DOC, DOC, WHO’S THERE?

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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

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!

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

Life with an MBA

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?

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

Events

"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!*

* 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

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)

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!

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

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.