Kimbo and Me

If you have been reading my blogs for a while, you’d have come across Kimbo Slice.

Dog extraordinaire, Alpha Male of the biggest Food Court on the University of Hyderabad campus. Friend of friends, possessive as Simi Garewal in Karz, and hater of buffaloes. A dog who never wagged his tail and asked for food. Who hung out with you as a friend, content to lick his balls while you smoked a joint, transcending millions of years of evolution between Man and Friend.

When we first met, the two of us were at our peak.

Kimbo was cool Cool was Kimbo. He only ate chicken, and threw you a frosty glare if you dared feed him anything vegetarian. Tiger biscuits was his preference, sniffing and rejecting anything else. If you befriended him, he walked with you from the Food Court, to your hostel five kilometres away, ensured you were safe, and then ran all the way back. He ran his ‘hood’ of reverential street dogs – his bark caused a riot, his whimper started an orgy. Kimbo was the ruler of the land.

And me. After years of trying to find a calling in life, and having dealt with only missed calls so far, I was finally at a place I felt comfortable. A place where I could engage, debate, discuss, prove my point, win an argument, play God.

In a way, we were both unlikely heroes. Kimbo isn’t the biggest dog around. In fact, in a world determined by size, Kimbo is relatively puny. One of his eyes doesn’t work, he walks with a limp, and his cough reminds you of Rajesh Khanna in Anand.

And yet, he ruled Gops with an iron paw.

And me. On a scale of One to Ten, I am Uday Chopra with a hangover and a hairstyle from Tirupati. And yet, I pursued women way out of my league. I sat with them at Gops, Kimbo at my side, talking to them, painting blurry memories with colour and gifting it to them. Wonderful women who drank, smoked, spoke, held hands, and took walks, Kimbo guarding us against imaginary ghosts and disrespectful buffaloes.

We were both punching above our weight. Kimbo running his pack of dogs, a motley crew of scared, whimpering, lost souls who transformed into Jedi warriors when they heard his bark. Who sprang to life and ran behind the buffalo, who obviously, didn’t give a fuck. Because, buffaloes.

He ran his hood, and I dated women I would never have a chance with in everyday life. And how did I do it?

Kimbo was my Wingman.

We shared a Jackie Shroff – Moti equation. Everytime I whistled, Kimbo would drop everything and come running towards me. Something about this impressed women no end. And every woman I dated, I made sure Kimbo met them too.

In my absence, Kimbo would run up to them, say a Hi, and hang out, ensuring other stray dogs didn’t bother them. He was my Wingman.

Back in those days, me and Kimbo ruled Gops.

*

In the four years that have passed, things have changed.

Not drastically, like a Farah Khan movie. But in a slow, excruciating manner. When small details add up over a large period of time to signify that things are not the same.

Kimbo is old now.

He has given up his hood, and taken refuge near the Small Gate. He spends his days wagging his tail at the security guards, who throw him a biscuit every now and then. His eyes have given up on him, as have his nose and ears. Blind, deaf and weak, he has taken old age in his stride.

And me. I have grown tired. Disillusioned, drifting about pointlessly.

Kimbo is at the twilight of his life, and me at the fag end of my Twenties.

When I ride past him and scream ‘Kimbo’, the name barely registers. He turns, tries to place me, and then sneezes and goes back to swatting flies near his balls.

I ride past him everyday, call out his name, and he continues to sleep, his jagged breaths interrupted by flies. Everyday, I wonder if it’s the last time I’m going to see him. And yet, lying down like that, without shame or remorse, Kimbo knows.

We both need to leave this place. Soon.

A Universe in a City

“Everyone should study in a University, at least once.”

I remember someone telling me this, I don’t remember who or when, though.

A University is different from a college. At college, you hang out with people from the same social class, with similar interests, common pursuits, and most importantly, dads who can cough up the same amount of money.

A University is a different ball game altogether.

When I joined the University, I remember looking at the lush green trees, the rocks, lakes, and forests, and being awe struck.

Quite frankly, I was a bit of a prick.

MassComm is a pretty generic course. You need some awareness about things, and an ability to read and speak well – both of which were never a problem with me. Add to that the fact that most of the guys in my batch were younger to me, and I’d done quite a few jobs and thought I knew the ways of the world.

I was under the impression that the sun shone out of my ass.

But the University has this way of holding you up by the neck and thrashing you face-down on the floor.

The first thing that sets a University apart is the maturity of the people. At college, we are all pricks. At University, you want to get into a woman’s mind, not into her pants.

The freedom of discovery – of your interests, your passion, your kind of music, is an exhilarating experience.

Going by how hollow and shallow I was, all the people I’d dismissed as crude, taught me my most important lessons. I thought of myself as a ‘liberal’. It’s funny how distorted the word’s usage is. I would blatantly dismiss religion, caste, and class as immaturity. But isn’t the meaning of liberal someone who is accommodating of others’ views?

My stay here slowly exposed me to different people, different ideologies, and different mindsets.

When I look back, I don’t know what I’m going to miss the most about the place.

Is it the crazy drunk parties on the banks of lakes, or the seminars? The film screenings, or sharing joints with strangers? Or Sukoon – those three nights of madness where the campus is home to everyone from singers, poets to camels and giant wheels? Or receiving anonymous messages from people who liked my radio show?

I think what I’ll miss the most about the place is the discussions. The liberating experience of talking to people about the world, the country, cricket, philosophy. Feeling like I belong to a school of thought, a part of a revolution. The feeling that there is a general sense of direction I’m heading in.

As I walk around the campus, its exactly two years now. The campus is green and lush. I’m not a student anymore, but I don’t feel like an outsider.

You can take the guy out of the University, but you can’t take the University out of the guy.

And today, I can’t agree more.

Everyone should study in A University. At least once.

Sharing is Caring!

I had been to the University of Hyderabad in the afternoon today. It was a pleasant day, and the view of the cloudy sky while lying down on the grass was so appealing that I fell asleep after a while. One of the lecturers had to wake me up, asking me who I was, what I was doing here, and what course I had applied for. (M.Tech – Mathematics Specialisation, I answered)

While I was leaving the campus, it started drizzling. Now, there is something so beautiful about the first rain, that one never tires from talking about it, no matter how cliched the topic is. And for someone who loves getting wet in the rain, I love the way people run helter skelter when it starts raining. I always look around for other people, but I always find it is children who know the real fun of getting drenched in the rain.

After getting wet thoroughly, I was on my way back in a “7 seater”. It was a Tata Ace that carried seven people and got dirty looks from auto drivers all through the journey. Seated in front of me were a family. There was a mother and her two children, one by the window and another on the woman’s lap.

I am not great with children. I can talk to them and play with them, but I am not good at the “Ullu-lullu, coochie-mocchie baby” kind of talking, so I generally do not get along well with babies. The kid in front of me must have been six years and old and his brother about three.

The elder one would keep looking out of the window and nudging his mother, and she would keep asking him to keep shut, glaring at him all the while. All of a sudden, he covered his mouth with his hand and stood up. “Vanti Vanti!!”, the people shouted and the ‘helper’ rushed to open the screen that was pulled up to keep out the rain. Too late!

The kid had already cleared half of his digestive system inside the vehicle, and half of it was on my leg. The window was opened to allow him to add finishing touches, and his mother was both reprimanding him and holding the younger baby in her hands.

The little kid was woken out of sleep and had started wailing. I offered to hold her baby for her, and the mother pushed almost half of the older guy out of the window, so he could vomit outside. Poor guy had had too much watermelon!

The little kid in my arms meanwhile, had calmed down. He was dark, and had big, round eyes on which his mother had applied copious amount of kaajal. He kept looking up at me and saying ‘Gaga’ or ‘Baba’ or ‘Tata’ or something, expecting me to talk to him. However, I just smiled and gave him my finger.

While his mother kept saying Sorry for her elder son’s mess, this little devil in my arms would hold my finger, put it in his mouth, and bite it. And everytime I pulled out my finger with an ‘Ah’, he would give a gargling laughter. I did it a few more times and each time his laughter grew louder.

There is something about a child’s laughter, that brings warmth to your heart. I continued playing with him for a while. Slowly, I could feel the warmth flow into my shirt and my trouser. The child had happily peed all over me!!!

His mother took him back, smacked his bottom, got down in the next stoppage. The driver apologised for all the trouble and took 5 rupees instead of 6. I was surprised. I was covered in puke and pee, and somehow I wasn’t feeling like stabbing someone around me.

As I walked to my home, the last drops of the drizzle soaked me completely. I was surprised at myself, for not getting pissed off.

The first rains not only bring drops of water, they bring with them happiness. A wish to run and play, and get dirty. A memory of childhood, and that smell of wet earth.

Officials at the meteorological department have predicted good monsoons this year. When the first rains strike your city, don’t run away. Walk into the rain and get soaked.

You’ll feel good.