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.

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.

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.

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.

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.