Noodle arms and flat noses

How many kinds of push ups do you think exist?

a) Twelve
b) Two
c) Twenty seven
d) Way, way, way too many

I recently discovered, much to the agonizing distress of various muscle groups, that the answer is, without a shadow of doubt, 'd'.

A group of friends and I decided to try out the P90x exercise program. I discovered quickly that having the upper body strength of a wet noodle is incompatible with this exercise regimen. The trainer orders you to the floor once every four seconds and cheerfully exhorts you to do a gadzillion push ups. The first time I tried this out I completed a third of a push up. I raised myself a scant millimeter off the floor and then unceremoniously thumped back down again. My arms wrote a strongly worded letter threatening divorce. My friends took pity on me and introduced me to cheaty-ups. These are the ones in which you put your knees on the floor and then do push-ups. In cheaty mode there was no stopping me. Before you could say 'Muscles' I was doing two push-ups without breaking a sweat. Then the instructor added variety - pushups with your hands close together, pushups with your hands really far apart, pushups with your hands placed on the mat such that your index fingers and thumbs form the shape of a diamond, pushups to the side, pushups with your feet on a low bench, pushups with your feet wide apart, phoenix pushups (These ones were the worst. I got into the starting position and then entirely failed to move. It did not matter which muscles I strained and pushed and willed - I did not move at all. I had to remind myself that I was on a rock hurtling through space, so technically I _was_ moving. At that point I decided to take advantage of the situation and snuck in a wee nap). Having exhausted all possible permutations and combinations of hands and feet, they played around with timing. Go down on four counts, back up on four counts. Do four fast. Do six slow. Push ups to the rhythm of the waltz. Push ups in the scale of C. Of course, I was still manfully doing two of each kind. But that isn't the point. For the other eight thousand reps I had to lie on the floor, flopping around like a beached fish, shedding every last vestige of self respect and self worth. Just when I thought that I had scraped the bottom of the humiliation barrel, they suggested that I incorporate applause into my push ups. I had to push myself up, sneak in a clap and then lower myself gracefully to the mat. I learned that if you don't clap fast enough, this exercise involves landing on your nose. This move is called the anti-occhio. If you don't exercise enough, your nose shrinks. And everybody who takes one look at your face can see it. The last straw came when they suggested that I attempt a one handed push up. I pushed myself all the way up and walked away.

Keeping 'up' with the Joneses

HWIL and I dwell in a high rise building whose pants are so fancy that they have been known on occasion to take tea with the Queen of England. Our building is all new and shiny. It has free (and compulsory) valet parking. A doorman. The fanciest earthquake proofing outside of Tokyo. Bells and half a dozen whistles. And our apartment has views like this:

 

and this:

 

And on days on which I _really_ want to show off to a guest who is visiting our home for the first time ever, views like this:

None of these things are the best part of living here. That honor is reserved for Elevator Emperor.
The game controls look like this:

The way it is played is:

Step 1: Enter elevator.
Step 2: Hit your floor number.
Step 3: Wait for all other gamers to complete steps 1 and 2.
Step 4: Allow elevator doors to slide smugly shut and await the coronation.

If your floor is the highest, you are crowned the E. of the the E. and all minions must bow and scrape before you and bend to your superior will. In my experience, the tighter you close your eyes, the more effectively they grovel. On days on which the crown does not adorn your brow, do not be disheartened. You can play Snob instead. If someone lives more than eight floors below you, they are so low on the social scale that as far as you are concerned they don't exist (Unless they say hello, ruining everything. In which case you smile and exchange pleasantries and when they are done being social you can proceed with your game of Snob). You avoid eye contact and raise your nose just ever so slightly. Press your lips together just so. (Dogs are exempt. You can, and should, _always_ pet the dog - unless it is a rat pretending to be a dog. We have those too). From eight floors below you to eight floors above you, these folks are your peers. A slight smile, a nod, even a few words of conversation are permissible. Folks who live more than eight floors above you are snooty little pricks who think they are better than you are for no good reason and you must seethe resentfully (but quietly and respectfully) in their presence.

It is the little victories that make life worth living.

Being a boa constrictor

Today was the San Francisco Street Food Festival. I ate the equivalent of my own body weight and am now going to have to toodle off and hibernate for a bit. In my defense, I couldn't help myself. The food was yummy, there was so much of it (80 vendors) and I didn't want any any region of the world to feel slighted.

HWIL and I started out coupons in hand, stars in our eyes and growls in our stomachs. I was immediately rendered helpless by choice paralysis. Every time HWIL asked me if I wanted to eat at a particular stall, I felt compelled to say no - the next stall might be better, or the next, or the next. HWIL got hungrier, and grumpier and that made me grumpy and before we knew it we were both running for the position of mayor of Grumpytown. Luckily, before the votes could be counted, we found ourselves at the Hapa SF stall. Filipino food to the rescue.

We ordered the Lumpia Shanghai - deep fried spring rolls filled with ground pork, carrots, onions, water chestnuts and garlic - and a peach basil soda to go with it. All of these offerings from Hapa were endowed with satisfying amounts of yumminess and I am pleased to report that Grumpy dissolves in Lumpia.

Our next stop was To Hyang. The proprietor, Hwa Soon, was born in Korea and now, with the help of her family, whips up Korean food in the city.

Their offering at the food festival was spicy pork ribs. The ribs were not really spicy, but they did fare well on the yumminess scale.

 The next dish that we set upon was jambalaya (by Good Foods Catering).  This was mediocre and I was resentful of it occupying much needed room in my stomach. I wanted to charge it rent.

Our next stop was at Chiefo's Kitchen. Her Moi-Moi (black eyed peas, crayfish and corned beef) was weird and yummy. The Bissap (a drink made from hisbiscus, vanilla and pineapple) was good too. This surprised me because I normally can't stand the cloying sweetness of pineapple.

Six! At the tender age of six! When I was sixteen I asked my mother if I should use a potato peeler to peel an onion and she has never let me hear the end of that.
 
Dessert at the Three Twins stall was next - bittersweet chocolate (ok) and mint with chocolate (yum). That marked the end of round one.

We inaugurated round two with cocktails and chased those down with Takoyaki by Nombe Izakaya. Nombe means "someone who likes to drink heartily" and an Izakaya is a "Japanese drinking establishment which also serves food to accompany the drinks". Oh, and Takoyaki is octopus.

Our last food stop was at Zella's Soulful kitchen for some chicken sliders. Zella is the name of the proprietress's grandmother - her grandmother taught her to cook when she was eight. I am not even sure I could tie my shoelaces at that age.

We washed this down with Su Gung Ka, a drink made of permisson, ginger and cinnamon and then curled up into little balls and rolled all the way home.

Jam

A friend's mother died recently. A sudden death, a death of one too young. My friend told me about those last few days, her mother on a ventilator, in an intensive care unit, tracheotomy in place. She said that her mother used the written word to communicate. Two days before she died, her mother frantically signaled for her notebook and wrote the word 'Jam'. Faced with the collective incomprehension of her near and dear, she explained that by her calculations (she had been hospitalized for close to a month by this time) the supply of jam in the house must be running low and needed to be replenished.

Jam. What clearer indication of a life well lived? If ever I find myself in critical care, forced to live on what may well be borrowed time, this is what I would wish for myself. May I live my life such that at the end of it my one concern is jam. That I have no regrets but that the level of jam in the jar may slip below whats acceptable and there will be no one to notice. That I have loved so well, there is nothing left unsaid. That if I have children, I have done such a good job with them, that if my only message to them is top up the jam jar, they will want for nothing.

To all those out there whom I love, and even those whom I just about like - here's wishing you a jar of strawberry jam on your death bed.

The celebrated Zem

Welcome to the latest installment of my Spot The Difference series of posts. Once more, I call your attention to one of the many charming differences between life in India and the USA.

In the country of my birth mattresses are discreet creatures. They lurk shyly on beds across the nation. They do not intrude. One could go a lifetime without spending more than an hour thinking of a mattress. Mattresses here are a different breed. They are in your face. I defy you to listen to your radio for more than an hour without having some cheerfully aggressive soul tell you all about the fantastic deals on mattresses that are yours for the asking - and the first 3 years of financing is interest free! Um, what? I need to buy a mattress on a monthly plan? And grow old paying it off? And it is not made of gold leaves? If I die, do my progeny take up the burden? Are there family feuds over mattresses when granny dies?
Mattress stores abound. No, the word 'stores' does not begin to cover it. Emporium perhaps? Or gallery. Anyway, they abound. There are eleven of them within a five mile radius of me. Here is an excerpt from an online review of someone's mattress buying experience:
"I dreaded the experience of buying a new mattress after the heavy-sell experience I've received in the past - just as bad as trying to buy a car"
A car! The mind boggles.

They must be throwing a party on Squornshellous Zeta.

The cursing of the seeds

A perfect world would be a world sans papaya seeds. I am fond enough of the fruit. I have nothing against papaya trees, you understand, long may they grow and greenly prosper. I would, however, prefer that Mr. and Mrs P. Tree manage to make their gorgeous babies without the seeds.

I find that I cannot adequately describe my feelings for papaya seeds. Words fail me. However, smoke signals fail me more, so I will manfully make do with words. Papaya seeds fill me with deep disgust. My reaction to the black mass of them clinging glutinously together is visceral. Every fibre of my being revolts against the abomination of their existence. I would rather embrace, and lovingly at that, the slimiest, wartiest, most tentacle prone creature from the very worst alien movie of your choice than have to gaze upon papaya seeds. I could run on and on. I'll spare you though. The long and the short of it, neatly summarized for those of us who are slower on the uptake than the rest, is that I dislike papaya seeds a tad more than your average Joe.

What provoked this spew of venom, you ask? I was ambushed by the seeds. Being a reasonable person, I came to terms with the fact that though I find said seeds repulsive and nauseating, they probably do not deserve immediate extinction. It takes all kinds. All I asked was that we keep to our own corners, the seeds and I. Half the earth for me, the rest of the planet for them to gad about in, doing whatever distasteful thing it is that papaya seeds do in their spare time. I bought seedless papayas and raised a glass to their happy sterility. This happy state of co-existence came to a grinding halt last week when I slit open the fruit and was greeted by multitudes of the enemy, smugly, stomach-churningly, foully grinning back at me. A dastardly act. If it's a fight they want, we'll give them a fight. A call goes out to all good men to come to the aid of the party. Etc.

It turned out though, that having grimaced and delivered the seeds into the dustbin, repeating the mantra of yuck all the while, I was hard pressed to actually draw up war plans. My army was surprisingly tiny. And I make an excellent general but a surprisingly poor grunt. So I settled for this rant instead. May they know no happiness in this world or the next.

A conversational tool

Coffee conversation this morning, over the hissing of the steam machine.

"They have a prompt"
Somewhat hungrily, a touch of greed, "A plum? Who has a plum?"
"Plum? No, prompt, a prompt"
Definite grumpiness at the withdrawal of the possibility of a snack, "Who does?"
Impatience creeping in, "They do"
"Who? Oh they? They have a prompt!"

There is a lesson to be learned here. An important lesson about human communication.

The power of repetition. Don't knock it till you've tried it. The next time someone does not appear to comprehend some piece of wisdom that comes sailing out of your mouth, don't bother rephrasing, paraphrasing or explaining. Just repeat the same sentence. Again. And again. And yet again. You can try varying the volume if you get bored. Play around with the emphasis. On each repetition give a different syllable its day in the sun. Experiment with tone. Or pitch. The success rate of this tactic will surprise you.

I've given it some thought. Here's why this technique is successful:

a. Headphones. The noise associated with modern living. Ear wax. People hear less than they used to. Its not that they don't comprehend, they just did not hear. Give them a second chance.

b. People are lazy. It takes effort to actually listen. To pay attention. To analyze what someone has said, to rummage in the attic of your head for some forgotten context, to snap out of your pleasant daydream and be dragged kicking and screaming back to the hallway conversation. People try and make you do all the hard work, provide the frame of reference, perhaps throw in a little joke to make it more palatable, work on an analogy. The greedy ones will even expect a metaphor to be included in the package. Repetition is your defense. It forces your audience to do their share of the work.

c. People are not always smart. Sad, but undeniably true. It has to be said. If your audience belongs to this category, repetition might be the best tool in your arsenal. It requires little effort on your part (you can plan your grocery shopping list, recite poetry in your head, try to find a word that rhymes with retard - all while you say the same sentence out loud sixteen times). This gives the slower ones time to catch up with the conversation.

Try it. And remember to be appropriately grateful when it works.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!