A Tryst with Cutting-Edge Technology

When I started this blog last June, I had something in mind when I chose the blog header and the link. Back then I was quite a keen follower of Prison Break ( I still am, but I've not yet gotten my hands on Season 4 ). So I thought anagrams of the names of the lead characters Scofield and Sara would be a good idea for the blog. So the blog kicked off, and I started writing about things that interested me. Music. Crosswords. Cricket. Humour. Food. But I never thought I'd get a reason to post something that would have the remotest of semblances to Prison Break, considering I don't do reviews.

I was wrong.

October 18, 2008.

5:45 AM. It is a chilly morning in Bangalore City.

I alight from the bus, dodge the Autowallas ushering me, and march towards the opposite side of the road. Koramangala 2nd Block. Shortly one of those BMTC buses comes along, and 10 minutes later I find myself outside TGI Friday's on Airport Road. I cast a doleful look at the building and plug my headphones back on. Three Air Supply numbers later, I knock on Heaven's door, the entry to my abode during the course of my internship until June past.

My sisters are finally back in the country. It's a family reunion after more than a year. Understandably, there's a bit of emotion surrounding all this, but since that's a family affair, we'll just let that be. This post is not about the reunion.

My Dad is the first to notice it.

'You've gone down alright, but you'd look smarter if you got rid of your unkempt hair. Why don't you get it trimmed?'

Smarter? I think it over. Sure. Why not.


8:00 AM.

I head towards the nearest saloon, mutter 'Short' to the barber like I always do, and set my specs aside. It's usually a peaceful process, a consequence of which is everyone's happiness. The barber gets his due, my head becomes lighter and well, honestly I think Bangalore's Radio Indigo 91.9 plays pleasant English numbers which you can almost doze off to.

I notice that the scissors are conspicuous by their absence. Machine, the barber complies. Go ahead, I tell him. I close my eyes. These guys are pretty adept at what they do, I mumble to myself, and recalled the last time my haircut had gotten screwed up.


Sometime in 1993. Lazy Sunday evening.

You need a haircut.

Dad, no. I have homework!

Trust me, you need a haircut. Let's go.

But it's a Sunday. Saloons are not open today!

And sure enough, no saloon is open. We go back home. Dad is disappointed. And then he takes matters into his own hands.

Scissors. Comb. Anyone can do a haircut, he says.

Twenty minutes later, he examines my head. First this way, and then the other. I have no idea how I look, yet. Mum happens to walk in, and she gapes at me. A hollow patch on the right side of my head greets her. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, and Dad is sheepish. Anyone can do a bad haircut, Dad corrects himself.

Just to screw things up further, the class photo-session is scheduled for the next day. Later, looking at the snap, my friends would scorn at my novel hairdo while I hung around peevishly.


'Done, saar.'

The barber removes the shroud off me. I put on my specs.

It's hard to exactly describe my reaction. My face expressionless, I manage to mouth 'How much?' and pay him.

'Saar, if you want Ghajni style, I can do that also. Five more minutes.'

I shake my head vigorously, unable to utter a word. I get back. My knock is greeted by one of my sisters.

'Hey, look who's home! It's Michael Scofield!'

Guffaws follow. I am perplexed, Mum is shocked, but this time, Dad is overjoyed.

'15 years ago, this is EXACTLY what I intended!'


Addendum:

October 20, 2008. Monday.

Seen on the work-board of my cubicle:

Return to innocence

Migrating from the secure cocoon of a college student who has his every need tended to by his auto-replenishing joint account to the self-reliant working professional who thinks twice before spending his hard earned paisa is something that happened overnight in your case. Expectedly, your transition raised eyebrows from your ten-year old cousin, who’s quite a stalwart as far as his vocal skills go. The Academic-Yesterday to Working-Professional-Today scenario is something he couldn’t really understand, even more so considering the fact that his backyard-cricketing partner of the yesteryears had taken to a job. As some kids see it, anyone who is “working” is no longer considered a kid, and must be given respect. But this kid is not used to such niceties in your regard.

So when you paid your uncle a visit a month back, the kid eyed you like he might have greeted his maternal grand uncle who sports a big fat mustache. No usual cries of “Dei, come, let’s play cricket” or “Dei, Ramprakash scored his 100th first class century for Surrey!” Much as you found it weird, you just let it be, and continued indulging in political talk with your grandpa and later, vodka- talk with your uncle, who was quite the research analyst as far as the brands were concerned. All this time, your cousin watched you talking away in quick-fire English, building your current image in his head, with every probability of a complex developing.

Finally, when you found him watching an old Ashes series on TV, you sat down beside him, slipping an arm around his shoulders.

“So man, howdy! Long time. How’s the cricket going?” (The bugger had been selected for the district’s Under-14 Cricket squad, but had been benched for almost all games since he was just around ten years of age. Maybe the actual reason was that he added up vertically only to about four feet…)

So an animated session started, about how his practice games had gone really well, but he’d not been able to find a place in the final-11 when it mattered. Never mind, you told him. All in good time. He was a good player with decent batting technique, and you consoled him saying his time would come. By now you supposed that the ice may well have broken, and expected him to talk a little more.

Eventually, curiosity did kill his patience.

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I am a software engineer.”

Okay, that’s a common term these days, he seemed to think. His next pressing concern-

“Is it easy?”

“Erm, kind of. It is hectic at times, but well. It’s alright.”

This makes no sense to our chap, so he probes further.

“So what does your work involve?”

You wondered if a ten-year-old would grasp half of what he’s told about developing applications and related things (not that you understood it very well yourself, but that was the kind of image you liked to exude. Never mind. Back to the kid. Ah yes, the explanation.)

“Erm, I code…you know what that means?”

Blank stare.

You tried to explain. “See, Coding is something in programming that has a lot of typing involved..erm…” In parallel your fingers played away on an imaginary keyboard, with the kid fixated upon them for a while.

Slowly, he seemed to register it.

”So you type…for a living.”

“Erm, kinda, yes.”

A sudden look of defiance and energy.

“So what’s the big deal, I can type too!"

You smiled. “Great, so you too can become an application developer some day.”

“No, I’d rather play cricket, I love signing autographs, though I might stutter when it comes to speaking English at the post match ceremony, but (turns to his dad) you’ll help me there, right?”

His dad pitches in. “Sure, you just go there and play, boy!”

You’re amused. “So you’re definitely growing to be a cricketer some day?”

“Of course. Don’t you see the money they make? It’s insanely huge!”

It’s a materialistic world, your yoga-philic alter-self thought. Even kids know it these days!

You decided to play with his mind. This kind of talk usually made for good entertainment, exposing a reason why we adore kids so much, being their innocence.

“Alright, so you become a great cricketer. You earn a lot of money. But then, let’s say you’re 35, and your arms and limbs are no longer the way they used to be. You’re forced to think of retireme-”

He cuts me short. “I am not playing to retire at 35.”

Hmm, resolute kid. “Okay, suppose the selectors chuck you out-“

“Only if I give them a reason to, and I don’t see that happening.”

Man, this bugger’s confident, you thought. “Okay, let’s say, thanks to some cheap zonal selection politics, you’re ignored…” and you waited for a counter-statement.

“Go on”

“…for a series. And for the series that follows. Then?”

No sign of wilting. “Oh, I’d probably have a kid by then, I’ll start coaching him!”

Chuckles all around.

“What if it’s a girl?”

“You haven’t heard of the Indian Women’s Cricket team, have you?”

You smiled. Such sarcasm at 10. This guy would be a livewire at 22.

“So cricket is your life?”

His face glowed as he brought down the face of his bat for an imaginary on-drive.

“Yeah!”

We went on to discuss a lot more things. But the above snippet was what you enjoyed most. When you’re with kids, the best part is to look out for the change of facial expressions in accordance with their capabilities. If they’re good at something, they’re so confident about doing well in that arena. Else, a look of pure apprehension covers their face. They’re kids after all, there’s no pretence anywhere. Too bad you couldn’t capture it on your cell phone.

What a priceless conversation!