Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Shiny happy people

Back home, I smiled when I was happy. And if not happy, at least marginally glad about something. This was not an anomaly, you understand. I was safely within the bounds of normal. Here though, I have to smile all the time. Every single person you pass by will grin maniacally at you and inquire after your health and well being. Strangely though, they are not particularly interested in your response. This is a good thing, because minutes tick by as I attempt to force my expression into submission and then threaten my throat with a licking it will never forget if it does not formulate an inane response in the next thirty seconds. By this time the grinner is usually fifty yards away and getting smaller by the second. Its exhausting, pretending to be a beam of sunshine the livelong day, especially if you don't have a naturally sunshiny disposition.
If I smile one more time today I swear my smile is going to turn on me and attempt to bite.

Monday, October 13, 2008

An embarassing start to the week

It was a lovely day until suddenly it wasn't. I was in the best of moods, an oddity given that it was Monday morning and I had not yet partaken of the morning cup of coffee. I breezed into a gas station (did you notice how localized I've become? I didn't even think petrol pump, I promise), leaped out of my car and started with 'gas dispensing process step one', also known as opening one's fuel tank. I then realized that I had left the engine running, so reverse darted to shut off said engine. Imagine, if you will, my chagrin, my horror, my dismay that knew no bounds when I discovered that I had locked myself out of the car. Lets recap, so that you can fully grasp the situation:
a. Car
b. Running engine
c. At the pump, preventing any other car from filling fuel
d. Locked
e. All windows up
f. Keys firmly in ignition
g. Me, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the village idiot
Oh, I called for help, and help duly arrived, forty minutes later. But those are forty minutes I would not want to relive in a hurry. First, there was blind panic. I am very good at blind panic. Headless chickens have nothing on me. Once I tired of this, I ran hither and tither from fabled pillar to well known post. Long phone conversations ensued - with automated voice systems, with a helpful person from my car rental company and finally with a representative of Chevrolet. The only happy moment was when the Chevy rep did her best to make me feel smart again. Having taken down all the details of my situation and my location, she asked, "So will you and the vehicle stay in this location until help arrives?". Ummmm....yes? While I waited for my saviour to make an appearance, I attempted to act nonchalant around my car. I leaned against the car and stared into the distance (pose sustainable for 40 seconds), cleaned my car windows (good for upto 4 minutes), walked around the gas station (excellent move - took me away from the waiting line giving me the evil eye, and ate up nearly 5 minutes), fiddled busily with phone (6 seconds) and gulped nervously like a fish (2 minutes). Having run out of ideas, I went back to what I was apparently best at - my retard impersonation.
Eons later, a perfectly nice man named Ed rescued me. The nightmares will last a lifetime.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Living with an uncomfortably full bladder

If I was to ask you, politely of course, to drop your pants in full view of random strangers, my guess is that you would politely decline and proceed to eye me askance for years to come. Strangely enough, this seems to be the norm in restrooms in California and as far as I can tell nobody is being given the good old askance look. In a public toilet in this sunny state, the cubicles are built with as little material as possible. They stop a good foot above the floor. They miss the ceiling by a multitude of feet. And then there are the doors. These doors refuse to have anything to do with the rest of the cubicle. Clearly superior, they stand aloof, making minimal contact with all that surrounds them. The end result is something like this:
1. Frame
2. Hinge
3. 1 to 1.5 inches of air, bridged by aforesaid lonely hinges.
4. Door
5. Repeat inches of air
6. Frame
On close observation one would notice that all the other doors in the state are on talking terms with their frames. They fit snugly. All is peace and harmony. In the restrooms however, door and frame are perpetually estranged. the interval of a movie at a theatre, for example, you could choose to empty your bladder. If you are so inclined, you could also observe any number of strangers indulging in this same act. You can bond and not feel lonely. You could slide notes to the person in the next cubicle, or even a cow, if you were willing to squeeze said cow just a tad.
Call me a prude, but I am carrying a full bladder around with me much more than I used to.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I miss Orkut

I used to be a happy member of a networking community called Orkut. I logged on once every week or so, bade friends hello, pointedly ignored any slimes who had oozed out of the woodwork and wished to 'make friendship' me, exchanged snippets of gossip and oohed over photos of wrinkly newborn babies. It was a nice, relaxed lifestyle. Then blew the winds of change. Friends and acquaintances alike starting dropping off the edge of Orkut. There even appeared to be an unprecedented dearth of slimes on the horizon. The mails started to make an appearance, first a trickle, then a deluge, rapidly swelling to an ocean - all requesting one to make oneself available on Facebook. The party had moved. Bother, I thought. How annoying. Annoying it may have been, but one tires of talking to oneself in cyberspace, even though one's company is rather scintillating. So off to Facebook-land I went. I may or may not have been tripping merrily along at this point, but that is neither here nor there.
All merriness soon went its merry way down the toilet. Facebook turned out to a bewildering and belligerent. It was the rave party response to Orkuts English high tea. I had been tagged in photos, I was informed. People were considering poking me, some of them who not above a week ago would have politely offered me a muffin. Someone had sent me a 'how kinky are you' request! I was not sure I wanted to explore what that meant. Did I wish to calculate my bmi? Would a grammar test interest me? A vampire had bitten me. I was encouraged to join someones entourage. Werewolves tempted me to join their pack. Someone threw a sheep at me. One sympathizes with the poor, woolly nitwit. At this point, I felt like its dumber cousin. Had I ever considered becoming a pirate? Did I wonder if friends and neighbours nursed secret, stalker style crushes? Now was the time to figure out my 'true name'. And my personality type (I already know the answer to this one - the type that prefers having their toenails pulled out rather than spend time in Facebook). And the kind of drink I am. Also the kind of dog I am. And would I like some flowers? Or a drink? Was I suddenly possessed by an urge to impersonate Santa Claus?
I fled. I sneak in, every couple of months, dodge the sheep and leave hurried and somewhat incoherent scribbles on people's Walls. I never go at night. The vampires scare me.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Dantes Inferno

I'm being very good about blogging now. You know that old saw - strike when the guilt is hot. Good wisdom, that.
I have decided that I am going to be very good from now on, angelic even. What brought on this determination to turn over a new leaf, nay an entire tree, you ask. I glimpsed hell. And I don't want to go back. Hell is a twenty two hour economy class flight replete with screeching babies and seats that stubbornly pretend that the concept of angles other than ninety degrees is alien to them. Hell is being infernally sleepy but unable to drop off because you might just miss your next meal and the good Lord knows when more food is to be had. Hell is dying to go to the rest room but feeling so terribly awkward about discussing this pressing, personal need with the sleeping stranger next to you who is playing the role of the boatman when your bladder is filled with the Styx. When you do finally battle your way to said restroom, you will be charmed to discover that it was designed for the Lilliputs and you, in fact, are Gulliver's cousin on steroids.
Abolish hard labour, I say. Just sentence those hardened criminals to a lifetime of coach travel. God help me, if I have to do this again anytime soon, I will turn into a hardened criminal with the blood of a smug business class traveler on my hands. And no, I will not feel guilty. There is just so much we can be called upon to bear and my middle name isn't Job.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

All my bags are packed

Yes, I know. Its been months. I have a brilliant excuse though, this time around. I have been consumed by the logistics of moving from one country to another. You have to admit that thats a good one. Worth being consumed by.
Lets start at the very beginning, I've been told that thats a very good place to start. Visa stamped, it was time to get organized about the Big Move. I started by doing my world renowned headless chicken impersonation. The next step was to make a List. This started out well enough. When the list started to run longer than the begats in the Bible, I reverted to said headless chicken impersonation. This time around I went for the grander production - 6 headless chickens lashed together smashed out of their scrawny, spouting necks.
Eventually I calmed down enough to start to frantically do things - crack-addict-like I lived for my next hit, a nice, juicy tick mark on the List. Days sped by in a blur of happy ticks. Miraculously though, the list of things stubbornly unticked got no shorter. The only possible theory was that every time I turned my head the lascivious items on my list went at it like bunnies and produced millions of baby unchecked list items.
Oh and lets not forget the packing. It seemed simple enough. Pick up an item (or stare at, if said item is large and you are not unduly prejudiced towards hernias) and decide if parting with item will cause you cry a salty lake. If so, add to pile 'a'. If not, reject to unloved pile 'b'. An excellent formula. Right up until the time that I found this little black plastic rectangle encased in a little white plastic case. I had no idea what it was. It looked important. Smug, even. I created the I have no idea what to do with you pile (aka 'c') and moved on, rapidly discovering that his black smugness had brothers, sisters, second cousins and grouchy aunts.
So, my bags were packed (with pile 'a', now fondly called mountain 'a' and pile 'c', not so fondly called the what the f*** are you pile) and I was ready to go.
And so, following in the shoes of Marvin K Mooney, I went.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

I smell dead things

It was a Monday evening and time to head home. I tripped merrily to my car which was parked in the basement of the building that houses my office. Actually, I have never tripped merrily anywhere, the only tripping I have done is the kind that ends with my nose touching terra firma firmly, but I have always wanted to trip merrily, so in this story I shall. My merry tripping came to an abrupt halt some distance from the aforesaid vehicle. The ghastly smell of decay was in the air. I peered around the dim crevices of the basement trying to spot the carcass. My investigation was brief as by now I was holding my breath and was not keen to risk keeling over. Secure in my car, I turned on the air conditioner as high as it could go and high tailed it home.
Cut to early Tuesday morning. I approached my four wheeled friend again, this time with the object of getting to work. Needless to say, I tripped along merrily. And there it was again. The stench of gruesome murders too long undiscovered. Let me tell you that few things put a kibosh on merry tripping as effectively as an assault on your nose by things long dead, but dreadfully unburied. While I reeled in disgust, I also did some quick thinking. The result of the quick thinking was this: it was mightily suspicious that both parking lots - home and office - smelt so disgustingly alike. I therefore proceeded to feel mightily suspicious and set off to work with a cloud of distrust above my head. The wheels kept turning, Sherlock-like. What were the common factors between Monday and Tuesday? The car and me. And I was pretty darn sure that I wasn't a zombie nor was I wont to carefully preserve dead rats in my pockets. That left a single prime accused.
On Tuesday evening when the evil odour persisted and all merry tripping was out of the question, I knew I needed help. I called a friend and said a sentence I never imagined I would be called upon to say, "I think there's something dead in my car". Later that night, armed with torches, we strip searched the car and found a big fat nothing. In the face of the snickering disbelief of my so-called friend I stuck to my guns. We decided to explore the engine. We stuck the light hither and non, in places were no light was meant to be stuck and then, suddenly, my light lit upon a staring eye. I shrieked, outdoing eight women in simultaneous labour.
Here is what we discovered, nestled cozily in my engine - the head of a fish, a tiny bone (but not that of a fish), and en empty packet that used to contain bread in days bygone. This is going to be one of the great mysteries of my life.

Why I smiled today


I drove out of my front gate this morning and this is what I saw. Sometimes the universe conspires so that you have to start your day with a smile.

And since the picture is in the running for being the tiniest in the history of mankind, perhaps a small explanation would not be out of place. There's a supermarket opposite the gate of my house and the picture shows a cow halfway up the stairs to the store, peering inside with decided curiosity and more than a glimmer of hope.

Rules of the lap

I recently heard about a friend of a friend who was mugged. It was a traumatic experience for her and one that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Well, thats probably not really true. The detail that stuck in my mind though, was this - the mugger sat on her lap.
It was past ten in the night. Accompanied by a friend, sated post dinner, she sauntered to their car. As they got in, they were beset by a pair of villains who held knives to their respective necks. Villain1 poked the driver in the neck, insisted that the door be opened and valuables of every description be handed over to him. Villian2, not wanting to be outdone, replicated the rude thrust of his compatriot against the neck of our heroine. This is where things get strange. Once Villian2 had convinced our heroine that opening her door post haste was the wise thing to do, all considered, he then proceeded to get into the car and sit on her lap. Having done so, he did not attempt any lewd behaviour - well nothing lewder than the act of sitting on a stranger's lap. He just sat on her lap and robbed her blind. Having relieved her of all things that he considered valuable, Villian2, duly accompanied by his faithful companion Villian1, melted into the night to be heard from nevermore.
But he sat on her lap. I can't get over this teensy detail. Sitting on someone's lap is normally accompanied by a sense of surrender. The sitter is clearly less powerful, less in control, than the sittee. Here are activities not compatible with sitting on someones lap:
a. You can't shout at them
b. You can't ooze sarcasm and
c. You definitely should not steal from them, at knife point no less
Apart from being a tad evil, Villian2 was just plain rude.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

My brief romance with the IPL

I don't watch cricket. This is not because I have anything against this particular game, I ignore all sports in equal measure. Recently though, with the unholy hysteria of the IPL gripping the nation, I was suckered into going for an IPL match. Initially, I resisted. In a minute I could think of eight more fun ways to spend my hard earned money. Strong as the famed rock of G. I withstood all peer pressure till some sly soul said, 'Its practically a party'. Party? Hmm. I could party. So off we went on the designated day, with our illegally procured tickets. We were paying a kings ransom for the privilege of squishing ourselves into the cheapest seats the stadium had to offer. Borne by the largely smelly crowd through multiple security checks, innumerable gates and passageways suited to moles, finally, there was the light at the end of the tunnel. When I first burst into the stadium I felt a thrill of excitement. The crowd was simmering with excitement. Floodlights the size of the moon lit the stadium. Raucous music rent the air. It certainly felt like a party. We seated ourselves like sardines on the concrete stairs juggling our supplies of various fizzy drinks and chips. The males of the species all around me were thrilled to bits to discover that a posse of cheerleaders were stationed in front of our stand. They shook and jiggled and the crowd was in a state of drooling hysteria. The game began. In the distance, tiny figures ran back and forth. The ones closest to us were the size of ants. The others, who were practically playing in the neighbouring country, were like dimples on the pimples on the backsides of said ants. I was filled with panic. How would I ever figure out what was going on? At any given time one had to study the ever changing field of microscopic creatures and determine:
a. Who the two batsmen were
b. Who the bowler was
c. Which fielder stood where so that when a brilliant catch was taken one had a chance of knowing who took it or curse and spit when butterfingers let one through
I accomplished these tasks by asking a few million questions. Then the over was done, and I had to ask all of my questions all over again. Every now and again, in response to some event that occured in the galaxy neighbouring ours, the crowd would roar onto its feet and some of its more exuberant members would also dance like chickens in their death throes. It was exhausting. The mexican waves were fun though. At least the first seven were. It got a bit old then, having bits of popcorn in my hair and coke sloshed down my back. As the first half drew to a close, the honeymoon was done. My bum hurt. My eyes hurt. And thanks to the uncontrolled gyrations of the man next to me, the upper left quadrant of my head hurt too. Battle weary, I slunk out to the closest pub and back into my comfortably sport less life.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

My laughter is burnt to a crisp

Are you familiar with the little fruit that are are known by the somewhat lewd moniker of sucking mangoes? You tear a little hole in the top and use that to suck out all the juices? If you are, then you know how tragic one of these mangoes look after you have extracted all the interesting bits. Wrinkled, sucked up, dry and somewhat pathetic. Thats what this scorching summer is doing to me and my sense of humour. I spend my time feeling irritable and nary a comic phrase flits across my sweltering mind. Every time a thought forms, it is swept away in a deluge of sweat. I have a pet grump the size of an obese elephant and the two of us share the room resentfully and think dark thoughts about the sun.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

That time of the year

Its that time of the year again. The time when what went around comes around. The time when my Managers sit in scornful judgment of my pitiful collection of achievements. This is a stressful time of the year for me. It started with Mr. Manager sending out a warning email to the group informing us that the hour of reckoning drew nigh. Like sinners who stand before the pearly gates, we are expected to have a list of our good deeds close at hand. The two weeks meted out to us to put our houses in order flew by. There was so much else to do. Then, just like that, it was the night before. I stared at my screen blankly. What in the world did I do this last year? I felt as if I had had a good time. I distinctly remembered occasions when I looked forward to getting to work. I am rather sure that I enjoyed putting my nose to the grindstone a handful of times. I could not however remember a single concrete good deed to record. Sweat broke out on my forehead. How in the world was I going to persuade my manager that it was of the utmost importance that my salary be increased in leaps and bounds? I had the biggest writers block that this world has ever seen. Hillary and Tenzing would have been straining at the bit to take a shot at it. I could have leased it out to Switzerland for them to open a world class ski resort on its slopes. With trembling hand I reached for the wine bottle. Much later, I had a list. I felt rather proud of myself. I put myself to bed. The next morning, as I staggered around the house nursing a headache that was larger than my writers block ever was, I decided that it would be prudent to review my list of accomplishments before sending them out to He Who Must Give Me More Money. Minutes later, I stared bug-eyed at the screen. Here was the list that caused my eyes to behave all ugly
1. Fixed some bugs in the code
2. Wrote some code
3. Did some interviews
4. Gave some presentations
What? What kind of retard would make up a list like that? And where did all those 'somes' escape from and why oh why had they chosen my feedback form to settle down and procreate busily? Perhaps my manager would give himself a hernia laughing at the list. That is my only hope.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

My unglamorous disease

I haven't blogged for a while. I have a good excuse though. A boil in my nose. This is a terrible ailment to suffer from, and having suffered for a week, I am the resident expert. It starts with a pain where you've never had a pain before. Slowly, but surely, the pain escalates. Of course, at no stage of this disease can you actually see whats going on. How big is the boil? Is it reproducing? Is it filling with pus? Is your nose going to turn gangrenous and fall off? You have no choice but to wait and watch, and of course, suffer increasingly. You will be at work, looking at the world through a mist of pain, unable to breathe a word of the agony or your courage to a soul. Let's face it. You can sing the saga of a fracture. Or an appendectomy. You simply cannot discuss something as disgusting as a nose boil. Its like talking about an STD. So, you're forced to suffer in silence - and trust me, that has to be the most difficult way to suffer. And now, your pet boil will betray you. Though it is safely ensconced deep within your nose, it will cause your nose to swell. If that is not ridiculous enough, the area will also turn an alarming shade of red. Since my boil was near the tip of my nose, I spent a few days looking like Rudolph's cousin. And for that duration, I noticed that people talked more to my nose than to me. It is very hard to be taken seriously when you look like an inebriated deer. Anyway, I'm all better now and very busy counting my blessings, namely
a. I don't have syphilis
b. I can put away my smile of patient suffering
c. My nose is no longer large enough to give Pluto competition
Cheers!

Monday, March 17, 2008

Silver shoes

Oh perfect pair of silver shoes
I seek thy holy grail
I walk and walk and shop and shop
And day by day I fail

I am alarmed to report that there appears to be a drought in the availability of silver shoes in the market. As you can see, this shortage of said item is filling me with despair and corny verse in equal measure.
My quest for shiny footwear has been ongoing for a period of weeks now. Like an intrepid explorer of yore I have set out in all weathers (well mostly sunshine and a spot or two of rain). I have entered shops where I would need to sell all my earthly possessions to own a buckle, I have trudged down narrow alleyways where I had to hold my breath to fit in sideways. All to no avail. I have found pairs that are so over the top in shininess that you need to wear protective eye gear to behold them in all their glory. I have seen shoes with strange buttons where no buttons should be. If the front is perfect, the heel makes you want to kill yourself. If the pair is aesthetic, it makes an attempt to strangle your foot to death. The perfect pair of silver shoes needs to go onto the endangered species list before it is too late.
My material resources diminish because though the object of my search eludes me, I do tend to pick up consolation prizes along the way, just to keep my spirits up. Poverty and starvation raise their ugly twin heads. Suffering is definitely the mother of all creative art. I feel another verse bubbling up inside me....

The beauty of thy perfect strap
The arch of matchless heel
Thou steals my sleep, oh silver shoe
I seeketh you with zeal

The watering hole

At my office I have long noticed that there seems to be a dearth of women in the cafeteria. I make the pilgrimage to our cafeteria several times a day, whenever I feel that my caffeine twitch is going out of control and scaring innocent bystanders. As I find myself disinclined to be charged with wasting my time I have endeavored to make these trips educational. I do this by making anthropological observations on the social nature of the cafeteria. As part of my research, I astutely observed that there weren't ever as many women in the cafeteria as there should be. The male of the species could be found drinking, or staring open mouthed at the television, crowding the foosball and TT tables or sitting around in groups shooting the breeze. The women however, were seldom seen.
The mystery was compelling. As a good scientist should, I gathered and sifted through the evidence. What did I have to go on? One perfectly serviceable cafeteria. Many men. Not enough women. The time had come to formulate a hypothesis. So I did. Was it possible that women were more diligent workers and ethically frowned upon whiling their time away at the cafeteria? I decided to reject this explanation forthwith, mostly because it made me look bad. I cast my mind about for a more self serving explanation. If these women were not in the cafeteria, where were they? I started to keep my eyes peeled. For the record, this is extremely painful and makes your eyes water copiously. They were not congregating on the balconies. They were not lurking in corridors. Where were they? I am a naturally curious person, and this abiding enigma was not good my general state of well being.
As luck would have it, in a parallel universe, I was strongly advised by those who hold my happiness dear, to start to drink more water forthwith. All that caffeine and not enough hydration would very quickly result in gigantic kidney boulders, so sayeth the Oracle also known as my mother. Being of a natively obedient disposition, I complied. Where is this story going? Have I completely lost the thread of the plot? Patience, dear reader. With the skill of a master weaver I will soon show you a pattern emerging from these seemingly disconnected threads. Right then, where was I? Ah yes, I was at that junction in my life where I was filled with curiousity and also with water.
Anybody who has lived a little will tell you that when you imbibe quantities of water, there can be only one result. I started to frequent the restroom more often than the cafeteria. And the mystery resolved itself. The women of my workplace congregate in the toilet. There they stand in groups, laughing and talking. While I am one of those who rapidly scurries in and out and worries about unseemly noises reaching beyond my locked door, I am distinctly in the minority. Apparently ridding your body of waste material is just a side effect of going to the loo. You actually go there to congregate. To retell the joke you heard last evening. To hold forth on world issues. I watched mouth agape (no doubt doing an excellent impersonation of a person of less than average intelligence) as a woman walked in with her mobile ringing, answered the call, and promptly walked out again, the call of nature seemingly ignored.
Thus was the mystery solved, my kidney stones averted and I discovered that I am a social retard. Now please excuse me, my phone is ringing and the restroom is a long way off.


Thursday, March 13, 2008

That beast called a car

Few things in my life have afforded me as much misery as that beast called a car. There are a great many cars. There are cars of every colour in nations of every description. There are also a great many drivers. So many of them, in fact, that they simply crawl out of the woodwork. So either I was just a driving moron or there was a global conspiracy on and everyone else went out naked in the moonlight to the top of a hill to dance around a fire and sign a pact using the blood of a goat, swearing to never let me know how hard a skill this is to muster.
As soon as I turned eighteen, my father volunteered to educate me in this rudimentary skill. We piled into our little brown van and veered down the road. Twenty metres and two popped blood vessels later (neither of them in my body) the lesson terminated. I was handed over to my father's friend, known far and wide for his patience and skill at instructing those certified as unteachable. The two of us drove down the mostly deserted roads of our military cantonment and all was peace and beauty. Sure, I still looked at the gear stick when I had to change the gear, yes, I stalled practically every time I entered or left the first gear and I knew the third and forth gears were still strangers to me. I could not reverse or park yet, but hells bells (I've always wanted to use this expression) I was driving. A few classes later it was decided that I should be enrolled into a professional driving school and seek the holy grail of a driving license for an LMV (Light Motor Vehicle). This was motivated in no small measure by the fact that if you were to venture into an RTO office in India unbacked by a driving school, you would be venturing for a very long time. So off I went, and at the end of the first class I was the darling of the instructor. Thanks to my father's friend I shone like Venus on the firmament. At the end of the second class I was still the pet. At the end of a month I was just as good as I was on the second day. I got my license, proving the efficacy of the driving school and not my driving.
For years and years I remained as good as I was on day two. I did not enjoy it for a minute, nay not even a second. It made me tense, it made me unhappy. It was not one of life's myriad pleasures. People who were babes in arms the day I first got into a car were driving circles and other complicated geometric figures around me. I sat, a satisfied, smug cat, in passenger seats and got driven around, secretly and sometimes, not so secretly, sniggering at folks who had not discovered the joys of always and forever calling shotgun.
Into every life must come some rain, and the day finally dawned when my life was bereft of drivers. Surprising as it may seem they moved on to bigger, better things in life and so one sad, grey day I stood before my father's old car. A baby first learning to walk could not have been more hesitant. The campers in the Blair Witch project could not have been more scared. Slowly and painfully, I mastered the art. I drove around the lake in the night. I learned to reverse. I drove to my office. I could not put the AC on for fear of stalling, so I simply perspired a modest waterfall. I stalled quite enough as it was without the AC. I dreaded traffic signals, speeding cars, slow cycles, all other vehicles in sight, reversing and parking slots. I explored new depths of hate for roads that sloped upwards and for gravity acting on unsuspecting cars and their undeserving drivers when faced with such horrid, uncaring, unfeeling, insurmountable slopes. I could tolerate turning left but I held strong views about turning right.
Gradually, over a period of what felt like a few decades, it got better. A few thousand scratches later I was fairly confident. Scratches, I explained patiently to my father, should be viewed from the correct perspective. A thousand scratches were infinitely superior to two dead bodies. He grunted and seemed strangely unconvinced. I now drove twelve kilometers a day. This is not so bad, I said to myself. I am one of them. Finally, I 've arrived.
Then it started to happen. I nearly bumped a bike that thought it wise to overtake me from the left and then cut into my path. I cursed a bus that veered unthinking into my lane. I had no patience with cars that were of the opinion that two kilometers per hour was an acceptable speed for the fast lane. My blood boiled at the mention of an autorickshaw. I realized that I knew words that I was ashamed to say I knew. I aged a couple of years every time I drove, soft music and deep breathing non-withstanding.
Thats when it came to me. The car is a vehicle of misery. I hated it when it was my master and the sound of the engine revving was the stuff of nightmares. I hate it now, when I can drive and it appears that everyone else around me cannot. I bet the day I said 'Yes, I can!' the rest of you went naked in the moonlight up a hill, danced like the pagans that you are, killed another innocent goat and swore to forget all the driving that you once knew.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

The pearl anniversary cometh

My parents thirtieth wedding anniversary is looming. I should be filled with pride and joy. Instead, I find that I am mostly filled with a nameless dread. Heres the thing. My parents both come from large families. Vocal families. Musically talented families. And therein lies the rub. My parents both swear with straight faces that neither my sister nor I are adopted. I even questioned them separately. I've leapt out from behind the fridge and popped the question suddenly. I've woken them up at two in the morning with this most pertinent question. No luck. They've stuck to the story and at two in the morning my very grumpy mother can describe her painful labour and subsequent cesarean in long and gory detail. Yet, miraculously enough, amongst the host of musical cousins my sister and I stand out in all our tone deaf glory. We cannot sing. We are unable to play an instrument. What is the relevance of this to the anniversary? I am glad you asked. As various aunts and uncles have trouped passed various milestones of wedded bliss, appropriate cousins have burst into tuneful song. They amass friends and family and then, at the drop of a hat, burst into touching, tear-jerking melody. 'You are the wind beneath my wings', 'You raise me up', you get the gist. As the last moving notes linger in the air there is not a dry eye in the house.
During our wonder years if either my sister or I bemoaned our lack of talent to our mother or aunts, we were reminded that we were the smart ones in the family. At school we got our grades with seeming ease. We were held up as shining examples to the teeming masses of cousins. I now have a job that requires regular use of the old grey matter, and my sister is acquiring her doctorate and is required to cut up mice at an alarming rate towards this noble end. I completely fail to see how this is supposed to help with the anniversary. I can hear the cousins snicker. Perhaps I could read at the audience. Or do a demo of getting a good test score. My sister could try to tear folks up by bopping a rodent on its head and proceeding to extract its tissues.
The date draws ever closer, the pressure mounts. The family looms on the horizon. Excuse me, but I have to check my rat traps.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

The saga of Creepy and Scaredy Cat

It was around seven thirty in the evening and I was walking down a busy street, going home. I passed a guy sitting on a bike. He leered and mumbled something about me being a baby, and other such endearments. I nobly ignored him and kept going. Unfortunately, Creepy interpreted this act of walking by as encouragement and followed me on his bike. He went past me, mumbling again, and stopped the bike about 20 meters ahead of me. I wanted to cross the road and avoid his charming company, but just then the traffic poured on at an alarming rate and I was forced to walk past him. This was, of course, as good as wearing a silk negligee and pointing at a bed. I decided that I did not want Creepy to know where I lived, so I oozed into a supermarket. I dumped a bunch of veggies into the trolley and imagine my horror when I looked up and saw Creepy standing right there, leer firmly in place. Rather loudly, I told him that if he did not leave me alone I was going to call for help. I threw in an expletive or two for good measure. He appeared flabbergasted that I assumed that he was stalking me, hurt that I had betrayed him after positively stringing him on and left post haste. At this point the electricity supply gave out and the road outside plunged into darkness. I could not see if he was lying in wait so I was forced to lurk in the aisles for over an hour, seething and scared. I am convinced they thought I was trying to shoplift. I eventually summoned a friend to pick me up and drive around for a bit, just to be sure that I had lost Creepy.
I am astounded by how angry I still am. I am ashamed of how scared and unheroic I was. I still catch myself day dreaming about kicking him in the nuts and watching him writhe in unspeakable agony.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Whee for the Wii

My team at office recently shone brighter than the stars in the firmament and so senior management decided to reward us with a game console called the Wii. Those of us not in the know greeted the announcement with puzzlement. It was unclear what we had done to earn a small boy piddling. When the confusion cleared we were left wondering why a company with money to spare chose a name reminiscent of your mother coaxing you to empty your bladder before a bus journey.
The console duly arrived and was set up by a dozen incoherent engineers, all shouting instructions and fainting with excitement. Our joy was marred only by our miserable excuse for a television. We are the proud joint owners of a 12 inch TV. Legend has it that it crawled out of the 1950s, snuck into our office and sat itself unobtrusively on a table top, where it was found one grey morning. But thats another story. The Wii sparked to life and hysteria abounded. If you have not had the pleasure of watching a group of people play a game of tennis at the Wii, I pity your miserable existence. There they stand, their faces shiny with excitement, controllers strapped to wrists. They select which players they are going to be in this game of mixed doubles. A stapping lad, six foot tall, insists that he wants to play as a tiny girl in a short pink dress. He pooh-poohs any Freudian interpretation of his choice. All four wave their controllers around in an attempt to determine who they are and they shout at each other a lot at this point. Finally, they are ready to begin. They stand in a line, muscles tense, leaning slightly forward. The game begins. The controllers detect motion, so the game consists of people holding small controllers waving their arms about and pretending that they are holding rackets. Its surreal, watching the four of them play mixed doubles. The serve and volley and yell instructions at each other. They hit each other on the head and curse. They compliment their partners on aces served and backhands smashed. They bang their hands on cubicle walls and hop around in pain, scowling. Their partners exhort them not to be wimps and to return to the game in time to serve. Partnerships are formed and alliances forged. One player even does a very authentic grunt when he serves. Another (who has rather obviously never really played the sport) looks like he is emulating dance steps from a South Indian potboiler. You can hardly fault me for thinking that in the future the Wimbledon is going to be a bore to watch.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I see that they're putting the boxing game on and there's this person who sits two rows down from me whose ugly mug I've been simply dying to dent.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Scattergories anyone?

I have heard it said time and again, by folks with white hair and wisdom to spare, that nothing divides a family like property. Disputes over property can make brother hate brother and poison the waters for generations to come. I own the truth of this sentiment, but may I venture to suggest that there is an even greater evil out there? My family has been ravaged by it. It is too late for us, but pay attention and this post could well be the salvation of your family.
Visualize a noisy family get together. Nieces and aunts gossip cheerily. Venerable uncles beam genially. Close family friends crack a joke or two. You get the picture. All is joy and bonhomie. Then someone suggests that we bond further by playing a board game or two. A chorus of eager voices suggest a plethora of games - each family member strenuously advocating the particular game that he or she shines in. The game that was picked that dark night is called Scattergories.
We played in pairs. It started innocently enough. The 26-sided dice was rolled. We frantically filled our lists. The timer rang out. And all hell broke loose. As the entries were called out, team by team, the room was in an uproar. Everyone accused everyone else of being a filthy cheat. Aunts questioned the loose moral fibre of their nieces. Cousins averred that their cousins had received an education so minimal that it made one gasp and stretch one's eyes. The second round began in grim silence. Sullenly the lists were filled out again. If possible, this time was worse. People hopped around in frustration. Cries of nepotism rent the air. For an entry of a 'bad habit' starting with the letter 'M', a young boy filled in 'Monkey fucking'. When challenged by his rather shocked elderly father, he argued vociferously. When it was clear he would not be getting the point, he mumbled something about bringing a monkey home under his breath. The room smelled of desperation and fury. Incidents long forgotten and sweetly forgiven were dredged up from their graves and cast about as proof of poor character. Should a microwave be considered a cooking utensil? Think world war two and you would be scratching the surface.
Our family was never the same again. An aunt who used to be all sweetness and light is now given to hissing 'Microwave' under her breath when she is confronted by her brother in law. A cousin looks strangely an monkeys. I gaze at the ravaged landscape of our family with tear filled eyes and wish that we had had a few acres of land to cordially dislike each other over instead.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The world is made of glass

My family enjoys walking into things. We walk into table edges. We stub our toes on a regular basis. When we get together and conversation lags, we start to compare bruises. Bruises are a good topic of conversation. We can discuss colour, placement, sensitivity and size. In my family, the house resonates with bumps, yells and under the breath cursing. Its comforting. It feels like home. We are also very good at ignoring agonizing screams. We may cock our heads at the noise if we're not too busy, recognize the voice, shake our heads over the fact that that particular family member has always made such a big deal over the small bumps of life and smile slowly. When I go into labour, it's definitely not going to be at home.
Until recently, this native clumsiness has been a private family matter. We are a clannish bunch and don't air our dirty linen or bruises in public. Then my father broke the code. He finished his business at a major multinational bank and then walked right into their glass front. He shattered the glass and cut himself in two places. He needed stitches and the director of the bank came home to apologize. Or maybe to laugh. Visitors came over and offered condolences and warm soup. We could hear them snickering just outside the front door. A few months later I visited my sister in Amsterdam. She had a mammoth bump on her forehead. It turns out that at a store she had walked into glass. Since she does not carry the amount of momentum that my father does, the glass resisted her and hence the bump. She followed the customary cursing and shouting ritual. This time she had the entire store as an audience. Neither of us visited that store again. The other day my mother embarrassed us at an Archies Gallery. Twice.
I am very, very worried. If a business establishment looks like it has glass, I avoid it. At work I am very careful to trod the well known paths that I have walked a hundred times before. When we approach an obstacle, I let my coworkers through first. I am getting brownie points for courtesy at least. Do you know how much glass there is in this world? And it calls to me, in my sleep it whispers in my ear. I am an accident waiting to happen. If you own glass and I walk towards you, run. And please take your glass with you.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Safety and security

We have a very active security team at work, headed by a retired major. Our defenses are tighter than that of our country. You think thats an exaggeration, don't you? Allow me to prove that it is not. An army of security guards patrol the basement and the reception. There is an access controlled room in which a smaller army (an armylet?) stares fixedly at a bank of screens to catch any suspicious activities in the corridors. This team of diligent soldiers also monitors potential dangerous situations outside our office. When a bandh is called in West Bengal, an email alert is sent to all employees within minutes. If an army of militant Bengalis should show up in Bangalore in a bad mood, they're going to be in for a surprise, I promise you that. There is one security personnel for every 20 company employees. The Indian army doesn't stand a chance. We even have a hotline number that we can call to report security violations. So there. The other day we received an email from the sterling leader of this team informing us that a pair of cigarette butts had been found near a door next to one of the balconies. The email had attached a picture of the offending stubs and a lecture on how closely we had escaped being charred to death. I felt so cared for. Working here is akin to being cocooned in your mother's womb. Every vehicle has a company sticker 'to be prominently displayed' on it. God forbid if you should try to enter the parking lot without one. Of course, these stickers must have all the protection built into the Indian currency to prevent a terrorist with a bomb from just printing one out at his local printing press. Goes without saying.
Then one day, a scooter went missing from our parking lot. A scooter belonging to an employee. One minute it was there, the next it was not. No email was sent out about this shocking incident of course. One would not want to turn us into a panicked, frightenend mob. The word spread nevertheless. Insidious rumours did the rounds. It was like finding out that Santa Claus is your father all over again. We clustered together like spooked sheep. What was left to believe in in this world, if one could not believe in the shiny moustaches of our major and his efficient team. It was a dark day. And then we figured it out. This had nothing to do with our pet army. That scooter was clearly related to Houdini and had given us all the slip. Applause all around. I hear the clomping boots in the corridor and heave a sigh of relief. And look, there's a mail coming in about the mosquito menace in Bangalore and bird flu in Bangladesh.

Friday, January 25, 2008

My morning coffee

Coffee has been around a long time. Centuries. No, scratch that. Multiples of centuries. It cannot be construed hyperbole to say that millions of people all over the world drink millions of cups of coffee every day. So you can't blame me for feeling a trifle put out that the coffee machine in my office does not understand what coffee is. I am convinced that this machine has existential angst in the extreme. You walk up to it and its gleaming panel of buttons. You look at the large container of beans sitting atop it. It looks confident. It exudes the air of someone who knows what they're about. You choose your coffee. The beast comes to life and makes a series of noises that would earn it a place of pride in the porn industry. Finally, with a deep sigh a stream of liquid emerges and you dutifully collect every last drop, fully intending to swallow, not spit. The task proves impossible. The only way you would swallow this stuff is if every last taste bud in your mouth had gone on vacation to the Maldives. How difficult can it be? Coffee has been around for eons. Coffee machines are hardly bleeding edge technology. Then why, why, why can I not start my day with a decent cup of caffeine? I return to my desk with my mug of steaming not-coffee. I intend to ignore it pointedly. The long day stares me in the face. There are problems to be solved and people to be nice to. Stronger men than me would break. What do I do?
Just sigh and thank the good lord that my taste buds can't form a union.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Fire drills

We had a fire drill in office today. This is something that my office is fond of doing. It's a hobby, collecting people for a fire drill. We have one. And a few months later, just in case we got hit on the head and have lost all memories of the past few months, we have another. This is complicated stuff. You have to remember that when you hear this shrill sound, you must leave your seat, walk down the stairs and stand in a line next to the building. Practically rocket science. Alright, I'm simplifying. There is also this annoying man in a suit with a loud voice and a bullying manner who shows up and attempts to teach us how to build stretchers with a coat and two handy sticks. Of course, we are a bunch of nerds who come to work in shorts and T-shirts, but we do have a hidden stash of formal coats and long bamboo sticks kept handy. A small fire is lit and a hapless volunteer gets to murder it with an extinguisher. We all then break into manic cheers because when there is a huge conflagration all this training is going to ensure that we don't do our favourite impersonation of headless chickens. We will all turn hero and build stretchers for each other. I worry that fist fights might break out about who carries who. Or whom. Since violence in all forms is abhorrent to me, I oozed off to a Barista during today's drill and practiced amnesia over a long, cool glass of iced coffee. If any fire had approached me, I would have heroically, though regretfully, put my coffee to good use.