On Globalization

…or How the French saved the life of Angry Indian Fists much confused by Japanese fundae of Chinese Origin.

Of childhood cruelties & character building…
As I neared the tender age of 5, my father, a firm believer in the survival of the fittest and much inspired by Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and the 36th Chamber of the venerable Shaolin temple, enrolled me into “Exerkai Karate” at SS Colony – then taught by none other than the (in?)famous Shihan Husseini. This entailed waking up at 5am on alternate days, donning the customary gi and the white cloth belt, hopping onto my Dad’s shoulder and marching off to the “dojo” like a good lil Ninja.

At the dojo, we proceeded from warm-up exercises which involved rotating the eyeballs in sync with some exotic chants like “Miki, Hidari, Mein, Hura”, lying upside down and stretching your legs till they achieved the magic 180 degrees. Guess who was the poster boy - in comparison to pot bellied, well-tyred 30+ men in their mid age crisis, there I was, twisting, turning, splitting and screaming! I remember reveling in the thought “A few months here and the teeming millions would be beating a track to my humble home waking me with “Maascha, cheech me Kung Fu, maascha! And I in all my noblesse-oblige, would start the days lessons with some Oriental music in the background…sigh, what dreams we had.

The Awakening…
Later as we shifted home to remoter regions, where one could kill readily available scorpions and snakes without much of a fuss, I made the mistake of reading Doc Savage and The Ninja– apart from what was then considered basic erotica, the exotic weapons, funny-named fighting techniques (how about treading the Getsumei No-michi, huh? Or finding whos in the next room with Haragei?) and the action hooked me back into Karate – now enrolled into the much feared “BuDoKan” style!

I must in all honesty add that me and my brother were pretty tired of getting stuck in half-Nelson holds or being spun around and pinned to ground every time we tried to escape cleaning the bikes or bathing the dogs – by HeWho Had Learnt Karate and Believed That It Taught Discipline And Ensured Survival in a Tough World.
AKA Daddy.
AKA He Who Believed in Building Character By Waking at Dawn to Vacuum The House.
AKA He Who Sidecarred a 1980’s Chetak & Rode Through Main Streets While We Cowered Inside.

So it is a possibility (comfortably clouded by faint memories) that we may have also joined in the hope that somehow, someday, after developing overdeveloped pecs, we would be able to take on The Big Bully who because of 30 years as a mariner and subsequent 13 inch biceps had an unfair advantage over us at arm-wrestling…we weren’t so smart those days – me and my brother – we prefer to blame this on my mother who didn’t drink much kashayam when she was pregnant.

So there we were a bunch of kids doing wide ranging exercises ranging from upside down splits to hair raising “KIAI” screams to marathon runs around the campus in ascending order from little Vavachi at 2.5 feet to panther Pandi (one of those hardy milkman became karate freak after “Fist of Fury” types ) at 5.9 feet – all this gave us the brief illusion that we could tackle anything from groups of drunken monkeys to the many evil dark villains of vintage Tamil cinema - the Andhonis, Mykills and Raaberts of that sullen scowling Eastman coloured world.

Later in a half hearted attempt to regain those seemingly glorious days, I joined up at another dojo at Coimbatore – where the latest entrant is a “Junior” regardless of age or sex. It was thus that I found myself bowing before a 1 metre tall female specimen called Shalini everyday saying “Ohs! Senior” and she would reply-squeak-growl with a grim “Ohs” with all the ferocity that a 8 year girl with pink nail-polish and double piggytails can muster.

Nett nett, as us misguided corporate slaves say, at the end of all this, after various sparring sessions and legendary nun-chaku fights mostly against the unseen but most powerful demons of the air, my fists, knees and elbows were irrevocably scarred with dark calluses. And sigh…there started the shadow that fell on the eternal sunshine of that spotless Zen mind…

The Misfit ;-( (Oriental slant in that frowney to be noted)
Strange as it may seem, there exists a small minority of peoples who haven’t done the High Crawl or Knuckle Press or the Frog Jump on alternate days during their childhood. And by the sheerest of coincidences, this minority has always come back to haunt me through my school, my college and even B-School – the 1st thing that is obvious to them is not how what weaklings they are not to have calluses all over their body but how DISGUSTING it is for someone (like ME?!) to have them on my fists, knees and elbows.

Initially I tried showing them what one can do with such powers – slamming my Reverse SunFist blow against hapless ants on concrete walls, delivering Roundhouse Kicks to innocent hostel underwear drying 5 feet above the ground…but for some weird reason these were dismissed very arbitrarily (much to my martial frustrations) as antics typical of a local ch%$@)(# from AttaKumar Taap**..

Later during my first days at B-school - those butterfly meetings, flower touching-touchings, delicate blooming sessions with the fairer sex where one opens up their heart to show “Look,what wonderful dhak-dhak inside”, I was informed in no uncertain terms that these “Angry Fists” looked quite “eeeks”…Now, initially I tried my best - I paraded in no particular order - the merits of a tough manhood, the character that calluses build, how brave Texas Rangers of the Wild West had calluses in even more delicate places after trailing Indians, the Shaolin techniques of punching into hot sand – but try as I might, naaaahhhh…it seemed that soft, delicate, tapering long fingers were the “in thing” when minds mingle and hands start the holdings. Too proud to concede to these requirements, I always managed to hang around in shady places of night and light and half-light where none could see my darkened fists, but Houston, we had a serious wimmens problem here. None of them liked the Angry Fists. Proud Young Man not liking such wimmens. Ah…The Vicious Circle of Life,The Universe and Everything …

So with such uneasy compromises, 8 long years went by and none the better – friends, womans and countrymens always were OK discussing politics, Pink Floyd and similar things until the Angry Fists or the Night Filled Dark Knees came into view. Then there was the usual hush hush  of “Hey,whats that?” “What did you do with your hands”, “Jeez”, “Ugh” and similar weird sounds building into a buzzing crescendo and then sudden silence - a point when suddenly our local hero was left alone holding an Angry drink in his Angry Fists –usually this was quickly downed into an Angry Mouth after which some Angry Knees went on a hazy search for a round of introductions to soft & delicate effeminate jaws unfortunately fit into deplorable specimens slightly male. All this anguish was drowned only at periodical meetings of the ROWKuThaKas* where North Indian accents (Yae for Yapple,D for Daailhi, G for Gudbudugaon)  were discussed with great gusto – until the lone 7 foot Punjabi took exception and sat on innocent Mallu/Tamil chests. We immediately agreed that the accent wasn’t as bad as we thought.

So there I was caught – driven to the very edge of existence – having to make an immediate choice between becoming an angry ruthless violent sociopath and choosing Garnier Body Cocoon…

Guess what I did?

Behold the fists fantastic. Wrapped in a creamy yet light cocoon, deliciously fragranced with micro fruit oils of avocados, olives, grapes, blackcurrants now unbelievably soft and supple. Ready to hold a slender wine glass or point to that fake Cubist painting in the corner, they are even willing to wrap around you – yes, YOU – you lil PYT – till that scary thunder gets over…

Now,now, all ye pretty wimmens of the world, get in da queue.



Glossary

*ROWKuThaKas
Real Original Wommale KUrunthaadi KAzhagam – A rebellious outfit formed at a local B-School in the early 90’s by 6-7 male bearded students who preferred Corex to water; True connoisseurs of the local Ganja sold by a wrinkled old lady under a rickety bridge, their many accomplishments range from sitting on each others chests as a sign of protest to spinning stories about a mostly naïve member of their clan-Three Ball Nair.

**Taap (N)
Hangout of a slightly shady kind - corruption of “Top” – corruption of er…whatever.

Taap Adichufying
The typical Tamilsapien habit of hanging around and establishing quasi-illegal territories (characterized by them Madurai buggers) much like bears marking their territory by scratching bark or dogs doing slightly less dignified acts. For eg. when caught in a conflict about who is whose pigger (slang for slightly decent looking woman) or who owns the local rights to create a ruckus in which bar, the “Taap*” that one belongs to establishes ones credentials.

A typical strretside/ bus-stand conversation might go like (direct Dil-se translation, no subtitled embellishments):
Andhoni: Dey, who you are? Waat u vaant? That is my pigger on A24 bus.
Mykill: Baas…you are citizen, am also citizen. My eyes, they watching. What you do?
Andhoni: Aey Aey…careful! Know who I am?
Mykill: Sorry baas…I didn’t see police notice for pickpockets this morning – please tell me…
Andhoni: Bloody $%&#!!! Am Andhoni from Attakumar Taap! Your motherXXXX! Your sisterXXXXX! Your familyXXXX! Your entire ancestorsXXXXX!
Mykill (cringing): Anna! Sorry! You are my leader!
Andhoni (gloating): Saar which taapu?
Mykill: Sorry, beloved brother… am Mykill from Golcha Complex Ravi Taap…but am new in town. First time, please excuse.
Andhoni (Leaning very kilose): Next time I see you coming near my pigger shadow, am slicing off your delicate anatomies in front of Golcha Ravi. Vokay?
Mykill: Baas, my only brother, from now, she is my sister!