Impressing is your job, expressing is mine.

With my fallible understanding of Telugu, and my infallible understanding of Telugu slang, I heard today the most interesting explanation of the origin of AIDS- from a sixty year old man.

I was on my way to another of our brainstorming and lung-burning sessions at the hookah shop, travelling by good old 25S, footboarding when:

I heard a senior citizen on the last seat speaking bad words.

Now I like old peopel who swear, I think they're KOOL! I think the Koolest peopel are old women who swear. This one was a man, but just to live up to it, his gaalis were of the top order (Lanjakoduka, !@#@#$$#... etc).
I was impressed.

I don't know what he was talking about, till the guy beside him got up and gave me the golden opportunity to sit beside him. I sat there- with this old man (our hero) on the right and another young guy (around yours n my age), who was his object of oral homicide, on the left- window seat.

By the time I sat, Uncle Bad Words (henceforth referred to as UBW) was talking about hospitals, giving his frank opinion that hospitals like Apollo, NIMS etc were only for the upper class, and not accessible to the grassroots.
Then he started on the issue of how rich peopel were so sickly- always falling sick, crying for the slightest headache etc.

And then he said it- AIDS also, it happens to the upper class vaalu, not to the middle and lower class.

I disagree, I thought. A large portion of PLHAs (People living with HIV/AIDS) are from rural Coastal Andhra, slums, brothels etc- the lowest levels of Indian economy, said my Brain.

Shut up! said my heart. You don't stand a chance debating this guy. Don't act like Mr. Know-it-all, don't ruin the fun.

"Adi enti? Kukka toti samparkam?" (What's that? Intercourse with dogs?), he continued, appparently some fancy orgy tale he had heard.
"Upperclass pillalu ki assallo intilo evar ledu, mummy daddy pani ki pote lonely ga huntadu."
(Upperclass kids have no one at home, mom-dad go to work, so they get lonely)

Just an interruption. Intercourse with dogs isn't something new. When I was interviewing a Nurse Practitioner at an ICTC in East Godavari this summer, she had told that the strangest case she had come across was of a girl from Rajahmundry who had sex with an "Alsatian dog".

For UBW (Uncle Bad Words)'s kind info, this girl wasn't really a millionaire's daughter.
So much for rich kids being alone at home.

(An alsatian's a dog, undoubtedly, you noticed how we say German Shepherd Dog, but not alsatian dog?
That's coz a German Shepherd could be a shepherd also but an Alsatian can't be anything but a dog. WTF? I'm in the mood for PJs)

Comin back to Uncle Bad Words, he continued: (We were at how rich kids are alone at home)
"Vaalu ki Bore kottadi, aithe Kukkalu ki "Caam, daarling, sweetheart, caam, caam ... (in the most sarcastic of voices and broken english)..let me give you kiss...umm... koncham sep tarvaata, F*****g, F*****g with chinna doggy"

I was laughing like a hyena inside, smiling and nodding my head outside. The guy on ma left was wondering if he should jump out the window coz UBW was talking so loud everyone could hear us, including the lady conductor.

And then UBW leans towards us (in the context of Rich kids screwing dogs) drops his tone, pulls up his bass, and lets out to us the biggest secret in the history of medical science:

"Assalga...(pause)... AIDS ee kukkalu nunchi wachindi"
[Actually, AIDS originated from these dogs]


WHATTTTT?

Reaction:
1/10 seond it took me to actually realize what I had heard.
For a second, I was speechless, trying to digest that.

You'd think I dismissed itas rubbish or burst out laughing.

I swear, on you, (n u still alive which means I'm not lying) for three seconds I actually tried to rationalize what he said: could it be true?

And then, I burst out laughing. The guy on my left took an equally long time to react, we were both hysterically laughing our heads and asses off.

Uncle Bad Words was least bothered.. he continued about how middle class children were scared of their parents and would not make out, while rich kids could do whatever they wanted, and how Faith and Respect (apparently Middle Class Values, which are apparently demonstrated by not making out) for parents could save you from AIDS.........

He finally, and thankfully, got down at Lal Bazaar, the Lady Conductor gave us the strangest look in the history of looks, as if we were his partners in crime. We left the bus as soon as we could....

So much for AIDS awareness, maybe now the Govt should lift the self-imposed ban on sex education in schools....

Before we go into details, I reckon you don’t know what Shuddi means. It’s an act of purification done, something to wash away your sins.

If the Deccan Chronicle front page report of today is even anywhere close to the truth, then… I don’t know; complete this sentence for me after you read it.

I guess you all know about the tribal women who were allegedly gang raped by policemen in Vakapalli (August 20)
Forensic tests at APFSL and further ‘investigations’ said no rape had taken place.

However, the government has said (in a written reply to a question on the alleged incident) that it disbursed Rs. 20,000 as Shuddi to the families of the victims apart from utensils, food grains and clothes.

WHAT?!!!!!!!

Now, first place, why would the tribal women cry out ‘rape’ if no rape had taken place? There never is smoke without fire. And in cases like these, even if the point isn’t proved in court, we know, deep inside our hearts what the truth is.

And anyway, if the rape didn’t occur? Why’d the state government give “purifications’?

Now, the point- if the gang rape DID happen, in fact, chuck the ‘if’, we now know it happened, what exactly is the government doing by publishing false reports and giving compensations? Trying to save the image of the police? (yeah, right!), the home department? The ruling party? What?

If things could go on this way, I mean, if someone could rape and then get away by giving rice and dal, dammit!, the state government might as well as start a rape-for-money scheme where you buy a quintal of rice, offer a few thousand rupees and rape women in broad daylight. Revenue for the state, increase in sex tourism and employment for the women.

See? You flinched at that, didn’t you? When I said that last sentence. You now realize that these tribal women too were just ‘women’ – like the others in and around us, those we love and are ready to die for, and you realize that even they are equally vulnerable in this ‘Justice’ system. It pricks on our conscience- because this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. How wrong can things go?

Rape is bad, gang rape?
Gang rape by drunken men in a state of semi-consciousness should beget a death sentence or a lifer, but gang rape by policemen in full consciousness?
Delayed justice for rape victims is bad enough, but compensation in the form of rice and dal and money?
“Here, you got raped, I reckon, keep this money, buy yourself a new sari, and here’s some utensils to cook in. Now shut up about the whole incident.”

Dammit! man, this is civilized society, this shouldn’t be happening even in the reign of absolute monarchs, even a prince would be punished for such crimes. A gang of bloody hawaldars? Why is the state government going so far, or rather dropping so low to save them?

See what role everyone’s playing over here

The cops who raped

Cops are the saviors of the law. They round up people for eve teasing and punish those who commit rapes. What happens when they start raping? What did they think- wearing a uniform gives them a license to commit crime- one as horrendous as rape? Thought they’d get away with it because they wouldn’t book themselves?

And sadly, that IS what happened, isn’t it? They got away with it.

The cops who didn’t rape
What about the rest of cophood? If someone in our family committed such a crime, we’d throw him out of the house, hand him over to the police. I swear I’d shoot him in the head.
Can’t the police stop uplifting its criminal image and at least denounce the ones who were booked? Or at least condemn the incident?

The Justice system
How flawed can you be? How silent can you be? How much demanding of proof can you be when crime’s taking place in front of your eyes. Your daughters are getting raped in front of your eyes and you are turning the pages of the constitution to determine if there’s an alternative explanation? Your daughter’s getting gang raped in your house and you are waiting for your neighbor to come and tell you that yes, this does constitute an act of crime? Go drown yourself. If the 1,00,000 pending cases in your drawers weren’t enough, here’s another fourteen women whose trauma, helplessness, and miserability is just another fourteen files for you.

The State Government
This is democracy- and the government’s king, the government’s god, the government’s the solution to all our problems, the redeemer, the savior, the protector.
Is this your way of protecting? Giving utensils and rice so that these women won’t go hungry in the time it takes them to recover from the physical pain, leave alone the mental agony?
If this sort of government is who I pay taxes to, whom I complain to, whom I trust to take care of me and my family, what sort of life am I living? What will happen to me if a similar crime, god forbid, where to happen to ones I knew- I don’t even dare imagine the ones I love.

The families and the women
I don’t even have the guts or the imagination to get into their shoes. I can’t, and I know, you too certainly can’t put yourself in the shoes of someone who’s been raped in broad daylight- by not one man, but many, grinning and laughing as you screamed, or in the shoes of someone whose wife, or daughter or mother has been raped by men whom you go to when someone commits a crime against you.
Ever had that feeling when you dive deep down underwater and then someone grabs you from inside? You can’t release yourself, you don’t want to breathe in the water, you can’t kick back because the hand that’s grapping you is too strong, and that fresh, free air is just a few feet above your head- you can see it but can’t actually make it to the top.
And you finally give in, and breathe deeply in through the nose, or mouth, for the last time.

The Investigators
What price will you sell for? How mush of money or threat does it take to make you sell your professional ethics? And submerge facts that could have given someone the satisfaction of justice, even if not a renewed life?
How much does it cost to make you write a false report? Would you have sold yourselves if the women who were raped had been your daughters or wives or sisters gang raped on their way back from shopping?

Us
Losers like me will log on to mutiny and write an article and go back to ma friend’s shop for a hookah. Losers like you will read this (if you do) and then say what’s the point?
There is no point.
We thought of taking out a bike trip and carrying hardcore messages- something that would make people turn and look and think. We are too scared for our families and ones around us, and too lonely. That’s why I said losers.

Women in Manipur stripped themselves naked to protest against the rapes by people in uniform, and screamed “Indian Army, Rape us” in front of their children and grandchildren who had no idea of what was going on, who had no idea of what rape is.

They probably got their demands fulfilled, if you know what I mean.

The Armed Forces Special Powers act has still not been revoked, though it goes against all human rights principles.

Most of us have forgotten about the incident, some of us think that happened in China or Burma; None of us are bothered.
Want to do something about it? Let me know.

Jon messages me at 1 in the night (evening for people like us) and asks me 'Dude, you awake?"
(What am I supposed to reply? No dude?..lol). I asked him if if it was another PJ- it usually is- it wasn't.

Jon tells me bout this chick's blog that he really likes n can't stop describing (the blog, dammit- think straight) so I decide I might just look it up coz I ain't sleepy.

I do- it's Pink !!!! I'll never go through this, i tell myself. But I skim through, coz I have to mesage Jon (he's on Gtalk now) and give him some feedback, make it sound like yeah, I read it n stuff. Then I start liking what I read. I like poets who write from their heart, I like intellectuals who write from their head. (I can't stand people who write from their head and try make it sound like it's comin from the heart, but that's off the topic). Well, this girl writes from somewhere in between- personal stuff with an intellectual touch n the other way round.

Then, it catches my eyes!
There's this list of things she's drawn up that probably she likes n stuff, and in it there it is- a few lines about rain.

Now rain's got a pretty negative connotative meaning for me since I've come to Hyderabad (exept for memories of college being called off)- dirty streets, wet jeans (or cargos, or cotton, or whatever you wear, man), leather sandals being ruined, no autos etc etc.

Then I remembered rain back home. And in Sikkim- and I got nostalgic. I messaged a few things rain reminds me of to Jon. He posted them as a comment on her blog, but dammit! that was only a fraction.
So I get up from bed (I'd gone back to sleep), take my chair out and sit on the balcony after I find a notebook whose origin I can't seem to remember and start scribbling stuff bout rain and providing nutrition to sons of bitches mosquitoes.

Here's a what rain reminds me of, what it means to me, or rather what it meant to me before my eyes went redder than Sunny Deol's blood and the mosquitoes drank up more blood than you donated to the SBI Blood Bank scheme, if you did that is.

The smell of wet earth. Nothing, just nothing, in all of creation compares to that smell- not even the drifting chicken in the air when you are passing through a neighborhood on a hungry stomach, or the smell of your girl's shampoo when she's really really close to you- nothing!

The wet blades of grass

Dead leaves on those wet blades of grass

The way they stick on your legs when you walk on the grass.

(And the wet spider webs, with a few droplets of water shining on them)

Watching the rain hit your window pane.

The rain hittin the front portion of your balcony and a little puddle gathering just below the railing.

Running your hand across that railing when it stops raining- that cold touch of the iron, and the way the water drips down your palm/fist.

Simply watching the droplets hanging on to the bottom of the iron rod and dropping down, to be replaced by another droplet.

The cool feelin when you touch the front walls of your house after they become wet.

Wrapping yourself up in a blanket and watching a movie- and drinking a coffee (or a hot chocolate, or bournvita, or horlicks, whatever makes you happy)

The puddles in front of your house

The joy of splashing around in those puddles.

That numb feeling in your wrinkled toes after splashing around.

You sit inside and look out the window, at the ground to see if it's still raining and you don't see the rain, but you see those tiny ripples on the puddles, and you know its still drizzling- one of the best sights of mundane lives.

The platter of rain on a tin roof.

(When I was in the hostel- the top floor. It used to bloody POUR- noisy as hell, but the most soothing lullaby ever. Going to sleep listening to that noise after a long day,,,,)

The feeling when you sit near an open window and tiny drops fall on your skin- ones you can't see but just barely feel. The joy it gives your skin

Those inspiring times when you sit down to write a poem about rain, and you realize that the only words that ryme with rain have a negative evaluative meaning... Pain, Drain, Slain, Chain etc..

Then you get the brilliant idea, and you replace rain with 'showers', and your next line ends in 'flowers'. And then when you need to write rain again, you're fucked.

You give up on the damned poem and go back to watchin the rain.

Sitting on a bench or on a bike after a shower and letting those drops wet your ass- that cool pleasant feeling...

Cycling through a puddle.

By the time you reach school, the right side of your trouser's wet
Your friend's left side of the trouser's wet too.

Falling while playing football.

You gather all your shirts during the week and wash them on sundays, hoping they dry because you don't have another one for tomoro.

Skip your bath coz it's too cold (You'll connect with this only if you have lived in a boys' hostel in a hill station)

The wet footprints all over the staircase, and the corridoor.

Get into your friend's blankets, sit on their clothes, drop food all over threir beds, and they don't mind- coz next time- it's your bed!

The way your socks get wet and your legs freeze inside your shoes, and the relief you get when you open them.

The mud all over your shoes, and the way they don't shine when you polish them the next day.

That cold feeling of your wet shirt sticking to your body.

Pine needles after the rain.