ProjektObjekt

ObjectOftheWeek No.7

[projekt-objekt-blog]

my grandfather's suitcase

Years after he had stopped his manic travelling, my grandfather still lived out of suitcases. Now it’s not like his everyday clothes were in a suitcase – he had a cupboard, of course. But everything else you know, all the really important things, and the memories, they were always in a suitcase.

In his own room he had about 4 or 5 stacked up in a corner, these were the most used ones, with important documents, some money for emergencies - in foreign and Indian currency , and framed photographs of his parents and his grandchildren. These were exact copies of the ones that were in his room, and he took them along on his long foreign travels. These suitcases also had his best safari suits and formal shirts, dry cleaned and immaculately folded, with perfectly symmetric creases, and his large collection of handkerchiefs, many of them embroidered with his initials. But this was just the regular use stuff, aside from this were the dozens of suitcases in the “box room”, a old bathroom that was converted for this higher purpose of storing luggage.

Some years ago, when my grandfather died, we opened up the box room to make sense of its contents.

Among other, more obvious and known treasures, we found, the leftovers of my grandfather’s large collection of Archie Comics. Thatha was an Archies addict, and had been for many years distressed by the utter disregard with which we, his grandchildren, would read and fling about this most precious collection of his, that he had put together over years of sifting through airports bookshops. At some point the comics disappeared from his library and we wondered where they’d gone but soon forgot about it, and now, here they were.

We also found suitcases with assortments of stationery – mostly pens (only ball points, never ink –they were too messy and unreliable for him), neat stacks of small notepads, and his entire collection of diaries from the 1970s. One suitcase was filled with an assortment of foreign perfumes, eau de colognes, and other prized toiletries and a few bottles of whiskies; I remember on rare occasions he used to open up this one to gift someone a bottle, or to replenish his daily stash, and I’d stand by near, taking in the aromas and getting quite intoxicated.

Thatha’s fancy suitcases, they were a symbol of all the travels and adventures that he had had. But they were nothing like the rest of the luggage in the box room, the kind that the rest of the family would travel with– an assorted collection of odd shapes and sizes and bulges – there were heavy trunks and cloth bags, lunch baskets and shoulder bags, and that rolled-up green canvas holdall to put bedding in, And while all of this was scuffed and marked, my grandfather’s suitcases always looked like they’d just been brought out of the shop, shiny and new.

So we were surprised when we found, not in the box room, but in his cupboard, one small suitcase, a briefcase almost, but without the pockets and compartments. This one was beaten up and frayed, looking like nothing else he owned. We opened it wondering what on earth would be in it. Inside it, neatly folded, was one entire set of my grandmother’s clothes – her sari, blouse, petticoat, even her underclothes, all wrapped up in one of her yellowed, thin towels. And next to it a mushy card that my thatha had written for her on her birthday years ago. All those years after my grand-mom died, we had all watched him organize the things in all those suitcases a million times. He’d take things out, make lists, repack the stuff, number the suitcases, change the combination numbers and put them back in the box room. But we’d never seen this one tiny, old battered up suitcase.

[projekt-objekt-blog]

The VIP

That blue suitcase in Jayanthi Aunty's hallway always gave me the creeps – ever since I can remember, all those years ago.

I was probably twelve at the time, when they moved into the flat across the landing from us – our new neighbours. Jayanthi Aunty and Kumar Uncle were a nice quiet middle aged couple then – somewhere in their early fifties I suppose.

As was my habit, I was running around wildly all over the apartment building, playing hide and seek with the gang, and I snuck in behind the door of flat 2B – which to my complete surprise was open for the first time. As I hid behind the open door, I noticed the blue suitcase.

It stood there closed and upright as if it had just come in or was just going out. It was in the middle of the small lobby that the entrance door gave into along with so many other suitcases and cartons. The sky blue colour caught my eye right away, but, at the time I was more intrigued by the possibilities that new neighbours offered and went further into the house to introduce myself – abandoning the game of hide and seek outside and the blue suitcase in the lobby.

Over the next few days, the Kumars' apartment slowly transformed into a cosy home out of a bunch of boxes and empty rooms. Soon followed our first formal “neighbourly” visit; my mum, dad and me. I noticed the blue suitcase again. It was a good four days since the rest of the boxes had been unpacked but that smalll, hard, sky-blue V.I.P. Still stood upright in the lobby. There was a compact visitors shoe rack keeping it company along with a potted fern. The three of them huddled together companionably under the soft glow of a tall shaded floor lamp.

The Kumars were warm hosts. Conversation flowed easily. They had no children and I enjoyed a lot of attention and affection that evening till one point when I said – and I remember this so clearly even now two decades later – I said “Jayanthi Aunty, why did you forget the blue suitcase? Shall I help you unpack it?”

The temperature in that warm and welcoming room suddenly plummeted and the Kumars withdrew from conversation. We soon left. Boy! What a lecture I got from my dad that night. I promised him I would never bring up the topic of the blue V.I.P. ever again in my life. In roughly two days the Kumars had thawed and life returned to normal.

My curiousity was piqued. I had a hundred conspiracy theories floating around in my head and that, multiplied by those of my gang became the stuff of legends. In our heads the suitcase contained: a treasure, black money, a bomb, a hidden camera, a pet python, James Bond's gun, various things to do with Harry Potter, Harry Potter and the answer to all the world's problems. We dared each other to sneak in and open it but none of us really dared, and slowly as I warmed to the Kumars and kept growing older, the yearning to discover those hidden contents waned.

By the time I finished school and was ready to leave home for college, flat 2B was like my second home. Jayanthi Aunty had grown very fond of me and I of her. On the even of my journey onward I was summoned over to her place. She said she wanted to give me a small good luck gift.

I crossed the stairwell and entered her lobby. My now familiar friend the blue V.I.P. stood still in his softly lit corner and on impulse I gave him a small pat, as if to say goodbye. As I looked up I got the shock of my life! In the darkness of the dining room beyond stood Jayanthi Aunty, quietly, staring intently at me.

I cursed inwards at myself for having touched the suitcase! I should have known better. I was almost an adult now. What was i thinking! I half expected her to tell me to leave, but as she came forward I began to make out that she was smiling although her eyes were wet.

She led me by the hand to the dining table and switched on the lights. There was a small box gift-wrapped with my name on it and the words “good luck!”. I opened it and thanked her – a parker pen. Still feeling awkward about the earlier situation I was about to leave when she took hold of both my hands in hers all of a sudden. “Why did you pat the suitcase?” she asked. Her manner was neither angry nor sad. Only very anxious.

All sorts of wild excuses and half formed reasons came into my head in that split second when the mind grapples to make sense of something it has been secretly obsessed with for years and years and is now caught out. But finally, I looked her in the eye and said “I guess I was saying goodbye. To me that suitcase has felt like a third person in this house all along.”

Her eyes turned moist again and she sat looking at me, holding my hands for a long time. Neither of us spoke, I just sat there letting her hold my hands, giving her the time she needed for whatever it was she was going through. At length she got up and went shuffling into her bedroom. This time I waited patiently. I wasn't feeling awkward anymore. She returned with an old faded dog-eared photograph and held it out to me.

It was a family portrait. A posed one in a studio. Jayanthi Aunty and Kumar Uncle, both looking much younger and radiantly happy were beaming into the camera. Standing between them was a boy, maybe my age but a good bit taller than Kumar Uncle. It was clear from the resemblance and that smile that he was their son.

“I thought you didn't have children?” I asked hesitantly.

“That's Arun”. She said. “He's no more. He died a year before we moved here and that's actually why we moved. This photo was taken just before he left for college. He went aborad for four years, four long years and I was so looking forward to his return. But as fate would have it, his return flight crashed. “

“I'm so sorry!” I cried out.

“I was devastated”, she continued, “we both were. Our only child. Just like you. After months of grieving we took a holiday to try and move on but it was impossible. How does one move on after outliving their child. And when we returned to a home filled with his things, his memories, the futility and grief just bubbled up all over again.

“And out of this futility a new purpose drove us. We began systematically destroying all these things, these triggers, these memories. The clothes, the books, the photographs and various trinkets. This phot somehow escaped.”

I didn't interrupt. It was all pouring out and I was saddened and deeply moved.

“And then we realised what a terrible thing we had done! It took a while for it to sink in that grief is not a bad thing, it is natural. What is life after all without all ones memories good and bad. But it was too late. What we had done was terrible. The guilt of our rushed and thoughtless act soon overpowered everything else. We knew we couldn't live in that space anymore. It was no longer home. We had destroyed it by ruthlessly erasing all memories of our beloved son. That was when we decided to move somewhere far away. To the south!

And just a day before we left the post office sent us a message. A shipment had come in. A large parcel post addressed to our son Arun! Kumar rushed over and came back with that blue suitcase, the V.I.P.”

Seeing my confusion all of a sudden she smiled. “You know, we didn't understand at first either. We recognised the suitcase although we hadn't seen it in five years. It was Arun's. One of the smaller ones he had taken with him. And then finally we made sense of it. With strict baggage restrictions on international flights, Arun had decided to send some less important things by ship throught the postal service. Assorted things that he didn't need on a daily basis but didn't feel like giving up. He must have arranged it just before he boarded that wretched flight!

“We received it eight months after he passed away and that too if it had come a day later, we wouldn't have been there. I tell you, it was like a sign that he forgave us for all our sillyness – for destroying all his precious things. He sent us some more memories! Thank you Arun. God bless!”

[projekt-objekt-blog]

untitled

I

Suitcases make me really, really sad. To date, I hate packing a suitcase- even if it is to go away on holiday. There is something about the weight of a packed suitcase, as if you are trying to fit your entire existence into it that is pathetic. Actually, when we first decided to talk about suitcases, someone spoke about a book which mapped the history of mental illness through suitcases found in a dilapidated asylum. As it happened, I wanted to look at suitcases from the holocaust. I don’t know why I have this morbid association with suitcases, but when I looked at the Auschwitz holocaust museum photos and saw the battered metal cases with Frank V or Anna Fritz written on them in big white letters, I could see them leaving their homes, being told they were taken to a “safe” place, and to pack whatever bare essentials they needed. Years later, it’s all we have left of entire families, an entire race really. Battered suitcases, with names painted on them.

II

Ever since I was a little girl I hated suitcases; probably because they were a big, rectangular, looming threat of a loved one leaving. They were abandoning me to do something they wanted- something that didn’t include me. When you travel, you are nothing without that suitcase. That feeling of waiting at the conveyor belt in the airport with my parents, always dreading the thought that your suitcase might be lost, and the ridiculous sense of glee and relief when you spy it, hidden between some rich businessman’s swanky bag and a bursting, stained old backpack, is something I found very depressing. I resented feeling so attached to a plastic box.

III

When I got a little older, it dawned on me that my less than amicable relationship with suitcases was because my father only used to buy suitcases in black, brown or grey. They were terribly depressing, and I hated them. In any case, my older, smarter self psycho-babbled its way through it and decided it was the colour of the damn things that was the problem. At the time, American Tourister had just launched big bright red suitcases. Way too expensive. So I went to Witco bag shop. They had launched a spectacularly lurid range of suitcases in neon greens with pink flowers, bright purples with somewhat shit coloured, big, yellow polka dots. They were unparalleled in their ugliness so naturally, I had to have one. I won’t tell you which one I bought. I travelled with it once. To Delhi. The humiliation of picking the hideous thing up from the conveyor belt, publicly announcing that I owned this harbinger of a suitcase fashion apocalypse was something I never recovered from. And so, my experiments with suitcase trauma continue. 

[projekt-objekt-blog]

untitled

"Your name?"

"Hyun Su"

"Nationality?"

"Indian"

The voice analysis officer looks at me with suspicion but his machine gives me a green signal.

Somehow it does not bother me even if it's supposed to. I get that a lot. Chinky, China karan, Noodles, Chow meen, Jackie Chan, Bruce lee and the list goes on. Anything but Korean.

I let go of these reactions usually thinking to myself that assumption makes an ass out of the one that assumes.

"How long have you lived in India"

"I was born here and I am 34 years old"

He does not appreciate my cockiness. But I am in a weird mood.

"What was the purpose of your visit to Seoul?"

"I had gone to visit my relatives"

"How long was the duration of your visit?"

"2 months"

"What is your occupation?"

"I work for Doosan as a marketing representative"

"They make cars?"

"Yes Hyndai, Samsung, Lotte"

"They must be paying you a lot no?"

"How is that relevant?"

"Just answer the question mister Yusu"

"Hyun Su"

"Yes Yusu. Now tell me how much you earn"

Shouldn't one be bothered by that question? You think you would be judged by what you do but the world only judges you by how much you earn. Somehow the profession doesn't really matter after all the years of preparation. However my mom has a different take. She loves going over the story of how I always knew what I wanted to become on my Doljanchi (1st birthday).

"You were a very quiet kid. You hardly made a sound or moved. So when the priest laid out different things in front of you, you just sat and looked at every object very carefully"

I love the way she narrates the story every time even though I knew it word to word.

"Bowl of rice would make you a chef, Jar of money meant you would become rich, a book would make you a scholar, a ball of thread would give you long life, but you just kept looking at these things like they were something you had already seen. You slowly crawled to the priest and touched his briefcase. All of us were so surprised and could not stop laughing. Especially how Janaki uh mu ni squealed 'Ma adhuku indha saman ellam venama pottiye venuma'

My mom always tries hard to imitate Indian accents with her nasal tone. Running her own beauty parlour for 40 years, makes me only wonder if she was really happy with her profession or she chose it having limited options. She dint know a word of Tamil or English when she moved here and now she is an expert on accents.

"The priest then christened you as Hyun Su, the eternal traveller" she would end the story to make it sound like a folklore.

Funnily I remember every detail of that day. I remember the first time I saw the briefcase, like it was some magic box. A new object would pop out every time surprising me. Since the priest found it very difficult to make me let go of the briefcase, He in turn tucked a red cloth into the secret pocket for good omen. I bonded with this case as I played various make believe scenarios with it every day.

"Where did you buy this briefcase?"

"It was a gift"

"From whom?"

"From family"

"Can you tell us what is there in this briefcase?"

"Just few official papers, a mobile phone and charger"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes"

"Then sign these papers confirming your statement so we could continue searching this briefcase"

I flip through every sheet with a swift signature to get over this drama as soon as I could. I am aware and respect procedures but these officers have a way of getting to you.

Two more custom officers walk in and place the briefcase in front of them. One tumbles all my things onto the table like unloading a garbage can. He then carefully inspected its weight, dimensions, texture and other details. The other one took out his pocket knife out forcing me to react differently.

"Wait! Don't damage it"

"We have this briefcase red flagged on our systems. Over the years lot of them have smuggled goods using this particular make"

"There is no need to cut the leather. Can't you just use scanners to detect first?"

"Please sit down quietly sir"

"Are you serious? Please. I have travelled with this briefcase so many times over the years, I was never treated like this before"

I stand up but the other officer just stands next to me challenging me to move a muscle. I am helpless. It might be trivial to these guys but that briefcase is old and can't be fixed if damaged.

"Our Intel discovered a man who made thirty of these custom cases during the 60s"

I watched painfully as the officer rips open the leather in bottom compartment. He taps the wood.

Nothing.

"We tracked another one recently"

I stare at him with a rage that only I could feel. He opens the small cloth pocket on the top compartment that kept my good luck charm safely.

"What is this?"

"It's just my good luck charm"

"Seems like it has expired"

I wanted to whack him but I sit down defeated instead. He rips open the cloth that hid the pocket and the top layer of the compartment. Nothing again.

He takes his pocket knife and starts scratching the corner of the wood that meets the metallic frame. All of them looked at me like I committed a sin to own a briefcase like this.

Then I heard a click. The wood gave away to reveal a very thin open space between two hard wooden sheets. I was as surprised more than they were.

They pulled out an old pocket bag out of this new thin secret compartment.

I felt fear creep up every part of my body paralysing me as they pulled out its contents and placed it in front of me.

[projekt-objekt-blog]

OOW No.7 | Suitcase

[projekt-objekt-blog]

THE FOURTH REICH

Technology has caused the world to become a totalitarian state of sorts, ruled by the Mobile Phone and its evil cohorts. The world idolizes the mobile phone, as all the power has become centralized in its hands. Its hypnotic effect has broken many a myth that we have all grown up to believe in. Under the “leader principle “ the mobile’s inquisitiveness is above all other laws.

Its tentacles reach into every sphere of your existence – it tells you when to get up, what you need to do that day and even decides when and where you need to go to complete your work. It screams out orders all day long and at the end of it, claims to be completely drained and needing a charge – Mind you, it only tells you what to do, whilst not actually doing any of the aforementioned things.

Introspect and you realize that while it has connected you to many more people, its distanced you from yourself and the time you called your own.

It has allowed you to roam and call anyone, anywhere on the move but the invisible chain never lets you go. It’s become small enough that you can hide it in your pocket and yet it insists that you put it on show. Its shows pictures and speaks of everything and yet never about anything, it calls its own.

EXERCISE - HOLD YOUR CELL PHONE IN YOUR RIGHT PALM AND STICK YOUR HAND OUT. GRASP CELL PHONE AS TIGHT AS YOU CAN TO SEE IF YOU CAN HEAR IT!! NOW HOLD YOUR HAND PALM DOWN, AND THREATEN TO DROP YOUR PHONE. CAN YOU HEAR IT SQUEAL?

Its high octane charisma and the ability to invoke its followers into blindly doing things it forces onto them allows for many parallels to be drawn with an evil short man with the mustache that wouldn’t grow beyond the safe confines of his nostrils. And yet, we welcome this tyrant into our lives and insist on pacifying its every whim and fancy, allowing it to prey on us and take everything we have and more.

Such, is the power, the power of the Cell Phone.

[projekt-objekt-blog]

Contact

A man & woman walk forward slowly hand in hand down the centre of the stage towards the audience. Both look straight ahead at the audience and start a conversation.

Man: What's up? What news today?

Woman: Hectic day at work. You?

M: Same here, feel really wrung out. Have a headache that's killing me.

W: Hmmm.... is that a hint for a head massage?

M: Ha ha. No it wasn't. Why? Would you give me one?

W: Oh sure why not? (Laughing) anything else?

All this while the two have never looked directly at each other. The slow walking stops. They stand still side by side. Still holding hands they turn a little away from each other. The tones assume an easy teasing banter but they still dont look towards the other.

M: Anything else? Oh boy! A neck rub too while you're at it.

W: Why don't you remove your shirt and I'll throw in a back rub hero.

M: Super idea! And you do the same, heh heh, with the shirt.

W: Your in a great mood for someone with a headache.

M: I'm always in a great mood for you my dear.

Now they sit down exactly where they were standing so far. Either on chairs or on the ground. Still side by side, knees touching, maybe shoulders, maybe leaning slightly against each other - basically physically well in contact, but they still face away from each other and they are not holding hands any more. The conversation turns more flirtatious.

W: Of course you would be in a good mood if I took my shirt off.... so!

Each one starts to unbutton the top button of their shirt/ blouse, smiling, and then droping their hands and gaze both start to mimic the action of texting on a phone (still facing away from each other)

M: Well my dear? Will you help me with the rest of these or do I need to unbutton them all myself?

W: Can't you see my hands are equally busy? (Giggles)

As she giggles, he chuckles along with her too. A split second of joint laughter, shoulders shaking together. Immediately they both start and turn as if surprised to find the other person right there. They look into each others eyes in amazement for the first time.

W: What?

M: Did you say something?

W: No.... I thought you did.....

M: No... nothing.... I thought you did.....

Both stare at each other now standing and facing one another. Expressions are a little sad, a little bored, a little wary. Both shake their heads slowly continuing to say no to each other and slowly take each other's hand again. Sighing out together they stand side by side staring out into space.

[projekt-objekt-blog]

My cellphone hates my family

It began normally enough, my phone would drop calls like any other phone. At first i didn't realize anything was out of the ordinary, I was speaking to my brother one Sunday morning when the call got cut. So i called him back and we resumed our conversation. 

The next time i called him, the call cut off after about 10 minutes. I called him back, the call lasted six minutes this time. I cursed my service provider and life went on.

When i was next speaking to my father we got cut off in five minutes. I called back, only to get cut off in two. More cursing...

I first got the feeling that something was odd when the same thing happened when i called my mum.Six minutes, beep beep and silence. Now i was a bit suspicious. The next time i called one of them, Same Thing. Then i started keeping close tabs on my calls. I realized I was able to have long drawn out conversations with anyone...clients, colleagues, friends, even telemarketers and the odd recorded message, anyone that is except my immediate family. Everytime i called my mother, father or brother, at six minutes - beep beep CUT.

I tried it with their cellphones, the landline at home, teh landline at my dad's office, the landline in my brothers hotel, the neighbourlady's cellphone...Always the same result.

This went on for a few months till suddenly things started to deteriorate. Five minutes, then four, then one....till finally, now when i pick up my phone to call one of then it just switches itself off. 

So....you tell me, am i nuts????

[projekt-objekt-blog]

Romancing the Phone

(Ramya's bedroom. Bustling with brightly dressed young girls, all close friends and cousins, and one elderly Aunt. Ramya is being dressed and made up for the visit of a prospective groom.) Ramya: (shouting into her cellphone) . . . Why don't you just shut up and listen to me? I'm telling you it's only a natak. It's just - --- (Listening impatiently as she is interrupted) Ramya: Look. I need to get ---- dammit I'm telling you for the last time that this means nothing. It's just that my folks don't have the b--- (friends snigger. Some look at Aunt. She's pretending not to listen but is certainly disturbed by this conversation) -- I mean they are in a fix and i have to play along this one time ------- (Listens) Sure. Yeah sure. Will be there. Promise. Yes. Don't worry. And listen. Don't get into some pub and get drunk like in the Hindi movies. Yup. See you . . . bye ! (Puts the phone down and heaves a sigh of exasperation and relief. Some of her friends look at her and smile knowingly. Others exchange conspiratorial glances) Aunt: Beti. Try to understand. This alliance can make such a difference. Just wait till you see the ------ Ramya: Aunty! You know very well why I'm agreeing to this stupid drama. You think I care? I don't care who they are and what this clown's job is. Doesn't mean a thing to me. If it were not for Papa's situation, I would have ----- . Do you mind? I want to be alone with my friends for a while ------- (Aunt exits dismayed and embarrassed) Friend 1: don't be so rude year . . . . Poor thing. She looked so hurt ------ Ramya: now you don't start, ok? Do you know what I'm going through ?! From his pics the guy looks like a jerk and they are not my type at all. Going through this drama is going to stress me out for sure. And that idiot Suhas, I'm sure he will be pissed out in some bar by this evening, playing Devdas. (Friends laugh) Friend 2: don't worry about him. Roopa and I are going over to his place as soon as you're ready. We will keep him alive till you join us . . . Ramya: ah. That's good. That's a relief. (Phone rings) Ramya: ya! Listen. I'll call you back . . . . . No. I'm going to be tied up at least for the next 3 to 4 hours. . . . . No . . . . In that case we can catch up tomorrow. . . . . Oh . . What time is the flight? No problem. I'm free in the morning. Say between 11 and 12 at Evershine mall ? Ya! Coffee shop on the 1st floor. Oh. You know the place? Good. See you then. Looking forward ------- (To friends). Room mate from ILS. was supposed to spend the day with her. . . . (Takes a soft cloth and wipes her cell phone meticulously. Wistfully. It is the latest model of Sony. Xperia. She obviously treasures it. After polishing it thoroughly, she starts clicking her friends pictures with it. Then starts showing them how cleverly she can crop the pictures and mail it to them. They receive the pictures on their own phone with great glee and celebration and leg pulling and laughter. The whole environment changes. Sound of a car horn. They freeze. One friend goes to the window , peeks out, then turns around dramatically.) Friend 2: lover boy has arrived. (Peeks out again and starts counting). Two . . . .three. . . . eight of them . . . in one omni. Cheapos ! At least for this they could have hired a car . . . . (Friends look at each other. Ramya sits stone faced) (Two more friends join the first one. They are beginning to enjoy this) Friend 3: ah . . . . There's our hero. Looks like my Ramu . . . In a suit . . . . (Others rush to look. Giggles. Ramya glares at them) Friend 3: They're in . . . . (They come back from the window and sit around. They look expectantly at the door. . . . Long wait .. . . . Hushed knock. They look at each other. No one moves. More urgent knocking. Finally Ramya braces herself, gets up and opens the door. It's her Mother and the Aunt.) Mom: Come Beti. And behave yourself. I'm sorry you have to go through this showsha. But you know the reason. If you say no, then no it is. No one is going to force you. (Ramya glares, then shrugs and accompanies her mother. Aunt stays back for a moment glaring triumphantly at the girls and then leaves almost banging the door shut) Scene 2: (Crowded living room. Ramya's dad, mom, aunt, and uncle. Boy, boys father, mother, uncles and aunts. They are obviously from the village. One of the uncles is in a dhoti and rubber chap pals. Boy looks shy and uncertain.) (Note: mom and dad are Ramya's parents. Father and mother are boy's parents. Uncle is boy's senior uncle) Uncle: . . . So . . From our side, everything is clear . . . Now it is up to the children . . . So . . . Father: yes. Now it is up to them . . . . (Awkward silence as 'children' don't seem to have anything to say) Mom: why don't we leave them together for some time? They may want to talk ---- Father: that is quite right. Quite right. They may want to talk to ------ Mom: let's move to the dining room. We have some tea and snacks ------ Beti, we will send you some tea here. (To boy) would you like tea or coffee? Boy: ah ---- hmmmm----- Mother: he doesn't drink tea or coffee. Only milk (looks around proudly). Beti, you take tea every day? (Ramya does not answer. Just glares at Mom.) Mother: she does not talk much, eh? Must be very shy no? Achha hai -------- (Mom manages a weak smile and ushers everyone to the other room. Turns to look meaningfully at Ramya before exiting) (Long silence. Ramya sits motionless. Boy fidgets nervously uncertain of what to do. Cell phone rings. Boy starts. Tries to suppress the ring through the pant pocket. Cannot manage. Fumbles feverishly and manages to get the phone out.) Boy: sorry. . . . Forgot to put this off. . . . Sorry Ramya: that's alright, please take the call. . . . Boy: oh . . . . Thank you . . . (Covering the phone and mouth with his hand) Hello? Hello? . . . . Oh hi. Sorry. I was in a . . . . (Looks sheepishly ar Ramya, and turns into sofa almost as if trying to hide) . . .a . . . meeting . . . . (Ramya can't help smiling at his awkwardness. She notices that he is also using a Sony Experia. Her expression changes) Boy: (finishes his call). I'm sorry. Ramya: is that an Experia? Boy: uh . . . Yes. It's Experia. Got it 2 months ago. Ramya: what were you using before? Boy: blackberry bold. Ramya: oh?! Me too. I was also using a bold till last week. I have also changed over to Experia. . . . why did you switch? Boy: (gaining confidence). I think bold is outdated now. Small screen. Basic features. Limited Apps. Except in some Asian countries they are losing market everywhere . . . Ramya: (takes out her own phone) I also find this screen much better. Haven't figured out how to use all the features yet. That will take time I suppose . . Boy: I took 2 days leave and sat with the user manual. I have a hang on most of the features. Some great ones ----- Ramya: (excited) oh! That's wonderful. Can you show me? I also want to see which are the best applications ------ (Moment of awkward silence as each one wonders who should make the first move. Finally, Ramya gets up and walks over and sits next to Boy. He starts. But then his new found confidence takes over. He takes Ramya's phone and starts introducing the features to her one by one. She listens with rapt attention. At times they hold the phone together as he explains a feature or application and she tries it out.) (Note: we need not have dialogue here. Only fast music,as Ramya and Boy go into a fast forward mime with the phones constantly changing hands. They get progressively more and more close and comfortable and excited till they are almost sitting on each other's laps.) (They don't hear the gentle knocks on the door. The door opens slowly. One by one the mothers enter. They are surprised, mom more so. Mom gestures for the others to come in. They enter quietly one by one. Mom and Dad are surprised. Others are happy to see how well Ramya and Boy are getting along. senior uncle is aghast.) Father: I don't think there is anything more to discuss . . . (Laughter) (Ramya and boy are startled back into the moment. They jump up, look at each other, step back, then join in the laughter) curtains.

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OOW No.6 | Mobile Phone

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Dream Remote control  # 1  |  Kalpana Balaji

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OOW No.5 | Remote Control

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this should be interesting I by iswar srikumar

myiladuthurai manikanthan iyers heart sank as he watched his dyslexic apprentice walk onto stage with an istri petti.

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OOW No.4 | Iron [Isthiri Petti]

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THE ROCK AND ROLL SONG

I love the shit and I love the poo

Yellow stains make me go Oooohhhh

Every asshole is so much fun

When their doo-doos are on the run.

  Runny noses with muscus makes me smile

I go whoopee-woo when the goo-goo stays awhile

Soft and tender, grey streams of lightness

Soaking my insides, oh what joy, oh what bliss.

  Sometimes a cunt rubs me on

No Brazilian wax, then I’m torn

But mostly, musky smells make my day

What a job, I’d do it for no pay.

  When you shit, piss and sneeze

It’s me, it’s me, that your orifices crease

I bend and crush and crumple and go soggy

I’m the toilet roll, your best friend in the boggy.

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I actually wanted to wrap large buildings, or iconic monuments in toilet paper and make an 'art' about it! but as a start managed to wrap atleast myself with in and pose as " David"

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I actually wanted to wrap large buildings, or iconic monuments in toilet paper and make an 'art' about it! but as a start managed to wrap atleast myself with in and pose as the "thinking TP man"