...........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.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
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?
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