Easy Peasy

'Gosh! It's so easy in this country. As simple as that!' said the baa-lamb after he'd finished updating his records on line. We'd just moved house recently and the baa-lamb was referring to updating our records with the various companies and services.

'Erm... don't you think you're missing out on something?' I ask

'Huh? really? I'm pretty sure I've covered everything- the gas, the electricity, banks...' ' There's the matter of the land line, the telly, the broadband...' I interject.

'Do we really need those? You have a mobile, and you can surf on the phone, and what's with the addiction to the telly... or maybe I should get right on the phone and get cracking' says the baa-lamb hastily spotting the homicidal glint in my eye.

So a quick check on the internet (from the phone, of course) and we'd zero-ed in on a service provider who was pretty much promising us the earth. We placed a call to the sales team, and they wanted our land lord's go ahead to come and tinker about in the house, so they could pretty much get off the hook if they left desolation and destruction in their wake.

The Landlord, the gentleman that he is, agreed, but was pretty nonplussed that the service provided agreed to come out to our house in the first place. Apparently a decade ago, the entire street had been up in arms about anybody digging up the road for them new- fangled fibre optic cables. I'm guessing they didn't want this 'internet' and 'electronic mail' business to get in the way of them growing their daffodils and tulips. Hmm... interesting. So we though we'd call up the service provider again, just to confirm.

SP: Welcome to SP. We're the best money can buy, and your money definitely needs to buy us.

(or something to that effect)

Moi: Hi, I'm at ---------- (edited in the interest of our health and safety) and I've subscribed to your service, but I was just wondering if you provide services in my area.

SP(without missing a beat): Yes we do.

Moi: At my address? I was just informed that there was no cabling...

SP(Bored): yes, yes, yes, ok.

MOi: SO that's a yes, then?

SP (mindful she was talking to a customer, but really wanting to throttle said customer): I just said that dinnae?

Moi: Oh good. So you'll be coming around in a week then?

SP: No, that'll be three weeks from now.

Moi: But... but... the earlier confirmations was for a week.

SP: that was before this call. It'll be three weeks now.

Three weeks later...

I bounced up on waking. 'Today's the day!' I cry joyfully! I bounced into the bath and bounced down to breakfast and bounced to the trash can and bounced on my way to open to door for the installation team from the service providers.

They came, they saw, and they laughed at the though that we could ever receive service from this provider. To make matters worse, they tell me that if I moved house just 50 meters down, to the end of the road, I'd receive service, no problems. Thanks, guys, that really helps. Suddenly I wasn't bouncing. The world had lost it's sunshine and I was ready to crawl back into bed.

The baa-lamb, sensing I was close to breaking point rapidly called up a rival service provider who gleefully agreed to provide service in ten days at twice to cost. oh well, at least they didn't say 3 weeks (frankly if they had, I was seriously contemplating moving into a service apartment until the whole street wises up to the arrival of the 21st century)

Ten days later...

'Is it here yet?' this was the fifth annoying phone call from the baa lamb to check up on the arrival for the broadband equipment. Each time, my heart sunk a bit more as a said 'no.'

In desperation the baa-lamb called the rival service provider again.

RSP: welcome to RSP. We're actually better than SP, which is why we cost more money.

(or something to that effect)

BL: Right, I'm calling about the equipment that was supposed to arrive today...

RSP: OK, just let me check that for you... yes, it hasn't arrived.

BL: Yes, I know that. That's why I'm calling. What I need to know is, why.

RSP: ah, yes, here it is... we didn't send it.

BL(in exasperation): Why? Why would you do such a cruel thing?

RSP: well, the department who was to mail it to you didn't. I'll ask them to do that now, shall I?

BL: What were you waiting for? An invite? maybe with gold leaf on it? You didn't seem to want all this confirmation and re-affirmation when you were taking money form my bank account!

RSP: I'm sorry Sir, would that be a yes?

I think the baa lamb has now recovered sufficiently after a quiet lie down, but he's definitely rethinking ease of services in this country now.

D

Disasters, when they happen, do have a tendency to happen in my vicinity. My last outing was no exception.

After a week of spending day in and day out at Pickwick's bedside, until he was pretty much sick of my face, I decided both my son and I needed a break. So, entrusting him in the care of good ol' poppy and mommy, I decided to use the services of the car to step out for a few books for self and son as I would have to continue the long vigil by his bedside. Now before I stepped out, Poppy gave me the number of the driver- a chap called Rajesh. Considering Poppy had about 15 -odd entries under the title 'driver', I have no clue, how he was unerringly able to pick out this particular chap's number, but I supposed he must have some kinda system worked out.

Things started out tamely enough, and after battling the usual 'schumis-in-training' style driving and other sundry folk with a death wish calmly crossing the road at arbitrary points, thus ensuring a steady stream of patients being treated by the local physiotherapists for whiplash, we arrived at or chosen dest. - the local roadside bookshop.

Now the driver, having discovered that the whole of Kochi had suddenly decided to become bookworms, couldn't find a parking spot anywhere close to the venue. Thus it was decided between his broken English and my broken Malayalam and some rudimentary sign language, that he'd be hovering around somewhere, circling the area and when I'd finished, I just needed to call him up, and he'd whizz along to pick me up (thank you mobiles!).

It took me all of fifteen minutes to browse, haggle (having thus brought the price of my purchases down by a princely 10 rupees) and bag my loot. Patting myself on a job well done, I was feeling refreshed, all set to face another week at the Hosp. All that was left was to summon the car and hop in.

Two calls later, the driver wasn't answering. Maybe he's battling traffic, I though. Lord knows you need all you wits about you in this city. I gave it one more shot.

On the fifth ring I hear ' 'Allo?'

Me:Ah. Erm... Yes, It's me. Come along then.

silence. Then ' yaaru aana? '

My rudimentary understanding of the language led me to say ' Now is not the time to start babbling about elephants, man. Is there some kind of procession out on the street? Hop to it! I'm waiting in the middle of the road. You can't miss me. I look exactly the same as I did half an hour ago'

More silence. Followed by some panicked mumbling and the phone being handed over to someone, who I hoped would have a bit more sense. ' 'Allo?' Here we go again...

Me: Ah. yes. This car you're in. It needs to pick me up from where the chappie's dropped me.'

The other voice: No, no! this car is now someone else!

Now this made no sense (unless you were in a transformer movie). I was assuming he meant it was now going to pick someone else up. But who? The grandparents were safely ensconced by Pickwik's bedside in charge of amusing the fella. This only meant that the chappie was doing 'nuther pick up on the job. NOT a good day to pull a double shift on the sly!

'Now listen here, Rajesh,' I say sternly, in my best 'naughy Pickiwck' voice, 'that's my car you're driving.' well, OK, so it was Dad's car, but we don't want to confuse the fella by getting into semantics now. 'You just turn right around and get back here. I'm standing opposite 'sea lord' hotel. You can't miss me.' (yes, 'Sea Lord'. and yes, it did have a picture of a merman. Can we please stop giggling and concentrate on the matter at hand, people? We may have a potential car -jacking in progress!)

'Okay! Okay!! we come now, madam!' says the panicked aide-de-Rajesh.

Much better. I think to myself. You gotta be stern with these sorts. There no point in... thoughts interrupted by urgent ringing of phone. It was dad. 'Hey Pops!' I say. 'You'd never believe...'

Pops: Nevermind all that, sense. This driver, Rajesh

me: yes, yes, I know. would you believe it?

pops: you do? but how, dash it? and erm.. HOW?

me: Pops, calm down! I've got it under control. I told him to come pick me up right away, see?

Pops: Told who? From where?

me: (cue much eye rolling and accepting the fact that pops might be hitting senility a tad early) Rajesh. From where I'm standing.

pops: But you couldn't have. You don't have his number

me: (doing a quick mental check on symptoms : memory loss, gibbering... maybe a brain scan was in order) You gave me the number, Pops, remember? I called him up. The Chap was acting funny at first, but I gave him a proper talking to. He'll be down here in no time.

pops: Ah. Er. Sense... see that number I gave you, well, it's for Rajesh alright, but this Rajesh isn't the right Rajesh. This is another Rajesh who isn't exactly driving our car at the mo'. In short, it's the wrong Rajesh.

The head swam. I tottered. I needed to sit down. I waited for the chorus of Right Rajesh and Wrong Rajesh to die down.

'So the poor sod...' I whispered...

But Poppy wasn't through yet...

pops: but don't worry poppet - I've spoken to the right Rajesh - the one who's actually driving our car, not the wrong Rajesh, who's probably in someone else's car... and he's on his way to pick you up. Right-ho, then. Pip-pip.

and just on cue, 'Right -Rajesh' arrives with the vehicle.

I meekly got into the vehicle and drove to the hospital in silence. I wasn't coming out again until sanity had returned to the world. And parents stopped naming their offspring Rajesh.

In the meanwhile, somewhere out there is a Rajesh, who's undergoing counselling coz he quivers uncontrollably everytime the phone rings.

Lessons from child to mother

Lessons that Pickwick's taught me in the past month:

• Life throws a curve ball at you when you least expect it. If you're not ready, it's apt to hit you in the face, and you might end up with a broken nose - or a broken femur as the case may be.
• Having failed to catch said curve ball, get back up on your feet real quick. That's the only way you'll know if you're fine or, when you collapse in a heap, unable to support yourself - you need to get professional help.
• Now that you're at the doc's, learn to swallow the bitter pill. Just coz you haven't seen the x-ray, doesn't mean the bone isn't broken. It will need need mending.
• Time is relative. It can always be measured as the space between chocolate breaks
• Your real family is the one that calls you/ writes to you/ sends you a hand made get-well-soon card that you can always go back to when there's nothing good on the telly.
• Your phone's pretty useless unless it has at least 2 games and 6 of your favourite songs
• There's no such thing as listening to a favourite song too many times. And however often you listen to it, it'll still have the power to cheer you up.
• If some one objects to listening to a song one more time, he can always listen to your personal rendition of the song. Listening to the original might suddenly become a whole lot less objectionable.
• Life is a battle of wits between you and your oppressors. Every time they think of ways of making your life miserable, or immobile (apparently for your own good), you need to think of new ways of outsmarting them by contorting your body into impossible positions.
• There's always a silver lining. The number of days you're tied down in bed is directly proportionate to the number of chocolates you'll receive, and be allowed to consume by guilt - ridden adults.

Tube Zodiac

I have lately stopped reading my book in the tube. I find it for more interesting to watch other people while listening to the latest hindi ‘gaana’

 

Like Ms Goodman chooses to classify people into 12 broad categories, we can classify the tube commuter into 12 broad catergories:

 

The Ram: The ram bulldozes his/ her way into the crowded compartment and yells at the top of their voices ‘Move alonnnng, please’. Yes, dear ram, we needed you to tell us that, otherwise, we just so love to leave vast expanses of unoccupied seats and standing space, all to huddle together on the 3 square feet of space you need to occupy.

 

The Bull: The bull just goes a step further and pushes you out of the way. One needs to be especially wary of the female variety, as they just zero in on the seat they’ve spotted through the window. PLEASE, for your own safety and for the safety of those around you, jump out of their way! Once they are comfortably seated, of course, they’re the most pleasant things to have around.

 

The Twins: These are generally of the adolescent variety, and one is seriously tempted to urge them to get a room. They are so entwined that it is hard to decipher where one ends and the other begins. The upside to this, of course is that they occupy one seat instead of two, or if standing, will stand collectively on only two feet at a time.

 

The Crab:  we tend to spot the crab at most major interchanges. They dart in, espy two-odd seat in different direction, mentally calculate the distance from the door to the seats, pick the closer of the two, and with some deft maneuvering (that can only be describe as ‘crab-like’) he’s sitting pretty, while others are still struggling to get in.

 

The Lion: The lion is not afraid to voice his opinion. He’ll have an opinion on the services, on Gordon Brown, on the recession, on the weather, on you...and it’s this last bit that particularly galling, because he’ll be there ‘tch’-ing at the bull, rolling his eyes at the Ram, hissing at the twins… you get the picture. Watching his back must be a full-time job for him.

 

The Virgin: This is someone you’d like to unleash the lion upon. Super –critical doesn’t begin to describe them. They’ll be the ones running their finger over the window sill with a raised eyebrow. A 30 second delay in departures with have them impatiently looking at their watch while tapping their feet. God forbid, you choose to jump into the tube seconds before the door shuts, then you’ve really had it – You will be root cause of any delay henceforth, be it signal failure or a man having a cardiac arrest 3 trains ahead. You Were The Cause. And the Virgo won’t let you forget it. Maybe there’s a reason they’re Virgins?

 

The Balance: These ones would do you proud on a footboard in a Mumbai local. They’ll be the one’s standing near the door, first to hop out as soon as the train stops. No, not just at their station, but at every station – they’re also the last to hop in. At every station. Why they do this beats me, but I suppose it give them a warm afterglow to know that they have successfully shaved 1/625 th of a second off their travel time in a day. 

 

The Scorpion: Beware the scorpion – they strike when least expected. Largely prevalent in shady locations, they normally move in herds.  Their sting, also called switchblade swiftly deprives you of your most prize possessions, and they melt way into the night, never to be seen again.

 

The Archer: The archer loves to, well, ‘arch’. He arches over you to get at the newspaper, arches over to open the window, arches over to grab the hand-hold… erm, hey, archie, newsflash: believe it or not, shoving smelly armpits in peoples faces is not the best way to get them to like you. In fact, it might surprise you to know that it has quite the opposite effect (yes! Really!)

 

The Horned Goat: Or the tube lothario. Normally, despite being hampered by a severe shortage of it, people are quite respectful of each others’ personal space, but the horned goat delights in getting up close. This is because under normal circumstances, the ladies would rather join a nunnery that be caught having a conversation with the goat. With some faces, even that mother of all beauty creams – beer, fails miserably.

 

The Water- Carrier: Thanks to the miracles of modern science, pregnant women can now work further and further into their term. Now if only science could find something to calm co-passengers and they get more and more nervous. The reason for this, is not that they’re worried about the health of the mother and baby, but more on account of the fact that if the water- carrier turns to the water-breaker, there’s a good chance that they might miss the kick-off of the football game they’re going to. Would make a grown man cry, it would.

 

The Fish: Ah! The fish! Commonly sighted at Pubs, other tube zodiacs magically transform into the fish after football matches, weekends, hours of hard partying, stag dos, weekends, rugby matches & weekends. Look out for the fish’s tendency to assume everybody’s their best friend, a total lack of co-ordination (like the inability to put food into the right orifice in the face), the inability to find their home, and hence, assuming that you’re their best friend, now that they have known you for all of 38 seconds, they can crash at your pad for the night. Naturally, if you’ve transformed into a fish as well, you will not remember any of this the following morning.

Visit to the Homeland

The recent visit to India had me behaving like the typical NRI, as I sheepishly admit.

Here are the following rookie NRI faux pas I committed:

• As soon as I landed, I commented on the noise levels in the city at 1 am in the morning
• Almost threw up in the vehicle after being treated to road-rash style driving
• Visited the temple – in traditional garb, not sparing Pickwick either
• Managed to infest kid with virus
• Managed to catch the aforementioned virus myself
• Was surprised that the country has not frozen in time and has managed to move on in the years that we were missing
• Commented on how expensive things had become and started sentences with ‘I remember back in my days when…’
• Clicked photographs of absolutely arbit. things which I now found hilarious (a key chain advertising ‘steel balls’ and a billboard for ‘sham publicity’)
• Had the junk food off the streets and marvelled at it, swore it was nothing short of gourmet
• However, did drink only mineral water, in case I caught something
• Caught something anyways
• Accidentally let the accent slip to a friend – and didn’t hear the end of it for the rest of the trip.
• Thoroughly enjoyed the rickshaw ride, and pooh-poohed at the natives who were sputtering at the pollution levels – and went giddy breathing in the concentrated levels of carbon monoxide.
• Caught with the 159 relatives who live in the city, mostly on a single day. Had Pickwick thoroughly confused on the number of tatas and pattis he has. He didn’t mind much though – his equation is simple: the number of relatives are directly proportional to the number if goodies you get. (‘pwesents!’)
• Went to relatives houses with chocolate, and got desi sweets in the bargain - and wondered for the nth time, why on earth they preferred the chocolates.
• Stacked up on the DVDs of our traditional mythological heroes (Hanuman and Ganesha) despite Pickwick not watching more than 60 seconds of anything, unless it’s a song and dance sequence
• Refused to move around in anything but tops, capris and cut-offs, and worked on my ‘tan’
• Went overboard with sending off clothes to the ‘ironwallah’ since I wasn’t the one doing the ironing
• Had to be frequently reminded by relatives to ‘just leave the dishes’ after a meal, I didn’t need to wash up afterwards *bliss*
  
  Future visits will possibly iron out these quirks… although I’m rather hoping I can just get back to being the desi who’s visited by the NR relative.

Pick -asso

That's Pickwick's first recognisable work of art. It's a doggie, in case you couldn't figure out what it was... it's got 2 eyes, a nose, and mouth and 2 legs... *sigh* my son's a genius!

Finding David

When one of my unmarried friends was discussing the dearth of eligible men the other day, she was telling me how lucky I was to find Baa- Lamb. Now I’m not about to contend that – far from it, but really, the baa-lamb of today isn’t the Baa-lamb of yesterday. He’s been a work in progress.

I’m generally not a male basher. I have a healthy respect for them. They are essential and vital for the propagation of our species – until medical technology can catch up. So it is not lightly that I say this. Men have to be viewed like works in progress. Take David for example. No, not your hunk of a neighbour that you’ve been eyeing for some time now. I’m talking about Michelangelo’s David. That perfect specimen of manhood that Michelangelo lovingly crafted into perfection. Before Michelangelo could lay his hands on ‘im, he was just a block of marble – a block of marble with potential, no doubt, but a block of marble. It took 25 years of exposure to the elements, the eyes of a Michelangelo and the craftsmanship of a true master to realise David as we see him today.

Just like David, there may have been others who saw potential, but gave up half way, and I guess that’s what the ex-es are. The quitters. You, my love have to be the Michelangelo.

We need to stop looking out for David. What we need to identify is the block of marble that with T,L & a whole lotta C can become David. Besides, what, to me is David, is to someone else primitive Gay Porn. And lets face it, we’re no Venuses either (at least I’m not. I’m more Rubenesque, but let’s not mix art forms here). When you’re a couple, I guess that’s what you do; you subconsciously sculpt each other into the person they are today.

I’m a daughter, a wife and now a mother, and I now know the task that lies ahead of me with Pickwick. It’s not my job to sculpt David. I just have to make sure there’s enough in the block of marble to let someone else see a potential David in him.

The Usual Gang of...

Now normally, the many places I've worked at houses a pretty decent bunch of people, but it's not without it's 'regulars' and I've learnt to spot those a mile away.
Primarily the cast of characters would include:

The Boss:
Most of the chaps in this lot are good 'uns, but occasionally you come across the odd exception who takes this description to heart. He's a throwback to the good 'ol days of the Raj where it was perfectly acceptable to flog the subordinate for even having the balls to ask 'why'. Nevermind the fact that the reason you've asked the question is because the man has just asked you to bop him on the head with a sledgehammer.

The Minion:
AKA the snivelling sycophant SS. Specimen will always be found not far from 'the Boss' (TB). When TB barks, 'Jump', SS will respond, 'yes sir! How high sir! And would you like me to do a pirouette while I’m at it sir!' Best not to voice options around said specimen, unless you’d like to have it repeated verbatim to TB.


The Ladies Man:
Disclaimer: the above mentioned term in no way describes the author’s opinion of the individual. It is the individual’s own warped opinion of himself, arising out of years of bad eyesight and massive ego, both left unchecked.

The Barbie Du-uhl:
Used to getting her way just by batting her eyelids, it comes as a shock to these individuals that one has to actually *gasp* work to earn a salary. Undeterred, however, they still try and bat eyelids at the first possible moment to get others to do their work. This works wonderfully well in the short term, but eventually, as queue of ardent admirers dries up, the Barbies hatch plots to bat enough eyelids at a loaded suckers, to get them to marry – to love, cherish and obey until the credit crunch do us part.

The Office Clown:
A throw back to the school prankster who still thinks fart bags are hysterically funny, this individual needs to be avoided like the plague, unless you like having pie on your face just before an important client meet. Usually, one would give in to the strong urge to punch a hole through this chap’s skull with one’s stilettos, but most specimens are blessed with a blooming heart of gold. This is probably also one of the reasons this person has survived this long without any major reconstructive surgery required.

The Drama- Queen:
Not to be fooled by the title, this specimen comes in both the male and female varieties. Life around these chaps is anything but dull, and quite often an epidemic of migranes follows in their wake. Everything from a simple meeting with a vendor to traveling by train turns into an Event – to be described in great detail, to a largest possible audience to milk the last drop of sympathy. Quite often the best way to avoid the DKs taking over your life, when greeted with ‘You’ll never believe what just…’ is to quickly counter it with ‘NO! You poor thing!’ Trust me. It’s ALWAYS the right answer.


The Shirker:
This class has two sub-species – the communist and the dictator.
The communist variety is happy not doing work, and more than happy if you join him in his state of happiness by not working either. As long as no one’s rocking the boat by talking dangerously about ‘performance’ and ‘productivity’, he’s a content chap. The dictator on the other hand is a far more treacherous sub species. In order to continue his state of non-work, it is imperative that someone else, i.e., YOU take over all his work. Don’t worry about the boss finding out. He’ll never know, coz the Shirker, sub-class: Dictator’s right there to take the credit…

The Super-Woman:
This is the most annoying of the lot, coz the lady’s near perfect. I’m sure that a male of this species exists somewhere, but I have yet to encounter them. This is the kind of woman who will be in office on the dot at half nine after preparing a 4 course breakfast for hubby and kids, dropping the kids (who’re all mini Da Vincis in the making) off to school and still looking like she’s stepped out of a magazine cover. The mother-in-law adores her, and the boss thinks the sun shines out of her… oh, nevermind.
Over the weekends, after treating the family to a six-course gourmet dinner prepared from scratch, and throwing the dinner party of the century, ensuring that the house can be photographed in the annual issue of the ‘House and Garden’, she’ll still have time to spend some ‘quality time’ with the hubby while the kids obediently hit the sack at 7 pm.
I have a sneaking suspicion they have a clone hidden somewhere in the garage which they conveniently fish out while they’re actually putting their feet up and stuffing their face with chocolate and reading a chick flick like the rest of us. (Or so one can hope, so that our battered self esteem can finally shout a feeble ‘Yay!’)

There are some other regulars, which I haven’t mentioned (like the best friend in office, sympathetic co-worker, super efficient office boy/ secretary, benevolent boss, fun group of singles, the office hunk/ hottie…) but life in office wouldn’t be the same without these amazing group of people, who’re just nice enough to not be mentioned in this post.