Darth Midnightmare - Part I - Thus spake Darthustra

If Mukund were Hitler, he would have blogged about the Jews and kept at it for so long that the poor Jews would have danced (voluntarily) into the gas chambers with smiles on their faces, after having boarded trains to Auschwitz (again voluntarily), the tickets for which they’d bought with their own money that they’d stashed away for when the tides turned in their favour, when the war was over or when Hitler was defeated (whichever occurred first) … and that’s an understatement!

This ‘testimonial’ is so long overdue, that I’m actually going to write it in parts, thus ensuring that it is longer overdue and I’m going to put it in the ‘other’ blogsite … because what could be a more fitting testimonial to the king of rant than a rant itself … so, here goes nothing … God, (if there is one) save my soul …

Disclaimer: This is to be considered a work of fiction for this is a compilation of a number of tales recounted by the man himself, often under the influence of alcohol or liver tonic or both. The author takes no responsibility for any contradicting statements the reader might come across, for the subject himself is a living contradiction.

Part I – Thus spake Darthustra …

… And on the seventh day, Mukund ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made … And Mukund blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which Mukund created and made - Darth Midnightmare 3:16 (The Holy Bible, King Jaymz’s version ;) )

That was a long time ago … Hell, that was so long ago that I can’t remember half of it. Kinda lost track after he ‘brought forth’ grass ;) … was kinda preoccupied ‘bringing forth’ myself if you know what I mean … Flash forward …

The dude’s notoriety spans 6 batches at Hel(L) … from PGP 17, all the way down to PGP 22 … Very few people know that he was once rather unceremoniously thrown outta Hel(L) under rather unfortunate circumstances. Actually the circumstances were extremely incriminating if nothing else, but unfortunate nonetheless considering that the only reason why he was asked to pack up and leave was because the ‘Powers that be’ decided to make an example out of him. For those who haven’t the foggiest about what I’m saying here … here’s the straight dope on what happened on that fateful night. It was the first insti party of the year and the first insti party for the PGP 18 batch. It was an insti party like any other and Mukund, being new to the campus strays away from the venue (the infamous baddy court) and suddenly finds himself in completely alien surroundings. He would later learn that this was the faculty residential block, the last place on the planet one would want to find himself after having a swig or two at an insti party.

Anyway, as I was saying, Mukund finds himself at the faculty residential block, reeking of alcohol (although he maintains to this day that he’d had just a shot or two of Whiskey), sporting a metal T-shirt and a hairstyle that one did not usually associate with teetotaling connoisseurs of Indian classical music who just happened to be taking a casual stroll that evening and had lost their way, being new to the campus. It’s raining cats and dogs and Mukund’s completely lost his bearing. It’s then that he sees the professor’s house and the light in the verandah beckons him with its warm, inviting glow. By now, he’s well and truly lost and throwing caution to the wind, decides to approach the house out of sheer desperation. He rings the doorbell.

The professor whose house it is, is a worried man. His wife is preganant or ill or both. Actually, she’s ill because she’s pregnant with his child … can’t think of too many women who wouldn’t be ill if they were pregnant with his child. Anyway, he’s a worried man and he’s pacing around his drawing room, angst ridden and the torrential downpour outside is doing absolutely nothing to alleviate his anxiety. That’s when he hears the door bell ring. Now, under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have thought twice about walking up to the door and greeting whoever it was who was standing outside but the circumstances weren’t exactly normal now, were they? The professor walks warily towards the door contemplating the nature of the terror which could be waiting to pounce upon him, on the other side of the door. His hand trembles as he releases the latch and he surveys his visitor through a tiny crack.

That’s when it hit him, all 10 pegs of it actually … Maybe it was his ailing wife, maybe it was his nerves or maybe it was the silhouette of a metalhead-student, long hair et al at the doorway, that caused the professor to react the way he did but then again, maybe it was the shock of hearing the terrifying shadow say in pure, unadulterated Mumbai School boy English – “Good evening Sir, I’m a little lost. May I have directions to the hostel block”, that finally did him in, but the fact is that Mukund faced a disciplinary hearing the next morning, the consequence of which was that he was unceremoniously cast out of IIM L and it would be two whole years before he would return to Hel(L) after cracking the CAT all over again … and it would be the same professor who would conduct his interview after his being shortlisted … The professor, of course had very little to do with the entire debacle. No, it was a person far more sinister who orchestrated the entire process … more sinister than Jabba the Hut and far, far uglier … and even worse, the PGP chairperson at the time!

Darthustra decides to tell me about this episode one day when there’s a 3.4 show going on and we’ve decided to take a break from the stage area during the Eastern band’s turn. He’s just recovering from Jaundice (the relapse that is) and binging heavily on liver tonic. I still can’t fathom his habit of binging on stuff but I guess liver tonic’s better for health than Vodka any day but bad in the long run if one decided to abuse it like he did the Russian spirit that caused the liver trouble in the first place. Anyway, considering the moment that he’d finished recounting the horrific tale to be auspicious, he promptly loses his dinner all over the pavement. I lost my own dinner five minutes later after finally having comprehended what it meant to be ‘sick to ones stomach’.

Thus began a beautiful friendship … I say this because we weren’t really such great friends before that day … To be really truthful, we got off completely on the wrong foot …

What's in a name????!!!! sigh ...

Recently, I stumbled upon a rather interesting blog by my good friend Chivukula Venkata Subramanya Suresh (Suri) where he was expressing his undying gratitude to his parents for naming him thus. My name has always been something that’s caused me never-ending heart burn, so I thought that it was only natural that my second post be on the subject.

Blogs on mallu names gone bad and mallu parents’ naming skills are a dime a dozen but what you didn’t know was that Gult parents were equally bad … but they don’t really have a choice because ‘gult’ tradition requires babies to be named after the taluk, subtaluk, municipality, ward, street address and so on of the location that the baby was born in. This is an amazing way of keeping track of where your kids were born. Just ask a gult where he was born and he’ll give you the exact location, give or take a few meters … almost as good as the most sophisticated GPS systems in existence if you ask me.

If you thought that 'gult' parents were bad namers, the worst possible namers are parents who in over zealous religiousness decide to name their newborns after their favourite God. Not that I have anything against God. Well, maybe I do … er … yeah ... lost my flow of thoughts there for a second. Now, I’m sure a name like Jesus (pronounced heyzooz) is still cool in a neat latino kind of way but, it’s when you’re named Srimurugan Veluswamy that things really get out of hand.

I happen to have a 'mallu' mother who in a spate of religious fervor decided to name her first (and only) born after the God of her husband's (tam) culture. Hence I would, all those years ago come to be christened Srimurugan Veluswamy ... not exactly the kind of name you'd associate with a cute, chubby, wide eyed infant staring up at you from it's crib. I still can't imagine how my mother could look at me tenderly and whisper into my ears ... "I love you more than the world itself, little one ... I’ll never let anything happen to you … I think I'll call you Srimurugan Veluswamy ... " Geeeeez !! Mom!! Didn’t you say that you’d never let anything happen to me?

Well if you think that that’s the worst name that my darling parents have found it in their kind hearts to bestow upon the apple of their eyes, think again. My real name is not embarrassing, just really hard to pronounce (for about 98% of the human race … the rest have speech impediments and find it surprisingly easy to pronounce). It’s the ‘pet’ name which has caused me the most amount of embarrassment over the years. Let me explain the concept of ‘pet’ names to the reader. It’s the name that they might have given a pet if they had one. But since they had none, they decide to confer upon the next four legged thing they set their eyes upon, that most disgraceful of names. It’s then that you decide to crawl on all fours into the hall wondering what all the furor is about (you’d know better than to do that now). My pet name is too painful to mention here. But most people know it anyway (oh the pain !).

Over the years, I would be called a number of things (I think I've had more names than Lord Vishnu himself at some point in time). If I had a dollar for every name I’ve been called over the years, the US money supply might have been in shambles by now. But the fact of the matter is that I’m not a rich man today but I’ve still had to respond to all kinds of names over the years. There was a time when different people simply addressed me by unique names, their own creations or borrowed ideas, that they’d decided to christen me with for whatever sick perverted reason that had prompted them to do so. I could know in an instant who it was that was addressing me (voices are so hard to distinguish … all you filthy mortals sound the same :D ). It’s something like setting unique ring tones for different people on your cell phone. If I heard ‘Morgan’ or ‘Freeman’, for instance, I knew in a flash that it was Rowen and if I heard ‘Tim’ (Henman) or ‘Father murgi’, it could be none other than the great darth midnightmare himself. If I heard ‘murgopatrix’ or ‘murgallica’ or ‘murgeopterix’ or any other such perversion, it could be none other than Lord Naxtazzmataur himself. So much so, that I at some point in time stopped responding to the name ‘Srimurugan’ itself. I’ve missed my roll call so many times on this account. I’ve often wondered who this ‘Srimurugan’ character was and why he never turned up for classes, during my engineering days. It was only after a few more names had been called out by the professor and my neighbours’ furious jabs had finally begun to hurt that it would dawn on me that ‘Srimurugan’ might actually be my own name.

When I was really little, I’ve tried every trick in the book to get people to address me by my real name but have always failed. “Srimurugan is a God’s name”, I would say and “God will punish you if you call me murgi”, but to what avail? Kids can be cruel but can I really blame them for insisting on calling me murgi? I can name atleast 20 countries where kids could get beat up for having a name like Srimurugan. Oh! why couldn’t my parents have named me something cool … sigh! It’s not like my Mother herself hasn’t stepped in on numerous occasions to ‘persuade’ the other kids to call me ‘Srimurugan’. But murgi stuck like gum to the bottom of a shoe … and it’s stuck on to this day.

A nick name is a good thing. It gives you an identity. But, with a name like Srimurugan, having an identity should be the least of a person’s problems. Someday, when they invent a time machine, I’ll probably go back in time and kill the first kid who called me ‘murgi’. But, then again I might be wasting my time, as I would have come to be called murgi anyway (You can’t change the course of destiny :D ), considering the fact that there was the ‘meri jaan … murgi ke ande …’ campaign airing on television at that time.

But, you actually realize that your nick name has replaced your actual name itself when the entire junior batch in your college knows only 'good ol' murgi’ and never knew that a person called Srimurugan Veluswamy even existed. An amusing incident comes to mind. During final placements, when a pcom controls member runs into the waiting room and screams himself hoarse with cries of ‘Srimurugan Veluswamy’, yours truly walks up to him and pulls at his sleeve saying – “Lets go dude. Tell me about the interviews so far”. I kid you not, the controls member just looks at me with a most demeaning stare , says ‘Hat be’ (Get lost in Hindi) in the most insulting manner possible and then turns back into the room and continues shrieking –“Srimurugan Veluswamy, interview call for XYZ co.”. Well, maybe it was the new hair(less)-style that yours truly got for the placement season but then again you could possibly understand how badly out of hand the situation had gotten.

If you thought my perils ended there, you aint heard nothin’ yet. I kid you not … the following incident actually happened. During a group discussion conducted by a company during the summers, a GD member actually commented on the point that I had just made thus – “As pointed out by murgi …er … yeah … the economy of China … blah blah …” I rest my case!! %@^#

I’ve never really thought that my real name was hard to pronounce if that’s the reason why most people preferred to call me ‘murgi’. The thought had never once crossed my mind for the first 23 years of my existence. I sincerely thought that all my friends called me ‘murgi’ because they really liked me (did I mention that I was naïve?) and hence decided to name me after their favourite gastronomic infatuation. Somewhere along the line, I realized that my vegetarian friends (therefore) might have been sabotaging my name for a laugh or two at my expense :D.

Another interesting incident, again during roll call, but this time at IIM comes to mind. Who could ever forget professor AKM who took MANAC II at Hel(L)? I, for one, could never forget him. The SOB flunked me! But I forgive him for that. But what I could never forgive him for is the following. He never quite got my name right from the beginning (owing to its being a name that Martian parents gave their kids … either that or the bloke couldn’t read English). For, he could never say ‘Srimu-roo-gan’ but would always end up saying ‘Srimu-goo-ran’. One day, he throws his hands up in frustration during roll call and says – “Srimu-goo-ran, your name is really hard to pronounce. I think I’ll shorten it.” It was one of those moments when you feel that the heavens have just burst open with chants of ‘Hallelujah!!’. I thought he was going to simplify my name to an easily pronounceable ‘Sri’ or something short and sweet that even a drooling toddler who was just learning how to speak could easily pronounce, but that, unfortunately was not to be. Imagine how shocked I was when AKM says – “Your name is really hard to pronounce. So I think I’ll just shorten it to something easy and quick to say. I think I’ll call you … mu-goo-ran”. It’a good thing my neighbour just happened to be carrying smelling salts that day or I might have slipped into a coma for sure!

Srimurugan Veluswamy is also a rather difficult name to carry off when most people tell you that you look ‘bong’ (Bengali) when you meet them for the first time. More on that angle later. The number of bongs I’ve had to disappoint by responding in English … sigh! I know that the lord has been kind to me having blessed me with ‘bong good looks’, but then, I can’t find it in my heart to tell a bong that my name is Srimurugan … not after he’s spent the last half an hour speaking to me in bong. You should see the shock in their eyes (you aint seen the look of ‘saucer-eyed horror’ until you’ve seen a bong in shock) when you muster all the politeness that you have in you and tell them that you’re not a bong but a tam and a tam with the most tam sounding name possible, at that too!

Somewhere along the line, I became a metal head and a guitarist. It was then that I decided upon ‘the mutant cannibal chicken from hell’ as an alter ego for the musician in me and I guess I owe my thanks to Harsha (AMD) for ‘el pollo del infierno’ as an alter ego for the writer in me. At the end of the day, that’s what nick names are, I guess. They could be looked at one's alter egos. At home, I’m what my parents call me and with my friends I transform into ‘good ol’ murgi’. On stage I’m the 'mutant cannibal chicken from hell' and when I write, I’m ‘el pollo del infierno’, your worst nightmare :D.

What’s in a name you ask? It's probably the most important part of a person’s identity (some people might even argue that a person’s name IS his identity). If a person’s name is his identity then my identity was doomed right from the start. I’ve made it a point to introduce myself as Srimurugan or ‘Sri’ to my colleagues at PwC, so that they at least learn my real name … don’t want any uncomfortable situations in a board room meeting you see :D.

Jokes apart, it’s not like I absolutely detest my real name, nick name or even my confounded ‘pet’ name (they’re MY names after all). But I guess I can express some disgruntlement regarding the way things have been. But, if recent studies are anything to be believed, that a person’s name actually helps decide what he / she becomes in his / her life (apparently teachers will grade people will certain names better than they do others …and so on), I am whatever I am today because of my name(s). I love being me! Ask anybody :D

... Friends call me murgi ... but my foes know and fear me as 'el pollo del infierno'. (er ... I've always wanted to say that)

El Pollo Del Infierno hath spoken …

I rant, therefore I am …

Sometimes I lie awake at night just staring at the ceiling fan (ok, so they were bright moonlit nights) go round and round and wonder whether at the end of it all, it was all really worth it. The great MBA hype! At one time, all that mattered was completing my engineering degree and getting a job. How wrong I was, for that was not all that mattered. Well, not to my parents at least.

The reason why we can’t follow our own dreams in a country like India is because of having to fit into stereotypes, loads of ‘em. Right from the day we’re born, we’re constantly being compared with some other kid who lives across the street who’s probably having a bumpy ride in the journey of life himself because he’s being compared with some other clueless kid who lives at the end of the road.

My earliest memories of my mom giving me a hard time (they’re as fresh as cow pie in my head) are of her yelling at me that so and so’s kids were doing this or that because of which they were doing so much better than me in something and so I ought to do this or that too so that I’d do better in whatever it was too (well better than I was at that point in time atleast). But did anyone care to stop and wonder whether the person who at the end of the day was supposed to do whatever it was that he was supposed to do (me, I think), did not want to and would actually be extremely happy if everyone just let him be and allowed him to make mud pies (and occasionally eat them too). But the powers that be would never have any of it. Only-children are condemned to a kind of cursed existence where every waking second of their parents’ life is spent in doting on them. This could be a great thing years later when you’ll always get pocket money to splurge on stuff, from one parent or the other but when you’re really little, you sometimes wish you were dead let alone have a brother or a sister.

The reason why most people decided to have one child is because by their own admission – they’d rather have one perfect angel than a couple of brats. Well we all know how that ends now don’t we ;) ? Another reason is because it was a miracle they were able to produce one in the first place and they’re thankful for that and decide to leave it at that. My parents belong to the former category (trust me, I know) and it irks me to no end to know that that’s the only reason I was condemned to suffer in solitude. Now don’t get me wrong here. It’s not like I absolutely detested growing up as an only child. Like I said before, being an only child has it’s perks too. Perks, which have been pointed out to me by countless teary / ‘black’ eyed kids who had, from one brother or sister, to an entire football team of siblings. I have thanked my stars time and time again for being ‘single’ (years later I would curse myself for being the loser that I was for precisely the same reason but that shall be left for another discussion).

The very parents, who decide that it would be in our best interest to have ‘one perfect angel’, don’t realize the extent of the irreparable damage they do unto us in the process. The intention is perfectly honourable, I’m sure, but it’s the pressure they subject us to keep up with the Jones’ kids (if I might) which really gets to us. Now, it’s not like they got it all wrong and we might have turned out a lot better if we had brothers and sisters. Only-kids are smart. Some of the smartest, most intelligent people I know are only children (or atleast wish they were, as a result of their being smart ... er ... right !)

Why am I saying all this? I’m only approaching the subject for which I established the premise in the first two lines of this seemingly directionless monologue, from another direction. I’m sure you got all of that :D. Did anybody pause to ruminate about whether I myself wanted to be rich and successful and to be ascending the proverbial corporate ladder? No! If I were left to my own devices I would be playing lead guitar for a band in a club. At the end of the day, I might have even been happy that I was doing what I loved and was getting paid money, however little, for it too. Why do parents say that they force us to do stuff and exert pressure on us all through our short pathetic lives to ‘achieve’, because at the end of the day they want us to be happy and they care for nothing other than our happiness? Well, I’m not saying that they don’t. I’m sure that in their own twisted way, they mean us no harm. But are we really happy with what we’re doing? Some people might say that I’m saying all of this after getting through an IIM and therefore reek of hypocrisy in every word that I’ve spoken so far. Well maybe I am a hypocrite and then again maybe I’m not. But if you can see my words as being hypocritical, I’m sure that our parents can be seen for the hypocrites they are too. Didn’t they say that they wanted us to be happy ... really happy? Well, I feel happy but I don’t really feel overjoyed. Maybe it’s the weather or maybe it’s just the fact that instead of being the lead guitarist of a metal band playing in the metal underground, I’m a consultant (ah, consulting) today.

I’ve always felt strongly about this and have no qualms whatsoever about reiterating the point of view that I’ve had for a long time now. The MBA degree is the biggest farce that I’ve ever known. Everybody knows this but only ‘subject’ themselves to some management course or the other because it’s the quickest path to a higher paycheck, period! Have you heard the answers that emanate from the mouths of CAT aspirants before they’ve honed themselves for interviews and GDs through one of the hundreds of CAT preparation institutes, when posed with the infamous ‘Why MBA?’ question? The answers are a revelation in themselves. Students in India don’t usually have the foggiest as to why they want to do an MBA. At the end of the course, they all look like they don’t know what hit them and still don’t have a clue why they just did what they did for the duration of the course. Despite all of this, truckloads of eager CAT aspirants still line up to buy the CAT application form year after year, so that they too can jump into the MBA bandwagon and ride away on the path to success and glory. Do they pause for a moment and wonder if that’s what they really wanted to do or whether it’s in reality what their parents wanted them to do?

A peek into any matrimonial would indicate that an MBA from an IIM has almost become a ‘caste’, what with the actual community that a person belongs to being sidelined and the all important MBA degree itself getting privilege. Is this what our parents actually had in their devious minds all along? For, in a country such as ours, being ‘happy’ and ‘settled’ have so many different connotations and meanings.

From our birth till we get ‘settled’, all that we’re ever going to be are test subjects in a complex experiment that started on day we were born … and you thought that the possibility of the existence of the ‘Matrix’ was shocking. Very few of us really have had control over what we’ve done or ever decided to do and that’s a fact that we’re going to have to 'live' with and die knowing that there we never ‘lived’ anyway. More on this later.

El Pollo Del Infierno hath spoken …