It swept low. The aeroplane that is. And if all that teeth-grinding and prim-pursing of the lips was any indication, the spirits of the group was a sweepin low too. Granted, being wet, muddy and trapped in a room aint dandy, but I always felt one needs to have a broad and flexible outlook about such things. An outlook that frowns upon such irresponsible statements as professing to break my limbs and other such loose talk, for instance. Shivering in a corner, and warding off the bloodthirsty group with a handy piece of toy-airplane propeller, I couldn't help observing saliently upon the poignancy of the situation. And upon the chickens and eggs that led to the situation..... The sun peeked above the horizon, and finding matters safe so to speak - one nevers knows in these cities actually - rose with a bit more confidence. The first beam of the sun then wove its way through the smoggy atmosphere and smartly slapped the behind of a chicken. With a clucky indignation, and a deep and poignant emotion, the chicken began to crow fulsomely. Normally, as one would expect, it would be roosters that would crow. But that's only in villages. Pittville was not a village. It was a city. And in Pittville, the crowing was done by a chicken. Actually, matters in Pittville weren't that bad - the honest-and-godfearing denizens of Pittville were not all terrorized at ungodly early hours by unruly chickens and sprighty sunbeams. It was a sole resident really. And that sole terrorized resident was me. Meet Chicken - my roommate. Which loved to crow the first thing in the morning. Now, an astute scratch of the chin would suggest that I was perchance at a modicum of fault. I mean, even putting aside love for your fellow animals and fowls and other sundry species, one tends to draw the line at certain things. Like keeping chickens as roommates for instance. Actually, to clarify the situation as it were, my roommate was not a chicken. He was an Homo Sapiens. I just *call* him Chicken. I call him that since he clucks all the time. Plus he has a certain chicken walk. All of us - we have our peculiar walks. I mean, fingerprints and all that is fine and dandy, but a man's walk - now that is something unique I tell you. If I was made a detective or something, that'd be the first thing I'd note about a convict I mean. The walk. Oi Ramdas, save on the ink and the finger-prints, and note his walk I'd tell my constable. Verily, if I'd be asked to list one main sadness of mine, it'd be how callous society is deprived of my superlative detectiving skills. But to come back to my roommate - he had this chicken voice, chickeny clucks and a chickeny walk. And so I call him chicken. Not at his face though, for he is far bulkier than me and distressingly un-chickenlike in build. So, displaying an astute sense of self-preservation and wisdom, I tend to call him chicken purely in my mind. And tend to call him Sanjay outside my mind. Now, all said and done, one can put sundry things like chicken walks in one's stride so to speak. With iron force and will, and gritting a tooth or two, one can broadly countenance it. The same goes for clucks and chickeny voices. But - and if there ever was an argument for not allowing to let things slide down a slippery slope, this is it - one tends to view with a spot of disfavor such things as early morning crowing. One moment you are in the tender carresses of Lady Sleep, and next moment you are on the floor wondering about that crowing noise and what crashed on whom. You open a tentative eye, only to find an alert sunbeam taking full advantage of the moment and crashing into your cornea. With a yowl you step back sharply, only to crash against the bed and bump your leg painfully. You yowl even more when your head hits on the bed's headstand. Unjust nature, not allowing a moment of respite, then wafts your roommate's bathroom-crowings directly into your ears with fulsome fidelity. Sniffing back a poignant tear, you get resigned to your fate and crink open both your eyes. And muse philosophically at why this has to happen every morning. No amount of cajoling, threatening to start my own crowing et al, seemed to deter my roommate from his acoustic adventurisms in the bathroom. He said it was a reflexive thing, and that he had no control over it. Which wasn't very convincing. More so because of the obvious relish and gusto by which he went about his bathroom crowing. Or what he liked to fondly call singing. Which was why I jumped at it. At the prospect of going to an Air Show I mean. An Air-Show is a neat thing really. Nifty jets and airplanes are strewn around a big field type open area, and highly knowledge-inquisitive people move from one jet to another to find out the detailed minutiae of jet flying and the technical and aeronautical particulars of the various jets. Haha, just kidding. An Air Show is not filled with aeronautical engineers - that species wouldn't have strayed far from its lair of labs and computers anyway. An Air Show is actually filled with lay people who have been cruelly lured there by the coolness quotient of the word Fighter Jet. And the range of their knowledge about jets are a tad restricted to a smallish set e.g. - that a fighter jet flies. And that a bomber could drop bombs. On unwanted people such as that annoying person rattling off those fighter-jet statistics behind them. It is a scenic view - with planes and jets all around. And people, overwhelmed by the breathtaking beauty, just lurch from one jet to another wondering why, even though they look the same to the naked eye, the jets are called by different names. Names and details which are written on placards placed in front of the jets. Ah a C458 bomber, squints a discerning soul at a placard while taking a meditative sip from his coke. He pretends that this is an exciting piece of information, even though the last few jets and planes have looked just about the same to him. And to complement the scenic view, there are a few paratroopers who jump off from airplanes with smoke trailing from their parachutes. It is pretty cool, because hey - there is smoke trailing from the parachutes. It is also cool because the narrator insists it is so. Upon viewing the parachuting coolness, the peoples go back to their inter-jet lurchings all the while gleaning new and exciting pieces of information (ooh - a D478 fighter) All in all, it is a pretty exciting affair. In fact, the moment I came to know about the Air Show, what I had to do was clear. I could see the headlights at the end of the air-tunnel so to speak. As I had alluded to before, my roommate is a tad low on the melody and harmony scale, and a tad high on the 'voluble singing in the bathroom at unearthly hours when the sun has just risen' scale. And there was only one thing that could conceivably stop this crooning madness. Yes, an air-show. To clarify matters - basically my roommate had a certain fulsome hobby. A hobby of trying out new hobbies so to speak. With the pursed-mouth determination of a spectator in an air-show lurching from one jet to another, he diligently lurches from one involved hobby to another. And his latest hobby was singing. Which manifests in his crooning at very many times of the day - particularly poignant being his early morning bathroom acoustics. I had earlier prevented a marked catastrophe - of him taking up drums and percussions - with an offhand machiavellian comment about the superiority of vocals over instrumentals. As the dulcet waves of high-decibel bathroom regattas waft through, I can only console myself that it at least beats the prospect of drums. Life and its small mercies as it were. But then, deliverance was near. An air-show, with its fulsome fleet of bombers and jets, was a haven for airplane enthusiasts. And verily a trove for those wanting to pick up new hobbies. Hobbies related to airplanes. Harmless hobbies. Constructing model airplanes from assembly kits, constructing toy airplanes that fly, the works. I could already see my roommate attacking a sundry airplane hobby with greater fervor than a well-proportioned opera tenoress gleefully launching herself upon the audience's eardrums. With such good images and thoughts in mind, I decided to go to the air-show with my roommate and a few other friends of mine. I still remember the morning of the air-show. I remember it cause my roommate was quite outdoing himself on the decibel scale that day. I smirked smugly with the reassuring thought that the roomie shall soon be starting on more healthy hobbies such as assembling model airplanes. A couple of hours later saw me and my friends at the air-show entrance. Soon, we had got down into the air-show mood, and were lurching with marked gusto from one airplane to another. The planes were beatiful and all that, but unfortunately for them my eyes were reserved for something else. I was on the lookout for the hobby booths. With the model-airplane constructing kits and sundry roommate-ensnaring goodness. I got to the task of luring my roommate into visiting them booths in that offhand sauve manner that we Kumars are quite good at. "hey Sanjay" I remark nonchalantly, if but with a persuasive tug at his arm, "let's checkout those booths shall we?" "uh huh unh hunh" he remarks while immersed in the fuselage particulars of a E567 bomber. In that same sauve and offhand manner, I decide to give a push to matters so to speak. A couple of moments later sees Sanjay perspicaciously viewing his externally supplied lateral motion. "Hey, why are you pushing me?" he asks with interest. By then, we had reached the arches of heaven as it were - the booths. "Ooh model airplanes" he crows. "Yeah, cool arent they?" I remark, setting the tone. "Too bad I am deep into my singing hobby, else this model aircraft stuff seems a dandy hobby what?" he remarks flippantly. There was the slightest flurrying of my eyebrows. Things weren't going right I mean. "yeah well, they might require more creativity and mettle as compared to something like singing..." I retort, laying the web athick. Somehow the web was ensnaring the spider instead. "Oh you think? I guess I better stick with singing then.... hey look at that fighter jet" he remarked, and before I could restrain him gainfully, managed to escape away to a nearby grey and lean fighter jet (F345, said the placard). With a determined face, I lurched yonder. It was an hour later. I tried you know. Somehow the very obvious and multifarious merits of aircraft modelling were being lost on my cultureless roommate. Which was when it struck me. That I should buy an model-aircraft assembly kit first, and then try to do the spider-web laying with the ammunition at hand. "Hey guys, look at what I bought" I said aloud, disturbing the group from their busy placard readings. A languid eye or two were cast in my general direction - I was holding a bright blue A234 fighter jet model kit. Sanjay, in particular, seemed woefully unimpressed. "un hunh, dude whatever - hey check out the hp of this jet here..." he trailed as he went back to his placard. As did the others. Arvind, a guy in the group, seemed the only interested party. "Hey, isn't that too small. And isn't that bright blue color wierd for a..." "Umm people..." I had to interrupt such loose talk. Besides, an idea just struck me. "People - There is um... a competition for the best self-constructed aircraft model, and I think we should give it a shot." Little reaction. "The prize is a free tour-trip to Cape Canaveral" The group perked up. And so did Sanjay, as I noted warmly. "You think that bright blue thingie that you are holding gingerly stands a chance?" comes a snide remark from someone. "Well yes, but we have to build it first and see. Should be a cinch though - the kit contains detailed instructions..." I have the debonair air of one who has put together aircraft models from kits since his infancy. Some of that Kumar energy and enthusiasm rubs off on some others. "But where do we put together the model?" asks the ever-enterprising Arvind. "Right on - hey let's go to that warehouse type thing at that corner" I say, as I lead the somewhat reluctant group towards the warehouse. As we walked upto the warehouse, there was a faint smell of chickens. I realize in hindsight that I missed a portentous sign of evil. And by the way, there was actually a competition you know - I wasn't making it up. A competition for the best self-constructed model aircraft - just as I had said. And no - I did not harbor any delusions as to any non-trivial chance of winning. What I did hope for was that sundry people would experience the various joys and pleasures of model-aircraft building and substitute it as a hobby in place of some fairly destructive ones like singing. The denouement was somewhat unexpected. Just as we went inside the warehouse - twas empty - and plonked in a corner to lay out the blocks and pieces and read the instructions; we perceive a darkening of the warehouse. The astute among us turn around only to see the warehouse doors slowly closing. A deer, when faced with the bright headlights of an incoming speeding car on a highway, does a martial jump over the car, slashes the tires with its sharp hooves and butts the speeding driver as an admonishment. Actually that's what it'd like to do - what it ends up actually doing is dumbly freezing. Which was what we were doing. We just froze as the door swung inexorably inwards - closing us out from tender humanity. We all sprang at the same instant and sprinted towards the door, screaming urgently, if but a tad pitifully, "Uhhhnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh NNnnnuuhhhhh" But to no avail. It was just like a horror movie I mean. With a clang, the doors shut close, and there was complete darkness. For some reason, everybody was silent. It was pitch dark.... And pitch silent too. Slowly, a creaking sound came from above. We were still silent. Brave souls all, our group. It rained. Yes, it was actually raining in a closed and pitch-dark warehouse. It took a moment to realize that it must be some sprinklers or something to clean the warehouse maybe. Nobody said a word still. Perhaps coz nobody knew what to say. The sprinklers stopped after a few minutes and some lights came on. "phew, that was something huh?" I try, to lighten up the surroundings to to speak. For some reason, everybody was still silent and looking at me in that uncharitable way. And that is how I came to be in this wet and muddy situation - of trying to ward off a blood-thirsty mob with a toy-aircraft propeller. We had shouted and screamed but noone seemed to be coming near the warehouse. And none of our cellphones had any signal in that closed area either. As I reminisced the day's events, I couldn't help observing that I had miserably failed on the primary goal of deflecting my roommate to a new hobby. I mean, even after the sprinkling, I did let in an offhand comment about the pros of taking up aircraft-model building as a hobby, but a sundry lethal projectile in my general direction gave me the feeling Sanjay was wasn't particularly interested. Shivering, I prayed for my guardian angel to come aby. Clang. Clang. It was somebody outside. Who had heard our screams. Ever so helpfully, we screamed some more. "We are opening the door in a few minutes. Hold your horses..." came the voice. Holding the horses seemed a pretty splendid advice at the moment, for the group was churlishly spending its time by throwing sharp and heavy objects at me. A few minutes later, the sun rays stream into the warehouse from the open doors. We hold our hands to our eyes and squint towards the entrance at our saviour - A stern silhoutte with its hands to its hips. "Move up, will ya" it screamed. As I sipped my coffee the next morning, seated in my favorite comfy chair, at my home, while listening to... Wait. My roommate had got up early in the morning today also. But hadn't started singing. What the? Perhaps he was tired or something. I mean, all said and done, all that strenuous lurching between all those jets and planes must have taken its toll, not to mention that teeny weeny incident with that warehouse and the sprinkers and that cold and dark couple of hours. I make way to his room gingerly almost half expecting his crooning to start. The Kumars are sturdy, I'll give you that, but some things are not quite an early-morning fare if you know what I mean: Well. Sanjay was crocheting. With some bright blue yarn and a needle. And seemed quite immersed in his fare. An equally bright blue book lay open in front. "Crocheting for Dummies - Learn in 3 weeks" it cooed. I cough nervously. I didn't realize that the warehouse experience was so traumatic I mean. He looks up at me sprightly. "Cool huh?" I nod weakly, but I guess a questioning look must have remained. "Our car had stopped on the way back from the air-show at a craft store - Manjula wanted to pick up some yarn for her crocheting" he explained. "And I couldn't help thinking that it might be a dandy hobby you know." "And I think I am good at it too" he said waving his needle with enthusiasm. I remind myself to thank that angelic Manjula for doing in a jiffy what I had planned an entire day for. Planned and failed at too. But perhaps I was thanking my stars too soon. "hey - I guess I gave you too much heat for yesterday huh?" he remarks kindly. I smile at him back in that "We Kumars are forgive, live and let live chappies" look. "As remorse, I am knitting this scarf and wall-hanging for you. This bright blue'd look good on you yes?" he remarks thoughtfully. I look at him for a moment trying to discern whether there was any trace of malice in his voice. I mean, I was all for people trying out crocheting et al instead of sundry destructive arts like high decibel singing, but I hadn't realized displayable bright-blue scarves and wall-hangings were part of the deal so to speak. But we Kumars have escaped from deadlier situations. "haha, don't bother really... I don't..." I started. Without looking up from his crocheting, he waved his hands regally. "Don't say a word machan. I owe it to you." I try to extricate myself from this dire situation, by utilizing the Kumar glibness as it were, but end up just making some odd gurgling noises. "Hey - could you bring me some of that gourmet coffee? I am, after all, knitting for you, you know" he chortles and gets back to his knitting. As I come back towards the kitchen in shock, faint dastardly strains of "hey do you want a sweater too..." waft from his room. I try to suppress stressful images of loose and misshapen bright-blue sweaters. And as I muse upon the quick and sudden set of unfortunate goings on, I couldn't help thinking that those singing days weren't that bad I mean. In fact come to think of it, there is that upcoming cultural-show.....