Sensorcaine

Easy Peasy

2010-04-28T06:32:00.000-07:00

'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

2009-12-13T18:34:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-12T02:42:00.000-08:00

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

2009-04-04T10:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-13T04:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-31T06:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-31T06:51:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-10-27T04:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Que Sera Sera

2008-10-16T06:50:00.001-07:00

If Pickwick’s antics could give any indication of future careers, he’d be…

A Politician: Coz whenever the Baa-lamb comes over for a cuddle, he plays the part of the Moral Police.

An Actor : Coz he’ll do just about anything for a round of applause.

A Chef: Coz he loves to stir things (up)

A Banker: Coz he knows the currency of chocolate is flattery

An Engineer: You should see the delight he has in stacking up towers – and the greater delight when it all comes tumbling down

A Singer: He SO love the sound of his own voice

A Star: Coz he loves playing dress- up (yes, the bindis, the bangles, the hair bands – the works!)

An Activist: He goes on strike every time the channel forgets to air his favourite ads (‘baby, you can’t control what goes on air…’ is met with a ‘not-yet-but-just-you-wait’ look)

An Astronaut: Coz everytime we ask him where he wants to go, he looks up and says ‘Moon’! (Apart from the occasional, rainbow, and for some strange reason, Bruges)

A Sports Star: If jumping from high places without a parachute could ever become a sport

An Artist: coz he’ll draw a tiny squiggle and launch into an elaborate explanation as to how that’s a plane flying through a cloud and the shadow of the bird on that plane.

A Marketeer: Coz he’ll do his best to convince you that he’s a good boy for eating all his chocolate and politely asking for more from your share.

An IT guy: He’s managed to crash 2 systems, pluck out 3 keys from the key board and ruin 1 mouse in his short lifespan. I’m sure he’s not through yet.

A Doctor: Coz he loves giving people ‘Medicine’ for ‘Owwie’ (never mind that he’s the reason for the ‘Owwie’)

A Mathematician: Coz he thinks, logically, three- teen should precede fourteen, and nineteen ought to be followed by twen-teen

A Vet: Coz he loves to use Great Danes like his own personal Pony, and wants to pet the spider, the pigeon, the tiger, the bear, the fox, the ladybird…

Whatever the future may hold, I know what I'm going to be:
The Proud Mommy: who'll be standing behind him, egging him on, shouting herself hoarse, sporting prematurely greying hair, having the first-aid kit on standby and the emergency room number on speed dial.

resolutions, then and now

2008-10-09T08:45:00.000-07:00

What a difference a decade makes...

Then: this year, i shall NOT get drunk.
Now: This year I'm hoping to go to a party which serves drinks that are Not in a spill-proof cup

Then: This year, I shall meet my prince Charming
Now: This year, i hope the Prince still remains charming

Then: Greatest Achievements: radical new building design
now: Greatest Achievements: potty training Pickwick

Then: Most often heard singing: Comfortably Numb
Now: Most often heard singing: Do Re Mi

Then: Ambition: Aga Khan Award for Architectural Excellence
Now: Ambition: Making it home before Pickwick's asleep

Then: idea of a Fun night out: Noisy Disco getting pickled
now: Idea of a fun night out: Any Night out is fun, as long as it's a. Child friendly
b. resistant to breakage
c. lets you get back home without any trips to A & E

Then: fun adventure – para gliding in Goa
Now: fun adventure – a guilty trip to the movies minus Pickwick

Then: happiest when – alone with work and music
Now: happiest when – alone with Pickwick and Music

Then: late nights – back home at four, nap, shower and out of the house at seven
Now: late nights – back home at eleven, sing baby to sleep, load dishwasher, load washing machine, do three sentences of quiet reading, and just as your head touches the pillow, it's morning again – as happily pointed out by a Gleeful Pickwick bouncing on your tummy

Then: Tummy – flat and meant for flaunting
Now: tummy – soft and meant for supporting little (and not-so-little)heads while sleeping

Then: pencil test – passed with flying colours
Now: wont even pass a rolling pin test

Then: when buying clothes, make sure they fit, and the rest is taken care of by mommy
Now: when buying, make sure they're stain resistant, crease resistant and drool resistant. And oh – wait for the sales.

Then: choosy about food – I'm not putting that into my mouth
Now: food? As long as I'm not cooking, who cares?

Then: idea of a good house – fit for the architectural digest
Now: idea of a good house – one where Pickwick wont manage to cause major harm to either himself or the furniture

Then: Idea of travel - 2 pair of jeans and plenty of clean undies, trusty SLR
Now: Idea of travel - 2 pairs of jeans, plenty of clean undies, baby buggy, six pairs of spare clothing, healthy snacky food, juice, sunhat, first aid kit... and baa lamb if there's space

Then: Nothing cheers you up like good food and the company of good friends
NOw: Nothing cheers you up like good food and the company of good friends

Glad to know some things never change...

A Blogger's Guide to the Real World

2008-04-27T23:37:00.000-07:00

There have been many , many self-help, money-spinning guides that guide a beginner through the wonderful world of blogging. None, however, that recognise that there are millions of bloggers out there who actually need a guide to function during the time that they spend away from the safe haven of the computer screen.
The world is a mean and cruel place that makes no allowances for techno geeks who're totally at sea with any communication that does not involve a monitor and/ or Avatras. This does not bode well for bloggers such as myself. Thus the need fo the guide: 'A Bloggers Guide to the Real World'
This guide should be a step-by-step process of discovery of how the rest of the world (those strange, unnnatural, unevolved beings) communicates.
It should include useful tips such as what to do when a member of the Opposite sex talks directly at you, how to react if another member of our species attempts to indulge in physical contact - like trying to shake hands (it is not to be construed as an act of over aggression, in fact, strangely, it is supposed to mean quite the opposite) and even how long should one engage in eye contact before it is considered creepy , at first, and if a bit longer, disturbing. Of course too short a duration (of eye contact, that is) , and its' considered impolite, or symptomatic of ADD. See - tricky stuff, this.
Geeks such as myslf, all over the world, who think the face looks most luminiscent when viewed bathed in the reflection of a flickering monitor and people who've been outdoors too long have an unnatural glow would naturally think it most foul to indulge in any sport that does not involve a keyboard or a joystick. But considering the fact that so far, the Olympics have not included the video games category (and I'm still wondering why not) we are apparently in the minority. Thus when asked by one of the 'others' as to what sport do you pursue, the guide would tell us that it's not a good idea to tell them 'Ultimate Speed Racer Level XX' at Such times, infact it would gives us uselful little white lies we could use, for example: I used to be a footballer in colleges, but after my knee injury, I'm now more of a viewer, than a doer. or I love skiing, but now that I've moved to Chennai, there's not many places where I can indulgein this passion.
It is also not a good idea to tell the 'Others' that their so called password protected files and systems are ridiculously simple to hack into, and you could wipe out their entire credit history if you so chose. This is apparently not a subject that has them rivetted. These strange beings hate to be told how vulnerable they are, and how much we control the world they live in. They would much rather hear about your opinion on the most recent movie release, and how much CGI has changed entertainment. This guide should give you access to an online site that has the latest movie release with their reviews, which is updated every week. All you need to do is log in to this site before your evening of intermingling and brush up on the latest news.
I have searched the realms on the world wide web for such a book, and have found nothing. Zilch. Nada. Maybe such a book does not exist.

Or maybe I should go to an actual, Physical book shop. One hears that these things are located at every street corner. Hmm... perhaps tomorrow. For now I'm happy in my little cubicle with the tap-tapping of the keyboard to soothe my nerves and my IM friends who're a very very safe distance away.

Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna

2008-04-20T02:32:00.000-07:00

I have some vacation time coming. It's been long overdue. So I decided to utilise my two weeks vacationing in China. Reactions at work went thus:
Boss
Sense: Boss, I'd like a holiday
Boss: no.
S: But Boss...
B:Are you nuts? This is peak season. This is no time to take a couple of days off to go gallavanting!
S: Erm... I was thinking more along the lines of a couple of weeks.
B: Ha! the work must be getting to me. I though I just heard you say something about weeks...
S: actually I did. Two weeks to be precise.
B: (after some hysterical laughter) ah Sense! you crack me up!

Co worker
S: I'm off for two weeks.
CW: really? and your boss let you? no way!
S: yeah, so listen, could you like, erm handle a few things for me? I'm in the midst of it and... it's just taking it ahead. no sweat really.
CW: (breaking into a sweat) You say that now. wait till the whole thing goes pear- shaped. Then who's caught holding the bag!
S (rolling my eyes): relax! Nothing that drastic is going to happen.
CW :(now seriously beginning to freak me out by doing an eeerily accurate imitation of Gollum) Nothing drastic she says. we know better don't we? She just has to turn her back, and we know it's all going to go bad. Baaad! Baad, I tell you.

Friend in the next department:
friend: so it's true then? they Actually let you go?
S: erm yeah... so far.
F: (with awe) wow. So where are you off to?
S: China.
F: eh? China? The country? like in the Olympics and 'Free Tibet'?
S: I didn't know there were options. Are there any other Chinas that you know of?
F: Ah. K. Well... don't forget to get me ... erm - what do you get in China?
S: Everything that you get here. just cheaper.
F: well, then - get me something. a fake Rolex or whatevva.

So my voicemail now goes:
'HI this is Sense here and I'm off for two weeks (short pause to let that filter past incredulity and sink in) For any queries, please contact Boss or Co-worker. Of course, they've instructed me not to pass on their number to Anyone, so I guess unless you're psychic, you'll have to wait til I'm back and can really clean up the nuclear fall- out caused by my Vacation. Have a nice day!

How we spend snow days.

2008-04-12T17:43:00.000-07:00

My family has always been proud of being foodies. We make no bones about it. hence the conversation that follows.

Venue: Our House. Time: 8:50 am, on a Sunday. The Occasion: our first real snow shower in London.

For The benefit of all the non- Tam-brams reading this post, I have translated the conversation for you.

Baa Lamb: ... BIG flakes.

(pause)

Have you made the curry already?

Mother-in-law: Almost. Everythings' ready. You can start if you want. Just have to fry it a bit more. it's done.

(pause)

IT's nice... soft (No we are NOT talking about the snow here) or we can stop now.

BL: what's the time?

MIL:not even 9.

BL: 8:55. (thoughtful pause)

MIL: so should I fry it?

BL: Don't you always fry it??

MIL:It's fried! it's done!

BL: Fry it.

(sound of frying...)

My Day in Pictures

2008-03-15T06:29:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, my life in the parallel universe is occupying far too much of time. Travel time has doubled thanks to a switch in office premises (with no relocation or disturbance allowance, I might add), so I though I should let you in on my day (stop yawning already! i haven't even begun!!)

Buskers - The firang version of our train singers. A lot of them are very talented - much like our home grown variety, and of course we have a fair bit of Godawful screechers as well - again, much like home. The difference? it's all in the presentation, baby!

Pickwick playing peek-a-boo in my closet. He loves it there. Always unerringly manages to dig out my most embarassing Fashion faux Pas

The Picadilly line. My route to office. Takes blooming ages!

Ah! Poems on the underground. An endless source of amusement.

Men at work. A much better way to amuse myself. :)

I'm not being pessimistic- The Glass IS empty!

On the way back home. It's all a blur by this time

CPR

2008-01-30T04:55:00.000-08:00

*Sense... Can you hear me? SENSE? SENSE! *lights being flashed into eye*

...Sense is in low responsive but not in a presistent vegetative state...at times, however, there are posts... comments left on other peoples blogs...that gives us hope, despite the lack of regularity... all we can do is monitor and wait...
Sense. SEnsorcaine...can you hear me Sense? We're waiting, Sense,
Whatever you may be experiencing isn’t real Sense. You can escape. You only need to take that definitive step. Do as I say and you will be waking up with your blog family and net friends around you.

something tells me this is my last window of opportunity... I MUST. I must... and Just maybe, maybe Sense can post again.

*'Life on Mars'- BBC

Bit of a chinwag

2007-12-12T15:30:00.000-08:00

Well, I though I was pretty conversant with the English language. So when I was asked to attend the ‘integrating with the UK workforce’ training programme, I assumed I wasn’t going to learn anything spectacular, and looked for ward to a good day of R & R at the companies expense.
The course, as it turned out, was an eye-opener in more ways tha one.
For example, only in India do we use the term ‘non-vegetarian’. Here you’re either a Vegetarian, Vegan, if you don’t eat meat. I mean, just because you eat meat does not make you a ‘non-vegetable-eater’.
There is no such word as ‘pre-pone’ that we so generously pepper our phone conversations and e-mails with. You either postpone a meeting or bring it forward.
I have no ‘batchmates’. We passed out from the class of ’01, sure, but unless we’re referring to cookies, there’s going to be no ‘batch’ business.
Eveteasing- again, you’ll spend all day explaining to your British Colleague what ou mean.
A jumper does not mean someone who’s contemplating ending his life by leaping from a skyscraper. It merely refers to a commonplace article of outer clothing.
A lollipop Lady, again, before the imagination runs amok is merely someone who helps school children cross the road.
Jimjams do NOT refer to that delicious jam biscuit we used to love finding in our tiffins at school. They’re just plain ol’ pajamas.
Fags are not a derogatory reference to your sexual orientation- they refer to butt kissing- erm, cigarettes, I mean.
And in the ‘cockney rhyming slang’, when you’re referred to as ‘old china’, they’re not referring to the tea set left by your grandmum. It’s the way they call you mate.
I'm now quite chuffed that eighteen pence has her two bob bit sorted!

Barcelone-Ta ta

2007-11-16T09:43:00.000-08:00

Yes, we were in a Barcelona last weekend. Barcelonata, to be precise. Now before you go all 'ooooh', stop. Cease and Desist. For after the tale I have to tell you, you'll be going 'Awwwww' . Unless your struck dumb in Horror. Trust me- that is a very real Possibility.

The weekend started pretty much normally- Driving down to the airport Bleary-eyed and catching an early morning flight to Spain with a screming Toddler who decided he wanted to stop the plane in mid-flight to romp in the clouds. Normal.

Arrival at the hostel too didn't give any warning of the nightmare that lay in store. Centre of town in Passeig de Gracia- Just a hop skip and jump away from La Rambla and a stones throw for the gothic part of town. Nice. Especially when you planned to walk or use the public transport.

So, with a well-fed and duly freshed up Pickwick and a similarly content Baa-lamb, we set out to hit the Beach in Barceloneta, before it got too chilly to enjoy the sea.

Unfortunately we underestimated how throughly 'firang' we'd become- all that sun gave us a headache! Hence we trooped to a nearby cafe - empty at that point of time- because everyone was out basking in the sun.

As Baa lamb turned to get the coffee, while I entertained a restless Pickwick, he called out ‘grab the bag, will ya’. ‘what bag?’ I ask. ‘The bag.’ He say. ‘Our bag. The only bag we have. Haversack.’ he says making this absolutely clear.
‘erm… from where? ‘ I ask. ‘There’s no bag.’
‘eh? On the buggy! Look, will you!’ he said, a tad annoyed at my sudden lapse into obtuseness.
‘I am!’ I insist. ‘At the buggy. An empty buggy.’ I felt it was only fair that I should be as clear as he was.
He goggled. ‘but… where… there… no!’ ah. Not so clear now. But still, I grasped all. In case you, dear reader haven’t, since you don’t share the same telepathic connection with the baa-lamb, let me explain.

The bag- which I must add contained all out travel documents, passports, cards and cash- along with a smattering of Pickwick’s paraphernalia was missing. Gone. In an empty café. Someone had swiped it. Clean as a whistle!!
After some frantic searching up and own the beach- which included some very nasty discoveries in the trash cans around the area- but no bag, we resigned ourselves to the fact that the bag was gone for good.

Then began the nightmare- first cancelling cards (this was apparently so common, they had printed leaflets informing tourists what to do if they got robbed. Credit Card Company numbers, police station numbers, embassy numbers, the works!) , then heading out to the police station- the main police station, since the local once was shut for the weekend- a pity crime doesn’t take a weekend break.
Then of course we got to know that the Indian embassy in Barcelona was an honorary one- they can only advise. Eh? Advise? What do I need an embassy for advice- I have every man on the street doing that. What I needed was help. Action. Is that such an alien concept? Apparently, it was. The only ones who could help us were seated in Madrid. Also shut for the weekend. What is this? An international conspiracy to make it easier for thieves to rob tourists? Emergency Services!- surely if it could wait til monday, it wouldn’t be an emergency, now, would it?
Having lost all hope and all faith in the system, as a last ditch effort, we headed to the airport to see if EasyJet would manage to give us a refund on the ticket- or at least get us to Madrid in one piece.
The lady at the counter took one look at the passport copies (yes, the baa-lamb, that wonderful, meticulous planner, him- had scanned our passport and visa pages and kept it secure on the mail) and said… ‘well, I’ll speak to the Immigration Authorities and I’ll let you know if you can go back’
Eh? Were we hearing right? They’re letting us travel? Letting us get out of here? Back to London? We don’t have to travel to Madrid? And wait for the Emergency Services (ha!) to wake up? Really?
There was a glimmer of hope… ten minutes later she gives us the thumbs up… that’s it... we got outta there like bats out of hell before she changed her mind. Literally raced back to the hotel room, threw together our meagre belongings and rushed back to the airport- and checked in 4 hours before the flight.
We landed in London a bit past mid-night. The immigration authorities we expecting us. No- really. They had all our details and drew up emergency papers on the spot that would hold good until we got proper documentation here. Wow. And this was for people who weren’t event their citizens. While our embassy had emergency services shut for the weekend.
For the first time in my life, I was glad I didn't work in India. Forget 'Atithi Devo Bhava' - lets learn to treat our own guys right.

Autumn

2007-11-03T16:44:00.000-07:00

Autumn. I love the word. I love it more because its one of the words my son says adorably. I love it slightly less than I used to on account of the gloomy, chilly evenings I'm experiencing, after a gloomy, rainy summer. Still, before I begin to absolutely loathe the word, here's a glimpse of why I still think it's semi- cool. The Greenhouse.

Late Afternoon at the park

last of the green leaves

A final burst of defiance by the flowers before winter decides to show them who's Daddy

Henry Moore and Nature.

Pickwick finds his Kamal...

...in the Keechad!

Hooked! Line & Sinker

2007-10-29T07:47:00.000-07:00

After 28-odd years (yes, 28. No. I DO NOT lie. And Yes, I DO LOOK older in my photos. I'm not getting older. I'm aging gracefully) of my life on this earth, I have finally realised what I have been missing. This is quite apart from missing the bhel and the samosas and the paani puris and the Golas... *sigh* I digress. As is often the case when we talk about food.

Pause for a brief moment where I imagine the taste of the above bursting in my tongue.

Well, last night I had the pleasure of watching a Broadway musical. OK, OK- you can stop with the shocked noises. I haven't been to one despite having resided in London for six months. I will lay the blame for the same squarely on the shoulders of a certain baa-lamb who refused to shell out what he terms as 'a criminal amount of money' to watch people cavorting about in tights and singing. He claims that sort of thing looks better in the movies. So last night when BL's (Baa-lamb, dearies) colleague asked if we would like tickets to a musical, BL snorted at the suggestion of his ever being caught dead watching that kind of stuff, but graciously offered to babysit Pickwick while I indulged in my long cherished dream.
I reached well in advance (despite having climbed the 293 steps of Covent Garden Station Coz I was too impatient to wait for the lift- a decision that showed my general fitness levels in abysmal light). A little too well in advance- they were still cleaning out the steps when I arrived, I think. I generally hung around soaking in the atmosphere. Also soaked in a whole lotta second-hand cigarette smoke, directed two lost tourists very helpfully in the wrong direction, and grabbed every free leaflet available to read up on the musical and London's theater guide. Just when people were giving me funny looks as assessing if I was a serial stalker, my date showed up.
We promptly collected our ticket and got seated in the front rows (very good seats). Oh- did I mention I was there to watch Chicago? No? Doesn't matter. It could have been Posh's life on stage, and I would have still enjoyed myself. Still, love the songs, can sing along with most of them, and totally flipped for the movie, so the play was a good choice.
Needless to say the Play did not disappoint. I was a bit deflated with Kelly Osbourne's performance as 'Mama Morton' (after all, Queen Latifah, is a act to follow), I believed she sang, but the rest performed(huge difference). And what a performance it was! The only time I took my eye off stage was to grab a couple of spoonfuls of the hazelnut and fresh cream ice cream (very good. Daylight robbery prices, but Very Good.), and to briefly apologise to the poor chap whose foot I was squashing in my excitement, as I tried to tap along with the performers on stage (I would have clapped, but hands were otherwise occupied with the aforementioned ice cream).
At the end of the play, I clapped, hooted and whistled like a crazed Rajnikant fan at the first show of his movie. And I wasn't alone. More than half the audience was on their feet, showing their appreciation for the awesome spectacle that entertained us for about 2 ½ hours. The lobby as we poured out was something else- we had a lot of people singing their favourite ditties from the musical, the odd snatches of tunes being whistled, and short of throwing their arms of one another and offering to buy you a drink at the local pub, the general air of bonhomie was something else.
Although it was close to midnight, trains were running to full capacity, and I got home with my head still full of the musical and a silly grin plastered to my face.
I now know why the say the stage is an addiction. I 'm hooked. And they'll try to make me got to rehab and I'll say No. No. NO!

Size 12

2007-10-05T11:34:00.000-07:00

Back home, I always felt, I was, um… how do I put it… a tad outsized for Indian clothes. It was never felt more than during a stroll down Linking road, where shopkeepers spotting an easy target for daylight robbery would very politely invite me to buy their stuff. Didn’t matter what it was. Skirts, shoes, tops, jeans… anything. On spotting something I liked (I’m not that hard to please, I generally like most things that are in a passable shape and as long as it isn’t ‘either-I’m-a-film-star-who-wants-to-be-noticed-or-I’ve-walked-out-of-a-balaji-soap’ loud), I would ask for it in my size. That’s when they’d finally appraise my size (all this while the lure of easy money having blinded them), half-heartedly rummage in the back and then shake their head sorrowfully and say, ‘ aapke size mein nahin milega’ Hmm… road block. Undeterred, I would ask, ‘toh phir mere size mein kya hai?’ scratching his head at this daunting challenge, he will point me to a man’s shirt/ shoe and say- ‘yeh milega.’ Gee, thanks! I feel special.
Which was the reason when I moved to this country, I though finally, shopping should be a breeze. I mean, I know I lie somewhere between size 10 and size 12 (does NOT mean I’m a size 11. it means that sometimes I fit into a size 10, and sometimes 12.) and considering that size 12 is though to be the average size for most women here, how hard can it get? I’m finally average!
So imaging my surprise the other day when I open to newspapers the other day to find a hue and cry being made about some pop start chappie using models of size 12 and above in his music video and extolling the virtue of ‘big’ girls’. Eh? Size 12 is now big? So what average? Size 8 is thin (It is. You have to be miniscule to fit into size 8), so is the new average size 10? But what if you’re size 12? Will you now walk into a store for the plus sizes? And does that make size 14 fat?? I decided to find out for myself.
So I march into a popular clothing store and demand to see the size 12 cardigans. ‘erm, sorry, but they don’t seem to be here.’ Says the helpful shop assistant. ‘no shit, sherlock!’ was what I thought, but ‘ well, could you locate some for me?’ was what I asked. After about 4 minutes of asking the shop manager and a couple of other people who seemed to be wandering around aimlessly, she informs me ‘ah! Yes. We’ve run out of those. Sorry.’ And then walks away beaming, confident that she has done well, already moving on to her next hapless victim. She, poor thing, has no idea that this has increased my conundrum. I now know that size 12 is very very average, seeing that they have run out of all things in that size. But that now means that everything I like will first get sold out in size 12, thus, I’m back to square 1. i.e. me minus clothes I like.
As for shoes… apparently, I just have large feet for a woman. I have to accept that and stop blaming the countries I live in. I am currently on the lookout for ultra-feminine men’s shoes. Anyone know where the gay men shop?

Great Scot!

2007-09-22T10:16:00.000-07:00

you know how i love rainbows!

Sir Walter Scott Monument

Reminded me of Coccoon

One day, that's how I'll be travelling
Edinburgh castle
Hogwart's schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry :D

the Loch Ness

The highlands

supposedly the most haunted grave in all of Scotland- The site of the 'bloody MacKenzie' poltergeist
taht's, by teh way, is an actual working clock.

That's the underwater sonar in our quest for old 'nessie'

on teh rare occasion steh sun does happen to shine here, it gets awfully pretty.

That is the childrens museum. Note the 'dirty boy' pears toy...

that's a poster for the 'haunted tour' that they do in the city. It's one of the most popular tours

this one's a memoral for all the 'witches' that were persecuted in ancient times.

see that round thingy in the centre? thata's an actual cannonball from the time when the Edinburgh castle was under attack

Indian and Pakistani flags flying together at an eatery in E'burgh

A tobacconistanother one of the ineteresting little alleyways in Edinburgh

A Mannequin wearing the kilt. It's supposed to be worn with nothing underneath. Brr! That's called blowin' in the wind.

.

This used to be a church, Now it's just a railway booking office

what's Scotland without a bit o' whisky?

Ironies

2007-09-19T01:13:00.000-07:00

Life's little ironies:
Now That I'm working, I have something besides Pickwick to write about. But Now That I'm working, I can think of Nothing but Pickwick worth writing about.

My workplace is the one place which has so many Indians I'll never feel out of place. My work place has so many Indians, there is no place!

Lunch Hour is fun, coz you don't have to bother explaining the contents of your dabba to all and sundry. Lunch hour also means you have to bring enough in your dabba for everyone around you.

An hour for lunch is perfectly fine. An hour post 5:00 pm is also perfectly expected.

Work is challenging, it keeps me on my toes. Work is so challenging, I have to be on my toes.

Now that I'm earning, we'll spend a bit more. What we're spending on is daycare for Pickwick, which hardly leaves anything for spending at all.

Work's a great source for inspired posts. Work's the reason I don't post as often

Free? And fair???

2007-09-09T00:40:00.000-07:00

I live in this wonderful country where for most parts I tend to forget the colour of my skin. But then, once in a while the Prime Minister , no less tends to put me sharply back into my place. Mr. Brown want to pass a resolution wherein visa applicants (skilled category) from only non-european union countries have to pass an english proficiency test. According to the BBC, this is Mr. Brown's way of addressing his peoples concern that non-Britishers are taking up all of their jobs. Right. So let me get this straight. It's perfectly fine for a Polish guy, who doesn't speak a word of english takes up what was rightfully a 'local's job', but heaven forbid an Asian trying to do the same. Oh no. We can't have that sort of thing in here.
It's perfectly reasonable to expect anyone who comes into a country to work to be able to speak a smattering of the local language. So English language tests (apparently upto GCSC level C) are fine, but why the discrimination between european and non-european countries?
Of course, I'm not too worried even if the bill is passed. Because, ironically, Asians would have a better grasp of this language than their european counterparts anyways. Ha to you, Mr. Brown.

Pickwick's Gandhian Habits

2007-09-07T16:42:00.001-07:00

Swiss Cheez

2007-08-26T14:59:00.000-07:00

Yes, the Cheez is Mast-mast. So's the cheese. It's a must. Switzreland- a land of snow, cows with cow-bells, belles, man-made engineering marvels and God-made astounding beauty. Not to forget Indians crawling out from under every rock, pebble and boulder.

Mount Pilatus. The one with the Dragons of Legends

On the way to Pliatus. Love the cow-bells.

The steepest Cogwheel train in the world- the way up to Pilatus Kulm

This One's my wallpaper when it'll start to get miserable in London

The Ice- palace at Jungfrau (with a huge Aditya-Birla Logo at the entrance). And no, Before you ask- I did not eat at the Bollywood restaurant at the Top of Europe.

Mount Titlis (don't snigger- that is teh name)- The journey by Cable Car

He He. This was right next door to Our Hotel In Lucerne

Mount Titlis (STOP it.) from Mount Pilatus

Glorious morning!

Aletsch Galcier at Jungfrau

I make a fine Snow angel!

Interlaken Ost

Picture postcard- The Interlaken-Lucerne Journey

aaj main oopar, aasman neeche...

Jungfraujoch

Kleine Sheidegg-Jungfraujoch Journey

Junfrau -Top Of Europe

Minus 6 Degrees. The birds don't seem to mind.

Interlaken, in front of the river Aare

The view from the cogwheel train from Kleine Sheidegg

The train from Gindlewald to Kleine Sheidegg

The first glimpse of the Peaks of Jungfrau

The plains and Mountains on the way to Jungfrau

Picture Postcards

2007-08-06T05:37:00.000-07:00

They say you can't describe Amsterdam, you have to experience it. When have I ever listened to what they say. And who's they?

yeah.. you can see all there is to see by Bike... at least that how the locals do it. Plenty of rentals, plenty of bikes... in fact there are more peolpe than bike in the city... and apparently you have shady characters sliding upto you and trying to palm off stolen bikes. For 10 euros! We kept a sharp lookout for such characters so we could slide upto him and demand our 10-euro bike. NO such luck!

Nope, didn’t visit the cheese farm, but did try out some of the cheeses for Breakfast. Yummmm! And those clogs- well, don’t know why they sell em, actually- can’t wear ‘em- and where the heck will you display shoes in your house??

Now this is something that would sell in this city…we turn on the telly, and what’s the first thing we see? The free porn channel! And the red-light district is awesome! The window mannequins stand ramrod straight, and the women at the windows are unbelievably curvy! Oh, and the toys… wouldn’t know what to do with half of them, actually.

This is a laugh. Shopping is tax free. Porn on the telly is free. So is homosexuality. But a trip to the loo costs you 50 cents to a Euro. And in the city of canals, water certainly isn’t free!

You really think I wasted the weekend visiting this? Come on! you ought to know me better by now.

Here’s One place I wish we could visit actually, but with Pickwick in tow, we didn’t think it’s was too clever. Even in Amsterdam.

Again, with the museums… really, now.This is me we’re talking about here. OK. So we did visit One museum. But this wasn’t it.

Nope. This wasn’t it either. Try again.

Nor this.

*snort* C’mon! you’re not trying hard enough.

See what I mean about the Sex? And this poster has nothing to do with sex. It’s just about shopping!

Ohh- our neightbourhood bar. Great ambience. You can sit out right by the canal. And gaze out at the gay convention taking place in the street. Host of Pink-tees, extreme leather and some lovely drag queens. Pickwick really loved the hot Pink Balloons.

Finally. This is the one museum we did visit. It would be blasphemous if we didn’t.

Ohh… and this one, I did want to visit, but I was veetoed.

No thanks. We have one already. We call him Pickwick.

I'm a Legal Alien

2007-07-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

There are things that are endemic to each country that other people find inexplicable. Here are a few ads and announcements that have me flummoxed.

- Trains will not be stopping at Victoria station today due to excessive dust on the station.
Really?By that logic, the Virar local can only stop at the coach shed. maybe not even there- God Forbid, there might be Excessive Dust!

- And Ad on the Telly: 'Oasis- The chuggable fruitiness for people who don't like water'
Hasn't their mother ever told them of the millions of people dropping dead in third world countries because they don't have clean water to drink??? What kind of people are these? are you sure they are the same species as us???

Children who opt for eduation above the age of sixteen get paid by some boroughs to stay in school!

The cost of a litre of ice-cream and a bottle of mineral water is about the same.

Pureed tomato (in a tube) is cheaper than whole, raw tomatoes.

An ad on the telly asks you to contribute 3 pounds a month to keep some dogs in kennels, but another wants just 2 pounds to stop prevention of cruelty to children. (and guess which ads are played more frequently)

and Oh- Flash Floods! They make headline news... just to be clear what the idea of a flash flood here is: ten minutes of heavy rains (the kind we get for two continuous day in july in Mumbai)

Shall keep everyone posted as more googlies are thrown my way.

Everyday Heros

2007-07-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

Original can be viewed here

Dekho Dekho Dekhooooo an Evening in....

2007-06-22T04:30:00.000-07:00

Two days in Paris have turned me into a massive snob- NO, it’s got nothing to do with the french- who were quite nice, by the way, and eveyone simply adored Pickwick (except for a few old fogies- the Gall! – Actually they are the Gauls, but still, The Gall!), its just that now I’m looking at everyone condescendingly, tsk-ing at their french and go about aggravatingly correcting their pronounciations! Yes, I used to go about aggravating correcting speech anyways, but I restricted myself to the english language (occasionally Hindi, when it came to Hubby- who still pronounces ‘Khar’ like a cross between an automobile and a Ludhianvi reminescing about home), but now it’s gone and spilled over to the french language as well. Not that I know French. Far from it. I wouldn’t know it if it jumped up and bit my behind. The only French I was familiar with (apart from the fries) was the high school vareity where all pronounciations had their heads bitten off and spat back in the face of the harassed teacher. So why have I suddenly turned expert? Simple… I have unlocked the key to ALL prononciations french. And I shall divulge this knowledge now. The key lies in Imagining that your mouth is full of marbles. Seven, if you want my opinion. Now try and read what is written, and voila! We have ze perfect accent. It also help if you mumble and speak as if you’re hiding in a closet and you don’t want the psycho with and axe on the other side of the door hearing you. The other things I picked up in Paris- the ability to appear supremly confident, even if you have a toilet seat hanging around your neck ( the way they beg for money here, you’d think they were doing you a favour by taking your money), bomb hoaxes exist in France as well (and this time Pickwick was no where close to the scene), red light districts can peacefully co-exist with places of worship outside of Kolkata, Piped music played on buses is still cheesy, even if it is in French and even a baby’s full-throated wail cannot take away the romance of a night cruise in the Seine. I shall now let you get on with ogling at the photos.

* photographs Courtesy Mr. Sensorcaine – you might know him better as the baa-lamb.

Juggler at the Flea market

Rainy day

night Cruise on The Seine

The light show every hour!

Le D'artagnan. Great Breakfasts.

Notre Dame de Paris

Inside the church

cheesy 'dils' exist even in Paris. :D

View from the first level at Eiffel
Seine from the second level

The monolith

L'Arc De Triomphe

More of L'arc

...and the Eiffle
A rainbow in Paris!

Le basilique du Sacre-Coeur (thanks Brad!)

also Sacre-coeur

and this one too.

Champs- Elysees

L'arc- ceiling details

Croeso i Arddunol Caerdydd

2007-06-10T03:35:00.000-07:00

Cardiff Bay

The sculpture outside the Visitors' Centre

View From the Visitors' Centre

Cardiff Castle

The dragon- synonymous with all things 'Cardiff-ean'

The town crest

Cardiff Bay Visitors centre

Pickwick having fun at the millenium centre

Looking up from the castle well

Peahen decided to investigate the food scraps with her chicks

Fort entry

Duck swimming at the bay

Little Britain

2007-06-06T02:39:00.001-07:00

Stonehenge. Stones. and nothing much else around for miles. Except wooly sheep.

Yes. So there are no 'Parag heart Simmi' s on the monuments

Richmond Park

Deer sighting at Richmond park

Sighting of a different kind of beast at our apartment

Inside Victoria Quarter, Leeds

Mural opposite the Market, Leeds

Corn Exchange, Leeds (lovingly restored, as the plaque puts it)

Leeds Skyline

Leeds Church

Great Expectations

2007-05-22T03:37:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes in life, what you expect in life is very different from what you come to accept.
What you expected (WYE): (on hearing hubby has a very mobile career) Lots of fun travelling and new places to see
What you've accepted (WYA): The 'yay' factor wears a bit thin when no sooner have you finished unpacking the last box and settled down for a cup of tea, than hubby breezes in to announce that we've got to pack up coz we're moving again!

WYE: New Places - new friends, new hang-outs...
WYA: New Places- New maid servants to break in or *shudder* no maid servants to break in.

WYE: ooh... expecting! Darling baby movements in you belly
WYA: Ooh! someone needs to tell that baby to stop stomping on my bladder

WYE: Smart baby
WYA: Smart baby using his brains for destructive purposes

WYE: (judging by our sizes) Chubby baby
WYA: baby that won't sit still long enough to become chubby

WYE: Me playing with baby and being fit enough to keep up with him
WYA: Baby running circles around me.

WYE: Me being super mom- having a neat house, clean baby and super chef, while I dazzle colleages at work with my keen business acumen
WYA: You won't die from eating slightly charred meals, you can work you way around the mess, and babies will become filthy exacly 4 .8 seconds after you've bathed them. And work? you think I have time for work after all this???

WYE: Blogs. Will read all blogs, post like there's no tomorrow, leave scintillating comments on others posts.
WYA: there's just barely enought time to publish in a post, without even bothering to run a spell check on it, before baby tries for the umpteenth time to burn the house down.

WYE: a good end to the post
WYA: To end is good enough.

Who's loss is it anyways?

2007-03-23T00:34:00.000-07:00

While my house was being turned upside down by the packers (actually, it was the first time I saw some of the stuff that I though had vanished into a black hole – including the missing sock of a pair- which I’d promptly thrown away the other leg of. So I was still a missing a sock in a pair), Mother-in-law (the brave soul) offered to baby-sit Pickwick.
Now if you’re wondering what packers were doing at the house- well, apparently hubby was once again bitten by the one-year-itch and had the look of wanderlust in his eyes. (No. no, you dirty minds wanderlust!!!) So we’re upping and moving.
But I digress (what’s new?). Back to the glee on hearing MIL will take Pickwick off my hands for a bit. Hmm… so what can I do that I haven’t been able to do for ages? And there’s no contest! I gleefully switch on the telly! (Again, dear readers, wanderlust. Also, with packers there? You MUST be joking!). So, I look forward to watch Oprah generously hand out mansions to her studio audience uninterrupted.
The packers sensing I was going to fight tooth and nail before I handed over the remote packed everything else around before warily approaching the telly. I was outnumbered six-to-one and gave up the remote with some reluctance. With a sigh I picked up the day’s papers and the first thing I read (My eyes just glaze over anything to do with the world Cup. So my mind automatically skips those sections of the newspapers and in effect I’m left with just 3.2 pages of newsprint to choose from) is some gloriously delusional article written by some socialite who cribs coz she has to travel from town to Lower Parel for work- which she claims isn’t in real Mumbai at all.(What’s she doing on my planet??)
I disgustedly toss the paper aside and with nothing else to browse thru’,I pick up my unfinished copy of Kiran Desai’s Much hyped, much awarded, much praised ‘Inheritance of Loss’. Now call me old fashioned, but I like stories to have an end. At least do the decent thing by pretending to have an end.
Half-way thru’ this book I realized that this book had no such intensions. For all practical purposes, this book was like an Indian soap- spectacular visuals, opulent sets and no end in sight. Skip a couple of episodes, and you wouldn’t have missed a thing!
What’s also annoying is that most of the characters in the book are the sort who let things happen to them. Well, if you’re going to write a book about people who let things happen to them, at least let interesting things happen to them. If everyday things that happened to you and me made for an interesting read, every diary ever written would be a darned bestseller! There’s a reason the book is categorized under fiction, I just desperately wish the author would realize that! Even an Adoor Gopalakrishnan movie has some pretensions of conclusion for crying our loud! And NO, a ‘My salaams’ page at the end of the book does NOT classify as a suitable end.
Just so you can partake in my righteous indignation, I’m penning this post that has no point to make and has NO end. HA!
PS: Please be warned- All the hate mail I will be receiving for this post is liable to be printed, quoted verabatim, rediculed and twisted beyond recognition and pointed and laughed at.

London on a Student Budget

2007-03-07T03:38:00.000-08:00

Images of London- when you have no Budget to speak of, and not nearly enough days...

Tower Bridge. One of the most photographed places in London

The tower of London. Infamous for its numerous executions.

The Big Ben- by twilight

The new London Bridge

The Thames- in all it's fury. Not a patch on the Bhramaputra, but intimidating all the same.

Westminister skyline

A Dali Sculpture.

The London eye. AKA a mother of a Ferris Wheel.

Buckingham Palace.

Deer. Richmond Park.

Nice, eh?

Rainy streets.

A break in the weather

another view of the eye. Notice the chopper circling it.

Trafalgar Square. We caught the beginnings of a Protest.

Nice Brit Pub near Trafalgar

Typically Rainy Afternoon...

... And then the sun peeks out.

Freeze Framed!

2007-03-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

Yes, Boss

2007-01-24T03:11:00.000-08:00

Early Start

2007-01-21T05:01:00.000-08:00

'Of course we're running!' Says hubby. This was, needless to say, the indignant reply to my apparently silly question- 'are we running the Marthon?'
'And by we, you mean...' I ask. You know, one doesn't want things to be ambiguous.
'You, Me and Amma' says Hubby- clearly think I've lost it now. For hadn't we discussed this earlier- and decided that we would. You know, the family thing and all.
Good. Just so we were clear. Now for the Coup de Grace- 'So, who's going to take care of Pickwick?' I ask.
'Oh.' 'Yes, Oh. Minor fly in the ointment, eh?'
'Ah.'
'Now is not the time to practice you vowels, hon.' I say, a tad impatiently.
Hubby's brow, which had temporarily furrowed, cleared up.
' No Problem. We take him with us, of course.'
Eh? (now is was my turn to do the vowels) No Problem? No Problem?? how is it Not a problem? Six Kilometers. Bad enough for a couch Potato like me. With Pickwick? Somebody send for the lawyers. I want to write my last will and testament.
'don't worry. we'll take turns. You me and Amma. Easy Peasy.' says Hubby patting my head. *gulp* 'OK. If you say so.' I mumble, sending up a silent prayer, rashly promising all kinds of thing to about 6-odd Gods. (it would have been more, but the names dried out at number Six.)

Marathon Day:
Overslept. Ran in and out of the shower. Changed 3 track pants. Settled on a fourth one belonging to Hubby. Bundled Pickwick into whatever I could lay my hands on. Had to re-do it. he was wearing 2 T-shirts and no shorts. Halfway to the station, Hubby realises he's forgotten our registration bibs. Damn. Backtrack. Just make it in time for a departing VT Train. Make our way thru a sea of humanity to the Company Marquee. Stuff myself with a Frankie, a Narial Panee and covetously eye the chaat counter before I realise I have to Pee. Run over, wait and do the needful, and the announcements for the starting of the race is on. Well, so far, pretty normal. Hmm.. maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all.
At the holding block, Hubby suddenly announces 'You know, I want to give it my best shot. If I hold Pickwick, I'll never make it in decent time...' he looks at the two of us desperately, and Amma and self exchange the wouldn't-you-know-it glance. 'Fine. we'll handle it. go ahead'. I say resigned to dropping out of the race after 2 kms and joining the cheerers.
'Thanks!' says excited Hubby, hand over the squiming Bundle and head our front.
'If you can't trace me, head back home. don't wait long!' he yells as he vanished into the crowd.
Oh great. Might as well head home now, when the trains were empty!
Pickwick and amma, however kept me entertained enough to stick on- at least til the race started. Initially all we did was walk. We couldn't do much else. Pickwick was amused and amusing in turn, and I though to myself 'well, not bad, lest see how far I can stick it out'.
Pickwick, however had other ideas and firmly settled down for a good nap halfway through. Well, nevermind. There's Amma for company. I think. A further 2 kms down, I lose sight of Amma. She has been swallowed by a crowd of enthusiastic Giant I-Pods. Ye gads! just as I entertained thoughts of wading in to rescue her, Pickwick, fresh from his siesta, decides to egg me on in his peculair way- by digging his heels into my middle if I showed signs of easing up.
I had no choice- I had to finish...
As I made my way into the Marquee once more - after squeezing through the gates along with a million other people and introducing Pickwick to the joy of Feeling like a sardine in a can, I finally locate Amma.
NO sign of hubby though. As we make our way back, Hubby calls up. 'where are you?' he asks. 'where are you' I ask in turn. 'Home.' says hubby, as if what I was asking was a rhetoric.
'ah.' followed by silence on my part. Hubby sweats. 'well, I looked. Everywhere. you weren't there. Honest.'
'Oh?'
'well, you're alright aren't you? good. I'll see you at home then. right. toodles.' says hubby with a feeble attempt at cheer.

Two hours later, outside our door. Sheepish Hubby- 'hi!'
'Why are you standing outside?' I ask surprised.
'well. The Keys. you have it. I though I'd wait til you get home. ' Poor thing. So he did keep his word about coming home together.
Hmmm... maybe next year, Pickwick can join this fun do- this time he WALKS!

Whoa, woe!

2007-01-09T23:07:00.000-08:00

I was tagged by Loca and the rules are- I write 9 weird things about Self, Tag 6 others and leave comments on their blogs. Now admitted, this was done a good 3 months ago, but I seem to have stumbled across it just now, hence the post post-haste. which brings me to weird thing number 1.
I love limericks and funny verses. In fact I love it more than soulful poetry. Anyone can be soulful, I say, but it take a true genius to be flippannt in the company of Wordsworth nad Tennyson. That's why Nash rules. (With a name like Ogden, his parents didn't leave him much choice, did they? I mean, come on, can you think of 'Daffodils- by Ogden Nash' and still read it with the same countenance?)

I love food. But I'm not a gourmet. Now if that seems like a contardiction, it isn't. It's just that I'm as much a fan of the Vada Pav and Dhabeli as the Risotto and Wasabi. In fact a little more so, since the former is far lighter on the pocket than the latter.

I 'm one of the few women I know (women all over blogdom will be rolling up their sleeves at this) who honestly thinks that I have far too many things to wear. Really. My closet is bursting at the seams.

I'm also the woman who thinks you can never have enough socks though. I love socks. I try to collect one in every colour. I am hampered in ths quest by stern hubby, single-sock- eating washing machine and now, also joining the fray, kleptomaniac son. But I plod on, relentless in my quest.

I intend to try out sky diving soon. Quickly and on the sly before my son decides to emulate me.

I'm the queen of Freudian slips. Freud would have a field day with me. And I'd threaten to break his spine in five places if he so much as suggested that my mother was to blame for my oddities. I prefer laying the blame squarely on my brother who tormented me relentlessly throughout childhood.

I get a lot of Great Ideas while sitting on my throne. I don't know what it is about loos... (thye have to spotlessly clean though), but they inspire me to come up with some absolute winners.

I still dream of arriving at school in my underpants!

I might be married and a mother, but I still wouldn't advocate marriage for everyone. I'd much rather people live together in sin (is it a sin anymore?).
There. Nine thngs. Nine very uncomfortable things about me.
I'm leaving this open. no tagging. anyone who's interested can pick it up and run with it. Hope you don't scrape your knee in the process.

Ek Glassy, do glassy...

2006-12-29T04:51:00.000-08:00

‘Honey…’ I say in a melodious voice
‘Yeah?’ asks hubby warily. ‘You know those headaches I’ve been having?’
‘um-hmmm’ he says even more warily. ‘Well, I think we should do something about it. I plan to visit the opthal tomorrow.’ I say.
‘You mean they were real? Wow. OK. Yes. Opthal. Good.’ Says much relieved Hubby.

Evening, at Opthal.

‘Place your chin here please’ says Doc- pointing to a large intimidating thingummy. I do. ‘erm…. Rest your forehead as well..’ say amused doc- I had poked the chin forward and was looking like I was ready to bay at the moon.- which apparently is not how they check eyes nowadays. After looking at an ice-cream truck and white picket fences with both eyes for a while I hear… ‘hmmmm…’ ‘Interesting. Very Interesting.’ - Now that is not what you want anybody who’s peering into your eyes- who’s not drunk or your romantic love-interest, to say.
‘What? What??’ I ask nervously.
‘ hmmm… lucky… I wonder…’ murmurs Doc, to himself, completely ignoring a sweating me on the chair.
Finally, he pushes the machine away, thrusts an owlish looking frame upon me and asks me to read the gibberish alphabets chart. As I real the Last line… ‘ P N O U…’
‘No? hmmm… now? Yes, yes… I see…’
He sees? He sees?? Well, I don’t… Isn’t that why I was there? And things had only become foggier…

After a series of swapping glasses, and flashing blinding lights into my eyes, he says, ‘Yes. Are you driving?’
Startled by this sudden change in subject, I stammer ‘eh? Who? Me? Now? Right. No.’
He lapses back into silence with only annoys me more.. not only does he pass sweeping statements like ‘interesting’ and ‘lucky’ while peering into my eyes, he’s now taken to asking me about my driving habits and then going into these pensive silences… well, ok… so I forget to give that occasional hand signal (while turning, you perverts, not the one you gave to the boor honking his horn behind you), and yes, there was that one time when I had parked illegally for five minutes, but I failed to see what business it was of his… ‘ Good. The nurse will put some drops into your eye that will blur your vision for the next six hours.’ he said, interrupting my thoughts. Oh. I saw all… or rather was about to not-see at all in the next couple of minutes.

Five minutes later…
‘hmmm…’ said doc. I wished he would expand his vocabulary. Even eskimos have only so many words for ‘snow’.
‘so whats the verdict, Doc?’ I ask, looking at what I though was his face.
‘you’ll have to wear glasses, of course.’ Said a voice from behind me. I whipped my head around- I had been talking to Doc’s reflection. Further proof that I needed glasses, I guess. Glasses? That was the reason I was termed ‘lucky’ and ‘interesting’? feeling oddly deflated at such a mundane reason for the excitement, I staggered out into the waiting area, trying to stuff the prescription into my bag- and succeeding after 3 attempts. Back in the Doc’s cabin I could hear the voices floating out…’hmmm… inetresting…’ followed soon after by a panicky ‘what? Eh?’
Poor Sod. I could have told him he needed glasses.

BRNAD DEAD!

2006-12-26T01:41:00.000-08:00

well, Brad, as usual, had something to say about the last post. And here it was. So, naturally, I had something to say about that! enjoy!!

Dilli, we have a problem, yaar!

2006-12-21T04:06:00.000-08:00

In a bid to streamline the admistration, my company has decided to print all cards/ stationery and other sundry accessories centrally from 'dilli'. Which is great, provided,
a. I get my Cards on Time (which does NOT roughly translate to sometime in this decade)
b. I don't have to handle annoying administration guys suggesting that in the meanwhile I use a colleagues card, and scratch out his name and put mine instead.
c. When I DO get the cards, I'd be ecstatic, if they'd please, please not coin new acronyms for my position, and just manage to get the spellings right.

Right. For now I'm stuck with cards with read 'Sense- BRNAD SOLUTION (pliss to note the singular) MANAGER.

My clients now have the pleasure of choosing between scratched out, overwritten- cards, or ones which introduce me as a BRNAD Solution manager. Can we get the weekend here a bit sooner?

Godfather to the fore!

2006-12-18T21:57:00.000-08:00

Conversation between Brad and Godson!

Can also be seen Here, Here & Here

wORK wEEK

2006-12-12T21:21:00.000-08:00

I'm celebrating a week at work. Well, OK, celebrations would be pushing it... people in my office are already looking shifty-eyed and start shuffling their feet when asked whether my joining was a good thing. Thankfully I have a thick hide, and refuse to take hints, so I simply carry on the back-thumping and the bush-esque shoulder massaging as if I didn't notice poeple scurrying for cover when they see me approach.
I must say this for the workplace though- they stand up to punishment well. I suppose it goes with the territory when you're selling media. here's an example of a typical conversation:
(over the phone)
Colleague: Hey... It's me. I'm not with ABC anymore. Yeah, I'm with XY....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?
Colleague( as if no interruptions occured): sure thing.. in fact. I'll call you back. Just tell me when.
Client (pushed into a corner): er... afternoon? sure... bye!

Come afternoon...*brrrrring* *brrrrring*
metallic voice: the person you are trying to reach cannot take your call. Please leave a message at the beep.
Grrrrr!

Same Colleage and Same client, after the magazine hits the stands, and he finds his ad in the wrong posish.
Client: hey! it's me. I saw the ad. What's...
Colleague (getting her own back): hey... I'm sorry, but you've caught me at the worst time possible. Could you send me a mail on this?
Client (seething and vowing to wait till colleague comes back for business): sure, and I'll mark a CC to my boss and your boss.
Colleague (distractedly): oh? Oh. seeya then.

Next month: Colleague and client at it again.
Colleague: Hey... It's me. could we meet up ? i've got this great idea....
Client (cutting Colleague off in Mid-flow): oh, ah... I'm tied up can you call back a bit later?

-And so it goes. The Office. The best place to watch karma bite you in the arse.

All in a Day's work

2006-12-04T22:04:00.000-08:00

*Beep* *Beep* - said a beligerent phone at 2:30 am. Then only reason I even heard the darned thing was because I had just woken up to feed Pickwick. Mercifully, Pickwick slept right thru' the cacophony.
Muttering dire threats at whoever was at the other end, I picked up the phone to see who wished to commit Harakiri. 'Twas the boss. Or soon-to-be Boss. Darn. Plans of wanting to see the colour of his insides dropped. For now. (which reminds me of a classmate who once insisted on calling all our undies 'insides' for the duration of the entire study tour. These insides are not the insides I refer to in my post. Just in case a few random readers had similar thoughts)
Bleary eyed I read the message- and Goggle. The chap wants me to call up some female in the morning and tag along with her as she heads to office at the other side of town!!! You may well wonder why I goggled. I mean, that doesn't seem like such an absurd request, does it? Ah, but there were wheels, as they say, within wheels.
Let me start at the beginning. Skipping early evolution and other trivial matters, I shall move on to the matter in Q. After a nine-month hiatus, I had decided to join the ranks of the gainfully employed. My first day was supposed be the first of December. Boss-man- who's a Diliwallah was to make a trip a couple of days prior and get me up to speed, so to speak before tossing me into the thick of things. As luck would have it, Boss-man cometh and boss-man goeth- all without having an opportuinity to have the tete-a-tete. So, boss-man sayeth- No point starting tomorrow. Take the weekend to mull over material (which he promised he'd be sending over the mail), and start afresh Monday. Good, I say. Great, even. Weekend to prep up, and Monday morning, shall be In My Element.
By Sunday evening, the plan seems to have developed a slight flaw- no mail in sight from Boss-man. No answer to frantic phonecalls. Ah. Oh well, I think. Tomorrow we shall try again, I think.
Only, that night- at 2:30 to be precise is when Boss-man replies! Now you see why I goggle!
All right, no reason to panic. We shall meet aforementioned lady, and she will give me the goods, I think. Only, Lady is Late, has no clue who I am and what I'm there for.
Office isn't much better. No one in office knows I'm joining up. So naturally no one knows what I'm supposed to be doing. Er... I shall spent the day constructively blogging about it. And I would, only apparently, there are just so many workstations, and a tad too many people. Long tea breaks? Naah- the tea is delievered into your hands! So I now know every story that was printed in yesterday's paper. Go on- ask me what was printed on page 4 of the entertainment supplement. Or page 6 of the main supplement. I shall tell you verbatim. Still, there's only so much time you can spend with your nose buried in the newspaper. So I did the only thing any good new employee would do- disrupt Work and engage everyone in so much chit-chat that nothing constructive was done by anyone for the better part of the day. Finally deciding they've had enough of me, they politely told me I could leave early (they tried hinting at first, but I was too dense to get it. They had to spell it out for me).

This morning, trying to head off trouble early on, they have given me my own workstation. I think I'm going to like it here. They catch on quick.

Pickwick Capers

2006-12-03T08:44:00.000-08:00

Did a few rudimentary toons on strip creator- here they are
MOre to follow post refinement.

Family Tree

2006-11-28T23:38:00.000-08:00

As my son fumbles about bravely trying to insert his tiny fingers into every available socket, it makes me wonder what kind of stock he comes from and if, as his mother I am going to survive his bumps and bruises.

Well, I don’t have too much of a reference point, considering both my great great grandfather (on the maternal side) and throw in another great and we have the paternal side; both of whom were adopted. So that leaves me with about 3 generations worth of stories.
We will dispense with the greats and get down to the grandparents, since I have personally never had the pleasure of meeting any of the greats, and hence have heard no accounts of their heroics first hand (although my granddad’s grand mom was allegedly bitten by a snake when she was pregnant, and hence they believed my great grandma was a walking antidote to venomous bites. On another interesting aside, the lady was supposed to be pretty venomous herself…That apparently accounts for my wayward tongue)

Lets start with the granddaddy (literally) of all stories- which involves the maternal grandpop (if he could see me being so irreverent now, he’d have my hide). Well, like all middle sons of families with not a lot of ancestral wealth, grandpop landed up having to support not just his family but also those of his brothers (the elder brother having pushed off to join the INA with Netaji and the younger one going about doing a fair bit of social work and bringing honour to the family- the bread and butter was really not his forte, but think honour and you had your man!). So off he want on some project with the Brits to Rangoon. Bear in mind, this was the time of the Second World War, and once a bloke vanished to far shores, it was quite often the last time you saw him. In fact the only way you knew the chap was still slogging away at some remote location was the money orders that used to arrive home every month.
So- getting back to the slogging ancestor in remote location- Grandpa was just getting into the thick of things, when suddenly, the Japanese took it upon themselves to Bomb the S*** out of Rangoon. Naturally, working with the Brits made Grandpa and his colleagues sitting ducks. Not liking the Sitting Duck posish. one bit, Grandpa decided to take matters into his own hands. NO, he did not grab a musket and charge the Japs- he was brave, not stupid! He packed a few of his measly belongings and decided to hightail it back to India. Now, since most of the ships were filled with ladies and families, and had left port long ago, the only way into India was by land thru’ the forests.
Now I don’t want to give you lessons in geography, but From Rangoon, he made his way to a place called Pittakoon and from there into erstwhile Bengal. Naturally, like all great travel stories, this had its fair share of bombs, murder, jungle fever, thuggee and wild animals. Two months later when Grandad returned home, he’d lost half his weight and most of his hair (or so he told me- C’mon, the man’s entitled to a wee bit of creative leeway after the ordeal he’s been thru’)
The grandmum, all this while wasn’t wasting away, pining for the husband (this despite it being a love marriage- Grandmum fell in love with Granddad and decided she was going to marry him, all at the ripe old age of 12.) She had mouths to feed and children to clothe. She’s also had the distinction of being the first lady in the family to have travelled from the southernmost tip of India to the north (to the Bhakra Nagal project, as a matter of fact) alone with her kids to set up house there- all this without knowing a word of Hindi at that time.
Now coming to the paternal side- Pretty uneventful life, if you consider having lost a fortune via gambling (that was the great granddad), coming to Bombay penniless and reclaiming the lost fortune for his dad bit-by-bit as uneventful. On the way he also managed to pick up a wife and have four healthy kids.
The Grandmum- ah she was a rare one. She’d come to Bombay after marrying granddad at the age of 15. She learnt to speak and read both Hindi and marathi within a short while just by watching the telly and speaking to people. The dragon lady, as I used to call her affectionately bounced back after an amputation- and was seen pottering about the building just a few months after the operation. This, despite having unchecked diabetes for ages and a heart that functioned at 20% capacity. The lady buried a husband and a child within two years of each other and came close to losing a grandchild. They say punters lost a whole lotta money betting on her early demise.

Considering the above facts, I can safely bet on a good-ish capacity to bounce back after setbacks from Pickwick. Now if only this bouncing-back thingy hadn’t skipped my generation…

Sleepless in Mumbai

2006-11-12T09:12:00.000-08:00

*sigh* My son is growing up. Last night was the first night he didn’t want to nurse…until 4 in the morning! That of course didn’t stop me from getting up on auto pilot every couple of hours, and it didn’t stop him from wanting to be rocked back to sleep during my semi-wakeful bouts. Hubby, naturally was blissfully unaware of the turmoil in my mind (Why isn’t he nursing? Is he sick? Maybe he doesn’t like the taste of milk anymore… what if he refuses to drink any more milk? So now my milk is not good enough for him, huh? Just like a man to want something one instant, and the moment he gets it, he loses interest! Ha! ), after a restful nights’ sleep wakes up, smiles pleasantly and asks for coffee. Poor chap. It was the wrong thing to have asked. I nearly bit his head off, and he hurriedly retreated to the bathroom with his morning paper, and refused to emerge until sanity made a comeback.

In the meanwhile, the other man in my life was up and about and smiling sunnily as though he had no hand in driving his poor mother up the wall with worry. Still, I have chosen to look at the bright side of this new development.

Longer hours of sleep- translating to black circs. around the eyes retreating to manageable levels. Now I can stop looking like a reality show participant.
More time can be spent away from Pickwick- meaning we can now sneak in that odd movie or two.
Pickwick will (hopefully) not scream blue murder every time we step out with him coz he wants me to nurse him in the middle of a mall/ restaurant/ train/ wedding/ funeral and other public places with absolutely no privacy
My bust can now return to normal proportions, and (again, hopefully) head northwards again.

I was just beginning to cheer up again, when Pickwick looks at me, gives me a killer smile (complete with just one tooth) and promptly settles down on my lap to nurse.
OK. So maybe it isn’t just time yet for point four. But we’re getting there. In the meanwhile, I’m planning a killer wardrobe to be worn at the beach, all in my head.

Weekend Getaway

2006-10-31T23:06:00.000-08:00

I spent last weekend in Matheran. I had no clue I'd be anywhere near there. In fact I'd happily made plans with Smithy to be her date at a Halloween Bash (three whole hours with no Baby or Hubby! wheee!). Then come friday, Hubby lands me with the Matheran Plan. On asking why it's taken him this long to bother informing me, he say in all earnestness, 'but honey, it wouldn't be a surprise then, would it?' Bah. Sorry Smithy, I can't argue with that!

So, off we went, with Pickwick in tow. Here are a few excerpts from the weekend:

Cottage No.13

Yeah, that's right, that was our home for the weekend. A British-era Cottage with the number 13. And nothing remotely eerie to report! (damn!)

It's a tree...it's a stump... it's...it's a dustbin!

Male Bonding

One of my favourite father-son moments during the trip
(that and Pickwick swinging his undies in the air a la Saurav).

Here Comes the Son!

I know! Corny! still, that's what i feel like singing everytime i see this picture.

NO Clue what existed below the vines.

Cool Pool
No, Really. the water was Frigid! Hubby bravely strolled out of the cottage in a towel and swimming trunks, only to return 3 minutes later, after having dipped his toe into the pool and retracting it with a howl!

P.S. By the way, i strongly recommend 'Sakville's' for all your foody needs- he may be no gourmet, but he's given us better service than I've seen at star restaurants. besides, you also get to catch all the hubub of the market place from his place!

Back Room Business

2006-10-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

I have seen the backs of more restaurants and pubs than I care to remember. Now I know what you’re thinking… get your mind out of the gutter- that’s NOT how Pickwick was conceived. In fact it is precisely because of Pickwick that I have the … er… privilege of visiting these places. Well, it’s either visiting the back room, or flashing unsuspecting customers, making them swallow their soup the wrong way. Very unsettling. And totally bad for business. So in the interest of his regulars, the owners/ managers of these places generally give me a guided tour of their back rooms.

The back rooms Or in some cases glorified broom closets) of these restaurants are mighty interesting places. Not only do you find the occasional odd creatures all limbs intertwined (which makes you immediately want to separate them with a water hose and yell at them while holding Pickwick aloft ‘Exhibit A’) but also the friendly neighborhood spider (who’s NEVER as delectable as the movies), the inquisitive rodent and despicable stars of ‘Joe’s apartment’ (why aren’t they on the endangered list?)

What is interesting to note is you learn a lot about the place and the people who work there from the back rooms. For example, you see a neatly folded trouser and shirt all nicely tucked into a plastic bag, and you KNOW you want that man serving you at the table. You see the carelessly tossed jeans along with the body hugging t-shirt and you can safely surmise that this man is here to fulfill his tinsel town dreams. You see the worn half shirt neatly pressed, and you can imagine the wife faithfully ironing out this chap’s shirts and he trudges off to work. Once you head back to your table it then becomes an interesting game- to put a face to the clothes in the back room. Naturally these are often met with very strange looks- since this is probably the first time any patron will be looking so hard at the waiters and Maitre D’- with a knowing smirk on her face, no less…

You can also hazard a guess if the water’s safe to drink at this place, from the back rooms- I mean one look at where they store their tipple and as Wodehouse would put it- All Is Revealed. You may well wonder where all this is leading to- and I don’t blame you- in this post I have rambled on more than usual (which is like saying that the Mahabharata was just a tad long-ish). At the risk of sounding repetitive, All, as they say, will be Reveled- I’m dabbling with the idea of starting off a restaurant critique from a ‘back-room’ point of view. Just wanted to know if it would pique anyone’s interest or am I the only odd-ball restaurant voyeur in blogdom.

True Vacation

2006-10-08T04:15:00.000-07:00

Last week, we were in Goa doing what you should truly do in Goa- no, not living it up. You have Mumbai for that, for crying out loud. We were there to hibernate. Relax. Pig out. And not move a muscle. Well, we did all of the above. Almost all. There only so much inaction your six-month old will permit you.

The weather was crap. It was raining all night- and most days. Which suited us just fine. All we needed was a bit of sunshine so we could hit the pool (which was just outside out room) and the beach (which was just beyond the pool). Pickwick loved both. The beach had him a tad confused, with what the waves and the ground beneath his feet literally slipping away. He didn’t like that. No one does, I guess. The pool was more his scene. He was basking. In the sunshine and the mini admiration society which seemed to have formed around him as soon as he stepped into the pool. So naturally he wants to show off for his fans and tried to float. To our utter amazement he actually succeeded! He even got so bold as to venture a few Kicks. Sigh! The things one has to do to please people!

The food was especially good. I pigged out on sea food while poor hubby stoically held back his urge to puke. I guess he thought it’s the least he could do for the woman who’s bravely decided to spawn his offspring (Yes, I’m going to hold that over his poor head for another eighteen years!). Having this scandalized three generations of the iyer khaandaan, I decided to reserve my second tattoo plans for another day. We don’t want to kill the poor fellow, do we?

Our return journey was another adventure altogether. After having raced to the station to narrowly make the train (thanks to a forgotten jacket in the lobby of the hotel whose pockets held a mobile phone and tickets to the very train we were about to board…), we board the one compartment in the train that is bursting at the seams with kids. You should have seen the night sleeping routine. 35 mums trying to put 40-odd hyperactive kids to bed. Sometimes, even now, when I let my guard down, I hear “Shhh! Look at that nice boy. He’s not troubling his mummy.”

So, it’s no wonder I took so long to write this post. I needed a vacation to recover from my vacation!

Mee Mumbaikar

2006-09-24T08:09:00.000-07:00

And now, ladies and gentlemen, presenting a post for the express reading purpose of the Mumbaikar…

Overheard in the second class ladies compartment:

*self- fly on the wall- or at least plastered to the partition near the entryway*

Plump Lady (to skinny one nearer the door): ay! Dadar?
Skinny: nai
Plumpy: toh idhar kay karti hai? Andar jao na!
Skinny: kaisa jayegi? Jagah kidahr hai? Tum side se jao na!
Plumpy: ai! Kya baat karti hai? Mera size dekha hai? Tum hi ja nahi sakti, main kaisa jayegi? Ab dadar ayega to tum utarke phir chado..
Skinny: arre... main kyon utregi? Main nahin utregi. Tum side se jao.
Plumpy: getting more annoyed: he bagh! Jyada mach mach nahin karneka. Tumko malum nahin Dadar mein utrneka nahin to idhar nahin khada rahneka? Malum nahin kidhar kidhar se train mein aa jata hai.
Skinny: getting equally riled: ai! Tum idhar dekho- kya kar legi tum? Kuch bhi bolti rehti hai. Phir mai bolne lagoongi
Plumpy: gearing up for full-scale war:ay chokri- tu jaanti nahin main koun hoon. Main roz yeh train mein jaati hoon. Train mein chadhne ko atta nahin to kyon aati ho?

Skinny was just about to launch into a tirade of her own when the train pulled up into Dadar. Although she put up a brave fight, she lost her battle to the tide of people flowing out of the train and had to decend at Dadar.

30 seconds later when the train pulled out of Dadar, however, I did a double take. Not only was Skinny back on the train- right next to her was a mournful Plumpy- who was pushed back into the train by the incoming tide! Looks like Skinny had the last laugh!

Ah! It’s good to be back in Mumbai!

Irwin Lives!

2006-09-13T06:50:00.001-07:00

It is just like the Polterigeist, only, in reverse. Somehow, the spirit of Steve Irwin has managed to enter my son thru' the telly! there's no other logical explanation for it...
... I'm not much of a fan of watching creatures behind bars for no fault of theirs, so I tend to avoid most zoos (Also, I have been asked by certain curators to keep a safe distance from the primates, as apparently, I make them nervous). I especially made this a point while I was carrying Pickwick. Neither me nor my husband have ever campaigned for the SPCA, PeTA or any such group- not because we don't feel for the poor things having to share the earth with us humans, but simply because we're really not the campaigning types. I didn't even campaign for my own elections as school captain (I got elected by deafult- all the other contestants fell ill or discovered lurrve- both of which have remarkably similar symptoms, by the way), simply beacuse it involves a lot of, you know...work!

so how else can you explain the fact that my son's favourite method of locomotion resembles that of an Aardvark- as demonstrated bythe previous post. And that's not all- he's taken to making sounds like a pelican (which causes me to go into an instant panic attack and I end up vigorously thumping a surprised Pickwick on his back). Most recently, he's started to practice hopping on our laps like a kangaroo. He never tires of this activity, and he results are evident on all our bruised thighs.
Hence I have concluded that it's the ghost of Irwin that's possessed him, and we have patiently been taking him out in the sun and urging him to 'go towards the light'. Passers-by have not taken kindly to this urging and make hissing sounds- which seems to excite Pickwick all the more. We wish Irwin to be at peace and have erased Animal Planet from the telly favourites. Pickwick in the meanwhile has learn a new word which sounds suspicoiusly like 'bee-u-tee'

P.S. Since publishing this post last night, Pickwick has develeoped strange new symptoms where he creeps up on your unsuspecting hand, and does a complete salt-water croc style stealth attack, including the death roll. Things Seem to be getting worse before the get better(I hope...)

History Repeats Itself

2006-08-27T01:50:00.000-07:00

August 2006

This was Pickwick trying his hand at locomotion. Overheard on observation"What a weird way to move around... I never seen such a sight! Wonde where he got that from "

June 1979

Ahem...

Que Sera Sera

2006-08-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, if you had asked me what I’d be doing ten years hence, you can bet your last rupee the answer wouldn’t have been ‘Married. With Kid. Currently Unemployed.’ And yet, here I am, busily washing drool off my keyboard as I type, while former classmates who at that point had the ambition of a snail are busy attending conferences in Thailand and Singapore and planning vacations in Bali.

People who knew me then would fall off the chair if they found out I had an arranged marriage, let alone mothered a child. Somehow they’d be more willing to believe that I’d run off on a trip to Rishikesh where I’d met a bearded weirdo and we were currently shacked up in the foothills of the Himalayas waiting out the winter so we could continue our trek to Nepal. Well unless hubby decides to quit cushy job and turn into a Yeti, I don’t see that happening anytime in the near future, which is going to cause quite of few of those ex-classmates to shake their heads and wonder what the world was coming to.

I recently ran into one such then-unambitious, now-jetsetting friend last week. ‘Sense! Is that you? Why you look positively… feminine!’ he said. ‘So do you.’ Said I, thinking it was only fair that I should return the compliment.
‘ So… where have you been? What naughty things have you been upto?’ he asks, lighting up a smoke. I stare at him open-mouthed- this was the same chap who used ro get a coughing fit every time our canteen wallah maroed a tadka!
‘I’ve just got back from a 4 day conference in Singapore.’ He continued, 'life’s a bitch, man. Shitloads of work. Had to even cancel my plans of watching the football finals!’ ‘on the telly?’ I ask innocently. ‘No way dude. In Germany! You couldn’t make it either huh?’ ‘Nope. Was otherwise occupied.’ I said. ‘Oh? Work? Play?’ he asks elbowing me in the ribs and wiggling his brows.
‘Well, you could say that, although dangling a ball in front of Pickwick can’t technically be called play.’
‘Pickwick? New pet?’
‘Nope. New Son.’ Just then Hubby saunters in with cherubic face and a grinning Pickwick. ‘This is hubby- and That’s Pickwick.’ I say to the gawking classmate. ‘I’d love to stay and chat, but I gotta rush home and make dinner…’I throw out as I make my exit. That should remind him- I was always unpredictable.

Ode- To a C'Ode

2006-08-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

There's nothing more sorry to behold,
than a lady with a cold...

...sorrier still
is that lady was over the hill

But the sorriest of all
is if this lady's son looks set to bawl!

Why People Keep Blogs

2006-07-29T10:12:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to Smithy, who dug up this piece I'd written long ago and took the trouble to save it!Reproduced here with a few minor changes...

I bet if you took a poll on reasons why people keep Blogs, sheer boredom would be in the top Five. The number one reason of course, being vanity, i.e. people actually think their thoughts count. Yeah, right. So, why, is it people keep Blogs? I suppose it would be to pen down what they’re feeling at that particular moment. But really, is what you feel at that moment that important? Is it even real, coz one night you might be writing about the cute lurve of your life who could do no wrong. And a few posts later, he’s the jerk who won’t take a hint, (Unless you’ve impulsively married this loser, and you need to keep reading that one post to remind yourself that the sod once made you feel that way.)

Wow. I had no idea I was this cynical. Hey! That’s why- Its to probe deeper into oneself, to understand yourself better – and its either this or singularly bad poetry. But then, we’re back to my original Q. Why probe? Why prod? Let's not open the can of worms here. I mean, how boring would it get if you knew yourself so well that you’d know your exact reaction to every situation. Surprize yourself I say; sometimes go the extra mile and positively shock yourself! You’d be surprised how good that’ll make you feel – and it serves the same purpose – Its amazing what it does to your vanity – and you save a whole lot more time this way.

However, most people have to get it out of their system. They start out on this writing spree – in search of their literary masterpieces. The one really good book they haven in them. There’s just one hitch – This book they have in them – most of the time its good as long as it stays in. The moment it takes a peek out in the open, it sucks! I think most people would be cured of this bug, however if we forced them to sit down and read what they’ve written.

You’ll have a 50% fallout rate here already cos they can’t read their own writing. That leaves the wilier customer who decided to type out his masterpiece – double spaced. Out of these another 36% will drop out when they see that they haven’t proceeded beyond the first line after 16 tries and several days. That leaves the really nasty 14% of ‘em, who’re what I call ramblers. There are the ones who’ve typed page after page of any thought that has popped into their head.
A solid 75% of this 14% turn out to be long-suffering husbands who have never gotten a word in edgeways with their wives. They include thoughts that jump from the sandy beaches of Hawaii where a story of intrigue is set, to the grocery list the wife dictated over the phone.
About 10% of the 14 then drop out meekly, cos u see they’re used to dropping out meekly. The really resilient 4% are the tough nuts to crack. They’re the ones who’ve decided, I Have An Opinion And I Shall Voice It (And You’d Better Listen To It – Too). Unfortunately dear reader, at this point I must tell you that I head the pack when it comes to the aforementioned 4%!

Travel Travails

2006-07-08T01:42:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. And for the first time in 3 months, Pickwick’s not to blame for it. I am recuperating from my first travel experience alone with Pickwick, and guess what- he was the best thing about the entire affair.
Now there comes a time in every new mother’s life when she has the take the bold step to venture forth with her young ‘un unassisted. Well, suffering from a massive superiority complex, I thought I’d make this landmark occasion more challenging by adding enough luggage to the equation to single-handedly overload the plane. I packed not just my entire wardrobe, but also Pickwick’s along with his odds, ends, toys and bathtub. To top it off the hand baggage (which contained all the rations for self and Pickwick in case of a nuclear holocaust) had to be precariously balanced- one on each shoulder. Remove one, and you would just topple over like the proverbial pin. Thusly armed, I proceed to the check-in counter, leaving Pickwick for one last time in my parents’ care. I was fully confident of getting the royal treatment- on account of being upgraded to business class, thanks to hubby’s frequent flier card, and being the hapless mother of a young papoose.

I was greeted by a stony eyed manager who takes one look at me and decides I’m one on the bourgeois elite and mentally knitted my name into his woolies.
Me (smile wavering slightly at the stony look): Hi… I’ve already tele-checked in. Could you give me some assistance? I’m travelling with an infant…

Stone man: Eh? I’m sorry, but we can’t upgrade you. Your husband not part of the multi-platinum class, so your voucher’s no good.

Me (a bit slow on the uptake): But I have a voucher. I’ve tele-checked in, my ticked, upgrade and seat were confirmed. Now about assistance with my infant…

Stone man: Sorry. Pay the difference if you want to sit up front. Next.

Me: Next?? There’s no one behind me you daft man! I’m the only one in business class, so just upgrade me!!

That last remark didn’t sit to well with the desi Defarge and he ignored me, but I could just picture the knitting needles clicking away at a feverish pace.

Five minutes later, after a frantic phone call to hubby, his irate phone call to the airline, and their livid phone call to stone man
Stone man: yes. You can sit up front. But there’s no upgrade voucher for your infant. He sits in economy.

Me: eh? He’s 3 months old! You can’t just pat him on the head and ask him to proceed up the aisle!

Stone Man: Next!

Another five minutes and frantic, irate and livid phone calls respectively…

Stone Man: Yes. He can sit with you.

Me: No! really? Gee thanks! Now about my luggage…

Stone man: next!

I gave up. I trudged up to my parents, like a wounded but triumphant soldier, to see my parents struggling to keep Pickwick’s volumes down. Pickwick in his finer moments has been known to render unsuspecting salesmen passing by the house temporarily deaf. One minute they’re walking along, merrily whistling a tune, the only thing on their minds being how to outrun the subsequent pet Pom, and the next they’re tottering away in shock trying to make sense on the ringing in their ears. Now at such times, I discovered quite by accident that the only thing that distracts him, is to do a little jig with him (to the latest Himmesh Reshammiya number, preferably)
So imagine my distress when I came across panicky Parents with Pickwick in the ‘Naach Chhamiya’ mood. Of course, having no alternative, I tried to surreptitiously do the cha-cha-cha mumbling ‘oh oh aashiqui’ under my breath at the airport lounge (I distinctly saw a few firings trying to capture this authentic Indian experience on their still cams). Mercifully, by this time Pickwick had calmed down some, and loaded with baggage and Pickwick, I proceeded for my Sec-Check, bidding a final adieu to wailing parents who were too busy to notice, since they were bidding goodbye to squirming Pickwick.

I finally made it in safely onto the plane. The journey from then on was largely uneventful, barring stray incidents like unscreened baggage, threat of offloading and the insistence of a flight purser that I nurse Pickwick during take off and landing. (Pickwick had his own ideas about that last bit). On landing in Mumbai, I was so relieved to touch ground in one piece, I decided not to tempt fate for quite some time, and have never ventured out alone with Pickwick since.

Fathers Down the Ages

2006-06-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

Terms of addressing:
Granddad: Appa
Dad: Dad
Hubby: Yo Pops! (If not the first name, in which case, poor Pickwick is going to have a mighty sore bottom)

Earliest memory:
Granddad: Frowning down from a distance, as you look up from the cradle, saying- “ erm…I think he’s pooped again..”
Dad: Look of consternation as he’s holding you – “erm, I think he’s pooped again”
Hubby: “aww- look he’s pooping! Quick, ask him to hold on while I get the camera!”

Discipline:
Granddad: The Look (and you’ve already peed in your pants)
Dad: “harrumph!” followed by The Look
Hubby: “Just you wait to you Mommy gets home”

On education:
Granddad: I want you to be the top 3 in your class!
Dad: I want you to do your best
Hubby: Just make sure you get decent results, so I won’t have to visit the principal’s office too often

On sports:
Granddad: don’t you play enough in the evenings? Now you’re doing it at school too?
Dad: I want you to do your best.
Hubby: Cricket? Wait for me! Anything else- ask you mum.

On Arts:
Granddad: No one in our family’s made a decent living yet out of being an artist!
Dad: I want you to do your best.
Hubby: You think we should be saving his doodles? I can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s made, but hey, I can’t get Picasso either!

Career Options:
Granddad: harrumph! Engineering.
Dad: Do whatever you’re best at.
Hubby: The world is your playground- but don’t expect me to push you swing!(at which point Pickwick demands a translator)

Equal rights:
Granddad: Some men are more equal than others
Dad: Of course women are smarter. Just look at my daughter…ow! Ow!!… and my wife
Hubby: I’m now going to fight for equal opportunity for men!

Music:
Granddad: Hindi film songs? Gah! Humbug.
Dad: AC/DC? I’m not surprised that cacophony comes from electrical malfunctions…
Hubby: You paid HOW MUCH for the Sting Concert???!!!

On daughters:
Granddad: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!
Dad: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!
Hubby: hah! The fool doesn’t deserve you!

To Be Me

2006-05-16T04:31:00.000-07:00

Sunday was a good day...

- My husband, who generally won't even notice if I wandered about in a gunny sack said I looked good.

- My Mom made me my favourite dish for lunch.

- My son,who generally reserves his smiles for ceiling fans and such, gave me his first gummy smile.

- My friend called up, Just Because.

- I celebrated my First Mothers Day.

Sometimes, its good to be Me.

My Baby

2006-05-04T08:35:00.000-07:00

My Son- When he was just a couple of hours old.

Ode to My Mum

2006-04-23T22:24:00.000-07:00

I know it looks like I've been doing nothing but making lists off late, but I promise,this will be the last one... for the time being.

You know it's unconditional love when...

...there's Poop or pee on every single dress you own, but you think your baby's smell ought to be bottled and sold as perfume.

...your nipples are cracked, sore and painful, but you allow you baby to chew on it meditatively so he can sleep peacefully

...you haven't slept for more than two hours at a stretch since the baby was born, but you're wondering if 18 hours of sleep is enough for you baby, or is he suffering from sleep deprivation

...you stop looking for yourself in family photos (and act of pure self-preservation, since you look like crap in all of them) and look for your baby instead

...you think spiky, patchy hair is the best hairstyle God ever made

...you can sleep thru' a deep purple concert, but spring into action at the tiniest wail

...you wonder how people can confuse him with some other baby when he looks so distinctly unique!

...you marvel at this miracle of God everytime your baby burps.

...you've just emerged out of the feeding-pooping-peeing cycle and can sleep thru' the night for the first time in years and you say,'Wow! lets do the whole thing again!'

...Twenty-five years after you've done it twice over and thought you were finally finished with it, you sit up nights again- just because your daughter's going thru' it!

Thanks, Mum. I love you.

Granddad

2006-04-20T07:03:00.000-07:00

Grandfather and Grandson- Resting.

Coorg

2006-04-20T05:43:00.000-07:00

The coorg valley. Awesome view! A must-visit during the rains.

Bloggy Recognition!

2006-04-04T05:46:00.000-07:00

Was pleasantly surprised to find my post mentioned in the bloggy awards! here's the link!
Rather nice to get back to such words! *sensorcaine takes a bow*

Isn't It Ironic...

2006-04-04T04:49:00.000-07:00

Call it one of the cruel ironies of life- The one time I have breats that look like they'd give Pam Anderson a run for her money, the only male interested in them is 3 days old and looks at them purely from a sustenance point of view!

Yes, the stork finally decided to pay us a house call on- would you believe it April fools' day! Needless to say, when my dad sms-ed all my friends with the news (I'd thoughtfully given him the phone numbers and the message to be sent in advance), they ran true to form and refused to believe I wasn't pulling a prank, and insisted on speaking to- you guessed it- my parents!

I went into labour at 6:30 in the morning and by noon I was convinced that this had to be a new Guiness record of sorts coz there was an amazing amount of pain but no baby. Finally with much reluctance (do you blame him?) my son decided to put in an appearance at a quarter to two! whew! The doc promptly informed my parents- 'Ais ais... for a first-time labour, it went very fazzt,you see.'
very fast? huh? I just think if you ain't got a uterus, your opinion don't count, buddy!! Someday I shall be up do describing the whole crazy scene in greater detail*shudder*.

Anyways, Junior looks like his dad but has managed to inherit my night-owl tendencies. Somehow I have this crazy feeling, someone up there's got a cruel sense of humour. He's now having a quiet chuckle everytime my baby wails at one- two hour intervals thoughout the night but sleeps like he's been knocked out throughout the day!

Well, moutains of soiled diapers to wade though which threaten to take over the bathroom if I dont' start making serious inroads into them. And all of them are the efforts of my son injust one afternoon. I always knew he'd be a superachiever! sigh! Grey hair, here I come!

DOC, DOC, WHO’S THERE?

2006-03-09T22:00:00.000-08:00

I consider myself to be one of the privileged few in my ken who have hitherto escaped the agonies of a visit to the dentist very often.

My few visits* to the Dentist consisted of:
1. Getting my first tooth out at the age of 5,after which ‘I was so brave,I deserved a lolly pop’
2. Getting my upper pre-molars extracted at the age of 11 coz I had buck teeth, and my teeth needed space to fit themselves while they were being forcibly shoved back into my tiny mouth (after which I was so brave, I deserved a lolly pop)
3. Getting my braces removed, and finally being able to see the whites of my teeth again (after which I was so brave, I deserved a nice boy)

* In the interest of the reader, I have mentioned only those visits which were of significance… weekly visits to ‘tighten the band’ have not been noted

I was in a blissful state of ignorance of the torture chair until a few months ago, when I was happily chomping down on a scrumptious paani puri when a pain radiated from my molars that had me breaking out in cold sweat. A thorough investigation carried out by my tongue confirmed that it was indeed my molars that were a bit tender. Never having experienced such a thing before, I though it an aberration, and continued to thoughfully suck air through it for the next few days, to check how much punishment I could take.
As it turns out, I’m pretty chicken, and couldn’t avoid going to the dentist any longer.

It had been quite a while since I visited the dentist’s office, & I felt an odd sense of homecoming when I spotted the magazines that were in the waiting room for our ‘reading pleasure’. It took me just a few minutes to pick out my favourite magazine from the lot- the same one I used to read when I’d visit the dentist for my ‘tightening’ appointment at the age of 12!

Doc, naturally, not having spotted my mug for quite a while failed to recognize me, and taking one look at my grin said, “Ah! I see the spaces. Not to worry. Six months of corrective braces, and the gap between your teeth is as good as gone!”

“But Doc…”

“No, no, no need to worry. It’s completely painless. And if you’re really brave, we’ll give you a lollypop!”

This time I was a bit more forceful in my interjection. “ Doc! I did have braces. You put them on. And you said I looked just fine!”

“I did? Oh. Ah! I see now! Yes, yes… perfect row of teeth. Straight as an arrow. Erm…why are you here again?”

So I set about describing the painful tooth. One grave inspection later comes the verdict-“Yes. I see it. It’s a cavity. And a pretty large one. Looks quite deep… we may have to do a root canal…”

Had I not been spread-eagled in the chair with 3 instruments poking out of my mouth, I would have made the roadrunner seem sluggish. Well, as it turned out, I didn’t need a root canal just as yet, but the verdict was that it was inevitable. Like aging. And death.

But the ordeal wasn’t over just as yet. He wanted to do something called a filling. Now for those of you who haven’t had one, it simply means they scoop out the messed-up portion of your tooth, and fill it in with metal ( here, you’re just hoping that you won’t beep everytime you pass thru’ a metal detector at the airport). Sounds simple enough…
But really not so. First there’s this drill they use to clear out your tooth. A sound so bone jarring, it can only be compared to nails scratching across the blackboard, only, a hundred times worse, coz this stuff’s happening in your mouth! Then you hear those ominous words… “Now hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.” Re-he-he-he-ally? And I’m Queen Latifah!

When it was finally over, I was just so glad to get out of that chair, I swear I didn’t even blink when the doc wrote me up the preposterous bill for filling my mouth with a smidgeon of metal- that wasn’t even gold!

Two days ago, my tooth started to trouble me again. I have firmly told myself to stop being such a baby and just put up with the minor inconvenience. I am also eating out of just one side of my mouth.

Dog (?) Tagged!

2006-02-10T04:14:00.000-08:00

I have been tagged by Anjaan.

The Rules of the game are:
1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. You need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game and leave a comment on their comments saying they’ve been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there’s no need to post again.

Ze purrfect Love(r)

First off, I think it's an oxymoron- I mean, how can he be perfect if he's male???

OK. OK. calm down... I have this women's Lib. thing out of my system now, with that last shot. Now for some serious business...

1. Vitruvian man: hey, shoot me for having an artistic eye!

2. SOH: I know its been done to death, but I can't emphasise enough how vital this is. Any man who can't laugh at the world and occasionally at himself, ain't for me. (for my part, I shall refrain from laughing at him at the most inappropriate moments, like in front of his boss, when he's in the buff- the two being mutually exclusive, mind you.)

3. Mover and Shaker: No No, don't get me wrong- I'm not a social climber. I mean he should know his way around a dance floor. There's nothing more attractive than a man who's in complete control of his hands, feet, elbows and other sundry body parts when grooving to the music.

4. Vanity thy name is turn-off: Taking pride in your appearance, clipping unwanted hair from nose and ears, avoiding BO and regular bathing is acceptable. Discussing the latest beauty product to avoid wrinkles, being more woried about getting a tan and spending more time in front of the mirror than me is NOT.

5. Friend- Friendly: I have my set of friends. Now he may not like my friends, in fact he can even think they all belong in a menagerie, but he has to like my having friends. The feeling shall be reciprcated in kind- he can have his Boys' Night Out, so long as he doesn't show up the next morning with a bra peeking out of his trousers and lipstick on his cuff (who kisses people on their cuffs and collars, anyways, is what I'd like to know!).

6. Music be the food of love: Music- of any kind is to be appreciated. The day applied physics takes precedence over music, please don't let the door hit you on the way out!

7. Boys Don't Cry: The glistening of the eye, the surreptitious wiping of a tear is Great! Bawling because the bahu in some soap has been subjected to whatever injustice bahus in such soaps normally get subjected to makes me a tad bit uncomfortable.

8. R-E-S-P-E-C-T: and I don't meant just me. There's a lot that can be said about a man from the way he treats his mother, when he gives up his seat to a young lady with a screaming toddler, stops at traffic lights even when on-one's watchng, or there's no one in the approaching lane or when has a serious conversation with a five-year old.

Well, there it is. It's not a complete yet, but it's a start!

My turn to tag people:

Ideasmith: Coz I'd be fascinated to know...

Traveller: The Doppelganger

Joo: Should have an interesting take- if oyu can get a straight answer from him

Creatiwitty: Feel free to entendre away!

I stop, coz the list of blogger I know ends here.

Birthday Resolutions

2006-02-08T04:02:00.000-08:00

1. Thou shalt not get sozzled.
Every birthday its the same thing. People masquerading as your friends insists on making you gulp down copious amounts of alcohol, preferably neat, and before you know it, you are trying to flirt with a coat rack

2. Thou shalt, therefore, remember where you live.
We cannot get lucky all to time to have kindly taxi drivers driving you all over town, in the faint hope that something looks familiar. (and The shopping mall, although familiar CANNOT be where you live)

3. The creepy female you met 3 minutes ago cannot be qualified as ‘best friend’
True you look up to her… but thass coz you’re 5’7” and she’s twice your size! Also, not a good idea to pass on personal information like mail ID and phone number. Borderline stalking leads to high-stress situations.

4. Thou shalt not address your mom, aunt & mother-in-law as the golden girls,3 witches of Macbeth or the weird sisters.
…At least not to their faces… and until you are sober enough to distinguish their behinds from their fronts… say nothing at all!

5. Cake goes into the mouth. Preferably yours.
Eyes, noses, ears, etc have distinctly separate functions, none of which involve ingesting cake. In fact, when feeling nauseous, avoid cake altogether.

6. Thou shalt not covet thy husband’s arse in Public.
I mean, I’m sure he likes being appreciated, but telling the watchman you can bounce a quarter off this butt is definitely not on!

7. Thou shalt not be ashamed of thy true age
Screaming at everyone who wishes you ‘happy 27th!’ or, God forbid ‘happy 28th!’ is not a good way to ensure that friends stay on at the party. And ‘I feel 16 in my head!’ is NOT a good-enough excuse

8. Thou art NOT invisible
Of course giggling, making loud shush-ing noises, tripping over a potted plant does not help

9. People trying to wish you at noon is not ‘blasted calls in the middle of the night’
And one of those calls may be from you bosses, so you’d better be courteous.

10. Thou shalt not swear upon your sisters’ grave, so you can get rid of the hangover.
Especially if you sister happens to be alive and eyeing you with displeasure at the moment.

On a Patriotic High

2006-01-27T03:04:00.000-08:00

Was watching this news channel last night that was conducting a Pan-India Survey which brought forth some heartening news:

Close to 97% of Indian polled were proud to be Indians. And Muslims rated higher than Hindus in these polls, with 98% of them saying they were proud of their nationality. The only other nation that comes close to such a high percentile is the US of A- which had about 94% say they were proud of thier nationality.
Our most reconisable National Icon is still Mahatma Gandhi with the Bachchans and Tendulkars still having a long way to go before they can catch up.
Our national moment of shame (though the menu here was quite limited): The farmers' suicides. We are still comapssionate as a nation- and largely forgiving, considering our MPs taking bribes could post only second place
About 70% of Indians feel friendly ties with Pakistan should be encouraged, and do not encourage 'Big Brother' policing.
The most popular Chief Minister is Bihar CM Nitish Kumar, despite being in the post for just over 2 months!

Happy R-day people. There was also some seriously disturbing news in the polls which raised concerns about the level of awareness, our so-called liberalism and equality. that however is for another post, on another day. Right now, the mind wants to float on a cloud of Patriotism.

Nostalgia

2006-01-13T02:55:00.000-08:00

From: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
To: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 1st December ‘05

Sub: Coming into town

Dear all,
Hey listen you no-good louts, my office has finally deemed me worthy of an official trip down home. So not only will I be re-haunting your city, but I shall be doing it with a generous expense account to boot! I’m going to be there next week, so thass plenty of warning…

Luv,
Sense

From: faffingatwork@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 1st December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Sense you old rogue!
This should be good fun. I’m up for a reunion. Who else is in? Remember, all- sense has promised to fund this booze and binge party! I shall personally select the most criminally expensive joint!

Luv,
Faff

From: mailto:daddys_own%20business@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 1st December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Sense, Faff,
I’m in as well. It’s been a while since I got out. The last time I went out to town was when Govinda was still doing a couple of b-grade movies with alarming regularity. Faff, I don’t trust you to choose the place. The last time you chose a venue, we narrowly escaped landing up in the slammer. The police still have records in the name of a Chandeshwari Bhatavdekar, 16, chalu galli, Chinchpokli!

Cheers!
Daddy-O

From: marriedwithkids@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 2nd December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Hey Guys!
This is good news! Will con hubby into watching the monster-brat for one night. We can’t afford a babysitter just yet! The last one couldn’t take it for more than 45 minutes, and we had to call hubby’s parents in desperation! Ma-in-law has never let me live it down… daddy-o- you know my no… gimme a buzz- I gotta to. I think the hell spawn just spilled something on my new bed sheets!

Laterrrrzz
Harried

From: itgeek@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 2nd December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Hey all,

I’m in. I think. Actually depends on my boss’s schedule. Can we meet some weekday? I find that I get off earlier on weekdays, than on weekends. With luck, I should be able to drop in for a couple of drinks, and head right back to work.

Be well and prosper
Geek

From: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
All: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 3rd December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Whoa! Whoa! WHOA! Good you know you’re all landing up, but hold your horses on the bill-footing thought! Please arrive with pockets laded. I ain’t footing anyone’s bill! Here I am thinking I can mooch off one of you guys, and I get this nasty shock!

Still shaken,
Sense

From: mournfullyminimumwage@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 3rd December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Hey guys!

I’m so happy we still keeping touch. Who would have though that we’d all be together after so many years. I still remember that sweet rose Flash gave me when I was recovering from a severe case of somnambulism. And daddy-O, who used to share his luncheon with everyone… and who can forget the lovely Harried- the pet of all the teachers; they never noticed a plain Jane like me. But not geek. Geek- who used to sit in the front row and never grumbled about the wet paper pellets flung at him…by Sense- I think.

Anyways, I was thinking, instead of spending so much money on a reunion, why don’t we all donate that amount to the charity I work for? it helps people whose parents have a substance-abuse problem and they are born deaf-mute-blind and with cerebral palsy. In fact, the only way we know they’re alive is because of all the money that keeps coming in from foreign grants that we absolutely need for our laptops and state-of-the-art offices.

Conscientiously,
Mini

From: toobusytobother@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 4th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Hey peeps,
I don’t know my schedule, just as yet, I may have to fly out to Frankfurt for a top-level hush-hush meeting for my company. In case I’m in town, and I don’t have to attend a page 3 party that night, I’ll probably drop in for a drinks with my new boyfriend- Diamond.

In a rush,
B’zee

From: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
To: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 6th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Erm, guys! I’m in town, and have realized that I have no one’s number. Is this a deliberate plan to make me foot the bill? It won’t work I tell you…

Sense

From: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
To: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 8th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Guys! I’m leaving in a couple of days, and still no news from you! OK OK. I’ll fund your first drink… and this time, I’m attaching my number at the bottom, so that excuse won’t work.

Miffed,
Sense

From: faffingatwork@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 8th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Sense, Old pal,
I’ll pick you up at your place, and well go out from there. Found this perfect place…

Will tell you more when I meet! Keep those gold cards primed!

Cheers!
Faff

From: mailto:daddys%20own%20business@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 8th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Sorry guys! I don’t think I can make it. Daddy’s seen this absolutely horrendous guy from my hometown, whose family owns the hometown and the surrounding 20 villages! Now I have to meet him today and I’m fervently hoping he dislikes me at the first glance!
Sense- I’ll catch you the next time you’re in town –with a fiancé in tow *shudder*

Disturbed
Daddy-O

From: marriedwithkids@highschool.com
To: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
Cc: All@oldhighschool.com
Date: 8th December ‘05

Sub: Re: Coming into town

Sense,
Have to beg off this time. Hubby’s got this important business deal, and both in-laws are down with the flu. Can’t imagine lugging brat pits around while I’m trying to catch up with you. Sorry!

Harried.

PS: Geek called. He tried to get in touch with you, but got the voice mail. You know how paranoid he is about leaving voice messages… something that ties in with his conspiracy theories on the government and phone-tapping- anyways- he’s out. His boss is on a golfing vacation, and he can’t meet his deadlines… H

PPS: Mini has refused to join ‘this decadent demonstration of frivolous & excessive spends’ in protest. -H

From: sensorcaine@nostalgia.com
To: boss@getsmygoat.com
Date: 9th December ‘05

Sub: application for leave

Dear boss,

I’m writing this message from a friend’s borrowed blackberry. I’m currently held up in the- er… detention cell- But it’s all a big mistake! However I can’t make it to office today, as scheduled. Kindly grant me a day’s extension on that leave.

Sincerely

Sense.

Reminiscence

2006-01-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

In one’s old age, one is apt to remember fondly, all the idiocies one commits in one’s youth and gladly categorize it as 'experience'. My first study tour was one such unmitigated disaster.

Lets look at the bare facts, shall we:

The study tour was entirely in the wonderful state of MP (or maddha pardes, if one was to get colloquial). Law and order isn’t exactly this state’s forte.

The only responsible members accompanying us were two professors (Both male. One drew the short straw in the staff room. The other was absent on that particular day, so he was unanimously voted in). The teacher student ratio on this trip was 1:20. A rather generous sprinkling of teachers, we thought.

The student group consisted of 40 teens, split halfway down the middle according to gender.

Even one of the above should have warned the authorities of the incumbent disaster. Take all three in conjunction, and we have a Chernobyl in the making. However, by pure luck, these facts were overlooked by the usually hawk-eyed princie, and we sent off on our 20 day adventure.

Did I say set off? I mean almost set off… all students were supposed to reach the appointed station by 12p.m. Unfortunately, opinions varied on what one would call the ‘appointed station’. Certain students mistook this to be a multiple-choice question, and were found loitering at arbitrary stations, looking like lost puppies. Finally most people managed to make it just as the train was puffing its way out of the station.

Once aboard the train came the task of finding seats. This was easier said than done. Not only were we assigned berths spread out over the entire train, we also had to compete with the cliques- who decided they would sit seven at one go, or not at all! So it was decided that the luggage would occupy the odd seat, and the rest can squash themselves in the remaining space. Here again, the glaring differences of ‘bare essentials’ to a boy and girl came to the fore.

The boys all had a small suitcase (duly packed by mum) which contained about 3 pairs of clothing, their Nintendo- or whatever gizmo which was their current crush and a few pairs of clean shorts. Their only preparation for the winter cold was this snazzy jacket they had thrown about their shoulders under the impression that it made them into instant studs.

Girls had a minimum of four pieces of luggage, a food basket, a vanity case and a small purse. Winter clothes- 3 pairs to co-ordinate with each set of clothing they’d brought along and matching shoes. Also cold cream, conditioner, manicure kit and sharpened pencils and sketchpads as instructed by the professors.

(to be contd…)

Sportfan

2006-01-08T23:13:00.000-08:00

I am an avid sportsperson. Or, at least, was one. Now I just look it, which isn’t very flattering, especially when people ask you if you are a swimmer, not coz you have toned body, but because you have broad shoulders. Erm. Thanks. I bet I would be flattered- if I were a man! For years I have longed to be part of that delicate, petite brigade of women whom men instantly fall allover themselves to protect. No such luck. All I get a resounding thump on my back with a ‘You OK, there, mate?’ At least I could take pride in my athleticism and ability to excel in most sport I competed in until disaster struck in Std X.

I was a freshie in my school- this was one of the most reputed schools in Chennai, where being admitted to the school- that too for the tenth grade was like winning the lottery.

Well, apparently part of the induction process into the school system included throwing the fresher into every single activity organized by the school, irrespective of talent and inclination. So there I was, being tossed into dramatics (possibly history’s worst Portia), quizzes (youngest member, hence all suggestions, even for the right answers, being ignored) and sports.

Sports included a whole host of track and field events as well as team sports. So my sports day went something like this:

I, having qualified for the 100mts was waiting for my finals, when I hear my number being called out.

I trot over, a bit puzzled to my coach to find out what new faux pas I had now unwittingly committed when he says- ‘Go… its your turn…’ ‘My turn? For what??’ I ask, still totally in the dark. ‘For the jump, of course!’ says the coach- talking slowly, like he would to a favorite idiot child. ‘Jump? Jump where? I haven’t signed up for any jumping.’…says me. Coach nods sagely and retorts- ‘I know. I signed you up. You have good legs.' As if that should explain all! All I could gather from this drivel was that in more civilized societies, that comment would border on sexual harassment, and I was supposed to be jumping into a wet sandpit at the word go. ‘But… but I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how!’ I protest. Coach brushes these arguments aside with ‘tchah! What is there to know? You run very fast, and take off and jump as far as you can. You have good legs.’ He reiterates. Riiiight. Of course, if it was so darned easy, it wouldn’t be an Olympic sport now, would it? And what has good legs got to do with it? Cindy Crawford wasn’t jumping into every stray pit of sand she saw, was she?

Anyways, too dazed to protest, I do the requisite run-up-and-take-off-and-land-as-far-as-you-can. Through dumb luck, I not only qualified, I landed up on the podium! Hmm.. maybe there’s something to this good legs theory after all.

Spurred by his recent success at this wild experiment, the coach goes beserk and puts me in every other track and field event as well! The next one of course was short-putt! (‘You have broad shoulders’ was coach’s explanation for that one). Sadly there was a bit of miscommunication on coach’s part. All he said was to ‘heave the ball as far as possible’ what he omitted to mention was the direction in which this heaving was supposed to occur. The result was that my putt shot off into orbit, scared a few crows flying over the field, narrowly missed a low-flying airplane, and landed with an almighty ‘thud’ six inches from where it had begun its journey. After this disaster, my name was hurriedly scratched off the javelin throw, and I was sent to the track where I could inflict no more harm.

The worst humiliation was yet to occur, though, when I discovered my name signed up for basketball. Reason- I’m tall. Well, they had me there.

On the day of the first match, we’re being briefed about the rules of the game. To top it off, we’re duly informed that we’re up against state level players. Great! This should be fun!

As the warm-up for the match begins, the only instructions the coach gives us- ‘I don’t expect you to win. But please, all I ask is One basket!’ Hmmm… inspiring. I’m sure Larry Bird could take a few pointers. Let the freak show begin!

Five minutes down, I’m battered, bruised, confused and exhausted! No one told me there would be this much of running- especially when you don’t have the ball in your possession. So as the coach calls for a time-out ten minutes later, I beg to be substituted. Since I look like I would be in immediate need of CPR any second, he puts in another reluctant player. Thirty seconds and half a breath later, the panicky coach yells at me to go in again. ‘You’re the one they’re committing the most fouls on! At least this way, we get somewhere close to the basket!!!’

We lost that match to a glorious score of 36-2. The only basket made by us was for a foul committed off me. Coach was so happy he wept. We were treated to a lavish feast of ice creams. And though some of us never fully regained to use of our legs again, we were bigger heros that our boys’ team- which actually won the tournament.

Cater(wauling) 2 U

2006-01-03T23:49:00.000-08:00

This song is wrong on so many levels, I don’t even know where to start.
Gone are the days of ‘Survior’, Beyonce and co. now want us to cater to our respective men- which is fine- but I draw the line at fetching his slippers!

The first paragraph seems fair enough with them crooning about how wonderful the man is and her being all agog about showing her appreciation… then begins the bizarre lyrics, which reads like a beauty treatment at an expensive spa- complete with manicure, pedicure and foot rub. Huh? Baby, I love you, I really do, but if you’ve had a tough day at work, well my job ain’t no picnic, and I certainly am NOT extracting your feet out of those smelly socks to give you a pedicure!

Kelly then gets into this bizzaro act herself, and insists that if she’s not being subservient to this chap(who is he? The king of Utopia?), there are going to be plenty of women who’ll be falling all over themselves do be so! Um, apparently ladies, maturity, trust and equality in a relationship are passé, and the only way to hang on to your man is ‘to keep yourself up’. God help you if you’re a bit podgy, or in the family way- coz you see, the man is apparently going to run in the opposite direction, if he comes home and finds you not sporting a tight, skimpy hot number and you hair doesn’t look as if you’ve walked out of a shampoo commercial. All this naturally, after you’ve made that five course gourmet meal and run his bathwater…

Michelle of course doesn’t want to be left out in this race to be the World’s Most Subservient Woman. She expounds on the many virtues of ‘her man’, pledges her undying love to this chap, who she will naturally serve even on her deathbed. Strangely enough, the man doesn’t need to be too… anything- since she loves him ‘just the way he is’!

Now I don’t know WHAT Destiny’s Child were thinking when they penned this drivel. Maybe they decided they needed a larger male fanbase- which could have been easily achieved with skimpier clothing, and they could be singing about snow in Alaska, and they’d still have ‘em riveted… but at least women wouldn’t be subjected to ideas and lyrics that would make a caveman blush.

Crumple, rumple, not-so-simple…

2006-01-03T02:48:00.000-08:00

After a long hiatus, I decided it was time I got down to reading a few contemporary writers. So I checked out this book from BCL called cRUMPLE zONE by Nick Barlay (best-selling author of Curvy Lovebox- the blurb informed me). It was supposed to have best dialogues ever. After a healthy dose of Wodehouse and Richard Gordon, I though to myself, “How bad can it be?”

Well, after the first six pages, I found myself hurriedly turning to the back pages for the translation. I wasn't sure that I was reading English. I mean a couple of 'innit's thrown in for effect is fine. But really... an entire book where there's not a coherent sentence is a little too much for me to take.

Sure, I'm the last person who should be complaining about coherence, but when dialogues aren't in between inverted commas and you're struggling to figure out what’s 'dialogue' and what's narrative, and how exactly all this can pass for English, you have you hands full.

And it isn't even funny. Going through this pure drivel for some ray of black humour (heck humour in any form, size shape... even crass slapstick...) would have been bearable, but imagine Thomas Hardy writing contemporary Burmingham with his head full of smack so only he can make sense of the pathos…Hmm. I wasted a Sunday. So I though I might as well spread the pain... Love me for it.

Chicken Run

2006-01-02T02:57:00.000-08:00

The more I look around me, the more I’m tempted to ask, who voted these guys to power, again? Definitely not me!

Take for example the road where I live- and walk to office on...yes, I am one of the privileged few who can actually walk to work. Well, off late, I ain’t feeling all that privileged. The municipal corporation in all it wisdom has decided to dig up both sides of the pavement abutting the road. Now generally, whatever department is the culprit proudly proclaims the handiwork as its own by means of a decrepit sign hanging somewhere along the length of the mauled road. But this time there were no signs, nothing. Just earth being thrown up at unsuspecting pedestrians as they go about their daily business.

Looking at the kind of activity going on down in those holes, I have gathered, that the frenzied digging was for a spanking new paving, complete with road- abutters and the like. Which is all well and good, but was it absolutely necessary to do both sides of the pavement at once?

The journey on foot is perilous enough to undertake during broad daylight, but come nightfall and its like playing a game of chicken with a headlong rush of motorists barreling down the road with the sole intent of causing you grievous bodily harm. Throw in a blindfold- since there are no working streetlights, some roadblocks in the form of animal and human excreta and the picture is complete! All this while, you are fervently hoping that the bight pink jacket you have donned is sufficient warning for the motorist to swerve off at the last moment so you don’t find yourself being the hood ornament for an errant car.

I have now given up walking on the roads and find it safer to walk inside the three-feet-deep holes. The advantages of which are twofold- you are taken back to the wonder years when your were six and were two and a half feet tall- and have a mini treasure hunt along the way, where you never know what your next step might uncover… *sniff* *sniff* gasp! I think my shoes uncovered something totally unholy- and tracked it into the house… helb… need gazz maazg!

2006-01-02T01:18:00.000-08:00

went to a Farmhouse on the 30th where i chanced upon this perfect leaf.

Life with an MBA

2005-12-29T03:06:00.000-08:00

Life with an MBA is a series of options. All of a sudden, when you’re short of bread in the house, you’ve run out of resources, eating out at pizza hut is paying for their ad spends, while crackers at Diwali is just plain burning of money. (OK, so the last bit I tend to agree with)

The average conversation runs something like this, “You have to weight the pros and cons before looking into any investment. The long term benefits of spending money in this investment are zilch. Not to mention depreciation. Are you sure you are making an informed decision?” To which I say, “Honey, it’s just a pair of socks! And yes, I need the pair of socks; coz the previous one has holes in them.”

MBAs are a paradox, which has most women dying to unravel ‘em. How anyone with the brains to find a small loophole in a 33 page complexly worded lawyers’ agreement fails to find his one pair of clean shorts in the morning has me at a loss for words. And then there’s the fact that the stock market is child’s play, but re-arranging the closet is a task that is seen as Herculean.

But I must admit life with them is anything but routine, despite their odd behavior and odder life choices…. After all he chose me, didn’t he?

2005-12-28T22:06:00.000-08:00

I just like the feeling this spire gives me. Mysore had perfect weather that day.

Events

2005-12-27T21:16:00.000-08:00

"When things go wrong, as they usually will..." - the phrase carries a wealth of meaning, especially in a field like mine. Or did I mean mine-field? Never mind. Read on.

I'm an event manager, by the way, also commonly known as Crises controller (notice the plural- there's always more than one!), event 'damn'ager (Yup. Your language would make a sailor blush, and you're just one of the novices here.), and so on.

Needless to say, an event that goes smoothly and exactly as planned is a utopian scenario. You’ve heard of things like that happening to a friend’s friend, but first hand reports are wholly absent. Most events, you're just glad if you come out of it alive, unscathed and with no permanent disability. Of course it helps immensely if your client's piss drunk and trying to hit on anything in skirts during the event. But, just in case he isn't, here area few ground rules to take you thru' to the next round....

1. 'It wasn't me!'- OK. So someone's screwed up. Big Time. Make sure your client knows it wasn't you. Help him find a scapegoat, if need be. Embellish the facts to really tighten the noose, if desired, but just remember- 'It Wasn't Me!!!'

2. Know Who's Foooting the Bill: It's pointless sucking up to someone if he's not going to be the one who's signing the cheques, or at the very least the one blowing on the signature for the ink to dry. So conserve all that suck-up energy and unleash it big time on the One That Counts....

3. 'You're right, of course.’ The client- He Da Man. He's always right. Never mind if what he's asking defies the very laws of physics and would have made Newton's hair stand on end. Just go ahead and do your thing- and tell him it was all his idea, and that he's a Goddamned Genius!

4. 'All's well that ends well': No one remembers how many times you've lost material, missed deadlines, erroneously deleted matter and totally mixed up your timings if the end result is a resounding success. The equation's pretty simple:
Resounding Success= Client Basking In Glory
Client Basking In Glory= Big Push Up the Ladder
Big Push Up the Ladder= All is Forgiven
All is Forgiven= More events to make your life living Hell.

Which is what you wanted...Oh Crap- I really haven't though this thru' have I?

Travails of SSIW (single southie women), or Why Amma said so!*

2005-12-26T21:18:00.000-08:00

* This would be a corollary to a Blog I read somewhere titled "The Travails of Single South Indian men of conservative upbringing" or "Why we don't get any..."

If you think South Indian men had it bad, boy you have another thing coming when you hear the woes of a traditional southie woman.

Lets start at the beginning- no, not at childbirth, but when still in the womb. You are subjected to a barrage of high calorie foods smothered in desi ghee… The cards are already stacked up against you- You are programmed to head for the fatty foods everytime a crisis hits. Your comfort zone- the only place that reminds you of the womb is the pastries section at the supermarket!!!

Then of course once you are born, you are promptly christened ‘Mahalaxmi’ or ‘Saraswati’ or some similar deity- I mean c’mon! I’m sure that’s a conspiracy by all dutiful appas to keep teens with raging hormones away from their ‘kunju’- After all, who’d want to date someone who shares a name with your grandmom??

By the time the traumatized southie hits her teens, she works at a severe disadvantage, since her communication skills are restricted to complex equations or quoting arbitrary lines from Shakespeare, while her north Indian counterparts have been thoroughly coached in the latest movies, clothes, gadgets and the art of not seeming too bright in front of the guy they like.

To make things worse, mothers and grandmothers of a southie household will hide instruments like tweezers and wax from the poor girl child til the age of twenty-three, thus making the poor girl go thru’ her teen as the only girl in her class to have a more luxurious facial hair growth than most boys.

Skirts, if they absolutely have to be worn, should barely show a flash of the ankle, and the preferred choice of clothing for a ‘nalla ponnu’ of course is a voluminous tent-like salwar kameez that hides all bodily contours. Good girls are also expected to wear their hair in two, thick, rope-like plaits, and any mention of cutting of hair will result in an uproar so huge, the only thing worse would be not getting a 100 on your math pop quiz.

By this time, the girl has positively given up on any hope of finding a guy- any guy (further conditions of nice, tall, etc would be asking for too much) and is seriously looking up a good monastery to join up, when her parents, after consulting their family astrologer have decided that this is the year she will find a nice southie boy to settle down with.

Since at this point the girl, of course is clueless how to proceed, her well meaning relatives will help things along by parading her in front of a host of ‘good boys’ who have passed a mysterious screening process known only to them.

Any this juncture I must point out that any resemblance of the southie girl to a trained circus seal is purely co incidental. In a span of fifteen minues, not only will her parents show her off as a closet rocket scientist, but also someone who puts Travolta (o.k. o.k. Prabhu Deva) to shame, sings like MS and cooks up a whirling dervish in between all of this. Of course these qualifications are an absolute must for someone who’s going to migrate to the US (or middle east in the case of a mallu) and stay at home to look after home and hearth while hubby dearest earns the Bread & B at a nearby software firm.

So its no small wonder that when her husband’s busy whispering sinful pleasures into her ear, all she can make of it is that it’s probably another weird ritual to be carried out to please the family deity and whispers "But amma has said only on second saturdays!"

CALCUTTA TO A STRANGER

2005-12-25T21:53:00.000-08:00

The Bengali at work is an odd sight to behold… mainly due to the fact that he’s so not used to working… it’s like, umm what’s the term- fish out of water- or a hilish out of water to be more precise.

Now don’t get me wrong- these guys are brilliant people. Take the case of my office peon. The man is damned near genius. Just ask him to perform a simple task. The first thing he’ll do, even before he hears you out- shake his head sorrowfully and say ‘hobe naa’ and then the man comes up with such brilliant excuses for the ‘hobe naa’ it just takes your breath away.

You quite simply run out of words. It’s easier to get up and do the work yourself! And thus our man Amar has served his purpose of not doing an iota of work. I tell you, the chap’s in the wrong profession. We should just send him out on the field to collect some of our dues. He could successfully rob a man of his patience, and he’ll find it easier to pay up, rather than have a verbal confrontation with Amar.

The concept of urgency is quite alien to banglas. The average Bengali’s idea of a rush job is to finish an assigned task before three deadlines have passed. Two deadlines is a miracle, and completion before the first deadline is an insult to their intelligence. Not only is it offensive if he finishes it, but he takes it as a personal affront to him, if you dare to do the same. He shall then regard you right down there along with the bourgeois and the capitalists.

But all said and done, no one knows how to enjoy life like a true ‘bong’. Only a true Bengali enjoys the essence of life as hedonists see fit. Ordinary mortals lag far behind in such futuristic thought process, and it is left to the Begalis to lead us into the light.

EATS, SHOOTS AND LEAVES (With Due Apologies To Ms. Truss)

2005-12-23T00:06:00.000-08:00

Ever suffer from foot-in-mouth disease? I have a chronic case of it and my friends seem to get the worst of it. Here’s a sampler from the other day – one bite and I promptly blurted out that the brownie my friend spent hours slaving over was simply “awful” and I really had meant “awesome”!
A friend of mine insists that all my slips are classic Freudian. Recently, I got myself into sour soup by missing out on punctuation between two words. That may seem minor enough, but when a sentence goes something like 'you won't catch the flu by sharing a meal off a loo seat, shaking hands… (Oops! see how important the comma suddenly seems?).

My friend's still upset with me, and I'm pretty sure she's thinking I'm some whacked-out, no-good bitch with a smart mouth that needs to be flushed out with carbolic soap or something worse. Then of course, there's the 'I-know-but-I'm-not-supposed-to-spill’ syndrome. This one has me really anxious as it gets me into the most trouble.

I forget I'm supposed to know or not know that I know, or know that I do not know... err ...you get the picture. You’d rather not tell me stuff till you're pretty much ready to broadcast it to the world. (That was a hard confession to make, believe me.) And to top it I'm really bad at keeping a straight face, so in case you want to throw that surprise birthday party, guess what, surprise me too!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Or do I? Well you better not tell me. If it’s any consolation, I’ve decided to acknowledge punctuation. I wish to respect the full stop, the comma and the apostrophes and appreciate its essentially poignant or keenly distressing effects. (You don’t believe me do you? You forget that I’m capable of surprises too.)

Now That’s A Collegial Outing!

2005-12-22T03:25:00.000-08:00

So there we were, about 30 dewy-eyed, pimple-faced kids on our way to our very first Monsoon Picnic.

The millennium was still a good four years away. After three weeks of sweating it out over mark sheets and admission lists, we became the latest batch of fresh-faced wannabe architects to join LSR with dreams of becoming future Wrights and Gehrys. But our seniors and professors soon brought us down to reality.

A month after admissions, when the rose tinted glasses had come off, we were more than ready for a welcome break and head for the hills. So the annual overnight Monsoon Picnic to Lonavala seemed God-sent. Of course, the added attraction was that this picnic was for the students; by the students… you can fill up the rest.
Elaborate plans and wardrobes were discussed for weeks before.

When D-Day finally arrived, the morning promised to be a fine one, with fresh rain and clean streets. We made good time in two busloads, with songs, the occasional dances and frequent catcalls till we reached our overnight accommodation, the local school. Bags were soon dumped in whatever classrooms were open.

Then the seniors summoned us.

Choosing between answering and not answering the summons was like choosing between the devil and the deep sea - you either got ragged mercilessly now, or faced a fate worse than death later. If you were real lucky you got away with a few sessions of imaginary ball games and a couple of wacky proposals from the tops of railway stations. The unluckiest were those who were spotted by the ‘super-seniors’ - those unique breeds who were in their ‘nth’ year of a five-year course. Their only desire, apart from harbouring dreams of being the first octogenarians to graduate from the institute, was to torture pimple-faced freshers.

I had the misfortune to meet the worst of the lot. After about half an hour of relentless grilling, the details of which are still too gruesomely fresh in my memory, I tottered out into the sunshine. My fellow freshers looked at me like I was a veteran war hero. The saving grace was that once the rest of the seniors heard that Anurag had ragged me, they let me go my own merry way. Nothing they’d do could come close to surpassing Anurag’s techniques.

Of course we were all told in the most ominous tones that this was just the beginning. Meaning that the evening and night would be worse (I secretly pictured all the seniors turning into vamps and werewolves and hunting us down, the way they were going on about it).

Well, by evening, our watch-me-do-just-about-anything GS had converted the assembly space into a temporary discotheque, complete with shiny disco balls, JBLs and a mixer!

Naturally, the quiet town of Lonavala decided to take offence to the fact that their sleep ought to be disturbed by anything other than the occasional roaring of a hungry wild cat. In the midst of all that manic dancing, ably aided by the spiked lemonade ( or vodka spiked with a smidgeon of lemonade), one such peace-loving resident turned up in a bike, armed with a camera. The seniors, of course weren’t took pleased about their mugs being captured on film when they were at their drunken best.

Needless to say, the peace-lover was soon relieved of his camera. This deeply hurt our peace-lover, and he ran howling into the night - only to return with ten other peace-lovers armed with protest slogans, banners and a dishevelled policeman. You could tell that the policeman wasn’t too pleased about being roused from his slumber by the fact that every question posed to him was answered with a distinctive grunt and an odd pawing of the ground, not unlike that of a bored bull.

Soon enough the chant of anti-LSR slogans began to permeate through the alcohol-induced fog that clouded the senior’s brains. To cut a long story short (imagine- this could have been longer!), they wanted us out. Fair enough, except for one small hitch - we had nowhere to go. Repeated pleas to allow the girls to stay behind fell on deaf ears.

Bag-baggage and beer were soon piled into the two buses, while desperate arrangements were being made for a stopover to rest our weary butts. Finally a place was found consisting of two bare rooms where about 100 girls slept, packed like sardines. Kind of an interesting experience where you could choose to breathe in someone’s hair oil or stinky sock. There was also something poking into your butt, but you’d rather not know what it was, since finding out entailed upsetting the whole row of 25 people. The boys spent the night in the bus, where we found them in the morning with blue noses and bluer moods.

The drive back was much quieter with frequent stops to replenish the Aspirin and Pepto Bismol supplies. On reaching home mom asks- ‘so honey how was the trip?’ and I say ‘Awesome, Mom, can’t wait to go again!’

Shake Yer Tailfeather

2005-12-21T04:21:00.000-08:00

You know, there’s a lot you can say about a person by the way they behave on the dance floor. Like, for instance, you have the meek ones, who dance the shuffle, never take more than three square inches of space and start nervously every time anyone comes within a square mile of their vicinity (which incidentally makes for very interesting dance moves-kinda like you’re on a hellish roller coaster ride).

Then there are their diametric opposites - the flashpans! Favourite dance movements include expansive hand gestures frequently leading to spilt drinks, cigarette burns and black eyes. It’s easy to spot them in a crowd by the number of people doing odd hop-on-one-foot moves accompanied by yowls of pain around them.

Then there’s the ‘wannabe’ dancer - now he’s a chap who avidly watches MTV and promptly tries to re-enact the scenes for real. Never mind that he’s not exactly built like Usher and that he really can’t carry those moves off. Hint: watch out for that faux bling-bling he’ll be sporting around his neck and the dark glasses in the middle of the night (me thinks it’s just a disguise, so people don’t point and laugh when they see him the next morning).

The next can’t-miss of course is the ‘I-only-dance-when-I’m drunk’ dancer. Word to the wise: you’d better steel yourself with a stiff drink or two before you gather the courage to watch this specimen. Characteristics include manic dancing to three songs and then hitting the bar and getting steadily sloshed for the next four. Then it’s back to manic dancing for the next three.

Now a stone cold sober, never-even-had-my-shirt-unbuttoned-let-alone-let-my-hair-down type often accompanies him. He will hit the dance floor with the same grim determination as he tackles his Bania Boss’s balance sheets. Unfortunately he ends up looking like a still grasshopper on a bad acid flashback. Not a very pretty sight.

Neither, of course are the Siamese twins. These couples generally enter and leave the dance floor joined at the hip, and what never ceases to amaze me is that while the rest of their bodies (read flailing arms and legs) move individually, the hips don’t budge. Like I said- Siamese.

The ones that are truly a pleasure to watch, quite often are not necessarily the best dancers with the hippest moves. It’s the ones with the largest smile on their faces - the ones, who dance for themselves, to the inner music of their soul, sway to the rhythm of their own heartbeat - and the rest of the world can go to hell in a hand basket. Now that is a dancer.