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.

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.

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???

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?

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.

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.

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.