I. Am. The Villain.

I don't grow a socially unacceptable moustache. Neither do I give an evil look. My eyes don't squint at the sight of a prey. I do not clench my fist, gnarl my teeth or give sinister grins. Forget a maniacal laugh, I hardly laugh. But I am the bad guy. I am the villain.

There's a reason the heaven's light fall upon an angel. They shine only under that light. Bring an angel to the dark, and you watch him turn into another Lucifer. Plummeting into the depths of badness. No lights? No holds.

I am that angel. When the light shines on me. When the eyes track my every movement. I act. For civilization. For 'being' civil. Doing what a billion others would do. The grind. Milling it out on an assembly line of insipid lives. I glance at my watch. I look outside. There's still time to go. There's still time for me to become.

Till then it's paperworks. And then spreadsheets. Followed by meetings and conferences. All the feedback sessions, presentations, goals. All the work of the world, is but an excuse to exist for a world. A name on a business card. An exhibit of my existence. A lie I live.

The world is not black and white. It's not grey either. It's black. Black is reality. Evil is easy. Acting is tough. So is being good. Sins are classified. Beliefs enforced. Goodness an obligation. But instincts make us predators. And the predators, survive.

Being is easy. Consequences are tough. It's easy to be an asshole. It's tough when shit gets thrown at you. Work constipates. It blocks our urge for entropy. To go out and break stuff. Throw a stone at a neighbour's window. Kill someone. And guilt kills you back.

We are such feeble bastards. Not just physically. Emotionally. Surprising, that we lost in a mind game we started.

We are who we are at dark. If we cry in the dark, we are cowards. If we fuck in the dark, we are rapists. If we love in the dark, we are an act.

So welcome to the dark side of things. Here no one sees you. If they don't see you, they don't judge you. Who you are is just a mask. And here, the darkness is your mask. Your identity shall be left outside. Along with your wallet, your cellphone and other electronic devices.

When you come to my darbar you do things the way I want. The way no one wants. And that's the way everyone really wants it to be. Off with inhibitions. Everything you do is a step closer to inevitable death. This is a suicide mission. If it makes things easier; so is Life.

The angels are awaiting their bounty upstairs. Guarded by the lights. You will go to them. As sinners. As disgustful people who has been up to no good. You have done terrible deeds. Spiteful to the core. You are despised everywhere for the sole reason that you are.

Like I said. You don't have to twirl a moustache. Or alter your face. Wear that mask under the light. You don't have to do things bad. Things will become bad. And later, worse. And disturbingly hellish. You will be cast down.

But you will go down into the boils as you. As an honest expression. As a Villain.

Purple Sweater, Pink Shorts and A Near Future

Purple Sweater

There she was. Walking down that same lane. Again. It must've been the fourth time I had seen her this week. She had the same glum look on her face. She wore the same white sneakers with bright orange inserts. And the same purple sweater. Hideous purple sweater. It wasn't even that cold out here anymore.

Should I muster up courage to go speak to her? Maybe politely ask her to perhaps change the dress she was wearing.

Maybe I should not. What if it has some emotional connection? Maybe it was her late Father's gift. Or worse. The memory of a boyfriend long ago. I am not foolish enough to believe that she must've been single throughout her life. She wasn't the conventional pretty, but she was the conventional cute. Even in that purple sweater.

What kind of guy would she have liked?

Her stride exudes a composure. Though she does not use an iPod, she might as well have. Her eyes seem so lost somewhere; I am sure, in some painful past. Burning calories, and burning memories. Lighting old birthday cards or photographs at one end. Watching the flame absolve her from guilt and misery. The smoke must've caused that glint in her eye. The ashes though, she kept in an urn inside her.

Wait! Did she just turn towards me? No. Probably not.

There is a glint in her eye. Maybe I am imagining it. But when the Sun peaks down at her from between the branches, he strikes her with a gleaming smile. And almost as if to prove my point, she brushed a strand of hair off her face. The glint was gone from her eyes.

I shivered under my loose t-shirt. Maybe I was wrong. It is a bit cold here these days. And on second thought, the sweater is not that bad, really. Purple is a nice colour. It kind of suited her. Her curls bounced off the knits of her sweater.

All of a sudden, I had this urge to hold the sweater close to me. To feel the warmth that she feels as she wears it. And to see the bits of her hair that's stuck to that sweater.

She started turning back for home now.

Pink Shorts

He was staring again. For the fourth time this week, he was there. On that park bench staring at me like it's the most natural thing to do.

Why does he do this? It's not as if I haven't gotten used to guys staring. They stare all the time. When you walk, run (especially) and even if you are sitting somewhere minding your own business.

But he was different. Maybe he was thinking of something else and just staring in my direction.

Nah. He's staring. And gosh! What's with that hideous pink shorts he is wearing? He seems to be one of the clumsy kind -- doesn't know purple from magenta.

But otherwise he was the okay looking guy. He must have looked nice if he's going to the office or something. Not much of an exerciser. Probably drinks a lot of beer. Look at that paunch. I am sure he's happily unaware of it. Sitting on that park bench ain't burning any calories, dear.

Did he think I just looked at him now? I saw the faintest flick of his face up at me. No. He's gone back to his thoughts.

The sun was really bright now. It must be late. I should be heading back home now. But I felt something over my face. I hated my curly hair. It was so messy it always kept falling over my face no matter how neatly I tied it up. And there was one of those pesky strands up to it again.

I felt it brushing against my lashes. Much irritating that is. I flicked my palm over it.

I turned around at the intersection.

Even he was getting up from the park bench.

A Near Future

He stirred the sugar in his coffee for the 50th time that evening.

She was sitting opposite to him. She took the cup to her lips. She probably just wetted her lips with it. He loved his coffee, but give her an ice cream any day.

She kept the mug down with a mild clang. He got the intimation. He looked up at her.

"What did you think of me the first time you saw me?" she asked in a straightforward tone.

"Why are you asking me that now?" He was confused.

"Don't answer a question with another question, Mister. Just answer me." she snapped back.

"Ok. The first thing I thought about you. Was the first thing that I noticed about you."

"And what was that. And don't be nasty now," she added hastily.

He leaned back, tipping the chair on to its hind legs.

"Oh..." he stated looking up dreamily. "That pair... just bouncing... as you..."

"SHUT UP!!!" she screamed.

He came forward. The chair back its fours. His eyes were wide with mock surprise. He looked around. No. No one was looking at them. There was a cute girl in pink at the corner.

He turned back to her again.

"Ok. Ok.. Don't scream now." he said.

"So are you gonna tell me?" she waited for him to respond.

"Actually. I was thinking about your sweater the first time I saw you."

"You thought it was bad, no?"

"Nooo," he shrugged.

His voice became earnest now. And he looked deep into her eyes.

"I thought if I could just hold them with me. To feel the same warmth you felt. To feel the same love with which you held it so close to you."

"Really?" she melted.

"Really," he replied.

Excuse me, I’m still a kid

“You are the eldest of three guys?!?! Unbelievable!!!”

That is the exclamation I get when I tell people that I am not a single child. “But you are not serious, or... responsible,” they continue. Well tough luck eldest ones -- the world seems to have a rather boring and dull view of us folks.

Reality, though, is that I have grown up as a single child. Confusing, I know, but stay with me. My brother was born a year after I crawled out. And his was a rather complicated delivery. So due to certain circumstances that I don’t really understand, I found myself staying with my Aunt and Grandma. Now, my Aunt was a widow and had no kids. And my Grandma was just old but had oodles of energy with nothing really to do.

So, amidst a room full of books, draws full of National Geographic magazines (dating from 1948), and the 14th cable connection in my locality, I grew up. Grandma was thankfully well-educated and even better read. I learnt poetry when I was all of 3. I never grew up to appreciate poetry is another case. But books really took up a lot of my time. Even the fun I had as a kid was to just play games helped with your imagination. My social skills obviously suffered. Having a 47 year old Anthony Chettan as my best friend didn’t help much either. But well, he taught me a lot of things; like how to repair a punctured tyre and everything to know about then about shock absorbers.

And plants. Oh, the plants! I still haven’t seen a more diverse garden than what my Grandma had then. It wasn’t one of those beautifully landscaped and pruned-to-perfection gardens. It was butt ugly, dirty and crawled with slimy worms and snakes. ‘Got space? Plant something,’ seemed to be my Grandma’s motto. It didn’t really rub on me, the horticulture; except for watering the plants. The delight when the sun is at just the right angle where a spray will form a rainbow. You tell me what else is more pleasantly surprising in life.

After five years or so, my parents came back from where they worked (Cherambadi, in the Nilgiri Hills; magical place that is, really). And we were back to a fully-functional, joined at the hips family. Not quite. I never got back to family. I was better off as a loner. And Achan had some differences with Grandma. He soon decided to shift into another house. He offered me the option of choosing who I want to stay with. And this is where realization dawned that I am never going to be good at maintaining relationships.

It was another 5 years or so that I stayed with Grandma and Aunt. The rift between my Dad and Grandma eased afterwards. But I was always scared of having to share my freedom with anyone. By freedom you have to know that I am talking about my Sega Genesis or cable channels or PlayStation; I was a sucker for material joys. Still am.

Once my social phobia was clearly defined, the closest connections I had to real life started wearing off. In a span of 3 years I was practically orphaned. First to go was my Grandma; which was a shock, really. She was, I think, 84 but in great physical shape. And it was a rather sudden exit; not those weary, tired and long-strained departures. “I am happy she (or he) died like this without suffering,” people say about deaths all the time. And I don’t believe it half the time. But with Grandma it was like removing the headphone jack of her life. Looking back, I was more ill on the day she died than she herself. Well, God’s a genius, isn’t he?

But the death of Aunt took away all that “Hey! I’m here, and now I’m gone!” feeling. She had cancer. I still heard people say on her funeral, ‘Oh, thank God she didn’t suffer much.’ They are lying, of course. She suffered -- for months. Which is why I hate cancer. Right from the start when you have a prognosis and not a diagnosis and the inevitable doom of it all. But, well, you’ve heard it all elsewhere. Many great human beings are doing their bit in this war against cancer.

So at the tender age of 22, I was reunited, wholly and in a legally binding way, with my parents. And it’s difficult; to have lived almost all your life as a loner and suddenly thrust into a fully-functional family. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, I never made the cut.

Which is why I’m still a kid. I don’t know what to do in life. I have high ideals and even higher ambitions (risks, as I like to call it). I tend to shy away from any binding relationship, because I am not ready for it. Things are going to get tougher, because as much as I’d like not to, I am growing older. But then again, maybe existence is reason enough.

The Final Fantasy

The first time I heard 'RPG', I had to look it up on the internet. And the first RPG I played was the only RPG I have completed.

It was the year 1997 (I think), I got this amazing video game console called Playstation. Behind the console packaging was a list of games along with its thumbnails. Final Fantasy VII was the first title in the list. It was listed as an exclusive or featured title. The thumbnail for Final Fantasy was this steel head of a woman. I realize now that it is the character Jenova from the game.

When I got the Playstation initially, it was from Malaysia and had some really terrible games coming with it. So it was when my Uncle came from USA that I asked him to get me Final Fantasy VII. He told me that it is more expensive than the other games and I might have to shorten my wish list if I wanted this game. Lucky I went for FF7.

When I finally got the game in my hand, I realized why it was so expensive. It was a monster of a game and I mean that quite literally -- 3 CDs of gaming goodness. I put it up and was stunned. It opened like a Hollywood blockbuster; with a cinematic video. And it just blows you away to see this pre-rendered graphics movie. And the first mission of the game happened on top of a moving train. What more would a 15 year old boy want? Bliss!

I was hooked to the game in no time and couldn't help but not give up even after losing all my save data halfway into the game. Any other game, I would've kept it aside and moved to the next title. But this one I started over from the start.

I so badly wanted to beat the game that I even had a game guide. Yes -- an actual game guide. I used to keep referring it to find everything about the game. I wouldn't have found half the stuff otherwise. You just have to compare the wear and tear on the Final Fantasy Walkthrough Guide against the other more academic guides to see which one was used more.

It was a very fulfilling game. To fight a boss battle and wait for the cinematic to happen afterward. To hear the wonderful conversations between the characters. To visit these new places and to meet these wonderfully quirky characters. I think the story and characters of Final Fantasy were what appealed to me the most. Especially the relation between Aeris and Cloud. Even the funny bits in between and all the goofing up (the parade rehearsals come to mind) eased the tension of the game. And honestly, I didn't cry when Aeris died, but it certainly moved me. It actually gave me the motivation to go ahead and finish the game. To take revenge.

And that's why I am writing this now. The last RPG I tried was FF8; which I felt was too tedious and uninteresting for my time and effort. Even in my PS3 I haven't come across a game that emotionally fulfills or drains you; you feel so disconnected with the events. Maybe it is because I have grown up. Maybe it's because I haven't played another decent RPG afterwards.

Final Fantasy VII has become part of nostalgia for me now. Part of what I used to enjoy during more innocent times. And I wish I could regain that feeling I had of playing FF7. As of now, my only consolation for all this is Nobuo Uematsu's brilliant soundtrack for the game. And it really takes me back to places -- right now to the church where Cloud falls down and meets Aeris the second time.

Birth

Pieter's Bullet swerved down the highway like a golf ball rolling down a hillock. The thumps from the exhaust punctuated an otherwise silent night. He wasn't alone. There were three other riders with him. They had gone for a gig all the way from Goa. None of them were married except for Pieter. And Pieter right now had another huge burden in his chest. As he sat on the Bullet's modified saddle, the bike's thumps seemed to resonate with his own heart beats.

Donna was 8 months pregnant. The last time the Doc visited their place, he brought up the possibility of an early pregnancy. And now in this dark night, the only light illuminating their way being the hazy gold of the Enfields' headlights, the image of Donna writhing in agony with only Aunt Martha as her sole help was much too vivid for Pieter to bear.

They weren't married for long. Donna was already a month into pregnancy when they decided to tie the knot. A small event at the church with only their friends and Donna's parents. Pieter's parents passed away a long time back. It was in some friend's garage party that Donna and Pieter met first. And from then, their relation was amply aided by the greens. Grass, MJ, ganja, whatever you may call it; that was how they got to know each other. It was after their fifth spliff that sparks began to fly between them. And how! Floyd's deep riffs spread out over the whole garden where they first made out. And time stood still as their bodies snaked into each other. Each nerve trying to rub against the others' body, trying to generate a feeling that would send shivers down their bodies; again.

Quite coincidental then, that it was Floyd again that made Pieter take a brief hiatus from Donna at such a stage. Pieter had a small garage band thing going in Goa. And they had the chance to cover a few Floyd songs in a rather popular restaurant in Mumbai.

The gig was over now. And another 100 kilometers ahead, there were other screams that awaited Pieter. He shrugged all the thoughts from his mind. The road waned right and Pieter almost didn't see it. He closed his eyes shut for a second. When he opened it, only the road remained. Better somehow, than never.

***************

"PIETER!!! How dare you leave her like this!!!"

Pieter hadn't even stopped his bike as Jojoes came running. SMACK. His fist connected sharply against Pieter's left cheek. Strong smell of feni surrounded Jojoes like an aura.

"Where is Donna?" asked Pieter as he rubbed his jaw.

"She's at Martha's"

"The baby?"

"I don't think its come yet. But you better hurry."

Pieter ran. He jumped the makeshift compound wall and across the stretch of farmland that separated his house from Martha's. There was a dim light that came out of Martha's first floor bedroom.

"Donna?" Pieter asked the lady who waited at the front door. He hadn't seen her before.

"She's upstairs," replied the lady. "The baby must come any moment now. You better wait here though."

Pieter didn't expect this. Waiting like this is rather strange. It was possibly the most important part of married life. And he had to wait like an unwanted guest. He fished into his pocket and got out a small bent joint from his baggies.

And as soon he took the first drag, he heard an unmistakable cry from the first floor. He ran upstairs without thinking too much. The lady downstairs wanted to say something, but now was not the time.

He barged into Aunt Martha's bedroom on the first floor. And there he was. Still tied to his Mom through a cord.

**************

"Ok. First question. He or she?" asked Donna as she laid sprawling on the floor, a joint in her hand.

"He," said Pieter.

"Hmm. Even I think it'll be a he."

"If you think it's a he, it's a he," agreed Pieter.

"What do we call him?"

"MJ."

"Bastard!" said Donna as she lazily kicked Pieter on his butt.

"What's wrong with MJ?" asked Pieter innocently.

"I have bad feelings about that name," replied Donna.

"You have something in mind? What about first parts of our name?"

"Peena?" shrugged Donna. "You think he will be a drunkard?"

"No. What about Dopey?" suggested Pieter.

"Dopey is a weird name."

"We are weird."

"Yeah. But still..."

"Let's get him some boring christian name for the church," interrupted Pieter. "But we will call him Dopey"

"Dopey..." repeated Donna, losing herself into the effect of the smoke. "It's kind of cute."

"Dopey. That's what we will call him."

**************

"You enter this room with that?!?!?! What kind of a father are you????" shouted Aunt Martha pointing at the joint.

Pieter didn't realize he still had it. He took a drag and killed it with his shoes. Martha waved her hands in front of her face. Pieter looked at the baby again. Martha had cut the cord. Donna was exhausted and apparently asleep. He watched as the baby was cleansed and wrapped in a towel. Martha kept the baby next to Donna. And Donna stirred awake, her eyes hardly open. Pieter slowly moved towards Donna who now saw him. She had the ghostliest of smiles. He placed a hand over her forehead. She turned to the other side to look at the baby and then turned back to face Pieter.

"Take him," she whispered.

He turned questioningly to Martha. Martha nodded and turned to cleaning some vessels and clothes.

Pieter gently lifted the baby up. The baby hardly weighed anything to Pieter as he held it close to his chest.

"What do we call him?" asked Pieter.

"You forgot?" replied Donna.

"I thought we were joking that night."

"No. We weren't," said Donna. And she paused.

"He will be Charles Peter Marcoss," completed Donna.

Pieter's eyes dropped a bit.

"Charles Peter Marcoss for the church." continued Donna. "And Dopey, for us."

Pieter smiled. His eyes shone in the dim light as a tear or two sparkled in them.

"Our Dopey," repeated Pieter.

The gentle smell of the stubbed out joint lingered in the stuffy room. Somewhere on the floor, the joint was still burning, almost as if it wanted to witness this event. And it will keep burning, across all the major events of this small family's life -- Donna, Pieter and Dopey.

My Friend Gerin

My neighbour, whose name I don't remember right now, told me that her relatives were joining Sivagiri (Vidyaniketan). Unfortunately, I was a bit snobbish; being there in the school for around 7 years then. And a new face will of course be treated like an alien. So I'd a preconceived notion of being a bit of a grump.

There was this neighbour of mine named Jerine. I knew her from when I was a kid. And when I heard your name, the first thing that came to my mind was 'Geez, this guy has a girly name.'

You are honest though. You exude a nervous energy, and I like people with nervous energy. Actually I like people who have energy. And soon, I realized that you were brilliant; in your conduct, in your academics, in almost everything. You are a great person -- the kind of person I can never dream about becoming.

Soon we were hanging out together through our early adolescence. And trust me, I cherish it. I don't remember the details now. But Cherai comes to mind first. Your Mom's cooking was fabulous. And love your house as well; the old more than the new. Your Ambassador, the driver whose name I don't remember -- he took us to the Cherai beach numerous times. And remember we tried playing Monopoly, or stock market or something like that? Few facts of life here: I am weak at maths. And numbers in general, you are awesome at it. So no surprise you beat me in those. And Monopoly is THE Test Cricket of board games.

Well Gerin, the reason I am writing all this is because somewhere down the line, our life gets so blurred with details, that things we thought would always be cherished, get buried under a rubble that is so inconsequential. When I used to hang out with you in 9th and 10th std, I thought you'd be my best friend ever. Now, I don't think I will have a best friend.

Tomorrow, new faces will show up. And today's faces will be buried under another rubble. That's life I guess. But I just want you, Gerin, to know that, you were, at one point of time, the person I'd thought will be forever my friend.

Social networking and marketing blunders

Last I checked my real friends, none of them was a laptop computer.

Facebook, twitter, and other social networking sites are a huge cluster of people willing to share things. But to put something on it, you have to really become a part of it.

Like the image, there are a lot of other blunders of trying to market things through facebook.

I am no expert on these, but here are a few things I know:

1. Do not create a regular page for a product, celebrity or group

Doing so makes you look like a fool. There are specific pages that you can create for these. Addendum: Do not change your page name to another product. That's creepy and dishonest.

2. Do not rely on Google ads

As much as the figures talk great about Google's adsense, very rarely do you find something interesting and click on a Google ad. This is essentially what went wrong with BJP's approach in entering the web. LK Advani on each and every page didn't help much either.

3. Understand the medium

Networking through Facebook and Twitter really needs a great understanding of how things work. How a 'Like' button or 'Share' button work on facebook. How to bring things to the spotlight on a home page. And about '@replies' and RTs and hash tags in twitter. It's tough work, but you can really reap benefits.

4. Do not be seasonal

People can smell an advertisement from as far as another galaxy. Doing it wrong will be like that 'friend' of yours who tries to make you part of a pyramid scheme. Don't be a politician. Keep in touch, don't vanish after announcing your agenda.

5. Make it interesting

You don't create a viral video. You create a video, and it goes viral; as in it spreads from person to person. Have activities on your pages. Send regular updates that makes a worthwhile addition. Shareability is the keyword.

6. Be funny

Funny has a way of implying honesty. All good communication has that straightforward tone. Take digs at yourself. Publish something that you found interesting (if it remotely related to your product, great). Make sure people come back to your page for more.

7. Encourage discussions

There are few things as ghastly as an empty Facebook wall. So fill it up. Do not moderate unless outrageously offensive, or spam.

These are all I can think of right now. I am sure there are a lot more. But doing a few of these right can definitely help your product not end up in a blog like this.