones, saree clad ladies wanting to go to the toilet because they had to and not because the flight was taking off, and the odd child crying wanting the window seat and not the isle. This was it, it was feeling like home, his niche.

The air hostess was now on her route serving beverages and peanuts. The businessman next to Mammo, (say Mr. Kaul) asked for tea. Sipping it Mr. Kaul immediately yelled out expletives and cried out to the hostess condescendingly , "Hello madam! you call this chai ? (Indian tea) . It tastes like hot water. It is worse than the tea on the Indian trains". The airhostess was not one to back away, she landed a killer blow of her own -- "What sir? aapne chai maanga, ghar pe biwi ke haath ka chai nahi miltha.". (You asked for tea, not tea made by your wife!).
Just then the intercomm went, "Welcome aboard Air India AI 343 to Mumbai. The flight duration is ... ".

Yes finally! mammo thought Home Sweet Home.

To evocate further eloquently,

.... And yet
Day after day
Gleam after gleam
And year after every scathing light year
We claim our advancement
To ourselves
And gleefully toot our horn
With trumpets of loud, chuckling misery
Man, indeed, is a wondrous animal
He feels hope

By being hopeless...

-Sandeep & Percer's Anthology

Cat on the Wall

2007-12-02T10:25:00.000-08:00

Birds of a feather flock together. Mammo lived in this huge apartment, populated by indians, mostly. It was indeed a true microcosm of india's diverse culture. Almost all the states had representations on the post box boards on floor 1. Reddy garu, Jaspal singh, Gupta bhayya, tamil arasan, Mallu mon, Marathi kar, everyone. He felt at home, once inside the apartment complex.

Anyways, a few days passed by. One evening, waiting for a college shuttle outside his complex. He ran into Dave from his lab outside. Since, the comfort zone between the two was still not attained, the conversation was entirely confined to level of "elevator talks". It became worse when Mammo answered to Dave's question, if Charles(another freshie labmate) also lived in the same apartment? He replied "No. there are no foreigners here!". Ouch! a lower lip was bitten and the customary speech of explaining india's varied diversity ensued. Mainly damage control talk, from a stranger in a strange land.

A few months rolled by and he had finished an year of graduate schooling by now. He was now finally going to india for his vacation. One month at home, sweet home.

Strangely enough, he was now questioning the calories in his mom's mysore pak, prepared to celebrate his arrival. On the streets, his father would relentlessly honk his Santro, at a pedestrian just about to cross the street and he would chide his father, saying in the US no one honked and educated him on noise pollution. One fine day, given the bumpy roads and the ecstatic driving by his father, the Santro had a flat tyre. While returning by the public transport bus, from the garage, the bus was crowded to the hilt. Mammo was in the bustle too, jostling and thinking of the sweat and the smell etc. The conductor slowly made his way through the bus collecting tickets etc. and finally it was mammo's turn to pay up. Mammo replied "Yeah! one to Jubilee Hills" in his now accented put-on english. The conductor retorted back saying - "Call center kya?". Sudden realization - he felt naked.

A hypocrite! that was what he was. A cat on the wall. He had gone abroad to be educated. Enlightened, he would be in his homeland though.

The Civil Disobedience Movement

2006-03-20T13:38:00.000-08:00

So, Mrugank was appointed as the teaching assistant for a course much to his dislike and the professor (whom we will name P), a well known whimsical, inconsiderate pedantic.

When the course started, the professor wasted no time in stamping his authority and stubborness on meek Mrugank. Any resistance, would be dealt in a stern threatening tone. Mammo, the obedient, buckled down like any other desi grad would. P would often derive saddistic pleasure in seeing poor Mammo scurry to/fro from his lab (5 minutes by a brisk jog) to the classroom. His favourite tactic, was to request for things one at a time. When Mammo protested to P by email, P in his quirky way apologized nevertheless. Mammo quickly reformulated his opinions regarding P - he is just clearly misunderstood, he is nice at heart.

Oh! a bit too quick. Next week, P summoned Mammo to the class, which Mammo duly obeyed. Little did Mammo realize, P was playing a dirty game. As soon as Mammo entered and took the last row seat, P commanded Mammo in full view of the class to go get him a bunch of papers lying in his lab (5 jog minutes away). P was back in form. Mammo couldn't refuse. It would be denial in public. For a moment, he contemplated not standing up and feigning that he had not heard P. But that would only mean, a re-iterated and probably a more gesticulated command and even more severe humiliation. Hello! P was clearly in the driver's seat. Mammo was fuming but too meek to resist.

And then realization dawned upon Mammo. He got up obediently, bowed to the prof. and humbly replied - "will be back Sir". He then went out of the door, never to return. P waited like a jilted lover on the Baltimore Harbour. Students swore that P looked at the door more than a couple dozen times. (P 's eyes are usually transfixed on the projector's blue bulb in front of him or on the roof of the class). Mrugank basked in the glory ala the Swami of Malgudi and a humble disciple of the Mahatma.

The Scent of a Woman and Judas priest

2005-11-22T06:20:00.000-08:00

Beyond books, beyond booze he never looked - a comical embodiment of weakness, surviving in his shell, a mere meaningless existence, a life of numbness, content nevertheless. Until the shell cracked. Not abruptly, but incubated by warmth and permeated by emotions. Who could stop the sands of time? For what dawned on him, was the gorgeous harbinger of wondrous life, relentless charm. Restless he became, rapidly engulfed in its wake, incensed by the refreshing scent, for what he witnessed

The dreamy gyrations of a woman
To yogic music
And her mystic eyes…
Laced with black snakes for eyeliner…
The eyes set and rise
Like a sun in all its poise

Her saree painted
With the intoxication of religion
Hindu gods, goddesses, chariots and cradles
Each one reveling in the celebration
Of royalty and mistaken identity
Her saree, a battle ground, a courtyard, the royal lake
All that ancient Hindu opulence could make
And wrapped on her lithe body
Waiting to be warped in the sensuous dereliction
That her once passionate lover, hath now unleashed
Sensuous neglect – close to the tragedy
Of a live human heart
Surviving the sting of love-making bees
Beating, and ceased not yet
A heart that could survive anything
Even betrayal by the Judas Priest.

Brutus disguised as a friend. What could he do? The shell was cracked. Strewn pieces which could not be picked up. Turned to smoking, he did. Cuban cigars dipped in congac, relished. On enquiring, said he - the cigar was his life. Little did he realize like the cigar, his self was withering away. Going, going, all up in smoke. At last, at least, did he come out - out, free of his shell.

- Sandeep & Percer Anthology

The Eagle has landed

2005-10-13T10:27:00.000-07:00

The chief protagonist, Mrugank Mathur, had finally arrived. We shall address him with all due respect as Mammo, christened so, by his seniors at IIT 4 years ago. As time flew, the name stuck and so did the flesh which gained him the name. Mammo, however, begged to differ. He tried to hoodwink many, who asked him the funda of his name saying, it was because he was the "Man of the Moment".

Thoughts cluttered the head of mammo, as he rode the escalator of a sleek eastern, US port city, airport. One train of thought went - I am finally a foreigner. The sleaze train went - Look at that raapchand aunty in front, with low cut jeans and tank top - and then felt slightly guilty. But he quickly reconciled - what sin? I have set foot across the oceans, By the tenets of hinduism, I already have committed a grave one. His thoughts were suddenly obstructed by a smartly dressed lady customs officer, another maal, but with a menacing looking dog. Mammo meekly muttered - good afternoon. The lady, latino, then gave Mammo a naughty smile, rolled her eyes towards his pants, and asked - anything hot, young man? Even Mammo, a connoisseur of pondy movies, was taken back. Then he realized, she was enquiring about the indian food stuff, he was carrying in his two heavy suitcases. A quick denial, followed by a gracious take care, and Mammo was on his way again, looking around and feeling his way in his new environment. Aah! feeling around reminds me, just 4 hours ago, Mammo was feeling around the bathroom of BA539 enroute from London. When the 40ish stewardess came up to his seat and asked him, his choice of juice - Mammo, not a frequent flier, replied mango. The hostess got him tomato, and the wise-looking, american uncle next to Mammo, grinned. Mammo, man of the moment that he was, acted as if tomato was what he desired, and quickly lapped it up. Little did he know, that green chilly was one of its ingredients. A fire was raging in his shapely belly and the water he drank to quench it, made him want to pee badly. So he got up, went to the cupboard sized toilet, waited in line, entered it, closed it, and damn! it was pitch dark. Mammo had never been in an aeroplane toilet before. He was feeling around for the light switch, but could not find one and frantically started scouring the walls for anything that seemed like one. He felt something sticky felt in his hand - thanks shiva! it was only the soap bottle. It had taken a leak after he had knocked it down. The next victim was the hostess emergency call button. Still no sign of the darn switch. Minutes passed in darkness and the search grew intense. The flush was inadvertently operated and the baby tray, flung open. No light switch! By now the 40ish hostess dropped by and was knocking on the door, enquiring if everything was fine. Fellow passengers got up from the rear seats and were inquisitively looking towards the toilet as if it were a scene from turbulence - II, where a couple do it in the flight toilet. Mammo was loosing fluids alright, but only via perspiration. Briefly he believed, he could sweat away the excess water in his body. The flush, meanwhile, was on a roll, diligently operating and the door getting knocked rythmically. Mammo decided he would open the door and play the first time flier card. He placed the knob between his thumb and index finger and tried to pull the door, it would not open, the knob - like him was in a jam! Damn! As desi experience had taught him, he then pushed the door and the knob the other way a little. Voila! there was light! the knob was the switch and to think, poor mammo had only pee-ed in the open or behind doors with knobs, which were only mere, faithful knobs.

Finally, a performance in peace, and the flush worked purposefully for the first time in 7 minutes, and mammo came out, he was the cynosure of all the 441 eyes in the plane. Mammo really was the Man of the Moment.