College was always fun....specially the English classes. After doing Shakespearan plays in school, Robin Hood was a hoot in college. Too easy. And generally when things are too easy, they tend to get boring. And that's exactly what happened during English.
My friends and I soon took to writing poetry about teachers and some of the students we didn't like during English class. This used to amuse us no end and once we started circulating them, it was even more fun. Then came the English Criticism class where we learnt about alliterations and our so-called writing careers took a drastic turn from poetry to alliterations.
Alliterations are sentences that have similar sounding letters right through them. For example, "Lovely, luscious lips." Get the picture? Poets like DH Lawrence used alliteration (when the "S" sound is repeated, it's called sibilance) to illustrate their poems better. He wrote an entire poem on a snake, constantly using words that had the "s" sound in them to illustrate the hissing of a snake.
We, of course, found this highly fascinating and alliteration and sibilance became the order of the day. Here are a few alliterative prose that we wrote. Although they didn't make much sense (and still don't) they were nevertheless fun to write.
When will this witch with a wasted classful of wishful girls wind up and wedge a Wellington watch from Warsaw into her wide mouth? (This was about the most boring teacher in the history of teachers and written just before lunch)
Sapna saw Solomon swinging sorrowfully, sulking sillily and singing somethng she thought was sweet and sending sour sonnets about the seas and the sunshine and smelly stinky sewers in a sad state of sorrowful sanity in the sweltering sunshine of the summer son in South San Fransisco.
Dumbo ding dong Dolly doted on dates drooling dreadfully, dreaming daringly and defying death only to drool in the doldrums and doze dreaming of dating dashing guys dressed in drag and demolishing such dreams that don't delay dumbo dongs who dated Dolly.
Ruthless Rebecca rambled on and on to the restless rueful girls, raking in the rest of their rapt attention with rusty remarks and reasons and ruminerations, requiring the remaining girls to render their rumbling stomachs to roast their refridgerated brains and render them unconscious.
"So sweet," says Solomon, slurping a sinful sundae which was also a sparkling soda, "is the babe that lies in the softly sunlit sauna amidst a swarm of sexy butterflies and the Tyranosaurus Rex and the brontosaurus, the two of which fell in love with the cephalothoraxx of the rhino's back, which was stung by a super big scorpion and kissed by superman and Scooby Doo who longed for Scooby snax for Shaggy and Scrappy and also for Pierce Brosnan's sexy eyes which stung with tears cos Supergal was sleuthing in the Bahamas with Spiderman and the Ghostbusters, singing "Sweet for my sweet and sugar for my honey."
Dr Faustus fell for Florence Nightingale of France for he felt that if he didn't fall, he would fracture his fibula or his femur and then fall at Mephistophilis's feet for forgiveness and fruit salad.
Did the dumb dead duck dive deep into the depths of the dreamy dark damp ditchwaters of Denmark?
Gorgeous groovy guy gave gay girl a golden gondola to gambole to Goa.
Okay okay, so i'll stop with the bad literature. Hope you had fun reading this. Bye bye.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Alvirah's Blunder
This story was written for WaterfallMist (because he was complaining that i didn't write "happy" stuff) but mostly it was written in 1999 for the Christ College intercollegiate writing competition held in honour of their new library. It always amuses me to see how my style of writing has changed over the years.
In a distant land far away , the only building that stood in my way was an old library. As I entered, I tripped over something and fell flat on my face. I gingerly picked myself up and sought the culprit of my fall. It was a book! Of course! What else would you expect to find in a library?
I picked up the book and read its title. “Witches and Warlocks,” it said. I looked around the tiny foyer. It was deserted. I carried the book through the foyer and into the main library…and stopped, shocked.
The whole library was in a complete state of disarray. None of the books were on the shelves. They were all lying on the floor or falling off the tables and chairs that lined the bare walls. Books were scattered everywhere. There were actually piles of books that reached up to the ceiling! The place was a total mess!
Suddenly, I heard a noise. No, it was more like a sob. I surveyed the whole room but could not find the source of the noise. Then I heard it again. It seemed to be coming from behind a pile of books on the far corner.
I waded through the numerous books that blocked my passage. On the way, I read a few more titles – “Curses and Spells” read one, “Cults and Groups” read another, “Salem” read yet another title. I realized that all these books had something to do with the supernatural!
I heard the sob again and made my way to the corner. There, I saw a real sight for sore eyes. For, there in the corner, surrounded by a pile of books, was a pretty, young girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had long, golden tresses and wore a long flowing gown. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the Elizabethan Age. Her head was buried in a book and her whole body was racked with sobs.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, stepping up to her.
She immediately jumped out of her chair and whimpered down in the corner like a frightened kitten. “Oh! I-i th-thought it w-was h-her,” she stammered, relief obvious on her pixie face.
“Who?” I asked.
“Y-you know…..her.”
“No, I don’t know. But you’re obviously frightened of her, whoever she is. I mean no harm.”
“Y-yes. She might k-kill me or throw me into the Bottomless Pit or the Hell of No Return if I don’t finish reading all these books by tonight,” she said, gesturing to the whole library.
“You have to read all these books by tonight?” I expostulated. “How many have you finished?”
“Oh, about three,” she replied. And then she burst into tears again.
“Maybe I can help you. Do you mind telling me why you have to read all these books by tonight?”
She sniffed and dabbed at her face with the hem of her petticoat. “Well, it’s like this. See, tonight is the Night of a Thousand Moons.” She looked at me expectantly. When she saw my blank expression, she continued. “One night in a thousand full moons is set aside by us witches and warlocks to wreak havoc upon the world. Tonight is that night and I have to find a spell to stop it or else…or else….” She broke down in sobs again.
“Okay…” I said, hesitantly, if a little dubious.
“You don’t believe me?” she shreaked hysterically. “Your whole future depends on tonight and you don’t believe me?”
“Okay, calm down.” I said in a soothing voice. “I’ll help you. Just tell me what to look for.’
“Shhh…she’s coming!” she said, eyes round with fear.
“Who? Who’s coming?” I asked, starting to panic. I could actually feel her, whoever she was. The hairs on my neck were standing on end.
“M-my Aunt Al-alvirah,” she stuttered. If she finds me here, she’ll definitely kill me or…or…worse….she’ll throw me into the World of Dry Oceans and Wet Air.”
Before I could make sense of this last piece of information, I heard a crack of thunder and the pile of books nearest to me began to smolder.
“Sssooo…” a voice, nastier than rat’s feet on dry paper thundered. “My little niece defiesss me, eh?”
I didn’t want to turn around. Couldn’t. The girl was cowering in the corner like a petrified rat. I didn’t want to turn around, but was compelled to.
There she stood, between a pile of books, a manic look in her eyes. Hair flying in the whirlwind that circled her. Bolts of lightening flashing around her head. Or were those just the evil sparks in her eyes? Her teeth were bared like a hungry wolf about to feast on its prey.
“You certainly should be punished for thissss, ssssilly girl,” she hissed, as the whirlwind around her swirled even faster. “Hmm…let’s see…I think the Hell of Burning Water would do just fine. Assss for you,” she said, turning to me, “You will also be punished for helping this….thisss…..wench.”
The whirlwind around her began to swirl in larger circles until it engulfed both the girl and me. Suddenly, the back wall of the library disappeared into nothingness. Books began to be sucked into the gaping hole. I grabbed the nearest bookshelf that seemed to be attached to the wall.
“Hold onto something!” I cried as I felt myself being lifted off the ground and being pulled inexonerably towards the vortex. I twisted around but could not see the girl.
Suddenly, the shelf I was clinging to, heaved – and then disappeared. I was flung feet first into the vortex, still trying to grab onto something solid.
Then I blacked out.
I woke up yelling. In my own room. In my own bed. I looked around at my room and smiled. “Just a dream,” I thought, lying down again. Phew! It had been such a vivid dream that I could still see the lightening cracking as I was sucked through the vortex.
Something wasn’t right though. I looked around my room again. Funny, I thought. I had just thrown away this blanket. And hadn’t I changed the wallpaper a few months ago?
Just then, the doorbell rang. I noticed slight changes in my living room as I walked through it to answer the door. I was sure that I had changed those curtains and didn’t I pull down that wall to make the living room larger?
My jaw dropped when I opened the door. The girl. In my dream. Was standing on my front porch. Holding a pile of newspapers. She smiled, handed me one, and rode away on her bicycle.
If I was shocked to see her, I was even more flabbergasted to see the headlines in the paper. “Kuwait Oil Rigs Bombed.” was the main headline. The sub-head was what caught my eye. “Thousands of Sea Animals Die As Water Ignites.”
Water ignites? I thought. Burning water? Of course! The oil rigs were at sea! I checked the date of the newspaper. 1996? Boy, things were really beginning to fall into place now. My house, for one. 1996 is three years ago. Well, from today, that is. No wonder things in my house were different. I’d recently renovated it. Well, recently as in 1999.
I glanced at the headlines and burst out laughing. Aunt Alvirah, the witch had mistaken Earth for the Hell of Burning Water and had sent us back, without even knowing it. “Well,” I thought with some remorse, “this is as close to hell as we’ll ever get in this lifetime.”
Taking a deep breath, I went back inside my house. Sure, I’d have to live the three years all over again but then, these three years were a gift and I was going to enjoy it every darn minute possible. Besides, I’d have three years to help the girl find the right spell. Thank you, Alvirah!
In a distant land far away , the only building that stood in my way was an old library. As I entered, I tripped over something and fell flat on my face. I gingerly picked myself up and sought the culprit of my fall. It was a book! Of course! What else would you expect to find in a library?
I picked up the book and read its title. “Witches and Warlocks,” it said. I looked around the tiny foyer. It was deserted. I carried the book through the foyer and into the main library…and stopped, shocked.
The whole library was in a complete state of disarray. None of the books were on the shelves. They were all lying on the floor or falling off the tables and chairs that lined the bare walls. Books were scattered everywhere. There were actually piles of books that reached up to the ceiling! The place was a total mess!
Suddenly, I heard a noise. No, it was more like a sob. I surveyed the whole room but could not find the source of the noise. Then I heard it again. It seemed to be coming from behind a pile of books on the far corner.
I waded through the numerous books that blocked my passage. On the way, I read a few more titles – “Curses and Spells” read one, “Cults and Groups” read another, “Salem” read yet another title. I realized that all these books had something to do with the supernatural!
I heard the sob again and made my way to the corner. There, I saw a real sight for sore eyes. For, there in the corner, surrounded by a pile of books, was a pretty, young girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had long, golden tresses and wore a long flowing gown. She looked like she’d just stepped out of the Elizabethan Age. Her head was buried in a book and her whole body was racked with sobs.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, stepping up to her.
She immediately jumped out of her chair and whimpered down in the corner like a frightened kitten. “Oh! I-i th-thought it w-was h-her,” she stammered, relief obvious on her pixie face.
“Who?” I asked.
“Y-you know…..her.”
“No, I don’t know. But you’re obviously frightened of her, whoever she is. I mean no harm.”
“Y-yes. She might k-kill me or throw me into the Bottomless Pit or the Hell of No Return if I don’t finish reading all these books by tonight,” she said, gesturing to the whole library.
“You have to read all these books by tonight?” I expostulated. “How many have you finished?”
“Oh, about three,” she replied. And then she burst into tears again.
“Maybe I can help you. Do you mind telling me why you have to read all these books by tonight?”
She sniffed and dabbed at her face with the hem of her petticoat. “Well, it’s like this. See, tonight is the Night of a Thousand Moons.” She looked at me expectantly. When she saw my blank expression, she continued. “One night in a thousand full moons is set aside by us witches and warlocks to wreak havoc upon the world. Tonight is that night and I have to find a spell to stop it or else…or else….” She broke down in sobs again.
“Okay…” I said, hesitantly, if a little dubious.
“You don’t believe me?” she shreaked hysterically. “Your whole future depends on tonight and you don’t believe me?”
“Okay, calm down.” I said in a soothing voice. “I’ll help you. Just tell me what to look for.’
“Shhh…she’s coming!” she said, eyes round with fear.
“Who? Who’s coming?” I asked, starting to panic. I could actually feel her, whoever she was. The hairs on my neck were standing on end.
“M-my Aunt Al-alvirah,” she stuttered. If she finds me here, she’ll definitely kill me or…or…worse….she’ll throw me into the World of Dry Oceans and Wet Air.”
Before I could make sense of this last piece of information, I heard a crack of thunder and the pile of books nearest to me began to smolder.
“Sssooo…” a voice, nastier than rat’s feet on dry paper thundered. “My little niece defiesss me, eh?”
I didn’t want to turn around. Couldn’t. The girl was cowering in the corner like a petrified rat. I didn’t want to turn around, but was compelled to.
There she stood, between a pile of books, a manic look in her eyes. Hair flying in the whirlwind that circled her. Bolts of lightening flashing around her head. Or were those just the evil sparks in her eyes? Her teeth were bared like a hungry wolf about to feast on its prey.
“You certainly should be punished for thissss, ssssilly girl,” she hissed, as the whirlwind around her swirled even faster. “Hmm…let’s see…I think the Hell of Burning Water would do just fine. Assss for you,” she said, turning to me, “You will also be punished for helping this….thisss…..wench.”
The whirlwind around her began to swirl in larger circles until it engulfed both the girl and me. Suddenly, the back wall of the library disappeared into nothingness. Books began to be sucked into the gaping hole. I grabbed the nearest bookshelf that seemed to be attached to the wall.
“Hold onto something!” I cried as I felt myself being lifted off the ground and being pulled inexonerably towards the vortex. I twisted around but could not see the girl.
Suddenly, the shelf I was clinging to, heaved – and then disappeared. I was flung feet first into the vortex, still trying to grab onto something solid.
Then I blacked out.
I woke up yelling. In my own room. In my own bed. I looked around at my room and smiled. “Just a dream,” I thought, lying down again. Phew! It had been such a vivid dream that I could still see the lightening cracking as I was sucked through the vortex.
Something wasn’t right though. I looked around my room again. Funny, I thought. I had just thrown away this blanket. And hadn’t I changed the wallpaper a few months ago?
Just then, the doorbell rang. I noticed slight changes in my living room as I walked through it to answer the door. I was sure that I had changed those curtains and didn’t I pull down that wall to make the living room larger?
My jaw dropped when I opened the door. The girl. In my dream. Was standing on my front porch. Holding a pile of newspapers. She smiled, handed me one, and rode away on her bicycle.
If I was shocked to see her, I was even more flabbergasted to see the headlines in the paper. “Kuwait Oil Rigs Bombed.” was the main headline. The sub-head was what caught my eye. “Thousands of Sea Animals Die As Water Ignites.”
Water ignites? I thought. Burning water? Of course! The oil rigs were at sea! I checked the date of the newspaper. 1996? Boy, things were really beginning to fall into place now. My house, for one. 1996 is three years ago. Well, from today, that is. No wonder things in my house were different. I’d recently renovated it. Well, recently as in 1999.
I glanced at the headlines and burst out laughing. Aunt Alvirah, the witch had mistaken Earth for the Hell of Burning Water and had sent us back, without even knowing it. “Well,” I thought with some remorse, “this is as close to hell as we’ll ever get in this lifetime.”
Taking a deep breath, I went back inside my house. Sure, I’d have to live the three years all over again but then, these three years were a gift and I was going to enjoy it every darn minute possible. Besides, I’d have three years to help the girl find the right spell. Thank you, Alvirah!
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Beware!
Half of you look at me with pity. Yeah sure. But pity isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it? You might pity me, but you still roll up your windows and look the other way. At least some of you have the decency to pretend to do something else. Like play with your fancy cell phones or feign interest in the mundane billboards and so-called scenery. Yeah, it's only when you see me at your window that the trees on the other side of the pavement suddenly look interesting, don’t they?
Sure, some of you even deign to throw a few coins at me, making sure not to touch my grubby hands. Who knows what kind of deadly diseases I might have. Not that I’m not grateful or anything, but how's a few coins going to help me? Seriously. Does it make you feel better? Like you've fulfilled your service to society? Like you've done your good deed for the day?
Some of you pretend not to see me at all. Why would you? After all, I just might ruin your appetite. Or worse, make you feel guilty about the nice food you're going to eat. Or the nice clothes you have. Or the secure world you seem to live in. What? Do I threaten you in some way? Make you feel insecure?
Well it should. Wanna know why? I'll tell you. I used to be like you once. Oh yes. It was years ago but I still remember. I used to have a wonderful family. A roof over my head. Clothes to wear. Food to eat. I even used to go to school! That is until a stranger offered me a ride home. Yeah, I used to be gullible, but not anymore. I never did reach my home. He made me get into an auto and then he blind-folded me. Said it was a surprise. Yeah, it was a surprise alright. Specially when he took me to some warehouse and broke my knees and blinded me in one eye. After that I remember a long train journey but I was in too much pain to notice anything else.
When we reached our destination, he took me to another warehouse where there were other kids like me. All handicapped in some way or the other. Talking in different languages. Wearing rags. I was also given rags in lieu of my school uniform. And there I was, just another face in a multitude of faces. We weren’t given much to eat. Just some stale bread and something that could have been water.
Life became routine after that. If you can call it life. Every morning, the man would come and pick us up in his car and drop us on some street corner with a dire warning that if we didn’t bring back a certain amount of money by the end of the day, he’d do worse to us than break our knees. We were left there to beg for our keep and were picked up every evening. All our money went to the man and in return, we got a place to stay and something that resembled food.
At first, I tried to escape but it was tough because of the language problem. Besides, nobody even spared a glance my way when I tried talking to them. I didn’t realize that I was being watched and every time I tried talking to someone, I was severely beaten at the end of the day. Once, I even tried talking to a policeman but that just earned me a box on my ears. Apparently cops don’t like helping us either. I think that was the worst day because that evening I was not only beaten, I was also molested. God, that was the worst punishment ever and I’d make damn sure I did not offend my captors again.
I’d like to think my parents tried to find me. Well, if they tried, they didn’t succeed. It’s been six years and I’m now twelve years old. They probably won’t recognize me even if they saw me. Oh heck, there’s nothing wrong with hoping. After all, hope is all I have.
So, the next time you see me at your car window, it would be nice if you didn’t treat me like a non-entity. It would be nice if you really would do your service to society and maybe throw some food my way instead of a few measly coins. And before you roll up your window or pretend to not notice me, just remember:
I used to be like you once.
If something like this could happen to me, it could happen to you as well.
I’m still being watched.
Act too smug and you just might become a target too. It’s not that difficult to follow you home or to your work place.
Above all, remember: You’d feel justified in feeling insecure when you look at me.
After all, anything can happen.
Anywhere.
Even to you.
Sure, some of you even deign to throw a few coins at me, making sure not to touch my grubby hands. Who knows what kind of deadly diseases I might have. Not that I’m not grateful or anything, but how's a few coins going to help me? Seriously. Does it make you feel better? Like you've fulfilled your service to society? Like you've done your good deed for the day?
Some of you pretend not to see me at all. Why would you? After all, I just might ruin your appetite. Or worse, make you feel guilty about the nice food you're going to eat. Or the nice clothes you have. Or the secure world you seem to live in. What? Do I threaten you in some way? Make you feel insecure?
Well it should. Wanna know why? I'll tell you. I used to be like you once. Oh yes. It was years ago but I still remember. I used to have a wonderful family. A roof over my head. Clothes to wear. Food to eat. I even used to go to school! That is until a stranger offered me a ride home. Yeah, I used to be gullible, but not anymore. I never did reach my home. He made me get into an auto and then he blind-folded me. Said it was a surprise. Yeah, it was a surprise alright. Specially when he took me to some warehouse and broke my knees and blinded me in one eye. After that I remember a long train journey but I was in too much pain to notice anything else.
When we reached our destination, he took me to another warehouse where there were other kids like me. All handicapped in some way or the other. Talking in different languages. Wearing rags. I was also given rags in lieu of my school uniform. And there I was, just another face in a multitude of faces. We weren’t given much to eat. Just some stale bread and something that could have been water.
Life became routine after that. If you can call it life. Every morning, the man would come and pick us up in his car and drop us on some street corner with a dire warning that if we didn’t bring back a certain amount of money by the end of the day, he’d do worse to us than break our knees. We were left there to beg for our keep and were picked up every evening. All our money went to the man and in return, we got a place to stay and something that resembled food.
At first, I tried to escape but it was tough because of the language problem. Besides, nobody even spared a glance my way when I tried talking to them. I didn’t realize that I was being watched and every time I tried talking to someone, I was severely beaten at the end of the day. Once, I even tried talking to a policeman but that just earned me a box on my ears. Apparently cops don’t like helping us either. I think that was the worst day because that evening I was not only beaten, I was also molested. God, that was the worst punishment ever and I’d make damn sure I did not offend my captors again.
I’d like to think my parents tried to find me. Well, if they tried, they didn’t succeed. It’s been six years and I’m now twelve years old. They probably won’t recognize me even if they saw me. Oh heck, there’s nothing wrong with hoping. After all, hope is all I have.
So, the next time you see me at your car window, it would be nice if you didn’t treat me like a non-entity. It would be nice if you really would do your service to society and maybe throw some food my way instead of a few measly coins. And before you roll up your window or pretend to not notice me, just remember:
I used to be like you once.
If something like this could happen to me, it could happen to you as well.
I’m still being watched.
Act too smug and you just might become a target too. It’s not that difficult to follow you home or to your work place.
Above all, remember: You’d feel justified in feeling insecure when you look at me.
After all, anything can happen.
Anywhere.
Even to you.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Travel Rant
I used to love traveling. A lot. I thought it gave me the time I needed to catch up on my thoughts as well as reading my novels. Plus it provided the perfect escape from the monotony and stresses of college and home. I used to absolutely love traveling......until I started noticing a certain pattern. Either someone would already be in my seat and I'd have to haggle for it, or there'd be an utterly noisy baby in close proximity to me or there's be an extremely fat woman sitting next to me, squashing me half to death.
As far as the haggling for the seat on the train went, the popular response would be, "You're thin na? Why don't you adjust?" And the perpetrator would smugly move an inch and expect me to squeeze my skinny ass onto the seat. At first I used to comply but then I thought, why the hell should I? I have a reserved ticket and you don't. So you either get completely off the seat or I’m calling the ticket conductor.
I think the same principal applied to the obese people I always land up sitting next to. "You're thin na? Adjust." Ya well, I’m tired of adjusting, and I’m tired of being squashed up against the window and I’m tired of having the wind knocked out of me every time you shift in your seat. Besides, if you're going to overflow into other people's seats, you might as well buy an extra ticket! I know I sound rude but I’ve seriously had it with people who think it’s their sole right to sit on you just because they can.
And don't even get me started on kids yelling their lungs out somewhere in my vicinity during journeys. Seriously, these howling kids seem to follow me where ever I go. Whether it’s in a movie theatre or a bus or a train or even in a nice serene park, these little bawling cretins seems to be everywhere. Don't get me wrong. As a child psychologist, I have extreme tolerance for young children and most of my patients are generally well-behaved. And I do love children. It's just the uncontrollable ones that are the problem. But then again, if the children are uncontrollable, I think the parents are to blame.
Like a couple of days ago, I was traveling back to Bangalore in an Air Deccan flight. As we all know, Air Deccan has very small aircrafts that seat only 50 passengers and have only one flight attendant. I of course, had the misfortune of sitting just behind a French couple with three young children. The girl who was at the window was no trouble at all. She kept gawking at the passing clouds and was totally oblivious to everything around her. Her little brother was in the centre seat and the mother was in the aisle. Every time the little boy so much as burped, the mother would lean over and spank him. When he began to howl, she'd yell even louder for him to shut up. See, this is where punishing the parents would come in handy. I'm sure if someone had told the badly-behaving mother to shut up, the kids would have behaved themselves as well.
Oh heck, I’m just ranting. I believe that if you can't control your kids, don't bring them out in public. They only land up being a nuisance to others as well as you. And for the love of God, don't bloody bring your ill-behaved kids into confined spaces such as aircrafts and trains where their screams are just amplified even more. Who knows, maybe one of these days I just might turn around and smack you first and then throw you and your noisy brats over board.
Just for the heck of it.
As for the "Swalpa adjust madi" syndrome that other people seem to have, I've solved that problem by putting on weight. Now I'd probably have to ask them to adjust. Muahahaaa.
As far as the haggling for the seat on the train went, the popular response would be, "You're thin na? Why don't you adjust?" And the perpetrator would smugly move an inch and expect me to squeeze my skinny ass onto the seat. At first I used to comply but then I thought, why the hell should I? I have a reserved ticket and you don't. So you either get completely off the seat or I’m calling the ticket conductor.
I think the same principal applied to the obese people I always land up sitting next to. "You're thin na? Adjust." Ya well, I’m tired of adjusting, and I’m tired of being squashed up against the window and I’m tired of having the wind knocked out of me every time you shift in your seat. Besides, if you're going to overflow into other people's seats, you might as well buy an extra ticket! I know I sound rude but I’ve seriously had it with people who think it’s their sole right to sit on you just because they can.
And don't even get me started on kids yelling their lungs out somewhere in my vicinity during journeys. Seriously, these howling kids seem to follow me where ever I go. Whether it’s in a movie theatre or a bus or a train or even in a nice serene park, these little bawling cretins seems to be everywhere. Don't get me wrong. As a child psychologist, I have extreme tolerance for young children and most of my patients are generally well-behaved. And I do love children. It's just the uncontrollable ones that are the problem. But then again, if the children are uncontrollable, I think the parents are to blame.
Like a couple of days ago, I was traveling back to Bangalore in an Air Deccan flight. As we all know, Air Deccan has very small aircrafts that seat only 50 passengers and have only one flight attendant. I of course, had the misfortune of sitting just behind a French couple with three young children. The girl who was at the window was no trouble at all. She kept gawking at the passing clouds and was totally oblivious to everything around her. Her little brother was in the centre seat and the mother was in the aisle. Every time the little boy so much as burped, the mother would lean over and spank him. When he began to howl, she'd yell even louder for him to shut up. See, this is where punishing the parents would come in handy. I'm sure if someone had told the badly-behaving mother to shut up, the kids would have behaved themselves as well.
Oh heck, I’m just ranting. I believe that if you can't control your kids, don't bring them out in public. They only land up being a nuisance to others as well as you. And for the love of God, don't bloody bring your ill-behaved kids into confined spaces such as aircrafts and trains where their screams are just amplified even more. Who knows, maybe one of these days I just might turn around and smack you first and then throw you and your noisy brats over board.
Just for the heck of it.
As for the "Swalpa adjust madi" syndrome that other people seem to have, I've solved that problem by putting on weight. Now I'd probably have to ask them to adjust. Muahahaaa.
Monday, November 7, 2005
Scum
I'm watching you. Watching your every move.
And I know you're watching me. No, staring at me. I see speculation in your eyes. I look a bit like her, don't I?
You look surprised. I wonder why. You know. You know that I know. You know that I remember.
I remember. It may have been years ago, when I was a little girl, but I remember. The terrace party. I came downstairs for some juice and there you were. Feeling her up. Someone else's wife.
You begged me not to tell.You realised that I could have broken up two marriages. Just like that. Yours and hers.
You begged my not to tell. Made me swear. You said you'd never do it again. I shrugged and kept quiet. I was only eleven years old.What was I to do?
But you lied. I caught you with her again two years later. You had your tongue down her throat and your hands up her blouse.
You promised me the moon. Whatever I wanted. If only I'd keep my mouth shut. I didn't want anything from you. I avoided you as much as I possibly could. But you were always around. In my face. When you got transferred to a different city, i was the happiest.
You asked my to keep my mouth shut. I did. And I have. For thirteen years. But now you're testing my patience. Really. You're taunting me. Playing mind games with me. And you're watching me to see if I'll snap.
Oh, I'll snap, honey. But not right now. Not here. I'll snap when the time is right. And when I do, don't worry. I'll make your life a living hell.
You can taunt me how much ever you want. Now. Just know that you're time is coming. Soon.
I'm waiting.
I'm watching.
I know you're number.
And I know where you live.
And I know you're watching me. No, staring at me. I see speculation in your eyes. I look a bit like her, don't I?
You look surprised. I wonder why. You know. You know that I know. You know that I remember.
I remember. It may have been years ago, when I was a little girl, but I remember. The terrace party. I came downstairs for some juice and there you were. Feeling her up. Someone else's wife.
You begged me not to tell.You realised that I could have broken up two marriages. Just like that. Yours and hers.
You begged my not to tell. Made me swear. You said you'd never do it again. I shrugged and kept quiet. I was only eleven years old.What was I to do?
But you lied. I caught you with her again two years later. You had your tongue down her throat and your hands up her blouse.
You promised me the moon. Whatever I wanted. If only I'd keep my mouth shut. I didn't want anything from you. I avoided you as much as I possibly could. But you were always around. In my face. When you got transferred to a different city, i was the happiest.
You asked my to keep my mouth shut. I did. And I have. For thirteen years. But now you're testing my patience. Really. You're taunting me. Playing mind games with me. And you're watching me to see if I'll snap.
Oh, I'll snap, honey. But not right now. Not here. I'll snap when the time is right. And when I do, don't worry. I'll make your life a living hell.
You can taunt me how much ever you want. Now. Just know that you're time is coming. Soon.
I'm waiting.
I'm watching.
I know you're number.
And I know where you live.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Running Away
She took another drag of her cigarette and looked at the view. From her vantage point on the boulder, she saw the dismal valleys bellow and the stark plains beyond. The drought had played a game with the vineyards and won. Now, there was dry, barren land stretching for miles around. Wasteland.
This spot used to be her favourite refuge as a teenager. She had always had this bad habit of running away from her problems. Literally. Every time something went wrong that she could not handle, she'd take a long ride on her bike or catch the next train out of town and stay with some relatives until she could clear her head and pretend like nothing had happened. Not dealing with her problems was one way to deal with them, she thought sardonically. But this time, a long bike ride or a train journey wasn't going to fix things. This was something she could not run away from, even if she tried. She patted her swollen belly and took another drag. No, this was something she just could not run away from.
She flicked her cigarette over the precipice, watching it tumble down the hill. She used to come up here with her friends when she was younger. Those were the carefree days when they would all just pile into a car at a moments' notice, buy a couple of beers and head on out of the city up to the hills. It wasn't too far away. Just about 52 kilometers from her house. She had always associated these hills with laughter. That's why they were comforting when she was depressed.
She sighed and lit another Navy Cut. Smoking really soothed her.... calmed her. And in that hazy calmness, she could think rationally. Or at least, try.
It was weird how perceptions changed with moods. When you're happy, everything looks green and lush. When you're depressed, the same surroundings look barren and black. As black as your mood.
Another drag. Think rationally. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. Maybe she wouldn't have to face her parents' wrath. Maybe they'd understand. She patted her swollen belly again. Yeah right. Maybe they'd understand....in a million years or so.
She crushed the cigarette on the rock and flicked it down the hill, watching its descent until it finally came to rest a few feet below. A heavier object would fall much faster and farther. She stood up and brushed off her jeans. She patted her tummy again. I'm sorry, she thought.
Then she jumped.
This spot used to be her favourite refuge as a teenager. She had always had this bad habit of running away from her problems. Literally. Every time something went wrong that she could not handle, she'd take a long ride on her bike or catch the next train out of town and stay with some relatives until she could clear her head and pretend like nothing had happened. Not dealing with her problems was one way to deal with them, she thought sardonically. But this time, a long bike ride or a train journey wasn't going to fix things. This was something she could not run away from, even if she tried. She patted her swollen belly and took another drag. No, this was something she just could not run away from.
She flicked her cigarette over the precipice, watching it tumble down the hill. She used to come up here with her friends when she was younger. Those were the carefree days when they would all just pile into a car at a moments' notice, buy a couple of beers and head on out of the city up to the hills. It wasn't too far away. Just about 52 kilometers from her house. She had always associated these hills with laughter. That's why they were comforting when she was depressed.
She sighed and lit another Navy Cut. Smoking really soothed her.... calmed her. And in that hazy calmness, she could think rationally. Or at least, try.
It was weird how perceptions changed with moods. When you're happy, everything looks green and lush. When you're depressed, the same surroundings look barren and black. As black as your mood.
Another drag. Think rationally. Maybe things weren't as bad as they seemed. Maybe she wouldn't have to face her parents' wrath. Maybe they'd understand. She patted her swollen belly again. Yeah right. Maybe they'd understand....in a million years or so.
She crushed the cigarette on the rock and flicked it down the hill, watching its descent until it finally came to rest a few feet below. A heavier object would fall much faster and farther. She stood up and brushed off her jeans. She patted her tummy again. I'm sorry, she thought.
Then she jumped.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Opera-Singing Banshees
One of my pet peeves (and yes, I have many) are my neighbours. Okay, maybe I shouldn't use the plural for that. The neighbours on one side of my house are dead quiet and are no trouble at all. Well, they wouldn't be, would they? They all reside peacefully in their respective graves. It’s the neighbours on the other side of my house that irk me.
I know I have blogged about them before, but seriously, you just have to meet them to understand.
Meet half-deaf papa neighbour. He's in his mid thirties and can't hear in one ear; hence, screams to hear himself. Meet gun-throat mama neighbour. She's also in her mid thirties and loves to laugh and talk at the same time, hence having to repeat herself several times over in her efforts to be understood. And all this is done at loud-speaker volume for papa neighbour dearest to hear. Now we come to the baby neighbours whom we shall name Banshee and Opera-singer. Both of them, having learnt at a young age that papa dearest cannot hear them unless they talk loudly; have acquired the skillful art of talking at ear-splitting volume. This comes naturally to them now. Banshee is about ten years old and loves to wake up her younger brother (Opera-singer) at 5.30 am, just to hear him sing. His singing, to us, mere mortals, sounds like wailing and bawling but, to the higher beings, must be pure music.
The wailing, er…I meant singing, once started, does not stop until 6 am. This is when gun-throat mama neighbour decides that Banshee should be reprimanded and commences to do so with the utmost volume. Banshee, not one to be outdone, begins a screeching competition with her mother. This in turn, wakes up half-deaf papa neighbour who begins to yell at his tribe for waking him up in the first place.
All this happens just outside my window.
They seem to have invented a game called Screaming Mindlessly. Plot of the game. Pretend that you’re being stabbed over and over again. Rules of the game. Scream as loud as you can.
My mother once complained to them that they were making too much noise. Gun-throat mama neighbour retorted saying, “This is my house and my children and my life. Butt out.”
Okay. So. This is my house and my 2000W audio music system. Deal with it. 6 in the morning did you say? Okay. Metallica should be just fine then. If confrontation doesn’t work, passive aggressive behaviour will. Besides, it’s more fun. Every time they make too much noise, up goes my music volume. See? Fun.
Besides, I have the a feeling that by the time its time for their tenth standard public exams, I will be married and have children of my own. And I will make sure that I play Screaming Mindlessly with my children every damn day during that time.
Revenge is mine!
Long Live Passive Agressiveness.
I know I have blogged about them before, but seriously, you just have to meet them to understand.
Meet half-deaf papa neighbour. He's in his mid thirties and can't hear in one ear; hence, screams to hear himself. Meet gun-throat mama neighbour. She's also in her mid thirties and loves to laugh and talk at the same time, hence having to repeat herself several times over in her efforts to be understood. And all this is done at loud-speaker volume for papa neighbour dearest to hear. Now we come to the baby neighbours whom we shall name Banshee and Opera-singer. Both of them, having learnt at a young age that papa dearest cannot hear them unless they talk loudly; have acquired the skillful art of talking at ear-splitting volume. This comes naturally to them now. Banshee is about ten years old and loves to wake up her younger brother (Opera-singer) at 5.30 am, just to hear him sing. His singing, to us, mere mortals, sounds like wailing and bawling but, to the higher beings, must be pure music.
The wailing, er…I meant singing, once started, does not stop until 6 am. This is when gun-throat mama neighbour decides that Banshee should be reprimanded and commences to do so with the utmost volume. Banshee, not one to be outdone, begins a screeching competition with her mother. This in turn, wakes up half-deaf papa neighbour who begins to yell at his tribe for waking him up in the first place.
All this happens just outside my window.
They seem to have invented a game called Screaming Mindlessly. Plot of the game. Pretend that you’re being stabbed over and over again. Rules of the game. Scream as loud as you can.
My mother once complained to them that they were making too much noise. Gun-throat mama neighbour retorted saying, “This is my house and my children and my life. Butt out.”
Okay. So. This is my house and my 2000W audio music system. Deal with it. 6 in the morning did you say? Okay. Metallica should be just fine then. If confrontation doesn’t work, passive aggressive behaviour will. Besides, it’s more fun. Every time they make too much noise, up goes my music volume. See? Fun.
Besides, I have the a feeling that by the time its time for their tenth standard public exams, I will be married and have children of my own. And I will make sure that I play Screaming Mindlessly with my children every damn day during that time.
Revenge is mine!
Long Live Passive Agressiveness.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Ghosts in the Dark
Imagination is probably your worst enemy when you're terrified.
This is me, sixteen years ago. We'd just moved into our new house and all was well.....until I realized that there was a graveyard just behind my room. Luckily, at that time, there were no windows in my room that overlooked the graveyard so I could just pretend it wasn't there.
My parents took part in a lot of social events and were hardly ever at home....which left me to my own devices. At these times, my neighbours used to baby-sit me. The woman who lived in the first floor of my neighbour's house prided herself on her ability to see ghosts. "I was born with a thin white film over my eyes," she would say, "which enables me to see all kinds of supernatural beings. Why, once, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a man sitting at the edge of my bed and looking down at me! His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He then caught hold of my feet and I screamed and put the lights on and there was nobody there!"
Now, sixteen years later (and in broad daylight) I think that it was probably her spinster fantasies talking, but at that time, this story really creeped me out. The kicker came when we built our first floor a few years later. She called me aside and in a conspiratorial whisper thanked me. I wanted to know what she was thanking me for. She had a vague smile on her face as she confided, "You know, after you built your first floor, you've blocked my view of the graveyard and I haven't had a "visitation" since. Maybe now the ghosts get caught in your house on the way to mine!"
That spooked the living daylights out of me. That’s when my imagination started running riot and the nightmares began. I started imagining ghosts at every dark corner and crevice of my room. I began to avoid coming upstairs alone for now, my new room afforded a splendid view of the graveyard in all its majesty. My parents quickly got tired of escorting me upstairs and my mother bought me a small ornate silver cross. "Keep this in your pocket always and nothing will be able to harm you," she said. It was some small consolation. I began clinging to the cross every time I even thought of coming upstairs and for a time, it worked....until my imagination got the better of me again.
My first funeral. I was in my room when I heard it. The drums beating outside. I looked out and there, just below my window was the funeral procession. About six people were carrying a small coffin while others were beating drums and bawling their lungs out, heading towards the graveyard. I watched, entranced, as the service unfolded and the coffin was buried. That night, after an especially horrifying nightmare, I woke up in a cold sweat. My room was pitch dark. The only thing I could see was the slightly luminescent screen of my computer monitor. But that’s not what spooked me. What spooked me was the feeling that I was no longer alone in my room. As I looked towards the computer, I saw a young girl with shoulder-length silverish hair sitting at my chair and gazing into the computer screen. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, but she wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the computer.
I rushed into my parents room and dived under the covers with them, refusing to step foot into my room until she was gone. My mother dutifully checked my room and reported nothing strange. Or no one strange. But even so, I refused to sleep alone that entire week and had the computer shifted to my parents’ room. My grandfather made it worse by telling me to always check under my bed before going to sleep every night. You never know….
That’s when the silver ornate cross that my mother had given me really came in handy. We were inseparable, even in the daytime. Just having it in my pocket gave me the courage to face dark rooms. I remember imagining hungry monsters waiting in my room, ready to pounce on me. That’s when I’d squeeze the cross in my pocket and lunge at the light switch. The evil would always dissipate when the lights came on.
Then, one day, when I was upstairs alone, I realized that I didn’t have the cross with me. I panicked but at the same time I realized that I had been upstairs for over an hour and nothing bad had happened. No hands had sidled out from under the bed and caught hold of my ankles. No monsters had jumped out at me and said the proverbial “boo.” I was quite safe and okay. I didn’t need the cross for protection. It was all in my head.
From that day on, my fears of the dark slowly began to abate. I would even make fun of my “ghostly” experiences and use them to scare my friends when they came home for sleepovers. After all, the dark terrace with its awesome view of the graveyard was an ideal place for midnight ghost stories.
But even after all these years, I still have the cross. I’ve hung it up on the wall that faces the graveyard. You know, just in case…..
As for my wayward imagination, it still runs riot at the very thought of ghosts and monsters. But I’ve learned to ignore it….just as I’m ignoring the thing staring over my shoulder right now and reading this blog.
This is me, sixteen years ago. We'd just moved into our new house and all was well.....until I realized that there was a graveyard just behind my room. Luckily, at that time, there were no windows in my room that overlooked the graveyard so I could just pretend it wasn't there.
My parents took part in a lot of social events and were hardly ever at home....which left me to my own devices. At these times, my neighbours used to baby-sit me. The woman who lived in the first floor of my neighbour's house prided herself on her ability to see ghosts. "I was born with a thin white film over my eyes," she would say, "which enables me to see all kinds of supernatural beings. Why, once, I woke up in the middle of the night and there was a man sitting at the edge of my bed and looking down at me! His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word he was saying. He then caught hold of my feet and I screamed and put the lights on and there was nobody there!"
Now, sixteen years later (and in broad daylight) I think that it was probably her spinster fantasies talking, but at that time, this story really creeped me out. The kicker came when we built our first floor a few years later. She called me aside and in a conspiratorial whisper thanked me. I wanted to know what she was thanking me for. She had a vague smile on her face as she confided, "You know, after you built your first floor, you've blocked my view of the graveyard and I haven't had a "visitation" since. Maybe now the ghosts get caught in your house on the way to mine!"
That spooked the living daylights out of me. That’s when my imagination started running riot and the nightmares began. I started imagining ghosts at every dark corner and crevice of my room. I began to avoid coming upstairs alone for now, my new room afforded a splendid view of the graveyard in all its majesty. My parents quickly got tired of escorting me upstairs and my mother bought me a small ornate silver cross. "Keep this in your pocket always and nothing will be able to harm you," she said. It was some small consolation. I began clinging to the cross every time I even thought of coming upstairs and for a time, it worked....until my imagination got the better of me again.
My first funeral. I was in my room when I heard it. The drums beating outside. I looked out and there, just below my window was the funeral procession. About six people were carrying a small coffin while others were beating drums and bawling their lungs out, heading towards the graveyard. I watched, entranced, as the service unfolded and the coffin was buried. That night, after an especially horrifying nightmare, I woke up in a cold sweat. My room was pitch dark. The only thing I could see was the slightly luminescent screen of my computer monitor. But that’s not what spooked me. What spooked me was the feeling that I was no longer alone in my room. As I looked towards the computer, I saw a young girl with shoulder-length silverish hair sitting at my chair and gazing into the computer screen. Her hands were poised over the keyboard, but she wasn't moving. She was just sitting there, staring at the computer.
I rushed into my parents room and dived under the covers with them, refusing to step foot into my room until she was gone. My mother dutifully checked my room and reported nothing strange. Or no one strange. But even so, I refused to sleep alone that entire week and had the computer shifted to my parents’ room. My grandfather made it worse by telling me to always check under my bed before going to sleep every night. You never know….
That’s when the silver ornate cross that my mother had given me really came in handy. We were inseparable, even in the daytime. Just having it in my pocket gave me the courage to face dark rooms. I remember imagining hungry monsters waiting in my room, ready to pounce on me. That’s when I’d squeeze the cross in my pocket and lunge at the light switch. The evil would always dissipate when the lights came on.
Then, one day, when I was upstairs alone, I realized that I didn’t have the cross with me. I panicked but at the same time I realized that I had been upstairs for over an hour and nothing bad had happened. No hands had sidled out from under the bed and caught hold of my ankles. No monsters had jumped out at me and said the proverbial “boo.” I was quite safe and okay. I didn’t need the cross for protection. It was all in my head.
From that day on, my fears of the dark slowly began to abate. I would even make fun of my “ghostly” experiences and use them to scare my friends when they came home for sleepovers. After all, the dark terrace with its awesome view of the graveyard was an ideal place for midnight ghost stories.
But even after all these years, I still have the cross. I’ve hung it up on the wall that faces the graveyard. You know, just in case…..
As for my wayward imagination, it still runs riot at the very thought of ghosts and monsters. But I’ve learned to ignore it….just as I’m ignoring the thing staring over my shoulder right now and reading this blog.
Friday, October 21, 2005
War Torn
Silent ghosts of the past...whispered memories....echoes...it all comes back.
"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."
"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.
I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.
Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.
The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.
A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.
She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.
Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.
And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.
A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.
Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.
"I'm leaving, Amma, I'm sorry. But don't worry. When i come back, I'll be a hero. I'll win the medal for bravery and it'll be just for you. We'll hang it up in the show case so that everyone will see..." He prattles on, the way young idealistic soldiers do. "...and then we can move to a bigger house..."
"Don't worry, Vysh," says a deeper, more mature voice at my side. Turning, i see my husband. He smiles reassuringly at me. "I'll bring him back safely." He squeezes my shoulders and bends to kiss my tear-stained cheeks.
I stand at the gate watching the tall lanky frame of my only son and the muscular physique of my husband dissolve into the night. That picture becomes hazy as I myself dissolve into tears.
Weeks...months....eons...and I still stand by the gate, waiting. Waiting for the two men who mean the world to me to come back. Waiting and praying. Praying and waiting. Helpless.
The world goes about its business. And I, ever waiting, every praying, watch the world. The milk man, the paper man, the vegetable vendor, the post man...all go about their duties as though all is right with the world.
A hand on my shoulder. I turn and look into gray, compassionate eyes. Dhadhima and I had shared a common bond ever since the war had started...We were both mothers whose sons had been drafted to the front.
She sits beside me and holds my hands. Together, we watch the dark mists that shroud the world.
Shadows in the mist. Echoes in the dark. Voices tainted with agony. The mist thickens. Eons give way to eras. Minutes stretch to eternity. And finally...the dawn of a new era. The mist clears, but not entirely. Voices...different ones this time....talking about love, peace and brotherhood among nations. Dreams...echoes of peace.
And finally....a bright new day. A new world. The shrouded mists become dewy mists. The war was over. My heroes were coming back.
A tall lanky frame, hardly recognizable. Long gray hair, unkempt. A face lined with experience and pain. I throw my arms about him as he steps through the gate and he holds me tight. Not a word is said. In his clenched fist is a medal. A medal for bravery.
Dhadhima is still standing near the gate, looking expectantly at the mist. She slowly turns and looks at me. Fresh tears brew as realization hits us. Hits us both and shatters us as a thousand hand grenades never could. My son had come back......but hers never would.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Apprentices
This was written sometime in 2001 after my first day of work in an Advertising Agency. Oh, and we (Saps and me) actually had the gall to submit this along with our first assignment, which was to write a synopsis of a book on Account Management. Luckily our boss had a good sense of humour or we would have been fired the very next day!
With hearts beating rapidly, they crept into the office - only to find their boss glaring at them.
"Your assignment," he thundered, dropping a book that could have been a combination of a large sized dictionary and a telephone directory (complete with yellow pages) in front of them.
The book, weighed down with knowledge overflowing from it, sapped their energy as they hobbled over to the desk with it. On opening it, they gasped, for in it, lay a whole array of words strung together to form undecipherable sentences. The more they gazed at it, the more it swam before their eyes, distorting all images of what is and what is not.
Focusing their combined energy on J. W. Thompson's Account Management, they unsuccessfully tried to decode the mysteries of how to become an Account Manager, but no matter how much they tried, the truth always managed to elude them.
Under the watchful gaze of the frowning boss, they pretended to be engrossed in the adventures of the account manager, while all the time contemplating, "Why meeeeeeee?"
As the telephones noisily came to life all around them, they could feel their own life seeping away until, by noon, they were nothing but wilted wall flowers, just sitting there.... withering away...
Finally, their grumbling stomachs brought them out of their stupor and they decided to appease their hunger. The unappetizing food revitalized them and filled them with the desire to catch the bull by its horns, or, rather, the book by its covers and just go for it. So, with light hearts and heavy stomachs, they headed back to the office only to encounter - The Book.
They threw themselves wholeheartedly into their first assignment and, in their (un)deranged state of mind, somehow, to a certain extent, managed to unravel the great mystery of - The Account Manager.
With hearts beating rapidly, they crept into the office - only to find their boss glaring at them.
"Your assignment," he thundered, dropping a book that could have been a combination of a large sized dictionary and a telephone directory (complete with yellow pages) in front of them.
The book, weighed down with knowledge overflowing from it, sapped their energy as they hobbled over to the desk with it. On opening it, they gasped, for in it, lay a whole array of words strung together to form undecipherable sentences. The more they gazed at it, the more it swam before their eyes, distorting all images of what is and what is not.
Focusing their combined energy on J. W. Thompson's Account Management, they unsuccessfully tried to decode the mysteries of how to become an Account Manager, but no matter how much they tried, the truth always managed to elude them.
Under the watchful gaze of the frowning boss, they pretended to be engrossed in the adventures of the account manager, while all the time contemplating, "Why meeeeeeee?"
As the telephones noisily came to life all around them, they could feel their own life seeping away until, by noon, they were nothing but wilted wall flowers, just sitting there.... withering away...
Finally, their grumbling stomachs brought them out of their stupor and they decided to appease their hunger. The unappetizing food revitalized them and filled them with the desire to catch the bull by its horns, or, rather, the book by its covers and just go for it. So, with light hearts and heavy stomachs, they headed back to the office only to encounter - The Book.
They threw themselves wholeheartedly into their first assignment and, in their (un)deranged state of mind, somehow, to a certain extent, managed to unravel the great mystery of - The Account Manager.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
The Darkness and the Light
Once upon a time, two men were imprisoned in two separate, identical rooms for an indefinite period of time. The rooms were pitch dark. There were no light bulbs, no tube lights, no switches, no furniture. They were given one candle each with a book of matches.
The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.
The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.
Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.
The first man lit a match. It burnt bright for a second but then it blew out. "I'll preserve these matches," he thought, "since i do not know how long i will be a prisoner. They might come in handy later." So saying, he kept them in a corner and waited out the rest of his days in that cold, dank, dark room.
The second man lit a match. It burnt for a second but then it blew out. "Hmm," he thought, "There seems to be an opening somewhere in this room from which the draft that blew out my match came from." So saying, he lit another match and watched the direction of its flame as it blew out. He walked in the opposite direction and sure enough, he felt a light breeze coming from a hole in the wall. He stretched out his hand towards the hole in the wall and to his amazement, the wall moved. He lit another match and in the second that it sparked, he saw that what he thought was a wall, was actually a door. An ajar door. He walked out. Free.
Most of us take life for granted and just wait for good things to happen to us. Maybe its time we got off our asses and did something about it.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
News Update
I came back to Bangalore about an hour ago. Came home just now. No dogs to welcome me, which is quite strange as they generally wait near the end of the road for us. Mom is in tears and has landed up getting a migraine. She was apparently too upset to go to work yesterday. Apparently Brownie bit someone yesterday and that person lodged a complaint with the Dog Pound. The Pound got a written order to take the dogs away. No amount of begging and pleading worked, although all the neighbours tried. An order was an order. Both Brownie and Bouncer were carted away in the Doggie van.
I don't think they're ever coming back. :(
I don't think they're ever coming back. :(
In A Nutshell
Snail mail. Good news. Acceptance letter. PG Course. Different college. Different city. Different state.
Packing. Tearful goodbyes.
Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!
First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.
Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.
Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!
Second Semester.
Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.
Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.
Christmas at home. Speeding time.
New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.
Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!
Awesome holidays.
Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.
Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.
Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.
Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.
Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.
Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.
Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!
Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.
Blissful independance.
Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.
December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.
Utterly depressing birthday.
Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.
Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.
Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.
Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.
Back to Bangalore.
Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.
Packing. Tearful goodbyes.
Hostel. Checking in. Unpacking. Final farewells. Initiation. Ragging. Making friends. Sharing rooms. Midnight parties. Fun!
First day of college. Introductions. New classmates. Learning names. Learning faces. Learning.
Exploring college. Exploring the city. Exploring shopping malls.
Coffee shop. Free sms. Crank sms. Making friends. Phone calls. Exciting!
Second Semester.
Beach house. Girl's night. Surprise birthday party. Bonding.
Spencer lunches. More coffee shops. Movies. Sparks. Banned phonecalls. Heart ache. Lousy birthday.
Christmas at home. Speeding time.
New Year's. Pongal holidays. Loafing. Bad news. Black days. Teary nights. Funeral. Depression.
Frenzied studying. Sleepless nights. Final exams. End of semester. Back home!
Awesome holidays.
Third semester. Back to the grind. Internships. Case studies. Research methodology. Dreaded statistics.
Psychotic room mate. Dreaded hostel. Midnight tears and confidences. Sleepless nights. Drowning. Breaking. Obsessive phonecalls. Counselling. Packing bags. Running away. Goodbye hostel. Goodbye schizophrenic roommate. Goodbye madness.
Wild saturday nights. Phone-sickness. Phone obsession. Dreaded end. Heartbreak. Heartache. Dissent into madness. Again.
Class trip to Bangalore. Partying! Partying! Partying! Good food. Bonding sessions. Fun.
Another lousy birthday. Lousy Christmas hols. Lousy New Years'.
Fourth semester. Frenzied rushing around. Project done. Final corrections. Final Submissions. PG over. Back home. Jobless bliss.
Application for MPhil. Lousy entrance exam. Lousy interview. Acceptance letter. Back to Chennai!
Start afresh. New hostel. New classmates. New church. New friends.
Blissful independance.
Coffee shops. Tearful farewells. Angry rantings. Helpless.
December blues. Back home. Club X. Interesting night. New friend.
Utterly depressing birthday.
Carol Rounds. Sneaking out. Meet the parents...the first time. New Years at church. Party after. Talking all night. Being together. Bliss.
Back to Chennai. Frenzied work. Speacial papers. Research. More research. Submissions. Deadlines. Hostel solitude. Studying. Studying. Final exams.
Research. Writing. Typing. Thesis. Deadline. Torture. Missed deadlines. Running around. Pulling out hair. Nit picking. Brain picking. Homicidal tendencies.
Final submissions. Relief. Final viva. Mphil over.
Back to Bangalore.
Sigh. Chennai. I'll miss you.
Wednesday, October 5, 2005
Pay-per View
Good morning, sir. I am your guide for today. I will be guiding you through the various intricacies and wonders of ...yes! You guessed it! The passport office! Would you care to join me at the back of this long-ish line? I assure you, sir. It just looks long. Trust me, sir. The wait is much longer.
Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.
No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.
Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?
OH.
Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.
Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!
Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!
Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?
Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???
OH
Ah. You must be lucky, sir, look! From where we stand, we have a most advantageous view of the entire outside of the passport office. Notice the damp walls, so inviting....so invigorating ....for that cluster of insects. Try not to go too close, sir, they may bite. What's that sir? Oh yes yes yes. Speaking of bites, you can live vicariously by feasting your eyes and empty stomach on the restaurant right across the street. Yes yes, The Passport Restaurant is a very novel name for a restaurant. Note the neo-modern decor! The extravagant buffet! The stunning array of food! And, yes, its all for the taking right after you're done with the passport office.
No sir, it won't take long for the gates to open. Just another hour or so. But of course, the doors are a different issue. Now that might take about two hours. No no sir. Thats excluding the one hour wait outside the gates.
Ah. You must be really lucky sir, look! They're opening the gates! Now, run, sir, run! We don't want to get trampled now, do we? Whats, that, sir? Now whats that supposed to mean?
OH.
Do you work out, sir? You did a pretty good job of running to the front of the line just then. Yes, sir. I work out, too. Have to stay in shape to catch up with my clients you see. Some of them run so fast when the gates open that I sometimes lose them in the crowd. Whats, that, sir? I didn't quite hear you. Something about it being the point? Oh, never mind.
Let me interest you in the various sights to behold inside the compound of the passport office, sir. This is only visible to the vigilant eye. Did you know that you can tell a person from his spit? That's right! For instance, take the wall you are leaning against, sir. Note that there are six different colours of spit on it. No no sir. Get back in line or you'll lose your place in the queue!
Did you know monkeys are very possessive? If they grab something from you, you dare not chase it or else they tend to get violent. I suggest that you put your passport into your pocket or into your folder right away sir. It is, after all, another tedious but extremely educational job to get it replaced. Whats, that, sir? Oh, i brought up the subject about monkeys and passports because the one above you on the ledge has been staring rather intently at your passport for quite some time now, sir. Sir! Sir! I insist that you get back in line right now!
Hark! Do you hear? The inner doors are opening. It wont be long until you are invited in, sir. No, no, I will not be able to guide you once you are inside, sir. Sir? Are you crying or laughing?
Well, I must bid you farewell, sir. This is where I take my leave. That will be 500 bucks plus tax for the tour down the line, sir. Whats that. sir? Stick it up where???
OH
Friday, September 30, 2005
Death Threats
It's ironic, the way things work out. The same person who tried to kill her three years ago, actually saved her today.
Or, at least, for the time being. If I’m being incoherent, it’s because I'm still upset about the entire thing.
I guess it started eleven years ago when she decided to adopt herself into our neighbourhood. We named her Brownie for obvious reasons. Everything including her nose and eyes were brown. She was a pedigree dog, but for some reason, had strayed from her owners and had found us, her new family. She was adorable, and, needless to say, was doted on by the entire neighbourhood. That was until they showed up.
They would be my new neighbours. The pregnant mama, her half-deaf husband, their two year old daughter with the lung power of an opera singer, the half-deaf husband's brother and his pregnant wife. Quite a village. And, judging by their behaviour, probably originated in a village as well.
This was three years ago. By this time, Brownie had had her third litter and we had given away all her puppies except one, whom we named Bouncer.
One Sunday afternoon, I heard Brownie yelp loudly. It was a completely inhuman yelp. That is to say, it was horrifying. I went out to check but couldn't find her anywhere. After a few more minutes, I heard her yelp again. This time, my neighbours from the opposite house came out. I thought that maybe the sound had come from the next house so I peered into their house from the balcony.....and started screaming uncontrollably.
There is a grilled gate at the centre of my neighbour's garage. Brownie was on one side of the gate and my half-deaf neighbour and his brother were at the other side of the gate. They were pulling at a noose that went around Brownie's neck. The poor dog was jammed up against the gate while they tried to break her neck from the other side. Bouncer was standing beside his mother and whimpering.
My dad had woken up by this time and bolted downstairs. He threw open the neighbour's gate and demanded to know what was happening. "The dog kept barking at my wife and sister-in-law," Half-deaf replied. "They both are pregnant. We thought the dog would bite so we killed it."
On hearing this, I began yelling at him, yelling like I’d never yelled at anyone before. "You want your dog?" he asked me with scorn. "Here, take it. It's dead already." He picked up her limp body and threw it out of his house, slamming the gate behind him.
I picked up Bouncer and cradled him in my lap while the other neighbours picked up Brownie. To our surprise, she stirred and then wriggled free, whimpering all the while. We slowly removed the rope from around her neck. It had burned her neck and left a black scar on her brown fur. She could barely move but didn't want to be petted by any of us either. She slowly hobbled away with Bouncer following, and we didn't see her again for three days. When she returned, she was completely back to normal...barking at strangers and growling at the neighbours.
I never really made an attempt to get to know my neighbours after this incident. I thought of them as barbarians and completely stayed away from them and made sure that they stay away from the dogs as well. In fact, there was a growing animosity towards them on my side....until this morning.
This morning was one of the scariest days of my life. I heard a noise outside and when I looked out the window, I saw a man chasing Brownie and Bouncer with a sickle. I thought that maybe he would leave them alone, now that they were safely under my car but he kept yelling and trying to cut them with the knife.
By the time I rushed downstairs and got my gate open, my next door neighbour and opposite house neighbour had come out and were yelling at him. It was the same story once again. Brownie had barked at him so he wanted to kill her. Even with all of us standing outside and yelling, he kept coming at her with his sickle. Finally the next door neighbour put her foot down and told him that he absolutely could NOT come any closer. This from a woman who had wanted the same dog dead only three years earlier.
While he was giving us his explanation and waving his knife at us, I saw one of the neighbour's gates opening and Bouncer slinking inside. The gate was silently shut behind him. Brownie was safely under my car. Suddenly, she stuck her head out from under the car and growled at the man. He immediately lunged for her. I stepped in front of him just in time. He looked straight at me and said, "You're like a sister to me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to kill the dog." I stood my ground so he backed off a little. By this time, his wife had walked up behind him and slowly took the knife from his hand.
He did not budge. He looked at me and said, "Don't worry. Sometime when you're not at home, I’ll bring a bigger knife and cut up both your dogs." So saying, he left.
My next house neighbour and I stood outside until he was gone. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing and crying at the same time. I swear I could have hugged her just then.
Maybe this is a good time to bridge our differences. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out a way to keep Brownie and Bouncer safe from knife-wielding maniacs when we’re not home.
Or, at least, for the time being. If I’m being incoherent, it’s because I'm still upset about the entire thing.
I guess it started eleven years ago when she decided to adopt herself into our neighbourhood. We named her Brownie for obvious reasons. Everything including her nose and eyes were brown. She was a pedigree dog, but for some reason, had strayed from her owners and had found us, her new family. She was adorable, and, needless to say, was doted on by the entire neighbourhood. That was until they showed up.
They would be my new neighbours. The pregnant mama, her half-deaf husband, their two year old daughter with the lung power of an opera singer, the half-deaf husband's brother and his pregnant wife. Quite a village. And, judging by their behaviour, probably originated in a village as well.
This was three years ago. By this time, Brownie had had her third litter and we had given away all her puppies except one, whom we named Bouncer.
One Sunday afternoon, I heard Brownie yelp loudly. It was a completely inhuman yelp. That is to say, it was horrifying. I went out to check but couldn't find her anywhere. After a few more minutes, I heard her yelp again. This time, my neighbours from the opposite house came out. I thought that maybe the sound had come from the next house so I peered into their house from the balcony.....and started screaming uncontrollably.
There is a grilled gate at the centre of my neighbour's garage. Brownie was on one side of the gate and my half-deaf neighbour and his brother were at the other side of the gate. They were pulling at a noose that went around Brownie's neck. The poor dog was jammed up against the gate while they tried to break her neck from the other side. Bouncer was standing beside his mother and whimpering.
My dad had woken up by this time and bolted downstairs. He threw open the neighbour's gate and demanded to know what was happening. "The dog kept barking at my wife and sister-in-law," Half-deaf replied. "They both are pregnant. We thought the dog would bite so we killed it."
On hearing this, I began yelling at him, yelling like I’d never yelled at anyone before. "You want your dog?" he asked me with scorn. "Here, take it. It's dead already." He picked up her limp body and threw it out of his house, slamming the gate behind him.
I picked up Bouncer and cradled him in my lap while the other neighbours picked up Brownie. To our surprise, she stirred and then wriggled free, whimpering all the while. We slowly removed the rope from around her neck. It had burned her neck and left a black scar on her brown fur. She could barely move but didn't want to be petted by any of us either. She slowly hobbled away with Bouncer following, and we didn't see her again for three days. When she returned, she was completely back to normal...barking at strangers and growling at the neighbours.
I never really made an attempt to get to know my neighbours after this incident. I thought of them as barbarians and completely stayed away from them and made sure that they stay away from the dogs as well. In fact, there was a growing animosity towards them on my side....until this morning.
This morning was one of the scariest days of my life. I heard a noise outside and when I looked out the window, I saw a man chasing Brownie and Bouncer with a sickle. I thought that maybe he would leave them alone, now that they were safely under my car but he kept yelling and trying to cut them with the knife.
By the time I rushed downstairs and got my gate open, my next door neighbour and opposite house neighbour had come out and were yelling at him. It was the same story once again. Brownie had barked at him so he wanted to kill her. Even with all of us standing outside and yelling, he kept coming at her with his sickle. Finally the next door neighbour put her foot down and told him that he absolutely could NOT come any closer. This from a woman who had wanted the same dog dead only three years earlier.
While he was giving us his explanation and waving his knife at us, I saw one of the neighbour's gates opening and Bouncer slinking inside. The gate was silently shut behind him. Brownie was safely under my car. Suddenly, she stuck her head out from under the car and growled at the man. He immediately lunged for her. I stepped in front of him just in time. He looked straight at me and said, "You're like a sister to me. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to kill the dog." I stood my ground so he backed off a little. By this time, his wife had walked up behind him and slowly took the knife from his hand.
He did not budge. He looked at me and said, "Don't worry. Sometime when you're not at home, I’ll bring a bigger knife and cut up both your dogs." So saying, he left.
My next house neighbour and I stood outside until he was gone. Then we looked at each other and burst out laughing and crying at the same time. I swear I could have hugged her just then.
Maybe this is a good time to bridge our differences. I don’t know. But for now, I have to figure out a way to keep Brownie and Bouncer safe from knife-wielding maniacs when we’re not home.
Friday, September 16, 2005
Hope
The chasm deepens. Darkness falls. The blackness undulates like waves of sluggish oil. The yawning maw of oblivion beckons. And I. Surrender. Gladly.
Deeper into the rippling pitch I fall, entranced. Sucked. Suctioned. Plumetting. Flying. And then. The gentle sun of a mellow day. Brilliant in its contrast to the ever fading darkness. Lush trees and babbling riverlets. Snow-clad mountains in the distance. Flower-manicured bushes lining pitch roads. A cool, summer breeze gently ruffling leaves and flowers.
Hope.
Deeper into the rippling pitch I fall, entranced. Sucked. Suctioned. Plumetting. Flying. And then. The gentle sun of a mellow day. Brilliant in its contrast to the ever fading darkness. Lush trees and babbling riverlets. Snow-clad mountains in the distance. Flower-manicured bushes lining pitch roads. A cool, summer breeze gently ruffling leaves and flowers.
Hope.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
ONE DAY...
...........you’ll wake up and realize that you’ve slept your life away.
...........when you’ve finally found yourself, you’ll realize that you’ve lost everyone else.
...........you’ll look back on your childhood and wonder, “Did I really have one?”
...........you’ll look down at the ashes and realize that life has passed you by.
It wouldn’t hurt to .....
..........live life ..... just a little.
...........when you’ve finally found yourself, you’ll realize that you’ve lost everyone else.
...........you’ll look back on your childhood and wonder, “Did I really have one?”
...........you’ll look down at the ashes and realize that life has passed you by.
It wouldn’t hurt to .....
..........live life ..... just a little.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Cheek Pulling Hand Slappers
So here I am, at my so-called childhood friend's wedding. Childhood friend because I've known him all my life. So-called because I've spoken to him like three times in the entire twenty three years that I've known him. The church looks absolutely beautiful. I sit near the aisle so I can view the entire proceedings.
The organ begins to play and the bridegroom and his entourage walk in and take their places at the front of the church. The organist then begins to play the bridal march and we all turn around to see the bride walking down the aisle. First, the church pastor walks in, then the flower girls, the brides' maid and then the bride and her father walk down the aisle. Except I was too busy gaping at the church pastor to notice anyone else. He was none other than my cheek puller from the week before - Pastor Kurvilla. He must have gotten a promotion along the way, cos he was no longer the assistant pastor but the Presbitor In Charge of this particular church.
Bumping into my cheek-puller twice in the one week that I happen to be in Bangalore is way beyond coincidences. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the wedding trying to avoid him.
I hate weddings. No wait, let me rephrase. I hate crowded places. I hate being jostled around and elbowed. To make things worse, it began to rain. Worse still was the fact that the wedding reception was being held on army grounds - open air. Goodbye designer shoes and saris. Hello bad mood.
I was so intent on avoiding Pastor Kurvilla that I bumped smack into the bridegroom's grandfather - a 92 year old ex-military man with a handshake of iron. He was so overjoyed to see me after SUCH a looong time that he gave me a resounding slap on my arm, that even made my dad wince. OUCH! Look at all the preeeeedy tweeeeeties. That one came completely out of left field.
Already in a bad mood, I spent the rest of the wet wedding avoiding anyone who looked remotely lethal, violent, drunk or interested. But even then, I got my cheeks pinched a few million times, got the now familiar oh-you've-grown-so-much-I-last-saw-you-when-you-were-this-high-remember-me monologue and even got a proposal from some loser with a green card.
But even after all that, my poor ego was still smarting from having taken a good beating from a 92 year old man.
Sigh.
The organ begins to play and the bridegroom and his entourage walk in and take their places at the front of the church. The organist then begins to play the bridal march and we all turn around to see the bride walking down the aisle. First, the church pastor walks in, then the flower girls, the brides' maid and then the bride and her father walk down the aisle. Except I was too busy gaping at the church pastor to notice anyone else. He was none other than my cheek puller from the week before - Pastor Kurvilla. He must have gotten a promotion along the way, cos he was no longer the assistant pastor but the Presbitor In Charge of this particular church.
Bumping into my cheek-puller twice in the one week that I happen to be in Bangalore is way beyond coincidences. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the wedding trying to avoid him.
I hate weddings. No wait, let me rephrase. I hate crowded places. I hate being jostled around and elbowed. To make things worse, it began to rain. Worse still was the fact that the wedding reception was being held on army grounds - open air. Goodbye designer shoes and saris. Hello bad mood.
I was so intent on avoiding Pastor Kurvilla that I bumped smack into the bridegroom's grandfather - a 92 year old ex-military man with a handshake of iron. He was so overjoyed to see me after SUCH a looong time that he gave me a resounding slap on my arm, that even made my dad wince. OUCH! Look at all the preeeeedy tweeeeeties. That one came completely out of left field.
Already in a bad mood, I spent the rest of the wet wedding avoiding anyone who looked remotely lethal, violent, drunk or interested. But even then, I got my cheeks pinched a few million times, got the now familiar oh-you've-grown-so-much-I-last-saw-you-when-you-were-this-high-remember-me monologue and even got a proposal from some loser with a green card.
But even after all that, my poor ego was still smarting from having taken a good beating from a 92 year old man.
Sigh.
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
Remember Me?
My mom does it again. We're doing a little shopping on Commercial Street when we bump into what seems like an old friend of hers. They begin to catch up on all their news when she happens to glance towards me.
"Is that your daughter?" she exclaims.
"Yes," Mom gushes, "this is Shireen. You must have met her last when she was a baby."
"No no...I met her a couple months ago." She turns to me and asks the dreaded question, "Remember?"
Of course I don't. I stare at her blankly. Of course, my mom still hasn't introduced her to me so I still don't know her from Eve.
I start fidgeting uncomfortably and thankfully the conversation goes on with me out of it.The woman leaves and my mom and I continue down Comm Street and stop at a slipper store. While my mom checks out the slippers, I notice a man on a scooter beckoning me. He's yelling, "Aye, come 'ere." The sunlight glints off his spectacles so I don't know if he's calling me or the girls behind. I turn around but then he starts pointing at me and yelling a little more animatedly. He seems so excited that I feel that if I don't walk over to him, he'd get off his scooter and grab me and shake the living day lights out of me.
He does worse. He freakin' clutches at my cheek in a pincer grip and presses down even harder, all the while saying, "You know who I am? Huh?" And all I can think of is, "OUCH." Of course, my vision is blurring but the little tweeties I can see flying around me in circles seem clear enough.
Finally my mom saunters over and when she recognizes him, screeches, "Rajan!!! It's you!!! What are YOU doing here?"
He finally lets go of my cheek and turns his attention to her. "Your daughter does not remember me."
Nice opening statement. My mom looks at my, astonished. "What? You don't remember Rajan Uncle?"
"I....er..." I stammer, trying to look uncomfortable. It worked the last time. But not now.They're both staring at me, waiting for a reply.
My mom is looking impatient. "Don't you remember him? How could you not?"
I look at him. He obligingly removes his glasses and peers at me. Like that's going to help. Today is proof enough that my blank looks work.
"I'm Rajan Uncle," he says helpfully.
Yes, I think we established that. But Rajan Uncle from where and when and how would I know you?
"You used to punch my paunch when you were...this high," he says, making a big deal of leaning forwards and holding his hands knee high.
Ah. That explains it all.
Not.
I tap my feet impatiently as my mom and him chat about church politics and their respective parents, all the while willing myself to not rub my smarting cheeks. I have a feeling he might have drawn blood. I make all the usual signs of impatience: looking at my watch a few billion times; feigning interest in every passer-by; jiggling all the plastic bags I'm carrying... Finally I hear my mom saying her goodbyes. Before I could step out of the way, he leans over and pinches my arm. Hard.
"Next time, you better remember me," he says and starts his scooter.
"I'm sure I will." I think, rubbing my arm.
"Who was that?" I burst out, when we were out of earshot of him.
"He was the assistant pastor at our church in ... hmm....1987, I think."
Hmm...Let's see....1987 would mean that I would have been 6 years old at the time. And they expected me to remember him? OH MY GOSH!!!
"Why the hell didn't you just introduce him to me in the beginning instead of embarrassing me like that? You did the same thing with that woman we met earlier...." I continue to rant on for a few minutes.
My mom listens to the entire thing and just laughs it off. Which of course pisses me off no end. I know for sure that nothing has registered. I know for sure that there will be another time. But next time I'll come armed with some clever come-backs.
The next time someone says, "Do you remember me? I used to carry you as a baby!" I'm gonna say,"&^%$$#@" and walk off.
Anyone have any better answers???
"Is that your daughter?" she exclaims.
"Yes," Mom gushes, "this is Shireen. You must have met her last when she was a baby."
"No no...I met her a couple months ago." She turns to me and asks the dreaded question, "Remember?"
Of course I don't. I stare at her blankly. Of course, my mom still hasn't introduced her to me so I still don't know her from Eve.
I start fidgeting uncomfortably and thankfully the conversation goes on with me out of it.The woman leaves and my mom and I continue down Comm Street and stop at a slipper store. While my mom checks out the slippers, I notice a man on a scooter beckoning me. He's yelling, "Aye, come 'ere." The sunlight glints off his spectacles so I don't know if he's calling me or the girls behind. I turn around but then he starts pointing at me and yelling a little more animatedly. He seems so excited that I feel that if I don't walk over to him, he'd get off his scooter and grab me and shake the living day lights out of me.
He does worse. He freakin' clutches at my cheek in a pincer grip and presses down even harder, all the while saying, "You know who I am? Huh?" And all I can think of is, "OUCH." Of course, my vision is blurring but the little tweeties I can see flying around me in circles seem clear enough.
Finally my mom saunters over and when she recognizes him, screeches, "Rajan!!! It's you!!! What are YOU doing here?"
He finally lets go of my cheek and turns his attention to her. "Your daughter does not remember me."
Nice opening statement. My mom looks at my, astonished. "What? You don't remember Rajan Uncle?"
"I....er..." I stammer, trying to look uncomfortable. It worked the last time. But not now.They're both staring at me, waiting for a reply.
My mom is looking impatient. "Don't you remember him? How could you not?"
I look at him. He obligingly removes his glasses and peers at me. Like that's going to help. Today is proof enough that my blank looks work.
"I'm Rajan Uncle," he says helpfully.
Yes, I think we established that. But Rajan Uncle from where and when and how would I know you?
"You used to punch my paunch when you were...this high," he says, making a big deal of leaning forwards and holding his hands knee high.
Ah. That explains it all.
Not.
I tap my feet impatiently as my mom and him chat about church politics and their respective parents, all the while willing myself to not rub my smarting cheeks. I have a feeling he might have drawn blood. I make all the usual signs of impatience: looking at my watch a few billion times; feigning interest in every passer-by; jiggling all the plastic bags I'm carrying... Finally I hear my mom saying her goodbyes. Before I could step out of the way, he leans over and pinches my arm. Hard.
"Next time, you better remember me," he says and starts his scooter.
"I'm sure I will." I think, rubbing my arm.
"Who was that?" I burst out, when we were out of earshot of him.
"He was the assistant pastor at our church in ... hmm....1987, I think."
Hmm...Let's see....1987 would mean that I would have been 6 years old at the time. And they expected me to remember him? OH MY GOSH!!!
"Why the hell didn't you just introduce him to me in the beginning instead of embarrassing me like that? You did the same thing with that woman we met earlier...." I continue to rant on for a few minutes.
My mom listens to the entire thing and just laughs it off. Which of course pisses me off no end. I know for sure that nothing has registered. I know for sure that there will be another time. But next time I'll come armed with some clever come-backs.
The next time someone says, "Do you remember me? I used to carry you as a baby!" I'm gonna say,"&^%$$#@" and walk off.
Anyone have any better answers???
Friday, August 5, 2005
Lost Wallets
After a long, expensive and tiring day of shopping, our final stop was at the bakery. I decided to wait in the car while my aunt went to buy the bread. Of course, the minute I’m alone, I automatically reach for my cell phone, my one true addiction.
While fiddling with the cell phone, I suddenly realize that somebody is talking to me. I look out the window and see a well-dressed man, carrying what we call a missionary bag.
“Please, sister, can you tell me the way to Egmore.” His English is impeccable.
“The bus depot is just there. Just go there and take a 27H or a 27L and ask for Egmore.”
“Yes, but how far is it if I had to walk?”
I think about this for sometime, mentally trying to calculate the distance. “You can’t walk there. It’s about 16 or 17 kilometers from here! Take the bus.”
At this point his voice breaks and he yells out, “Praise the Lord!”
Huh? Oh well, back to my phone. Another tap on my window. I look out. He’s still there. I roll the window down again.
“You see…” he falters. “I need to go home to Nagercoil.”
“Oh, in that case, you need to go to the main bus stand. That’s only a fifteen minute walk from here down this road.”
At this point he shows me his leather bag. The side of the bag is slashed open and there is a big gaping hole there. “All my money has been stolen, and I need to get back home.”
“oh…kay….”
“Please sister,” his voice dissolves into tears, “I’m not a beggar but I need money to get back home. All my money was stolen.”
I look at him uneasily.
“Please, I also have daughters your age. All I want to do is get back home to them.”
Okay okay. So I’m a sucker for sob stories. I sigh and take out my wallet and hand him a ten rupee note. I look for any sign of my aunt but she’s nowhere in sight.
The man does not move. In fact, he begins to sob uncontrollably. “The fare to Nagercoil by bus is 480 rupees.” He looks down pathetically at the ten rupee note in his hand.
What? He expects me to give him more money?
“My aunt will be back now,” I say, “Maybe she can help you.”
At this, he looks panic stricken. At that time, I thought he may have been panicking because of his bus fare. But now, on hind sight, maybe the thought of my aunt seeing through his charade, might have sent him into a panic.
“Please sister. I promise you I’m not a beggar. But can you give me the money to go home?”
“I don’t have 380 bucks to give you!” I sputter.
“Please sister. Only 90 rupees?” And we go through the whole rigmarole of the voice-breaking-and-dissolving-into-tears routine all over again.
“Okay okay. I have only 20 rupees more. But that’s all I have.” Like I said, it was a long, expensive day of shopping.
He looks like he’s going to cry again so I quickly take out the money and hand it to him.
“Praise the Lord!” he says and disappears into the night just as the car door opens and my aunt gets in.
I’d like to think that I helped out someone in their time of need. I’d like very much to think that he reached his home and family safely and that I may have had a hand in getting him there. I’d like to think so.
Then why do I feel so cheated?
While fiddling with the cell phone, I suddenly realize that somebody is talking to me. I look out the window and see a well-dressed man, carrying what we call a missionary bag.
“Please, sister, can you tell me the way to Egmore.” His English is impeccable.
“The bus depot is just there. Just go there and take a 27H or a 27L and ask for Egmore.”
“Yes, but how far is it if I had to walk?”
I think about this for sometime, mentally trying to calculate the distance. “You can’t walk there. It’s about 16 or 17 kilometers from here! Take the bus.”
At this point his voice breaks and he yells out, “Praise the Lord!”
Huh? Oh well, back to my phone. Another tap on my window. I look out. He’s still there. I roll the window down again.
“You see…” he falters. “I need to go home to Nagercoil.”
“Oh, in that case, you need to go to the main bus stand. That’s only a fifteen minute walk from here down this road.”
At this point he shows me his leather bag. The side of the bag is slashed open and there is a big gaping hole there. “All my money has been stolen, and I need to get back home.”
“oh…kay….”
“Please sister,” his voice dissolves into tears, “I’m not a beggar but I need money to get back home. All my money was stolen.”
I look at him uneasily.
“Please, I also have daughters your age. All I want to do is get back home to them.”
Okay okay. So I’m a sucker for sob stories. I sigh and take out my wallet and hand him a ten rupee note. I look for any sign of my aunt but she’s nowhere in sight.
The man does not move. In fact, he begins to sob uncontrollably. “The fare to Nagercoil by bus is 480 rupees.” He looks down pathetically at the ten rupee note in his hand.
What? He expects me to give him more money?
“My aunt will be back now,” I say, “Maybe she can help you.”
At this, he looks panic stricken. At that time, I thought he may have been panicking because of his bus fare. But now, on hind sight, maybe the thought of my aunt seeing through his charade, might have sent him into a panic.
“Please sister. I promise you I’m not a beggar. But can you give me the money to go home?”
“I don’t have 380 bucks to give you!” I sputter.
“Please sister. Only 90 rupees?” And we go through the whole rigmarole of the voice-breaking-and-dissolving-into-tears routine all over again.
“Okay okay. I have only 20 rupees more. But that’s all I have.” Like I said, it was a long, expensive day of shopping.
He looks like he’s going to cry again so I quickly take out the money and hand it to him.
“Praise the Lord!” he says and disappears into the night just as the car door opens and my aunt gets in.
I’d like to think that I helped out someone in their time of need. I’d like very much to think that he reached his home and family safely and that I may have had a hand in getting him there. I’d like to think so.
Then why do I feel so cheated?
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Moron!
I recently had the utter misfortune of sitting in the back seat of my car while I let my uncle drive. Please note - I absolutely had no intention of letting him drive. He just saw it as his sworn duty to do so.
I really wish my car had seat belts and, in this case, restraints, in the back seat.
I settled down for what I thought would be a smooth ride. After all, it was only from my house to the theatre. How bad could that be?
Heh. I was soon to find out.
No sooner had we left my lane than an ambassador turns in. Do note. My road is the most awful road in the history of roads. But thanks to technological advancement, it was finally discovered by road-rollers last week, and is now filled with the usual mess that accompanies it.
Now where was I? Ah. Yes. The ambassador almost collides with my car in its vain attempt to avoid the trenches on that side of the road. Smart uncle that I have, rolls down the window and shouts obscenities at the ambi driver that could make a sailor blush.
Leaving the ambi, now safely stuck in the mud and unable to follow, we brave our way to the mainroad and just miss the green light by a few seconds. With no music system in the car, my uncle feels that it is his duty to fill in the silence. He does this by ranting at the traffic lights, ranting at the traffic, ranting at the cop who was standing under the traffic light and picking his nose and ranting at the gloomy weather.
At last, after 99 seconds of red-light torture, we shoot across the main road and almost hit a cyclist. Down goes the window again and my uncle leans out and yells, "Moron!" along with a string of obscenities in German. Not that the cyclist would understand but hey, it’s worth a shot, eh?
Then of course, the ranting begins afresh. "Who do these guys think they are? I'll tell you what they are. Morons is what they are. Look at that guy. He's wiggling his right hand out the window and turning left! (Er...that IS the signal to turn left, I thought?) Arsehole. Cutting a traffic light instead of waiting for a few measly seconds more. Moron." The monologue continues and I tune out.
Except its really hard to tune out when you're getting jostled around so much at the back. If you're an exceptionally good driver and you rant and rave about other motorists, its one thing. But when you yourself are a horrendously bad driver, freakin' keep your mouth shut and concentrate on the road! Yes, this is where the restraints would come in handy in the back seat.
He continues to zig zag his way through traffic at high speed, while applying brakes every few seconds, all the while cussing anyone who dares overtake us or screech to a halt when we cut in front of them. Of course, there’s no use having the air con on cos' the window is perpetually down with his head stuck out of it, yelling at all the so-called morons and arseholes on the road.
At last, up ahead, I can see a red traffic light and sigh with relief. This will give me time to let my stomach and nerves settle down a little. But instead of slowing down, my uncle floors the accelerator and runs the red light, narrowly avoiding another car and a few dozen cyclists.
"Woah, did you see that?" he gloats. "I ran the light. Hehehe. Wow. See, the secret is to wait until the last minute before you do that. That way, the cops can't follow! What did you think? What did you think?"
Wait a second and I’ll tell you JUST what I think.
Moron.
I really wish my car had seat belts and, in this case, restraints, in the back seat.
I settled down for what I thought would be a smooth ride. After all, it was only from my house to the theatre. How bad could that be?
Heh. I was soon to find out.
No sooner had we left my lane than an ambassador turns in. Do note. My road is the most awful road in the history of roads. But thanks to technological advancement, it was finally discovered by road-rollers last week, and is now filled with the usual mess that accompanies it.
Now where was I? Ah. Yes. The ambassador almost collides with my car in its vain attempt to avoid the trenches on that side of the road. Smart uncle that I have, rolls down the window and shouts obscenities at the ambi driver that could make a sailor blush.
Leaving the ambi, now safely stuck in the mud and unable to follow, we brave our way to the mainroad and just miss the green light by a few seconds. With no music system in the car, my uncle feels that it is his duty to fill in the silence. He does this by ranting at the traffic lights, ranting at the traffic, ranting at the cop who was standing under the traffic light and picking his nose and ranting at the gloomy weather.
At last, after 99 seconds of red-light torture, we shoot across the main road and almost hit a cyclist. Down goes the window again and my uncle leans out and yells, "Moron!" along with a string of obscenities in German. Not that the cyclist would understand but hey, it’s worth a shot, eh?
Then of course, the ranting begins afresh. "Who do these guys think they are? I'll tell you what they are. Morons is what they are. Look at that guy. He's wiggling his right hand out the window and turning left! (Er...that IS the signal to turn left, I thought?) Arsehole. Cutting a traffic light instead of waiting for a few measly seconds more. Moron." The monologue continues and I tune out.
Except its really hard to tune out when you're getting jostled around so much at the back. If you're an exceptionally good driver and you rant and rave about other motorists, its one thing. But when you yourself are a horrendously bad driver, freakin' keep your mouth shut and concentrate on the road! Yes, this is where the restraints would come in handy in the back seat.
He continues to zig zag his way through traffic at high speed, while applying brakes every few seconds, all the while cussing anyone who dares overtake us or screech to a halt when we cut in front of them. Of course, there’s no use having the air con on cos' the window is perpetually down with his head stuck out of it, yelling at all the so-called morons and arseholes on the road.
At last, up ahead, I can see a red traffic light and sigh with relief. This will give me time to let my stomach and nerves settle down a little. But instead of slowing down, my uncle floors the accelerator and runs the red light, narrowly avoiding another car and a few dozen cyclists.
"Woah, did you see that?" he gloats. "I ran the light. Hehehe. Wow. See, the secret is to wait until the last minute before you do that. That way, the cops can't follow! What did you think? What did you think?"
Wait a second and I’ll tell you JUST what I think.
Moron.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Indian Traffic Rules
1. Always look to your left while crossing the road. That way, you'll never know what hit you.
2. If you're driving a particularily large vehicle, make sure that you drive slowly, in the middle of the road.
3. If you're driving/riding a particularily small vehicle, make sure to zig zag your way down the road. This will have the same effect as point #2.
4. Always stop at the stop line at traffic lights. That way, when your vehicle stalls, you get to hold up the rest of the traffic.
5. Always move towards the vehicle that is overtaking you and then look at him like he's the idiot.
6. Make sure your vehicle breaks down on a lonely dark road. That way, you can scare the living day lights out of some poor sod by suddenly appearing in front of his headlights.
7. Always speed up when the traffic light turns orange.
8. Follow lane discipline. If you're going straight, always drive on the extreme left.
9. Put your left indicator on while turning right. That'll sure confuse those mafia types who are following you.
10. If you're a guy with low self esteem, make sure you overtake every single girl on the road. Show her who's boss.
Assholes.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Rainy Days and Mondays
This is the only time i can actually see better without my glasses.
I'm riding down Church Road in the pouring rain. Although i have my helmet on, my glasses are dripping rain water. They really should invent windscreen wipers for spectacles. There's zero visibility. Traffic has slowed to a crawl. I can just about make out the tail lights of the car in front of me. Quite a few vehicles have their parking lights on. Wouldn't want any fender-benders on a night like this, would we?
All of a sudden, my fingers start stinging. And then the tail lights ahead of me disappear and i'm left in pitch darkness. My own headlights are useless in the downpour. And then...someone starts stoning my helmet. After a while, i realise that the thunking on my helmet and fingers are not stones, but hail! Its HAILING in Bangalore! Man, but that hurts.
I stop at the first shop light that I see and hurry inside...only to find that its a barber shop, full of gawking men. I pull my coat tighter over my soaking white t-shirt and huddle to one corner. The barber, gentleman that he is, offers me a chair and herds his customers to the other side of the shop.
I wait out the hail, all the while trying not to shiver too loudly. Once the hail lets up, i get back into the pouring rain and start my bike. Following another tail light, I ride through a river that once was the road and around fallen trees with their jagged barks jutting into the road, ready to poke anyone's eyes out.
To make matters worse, the electricity goes out just as i reach my area. Pitch darkness seems to be the order of the day, but with the rain letting up, my headlight is like a beacon on a stormy sea.
I reach home. Safe.
I'm riding down Church Road in the pouring rain. Although i have my helmet on, my glasses are dripping rain water. They really should invent windscreen wipers for spectacles. There's zero visibility. Traffic has slowed to a crawl. I can just about make out the tail lights of the car in front of me. Quite a few vehicles have their parking lights on. Wouldn't want any fender-benders on a night like this, would we?
All of a sudden, my fingers start stinging. And then the tail lights ahead of me disappear and i'm left in pitch darkness. My own headlights are useless in the downpour. And then...someone starts stoning my helmet. After a while, i realise that the thunking on my helmet and fingers are not stones, but hail! Its HAILING in Bangalore! Man, but that hurts.
I stop at the first shop light that I see and hurry inside...only to find that its a barber shop, full of gawking men. I pull my coat tighter over my soaking white t-shirt and huddle to one corner. The barber, gentleman that he is, offers me a chair and herds his customers to the other side of the shop.
I wait out the hail, all the while trying not to shiver too loudly. Once the hail lets up, i get back into the pouring rain and start my bike. Following another tail light, I ride through a river that once was the road and around fallen trees with their jagged barks jutting into the road, ready to poke anyone's eyes out.
To make matters worse, the electricity goes out just as i reach my area. Pitch darkness seems to be the order of the day, but with the rain letting up, my headlight is like a beacon on a stormy sea.
I reach home. Safe.
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