HEADHUNTERS ON PROWL

The job looked tailor-made for him. He had all the qualifications demanded by the advertiser : a kink in the head, a fulminating gastritis and the willingness to sire a brood of brats. He couldn’t be blamed for his naiveté. For the ad that he saw read, ‘We are looking out for lunatics with fire in their belly to father the next generation of silicon chimps(sic).’

In a booming job market, the head-hunters are out in the IT jungle laying booby traps for tech-kids through crafty ad campaigns. And the phrasings in their transcript are getting dottier by the day.

Most of the ads are clever mumbo-jumbo, like the one that says, ‘We are looking hard for hardworking hardcore software professionals.’ (A real hard sell indeed. So drive a hard bargain to get paid in hard currency!).Or the one that declares, ‘We are shifting into top gear. Now we are looking for an accelerator.’(Once you are in their ‘clutches’, you will be looking for the brakes). Then there is an ad that yells, We invite IT pundits to software Mecca.’ ( Silly me, I thought pundits went to Kashi).

‘If you have aptitude, we will give you altitude.’ claims an ad. But read between the ad lines. What probably remains unsaid is that the magnitude of the task may drive you into servitude with not much latitude to show your fortitude as they only expect your gratitude in plenitude!

In the copywriter's lexicon the acronyms IT and US are natural bedfellows since IT professionals often head for the US. So the ad says, ‘If you got what IT takes, come and make IT big with US. Or, ‘If you have the ITch, let US help you start from scratch.’

All companies promise upward mobility as in case of an ad that proclaims, ‘On the career road we provide, overtaking is permitted. In fact we encourage you to break all rules.’ (And cool your heels in the cooler). Another smart ad asserts, ‘Most companies offer corporate ladders. But we provide you with long legs to climb it.’ (And after you join them, they keep clipping at your legs till you have no legs to stand on). But one that tickled me pink was an ad that boasted, ‘Behind every second call(?) made in this world, there is our technology.’ Pioneers in e-toilets, eh?

In any case, the writing is on the web (sorry, the wall is a passé); a crazy world lusts for crazy captions. So don’t wince at an ad that screams, ‘Wanted savage matadors to take the IT bull by the horns.’ Or, ‘Come, let’s mug the computer bug before it gets snug in the rug.’ Or even a, ‘If you fit the Bill, Gate(s)-crash and enter through new Windows!!

HISS MASTERLY PSHEEEEW!!

Lying in the dark, I forced my breath through pouted lips. All I could produce was a dull ‘phooh’. I blew again. And again. Phew! I nearly got it, but not quite. During my sixteenth vain attempt I was struck by a cruel object and I cried in anguish. When the lights came on, I saw my elder brother, a cane in hand raring to smite again.

"I thought I heard a snake hiss,” he said apologetically. “I was merely brushing up my whistling skills,” I howled amid sobs. He consoled me with a promise to teach me the ropes of whistling.

As a kid, learning to whistle was one of my unfulfilled dreams. Therefore, when my brother taught me to whistle through the lips, I began showing off to all and sundry, giving unsolicited solo whistling concerts gratis. I even whistled ‘bhajans’ at family prayers. I was mostly off-key and at best I sounded like a whistling kettle. Nevertheless, for the first time in my life, I felt like a man. But not a 'complete man' that a present-day suiting ad exhorts every man to be.

For, in my opinion, whistling through the fingers (under the tongue) was the hallmark of a 'maestro' and my repertoire lacked such a faculty. Besides, it was the possession of this art form at their fingertips which gave the tough cookies watching the roadside acrobatics or the tumultuous mobs at the town hall recitals their rightful place in the sun,

Therefore, I wrung my hands at my inability to emulate those worthies who whistled merrily through their fingers. After a bit of cajoling, my brother helped me fill this glaring flaw in my character.

My whistling ‘Arangetram’ came when I went to see one or those black and white South Indian films in which the actors fought most of the time and mouthed a few lines between the bouts to get their breath back. During each outbreak of fighting I whistled through my fingers with wild abandon out-whistling all my co-revelers in the eight-anna seats. During the interval, a bloke with a shock of oily hair who sat next to me, himself a great exponent of whistling wizardry, paid rich tributes to the resonance of my whistle, predicting me a place in the "Whistler’s Hall of Fame." I hung on his lips as he offered a few tips on improving the pitch. “Keep it up” he said patting me on the back. And he gave me a toffee. It was a toffee that I never ate. For I kept it as a trophy for a long time after my 'resounding' triumph.

CAWBOYS AT CROWBARS

While I waited for the bus in my Sunday best, it came; not the bus but a blob of 'crow dung' that landed splat  on my head. This wouldn't have happened if I had an open umbrella over my head (I often use this contraption to protect myself against spit-spray orators). Or if the crow were wearing a diaper.

Yet, my ‘crow’ning glory could be an aberration considering a recent report that talks of dwindling population of crows in the city. This was borne out by the local birdwatchers' rumoured plans to study the crows with embedded mi-crow-chips. A further proof is the fact that citizens offering Vayasam(feeding rice to crows) during Hindu rituals find no corvine patrons despite incessant cawing by the zealous worshippers, inviting the crows for the binge. But my raconteur friend tells me that the modern-day crows may only be found at their favourite watering holes - the Crow Bars!

The city's ‘crowlessness’ has become so acute that some of the crafty entrepreneurs are planning to start crow farms, dreaming of becoming Crow-repatis overnight. Through tie-ups with funeral priests, the likelihood of rent-crows-by-the-hour outlets mushrooming across the city appears plausible. And the term 'crow-ny capitalism' might find a place in future lexicons.

The last time I heard the song ‘jhooth bole kauwa kaate’ (crow bites the liar), it struck me as odd that the services of this bird has not been availed by our Forensic Science Laboratory (FSL). I mean, there is no justification in spending a fortune on computerized polygraph  (lie-detector) equipment when the humble crow can easily do the trick by merely biting the liar on the nose. And the crows on our court staff can fast-track the backlog of cases by nipping the lie in the witness box.

People often believe that a crow's caw brings bad luck. At the root is the communication gap. For all you know, the crow in question could be amusing itself by humming a few bars of ‘Raag Darbari caw-nada.’ Alternately, it may be just saying, "Holy crow, where is my next dead rat coming from?" So, why can't a crow exercise its ‘freedom of caw’ without ruffling the feathers of bigots? And it is time that the civil society gave a sympathetic ear to this persecuted bird.

 So, it is to lend a sympathetic ear to this much-maligned bird that I decided to learn the crow language with the help of  ‘The Handbook Of Crow Talk.’ But I had to turn tail when I realised that movement of the tail - an appendage I lacked - was integral to crow language (turn the head to left and vibrate the tail to warn of danger etc). With that, my foray into crow linguistics came a ‘crow-pper.’ The project is shelved forever - unless, of course, I sprout a tail in future.
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A BORING DRILL

(Continued from last post "A Pain In The Neck".)

So who is this master bore? A sales representative is a classic example of this ilk. As a part of his sales pitch, such a person would indulge in long-winding blabber about matters unrelated to his visit such as Obama's religion, of how Zen Buddhism took roots in Japan and finally, just when you begin to wonder where all this leads to, he would wind-up by extolling the virtues of the the wares that he has come to sell. So forceful can be the discourse of such a bore that an insurance salesman may convince you (or at least try to make you believe) that your days on this planet are numbered. Or a dog biscuit sales person may highlight the merits of his product in such glowing terms that you start wishing you were a dog.

A third and final variety of bore is one who is most injurious to your mental health. He bombards you with bland and insipid prattle. He can put you to sleep with such alacrity that he can give any anaesthesiologist a run for his money. Simply put, he is a bore to the core. People tend to avoid him a if he were a bearer of some kind of pestilence.

There was one such character in our hostel during my college days. He was nicknamed 'Boric Acid' because, like boric acid that banished germs, his presence made other students vanish without a trace. The moment he appeared at the hostel's entrance, the inmates bolted to the nearest room and bolted their doors. His apparition had the power of imposing a curfew-like situation along the hostel corridors. Some even suggested that he was an ideal candidate for the post of commandant of the riot police. For, all he had to do in case of social unrest was to walk along the street and hey presto, the curfew would come into force without a getting an order from the magistrate!

But then, the Bores have their own uses depending on circumstances. When you are waiting for a shop to open or sitting in an airport lounge awaiting the arrival of your plane of indeterminate time-table, even a bore may come in handy to while away the time. But if, en route to the airport, you run into Mr Bore, avoid him like a plague and take flight. Or else, instead of catching your flight, you might get caught up in your friend's flight of fancy!

CONCLAVE OF GHOULS

Miffed by the peace and tranquillity abounding in the civilized world, a consortium of werewolves in Satanborough have allegedly signed an MoU (Memorandum of Undertakers) to host the First World Dracula Congress. The Lucifer Army, the official sponsors, has chosen the skull and cross-bones as the convention's mascot. Dr A Cula Pati, the Mayor, has promised to show-case Satanborough as the ultimate destination for the global vampire fraternity who will soon descend on the venue, a ramshackle castle deep in the forests.

A fleet of bloodhound-drawn hearses will ferry the delegates - the kingpins of the global blood sports - to be put up at 'Hotel Carnage Resorts & Spa' in light-proof air-chilled catacombs fitted with intricately carved coffins for the princes of darkness to sleep at cock-crow. The washrooms will have blood on tap for the delegates to have their evening blood-bath. 'Spooky', the famous fashion designers, will be officially entrusted with the task of providing weird outfits for the participants.

Necrophagous (corpse-eating) tribe of Aghoris are the official caterers who will run a steak-house at the convention locale serving delicious human organs cooked in pure blood. Pate de homo gras, a human liver delicacy, is expected to take the ghoulish gourmets by storm. Garlic, the purported vampire repellent, will be disallowed at the eatery (You don't invite a mosquito for dinner and serve him food cooked in Odomos!). Bloody Mary will be the recommended cocktail (to be served in skull bowls) at dinners.

For the thirsty delegates, gift cheques will be issued which they can present at any blood bank to 'draw' cold blood of their choice (A, AB, O etc.). Those preferring warm blood will get a specially designed drinking straw (making machetes and swords obsolete) to drink directly from their victims' jugular.

A local tantrik is trying to communicate with spirit of Jack the Ripper who will be commissioned to deliver the keynote address on 'Modern Trends in Going for the Jugular'. The skull sessions will be conducted at the nearby crematorium where the spirits of the victims of the past massacres too can chip in with suggestions to give butchery a humane touch. All the proceedings will commence after sundown and, following night-long deliberations, the delegates will go back to sleep in their coffins.

Efforts are on to rope in famous horror show moghuls from Bollywood to stage their popular blood-curdling drama 'Gore in Barrels' that will prompt the delegates to cry 'Whoopee' and break into danse macabre.

The proposed First World Dracula Congress has all the potential to make Bram Stoker, the creator of the Dracula legend, turn in his grave. It may even send him into a spin.

Video Courtesy: http://www.youtube.com/

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Ode To An Odd Pal

I was outraged when his heart-rending scream failed to prick the conscience of the hostellers who went about their business in a detached manner. But the reason for their apathy became apparent when, on a fact-finding mission, I discovered the wailer perched atop his bed shedding pints of tears as he savagedly clipped his own finger-nails letting out a howl of agony after each nick. And his full-throated rendition of the national anthem marked the end of the bizarre ritual.

It was not as if he was a weirdo. He had his head screwed on the right way and did things just the way we did, only he did them differently. His brushing of teeth was an incredible sight to behold - he held the brush stationary on his teth while shaking his head sideways. When he ate, which he did quite often, he bent his head towards the plate to meet his right hand halfway.

With his myopic eyesight he, sans his specs, fathered scores of bloomers that made our day. 'Warm Digamber' he would say reading the poster of the movie 'Warm December'. with him the signboard of a 'Public Carrier' became a 'Pubic Carrier'. And the 'No Parking ' sign? 'Hush! Don't yap. It's a no-barking area'.

The most unlikely incidents triggered his mood swings. A fit of melancholy engulfed him when the hostel mess opened three minutes late. His idea of having a jolly time was to smoke a beedi when it rains cats and dogs.

At times he displayed traces of naivete that was his hallmark. He mailed a registered letter by stamping it adequately and dropping it into the post box. In those days he didn't even know how to draw money from the bank but could draw portraits of exquisite class and sublimity.

He ate like there was no tomorrow and yet had a lanky frame to show for his gluttony. consequently, when he went out in my company, neighbourhood brats called out 'Laurel and Hardy' (no prize for guessing who was Hardy). But he got into high spirits (toohigh for others' comfort) after downing an ounce of beer; so he remained on water-wagon guzzling gallons of orange juice and prided himself on being called 'Mr Sober(s).

But the greatest paradox was that he went on to specialise and super-specialise in a subject that he, as an undergraduate, flunked at the first attempt. He got himself trained in that subject at prestigious unuversities around the globe and today he single-handedly runs an institution of high calibre earning himself loads of fame and moolah.

The last time I met him, a couple of years ago, he was his car with his foot of the accelerator and the choke pulled out all the way! Father time couldn't change him a wee bit.

Clipart Courtesy: http://www.pdclipart.org/

ANATOMY OF POLITICS

THUMBING through the newspapers, I often suspect that we are, from head to toe, a highly 'organ'-ised nation. Take a closer look at our 'body language':

Our long-in-the-tooth head of state in Delhi, for instance, wears his (palpitating) heart on his sleeve, what with his Cabinet colleagues breathing down his neck (often getting in his hair). He turns red in the face whenever a minister puts his foot in his mouth. His gutsy effort to keep his chin up is, in fact, part of his struggle to keep his head above water.

The government itself is all fingers and thumbs, functioning through knee-jerk reactions ramming explosive issues down people's throats. Each time Chennai blows its nose, New Delhi gets chesty and the ruling elite go around with their tails between their legs.

The coalition partners, when they are not pulling each other's legs, are busy twisting the PM round their little fingers. They are after the scalps of their respective state chiefs, their demands articulated 356 times a month - almost. They brandish the 'skull and crossbones' at the government at the drop of a gandhi cap.

The opposition vents its spleen against the ruling coalition in an effort to elbow its way into the government. As the right goes about flexing its muscles and the Centre drools over the elusive spoils of office, the left racks its brains to invent a secular front ending up having two left feet. All of them use their lungpower left, right and centre. Strange bedfellows live cheek by jowl with one another necking intimately in public. Though some feel it in their bones that the fall of the government is imminent, they tear their hair as the main opposition party cold-shoulders them.

The bewildered citizens sit on their hands. While the rich - what a gall! - bury their heads in the sand, the middle class, kicked in the vitals by the inflation, are sick to their stomachs. The poor, however, pay through their nose to keep body and soul together. They sweat their guts out just for a hand-to-mouth existence.

Appendix: There is the danger that in the new millennium, the new crop of our leadership may decide that the US model of the late 'Nineties is the best to follow to get organised, concluding that the (Lewin)sky is the limit.

Clipart Coutesy: www.illustrationsof.com