As an Indian who’s only lived in the tropics all his life, any climate under 15 degrees gets me a cold, and I’m pretty sure I’ll find snow toxic. This, and the fact that I’ll have to waddle around in a ton of winter-wear like some bizarrely-colored panda isn’t quite a pleasant thought. On the plus side, cheap beer! Snow! My first white Christmas!

Amsterdam, here I come.

Stop! Obama Time!

A friend and I were talking about this video the other day, over a coupla beers. “How jobless must he be,” she said, “to go through all those videos in the White House website, snip out the words and patch ‘em all up? I mean, I love the video and all, but doesn’t he have a girlfriend?”

Err, what?

I hear this all the time. Everywhere. The need for a girlfriend/partner is decidedly more paramount than any other endeavor.

Created a massive floor of spectacularly cascading dominoes? Pffft, you don’t have a girlfriend.
Walked 300 kms from desert to jungle? Pffft, you don’t have a social life.
Worked in a NASA/JPL program that shoots probes into space? Pffft, you’re a nerd. Girls hate nerds.
Had a huge a career jump, and got miles ahead of your peers? Pffft, you’re 30 and still single. You’ve achieved nothing in life.

Girlfriends are nice. They’re with you even when you’re boring. They remind you of stuff you had to do that you’ve completely forgotten about. They’re steadfast companions. The sex is regular. These are all things any guy would love to have, and should strive to get. But surely there’s more to life than that?

I’m a guy of many (alarmingly short-lived) hobbies. I’ve tried my hand at (and got bored of) writing fantasy epics. I’ve dabbled with Photoshop for years. I’ve played videogames for 17 hours straight, days on end, living off chips and coke. I’ve spent many weekends on my couch, neither showering nor pooping while I watched the very best of IMDb’s Worst 100, back-to-back. I’ve attempted clay-modeling, and I’ve tried origami. I’ve collected toys, and have spent quite a lot of time hunting down transformers in toy-stores all over the city. I’ve engaged in a number of seemingly pointless activities that sound downright weird, but it still gives me some sort of satisfaction.

Mind you, I was never good at any of these things. I try, I lose interest, I move on to the next obsession. Which is why I have immense respect for  those who go all the way with their hobbies and pursue it to a point of real achievement. Like the guy who gets to the top of the “Call of Duty” leaderboards, and is now forever quoted in gamer forums. Like the obese movie-buff, whose insightful movie reviews have now garnered attention worldwide. Like the transformers fan who is revered for having every single robot that’s ever come out since 1984. Like the lady who wrote erotic fan-fiction and now gets millions of dollars in royalties.

And all this is somehow lesser than having a girlfriend/social life?

Yes, we’re social creatures. Having relationships with friends, family and romantic partners give us joy, comfort and a sense of balance in the grand scheme of things. We get a high from knowing that we are wanted and loved. It’s a heady feeling.

And yet, there is one facet of mankind that also keeps us going: we seek purpose. Food and fornication isn’t simply enough. We want to pursue things. We want to reach milestones. We want to boldly go where no man has gone before. We have a definitive set of needs, tangible or otherwise, and we work towards getting there. We seek fulfillment in what we do. This innate sense of ours has driven us far ahead of our simian peers, and indeed all other organisms.

Civilization was built upon these tenets. What would Greece have been like, if a young dude named Alexander hadn’t thought to himself, “Well, screw this shit. Greece needs more land, and more renown, and by Zeus I’m gonna give her both!” What if he’d simply lived off his daddy’s riches and slept around with whores (or little boys, if some historians are to be believed).

What would the world of science have been like, if Newton didn’t scratch his head and go, “Dafuq?!” What if he’d just gone home and told his lady, “Baby I got bumped in the head – I need some luuurrrve.”

Or if Edison didn’t say, “To hell with it, guys. We’re gonna try out every goddamned thing in this house, until we get this goddamned lamp to work!”

The Ancient Greeks had a word for this: Thumos. It’s one of those untranslatable words that can mean a lot of things, and the sum of them all. Desire. Purpose. Passion. Rage. Pursuit. The urge to go beyond our baser needs. The thirst for challenge. For achievement. For glory.

In a world where we no longer need to fight for survival, where we no longer need to trail-blaze our own paths in life, where we can effortlessly assimilate into the enormous machinery of civilization thanks to the efforts of those before us… we have nothing to feed our thumos.

Eventually, people find ways to satisfy their thymotic urges. Some quit jobs and take up something radically different. Some travel the world with nothing but a backpack and a “let the devil take all” attitude. Some jump off stratospherically high balloons, just for the heck of it.

And some collect comic-books.

Make no mistake, the people who most think “have too much time on their hands” – the cosplayers, the Youtube video editors, the dinosaur-buffs, the comic-book connoisseurs, the insomniac gamers -  may not be Felix Baumgartners, but they’ve certainly got his focus. And that’s more than what most people can say for themselves.

Call us butt-hurt. Call us defensive. Call us wusses for not getting any headway with the women, all you want. but the next time you tell us “Get a girlfriend!”, we’re telling you “Get a fucking hobby!”

So there I was, browsing the fascinating wares the store had to offer (boy, people are into some weird shit), when a middle-aged dude shuffled in, wearing the loudest pajamas imaginable. Think the American flag shredded and then patched up again by a retarded kid, who also decided to throw in bits of neon cloth for good measure. He hovered around the male toys section for a while, and then tried haggling with the girl at the counter. Or so I think. In the rapid Mandarin thrown back and forth, I only caught “dollar” and something that sounded like “discount”.

I went back to my engaging activity of reading the instructions on the packs of all the stuff I could see (I can’t say this enough: super weird stuff), and would’ve happily carried on for hours, if it weren’t for a shrill yell: “WHAT THE FUCK!”

Turned out, the dude had flashed his penis at the girl, and now she was up in arms, screaming and demanding that he leave the shop pronto. He had no intention of doing so and continued haggling and following her around while she backed away with every step he took.

And then he saw me. Now I’m a pussy when it comes to confrontation, but that moment I was the very image of “badass”: unkempt of hair, scraggly of beard, and towering above the now-hesitant dude in the crazy pajamas. And with a baritone so macho even the Devil Himself would’ve run for cover, all I had to say was “Leave”.

He didn’t.

He started harrying the girl again, and I – ego duly punctured – had to get between the two and yell at him to fucking leave. This went on for a while, with him nonchalantly chattering in Mandarin right through me and in due course he left, taking my sense of self-worth with him.

Pervs like him come down to the store every other day, she says. Some lurk around in the ladies’ section, rubbing their privates through the pockets while they drool at the sexy/kinky/outrageous stuff for the women; some have the notion that the girl’s there to demonstrate the goods too; some tail her with lusty swagger because hey, if she’s working here she must be a hooker, right?

But it’s not often that a gentleman’s around, she adds with a smile. Ah, sweet balm for my ego. She even gave me a $2 discount. $10 is still unbelievable for a lighter but hey, it’s the thought that counts. Also, she called me a gentleman!

Chivalry isn’t dead, ladies. There’s a new gentleman in town. Now line up and give me your numbers.

Hope the virgins were worth it, Kasab.

And so it ends.

Four years since the horrific terrorist attack in Mumbai, four years since we clutched our chests in fear as ten anarchists riddled the city with bombs and bullets for four days, four years since 172 people lost their lives (with hundreds more injured) to wild-eyed fundamentalism… the lone survivor of the Terrible Ten, Ajmal Kasab, was hanged today.

I remember 2008. In the summer, multiple bombings rocked many towns – one of them my own. Jaipur. Bangalore. Ahmedabad. Delhi. The co-ordination in these attacks chilled us to the bone. It was as though the entire nation would go up in flames before the year was out.

And just as we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Mumbai happened. It was unlike anything that had happened before. Watching the agitated news reports stream in while at work, everything in Bangalore came to a standstill. Telephone networks went down – owing to sudden traffic, and that it was shut down to deny the terrorists a channel to communicate. Friends and family in the city couldn’t be contacted. The roads were blockaded, and cops were dispatched all across the city. Traffic came to a grinding halt. People stuck in buses, cars and motorbikes cursed their stars, and grew more agitated with every second on the road: the memories of the bomb blast in a major traffic hub were still fresh in our minds. Many of us stayed put at work, because that was the safest place to be. Unable to do anything else, we wrung our hands in despair while glued to the TV screens.

It was our darkest hour. Fear, anxiety, outrage, disillusionment… we were in a roller coaster ride of negative emotions, that pitched and yawed worser and worser as the death toll rose. Who were these people, and what did they want? Why were they doing this? Questions flew in thick and fast. Answers, none.

When the fog of war finally cleared, when the body counters finally stopped clocking, when the police and armed forces finally leaned back on walls to breathe, one man was salvaged from the wreckage. Ajmal Kasab.

Never was a man more hated, by so many. The rage was universal. There was no question: the man had to die. Our fallen brothers and sisters demanded it, from high above. We bayed for his blood. Even the most timid of mice, the most cynic of armchair theorists wished him a grisly, painful death.

The hatred spilled over to our governmental and legal machinations, that decreed he get “a fair trial”. Weeks passed like this, then months. Years. We listened to reports of Kasab being an insolent prick at the courthouse, of his tantrums thrown because he didn’t like the food served to him in the holding cells, and that he wanted mutton biryani for his pains.

The bastard. If we had the power to kill by force of sheer will alone, he would’ve been atomized and spread all across the galaxy.

Much water has flown since then. Governments moved on. We moved on. We latched on to the next thing to direct our outrage. Corruption. Crime. The Commonwealth Games.

We have now sunken into a comfortable state of apathy, rousing ourselves every once in a while to air our indignant opinions, only to settle back on our rear-ends and cheer to Katrina Kaif’s saucy numbers.

In the end, after four long years of legal tangle, the ponderous dinosaur that is our judicial system decided enough was enough, and squashed Kasab’s plea for mercy. I was never one to support capital punishment, but when I think back to what I felt – what we all felt – those scary days in November 2008…

I’m not going to gambol around with firecrackers, or post patriotic image macros on Facebook. I still have code to write, deadlines to honor. I still have to do a number of mundane things that simply cannot be disrupted by a bout of patriotic fervor or righteous satisfaction. Life has to go on.

What I will do however, is find a nice Indian restaurant, and treat myself to some biryani. Served hot, with pickle and justice.

This time around, fortunately, moving out was of my own accord. After a year and a half in Singapore and having saved nary a penny, planning for vacations and trips is all the more trying: I lose out on the tragically short-lived airfare offers, and every time friends plan something, I have to wait for the paycheck, stave off the beer or will myself to not wave my card at all the glittery and shiny stuff I see on shop shelves. Life is tough.

Hence the move. Now I don’t have to worry about the eye-popping rent that used to eat into my salary, the last seven months. I’m now in this nice cozy hostel in Chinatown, and the place is heaven. Clean sheets, air-conditioned dorms, and oh lord hot water! A huuuuge upgrade from the last hostel I was at, the week before. I’m not a guy who minds trashy environs (I revel in it, even) but that hostel was a toxic waste dump. Coming from me, that says a lot. Every time I  take a shower, a band of cockroaches scurry out of the drains, because I was flooding their hang-out joint. I shiver just thinking about it.

I tell myself this is just temporary, but house-hunting is such a chore, and I don’t really see myself going out and about town, checking out rooms and rentals, when I can simply come back to my six feet of space on the top bunk and while away my time like the lazy bum I am. In fact, most of the dorm-mates are just like me: they’re so good at doing absolutely nothing at all. Sleep in the dorm, read something and chill out. All. Day. Long.

Of course, they’re the seasoned travelers, backpackers hardened by a lifestyle of being constantly on the go, and who therefore appreciate the few breaks of complete inactivity. I can boast of no such thing.

There are exceptions. One guy in my cramped dorm does Muay Thai at a very respected martial arts school here in Singapore, to which he goes every day, without break. This, after two years of intensive Brazilian Jujitsu training in Canberra. Reasons: unknown, and he’s very clipped about that. I can’t be sure, but I’ve a sneaking suspicion why, and who he is.

Bruce Wayne, that’s who.

Because damn, he even sounds like Batman, all deep and raspy. Never has “hey mate, could you pass the toast” sounded so ominous. Criminals of Australia, you done fucked.

Right next door is a 24-hour internet cafe that’s so ridiculously cheap, I go there despite the free Wi-fi at the hostel, and pay to watch “Transformers: Prime” on Youtube for hours on end. Great show, by the way. Also, come evening, scores of guys and girls swarm in and settle down for epic gaming sessions. Some arrive with dinner packed. Some are dressed like they’re out for a night in a swanky uptown club, but come down here to battle demons in “Diablo III“. Whoever said gamers are pimply nerds? There was so much cheesecake in the house, I was gagging.

Fueling my Internet addiction aside, the access to a small but tasteful (also, mostly travel-related) collection of books in the hostel lobby is a welcome change to the complete lack of reading for a while now. I’m now into Jeremy Clarkson’s compilation of articles, “Born to be Riled“. You can know jack about automobiles, and still laugh out loud at his reviews. Loved him back in the “Motorworld” days on BBC, love him more now.

If I can get by without blipping on the hostel guys’ radar (I’m abusing their hospitality meant for travelers, you see) for at least a month, I can hope to have enough in my wallet to buy me a coffee – and maybe a sheet of cardboard to sleep on – in Amsterdam.

For perhaps the first time in my life… I can’t wait for Christmas.

It was 1 AM, and I was walking back towards the hotel, after a coupla beers at a few places in Jonkers Walk. Melaka is a tourist town, but also very laidback – most places are shuttered down well before 10. The last thing I expected to see in this town was a line of Kelisas (a popular hatchback in the Malaysia) all pimped out with crazy body kits, snazzy paint-jobs and strobe-lights, as though designed by neo-grunge hippies on LSD. Hatches open, all sported 100,000 W mega-woofers that thumped out beats deep enough to shake teeth loose. A super-young crowd milled about, dressed dandy and doll-like (in a manner  I can only describe as “Asian Fop”) chilling by the souped-up Kelisas, swigging beer like it was a crime and bragging (I assume) about past conquests – on the road, and in bed.

If a movie called “Fast & Furious: Melaka Drift” ever comes out, look out for a long-haired dude wearing a Transformers t-shirt, in the crowd scenes. You’ll find him following women with finely sculpted butts.

We have conquered the highest mountains, explored the deepest seas, and have even flung ourselves in tin cans to the Moon and back, and lived to tell the tale.

And yet, we still haven’t figured out a proper way to greet someone who’s walking down a long, long hallway towards us, that isn’t awkward.

So there’s the two of you, on either side of the long, long hallway. Do you keep eye contact all the way, do you intently observe the lighting switches on the walls as you pass by, until you’re within earshot to say “Hi”? Or do you pretend to fiddle with your phone, until the crucial distance is reached? Won’t the other guy know that you’ve pulled out your phone just to avoid eye contact? Also, when exactly – between sighting your colleague and walking past him – do you have to start smiling? Do you smile early on, in which case the other guy may feel you’re eager to see him (which also means you may have a job/favor to be done, which means he’ll have to chalk up an escape plan pronto)? Or until you’re close enough to see the zits on his face, which simply makes the walk up till that point all the more awkward?

Or do you – as a colleague from the days of old loved doing – shout out a hello from afar, and continue with small talk in the same pleasantly boisterous manner, and let everybody on the floor know about the other guy’s secret crush on the girl by the copier machine?

Walking past one another in a long, long hallway – where all known laws of civil discourse break down.

Slow-moving old people.
The key to my home, when it doesn’t unlock the door at first turn.
The coffee machine in the office pantry, when it dispenses diluted crap instead of the knockout brew I need to chase a hangover.
Old people, in general.

The award for today’s pet peeve goes to the Facebook profile of a friend of a friend of a… actually, a complete stranger. Lovely hipster chick. And by hipster, I mean she wears horn-rimmed glasses without lenses, has this odd vapid expression that’s supposed to look dreamy, or that she’s grieving over the dent on her iPhone 5. Aaaaand it’s instagrammed. It can’t get any hipper. She describes herself as “straddling the fine line between athlete and geek.”

As much as I’d like to make lame jokes about how she’d rather straddle a line than an athlete or a geek (“bitches be weird, yo”), what really bothers me is how confused the metaphor is. What “fine line”? It’s used for things that can be associated. Fine line between geek and sociopath? Yes. Fine line between athlete and oaf? Yes.

But fine line between geek and athlete? They’re not associated, even if you stretch it. I’m not one to typecast, but  Miss Hipstress clearly implied the contrast. In which case, NO FINE LINE! GO BACK TO SCHOOL! GET SOME REAL GLASSES!

Clearly, not one of my more sunny days. Beer with the work buds on a Monday night isn’t the best of ideas.

You’re right, I mustn’t judge. As an English teacher once told me, “If the other guy can understand you, anything goes. Unless you’re going for the Man Booker. Now shut up and rewrite your damn essay!”

Good bye, Daddy. You did great.